" He pointed to his boot, where his foot lay turned to
one side. "I suffer badly. Be a good fellow and end it."
I answered him by tossing down one of his own pistols, both of which I
had secured against need. He looked at it, but shook his head.
"Let's talk it over a bit first," he said. "I'm done. I'll not make any
trouble. Did you ever know me to break parole?"
"No," said I, and I threw down the other weapon on the ground. "In
mercy to us both, Orme, die. I do not want to kill you now; and you
shall not live."
"I'm safe enough," he said. "It's through the liver and stomach. I can't
possibly get over it."
He stared straight ahead of him, as though summoning his will.
"_Swami_!" I heard him mutter, as though addressing some one.
"There, that's better," he said finally. He sat almost erect, smiling at
me. "It is _Asana_, the art of posture," he said. "I rest my body on my
ribs, my soul on the air. Feel my heart."
I did so, and drew away my hand almost in terror. It stopped beating at
his will, and began again! His uncanny art was still under his control!
"I shall be master here for a little while," he said. "So--I move those
hurt organs to ease the flow.
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