At last, following a confusing journey, they entered a cell-like chamber. It was lighted by a faint share of daylight which trickled through a small, barred window.
There Vincent was deposited. Four posts surrounded him; a wooden collar supported his neck; his ankles rested upon a similar, semi-circular device which was open at the top.
Staring upward, Vincent saw a vague shape looming from above. And, as his eyes became accustomed to the dim light, he was able to identify this as the sharp blade of a huge cleaver suspended from upright posts.
The men were engaged in thrusting a chain beneath Vincent’s arms.
Momentarily struck by panic, Vincent attempted to struggle to his feet. At once, one of his captors pounced upon his legs, pinning them down. Then Vincent felt a second chain being wound about his ankles. Then followed the click of padlocks.
The leather thongs were left in position, as well. Vincent found it impossible to move his body; his position seemed barren of hope.
Wang Foo clapped his leathery hands. The three Chinamen left.
“You have made a great mistake,” said the ancient Celestial in his even-toned, perfect English. “For this you will know your doom. We who come from the land of China do not delight in torture, although the ignorant say we do. We give quick death - the death that you will experience.”
He stepped back. Vincent followed him with his eyes, and saw the old Chinaman lift a chain from the great cleaver that loomed from above.
“When this chain is released,” explained Wang Foo, in a pitiless voice, “the great knife will fall and end your life. It will be quick that you will feel no pain.
Wang Foo replaced the chain.
“I, myself,” he said, “shall let the great knife fall. From my own room, the mere touch of my hand will do the work. None up here can stop it. But, lest my plan should fail, I shall leave a guard to watch you.”
He clapped his hands four times. A short, bland-faced Chinaman appeared in the doorway. Wang Foo gave instructions in Chinese, and the other man bobbed his head.
“The exact moment of your death,” said old Wang Foo, again addressing his prisoner, “will be arranged beforehand.”
He turned to the new arrival and took from him a huge hourglass, which he set on the sill beside the barred window. Vincent could see the glass plainly. The sand was all in the bottom.
“In my study,” continued Wang Foo, “is another hourglass - the mate of this one. Both are true to the last grain. The sands which pour from one are equaled by the sands from the other. Both will begin to fall at the same moment. When the last grain has fallen in the glass upon my desk, I shall release the great knife. You will know that moment if you watch the glass upon the window.
“So you see I shall be kind to you. I shall give you one hour to live, and let you watch that hour as it departs.”
Wang Foo bowed deeply and left the room. The other Chinaman remained, leaning in the doorway, watching Vincent intently. A few minutes later, a gong struck from a room below.
Hearing the muffled sound, the Chinaman in the doorway pattered to the window-sill and inverted the hourglass. The prisoner could see the first grains of sand as they began to fall.
The Chinaman was back in the doorway, still on guard, and the moments were passing.
Vincent’s eyes remained upon the hourglass. The slow, regular falling of the sands was fascinating. But, as he saw the little mound increase in the lower portion of the glass, the full fear of death crept over him.
He strove to release the bonds which held him. He worked frantically, exerting his full strength.
At last he was exhausted. He had not moved his body the fraction of an inch.
His eyes sought the Chinaman who guarded the door. He could see him in the gloom, but he could not cry out to the man, because of the silken gag in his mouth.
It meant nothing, however. It would be useless to plead with the accomplice of Wang Foo.
Vincent turned his eyes toward the hourglass. Nearly half of the sand had dropped. He could picture the other glass in Wang Foo’s den; the old Mongol there, writing, apparently unnoticing, but always watching from the corner of his eye, as the sands fell in the glass upon the desk. “Quick death!” thought Vincent and shuddered.
A second Chinaman appeared in the doorway. Vincent became aware of this when he heard a mumbled conversation. The first man departed, the newcomer remained on guard.
Evidently Wang Foo left nothing to chance. He was switching the watchers during the course of the hour so that a thoroughly alert guard would surely be on duty.
The grains of sand were falling with the same meaningful monotony. It was as though they were grains of sugar sweetening the cup of life - for right then and there the man who had but recently tried to take his own life was finding that life very worth the living.
Vincent attempted to forget the ominous glass that was spelling out the fragment of earthdom which remained. He sought to locate human aid, and, although his better judgment told him it was useless, his eyes sought the face of the Chinese guard.
The Mongol was looking straight before him, oblivious as an idol. His face was like a dull yellow globe in the semidarkness coming to the room. The afternoon was waning; the insufficient light in the little room of death made it difficult to distinguish objects. Yet the sharp, heavy cleaver above the doomed man’s head was plain enough to Vincent’s eyes.
Only a few minutes more, and that messenger of destruction would perform its grisly task!
The prisoner tried to groan, but even that action was suppressed by the silken bandage between his jaws. His lips were dry; his eyes were staring; his breath came in fitful partings. He looked once more at the huge hourglass. The lower bowl was nearly filled; only a small amount of sand remained to run its course!
Another Chinaman came to the door. The mumble there attracted Vincent’s attention, and he was glad to turn his mind from that fearful glass. Evidently another guard had arrived, even though the hour was nearly ended.
The two Chinese talked deliberately in their native language. The new guard took his position, yet the other remained and pointed significantly to the body on the floor.
His action was easy to interpret. The fiend wanted to remain and watch the death stroke. But his companion gesticulated and talked in a commanding voice. The old guard pattered hastily away to report to his master.
The sands were almost gone; only a few remained to fall.
The prisoner cast a pitiful look toward the new guard, but saw no mercy there.
The new Chinaman left his post, and, coming close, leaned over the victim. His face seemed hideous in the gloom of the darkening room. There was a devilish leer upon his yellow lips, as he bent low beside Vincent.
Expecting the fall of the knife of death, Vincent cast one more look toward the window. The top half of the hourglass was nearly empty; he could almost count the last few grains as they fell.
But something strange was happening! The wicked-looking Chinaman was at his side, forcing and pressing at the padlock which held the chain about the prisoner’s arms.
Now the hourglass was empty at the top!
There was a sharp click; the chain loosened. Vincent’s eyes turned upward, and he saw the huge cleaver tremble for its plunge. A powerful arm was beneath his neck; his head was swung forward and upward, just as the mighty knife descended.
The edge of the falling blade whizzed past the top of Vincent’s head. He could feel the rush of air as it went by. It struck the floor with a tremendous crash, cheated of its victim at the last possible moment!
CHAPTER X
THE FIGHT IN THE GLOOM
THE short, squatty Chinaman was forcing the padlock, which bound the captive’s feet to the lower posts. The rescued man was leaning back, exhausted by his ordeal. His head was propped against the heavy cleaver that had fallen a fraction of a second too late.