He knew now why
he had kept the great beast until this hour, though tempted again and
again to slay him.
Like one in a dream, he drew a dagger from the cushions where he sat, and
rose to his feet. Leaving the room and passing dark groups of waiting
slaves, he travelled empty chambers and long corridors, the voices of the
lions growing nearer and nearer. He sped faster now, and presently came
to two great doors, on which he knocked thrice. The doors opened, and two
slaves held up lights for him to enter. Taking a torch from one of them,
he bade them retire, and the doors clanged behind them.
Harrik held up the torch and came nearer. In the centre of the room was a
cage in which one great lion paced to and fro in fury. It roared at him
savagely. It was his roar which had come to Harrik through the distance
and the night. He it was who had carried Fatima, the beloved, about his
cage by that neck in which Harrik had laid his face so often.
The hot flush of conflict and the long anger of the years were on him.
Since he must die, since Destiny had befooled him, left him the victim of
the avengers, he would end it here.
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