he glanced toward the burman, who retired immediately, to re-enter a moment later carrying a curious leather sack, in shape not unlike that of a sakka or arab water-carrier. opening a little trap in the top of the first compartment of the cage (that is, the compartment which covered smith’s bare feet and ankles) he inserted the neck of the sack, then suddenly seized it by the bottom and shook it vigorously. before my horrified gaze four huge rats came tumbling out from the bag into the cage! the dacoit snatched away the sack and snapped the shutter fast. a moving mist obscured my sight, a mist through which i saw the green eyes of dr. fu-manchu fixed upon me, and through which, as from a great distance, his voice, sunk to a snake-like hiss, came to my ears.
“cantonese rats, dr. petrie, the most ravenous in the world... they have eaten nothing for nearly a week!”
then all became blurred as though a painter with a brush steeped in red had smudged out the details of the picture. for an indefinite period, which seemed like many minutes yet probably was only a few seconds, i saw nothing and heard nothing; my sensory nerves were dulled entirely. from this state i was awakened and brought back to the realities by a sound which ever afterward i was doomed to associate with that ghastly scene.
this was the squealing of the rats.
the red mist seemed to disperse at that, and with frightfully intense interest, i began to study the awful torture to which nayland smith was being subjected. the dacoit had disappeared, and fu-manchu placidly was watching the four lean and hideous animals in the cage. as i also turned my eyes in that direction, the rats overcame their temporary fear, and began...
“you have been good enough to notice,” said the chinaman, his voice still sunk in that sibilant whisper, “my partiality for dumb allies. you have met my scorpions, my death-adders, my baboon-man. the uses of such a playful little animal as a marmoset have never been fully appreciated before, i think, but to an indiscretion of this last-named pet of mine, i seem to remember that you owed something in the past, dr. petrie...”
nayland smith stifled a deep groan. one rapid glance i ventured at his face. it was a grayish hue, now, and dank with perspiration. his gaze met mine.
the rats had almost ceased squealing.
“much depends upon yourself, doctor,” continued fu-manchu, slightly raising his voice. “i credit mr. commissioner nayland smith with courage high enough to sustain the raising of all the gates; but i estimate the strength of your friendship highly, also, and predict that you will use the sword of the samurai certainly not later than the time when i shall raise the third gate....”
a low shuddering sound, which i cannot hope to describe, but alas i can never forget, broke from the lips of the tortured man.
“in china,” resumed fu-manchu, “we call this quaint fancy the six gates of joyful wisdom. the first gate, by which the rats are admitted, is called the gate of joyous hope; the second, the gate of mirthful doubt. the third gate is poetically named, the gate of true rapture, and the fourth, the gate of gentle sorrow. i once was honored in the friendship of an exalted mandarin who sustained the course of joyful wisdom to the raising of the fifth gate (called the gate of sweet desires) and the admission of the twentieth rat. i esteem him almost equally with my ancestors. the sixth, or gate celestial—whereby a man enters into the joy of complete understanding—i have dispensed with, here, substituting a japanese fancy of an antiquity nearly as great and honorable. the introduction of this element of speculation, i count a happy thought, and accordingly take pride to myself.”
“the sword, petrie!” whispered smith. i should not have recognized his voice, but he spoke quite evenly and steadily. “i rely upon you, old man, to spare me the humiliation of asking mercy from that yellow fiend!”
my mind throughout this time had been gaining a sort of dreadful clarity. i had avoided looking at the sword of hara-kiri, but my thoughts had been leading me mercilessly up to the point at which we were now arrived. no vestige of anger, of condemnation of the inhuman being seated in the ebony chair, remained; that was past. of all that had gone before, and of what was to come in the future, i thought nothing, knew nothing. our long fight against the yellow group, our encounters with the numberless creatures of fu-manchu, the dacoits—even karamaneh—were forgotten, blotted out. i saw nothing of the strange appointments of that subterranean chamber; but face to face with the supreme moment of a lifetime, i was alone with my poor friend—and god.
the rats began squealing again. they were fighting...
“quick, petrie! quick, man! i am weakening....”
i turned and took up the samurai sword. my hands were very hot and dry, but perfectly steady, and i tested the edge of the heavy weapon upon my left thumb-nail as quietly as one might test a razor blade. it was as keen, this blade of ghastly history, as any razor ever wrought in sheffield. i seized the graven hilt, bent forward in my chair, and raised the friend’s sword high above my head. with the heavy weapon poised there, i looked into my friend’s eyes. they were feverishly bright, but never in all my days, nor upon the many beds of suffering which it had been my lot to visit, had i seen an expression like that within them.
“the raising of the first gate is always a crucial moment,” came the guttural voice of the chinaman. although i did not see him, and barely heard his words, i was aware that he had stood up and was bending forward over the lower end of the cage.
“now, petrie! now! god bless you... and good-by...”
from somewhere—somewhere remote—i heard a hoarse and animal-like cry, followed by the sound of a heavy fall. i can scarcely bear to write of that moment, for i had actually begun the downward sweep of the great sword when that sound came—a faint hope, speaking of aid where i had thought no aid possible.
how i contrived to divert the blade, i do not know to this day; but i do know that its mighty sweep sheared a lock from smith’s head and laid bare the scalp. with the hilt in my quivering hands i saw the blade bite deeply through the carpet and floor above nayland smith’s skull. there, buried fully two inches in the woodwork, it stuck, and still clutching the hilt, i looked to the right and across the room—i looked to the curtained doorway.
fu-manchu, with one long, claw-like hand upon the top of the first gate, was bending over the trap, but his brilliant green eyes were turned in the same direction as my own—upon the curtained doorway.
upright within it, her beautiful face as pale as death, but her great eyes blazing with a sort of splendid madness, stood karamaneh!
she looked, not at the tortured man, not at me, but fully at dr. fu-manchu. one hand clutched the trembling draperies; now she suddenly raised the other, so that the jewels on her white arm glittered in the light of the lamp above the door. she held my browning pistol! fu-manchu sprang upright, inhaling sibilantly, as karamaneh pointed the pistol point blank at his high skull and fired....
i saw a little red streak appear, up by the neutral colored hair, under the black cap. i became as a detached intelligence, unlinked with the corporeal, looking down upon a thing which for some reason i had never thought to witness.
fu-manchu threw up both arms, so that the sleeves of the green robe fell back to the elbows. he clutched at his head, and the black cap fell behind him. he began to utter short, guttural cries; he swayed backward—to the right—to the left then lurched forward right across the cage. there he lay, writhing, for a moment, his baneful eyes turned up, revealing the whites; and the great gray rats, released, began leaping about the room. two shot like gray streaks past the slim figure in the doorway, one darted behind the chair to which i was lashed, and the fourth ran all around against the wall... fu-manchu, prostrate across the overturned cage, lay still, his massive head sagging downward.
i experienced a mental repetition of my adventure in the earlier evening—i was dropping, dropping, dropping into some bottomless pit ... warm arms were about my neck; and burning kisses upon my lips.
