“The Sword-Pen remains active,” said Heywood, thoughtfully.  “That dingy little procession, do you know, it’s quite theatrical?  The Cross and the Dragon.  Eh?  Another act’s coming.”

Even Rudolph could spare a misgiving from his own difficulty while he watched the prisoner.  It was Chok Chung, the plump Christian merchant, slowly trudging toward the darkest of human courts, to answer for the death of the cormorant-fisher.  The squad passed by.  Rudolph saw again the lighted shop, the tumbled figure retching on the floor; and with these came a memory of that cold and scornful face, thinking so cruelly among the unthinking rabble.  The Sword-Pen had written something in the dark.

“I go find out”; and Wutzler was away, as keen as a village gossip.

“Trouble’s comin’,” Nesbit asserted glibly.  “There’s politics afloat.  But I don’t care.”  He stretched his arms, with a weary howl.  “That’s the first yawn I’ve done to-night.  Trouble keeps, worse luck.  I’m off—­seek my downy.”

Alone with the grunting sleeper, the two friends sat for a long time and watched the flooding daylight.

“What,” began Rudolph, suddenly, and his voice trembled, “what is your true opinion?  You are so kind, and I was just a fool.  That other day, I would not listen.  You laughed.  Now tell me, so—­as you were to die next.  You were joking?  Can I truly be proud of—­of her?”

He leaned forward, white and eager, waiting for the truth like a dicer for the final throw.

“Of yourself, dear old chap.  Not of the lady.  She’s the fool, not you.  Poor old Gilly Forrester slaves here to send her junketing in Japan, Kashmir, Ceylon, Home.  What Chantel said—­well, between the two of us, I’m afraid he’s right.  It’s a pity.”

Heywood paused, frowning.

“A pity, too, this quarrel.  So precious few of us, and trouble ahead.  The natives lashing themselves into a state of mind, or being lashed.  The least spark—­Rough work ahead, and here we are at swords’ points.”

“And the joke is,” Rudolph added quietly, “I do not know a sword’s point from a handle.”

Heywood turned, glowered, and twice failed to speak.

“Rudie—­old boy,” he stammered, “that man—­Preposterous!  Why, it’s plain murder!”

Rudolph stared straight ahead, without hope, without illusions, facing the haggard light of morning.  A few weeks ago he might have wept; but now his laugh, short and humorous, was worthy of his companion.

“I do not care, more,” he answered.  “Luck, so called I it, when I escaped the militar’ service.  Ho ho!  Luck, to pass into the Ersatz!—­I do not care, now.  I cannot believe, even cannot I fight.  Worthless—­dreamer!  My deserts.  It’s a good way out.”

CHAPTER IX

PASSAGE AT ARMS

“Boy.”

“Sai.”

“S’pose Mr. Forrester bym-by come, you talkee he, master no got, you chin-chin he come-back.”