Before my horrified gaze four huge rats came tumbling out from
the bag into the cage! The dacoit snatched away the sack and snapped
the shutter fast. A moving mist obscured my sight, a mist through which
I saw the green eyes of Dr. Fu-Manchu fixed upon me, and through which,
as from a great distance, his voice, sunk to a snake-like hiss, came to
my ears.
"Cantonese rats, Dr. Petrie, the most ravenous in the world... they
have eaten nothing for nearly a week!"
Then all became blurred as though a painter with a brush steeped in red
had smudged out the details of the picture. For an indefinite period,
which seemed like many minutes yet probably was only a few seconds, I
saw nothing and heard nothing; my sensory nerves were dulled entirely.
From this state I was awakened and brought back to the realities by a
sound which ever afterward I was doomed to associate with that ghastly
scene.
This was the squealing of the rats.
The red mist seemed to disperse at that, and with frightfully intense
interest, I began to study the awful torture to which Nayland Smith was
being subjected. The dacoit had disappeared, and Fu-Manchu placidly was
watching the four lean and hideous animals in the cage. As I also
turned my eyes in that direction, the rats overcame their temporary
fear, and began...
"You have been good enough to notice," said the Chinaman, his voice
still sunk in that sibilant whisper, "my partiality for dumb allies.
You have met my scorpions, my death-adders, my baboon-man. The uses of
such a playful little animal as a marmoset have never been fully
appreciated before, I think, but to an indiscretion of this last-named
pet of mine, I seem to remember that you owed something in the past,
Dr. Petrie..."
Nayland Smith stifled a deep groan. One rapid glance I ventured at his
face. It was a grayish hue, now, and dank with perspiration. His gaze
met mine.
The rats had almost ceased squealing.
"Much depends upon yourself, Doctor," continued Fu-Manchu, slightly
raising his voice. "I credit Mr. Commissioner Nayland Smith with
courage high enough to sustain the raising of all the gates; but I
estimate the strength of your friendship highly, also, and predict that
you will use the sword of the samurai certainly not later than the time
when I shall raise the third gate...."
A low shuddering sound, which I cannot hope to describe, but alas I can
never forget, broke from the lips of the tortured man.
"In China," resumed Fu-Manchu, "we call this quaint fancy the Six Gates
of joyful Wisdom. The first gate, by which the rats are admitted, is
called the Gate of joyous Hope; the second, the Gate of Mirthful Doubt.
The third gate is poetically named, the Gate of True Rapture, and the
fourth, the Gate of Gentle Sorrow. I once was honored in the friendship
of an exalted mandarin who sustained the course of joyful Wisdom to the
raising of the Fifth Gate (called the Gate of Sweet Desires) and the
admission of the twentieth rat. I esteem him almost equally with my
ancestors. The Sixth, or Gate Celestial—whereby a man enters into the
joy of Complete Understanding—I have dispensed with, here, substituting
a Japanese fancy of an antiquity nearly as great and honorable. The
introduction of this element of speculation, I count a happy thought,
and accordingly take pride to myself.
Chapter 29, The Return of Dr. FU-Manchu, Sax Rohmer
