But when we came to the piazza, where the bodyguard squatted,
what was left of it, with reddened spears, ghastly to make you sick,
Kamelillo grunted again and said, "He gone die," and passed in. The
guard broke out wailing and chanting, and rocked to and fro, but only
a moment, after which they held their spears up stiff, as the king
had taught them, and sat still.
Now we followed Kamelillo to a great room, where it seemed the king
held audiences and gave out laws and justice. The red plush chair was
on a raised platform at the far end, and over and on three sides were
heavy red curtains, and glass chandeliers hung from the rafters of
the roof, and a row of mattresses covered with carpet was laid in
front, maybe so that subjects could prostrate themselves comfortable.
But the room was dusky, and still. It seemed to be empty. But we
passed up it and stopped, for on the carpeted mattresses before the
throne lay Craney, all alone.
His coat and vest were put back, his shirt torn open, and his
breastbone split by a spear or hatchet, and it was clear he hadn't
long to live.
A ribby chest he had, and a dry, leathery skin. The blood soaked out
from under the cloth he held there against it, and ran down the
little gullies between the ribs.
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