“You’ll be taking all the risk that way, Byrne,” objected Theriere, “and that’s not fair.”

“One o’ us is pretty sure to get hurted,” explained the mucker in defense of his plan, “an, if it’s a croak it’s a lot better dat it be me than youse, fer the girl wouldn’t be crazy about bein’ lef’ alone wid me—­she ain’t got no use fer the likes o’ me.  Now youse are her kin, an’ so youse stay here w’ere yeh can help her after I git her out—­I don’t want nothing to do wid her anyhow.  She gives me a swift pain, and,” he added as though it were an after-thought, “I ain’t got no use fer dat ransom eider—­youse can have dat, too.”

“Hold on, Byrne,” cried Theriere; “I have something to say, too.  I do not see how I can expect you to believe me; but under the circumstances, when one of us and maybe both are pretty sure to die before the day is much older, it wouldn’t be worth while lying.  I do not want that damned ransom any more, either.  I only want to do what I can to right the wrong that I have helped to perpetrate against Miss Harding.  I—­I—­ Byrne, I love her.  I shall never tell her so, for I am not the sort of man a decent girl would care to marry; but I did want the chance to make a clean breast to her of all my connection with the whole dirty business, and get her forgiveness if I could; but first I wanted to prove my repentance by helping her to civilization in safety, and delivering her to her friends without the payment of a cent of money.  I may never be able to do that now; but if I die in the attempt, and you don’t, I wish that you would tell her what I have just told you.  Paint me as black as you can—­you couldn’t commence to make me as black as I have been—­but let her know that for love of her I turned white at the last minute.  Byrne, she is the best girl that you or I ever saw—­we’re not fit to breathe the same air that she breathes.  Now you can see why I should like to go first.”

“I t’ought youse was soft on her,” replied the mucker, “an’ dat’s de reason w’y youse otter not go first; but wot’s de use o’ chewin’, les flip a coin to see w’ich goes an w’ich stays—­ got one?”

Theriere felt in his trousers’ pocket, fishing out a dime.

“Heads, you go; tails, I go,” he said and spun the silver piece in the air, catching it in the flat of his open palm.

“It’s heads,” said the mucker, grinning.  “Gee!  Wot’s de racket?”

Both men turned toward the village, where a jabbering mob of half-caste Japanese had suddenly appeared in the streets, hurrying toward the hut of Oda Yorimoto.

“Somepin doin’, eh?” said the mucker.  “Well, here goes—­ s’long!” And he broke from the cover of the jungle and dashed across the clearing toward the rear of Oda Yorimoto’s hut.

CHAPTER XII

THE FIGHT IN THE PALACE

Barbara Harding heard the samurai in the room beyond her prison advancing toward the door that separated them from her.  She pressed the point of the daimio’s sword close to her heart.  A heavy knock fell upon the door and at the same instant the girl was startled by a noise behind her—­a noise at the little window at the far end of the room.