Nathaniel drew his pistol.

He would not shoot, but Strang might be made to tell the truth with death leveling itself at his heart.

He groped behind him, found the door, and slammed it shut.
There would be no retreat for the king! And the man who turned toward him at the slamming of that door, turned slowly, coolly, and gazed into the black muzzle of his pistol looked, indeed, every inch of him a king.

The muscles of his face betrayed no surprise, no fear.

His splendid nerve was unshaken, his eyes unfaltering as they rose above the pistol to the face behind it.