Bopo took the scroll and advanced pompously to the center of the floor. He unrolled it with a flourish, cleared his throat, and read:
“A proclamation by her imperial majesty, Vernia, Princess of Reabon:
“On the twenty-fourth day of the eighth Endir in the four thousand and tenth year of Thorth, I, Vernia of Reabon, hereby proclaim and declare to all my subjects throughout the length and breadth of the empire that I have taken for my husband, and raised to the office of emperor, to rule over me and my people, the brave and illustrious Prince Destho.
“It is my command that copies of this proclamation be made and distributed to all parts of the empire without delay, and that the fifth day of the ninth Endir be set aside as a day for feasting and suitable celebration in honor of this momentous event.”
He finished and handed the scroll to Destho, who spread it on the table before Vernia.
She looked up with flashing eyes. “Surely you do not expect me to sign such a ridiculous document?”
“You refuse?”
For answer she seized it and flung it from her.
“More temperament,” said Destho, coolly, picking up the scroll. “You compel me to use persuasion.”
He made a sign to the guard, who grinned broadly and, loosing the chain by which the glass bell was suspended, lowered it until it rested firmly on the elastic edges of the platform where Grandon sat, calm and immobile in the iron chair.
“It is plainly evident,” said Destho, “that you have some regard for yonder doomed man.”
Vernia started at his words.
“Though he is a rebel and traitor, you could have saved his life, merely by signing your name. As it is, you shall have the pleasure of witnessing his death struggles. Start the motor.”
The burly guard crossed to the motor with a grin more broad than before, and pressed a button.
Vernia, peering intently through the glass, saw Grandon flinch slightly when the thing started. Then he compressed his lips and settled back as if resolved to meet his fate calmly. Presently she noticed that he was breathing convulsively with nostrils distended.
“Stop! You are killing him!” she screamed. “Stop, that terrible thing. I will sign. I will do anything.”
Destho made a sign to the guard, who pressed another button and opened a valve, but not before Grandon’s head had sunk limply forward. There was a loud hissing sound and he raised his head, gasping weakly.
“I thought you might be brought to reason, stubborn and headstrong as you are,” said Destho with a smile of triumph.
He placed the scroll before her and she paused for a moment, for Grandon was looking at her through the glass and shaking his head emphatically. “I cannot do it,” she said weakly.
“Very well,” replied Destho. He turned to the guard. “Start the motor. There will be no stopping it this time.”
“No, no!” cried Vernia. “Do not start it. I will sign.”
Again Destho motioned for the guard to desist. Vernia held the scroll, half rolled before her. She looked at Grandon for a moment as if in silent farewell. Then she tore her eyes from his with a visible effort and resolutely affixed her name to the document.
Destho seized it eagerly and examined, the signature. Then he rolled it up, stuffed it in his bosom, walked to the motor, closed the valve and pressed the button.
Vernia, sensing his purpose, screamed frantically and ran to shut the thing off, but he intercepted her and forced her back in the chair.
“I am legal emperor of Reabon now,” he said. “There is no more need for force, for my word is law. I now decree that this traitor shall die, and you, in company with your beloved husband, will have the pleasure of watching his death struggles.”
Chapter 17
When the glass bell was lowered around high Grandon rightly guessed that the thing was intended either to torture or kill him—perhaps both.
He gritted his teeth, though he flinched when the guard started the motor. A roaring sounded in his ears. Were they pumping some sort of deadly gas into the bell? He could detect no unusual odor of any kind. Breathing, however, was rapidly growing more’ and more difficult.
It was then that he guessed the truth. They were pumping the air out of the bell! Fearful pains shot through his body as he gasped and struggled for breath. Suddenly all went black before him and his head drooped forward.
A moment later, he was revived by the sibilant inrush of air. He saw Vernia, apparently ready to sign the proclamation which would make her the lawful wife of Destho, and shook his head vigorously.
Though he could not hear what was said, he saw her refusal, the subsequent threat of Destho, and her final acquiescence.
“Don’t sign!” he shouted, but she was looking away from him and his voice did not reach beyond the thick wall of glass.
It was this and the final treachery of Destho in again starting the motor that filled him with a consuming rage and aroused him from his passivity. With a burst of strength of which he had not known himself capable, he strained at his shackles. A chain parted—then another. His arms were free. He reached down and wrenched at the fetters which held his legs. Again the roaring sounded in his ears. A quick jerk freed his right leg. He twisted the chair from his left and swung it against the glass with all his might. A thousand tiny checks radiated from the point where it struck. He swung again. There was a crash and a hollow report like the crack of a tork as the air surged inward.
The guard stood ready to receive him with drawn scarbo as Grandon leaped out. Swinging the iron chair, he crushed the man’s skull like an eggshell, and his scarbo clattered to the floor. The other guard, rushing to the assistance of his companion, met a similar fate.
Destho was dragging Vernia from the room. Bopo still faced Grandon, scarbo in hand. He hurled the chair, which caught the surprised captain amidships. Grandon picked up the scimitar-bladed scarbo of the guard and ran forward to intercept Destho.
With Grandon’s blade threatening him, the usurper was forced to release Vernia and draw his weapon. The man was no mean swordsman and, for a time, the outcome was uncertain.
The Earthman fought in a blind fury. Gradually, his brain cleared and his stroke became more certain. He forced his antagonist to the wall and, with a dexterous twist, sent his scarbo clattering.
A look of alarm shone in the eyes of the amazed Reabonian prince. “Would you kill an unarmed man?”
“Surrender or…”
Before Grandon could finish the sentence the wily Destho dodged under his arm and ran through the door, calling loudly for help.
Grandon started after him—then paused hopelessly.
“Come,” he said, taking Vernia’s hand. “He will have a swarm of soldiers here in a few moments. We must try to find a hiding place.”
They sped down the dim passageway, hand in hand. Ahead of them they heard footsteps and the clank of arms. A doorway on their left offered temporary haven, and into this they darted. Grandon held the door slightly ajar and watched. In a moment a dozen of the castle guards rushed past, followed by Destho.
“Now,” he whispered. “We must go quietly.”
Again they darted along the passageway