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 lo