She had set him down, but now she picked him up again and handed him to Little An, who had turned a pale green, but took the boy and was turning away at Yehonala's quiet word when Sang roared "Wait!" and advanced a couple of paces into the room. He was in full fig of tin belly and mailed legs, with a fur cloak hanging from his shoulders, his dragon helmet under one arm and his shaven skull gleaming like a moon. Two wiry Tartar troopers were at his back, and I think it was the sight of them that made my Mongol withdraw his knife and step clear of my chair, his hand resting on his sabre-hilt. I sat still; I'm nobody's fool.
Yehonala stood perfectly still in the centre of the room, facing Sang who had halted about ten feet away. His basilisk stare moved from Little An to her, and he gave her a curt nod.
"All harmony, Yi Concubine. I have —"
"All harmony, Lord Sang," says she quietly, "but you forget her Imperial Highness is in the room."
He grunted, and ducked his head towards the distant women. "Her Imperial Highness's pardon. My business is with his Highness the Son of the Son of Heaven. His sacred presence is required in Pekin. The Prince I commands it."
"His Highness is going to Jehol," says she. "The Emperor commands it."
Her tone rather than the words made his face crimson, and I saw the cords of his bull neck stiffen in anger, but instead of howling, as usual, he gave a contemptuous snort.
"You have a vermilion decree, swaying the wide world? No? Then we waste time. I'll take his Highness. I have an escort."
"Chief Eunuch," says she, "take his Highness down to the court … at once." She stood as stately calm as ever, but I caught the shake in her voice, and so did Sang, for he laughed again.
"Stand still, bladder! Don't be a fool, Yi Concubine. Your Imperial Guards hero is down there with a broken head, and this fellow'll take my orders!" He jerked a thumb at my Mongol, glanced in our direction, and noticed me for the first time. For a moment he frowned, and then his eyes dilated and his mouth gaped, which didn't improve his appearance one bit. "That!" he bawled. "By death, what is it doing here?"
"He is a Banner Chief of the barbarian army!" she retorted. "A staff officer of the Big Barbarian himself —"
"I know what he is! I asked how he came here!" His glare fell on Little An, half-hidden behind Yehonala and clinging to the small prince as though he were a lifebelt. "You—capon! Is this some of your work? No, you scum, you never do anything but at her bidding!" He thrust out his jaw at Yehonala. "Well? What is an enemy prisoner doing in the Yi Concubine's pavilion?"
"I am not answerable to you!" Her voice trembled with anger. "Now get out of my house! And knock your head as you go, you low-born Mongol!"
He actually fell back a pace, and then he seemed to swell, towering above her with both mailed hands raised, mouthing like a maniac. My guard took a pace forward, but Sang mastered himself, glaring from one to other of us, and his dirty mind must have come to the right conclusion, for suddenly he gave a snarling grin. "Ah! I begin to see! Well … it's no matter. We'll put the foreign filth where he belongs—in the Board of Punishments! And you," he shouted at Yehonala, "can answer to the Supreme Tribunal … and bring your own silk cord with you, traitress!" He gestured to his men. "Take his Imperial Highness—and that fan-qui rubbish!"
One of the Tartars stepped towards Yehonala, none too brisk, and she turned and snatched the boy from Little An, pulling him close to her side. She was quivering like a deer, but her eyes were blazing.
"Dare! Dare to touch him, you stable scum, and you'll die for it! For treason and sacrilege! The Emperor will —"
"On the word of a faithless whore?" jeers Sang, and thrust the Tartar brutally forward. "Fetch him, fool!"
The Tartar took another step, Little An screamed and blundered bravely forward, arms windmilling, to bar his way, and Yehonala swung the prince up in her arms, turned to run in sudden panic, realised it was hopeless, and turned again, help-less. The Tartar flung Little An aside, the ladies behind wailed in terror, and Yehonala flung out a hand to ward off the Tartar, crying out.
"Help me! Stop them! Help me!" And, by God, she was calling to me.
Well, you know what follows when a beautiful young woman, threatened by brutal enemies, turns to me in a frenzy of entreaty, hand outstretched and eyes imploring; if she's lucky I may roar for the bobbies as I slide over the sill. But this was different, for while they'd been trading insults I'd been calculating like sin, and I knew how it must be, even before she hollered for help—if Sang prevailed, I was dead meat; if I turned up trumps, Yehonala would see me right; if Sang thought he could rule out the Mongol, he was wrong, for the brute was not only an Imperial Guardsman worth two Tartars any day, he had a mishandled chief to avenge, and the sight of Yehonala threatened had been causing him to bristle like a chivalrous gorilla. It was his size that determined me, and the fact that there wasn't a sill to slide over, anyway. It was now or never: I leaped from my chair, crimson with fear, and roared:
"Sang-kol-in-sen! That lady and her child are under the protection of Her Majesty's Government! Molest them at your peril! I speak for Lord Elgin and the British Army, so … so back off, d'you see?" And for good measure I added: "You dirty dog, you!"
It stopped 'em dead in sheer amazement, Dick Dauntless facing the stricken heathen, and I wished Elspeth could have seen me just then—or perhaps, considering what Yehonala looked like, better not. There was a breathless pause, and then Sang went literally mad with rage, howling and lugging out his sword. I yelped and sprang away, turning for the sabre which I knew was on the wall, since Yehonala had indicated it to An last night—and the damned thing wasn't there! Sang's blade whirled in a glittering arc, and I hurled myself aside, bellowing, as it shattered a table in my rear. There was the sabre, three yards along—I leaped and snatched it from the wall, whirling to meet another furious cut, roaring to the Mongol to get on parade, and breaking ground as Sang came after me, frothing like a pi-dog. On clear floor I fell on guard, parrying two cuts to take his measure, and my heart leaped as I realised I'd been right in one vital hope—he couldn't use a sabre to save himself. He was a blind, furious lasher, so I exposed my flank, took the cut on the forte, waited his lurching recovery, and ran him through the left arm. (I ain't Guillaume Danet, you understand, but Sang's swordplay would have broken the troop-sergeant's heart.)
I needn't have fretted about the Mongol. One Tartar was down, with his guts on the rug, and the other was in desperate retreat, with my lad coming in foot and hand. I had a brief glimpse of the room—wailing women stampeding for the arch-way passage leading to the court; Little An carrying the prince and herding them like a fat collie; Yehonala standing half-way, watching us, clutching her fur to her neck—and then Sang was on me again, spraying gore and hewing like a woodman; oh, he was game. Right, you swine, thinks I, this'll read well in the Morning Post, and I went in to kill him. I'd have done it, too, but the cowardly bastard got behind a table, roaring for help; Yehonala suddenly cried out, and I stole a glance behind—there were fur caps and swords in the doorway, with the Mongol charging them. More of Sang's riders, three at the least, but the Mongol was holding them in the narrow entrance; useful chap he was.
"Die hard, Attila!" I roared to encourage him, took a last cut at Sang, and turned to race along the room. Yehonala was at the archway, glancing back anxiously while Little An, who seemed to have got shot of the prince to one of the women, pleaded with her to make haste. I seconded that as I ran, for I wanted no one hindering my line of retreat: "Get out, woman! Run for it! We'll stand 'em off!" By which I meant that the Mongol would, but just as I came level with him, moving smoothly, the mob in the doorway forced him back, and I must turn to cover his flank.