PAST MASTERS 107

Produced and Edited by Terry Walker ("Pulpmeister") from short stories in magazines, newspapers and other sources, and all in the Life + 70 years public domain.

22 November 2022

Contents

1: The Return / R. Murray Gilchrist

2: The Night the Devil Walked / Hal Field Leslie

3: The Temple of the Ten / H. Bedford-Jones

4: Tigre / Zane Grey

5: The Twenty-Four-Hour Croesus / Albert Payson Terhune

6: Uncle Bentley and the Roosters / Hayden Carruth

7: The Desert Road / Marjorie Pickthall

8: Heatherville / Waif Wander

9: The Revolt of Rustleton / Richard Dehan

10: Schalken the Painter / J. Sheridan Le Fanu

11: Some Experiments With a Head / Dick Donovan

12: A Tale of the Western Desert / Ernest Favenc

13: The Swagman's Dream / Ernest Favenc

14: The Drought Demons / Ernest Favenc

15: The Case of Mrs Helmer / Robert W. Chambers

16: The Haunted Flat / Marie Belloc Lowndes

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1: The Return

R. Murray Gilchrist

1868-1917

The National Observer, 2 July 1892

FIVE MINUTES ago I drew the window curtain aside and let the mellow sunset light contend with the glare from the girandoles. Below lay the orchard of Vernon Garth, rich in heavily flowered fruit-trees— yonder a medlar, here a pear, next a quince. As my eyes, unaccustomed to the day, blinked rapidly, the recollection came of a scene forty-five years past; and once more beneath the oldest tree stood the girl I loved, mischievously plucking yarrow, and, despite its evil omen, twining the snowy clusters in her black hair. Again her coquettish words rang in my ears: 'Make me thy lady! Make me the richest woman in England, and I promise thee, Brian, we shall be the happiest of God's creatures.' And I remembered how the mad thirst for gold filled me: how I trusted in her fidelity, and without reasoning or even telling her that I would conquer fortune for her sake, I kissed her sadly and passed into the world. Then followed a complete silence until the Star of Europe, the greatest diamond discovered in modern times, lay in my hand— a rough unpolished stone not unlike the lumps of spar I had often seen lying on the sandy lanes of my native county. This should be Rose's own, and all the others that clanked so melodiously in their leather bulse should go towards fulfilling her ambition. Rich and happy I should be soon, and should I not marry an untitled gentlewoman, sweet in her prime? The twenty years' interval of work and sleep was like a fading dream, for I was going home. The knowledge thrilled me so that my nerves were strung tight as iron ropes and I laughed like a young boy. And it was all because my home was to be in Rose Pascal's arms.

I crossed the sea and posted straight for Halkton village. The old hostelry was crowded. Jane Hopgarth, whom I remembered a ruddy-faced child, stood on the box-edged terrace, courtesying in matronly fashion to the departing mail-coach. A change in the sign-board drew my eye: the white lilies had been painted over with a mitre, and the name changed from the Pascal Arms to the Lord Bishop. Angrily aghast at this disloyalty, I cross-questioned the ostlers, who hurried to and fro, but failing to obtain any coherent reply I was fain to content myself with a mental denunciation of the times.

At last I saw Bow-Legged Jeffries, now bent double with age, sunning himself at his favourite place, the side of the horse-trough. As of old he was chewing a straw. No sign of recognition came over his face as he gazed at me, and I was shocked, because I wished to impart some of my gladness to a fellow-creature. I went to him, and after trying in vain to make him speak, held forth a gold coin. He rose instantly, grasped it with palsied fingers, and, muttering that the hounds were starting, hurried from my presence. Feeling half sad I crossed to the churchyard and gazed through the grated window of the Pascal burial chapel at the recumbent and undisturbed effigies of Geoffrey Pascal, gentleman, of Bretton Hall; and Margot Maltrevor his wife, with their quaint epitaph about a perfect marriage enduring for ever. Then, after noting the rankness of the docks and nettles, I crossed the worn stile and with footsteps surprising fleet passed towards the stretch of moorland at whose further end stands Bretton Hall.

Twilight had fallen ere I reached the cottage at the entrance of the park. This was in a ruinous condition: here and there sheaves in the thatched roof had parted and formed crevices through which smoke filtered. Some of the tiny windows had been walled up, and even where the glass remained snake-like ivy hindered any light from falling into their thick recesses.

The door stood open, although the evening was chill. As I approached, the heavy autumnal dew shook down from the firs and fell upon my shoulders. A bat, swooping in an undulation, struck between my eyes and fell to the grass, moaning querulously. I entered. A withered woman sat beside the peat fire. She held a pair of steel knitting-needles which she moved without cessation. There was no thread upon them, and when they clicked her lips twitched as if she had counted. Some time passed before I recognised Rose's foster-mother, Elizabeth Carless. The russet colour of her cheeks had faded and left a sickly grey; those sunken, dimmed eyes were utterly unlike the bright black orbs that had danced so mirthfully. Her stature, too, had shrunk. I was struck with wonder. Elizabeth could not be more than fifty-six years old. I had been away twenty years; Rose was fifteen when I left her, and I had heard Elizabeth say that she was only twenty-one at the time of her darling's weaning. But what a change! She had such an air of weary grief that my heart grew sick.

Advancing to her side I touched her arm. She turned, but neither spoke nor seemed aware of my presence. Soon, however, she rose, and helping herself along by grasping the scanty furniture, tottered to a window and peered out. Her right hand crept to her throat; she untied the string of her gown and took from her bosom a pomander set in a battered silver case. I cried out; Rose had loved that toy in her childhood; thousands of times we played ball with it.... Elizabeth held it to her mouth and mumbled it, as if it were a baby's hand. Maddened with impatience, I caught her shoulder and roughly bade her say where I should find Rose. But something awoke in her eyes, and she shrank away to the other side of the house-place: I followed; she cowered on the floor, looking at me with a strange horror. Her lips began to move, but they made no sound. Only when I crossed to the threshold did she rise; and then her head moved wildly from side to side, and her hands pressed close to her breast, as if the pain there were too great to endure.

I ran from the place, not daring to look back. In a few minutes I reached the balustraded wall of the Hall garden. The vegetation there was wonderfully luxuriant. As of old, the great blue and white Canterbury bells grew thickly, and those curious flowers to which tradition has given the name of 'Marie's Heart' still spread their creamy tendrils and blood-coloured bloom on every hand. But 'Pascal's Dribble', the tiny spring whose water pulsed so fiercely as it emerged from the earth, had long since burst its bounds, and converted the winter garden into a swamp, where a miniature forest of queen-of-the-meadow filled the air with melancholy sweetness. The house looked as if no careful hand had touched it for years. The elements had played havoc with its oriels, and many of the latticed frames hung on single hinges. The curtain of the blue parlour hung outside, draggled and faded, and half hidden by a thick growth of bindweed.

With an almost savage force I raised my arm high above my head and brought my fist down upon the central panel of the door. There was no need for such violence, for the decayed fastenings made no resistance, and some of the rotten boards fell to the ground. As I entered the hall and saw the ancient furniture, once so fondly kept, now mildewed and crumbling to dust, quick sobs burst from my throat. Rose's spinet stood beside the door of the withdrawing-room. How many carols had we sung to its music! As I passed my foot struck one of the legs and the rickety structure groaned as if it were coming to pieces. I thrust out my hand to steady it, but at my touch the velvet covering of the lid came off and the tiny gilt ornaments rattled downwards. The moon was just rising and only half her disc was visible over the distant edge of the Hell Garden. The light in the room was very uncertain, yet I could see the keys of the instrument were stained brown, and bound together with thick cobwebs.

Whilst I stood beside it I felt an overpowering desire to play a country ballad with an over-word of 'Willow browbound'. The words in strict accordance with the melody are merry and sad by turns: at one time filled with light happiness, at another bitter as the voice of one bereaved for ever of joy. So I cleared off the spiders and began to strike the keys with my forefinger. Many were dumb, and when I struck them gave forth no sound save a peculiar sigh; but still the melody rhythmed as distinctly as if a low voice crooned it out of the darkness. Wearied with the bitterness, I turned away.

By now the full moonlight pierced the window and quivered on the floor. As I gazed on the tremulous pattern it changed into quaint devices of hearts, daggers, rings, and a thousand tokens more. All suddenly another object glided amongst them so quickly that I wondered whether my eyes had been at fault—a tiny satin shoe, stained crimson across the lappets. A revulsion of feeling came to my soul and drove away all my fear. I had seen that selfsame shoe white and unsoiled twenty years before, when vain, vain Rose danced amongst her reapers at the harvest-home. And my voice cried out in ecstasy, 'Rose, heart of mine! Delight of all the world's delights!'

She stood before me, wondering, amazed. Alas, so changed! The red-and-yellow silk shawl still covered her shoulders; her hair still hung in those eldritch curls. But the beautiful face had grown wan and tired, and across the forehead lines were drawn like silver threads. She threw her arms round my neck and, pressing her bosom heavily on mine, sobbed so piteously that I grew afraid for her, and drew back the long masses of hair which had fallen forward, and kissed again and again those lips that were too lovely for simile. Never came a word of chiding from them. 'Love,' she said, when she had regained her breath, 'the past struggle was sharp and torturing— the future struggle will be crueller still. What a great love yours was, to wait and trust for so long! Would that mine had been as powerful! Poor, weak heart that could not endure!'

The tones of a wild fear throbbed through all her speech, strongly, yet with insufficient power to prevent her feeling the tenderness of those moments. Often, timorously raising her head from my shoulder, she looked about and then turned with a soft, inarticulate, and glad murmur to hide her face on my bosom. I spoke fervently; told of the years spent away from her; how, when working in the diamond-fields she had ever been present in my fancy; how at night her name had fallen from my lips in my only prayer; how I had dreamed of her amongst the greatest in the land— the richest, and, I dare swear, the loveliest woman in the world. I grew warmer still: all the gladness which had been constrained for so long now burst wildly from my lips: a myriad of rich ideas resolved into words, which, being spoken, wove one long and delicious fit of passion. As we stood together, the moon brightened and filled the chamber with a light like the day's. The ridges of the surrounding moorland stood out in sharp relief.

Rose drank in my declarations thirstily, but soon interrupted me with a heavy sigh. 'Come away,' she said softly. 'I no longer live in this house. You must stay with me to-night. This place is so wretched now; for time, that in you and me has only strengthened love, has wrought much ruin here.'

Half leaning on me, she led me from the precincts of Bretton Hall. We walked in silence over the waste that crowns the valley of the Whitelands and, being near the verge of the rocks, saw the great pinewood sloping downwards, lighted near us by the moon, but soon lost in density. Along the mysterious line where the light changed into gloom, intricate shadows of withered summer bracken struck and receded in a mimic battle. Before us lay the Priests' Cliff. The moon was veiled by a grove of elms, whose ever-swaying branches alternately increased and lessened her brightness. This was a place of notoriety— a veritable Golgotha— a haunt fit only for demons. Murder and theft had been punished here; and to this day fireside stories are told of evil women dancing round that Druids' circle, carrying hearts plucked from gibbeted bodies.

'Rose,' I whispered, 'why have you brought me here?'

She made no reply, but pressed her head more closely to my shoulder. Scarce had my lips closed ere a sound like the hiss of a half-strangled snake vibrated amongst the trees. It grew louder and louder. A monstrous shadow hovered above.

Rose from my bosom murmured. 'Love is strong as Death! Love is strong as Death!'

I locked her in my arms, so tightly that she grew breathless. 'Hold me,' she panted. 'You are strong.'

A cold hand touched our foreheads so that, benumbed, we sank together to the ground, to fall instantly into a dreamless slumber.

When I awoke the clear grey light of the early morning had spread over the country. Beyond the Hell Garden the sun was just bursting through the clouds, and had already spread a long golden haze along the horizon. The babbling of the streamlet that runs down to Halkton was so distinct that it seemed almost at my side. How sweetly the wild thyme smelt! Filled with the tender recollections of the night, without turning, I called Rose Pascal from her sleep.

'Sweetheart, sweetheart, waken! waken! waken! See how glad the world looks— see the omens of a happy future.'

No answer came. I sat up, and looking round me saw that I was alone. A square stone lay near. When the sun was high I crept to read the inscription carved thereon:—

Here, at four cross-paths, lieth, with a stake through the bosom, the body of Rose Pascal, who in her sixteenth year wilfully cast away the life God gave.

_______________________

2: The Night the Devil Walked

Hal Field Leslie

fl. 1925-1936

Horror Stories Jan 1935

The author had a brief but productive career writing mostly western and detective stories for the pulps. His last recorded story, a western, was published in January 1936. This story was in Vol 1 No 1 of a new "shudder" pulp magazine, Horror Stories.

DEFINITE uneasiness was growing in Jim Hollister as he felt his way along the lonely windings of the pitch-black road.

Never had he encountered a night so utterly dark and soundless as this August night which lay so like a smothering blanket upon the remote New England countryside.

No slightest whisper of breeze was astir. The air was sultry, breathless, oppressive with the threat of coming storm ; it was like a giant hand pressed down upon the gasping earth, squeezing human skulls until they seemed too small to hold the brain....

Suddenly— so suddenly as to halt Jim Hollister dead short in his tracks, and set the small hairs along the back of his neck erect in a crawling prickle— the impenetrable blackness beyond the road's edge spewed a slobbering dribble of witless laughter.

Hard upon that drooling laughter the darkness took voice— loosely mouthed words, half-mumbled and half-chanted :

"Jest the kind of a night fer the devil to be prowlin'! Jest the kind of a night—"

"Hush yer fool mouth !" a second voice cut in, a little muffled, but harsh and commanding. "Git them idears out of yer head and haul yer carcass inter the house !"

Again that slobbering dribble of laughter, followed by the sound of shambling feet dragging reluctantly across a threshold; the reluctant closing of a door, and a bolt shot home. Silence... and then a sudden thin blade of lamplight cutting the outlines of an ill-fitting window-shade.

Thunder growled ominously in the far distance. For a moment, Jim hesitated; then he turned his weary steps toward the lighted window— for here at last was promise of shelter and a bed for the night.

He reached the building's front, located the closed door by sense of touch. His knuckles rapped a sharp tattoo on rough, weathered panels.

The summons evoked an immediate stir of movement within the lonely farmhouse : the sound of heavy boots shambling across a bare board floor ; the sound of a bolt withdrawn. The door opened, spilling yellow lamplight outward.

On the threshold stood a squat mountain of gross flesh, clad in a buttonless gingham shirt and soiled overalls. The smoky lamp held high in one hairy paw revealed a gargoyle countenance— enormous ears flanking a bullet-shaped head; a tangle of sandy hair growing low on a sharply retreating forehead; a bulbous nose with wide-flaring nostrils; protruding rabbit-like teeth set in a loose-lipped mouth; pale, round eyes staring owlishly from beneath hairless brows.

The creature's entire appearance betrayed a definite lack of normal human intelligence; plainly enough he was a halfwit.

"Who's thar, Lem?" The same harsh voice Jim had heard from the roadway, came now from somewhere within the upper regions of the house. "Who is it?"

"Dunno," responded the half-wit. His pale eyes peered unblinkingly at Jim. "Stranger, I reckon."

Jim's ears caught a muffled oath. It was quickly followed by the heavy clamor of booted feet hurriedly descending some inner stairway, making toward the open door.

THE newcomer ranged himself alongside the half-wit on the threshold; stood there, a gaunt grim figure with a double-barreled shotgun held at ready, eyeing Jim with cold hostility.

"What yer want ?" he demanded harshly. "Speak up!"

"I'm looking for a place to stay tonight," responded Jim. "If you've got a spare bed—?"

"Yer can't put up here," the man with the shotgun declared. "We don't take in no strangers."

"But it's going to storm," Jim protested. "The batteries of my flashlight gave out an hour ago, and—"

"Can't help it," the other interrupted stonily. "We don't take in nobody— not this time o' year !"

"Why not?" Jim demanded. "I'm no tramp— I'm a city bank teller, spending my vacation on a hiking trip here in the country. I'll pay you a fair price for the shelter of your roof."

Slimy laughter dribbled from the loose lips of the half-wit. "Ain't no use argerin' with my brother Dave," he mouthed. "Dave's smart. He knows the kind of a night the devil likes fer prowlin'! Jest this kind of a night—"

"Shet yer mouth, Lem !" the man with the shotgun snarled; then he swung the menacing twin muzzles of the weapon fair on Jim. "And you, stranger— git goin'! Git, I say f'

For a moment Jim's steady grey eyes remained locked with the hostile, glinting orbs above the gun barrels.

"You're a hospitable cuss, aren't you!'' he flung out contemptuously. And without further word, he turned abruptly and swung away along the dim pathway of yellow lamplight toward the road.

Behind him, the door of the farmhouse slammed shut upon the mumblings of the half-wit....

Doggedly, Jim pursued his way along the pitch-black road. So intense was the darkness, that he could not perceive the substance of his own hand held experimentally close before his eyes. Nor could he remotely guess how far ahead might lie another human habitation.

His thoughts, however, were less upon the prospect of a wet and lonely night in the open than upon the stubborn inhospitality of the man with the double-barreled shotgun— and upon the half-wit's mouthings about the prowling of the devil.

Could there be, Jim grimly asked himself, some grain of truth in that incredible legend upon which his mind had been fixed when halted so abruptly by that slobbering laughter from out the dark?

He had heard the gruesome tale no more than three hours ago— heard it at the edge of nightfall, from the ghoulishly relishful tongue of a crossroads storekeeper:

"Allus on a night like this'n' is goin' to be, the devil he does his prowlin'. Ain't nobody ever seen him, but it's him all right! And alius he takes a girl, or a young woman— ketches 'em alone in the house, or mebbe walkin' on the road. Their bodies is alius found miles away from where they was took, with their

throats tore somethin' awful! And alius nearby is them queer tracks of his'n— one naked foot, like a man's, and t'other a split hoof! Tracks that can only be follered a little way's afore they peter out in thin air...."

Incredible, fantastic— yet somehow the thing had managed to lay strong hold upon Jim Hollister's imagination.

So much so, that his usually steady nerves began to react queerly to the utter silence of this huge dark night enfolding him. The chance impact of his boot against an unseen stone was enough to tighten every fiber of his stalwart body. And a dozen times he caught himself pausing to listen, almost with bated breath, for— he knew not what!

HE could not manage to shake away the strangely persistent feeling that this black and breathless night was charged not alone with the threat of storm, but with forces sinister and wholly evil....

Distant thunder growled with increasing frequence. Occasionally, a faint and ghostly glimmer of lightning swept across the sky. Jim tried to quicken his pace; velvet chains of darkness held him back.

At length the road entered a stretch of gloomy woodland. Jim could sense on either hand the crowding presence of unseen trees. In his nostrils was the dank warm smell of forest mold— odor of death and decay. Suffocating silence reigned supreme.

Suddenly that silence was broken by the faintest of sounds— a sound like the whispering of leaves in soft wind. Jim stiffened in his tracks, listened breathlessly. The sound came again, from a point a little way ahead and to the left of the road. Unmistakably it was the rustle of leafy underbrush— yet there was no breeze astir!

For a long moment, Jim stood utterly motionless, listening. Reason told him that that faint rustling marked the stealthy progress of nothing more menacing than some shy forest creature— a softly treading deer, perhaps. Yet somehow that explanation failed to satisfy him....

He stood listening awhile, but the sound did not come again. Finally he resumed his way. And to quiet jumpy nerves, he fished a cigarette from the breast-pocket of his khaki jacket, jammed it between his lips. He struck a match; but before he drew smoke, he cupped the small flame in his hands and threw its yellow glow about him.

Nothing visible but the dim, ghostly shapes of trees. His glance fell upon the roadway at his feet— and a startled gasp died half-born in his throat. While the match burned unheeded against his fingers, he stared with shocked amazement at that incredible trail in the dust of the road.

It was the trail of a two-legged creature. One foot, the left, was a naked human foot. The other was a cloven hoof!

Sting of the burning match jerked his mind free from its whirling chaos of astonishment. Hurriedly he pinched out the flame, and blackness engulfed him like a palpable tide. He stood listening. No sound except the distant muttering of thunder broke the stillness of the woods.

Jim was tingingly certain those bizarre tracks were the marks of the creature he had heard rustling through the underbrush. Was the thing stalking him? He wondered— playing with him cat-and-mouse!

Blood pounding in near panic at his temples, he crept forward along the inky road. Nothing stirred the underbrush on either hand....

Of a sudden his toe encountered some yielding yet substantial obstacle. He tripped, fell sprawling in the dust of the road. Nerves leaping, he scrambled to his feet; stood there rigid, breathless, not daring any move. Silence like the hush of death lay all about.

What was the thing that had tripped him? A stone? A log across the road? It had felt like neither one. A tingling curiosity at length impelled him to crouch down, send a questing hand through the darkness.

HIS fingers encountered human flesh, the smooth skin of a feminine cheek— and the chill of death was there! With shaking fingers he struck a match. Its yellow glow revealed the body of a young woman, clad in a simple gingham dress. Her dead white countenance was plainly marked with ghastly fear. The large, dark eyes were wide and staring; they seemed to mirror now the utter terror that must have possessed her last living moment.

Just beneath the left ear, at the angle of the jaw, was a small, ragged wound, deep torn to the jugular vein. Strangely, the surrounding area of marble white skin was devoid of any crimson stain. Nor was there a single smear of blood upon the gingham frock, nor sign of any pool upon the ground.

The match burned out. Jim lit another, held it for a closer look at that gruesome wound. And his mind rocketed into unbelieving horror, for the edges of that wound bore marks that unmistakably suggested the ravages of teeth— teeth that were broad and sharp! Teeth that were wholly unlike the fangs of any animal known to him!

Shaken to the very marrow, he lurched to his feet. Caution flung now to the winds, he plunged recklessly onward along the black road, crashing bushes, stumbling blindly, but making headway....

At length his ears caught the soft gurgling of water among unseen stones. Abruptly the road took sharp descent, irresistibly quickening his pace. A mo-ment later his heels were thudding on loose planks above the invisible stream.

Simultaneously two distinct sounds came from out the forward darkness. One was the muffled snore of an approaching motor car. The other, echoing back from the far end of the bridge, suggested running feet— yet the sound was most peculiar.

Thud-clop.... Thud -clop! Briefly and hollowly, the bridge planks gave back that queer rhythm of oddly matched footfalls; then abruptly the soft earth of the road received and blanketed the sound.

At that same instant the uneasy beam of the approaching car's headlamps struck down athwart the far end of the bridge. Here the road bent sharply to the right and upward ; and here, briefly limned against a background of illumined bushes, Jim glimpsed the hurrying owner of those mismated feet.

An incredible figure, taking the upward bend at a swift ungainly run! Short, squat, cut to the pattern of a man, it was— yet Jim could have sworn the creature had horns, and a swinging tail!

Hard upon its disappearance around the bend came the sudden grinding squeal of car brakes desperately applied, and a woman's scream of fright— a scream that swiftly was lost in a tremendous rending crash of glass and metal.

Black silence fell like a blow— silence that was tortured by a faint low moaning from the direction of the crash.

Before Jim could move, a lurid flash of lightning lit the woods and the empty bend of road at the bridge end. Through the succeeding blackness writhed a single blood-chilling scream— a woman's scream, keyed to a pitch of utter terror.

With desperate haste Jim lunged on across the bridge. Thunder crashed as he plunged around the upward bend of the road. Again came vivid lightning. By its brief quivering glare, Jim saw a small roadster half wrapped around the trunk of a roadside pine, saw the white huddle of a woman prone at the road's edge; saw crouched beside her, ugly horned head outthrust and clawing hands tearing at the neck of her dress, that hideous creature with the mismated feet!

Horror drove a wild cry from Jim's panting mouth. Onward he lunged through thunderous darkness.

Before he could reach his objective, there came another flash of lightning. It revealed a road empty except for the white figure of the prostrate woman. The creature with the cloven hoof had vanished.

IN a haste of fearfulness, Jim struck a match. The woman's dress— white starched uniform of a nurse— was torn half away from her upper body. But there was no mark of violence upon her throat, or upon the smooth white firmness of her rounded breasts. Apparently she had fainted from sheer terror.

Jim struck another match, swiftly inspected the wrecked roadster. No sign of any other occupant. Upon the crumpled seat lay a nurse's blue cape. He picked it up, discovered beneath it a small nickeled flashlight.

Eagerly he seized the flashlight, drove its tiny beam searching all about. There was no sign of the horned terror. The soundlessness of its going argued one of two things to Jim : either it could see perfectly in the dark, or its mismated feet were upon thoroughly familiar ground....

He swung to the prostrate woman, allowing the light full play upon her. She was young— no more than twenty-two or twenty-three, and slenderly beautiful, with a riot of pale, gold hair framing her delicately oval face.

He knelt beside her; he felt, beneath the silky firmness of her breast, the strong and steady beat of her heart. He slid his arms beneath her, got to his feet. And she did so, a brilliant flash of lightning swept across the sky. Thunder crashed. A tremor shook her lithe, young body. And of a sudden she screamed in terror, and fought to free herself from him.

"It's all right," he told her quietly, over and over. "It's all right. There's nothing to be afraid of. It's gone, I tell you."

At length his quiet words prevailed. She grew calmer, ceased to struggle. But terror still had hold upon her.

"Where is it?" she gasped. "That awful thing I saw in the light of my car— the thing that dragged me from the seat after I crashed?"

"It's gone," Jim repeated. "I think I frightened it away. Are you hurt?"

"No. I was badly shaken, dazed. And then that hideous thing—" She began to shudder.

"Let's not talk about it," Jim said hastily. "Er— you're a nurse, aren't you?"

"Yes. District nurse. Ora Carew.... Who are you?"

Jim told her briefly. For a moment she clung to him like a frightened child. Then :

"You can put me down," she said. "I'm all right now."

High above in the inky void, the storm was massing its forces for assault. No rain was falling yet, but the lightning was coming with increasing frequence, and the thunder. The sultry air was crushingly oppressive....

"We've got to find shelter," said Jim hurriedly. "Where is the nearest house?"

"The old Barker place is nearest. There's a woods road, a little way back, leading that way. It's a secluded place."

"Telephone there?" asked Jim quickly, his mind upon the dead woman across whose body he had stumbled.

"I don't think so," Ora told him. "Old man Barker lives there alone— sort of a hermit. He used to be a sailor. Folks say he keeps the queerest pets—"

A blinding flash broke down from the heavens, and with it came a shatteringcrash of thunder that fairly rocked the ground beneath their feet. Ora gasped, said: "We'd better go!"

RAIN caught them long before they reached the old Barker place. Drenched, breathless, and with the batteries of Ora's tiny flashlight long since exhausted, they gained the storm-lashed dooryard.

Lightning gave Jim a vivid picture of the place: tortured branches of a giant elm twisting and threshing above the grey roof of a grey-weathered house. The house and the bare, unpainted barn were connected by a long low ell ; midway in the ell, a sliding door stood partly open.

With unerring certainty, Jim guided Ora toward the promised haven of that partly open door.

The opening was narrow. Jim tried to widen it, found the door tightly stuck in its runway. Ora managed to squeeze through, gain the shelter of the ell. Jim could not follow.

As he stood there in the lashing rain, there came from within the blackness of the ell a sound that was like the sudden rattling of a chain. Hard upon that metallic clamor came one brief choked scream of alarm from Ora's throat. And a sudden slamming thump against the door. And after that the inner darkness was hideous with the coughing bark of some great beast.

Jim threw his weight in a desperate assault upon the door; threw every ounce of his strength in a mighty heave that kindled flecks of dancing fire in his straining eyeballs. An inch the stuck door yielded— and two more— and that was all.

But those three inches were enough. Desperately Jim drove his body through, swung to the right, toward the spot whence came the frenzied coughing of the beast. A quivering flash of lightning lit the ell's interior— and he paused aghast at what he saw.

Reddened eyes deep set in a flat and hairy skull; white fangs clashing in a massive jaw; a bull-like neck encircled by an iron collar; massive hairy shoulders and long reaching arms with clutching fingers— an enormous bull gorilla!

The noisome beast was lunging at the end of a heavy chain, taut between its iron collar and a heavy post of oak. Straining savagely to conquer the scant six inches between its farthest reach and the prostrate figure that was Ora— Ora lying motionless against the base of the door.

So much Jim saw in one swift flash; then utter darkness took the place, and drums of thunder overrode the maddened barking of the beast. A moment more, and Ora's limp body was safe within Jim's sweeping arms.

As he backed away, holding her close, there came from the houseward end of the ell— seemingly from behind a closed door— a muffled scream of terror, a scream that was strangely like the scream of Ora back there on the road.

QUICKLY that unseen door came open, loosing a small flood of yellow light upon the dark of the ell— light that emanated from a lantern held high in the left hand of a man who was built along the lines of an old-time whaling bark— short, chunky, broad of beam. He was a rugged man with sea-green eyes, and a scrubby beard that was neither white nor grey, but a sort of faded yellow.

His only garment was a red flannel nightshirt that covered him well down below the knees. In his right hand was a heavy cane. In either ear was a massive ring of gold. Perched upon his right shoulder was a big green parrot.

As this man of the sea stood peering uncertainly down the dim length of the ell, the parrot threw back its hook-beaked head and screamed— perfect mimicry of a woman's scream of terror.

The sound set every nerve in Jim atingle ; for a parrot, so he knew, learns well by hearing....

His lantern aided by a flash of lightning, the old salt caught full view of Jim and his burden. Hurriedly he came along the walk of the ell, limping, his stout cane thumping on the boards. His feet were bare; and Jim perceived that the limp was due to a clublike malformation of the left foot, which so shortened the leg that its owner must needs walk upon the twisted toes.

The noisome gorilla still was lunging repeatedly at the chain's length, snapping it taut each time with such fury as to shake the timbers underfoot. Jim wondered how the links could stand such punishment.

With a queer flame burning in his seagreen eyes, the old sailor stepped close, swung his heavy cane broadside against the great brute's ugly head. With a coughing grunt of anger the big gorilla wheeled and leaped; and with amazing nimbleness the old man avoided the savage leap and stepped clear. Again the stout cane swung; and the blow took the big bull smack upon the nose. With a grunt of pain the hairy brute crouched back behind the oaken hitching post ; nor did he move again, but watched his master with reddened eyes of hatred.

The old man allowed the lantern light full play upon Jim and Ora. "Say!" he exclaimed. "That's the nurse-woman, ain't it, what goes around lookin' out for sick folks? Ain't hurt, is she?"

"I'm not sure," said Jim grimly. "We came in here for shelter and that damnable gorilla either threw her against the door, or frightened her so that she fell. It sounded as if she struck her head."

"Bring her into the house," said the old man abruptly. "We'll try a nip o' rum onto her."

Warily, lest this be some trap, Jim followed where the old salt led....

The threshold of an inner room was reached and crossed. Here the old man feet his lantern down upon a bare board table, jabbed his cane toward a low couch.

"Put her there on the sofy," he directfed, "while I git the rum."

He limped away toward the closed door of a corner closet. Back turned, he was fumbling at the knob as Jim bent to place Ora on the couch nearby.... And then, at that precise instant when Jim was nearest off balance, the old salt wheeled and leaped.

Too late Jim glimpsed the upswung cane. Its swift and crashing descent caught him glancingly, yet with terrific force, upon the temple. He knew no more....

VERY slowly Jim came back to a dim awareness of existence. Faintly he could hear the beat of rain on outer walls. And by slow degrees he perceived that he was lying all asprawl, with arms and legs outflung and right cheek resting on a bare board floor. A vast weakness was upon him; beyond the weary lifting of an eyelid, he was powerless to move.

His first visual impression was of a flood of yellow light. Then details of the room— the same room where he had been struck down by that stunning blow of the sailor's stick— came clear. And when his gaze swung at last to the table whereon the lantern still was burning, his senses reeled with choking horror.

At one side of the table Ora sat. Her slender body, stripped of its last shred of clothing, was held sharply erect upon a straight backed chair by cunning loops of thin black rope. She scarcely seemed to breathe; the lift and fall of her firm round breasts was almost imperceptible.

Opposite, its hideous horned head outthrust across the table and the weight of its thickset shoulders supported on bent arms, was that creature with the mismated feet!

For a moment Jim's rioting mind could not encompass the thing. Then he penetrated the trickery of it— saw beneath that horned skin hood the yellowed beard and the gleaming sea-green eyes of the sailorman. Old man Barker, clad in a suit of cowskin with the tail intact. Upon his twisted foot was a leather boot; and firmly affixed to the sole was a cloven hoof !

Habiliments of Satan, designed for what grim purpose...?

The parrot was no longer upon its human perch ; it now was stalking back and forth upon the table with a sailor's rolling gait. Its beady eyes never wavered from Ora. There seemed to be a curious expectancy about the feathered creature.

Ora sat rigid and white faced. She was in full possession of her senses now, yet terror must have had its numbing grip upon her tongue. Her wide blue eyes were staring with dread fascination upon that hideous outthrust face. And in her fair white throat, a pulse was beating, beating....

The seaman's lecherous countenance was working queerly. His gleaming gaze slid like a slimy serpent across Ora's soft white skin, missing no single secret of her lovely body. But always his sea-green eyes returned to that pulse beat in her throat, and in their slimy depths was utter madness.

"Ten days cast away upon the seas!" he cried hoarsely. "Ten days alone on a bobbin' raft, the captain's gal and me! The biscuits went, and the water. And the sky was like a red hot stove lid clamped down atop us. The air was like it is tonight— it was all a man could do to breathe.... Hour after hour, with the sharks all around and never a knife to my hand, and my tongue hangin' out black with thirst, I watched her layin' there— the captain's gal. Her throat was white, like your'n....

"Oh, I battled agin the temptation until I nigh went crazy! But the air was squeezin' my skull, and my tongue was hangin' black with thirst....

"Next day a big six-master picked up the raft and me. I told 'em the sharks had took the captain's gal !"

A HIDEOUS grimace of soundless laughter parted the bearded lips of the sailorman, revealed four long snags of yellowed teeth gleaming in the lanternlight. Two were in his upper jaw and two were in the lower; and each was broad and sharp and strong.

With a sickening rush of horror, Jim recalled the look of that wound on the throat of the woman dead in the road. He strove mightily to break the sudden cleavage of his dry tongue to the dry roof of his mouth ; strove mightily to hurl himself erect. But like a tortured sleeper prisoned in the web of some hellish nightmare, he still was powerless to move.

"That was twenty year ago," went on the old sailorman. "Twenty year— but I ain't never forgot the sweetness o' that first life-givin' drink! Times like these, when the air gits to squeezin' my skull, I git a mighty cravin'—"

Stark terror loosed the bonds of Ora's tongue. She screamed. And mingled with her screaming was the raucous laughter of the big green parrot.

Again that hideous grimace of soundless yammering parted the lips of the sailorman. He came erect, began to hobble on mismated feet around the table's end. And now his gleaming sea-green eyes were for nothing but the leaping pulse in Ora's throat....

Fury burst like a bombshell inside Jim's skull. With a staggering lunge he came to his feet, hurled himself tableward. Before the clawing hands of the sailorman could reach Ora's naked body, bunched knuckles exploded fair between his seagreen eyes.

The blow, with a hundred-sixty pounds of gym-trained sinew behind it, rocked him backward upon his heels. He lurched, staggered, the cloven hoof beating a sharp tattoo as he strove to maintain balance.

Madness of a lust denied was in him. Mouthing foul oaths, he clawed frantically inside his cowskin garb, jerked forth a seaman's dirk. With all his might he flung the murderous weapon.

Jim ducked, and the bright blade whizzed above him, struck the far wall with a ringing thud. Jim launched himself in a vicious flying tackle. His shoulder took the seaman's legs full out from under. Tangled in a desperate clinch, the two rolled and threshed upon the floor.

The agile strength of the old salt was astounding. Flat on his back, he locked a grip around Jim's loins and crushed him down until his spine was near to snapping. Breath wheezing, Jim managed a tight clutch upon those massive golden earrings, savagely hammered that hideous head upon the floor.

Snarling like a beast, the seaman relaxed his hold. Jabbing thumbs dug viciously at Jim's face, sent stabs of pain across his eyeballs. He lunged upward. Quick as the twisting of a forecastle rat, the old salt drove uplifted knees deep into Jim's belly. A split second later the cloven hoof smashed full in his face. He floundered backward in a burst of stars.

He was up in half a breath, shaking his head, shaking his eyes free of trickling blood. Through red mist, he saw the seaman lunging for the heavy cane that stood against the table. In blind fury, Jim leaped to intercept the move, drove blow after smashing blow at those madly gleaming, sea-green eyes.

The merciless savagery of Jim's attack was more than flesh could stand. Hideous face battered to a bloody pulp, the snarling seaman broke, swung, made for the room's one doorway at a clopping run.

BUT his desperate bid for escape was of a sudden blocked. Out from the shadows beyond the threshold hurtled the massive hairy bulk of the bull gorilla. A three-foot length of broken chain was clanking from its iron collar, and its little eyes were flaming with red madness.

A bleat of terror bubbled from the seaman's throat— a bleat that rose to a shrill pitch of agony as those clutching hairy hands came down upon him....

Jim's one thought was to get Ora safe away from this house of terror. Frantically searching eyes found the seaman's dirk sticking in the wall. He flung himself upon it, wrenched it free. Knife in hand, he swung to the chair where Ora sat prisoned in those cunning loops of rope, wide-eyed and rigid with terror.

As he slashed at those bonds with desperate blade, his ears were tortured by the sickening snap of bones nearby, and the guttural mouthings of the beast that literally was tearing old man Barker limb from limb....

Before Jim could strike the last loop free, there fell an ominous silence. He jerked his head erect, saw the huge gorilla standing like a triumphant figure of destruction among fragments of a broken crimson doll. Its ugly head was swaying a little from side to side, and its bloodshot eyes were staring straight at Ora. Suddenly the massive shoulders hunched and the ugly head shot forward. With queer rumblings in its hairy chest the beast drove in toward the naked girl.

Jim's move was instinctive, born of utter desperation. Knife tightly gripped, he flung himself full in the path of the jungle bull.

What followed was to Jim no more than one grim whirl of battling confusion, with mighty arms sweeping him high, slamming him with terrific force to the bare board floor. Somehow he managed to keep his hold on the dirk, managed to lock his fingers inside that iron collar. The slamming gave way to tremendous pressure of crushing arms. Gasping, face jammed hard against a loathsome hairy chest, he doggedly drove the dirk with ripping upward slashes at the creature's belly.

Through a seeming eternity of wracking agony, he sent the keen blade questing for a vital spot. And finally, when it seemed that every bone in his body was turning into useless pulp, the point went home. The crushing grip of hairy arms relaxed. With a peculiar coughing grunt, the huge bull sagged, slumped and lay inert upon the crimsoned floor.

Jim reeled against the table's edge, for a long moment hung there limp and unmoving while breath came back to tortured lungs in rasping gasps.

When at length he was able to move, see clearly, he perceived that Ora's tense rigidity was gone. Color of life was flowing warmly beneath her soft skin.

Quickly he struck away the rope's last loop, flung about her alluring nakedness a blanket from the nearby couch, and lifted her in his arms. She clung to him with a desperate and thankful intensity— as if she never meant to let him go....

Holding her so, he bore her swiftly out and away from that crimsoned room of grisly horrors.

Behind them, as they gained the huge dark freedom of the rain-washed night, the grim old house resounded to the raucous screaming of the madman's parrot....

____________________

3: The Temple of the Ten

H. Bedford-Jones and W. C. Robertson

1887-1949

Adventure,  1 March 1921

W. C. Robertson is a pseudonym of H. Bedford Jones!

Chapter 1

The Professor Joins

SEVERN fired again. This time a crinkle of grim amusement drew down the wrinkles about his stark blue eyes. He had dropped one of the Mongolian guides who had led him into the trap. His sun-blackened face was leathery, harsh, very keen. He seemed to ignore the stench of the rotting camel whose body served him as a breastwork. On the hairy fore-shoulder were laid three cartridges— his last three.

This is an age of specialization, as folk are apt at saying without comprehending their own words. Severn was a specialist in Chinese ethnic and lingual affairs. His work on Irano-Sinica was a classic of research. His monograph of six hundred pages on the admirable Chinese system of transcribing foreign words was a monument of philology. He had proved that the anthropomorphic conceptions in ancient Chinese religion were not really anthropomorphic at all.

His specialization led him to spend a year in Chinese Turkestan, working up gradually across the Shamo Desert toward Mongolia, and studying the dialects. This was now the tag-end of the year— a year of ethnic triumph, a year of personal disaster. His wife had died in his arms and lay buried in the Gobi. A collection of Indo-Scythian documents had been burned by lazy camel-men. Severn himself had been partially frozen during a storm on the Hu-shan gravel steppes. A drowned camel had carried down all his instruments and personal belongings excepting a rifle.

Through all this and much more Severn had come unembittered, gravely silent, with the same kindly, searching blue eyes and the same gentle deftness that made men love him. And now, at the year's end, he had come to life's end also.

Severn fired again, and his smile vanished. A miss; he did not like to miss. He had been ten hours without food or water, excepting such as he could get from the humps of the rotting Bactrian. Now he put his remaining cartridges into the magazine and waited. His last day on earth! A bullet snicked through the camel's fore-shoulder, spatted on a boulder and whanged off into space.

Behind Severn lay a frightful Odyssey, begun in the Chinese Turkestan deserts. Now he was somewhere at the edge of the Khangai plateau. At the back was the Gobi, or as the Chinese term it, the Shamo; ahead lay the Sajan range and Lake Baikal. Eastward lay Karakorum, the desolate ruins of the capital of Genghis Khan. Clad in Mongol skins, bearded and haggard, Severn was scarce recognizable as a white man.

He lay in a little hollow among ancient boulders, rising ground all around. It was not a good position, but he had not chosen it. About him rose the rim of the hollow, a circular horizon perhaps a quarter-mile in diameter. Half-way down from the rim, on all sides, were the Mongols into whose trap his treacherous guides had led him. They numbered a dozen.

A strange ending for a man learned in ancient lores and forgotten tongues, a scholar revered by Sinologues and ethnic students alike. Here he lay in a little gray rocky bowl, all his world shrunk down to this; the man of wisdom had become a primitive barbarian who sought only to slay before he himself was slain. Ignorant of the huge riches within his brain, they would murder him for the trifle of worldly pelf he had left, and would leave that brain to the birds. Sheer wasteful destruction— the young world's way.

From here and there about the indrawing circle of death muskets and rifles banged, bullets or slugs whirred above the central figure. Severn lay motionless, waiting until his final two cartridges might tell most effectually.

And as he waited he lifted bloodshot blue eyes to the rim of his little horizon.

Now he saw what he deemed a mirage, a hallucination. For, limned there against the blazing sky, sharp and distinct in every detail, he saw a group of six men who stood and watched him. Five of them were bearded men in khaki, topped by rakish turbans; those turbans gave back a sun-glitter of steel, and Severn knew the steel for the turban-rings of Sikh troopers. Sikh troopers—here! The sixth man was a white man, also in khaki, and all six were calmly gazing down as if awaiting the end of this butchery.

A croaking laugh broke from Severn. The laugh died out in a gasp of startled surprize.

The white man had raised his hand in a gesture of command. At this gesture the Sikhs lifted their rifles and fired. Real men, real rifles! More than this, from other quarters came an answering crackle of rifle-fire. Severn turned his head and saw other parties of men at the rim of the sunken basin, firing downward.

A reechoing swirl of frantic yells broke up from the bouldered waste. Here and there leaped out Mongols, filthy, skin-clad figures. They scurried from here and yon, all trying to reach the cluster of tethered ponies. Some dropped. The rifle-fire from the rim of the bowl was an irregular but continuous crackle.

Severn rose to his feet, trembling a little. He lifted his rifle, forced his hands into steadiness and fired twice; the last brace of his treacherous guides fell to the bullets. Then Severn took out his pipe, took out the pinch of tobacco wrapped in a squill of silk that he had preserved for two weeks, and filled his pipe.

He watched, sucking the unlighted pipe, for he had no light. Three of the Mongols reached the ponies; the others were dead. These three made a frantic effort to escape out of the bowl, but for them there was no escape. Bullets brought down their horses. Bullets killed them as they came to their feet again. That party was wiped out to the last man, mercilessly, efficiently, with a cold precision which startled Severn.

Who were these rescuers? Had he gone suddenly mad, or was this reality?

He sat down on the fore-shoulder of the camel. The three parties of men were coming down from the rim of this little world, but the closest was that which he had first seen. He stared at the white man who strode ahead of the Sikhs— a tall, ruggedly handsome type with the chopped-off angular jaw that bespoke south-of-England blood. Recognition dawned in the eyes of Severn; he had met this man somewhere in the past. Ah, yes! At the Naval Club in Weihaiwei a year or so ago; it seemed centuries. He remembered the chap now.

"Hullo, Kilgore!" he exclaimed as his rescuer came up. "You haven't a match, have you?"

"Upon my word— it's Severn!" Kilgore's hand shot out. "Man, I didn't recognize you! Where's the rest of your crowd?"

Kilgore produced a match-box. Severn lighted his pipe and answered curtly—

"Dead."

"No, not these chaps." Kilgore frowned slightly. "I mean the party you went up-country with; Mrs. Severn, the Jansen brothers and old Tom Fellows the botanist. No word has come through from any of you for months. I never dreamed you were up this way. At last reports your expedition was around Kashgar."

Severn met the warm smile of Kilgore with impassive features. Then he kicked at the rotting camel twice.

"This," he said reflectively, "is what's left. And me."

Kilgore started. The profound melancholy of those words affrighted him. He guessed that Severn was going to pieces inside, breaking up fast; it was a crucial moment. The wrong word, the wrong tone, and Severn would go mad, shoot himself, snap somewhere. Only such a man as Kilgore would have guessed this, for Severn appeared quite steady.

The Canadian— for such Kilgore really was— snapped out an order and his five Sikhs went on to join their advancing fellows. Then he produced a cigaret and lighted it. His words came fast, but not too fast, getting swift impact on Severn's brain.

"Our scouts heard the firing this morning, and we came ahead. Surrounded the place, of course; if any of these chaps had gotten away, would have been bad for us. Confounded lucky thing we've met you, Severn. You're the one man I know who might solve the enigma we're up against— the Temple of the Ten Dromedaries. We'll seize it, of course, but none of us are in your class, and we'd only waste the greatest opportunity an ethnologist could have. If you could come along with us, now— oh, hello! Here are my companions in crime."

Severn looked up. Curiosity was already rising in his brain; he was steady now, in control again, and the critical instant was past. To join the two men came two others; Severn saw that there were a score of Sikhs engaged in rounding up the horses of the Mongol raiders, and all had been led by Kilgore and his two companions.

Severn was introduced to Day, a huge, cheerful American, and to Sir Fandi Singh, a Rajput gentleman, bearded and swart. An odd company, he thought. And before much speech had passed among them, Severn spoke his curiosity. Kilgore was handing about a canteen of lukewarm water as if he were quite unaware that Severn was perishing of thirst.

"How on earth did you fellows come to be here— with these Sikhs?"

There was a general smile, and Kilgore made off-hand response.

"Oh, we expect to reach the Temple of the Ten in a day or so. Let's get out of this devilish hot bowl and back to the horses. We can talk then in some peace."

THEY WALKED back toward the rim by the way Kilgore had come, and in silence. Severn, safely over that tremendous shock of meeting white men in his present circumstances, was already afire at thought of Kilgore's words and their implications. Why not? He had heard of the Temple of the Ten Dromedaries; every one in Mongolia had heard of it, a place fabulous as the palace of Kubla Khan. The tales about it would have done credit to the Arabian romancers; singing fishes, purple grass, magic and wonders innumerable! Severn, like other men of fact, had ignored the tales, taking them for fiction pure and simple.

Day produced chocolate and Severn seized it eagerly.

"Do you mean to say," he demanded between bites, "that this place does exist?"

Kilgore gave him a sidelong glance and smiled in satisfaction.

"We've been there— at least Fandi Singh and I have. We're going back. These chaps who tried to pot you were members of the temple tribe. Their own name for the place, by the way, is Darkan."

A singular light blazed up in the eyes of Severn.

"Darkan!" he murmured. "That is extraordinary!"

Kilgore smiled again, as if he had calculated the effect of this word.

The four men went on in silence. At the crest of the depression they sighted the horses, waiting at a little distance. Day placed a whistle at his lips and blew a shrill blast. The horse-guards brought forward the animals, while the Sikhs began the ascent from the basin.

Severn glanced around, his eyes sparkling.

"Where is your baggage train?" he demanded. "Your camels and—"

"They come to meet us at Darkan," said Kilgore. "They are in charge of Sheng Wu, a Chinese political agent and a most efficient man; he has an escort of fifty Manchu horsemen. Now, we'll camp here until night; do you want to clean up first and sleep afterward?"

"By all means," rejoined Severn.

The Sikhs assembled, and Severn sahib was introduced; they were delighted at having rescued him, grinned and jested like boys, proud of their work. The last four to arrive bore two Mongol bodies, which they laid down. Kilgore beckoned to Severn.

"Here's a surprize for you! Did you ever see Mongols like these?"

Severn stood over the two bodies, astonished. They were totally unlike the usual men of the steppes, except in the common denominator of dirt. The complexions were clear, the death-fixed eyes were gray, almost without obliquity. The frontal measure was very wide.

"Broad, high brow— benevolent-looking ducks!" said Day. "But it's all in looks. They are large men, eh? No bow-legged little Tatars!"

"I think their language is a compound of Russian and Mongol," added Kilgore. "Can you make anything of their race, Severn?"

The latter nodded thoughtfully.

"It's quite clear," he observed. "The type has turned up before— descendants of the Russian sect of Starovertsi, or 'old believers,' who came here from Russia in the eighteenth century and were swallowed up by the Mongol Kirgiz hordes. Quite clear."

Day stared hard at him for a moment, then clapped him lustily on the shoulder.

"You win, professor! I take off my hat to you. Come along, now—Fandi has raided our haversacks for a shirt and pants, and we'll spare you enough water for a shave—"

In effect, camp had been made while they examined the two bodies. It was a simple camp; no fires, since "they hadn't de quoi, " little water, no shelter. It was the camp of men who are staking everything on one swift, sure stroke.

Severn was aided to bathe and shave, none grudging him the precious water. Enough odd garments were found to clothe him. When the job was finished, he was staggering with mental and physical weariness and reaction—but he looked and felt like a new man.

"You'd better eat no more until after you've slept, old man," said Kilgore. "Here you are; curl up in this hollow and I'll fling a coat over you. I presume you'll throw in with us, what?"

Severn lifted his face to the clean sky, and uttered his first sane laugh in months.

"With all my heart!"

Chapter 2

Severn Understands

IN THIS sai, this driven waste of glacial gravel, there was no timber. The three friends sat about a burner of solidified alcohol, brewing tea; Severn slept near by; the Sikhs were making their evening meal from emergency rations.

"That chap," and Day nodded his head toward the sleeping Severn, "is a fine man, Kilgore. Wonderful! If I'd been in his place— well, I'd have gone off my head long ago."

"He's lost everything in life," said Kilgore thoughtfully. "If he pulls out sane, and has something given him to live for, he'll still be a great man in the world. We'll give him the something— additions to his science."

Fandi Singh frowned slightly and fingered his curly beard.

"What was that you told him about Darkan?" he questioned. "Why did it affect him, and what mystery is there in it?"

Kilgore smiled.

"He'll tell you himself— he's stirring now. It's a philological puzzle, that's all. Exactly the thing he needed to buck him up."

Severn came to his feet and joined them. Sleep had made a new man of him. He stood gazing at the three, a shadowy, gentle smile on his lips.

"I don't believe I've thanked you fellows," he observed. "I am grateful, you know—"

"Oh, sit down and forget everything," said Day in his roughly genial way. "Say, Fandi Singh wants to know about that Darkan stuff! What is there about it so blamed queer? I don't see anything curious in a Mongolian name."

Severn chuckled, sat down, took the cigaret Kilgore handed him, and inhaled the smoke with avid delight.

"It's an Old-Turkish word, not Mongol," he said. "Perhaps it was derived from Uigur. It's been carried all over Asia and Europe— Astrakan, or Hajji Tarkan, is a sample. You chaps staggered me with the news that this temple really exists, and that word may give a clue to its origin. For years there has been a philologic battle over it. It means, in effect, 'endowed with authority.' "

"Any connection with the Chinese word ta-kan?" queried Kilgore.

"The same word. The ancient Chinese pronunciation was dar-kan. It's often written with an x, like the name of the last Ming general, Koxinga; but the letter is always intended for the spirant surd. Some cheerful fool put out that ta-kan stood for Great Khan, yet the old pronunciation, as well as the transcription, shows its real meaning."

Kilgore winked slyly at Sir Fandi. It was evident that Severn was himself again.

"The water's hot," he announced. "Tea, Day! Can't give you much to eat, Severn; we're on emergency rations. Make the best of things as they are. By the way, what do you know about the Darkan temple?"

"Rumor only. Nothing definite."

"We'll sketch things for you, and then be on our way, eh?"

"Good. Call these emergency rations, do you? If you'd been eating what I have for the past few months, you'd say this was a Lucullan feast! Now I know how that old Roman ambassador from Antonius Pius must have felt, when he had wandered over Tibet and Tart ary and finally came to the outposts of Chinese civilization. Let's have your tale."

While eating, Severn listened to the facts related by Kilgore.

FIRST, Darkan existed; both Kilgore and Fandi Singh had been there. They were now returning— partly with governmental authority, partly for loot, and partly for humanitarian reasons. Twenty-odd Sikhs had been recruited from discharged Indian army men. Also, Kilgore had with him a machine gun of his own invention.

"Poor Mac was half-inventor, also," he said, "but we left Mac in Kalgan— bad case of septic poisoning from an infected razor. He's safe enough, but in no shape for hard work. And I can tell you we've had hard work getting here! Now for the Darkan material.

"The temple has ten priests, who in turn have ten novitiates. They absolutely rule the tribe who supports 'em, but they're located at some distance from the tribe. The Mongols have a tremendous respect for the temple and won't come near it except on order, and once a year for worship. The novitiates are what might be called outside priests. Ten times a year they send in ten girls to the temple; a nasty business all around, Severn."

Severn nodded.

"I can imagine so. A brutal crowd, heritors of some ancient glory."

"Quite so. But behind the temple and the priests is some unknown person who rules the lot. They call him Esrun. He is highly mysterious, lives apart from the temple at the sacred lake, issues all orders by telepathy, and so forth. Telepathy plays a large part in the whole affair. When the priests need money, they send a telepathic message to this Esrun, who returns orders when and where to go. They go, and find money and jewels waiting for them. Mysterious, what?"

"I don't believe half of that, in spite of you all," said Day cheerfully. "It's a fairy-tale! But I know the priests exist. Money and jewels— bosh! Jewels, particularly Central Asian jewels, aren't worth half what romancers claim. I know!"

Severn's blue eyes were sparkling.

"I suppose you know about this Esrun?" he asked.

Kilgore shook his head.

"No. What do you mean?"

"Esrun is the Mongol designation of Brahma, derived from Uigur Zarua, in turn taken from the Sogdian form 'zrwa, the equivalent of the Avestan 'zrvan. Remarkable!"

Fandi Singh chuckled in his beard.

"You are thinking fifteen centuries away; we are thinking in the present," he said calmly. "These priests of Darkan are degenerate brutes, and very dangerous. If we surprize the temple, we can hold it against all assaults until Sheng Wu comes up with our baggage, camels and assistance. Then we mean to locate this Esrun and clean him out. I think," he added reflectively, "that he is some old Mongol shaman who has found the tomb of Genghis Khan— perhaps the hereditary guardian of the tomb. Who knows? There are some who say that Genghis Khan was no other than Yoshitsune, prince of the Gengi, a Japanese general—"

Day came to his feet.

"With all due respect," he said dryly, "we can sit here and drivel all night about myths and legends. Me, I'm for action! It's getting dark, two of our scouts are already in and waiting to report, and we'd better can the talk. I don't care who these fellows with Bible names are descended from, so long as I get the drop on 'em. Let's go—"

There was a general laugh and immediate assent. Day shrilled on his whistle, and two stalwart Sikhs came up and saluted.

Severn took the reins of the little Mongol horse brought to him and watched in the semi-darkness as Kilgore received reports and issued orders. He had long ago decided that he liked these three marvelous men— the American, the Canadian, the Rajput. They were straight, clean men doing big things. And why? What gods did they serve? He could not be sure about this. He judged for himself that they had little reverence for money; this expedition must have cost more than could be recouped financially.

Not science had drawn them into this dreary section of earth, these weary leagues of stone and sand where indigenous man was lower than most animals. They were not scientists in any sense. The hint came to him with memory of Kilgore's tone in speaking of the periodical convoys of virgins sent to Darkan by the novitiate priests.

Severn, because he was essentially the same type of man himself, saw suddenly with the eyes of Kilgore— and comprehended. There was more to this Temple of the Ten Dromedaries than he knew, more than the rumored tales could furnish. It was a survival of some ancient culture, now an infected plague-sore that poisoned everything around. It was a thing from which the clean mind of a civilized man recoiled, as from some loathsome insect.

To this intuitive feeling Severn reacted instinctively. For a year he had been engaged in a constant struggle against disaster, a constantly failing effort to escape from the overwhelming tide of a remorseless fate. His friends and companions had gone down. His wife had gone down. His painfully gathered scientific materials had gone down. Reduced to the bone and sinew of his own body, everything else destroyed, he found himself suddenly plucked up and thrown into the company of men who had fought through a wilderness outpost of hell— for what? For nothing selfish.

Severn caught his breath. Now he perceived why those Mongols had been exterminated, pitilessly— as one crushes out the loathsome insect in fear and horror. Darkan must be worse even than rumor pictured the place.

Day saluted at an order from Kilgore, blew three sharp blasts on his whistle and turned to Severn.

"We're off, professor! You'd better ride with me. Bad going before morning—we'll strike the sands again."

Sir Fandi Singh, in the saddle of a beautiful white stallion, turned and shouted a cheery farewell and trotted away. After him went fifteen of the Sikh troopers, leaving a bare dozen to follow Kilgore. Severn, already in the saddle, reined in beside Day.

"Where are they off to? We don't seem to be following them—"

Day chuckled.

"Blamed good thing we're not! Anybody following Fandi Singh this night has some job ahead! We've timed our arrival, you see, to coincide with that of the caravan from Urga— the caravan which the novitiate priests bring in every thirty-six days. We're striking Darkan from the south; the caravan comes in from the northeast. So Fandi is going ahead to catch that caravan as it enters the temple valley. He has fifteen men to do the work of fifty, and to ride like-doing it. If any of the Mongols get away on the back trail, they'll raise the tribe. If any of 'em get through, they'll warn the temple priests. Yes, sir, if you want to know what real work is like, you stick with Fandi Singh!"

Severn was silent for a space. Kilgore drew in at his left; the dozen Sikhs came after them, all unhurried, progressing steadily and surely. Presently Severn spoke.

"You have done this with your imagination at work."

Kilgore understood, and assented.

"We've had to look ahead, yes. The priests have a general slaughter of the women every month— clearing the way for the newcomers. As I said, it's a nasty affair, Severn; won't do to dwell on. If we can strike that temple tomorrow night, we'll find only the priests there. Fandi Singh has to halt the Urga caravan and rescue the girls it is bringing."

"Suppose you've miscalculated dates?" asked Severn.

"We haven't miscalculated." The answer was swift, curt, decisive.

"By gad, I like you chaps!" exclaimed the scientist impulsively. "If you've been here before and learned the ropes, good enough; we may get away with it! A lot I care what the end is— you're good company to stick with! But is there any truth in the stories of telepathic control?"

"More than you'd believe," said Day dourly. "More than I believed—at first."

"Then," said Severn, "don't you imagine that the priests will be already forewarned? Give the mystics due credit; they know a lot we don't. Isn't it more than probable that they have received telepathic warnings of your projected expedition?"

Then Kilgore did a singular thing. He made no answer for a moment, but presently lifted his arm and pointed to the blazing stars in the night-sky above them. When he spoke, his voice held a hushed but profound emotion— an emotion strange in so poised a man.

"Can you realize what those twinkling dots are— and not believe in God?" he said softly.

Severn made no response. Perhaps those words went deeply into him.

Chapter 3

The City Of The Whirling Sands

SEVERN lay flat at the mouth of the defile and watched an extraordinary scene from beneath the curving rim of a great boulder.

Before dawn they had arrived at the valley of Darkan. This valley had two entrances, and this southern entrance was guarded by a single Mongol. As Kilgore had explained, the office of guardian was hereditary. Except for this one man, those of the tribe never ventured into the valley of the whirling sands.

Severn stared as a lone Sikh advanced, unarmed and openly, in the new light of day. The Sikh held his turban-ring over one wrist. Ahead of him appeared nothing but rock.

"A play for primitive curiosity," said Kilgore, low-voiced, from his position beside Severn. "If it wins— we win. Few men have seen a Sikh turban-ring at work. Watch."

The Sikh came to a pause, stared around vacantly. Among the rocks ahead a single skin-clad figure stood up; the dull glint of a rifle-barrel was visible. The Sikh seemed not to observe it, but stooped and fumbled at the laces of a shoe.

The Mongol stepped forward, rifle held loosely. The Sikh picked up a stone and threw it at some invisible snake or scorpion near by. The Mongol jumped, saw that his fear was groundless, came forward again.

Then for the second time the Sikh stooped to throw. The motion appeared awkward and ungainly. The steel ring left his hand, whirled out in a wide arc, and the Mongol stared at in astonishment. The ring curved through the air, as a flat stone curves from the hand of a boy; it shot upward— and suddenly gave one terrible swoop downward. A cry burst from the Mongol. The razor-edge of that steel ring struck him between neck and body. He vanished from sight.

Day's whistle shrilled. The Sikhs leaped up, ran for the defile. Severn found himself running with them. They came to the lone Sikh rising from above the body of the Mongol, wiping his ring. He saluted Kilgore and smiled.

"Sahib, he was alone."

Day picked up a long tube of bronze which the Mongol had dropped. It was some sort of horn or trumpet. That its note could cover the ten miles of valley to the Darkan temple was an incredible conjecture; yet here was the man, here was the trumpet—naught beside.

"I guess," said Day, "we won't try the thing, eh? Come on."

The horses were brought up, and the fifteen men rode through the defile. This, presently, widened before them, broadened out into a great valley of sand—a yellow waste in the morning sunlight, with yellow mountains to the left, purple-shadowed hills to the right. They halted to make camp beside a pool of clear, cold water in a hollow of the defile.

"Three hours for sleep," said Kilgore calmly. "Then

No fires were made. The Sikhs squatted, ate, talked in low eager tones. Severn and Day, who was also seeing this place for the first time, sat and listened to Kilgore, who had an excellent idea of how the land lay.

"Imagine a great Y," said the Canadian, "at the bottom of which we now stand. This lower portion is ten miles in length. Once it was a fertile valley, like those buried cities of Khotan which you have seen, Severn. Under that sand ahead of us lies a city—"

"This is the valley of whirling sands, that the legends tell about?"

"Exactly. At the upper end stands the Darkan temple, the last remnant of that lost city. The right fork of the Y is short, only a few miles in length, and ends in a blank valley— what would be called a box canyon in the States. That is where the magic lake of singing fishes and purple grass lies, the home of Esrun himself.

"The left fork of the Y, to the left of those central hills ahead, is a defile like this one, but it opens into a series of valleys which support the Darkan tribe. Fandi Singh is now at that defile, I trust, waiting to cut off the caravan. He is to join us at the temple two hours after dark. There will be only the ten priests to fear. They have a number of Mongol women who attend to the housekeeping. We'll handle them easily."

Severn gave his companions a reflective glance.

"The whole procedure sounds like a very simple thing, after all. "

Kilgore smiled.

"It would be simple to capture— if one had a plan of the place! Let's get some sleep. Guards out, Day?"

The latter nodded.

"No forage for the horses, though. They're in bad shape."

"There's forage to be had in plenty— at the temple."

Day grinned and settled himself for sleep in the hollows he had dug for hips and shoulder-blades. Severn followed suit and was asleep almost instantly.

When he wakened, it was to hear a low murmur of wonder from the bearded Sikhs, who were one and all staring at the sand-valley before them. Severn sat up and looked at the valley; he remained thus, propped up on his hands, staring blankly.

There was something— a score of things— moving there, far down the valley. At first glance they looked like water-spouts, some of huge size, some very small. They were, of course, whirlwinds of sand; but the odd thing was that they retained their shape and moved in almost regular lines back and forth.

Smiling, Kilgore thrust a pair of field-glasses into the hand of Severn. The latter looked again. Miles away in that clear atmosphere, he saw strange things. Those whirling sands were, in the central portion of the valley, marching in incredible numbers. As they came and went, Severn saw a black mass disclosed for a moment— the ruin of some uncovered house or palace. It vanished again. He saw great toghrak-trees laid bare, and then disappear. He saw buildings come into shape; one looked like the tope of some low-built temple.

A stalwart Sikh came up and saluted Kilgore.

"Sahib, this is the place of whirling sands, of which you told us? Good. Do these sands swallow up men?"

"Like flies," said Kilgore grimly. "We march by the eastern rim of the valley, risaldar. If we have luck we shall get through."

"Wah, Guru!" exclaimed the Sikh. "Then we wet our turbans here."

He gave an order. The Sikhs sprang into activity, tearing from their long turbans strips of cloth for the noses of men and animals— the leather head-bags had been left with the camels. The wet cloths would substitute. Kilgore turned to Severn.

"You see why no Mongols venture into this valley, except at such times as the priests indicate?"

Severn nodded.

"Wind-currents, atmospheric conditions, heat and altitude," he said curtly. "When do we march?"

"Now," answered Day, and shrilled on his whistle.

The fifteen set out. There was but one lead-pony, which bore Kilgore's machine gun. Following the Canadian, they headed diagonally for the eastern edge of the valley, where comparatively few of the sand-spouts were dancing.

It was wearisome going, for the sands were loose and shifting, so that the animals sank fetlock-deep at each step; Severn perceived that they would be most of the day in traversing this ten-mile valley. He had had his fill of this monotonous sand-marching long since. The menace of the whirling pillars of sand did not worry him, nor the gusty winds that filled the air with flying particles. He was inured to all this and as he rode on his thoughts wandered to Kilgore's separation of forces.

That Kilgore had left his camels and baggage to follow under guard of Sheng Wu and the Manchu riders, less from choice than from necessity, was plain enough. Yet Severn did not like it. Such men as the Darkan priests, who kept in full touch with the outside world by means of their novitiates, might easily have heard of the projected expedition; all magic aside, they might have learned of it through natural sources of information. A conviction oppressed Severn's mind that Kilgore had committed a fatal error— but it was not his to speak of it now.

Time dragged. The party made slow progress along the eastern edge of the valley and presently even Severn was eying the sand-spouts uneasily. Large and small, those whirling vortices moved with an incredible speed. Noses of men and animals were muffled in the wet cloths. When one of the smallest pillars shot toward them, a tiny vortex no higher than a mounted man, the riders eyed it grimly and awaited its coming without fear.

It burst upon them. Severn, no less than the others, was profoundly startled by the frightful force of this tiny sand-spout. It was a perfect maelstrom of wind and sand that whirled on them, buffeted and wrenched them, nearly tore them from their saddles. The sand cut through clothes and hairy pelts to the skin. When they emerged from it, they were gasping, staggered, stricken. The captured Mongol ponies broke away and fled, screaming shrilly.

"My ——!" croaked Day in dismay. "If one of those big fellows lands on us, good night! That was sample enough for me—"

Kilgore held up his hand and gave a sharp command.

"Forward! At the whistle from Day sahib, break ranks and seek shelter along the rock-ledges. Forward."

They rode on, men and beasts sorely shaken by realization of the danger. To their right stretched abrupt ledges of the red Khangai granite. Kilgore explained to Severn that, although there were no sand-spouts in the valley at night, precisely for that reason had he chosen to attack by day. The priests would be caught completely off guard at dark.

"You have planned boldly," said Severn. The eyes of Kilgore bored into him.

"But not well?"

Severn parried with his gentle smile.

"My dear chap, I certainly am no competent critic. No two generals adopt the same tactics. Let us await the event—"

Day's whistle shrilled; a great whirling pillar had swerved and was sweeping straight toward them as if guided by some infernal intelligence. The horses snorted, broke in panic. Severn, like the others, dismounted and gripped his bridle, clinging close in against the rocky wall that would break the blow.

But not all gained that wall. Two of the horses got the bits between their teeth and with their riders bolted straight ahead, frantic with terror. As if they were standing still, Severn saw the whirling pillar rush for them— then the maelstrom was shattered along the precipice; he found himself engulfed by a dun cloud of stifling sand and gripped hard at the nostrils of his trembling horse. The two fleeing men vanished. Sand covered everything.

It was over presently. Buried to the waist, the men emerged. The pack-horse with the gun was safe. All sign of those two men was gone; blotted out as if they had never been, even the place where they had gone down could not be discerned. The sand-waves, in level wind-riffled billows, had covered them over and were smooth again. To search for the lost men were folly; delay in this place were madness.

"Mount," ordered Day, and the staring men obeyed.

"By the right hand of the Lion," spoke out the stalwart risaldar, stroking sand from his beard, "I think there are devils in this place!"

"So there are, risaldar," said Kilgore coolly. "Are we to fear devils, then?"

The risaldar laughed fiercely, and after him the other nine. They spurred forward again; and as they passed through that vast city, buried under the sands of forgotten centuries, they beheld strange things laid bare by the floating sands. Yet they paused not.

Severn, as he rode, wondered what would happen to them if Sheng Wu and the supporting force did not show up.

Chapter 4

The Hunting of the Rats

TWO MILES from the junction of the Y-arms at the upper end of the valley of whirling sands the party halted at mid-afternoon. Here, sheltered by a long rock-ledge jutting into the valley, was their last cover. Between them and the temple lay open sand, which Kilgore dared not cross until darkness came to shield them from sight.

With his two companions Severn stretched out on the rocky ledge and trained the glasses upon the Darkan temple. Off to the left diverged the left arm of the Y, a narrowing continuation of the sandy valley. The right arm was hidden from their sight. In between lay a craggy wall of red granite running into the high hills behind. A long green niche in this wall showed the position of the temple.

"It's a grassy spot watered by springs," explained Kilgore. "They keep racing dromedaries and a few horses and sheep there— you'll pick up the wall in a minute. Found it, have you? It's walled, of course. Look to the right end of the green spot for the temple— a low tope. The valley has been filled with sand since it was built, so that the dome is now almost below the level of the sands. Those rocky knuckles out in front have kept the sand from encroaching. In ancient times the temple had a view of the whole valley; now they can barely see this two-mile strip of sand— unless they have watchers posted on the hillside behind. They're too lazy for that, I fancy. They trust to the Mongolian watchman at the southern end, the chap we attended to at dawn."

Severn had picked up the temple, a mass of granite melting into the hill behind. It appeared deserted; but moving specks in the walled pasture indicated habitation.

In the scene was nothing startling. Everything was prosaic, drab, stark mountains and yellow sand, and this abode of man was repellent in its primitive ugliness. Only when one turned to view the marching pillars of whirling sand did the impression come of strangely sinister forces at work. Only when one looked to the far green peaks of the higher Khangais was this impression strengthened by the memory that somewhere hereabouts had been the throne of Prester John, whence the Mongol blast had gone forth to bum half the world. According to Marco Polo, Ghenghis Khan had been a minor chief and later son-in-law of Prester John.

The three returned, joined the Sikhs again, and at sunset the evening meal was made ready; it was a good meal, finishing up the last of the rations. The horses, on their last legs for lack of fodder, were given the last of the water.

"It's a case of root hog or die!" exclaimed Day cheerfully. "Everything we lack is over yonder behind a wall— and we have to get it. So we'll probably get it."

"Exactly." Kilgore produced a cherished English cigaret and lighted it. "Luxuries tomorrow— if we win! Those chaps bring in all sorts of stuff from the outside world. Two to one we find a phonograph in the main temple hall! If they were not a lazy outfit, and if they had put their brains to work, they could have made this place the center of a Mongol horde which might sweep Asia! Tell you what, this place has an influence that's felt as far south as Tibet; but these brutes lacked initiative. The mysterious Esrun—"

Kilgore checked himself and fell into silence. Now, as on one or two previous occasions, Severn was conscious of things left unsaid— hints at unguessed influence behind this expedition. The British ruled in Tibet. These Sikhs were ex-Indian army men. Kilgore's invention of the machine gun had been given to China. Was this one of the numberless outflung protecting arms of the British Empire— not in any sense official, yet none the less with far-reaching political effect— which had been carried into distant places by adventurous men since the days of the East India Company? Severn could find no answer, except in his own imagination. The speculation was interesting, but unsatisfying.

"You're going to wait for some word from Fandi Singh?" he asked.

"No." Kilgore shook his head. The man was perfectly poised as always, yet he was inwardly aflame with a nervous excitement. "We have enough men here to win or lose— and if we fail to surprize the ten priests, we lose. If we win, Fandi joins us and we can hold the temple indefinitely against the tribe— until Sheng Wu arrives."

Once again Severn felt that singular uneasiness over the way in which Kilgore's ultimate plans depended on the arrival of Sheng Wu. But he thrust the thought from his mind.

The sun slipped away and was gone. In the valley the whirling sands had died down and the wind ceased. Rifles were cleaned and loaded. The machine gun was not unpacked, as its chief value was for defense. When the long twilight was merging into night Kilgore gave the word to mount.

To Severn this final two miles presented a choking tedium, for eagerness was dragging at his soul. No word was spoken; the orders had been given and understood beforehand. Presently the horses sniffed the green oasis ahead and their pace quickened. Mounting a sharp rise in the sand, a light appeared ahead— rather, a glow of soft radiance marking the low rounded dome of the temple.

"Luminous paint in the tope," whispered Kilgore. "A lot of tricks like this inside. Come ahead!"

He and Severn quickened their advance, followed by the risaldar. Day halted the others and deployed some of them— for all egress from the place was to be shut off.

The mass of the temple was now clearly visible in the dim starlight; Severn perceived that it was a long, low building of stone, seeming of massive strength. There was no indication of any watch being kept. Indeed, the central gates stood open and unguarded.

"Got 'em!" murmured Kilgore, and dismounted. "This is the hour when they meet to communicate with Esrun. If we're lucky we'll see things."

Handing their reins to the risaldar, Kilgore and Severn advanced on foot. They were in the gateway, and through. Pistol in hand, Kilgore led the way as if he had a perfect familiarity with the temple. Starbeams lighted their advance.

Inside the gates, a courtyard, small and backed by the temple proper. Somewhere afar a Mongol woman's voice rose in shrill, reedy song, followed by a banging of copper pots. This prosaic note drew a smile from Severn; then he followed Kilgore into darkness. A stone passage walled them in.

Kilgore had provided himself with a tiny pocket flashlight, probably for this very need. He flashed the pencil-beam ahead and Severn discerned only stone walls. An occasional door showed itself; then came a flight of descending steps. The Canadian halted.

"We've passed the entrance to the main hall," he breathed. "Nobody there now. Steps wind down, come out directly on council chamber. Not a sound, now!"

In darkness again, Severn followed down the stone steps. His nostrils caught the indescribable reek of temple candles, loose cotton wicks burning but unconsumed. The stairs went on interminably—twenty-five, thirty of them. Then a soft glow of light, and a curtain of some frayed material through which came the light.

To Severn this unhindered access was incredible. Now came the explanation, as Kilgore halted him with a touch— a high, shrill voice, vibrant with excitement, that rose from behind the curtain and spoke a Mongol readily understood by Severn.

"We have obeyed the orders of our lord Esrun. It is three weeks and more since the men of Darkan went forth, led by five novices, to the destruction of the impious white men and their followers. Let us ask our lord if the novices have made report to him."

Severn's eyes widened. Kilgore was glancing at him interrogatively; evidently the Canadian knew little of this language. But Severn dared say nothing. He held up a hand for silence and leaned forward, tensed, awaiting what might come next.

No further sound— blank silence from behind the curtain. Kilgore moved forward and Severn cautiously joined him. They stood at the curtain and looked through the frayed holes therein. And now, for a moment, Severn could not believe the scene before him. He even forgot that frightful news which had just come to his ears.

He gazed upon a company of ten men seated about a table, and on the table were four huge temple candles of soft, painted wax, smoking unheeded. The table was of ancient stone, but neither table nor candles held the stupefied gaze of Severn; it was the men themselves, the ten priests of Darkan, who sat in ungainly temple chairs of cracked lacquer and hugely curving mastodons' tusks, fossil ivory from the northern glaciers.

Each of those barbaric chairs framed a picture of brutish splendor. Red lamas were these men; their robes and hats were of dusky red, highly embroidered and flittering with an abundance of rich jewels— not the usual Tibetan ornaments of coral and turquoise, but blazing stones, cut and polished, set in antique fashion and throwing back the yellow candle-light in a flashing stream of fire. The men themselves were obese, bestial figures of lust and license unchecked. They sat in silence, staring at the candles. Their hair and mustaches and straggly beards were heavily gilded; their finger-nails were long and encased in quills of gold after the old Chinese fashion.

Now Severn saw the brutal faces crossed by a wave of startled emotion, as if into each man's brain had come some perturbing thought— yet no word had been spoken. After an instant one of them spoke, uneasily, as if to affirm the message he had caught.

"Our lord tells me that the men of Darkan have destroyed that caravan, and that our novices report there was no trace of white men. Is this correct, brethren?"

The others assented. Their breathing was heavy, rapid, tense. Severn, who saw that Kilgore understood nothing of what was said, went sick at heart.

The scheme of this infernal Esrun was plain to him now. Esrun had sent out the tribe under five novices, directing them by telepathy to destroy Kilgore's caravan, yet not knowing that Kilgore had left that caravan. The other five novices, no doubt, were bringing the virgin tribute from Urga. And Sheng Wu had been destroyed!

In his agitation, Severn touched the curtain before him. It waved. From one of the Ten broke a cry— and the cry was lost in the crack of Kilgore's pistol.

What came afterward was a mad frenzy of destruction. The priests were armed—and were armed with automatic pistols. They dashed down the candles and scattered. The chamber had other doors. Kilgore's little flashlight was of small avail.

Severn yielded to the lust of the manhunt— running after fleeing figures, shooting, pursuing blindly with sobbing breath and emptied pistol. Dark passages, shots stabbing the obscurity, the stifling stink of smoldering candle-wicks, the tumultous shouts and screams of fighting men— everything was pandemonium, sheer madness! Of what he did or where he went Severn could afterward remember little.

He emerged into the open night, staggering, gasping for breath, and found himself standing in the temple courtyard. The stone building behind was reverberating to shots, shouts, poundings. There welled up the same wild Sikh battle-yell that sounded when the foundations of Mogul mosques were washed in the blood of swine by the hillmen.

"Wah, Guru!"

With swish of torn silk, a figure leaped out past Severn, darted across the open sand. Behind it, in the darkness of some doorway, clanged the echoing breath of a rifle; the figure spun about, tottered, went down.

"Wah, Guru!"

The risaldar came forth, joined Severn and laughed wildly. "Ha, sahib! There was the last of the rats— we have hunted them down well, eh? By the brood of the Lion, this was good work! The women are under guard, unhurt; they were all old cattle, those women. And only two of our men wounded!"

Severn felt suddenly sickened with himself.

"Do not rejoice too soon," he returned harshly. "Sheng Wu and the caravan have been destroyed. "

The risaldar uttered one astonished ejaculation, then fell silent

Chapter 5

"Ung-Khan, That is to Say, Prester John."

—M. Polo

TWENTY MINUTES after the last shot was fired, Sir Fandi Singh and five men came riding in at top speed, to find the temple already taken.

The ten priests had fallen to the last man; stripped of their jeweled insignia, they were consigned to a burial party at once, and a swift search of the temple was made. The half-dozen Mongolian hags who did the work of the place were confined closely in one of the rear chambers, for they could not be trusted. Except for these the temple was empty.

Traces of other inhabitants were found— gorgeous clothes and jewels of women, for example; one of the hags confessed that these women had been taken to the lake of singing fish the previous night. What this meant was clear enough. Many rifles of Russian and German make were found, with ammunition; and the store-room was filled with luxurious supplies of all descriptions. The main hall of the temple, the place of worship of the tribe, was gaudy with Buddhistic images, many of them the fine jeweled brasswork of Tibet.

"Where's Severn?" asked Kilgore suddenly, missing the scientist.

"Down below," said Day. "Said he wanted to see the dromedaries. There's nothing else to see in that place."

"Very well— post sentries and join us there, immediately."

With Fandi Singh, Kilgore went to the lower chamber in which they had surprized the ten priests. Both men were calm enough. They had no doubt that what Severn had told them was correct— that the caravan had been destroyed by the Darkan tribe. They knew that the telepathic powers of the priests were remarkable, and it was true that only five novices had been with the caravan ambushed by Sir Fandi.

They found Severn standing over that singular stone table about which the ten priests had been assembled. He had lighted more candles, and the chamber was dimly illuminated. It seemed some ancient place of worship abandoned in favor of the upper hall, Chinese fashion; except for the table and chairs it contained only ten pillars spaced at intervals. But these pillars were remarkable.

The lower portions of these pillars were shaped in the form of dromedaries or camels, nearly full size; from the humps ascended stone columns to support the roof. Each pillar had obviously been carved from the living rock, as had the chamber itself.

Severn glanced up excitedly as the two men entered, and raised his hand.

"Look! I want you to notice something— this table! It's been hewn out of the bare stone, you see? And note its position, here at one end of the place. Does that suggest anything to you?"

Kilgore and Sir Fandi shook their heads.

"Not a thing," said the Canadian.

He produced half a dozen packets of English cigarets, procured from the store-room, and tossed them wearily on the table. Severn brushed them aside with a gesture of swift irritation.

"But look again— can't you see that this room is like a church? That this table stands in place of the altar— what was anciently a table indeed? And now look at the under side of it—"

Severn lighted one of the candles, whose soft, pigmented wax stained his fingers a vivid scarlet. Unheeding, he lowered it to the floor. Kilgore, catching a spark of his ardor, came to his knees and looked up at the under side of the table. Sir Fandi, a grim smile under his beard, dropped into a chair and lighted a cigaret.

"Inscription," grunted the Canadian, and rose. "Looks like Manchu and Chinese, what?"

"Mongol, also Chinese," corrected Severn, a flush of excitement in his face. "The Mongol is well preserved—I've been copying it. I can read nearly all of it. Listen!"

Kilgore opened a box of cigarets and flung himself into a chair. Sir Fandi watched the American, still smiling, yet mildly curious despite himself. Severn clutched at the tabletop, reading there what he had copied and written on the stone with red wax:

"The period name is gone, but we don't need it— this thing was built by Ung-khan in the sixth year, a year of the Yellow Rat, and was dedicated on the first day of the eleventh month, a day of the White Cock. Understand what that means? Do you understand? It's the most ancient Mongol inscription we have, of course, but the name Ung-khan and the titles! Here is the significant title, from the Chinese text— the word ngu-se-ta! It's a representation of the Persian ustad, which in turn rendered the Hebrew rab or rabbi.

"Now wait! Here Ung-khan calls himself ngu-se-ta, or teacher, of God, and also beloved of Buddha. He was a lama, but also a Christian— a not uncommon circumstance among the Tatars."

"What of it?" demanded Kilgore, smiling at the earnestness of Severn.

"What of it? Good ——, man! It confirms the old supposition— this Ung-khan was not only a hereditary lama of the form of Buddhism then extant here, but he was also the teacher of God! The Nestorian monks, finding him a lama or priest, reported that John Prebuteros—"

"Prester John!" exclaimed Kilgore, snapping to his feet. "D'you mean—"

"We're in the church of Prester John this minute— and—"

Day appeared in the doorway with a cool interruption.

"And we're likely to stay there a —— of a long time," he cut in. "Gentlemen, we've found mighty little loot in this place. I don't like to cut in upon a scientific discussion, but two things interest me a— sight more than relics; first is loot, and second is the getaway. Do you chaps know what we're up against?"

Obviously Day had been doing some thinking. He went on stubbornly:

"Esrun, whoever he is, seems to have all the loot— let it pass. But this same Esrun, blast him, is going to signal the five novices who jumped poor Sheng Wu to get here and go up against us with the tribe. We can't hold out here indefinitely. Our one best bet is to find this chap Esrun and find him quick! Get me?"

Sir Fandi assented mildly.

"Quite right, gentlemen. I propose we abandon archeology in favor of defense—"

"Very well," snapped Kilgore, sitting down. "Sir Fandi, your report?"

"All went off excellently," returned the Rajput. "We bagged the caravan complete— it will arrive here before daylight. I rode on with five men, leaving six to bring the camels—"

"Lost four men, eh? Dashed good work you lost no more, Fandi," said Kilgore. "That gives us a total force of twenty-one Sikhs. But go ahead— pardon me."

"We found ten girls with the caravan—fifteen camels in all. We shot every man in the crowd; the girls were all Mongol or Chinese. No one escaped. But we saw no sign of any flocks or herds or villages in the farther valleys. Beyond doubt, the tribe has gone bodily upon some such errand—"

"As the destruction of Sheng Wu and the caravan," added Day bluntly.

Severn dropped into a chair and took a cigaret. He was badly shaken by the supreme excitement of his recent discovery—and yet he realized they must forget the past and face the future. Kilgore glanced around, his face grave.

"Day has hit the mark, lads! We broke off a seance here; therefore Esrun will guess at what's happened— whether he can pick our brains or not, I can't say. Odds are he will instruct the novices with the tribe to come here and finish us off. If he directs the campaign, we're in for it, should we stay here!

"I'll take first shot; then you fellows speak your minds. We have two courses open. We can take the supplies here, load up the camels in the caravan and those behind the temple, and we may get clear away. Or else we may remain. In that case we'll have first to fight the Darkan tribe, then all the Mongols within a hundred miles— and we'll have no hope of succor or aid. Question— fight or run, Sir Fandi?"

"By the sin of the sack of Chitor!" swore the lordly Rajput angrily. "Am I a thief to come and strike in the night, and then run? I stay!"

"Same here," said Day. "Besides, we haven't any loot to speak of, yet."

Severn nodded. Kilgore lighted a fresh cigaret and also nodded.

"Unanimous. We stay! Having decided to remain, shall we strike out in the morning, leaving this citadel of defense unguarded, to polish off Esrun?"

Severn spoke up.

"You know where this Esrun is?"

"No. Somewhere about the lake in the box canyon. We'll have to find him. Both Sir Fandi and I have seen the lake, but we've not explored it."

"You think he is one man, alone?"

"We think so. We really know very little; but that is the supposition."

"Very well." Severn, now quite cool, smiled in his gentle fashion. "I am not a fighter. I am an investigator, an explorer. I will go to the lake and find Esrun—"

"Accepted, but you shan't go alone," snapped Kilgore. "It's a damnable place; the night mist off the lake is anesthetic in effect, and there are rifts among the rocks that go down to smoke and fire in the earth's heart. I suggest—"

"I go," said Sir Fandi, stroking at his beard complacently. "If Mr. Severn will accept me, I can guide him to the lake."

"Gladly!" assented Severn.

"So proposed and carried," hurried on Kilgore. "Now, what about these ten girls who'll get here at dawn? What can we do with 'em?"

"Give them rooms to themselves," spoke up Day, "explain matters, and supply 'em with guns. Believe me, these women can fight! I know."

So the matter was arranged, and in five minutes the comrades-in-arms were seeking rest for the remainder of the night.

Severn slept fitfully; indeed, his brain was too excited by what he had discovered to readily admit of slumber. He was anxious to make an exact copy of that bilingual inscription in the table or altar. He admitted that his theory had been hasty and presented certain difficulties; yet it carried out the statements of Polo, Rubruk and the invariably authentic Abu'lfaraj.

In his mind's eye he could see the wandering Nestorians converting the Mongol chief, baptizing him Yuhanna, consenting to his retaining the dual role of Christian and lamaistic priest, and reporting to their Bagdad metropolitan that this John the presbyter— for so they would translate the word lama— was a convert. A sound theory, for the Nestorians had metropolitans through China and Turkestan, and so strong a church that the plan had even been put forward of the Christian Mongols coming from the east to join the Crusaders in the recovery of Palestine.

And this, then, was the church of Prester John! Severn fairly ached to go over every inch of the place, get measurements and rubbings, confirm his hasty theory by sound investigation— but now time pressed. There was other and more immediate work to his hand, and he must do it first. Personal safety came ahead of theories.

So gradually his riotous brain quieted, and he slept. Yet in his slumber came dreams— begotten, as Freud might declare, of the eager impulses so firmly checked and denied. He saw a strange withered figure, its face as the face of some ancient mummy, white locks ragged about the sunken eyes, and across the breast, in letters of fire, the Mongol name of Esrun. The figure reached one skinny hand and gripped him by the shoulder—

"All out!" came the voice of Day. "Up, Severn! Breakfast and daybreak!"

Chapter 6

The Abode of Esrun

AS HE RODE away from the temple beside Sir Fandi Singh, in the early light of dawn, Severn fully understood that their errand was to be a scouting expedition as much as a blow at Esrun. The unknown Esrun must be destroyed, yes; but there remained the question of his fabulous wealth— which, according to Kilgore, supported the priests.

The members of the expedition had suffered a sea change; more correctly, a desert change. Severn recognized this, admitted it in himself, but dared not speak the thought. Twenty-four hours previously he, like the others, had been buoyed up by the idea of destroying a tremendously evil thing. They had looked forward to it as a labor of Hercules which would employ every atom of energy and strength.

Instead, the Ten had been wiped out almost in a moment. Their jeweled trappings remained as symbols of loot— these, and Severn's discovery of the inscription.

What a power lay in the name of Prester John! Imaginations were inflamed. Thoughts arose of some huge store of gems and gold, ancient treasures over which squatted the loathsome spider Esrun. If Severn and Fandi Singh discovered Esrun and the treasure—

"It was the gold of Fafnirthat doomed Sigurd," said Severn moodily.

"Eh?" The Rajput glanced at him curiously, not catching his train of thought.

"Well, one can always use gold! If we are lucky, we shall find some fine dromedaries today. When we were here before, the priests kept fine stock in the valley by the lake— none of your shaggy Bactrians, but blooded racers, clipped and limbed like race-horses."

They drew up on a sand-crest and glanced back, waving to those who stood in the temple gateway. The camels of the captured caravan had just arrived and were crowded into the courtyard; the five-barred flag of China had been mounted above the gate; the scene was one of activity and bustle.

Then the horses went on. The two men rode in silence under the craggy cliffs, toward the right-hand fork of the great Y which formed the valleys. Armed and provisioned, they had only Esrun to fear— for in the place to which they went no man but the priests had ever ventured.

Before them the sands lessened. Ere an hour had passed they were riding in a narrow defile enclosed by high rock walls; a winding, forbidding gorge which appeared to lead on interminably. Two hours later they were still following its windings, and according to Fandi Singh they would not sight their objective until nearly noon.

"There are no buildings at the lake, no ruins?" asked Severn.

"None," returned the Rajput. "It is no place where men would willingly live. Near by are the hell-pits into which the accursed priests throw the women ten times a year. We will come upon a sulfur spring before long."

Severn eyed the gorge without great liking.

"A strange combination of natural wonders!" he observed. "And a stranger combination of human wonders. Think of those Russians, absorbed into some Mongol tribe, settling here! And according to the inscription it might have been the same tribe of Krits, or Christians, which Ung-khan ruled. Perhaps this Esrun is the last of some forgotten race of lamas— well, no use wasting words in speculation."

Sir Fandi Singh shrugged his wide shoulders in assent to this last.

"There are strange things in these hills," he said thoughtfully. "Stranger than we have seen, stranger than we shall see. That is, Severn, if one can trust legend."

Severn laughed shortly.

"It seems that legend has led us aright so far."

"Aye, true enough. And yet I have heard tales." The Rajput plucked at his beard. "It is said that the Darkan tribe and others, employ such vapors as this lake gives off; draw them into huge bellows and seal them for future use in warfare."

"What? A primitive gas?"

"Exactly. But who knows? There is the sulfur spring— the water is good."

The gorge was widening. They rode up to a huge jet of water which leaped from the rock, discoloring everything around, and was gone again within twenty feet. The water was strongly impregnated, highly charged, but was excellent in taste.

The two rode on again, the oppressing walls of rock growing imperceptibly wider. Here was no great erosion, as Severn could perceive; in this bowl among the hills the elements had been futile. The place was primitive, volcanic. The way became strewn with blocks of shiny black obsidian fallen from the high cliffs. The walls were stratified with garish streaks of color from molten metals, intermingled ores. Presently another wayside spring appeared, this time of streaming water that jetted and hissed over the rocks.

Forward again. About them reigned a terrible and unearthly silence. There was no other token of human presence. The click of the horses' hoofs fled out upon the windless air and returned again from the high walls; a volley of echoes accompanied them, rose all about them, until it seemed that upon their heels marched a cavalry of thousands, a ghostly company of shadows. When they spoke, the walls threw back the words in a storm of sibilant whisperings which smote them into silence.

How long a time passed, Severn did not remember; but it was long enough. Presently a burst of sunlight, and they were riding in the undiluted glory of midday— and now Fandi Singh drew rein and pointed ahead.

"The purple grass, the lake. The abode of Esrun."

Severn looked, and ahead of him, on a gentle declivity, made out stunted brush and the green of grass. Yet it was not the livid green of true chlorophyl, but a strange purplish-sheened green. Several dromedaries were in sight, grazing quietly; they inspected the two horsemen without fear. Toward the lake appeared low trees. The entire opening was truly a bowl among the mountains, walled in by inhospitable peaks and shut out of the world.

Beyond the trees came the shimmering glint of water. As he rode nearer Severn made out to the left a long flat overgrown with parasitic reeds which bore flowers of that very intense scarlet which nature often associates with danger.

"I think those reeds have something to do with the poisonous mists," said Sir Fandi. "The flowers are oddly marked with a cross in black."

"So? It is a botanical fact," answered Severn thoughtfully, "that no plant bearing a cross is injurious to man. Obviously the lake is receding from that flat. The mist may come from the mud, or from minute animalculae. What's the program?"

"Camp among the trees, turn the horses loose and await what happens."

Now, to the right and on the opposite side, Severn perceived that the lake was enclosed by walls of rock. It hardly deserved the name of lake, being a scant quarter-mile in diameter. The crags which arose straight out of the water were tortuous, twisted in mad shapes, and seemed to have been poured from molten stone. So, indeed, they had.

"This was once the maw of a volcano," said Severn when they dismounted. "A minor outlet, perhaps, of some ancient cone farther up in the peaks. Where are the steamy fissures you mentioned as being used for— er— burials?"

Fandi Singh, busy with his saddle-girths, waved his hand toward the right.

"Over there among the rocks."

The air was windless, hot, unstirred. When the horses were turned free to crop at the grass Severn strode down to the lakeside. Here were no shallows nor reeds, but a sandy shore and quick depth; the water was clear, cold, entirely innocuous.

Severn rejoined his companion. They lunched beneath the low trees, and Sir Fandi, who was still feeling the effects of his long and hard ride to catch the caravan, proposed that one watch and one sleep. Severn was in no mood for sleep and gladly chose the first watch. The Rajput was lustily snoring within five minutes.

Pipe alight, Severn strolled along the shore to the right. There had been no attempt to conceal their presence. Hiding-places there were none; they must chance the possibility that Esrun was on guard and would see them. Yet in all this place was no hint of habitation, no token or evidence of any human presence besides their own. If Esrun were indeed here, he must himself be well concealed.

Severn realized suddenly that he was walking past an ordered series of plants. He halted, staring down. A little plot had been fenced about with boulders, and in this plot were growing leafless shoots to a height of six inches. Each shoot held half a dozen buds, none of which were open. Severn stooped and broke off one of the shoots. Studying it, he saw suddenly what it was.

"Crocus sativus— the saffron flower!" he exclaimed when he had opened one of the buds and found the three yellow stigmas. "Why is this being grown here, and nothing else?"

He passed on, wondering not a little.

After a little he found himself in a path, lightly beaten amid the purplish grass, and he followed it. This scarcely discernible trail led him to rocky ground, away from the lake and to the right. Suddenly, unexpectedly, he started back; a step farther and he would have gone into an orifice in the earth— a hole six feet wide, extending across the path in a long crack. Then he saw that the path ended here.

He peered down over the edge and saw nothing. A choking sulfur-fume filled his nostrils and he stepped hastily backward. Then he stooped and from a rock where it clung picked up a wisp of torn silk. He understood now— he understood why that recently made path had led him here, and the manner in which the Ten disposed of their wives. He had not credited all Kilgore's tale, but now he credited everything.

The hours passed. Through the afternoon Severn sat beside the sleeping Rajput or strolled about. He found no indication of any human presence in the valley. Everything was deserted, empty, utterly ignoring the intrusion of man. The dromedaries were tame, and they were fine beasts, as Fandi Singh had said— blooded creatures such as were rarely seen in this part of Central Asia, racers of a fine breed.

The afternoon was waning when the Rajput wakened.

"Nothing has happened." Severn extended the saffron buds he had plucked. "You know what this is?"

The dark features of Sir Fandi lightened.

"Ah— the saffron fields of Pampur! I have not seen this outside Kashmir; you say it is growing here?"

Severn told of finding the bed of saffron roots. The Rajput frowned.

"That is singular! Well—"

"I have a plan," said Severn quietly. "We cannot stay here indefinitely, waiting for something to happen. We know that Esrun communicates with his followers by telepathy; well, then let us communicate with him by the same means. We must bring him out to a meeting, as I understand the priests always did. In other words, will him here to us!"

"But he will know it is fraudulent—"

"I think not. He is some primitive creature like the rest, who has fallen heir to a power greater than his control or knowledge. He will not be able to read our minds. If we get the message to him, he will come."

"But I cannot think in Mongol!" and the Rajput smiled. "I do not know the tongue."

"I do. Besides," added Severn, "this is a matter of thought-impulse, not of words. If we reach him with the impulse, I believe we can effect something. Remember, he's waiting for word from his priests. He'll think we are—"

"I think it is all folly," said Sir Fandi with an air of resignation. "But let us try, by all means. En avant! Forward, my thoughts— charge!"

Severn smiled, and they sat silent.

Chapter 7

"Neither A Foreigner, Nor A Cantonese."

The waters of the little lake were unruffled. In the intense peace, the absolute silence of that bowl amid the hills, pierced a thin reedy sound. Sir Fandi stirred and spoke under his breath.

"A fish. This is the lake of singing fishes—"

"Quiet!" snapped Severn.

The Rajput scowled and obeyed. Severn was putting all his concentration of will into the effort he was making. Backed by the thought-impulse of Sir Fandi Singh, he was formulating in Mongol the message bidding Esrun come forth.

"The white men have seized the temple. Bring us gold for them, and they will go."

Suddenly he became conscious of the impact of smother thought beating at his brain. He was utterly relaxed in every nerve and muscle, and it was a moment before he realized the import of this attacking thought. It was an assent, a bidding to be at peace. Under its compellant force Severn reached out and touched the arm of Sir Fandi.

"Be ready," he said quietly. "He is coming."

The Rajput gazed at him in startled wonder, not unmixed with awe. This transference of thought was something outside the cosmos of Sir Fandi; indeed, Severn himself was by no means sure of it. He had spoken on impulse, by intuition.

The two men came to their feet, pistol in hand. They did not know what to look for. Indeed, they were prepared for some eery and unearthly demonstration as they watched that unruffled lake where no wind ever touched. Upon them was a strange sense of awed expectation, of something about to happen beyond the ordinary.

Yet, when it came, it was simple.

Sir Fandi was first to perceive it and touched the American's arm. Severn looked, and from among the rocks to the right saw a rude canoe shoving out into the lake. He marked the spot, and fancied that the craft came from around some projecting comer of the cliff which must mask an opening.

A single figure stood erect in the canoe. It was a figure muffled from head to foot in a faded winding of yellow cloths. The canoe and paddle seemed rude and rough.

Sir Fandi threw up his automatic, but Severn checked him, laid finger to lips in a gesture of silent caution. That singular figure in the canoe was turning the craft toward shore; it seemed perfectly sentient, yet quite unaware that enemies were waiting. Severn could perceive no eye-holes in the mask of yellow cloth, and an odd fear came upon him. There was something uncanny in this slow but unfaltering approach, in this blind automaton! Yet he knew the explanation must be simple enough.

The two men stared. If Esrun had eyes in his head, he could see that they were not his priests but the dreaded white men. Still he swept the canoe in straight for the shore, silent and unswerving. Suddenly Esrun bent down, caught the gunnel, waited. The high bow of the rude craft floated forward and grated upon the shore. The saffron figure straightened, stepped into the water, pulled up the craft.

Now, bending above his canoe, Esrun brought into sight a heavy bundle, wrapped in a skin. Staggering with its weight, he dropped this on the shore, then stood erect and made a gesture as if inviting approach. Sir Fandi looked at Severn, but the latter shook his head in negation.

For a moment Esrun waited, then turned. Slowly that yellow figure made its way along the shore to the little bed of crocus. There it paused, and put forth a hand to touch the fence of boulders. At this gesture a light broke upon Severn; he could barely repress an ejaculation.

Esrun was blind!

The Rajput had seen it also. He gave Severn a startled glance of inquiry, and Severn nodded. Esrun knelt and touched the unopened buds of the saffron flowers with brown fingers. Then, together, the two men ran forward.

At their approach Esrun came erect, facing toward them inquiringly. They gave him no chance to escape; at the first movement Severn caught an upflung arm, while Sir Fandi tore away that muffling yellow cloth. Under his hand, Severn felt no attempt at escape, no bulge of muscle; the arm in his hands was withered, wooden, horrible to the touch.

The yellow cloths were half torn away. Esrun stood there before them half-naked— and the two men took a backward step with horror in their eyes. For the thing which they had captured was a leper, grimacing and leering frightfully toward them— and further, this leprous Esrun was, or had been, a woman!

Severn dropped an oath. An old woman she was, a hag in all truth, ravaged by the fearful disease, and she stood there without attempting to evade them. None the less, the two men knew that in this frightful body dwelt a perilous brain which threatened to engulf them and their comrades unless it were killed.

But— a woman!

"Do it, Rajput," said Severn curtly, half-turning away.

Sir Fandi flung him a look of wild scorn and fury. "Do it, American!" he snapped back. "The honor of a Rajput is as a sword-blade, and I do not choose to sully mine with the blood of a leprous Kashmiri woman! Do it!"

But Severn knew that he could not do it. The unreality of the scene was maddening— this ancient scarred remnant of humanity grimacing at them, the two of them standing there armed yet helpless, and the lives of better men hanging upon the extinguishment of that rotten brain! Yet, because this was a woman, Severn could not lift his hand to pistol.

In that instant of silence and thwarted endeavor Severn perceived what the words of Sir Fandi implied. This woman had come from the far south, from Kashmir in India— no doubt a leper who had fled from British jurisdiction. She had brought into the waste places the sacred saffron bulbs, the memory of her lost ways and blood and tradition. By what means she had found this place, there was no telling; but she had found it, and had taken the name of Brahma, or Esrun, and—

From the creature broke a wild laugh, a laugh that sickened Severn, and then she spoke in broken English.

"Aye, do it! Do it, sahibs— burra sahibs, do it!"

"Peace, unclean thing," growled Sir Fandi.

At this, without warning, the hideous being whipped a pistol from her half-removed cloths and fired pointblank. The Rajput staggered, threw out his hands, fell without a cry. Esrun fired again, this time at Severn, and the bullet almost touched his head.

Something broke in him and before he knew what happened he found himself standing with a smoking pistol in his hand, the nameless creature sprawled dead upon the saffron flowers, horror and fury boiling in his brain. He flung aside his weapon and knelt above Sir Fandi Singh, who had been shot through the body. The Rajput was unconscious.

A swift examination showed Severn that the bullet had gone clean through, missing any vital part, and that with care Sir Fandi would make recovery. With care! How was he to find care in this place— where, with night, would come the mists that produced sleep and death— where there was no shelter, no help, nothing?

Severn darted up and went to their camping-place, where he procured some material for bandages. Returning, he halted beside the boat, scanning the cliffs. No, that was out of the question; whether the abode of Esrun were the tomb of Genghis Khan or not, it had been the home of a leper— and Severn dared not take the chance of infecting the Rajput's wound.

He glanced down at the bundle Esrun had brought ashore. The skin had burst open, for it was some ancient and rotted hide; a stream of gold-pieces poured forth upon the sand. Severn stooped, thrust a few of the broad gold disks into his pocket, then leaped up and ran to his companion, cursing his own folly.

As he bandaged the wounded man, his thoughts raced ahead. To stay in this place were madness; to attempt to reach the temple and get help were equal madness, until Sir Fandi recovered his senses, at least. Another man might have left the Rajput, and spurred out to bring help— but something held back Severn. Some premonition, some acute sense of danger, held him here. Perhaps it was his own :trong instinct of self-dependence.

He decided upon a middle course. Within a few moments he had caught and saddled the horses and led the white stallion back to the Rajput. As he bent to raise the senseless body, a blade of the purplish grass drew across his left thumb, cutting into the skin. The sharp sting of the pain made him start; then he smiled at the occurrence. To pass through what he had met, and then to flinch at the cut of a grass-blade!

Presently Severn got his companion limply into the saddle, intent upon getting out of this hell-pit before night brought the deathly mist from the water. He bound the drooping figure in place, knowing that he dared not take Sir Fandi far in this wise, since the motion of the horse would hold open the wound and drain the body of blood; but it would serve.

Getting into his own saddle, he took the bridle of the stallion and set forth. Already the sun had gone from sight in the sky above, although in the outer world it would not yet be sunset. Severn directed the horses at a fast walk for the entrance defile.

HOURS LATER, it seemed, Severn found himself in a makeshift camp beside the hot spring in the defile. He had set out canteens of the water to cool. They had food enough to last for days. Farther than this he had not dared to come, for the jolting was too severe on the wounded Rajput, who had lost much blood. Severn himself felt a singular light-headedness, and he was bitterly conscious of that slight slit in his left thumb, which caused much annoyance as such small things will.

When morning came Severn found that a swirling fever was getting a grip upon him, and the thumb was swollen and painful. Alarmed, he tried to open it up and alleviate the inflammation, but without much result. Sir Fandi had gone into a deep coma of exhaustion, and Severn did not disturb him. He could see that the Rajput's wound was looking in bad shape.

With noon Severn prepared some food and forced the Rajput to eat. Sir Fandi wakened but seemed like a drunken man, and fell asleep again immediately after eating. Severn, who now perceived clearly that he himself was growing hourly worse and that he must have been given some septic infection from that purplish grass, was intensely alarmed.

When the afternoon drew on toward evening, Sir Fandi Singh wakened in great weakness, but with a clear head. Severn, flushed and almost incoherent, related to him all that had taken place. The Rajput raised himself to his elbow and smiled.

"To the temple, Severn! I'm in a bad way, but you're in worse. We must get there at all costs. Place me in the saddle, and I'll stick there— born to it. You're the one to be tied on. If we start at once, we'll get to the temple some time tonight— possibly not until morning. But we must get there. Kilgore had drugs and medicines."

Severn assented. They made another meal, and then got into the saddle. The effort of saddling and of helping Sir Fandi up almost finished Severn, but he clambered aboard and they were off by dark. There was no losing the way in this defile.

To Severn, that night was a purgatory of swirling torment and mad visions. Before his fevered brain danced the horrible figure of Esrun, the Kashmiri woman; Sir Fandi stated that she was beyond doubt a Rajput of some high blood, but Severn was past reasoning the thing out. The hours dragged in terror and frightful agony.

With the dawn the horses were picking their own way toward the temple. Sir Fandi was riding in grim silence, saying nothing of the broken clots that let his wound bleed afresh. Severn saw the flag waving over the gateway of the temple and in a mad fantasy put spurs to his horse and went ahead at a gallop. The Rajput followed slowly, silently.

Severn reined up in the courtyard. His fevered brain was astonished by the silence which greeted him— no shout of welcome, no sound at all! On the walls he could see the figures of the Sikhs. In the courtyard he could see the machine gun trained on the gateway, with three Sikhs seated beside it. Yet they did not rise at his approach.

He dismounted.

When Sir Fandi rode into that courtyard he saw Severn lying senseless on the sand. And down upon them looked the Sikhs from the walls, with dead eyes that saw not. The Rajput painfully got out of the saddle, staggered, fell, came to his feet again. He drew his pistol and fired twice in the air.

There was no response.

Chapter 8

"Steel Body Needs Iron Food."

—Proverb.

SHENG WU was a little Chinaman with Oxford and Glasgow degrees, a Croix de Guerre and a bland smile that concealed a bull-dog jaw. Behind him, to the Temple of the Ten Dromedaries, rode thirty stalwart Manchu camelmen.

Out in the desert Sheng Wu had been attacked. He ordered his men to scatter in the dusk of evening and gave up the caravan to the raiders. In the dusk of dawn he had fallen upon those raiders, occupied with their loot, and had smitten them hip and thigh. Then, with thirty men remaining, he had consulted his maps and ridden forward. And now he was riding up to that open and unguarded temple, where a tom five-barred flag floated over the gateway.

Dead men lined the walls. Sheng Wu rode forward alone, with one Manchu officer, and dismounted inside the open gateway. When he turned from his kneeling camel, he saw that this temple was an abode of the dead, and that these dead had been Sikh troopers.

He called forward his men and ordered them to search. He went with the foremost and they discovered no living creature. At last they came to a rear chamber of the temple and when they opened the door a great gaunt figure rose before them. Sheng Wu looked twice at it and then saluted.

"I am here, Sir Fandi," he said.

The Rajput uttered a frightful laugh. Torn bandages, blood-rusted, encased his body; his proud features were haggard, his eyes were flaming things. He pointed to a brick bed in the corner, upon which lay the tossing body of Severn.

"Glad you showed up," he returned. The words came from him almost mechanically. He spoke as a man in a dream. "You'll have to attend to Severn. Septic poisoning— take off his left arm at the elbow, I fancy."

"What has happened here? How did the Sikhs die? They appear unwounded—"

"I don't know." The Rajput made a gesture of futility, of fearful ignorance. "We came back— found things like this— no sleep— wounded— lost blood— took care of Severn—"

He staggered, reeled slightly, recovered.

"Kilgore and Day?" queried Sheng Wu.

"Not here. Gone. No message. Vanished, that's all. Glad you showed up— in time—"

The words died. Sir Fandi Singh jerked twice through his whole body, then collapsed in a limp heap.

Sheng Wu examined him, then went to the brick bed and examined Severn. He had the two men carried into a clean room, then produced a case of surgical instruments from his baggage.

These things happened in the morning. At noon Sheng Wu left the operating-room, bathed himself and spent an hour examining such of the bodies on the walls as were in condition to tell him anything. When he had finished he summoned his thirty Manchus into the courtyard and calmly addressed them.

"This place is an abode of devils."

They assented in silence— it was something they already knew.

"These soldiers died and no shot was fired. They were suffocated or killed with gas. Two of their leaders have vanished utterly. If we remain here, the same fate will befall us, for we know not whence it comes. Therefore, we shall not remain here."

To this the Manchus assented very eagerly. Sheng Wu lighted his tobacco-pipe and resumed, when the tiny pinch of tobacco had gone, his explanations.

"Sir Fandi Singh is wounded and the wound is much inflamed. He has lost much blood and he will not walk or speak for many days. His friend, the strange white man, has lost an arm through poisoned blood and is in fever. Each of these men must ride in a sling between two camels. Make ready the slings at once. We leave here at sunset, in order to pass through the valley by night, when there will be no whirling sands."

"The baggage that we have saved?" questioned the Manchu officer.

"Abandon what is not needed. We shall not go the way we came, but strike direct for Urga."

Thus it was done. As a matter of fact, Sheng Wu was horribly frightened. These men, for whom he had intense respect and admiration, had succumbed to some unknown enemy. He dared not linger lest he and his men succumb also; in fact, even had he lingered, he knew that the Manchus would not have remained. Panic had them in its grip.

Sheng Wu tarried only to pack up the unused machine gun and a few objects collected for removal by Kilgore. He found no indication of the fate met by Day and the Canadian. They had vanished, that was all— and Sheng Wu was of the opinion that they really had vanished, perhaps carried away by devils. Under the veneer of education the old blood of Han still burned hot and cold in him, and the man feared exceedingly.

THREE WEEKS later Severn sat beside a stinking fire of camel's dung and talked with the gaunt shadow that had been Fandi Singh the Rajput. Severn himself was little more than shadow, and his left arm was gone at the elbow; yet he lived.

"Tomorrow we shall reach Urga," he was saying,  hopelessly. "And what then?"

"Faith," said the voice of Sir Fandi.

The Rajput was still a very sick man. Severn laughed bitterly.

"Faith— how? Shall we go back to look for them?"

"If we live."

"Then, how? We cannot do it without money. I have none."

The other did not answer for a while. When he spoke, it was of the place they had left.

"Our fate was upon us, Severn. If you and I had gone to the temple, we would have perished with the others— I think they died from that accursed gas. Perhaps some of the hill people came to the temple by stealth and loosed the gas."

"Yet there was no sign of Kilgore and Day." Severn turned as, out of the shadows, the little figure of Sheng Wu came and joined them at the fire. "Are you quite sure, Sheng Wu, that you found no indication of Kilgore and Day? You haven't lied for the sake of lending us hope?"

"They were not there," answered the son of Han. "Nor was there any sign of them."

"Then they are alive, and we shall go back to find them," said Sir Fandi Singh, his voice ringing more firm.

"But how?" questioned Severn. "One must have supplies, camels, men, money and—"

The white teeth of the Rajput flashed in the shadows. Sheng Wu smiled blandly.

"I think," said the latter, "that we shall find Shansi bankers in Urga. And any Shansi banker in China will honor the check of Sir Fandi Singh in any amount."

"They had better," said the Rajput grimly.

Severn struggled for readjustment. He had not known that the Rajput was wealthy— had never thought about it, in fact. Presently he nodded, for his heart was with the two men who had vanished so completely.

"Good," he said. "Then we shall go. I'm sorry you were so frank to own your fear of that place, Sheng Wu. You're a fine leader, and these Manchus certainly respect you— and both Fandi and I owe you a lot. I wish you would go back with us; but there's no use asking you, I suppose."

Sheng Wu had been very frank, indeed, in expressing his fear of that place. Now he produced his long tobacco-pipe, stuffed black tobacco into the tiny steel bowl, lighted it at the fire and smoked until the few puffs were gone. Then he smiled.

"Well," he observed, "I do rather wish you fellows would ask me, you know!"

There was an instant of silence; then the voice of Sir Fandi Singh rang out like a trumpet.

"By the sin of the sack of Chitor— we three are men! Then it's settled."

And Severn nodded, almost happily.

Chapter 9

The Captives

SOME weeks after the conquering yet conquered caravan of Sheng Wu had turned its face toward Urga, a party of five Mongol horsemen came riding through the defile to the lake of singing fishes— the lake presided over by the mysterious Esrun.

These five had a companion, a captive, whose wrists were firmly bound behind his back. This captive had suffered a horrible fate. Over his body to the waist had been loosely bound a fresh hide, in which had been cut three holes; two, to permit the passage of his arms, the third, opposite his mouth, to permit his eating and drinking.

The sun had dried and shriveled this skin until it had become, as it were, an outer epidermis. Beneath it the unfortunate man was blind, deaf, insensible to any outward change. Sometimes a wretched victim has been known to be sewn into a fresh skin and left in the desert sun until the shrinking skin killed him. This captive, however, had not been granted so merciful a fate.

These six riders came in silence. They were filthy with all the dirt of unwashed Mongols, yet certain of them possessed gray or blue eyes, and on one the hair was decidedly tawny. They were members of the Darkan tribe which Sheng Wu had scattered afar. Obviously they were frightened of this place; they rode in fear, their eyes searching grass and lake and crags with swift glances. Yet they rode on toward the lake, not pausing until they drew rein at the shore.

There, as one man, they watched their horses. These sturdy Mongol ponies had no fear, but sniffed the water, strained eagerly toward it. The five riders glanced at one another, exchanged a quick nod of satisfaction and dismounted. The captive, who perceived nothing of what passed around him, remained in his saddle as his mount leaned down to the water. Nor did his captors pay him any regard.

Heedless of their beasts, likewise, the five Mongols seated themselves on the bank, produced dirty pipes of various kinds, and smoked. At length one of them spoke. He did not address his comrades. Instead, he looked out at the lake and spoke to the invisible Esrun.

"We have obeyed your orders, sublime ancestor!"

He checked himself abruptly, upon his brutish face an expression of intense astonishment, while he stared at the lake. After a moment he turned to his companions.

"Esrun commands us to make our report without speaking. Can any of you do this?"

One after another shook their heads. With some terror now mingled into the astonishment of his visage, the leader looked again at the lake.

"We do not know how to do this, Esrun," he said.

There was something terrible in the simplicity of his utterance— in the confession of this man who could receive thoughts without sending them. Here was a child playing with vast forces of the intellect; a primitive barbarian who infringed upon secret things before which civilized science stood hesitant!

"Very well." Suddenly his face cleared. He glanced at his companions, who nodded assent. They, too, had caught the message. "Esrun commands us to speak. I obey!"

"We have cleared the temple of the bodies of the barbarians who were destroyed by the sacred vapors. We have taken their weapons, such as remained. We have preserved the life of this white man who led them. According to your orders, we have brought him here unharmed. We await your orders."

He remained silent, gazing at the lake. One would have said that the mysterious Esrun was now reduced to dire straits; the temple priests and novices having perished, telepathic communication was established with bestial creatures such as these, incapable of sending forth a thought!

At this instant, however, was afforded an instance of the remarkable powers of that terrible being who dwelt in a cavern of the lake. One of the five men rose to his feet, while the others darted at him glances of surprize.

"Very well," he said. "I obey."

He advanced to the group of horses, now cropping at the purplish-green grass, and unlashed the figure of the captive. Seizing the latter's arm, he drew the helpless man from the saddle and left him sitting in the grass. He then rejoined his companions.

After an instant the leader again turned to his four comrades.

"Esrun commands us to return home. You have heard?"

"We have heard," was the mutter.

The five rose. They gave a last curious look at the grass, at the saffron beds, at the water and the gloomy crags which rose from it. Then they went to the horses. With grunts and savage exclamations they hurled themselves into their saddles, lashed the unwilling brutes fiercely and rode rapidly away, delighted to be gone. With them went the horse which the captive had ridden.

The captive himself remained sitting in the grass.

Before the five riders had gained the mouth of the long and tortuous defile which gave access to the outer world, they drew rein swiftly and bunched together. Leaving the defile and advancing to the lake had appeared a second group of horsemen— again five in number, a captive in the center of the group.

This captive, unlike the first, was not shrouded; nor, at first sight, did he appear to be bound. Upon closer view, however, it proved that from each hand, from each foot, and from about his neck, ran a cord which connected him to one of the five Mongols around him. Thus he was more securely bound than with chains, for, with one simultaneous movement of their ponies, these five Mongols could disjoint his entire body.

The man was Day, the American. Naked to the waist, sun-blackened, bearded, his torso showed plain evidences of privation, suffering, torture. Yet from his haggard features, his eyes gleamed out boldly as ever; and his enormous frame, instead of being depleted and weakened by his experiences, appeared to be hardened into the consistency of iron.

These five Mongols saluted the five who had brought the first captive. They belonged to a different branch of the Darkan tribe, but they too were among the number of those who had exterminated Kilgore's band at one stroke. Gases from the subterranean rifts at the eastern side of the lake, confined in hide bags and loosened down-wind, had wiped out the Sikhs to a man. Yet these barbarians of the white steppes were not the first to make use of such weapons.

The Mongols among whom Day rode did not pause to speak with their fellows, but pursued their course toward the lake. At sight of the other party their fears had vanished altogether. They stared about them curiously, discussed the half-dozen hobbled racing dromedaries who were grazing in the valley, became more at their ease. Once, when Day made an abrupt movement, the five made their horses suddenly jump away, his arms and legs extended horribly, his head jerked forward, Day uttered a groan. The five grinned and loosened the cords. He settled again in the saddle, motionless.

When the party approached the lake shore, Day eyed that silent hooded figure without other thought than that it might be Esrun, perhaps. He had long since given up Kilgore and his companions for dead— ever since that frightful night when he and Kilgore had discovered all their Sikhs dead, and when skin-clad figures had leaped on them out of the darkness. Ah, that had been a night to remember!

He had not seen Kilgore since that night.

Near the bound and hooded figure, which did not move as they approached, the five dismounted and spread out. They signed to Day and he painfully climbed out of the saddle, glaring about him. The five, grinning, drew the cords taut and sat down. Day, for want of anything better to do, followed suit.

Although the Mongols examined the hooded figure curiously, they perhaps knew what it was, for they paid it little heed after the first arrival. Their leader evidently was uncertain as to Esrun's abode, for he looked up into the sky and spoke.

"We have obeyed your orders, sublime ancestor! Can you hear my voice?"

To any one who had heard the rather skilful communication established by the first party, this present speech would have appeared laughable. The Mongol, obviously, was none too certain of himself or Esrun, for he bellowed his words at the sky as if trusting they would pierce to heaven by sheer weight.

Yet they must have reached Esrun. After a moment the Mongol turned astonished eyes to his comrades. They nodded vigorously and one of them spoke.

"Esrun says to proceed! Then do so!"

"Good!" exclaimed the leader. "It is evident that I am not a khan for nothing, since I can make my words pierce to heaven. Esrun, do you hear? We have arrived. We have brought this unspeakable dog of a white barbarian, and we have not hurt him much. We are glad to be rid of him. If you had not ordered us to spare him, we would have killed him long ago, for he has killed three of our men since we captured him."

At this the features of Day were overspread with a gloomy satisfaction.

"Shall we sacrifice him here to you, Esrun?" shouted the Mongol, and waited hopefully.

After a short interval his countenance expressed a brutish resignation and he gave Day a glance and a shrug. He looked at his companions.

"Is this right? Does Esrun say to leave him here and depart?"

The others nodded.

"To leave him unharmed," added one with emphasis.

The leader sprang to his feet.

"Then cut the cords and go!" he cried, setting the example by severing the cord which bound Day's neck to his wrist.

For an instant Day sat staring at them in dazed stupefaction, unable to credit their actions. Four of the Mongols caught their horses, leaped into the saddle and went dashing away hastily. The fifth delayed a moment to catch the horse which had carried the American.

This moment of delay destroyed him.

Day came to his feet as if set on steel springs. The long severed cords trailed after him. He made one leap, and from the remaining Mongols burst a cry of terror; a second leap, and Day was at the man's saddle.

Two minutes later Day stood at the edge of the lake, holding between his huge hands the shaken and broken Mongol. He seized the man's knife, then cast it down— and with one hand hurled the wretched man headlong into the water.

"You're the one who held a hot iron to my back, eh?" he exclaimed. "Well, there's a present for you— water for iron, cold for heat! How do you like it, you devil?"

The Mongol did not reappear to make answer. After an instant Day turned away, his eye following the two horses who were running after the four Mongols. Then he observed the hooded and bound figure sitting in the grass.

For a little space Day studied that figure suspiciously, intently. Then he picked up the knife torn from the Mongol and approached the silent figure.

"By the Lord!" he cried suddenly. "White feet!"

Chapter 10

"So To Front Death, As Men Might Judge Us Past It."

—Jonson

WHEN Day had cut the bound wrists and ankles and was carefully slitting the skin hood of that silent figure, his hand trembling as he worked, a voice issued from beneath the skin. The voice was calm, cool, imperturbable.

"Thanks very much," it said.

"Oh, the devil!" exclaimed Day.

"Not at all," returned the voice. "Kilgore."

With a violent movement Kilgore flung off the stiffly clinging skin. Then, swiftly, he clapped both hands to his face. The brilliant sunlight was blinding.

"Quite all right in a moment or so," he murmured.

Day stared at him with fallen jaw. The change in Kilgore was terrible beyond words; the trim Canadian was scarcely recognizable. Not by reason of the bearded face alone, but by the frightful pallor of the entire torso. Hooded from all touch of light and air, the man's skin had become a livid, a dead and colorless white.

"That you, Day?" asked Kilgore, attempting to peep between his fingers. "I say, what's happened? Where are we?"

"Dashed if I know," answered the American. "Somewhere near Esrun, I guess. Here, get up and take my arm! You get out of this sunlight, or you'll be parboiled in ten minutes."

Kilgore nodded and rose. Day led him beneath the trees and halted in the shade. By degrees Kilgore was able to perceive their situation and to observe Day.

"You are a rum-looking beggar!" he said dryly. "I imagine I'm equally handsome, what? Hello, are we free?"

"Free among the dead," grunted the other.

"Don't quote from Scripture— just yet," and Kilgore chuckled. "You hit it right, old man— this is the lake of singing fishes, where Esrun lives. See here, what's become of Severn and Fandi Singh?"

"Ask Esrun, not me," returned Day. "My late entertainers rode up and left me here beside you. I got one of 'em, at least! They had orders not to injure us."

Kilgore rose to his feet, a trifle unsteadily.

"Come along," he said, removing the few rags that clothed him and blinking at the water. "May as well die clean, eh?"

"Die?" exclaimed Day. "Why, they've turned us loose, man!"

The visage of Kilgore broke into a pallid caricature of his old smile.

"Come, come, my dear fellow!" he said gaily. "We're perfectly helpless and have been left here as a sacrifice to Esrun. We shall probably be tortured scientifically, and then dropped into a rift among the rocks— fire and brimstone and so forth."

Day swore angrily and his eyes bit around the valley. Already the strong soul of him was revived by this touch of freedom, this contact with Kilgore; his unquenchable spirit was surging pugnaciously.

"We're not lost!" he exclaimed. "There are dromedaries— we can—"

Kilgore clapped him on the shoulder with a ringing laugh.

"Guards at the entrance, and probably a rifle or two trained on us this moment! No, we must preserve our dignity, old chap—"

"—— dignity! I'd sooner preserve our lives!"

Kilgore burst out laughing.

"Come along, Yank! Let's bathe."

Day followed him to the water's edge, comprehending, yet stubbornly contesting, the fact that there was no hope for them.

When they had bathed and returned to the shade of the trees, Kilgore was something more like himself again. He had noted the beds of saffron, which now were in full bloom, and he sent Day for a blossom. He examined the petal with keen interest.

"Saffron," he said, a retrospective look in his sunken eyes. "Comes from Kashmir— I was there as a child. My father was stationed there."

"That's where you first knew Fandi Singh?" queried Day shrewdly.

Kilgore nodded.

"Quite so. He's a rajah, you know. We grew up together in the palace. My uncle, Sir Cecil Kilgore, had quite a bit to do with the Government in the old days. Ho, hum! It's a far cry to the water of Kashmir!"

"There's a boat," observed Day abruptly.

They fell silent, watching the lake. A few words from his companion had apprized Kilgore of the manner in which the Mongols had communed with Esrun. Knowing that he had destroyed the ten priests, that Fandi Singh had destroyed five of the novices, he could only conjecture why none of the remaining five were on hand. They had, in effect, been destroyed by Sheng Wu; but of this Kilgore knew nothing. Since the Mongols had communicated with Esrun, however, it was evident that Esrun still existed. Ergo, Severn had failed to kill the master of mystery.

The rude craft, with its single erect figure shrouded in faded yellow cloths, was an eery thing. It stole toward them in silence, and that silence was oppressive, awesome. To neither of the two white men did it occur that this figure was Esrun.

They both were keyed up to thoughts of torture, death, violence. Therefore, the appearance of this shrouded figure peacefully creeping to them was a decided shock; it shattered their initiative, left them hesitant and perplexed.

The boat touched the shore, halted. The erect figure stretched forth a shrouded, beckoning arm, and uttered a single word in English.

"Come!"

The two men looked at each other.

"Say the word," growled Day, "and—"

Kilgore shook his head, shrugged slightly and walked to the boat. Day followed him, eying the saffron figure with suspicion. They entered the boat, sitting on a wide forward thwart. Without a word the shrouded figure shoved off, moving with a mechanical precision which impressed Kilgore as singular. He could not fathom the reason for this oddity, since he did not know that then- guide was blind. Now Day touched his arm, and both men stared at the place to which they were going.

The opening among the crags on the right, into which the boat was slowly heading, gave access to a long and narrow cleft. At the head of this cleft appeared a sandy beach twenty feet wide and as many deep, ending in an ancient portal of stone, built against the solid cliff. This portal framed the black opening of a cavern.

When the prow of the boat touched the sand an inarticulate word came from the guide. Kilgore turned, to perceive something held out to him in a fold of the yellow cloth. It was a box of vestas. He took them mechanically —and was then handed his own cigaret-case.

"Upon my word!" he murmured, then collected himself.

He opened the case.

"I say, Day, look here! After you."

"Come!" growled the American, his face lighting up. "This doesn't look much like torture!"

Kilgore held a match with trembling fingers. They lighted cigarets and stepped from the boat. The shrouded figure followed them, advanced to the black portal and beckoned.

"Come!"

The crafty gift of cigarets had been well calculated. Neither man knew what to fear, what to expect; then- fears were lessened, their expectations were increased. They advanced and stood in the dark doorway. Then- guide turned and spoke again.

"Catch my robe, sahibs, and follow closely."

At those words, which for the first time clearly defined the voice of this figure, Kilgore gave a slight start. One would have said that it was a start of recognition; and in truth that low, musical voice held a peculiar note, a singular throbbing vibrancy, which when once heard could never be forgotten.

"A woman!" muttered Day, catching a fold of the yellow cloth in one hand.

The unearthly pallor of Kilgore passed into a violent flush.

"Impossible!" he murmured, and set his hand against the shoulder of Day.

Their guide laughed— a low, vibrantly throbbing note of woman's music which faded into the darkness of the cavern. The three went forward and vanished; only the glowing tips of the lighted cigarets stood out from the darkness, paling and reddening again.

For some distance they advanced with impenetrable darkness shutting in on all sides. The cavern turned and twisted, the floor remaining level and sandy. Presently their guide turned a corner and halted. A light appeared.

They stood in a narrow throat of rock that rose to a roof twelve feet above. This narrow throat widened out rapidly into a great chamber which, at the rear, was a good thirty feet in width. The walls were of rock. Set against the long rear wall were two huge vessels with narrow lips, lighted wicks in the lips; lamps, these, which illumined this chamber.

It was less at the rock chamber, however, than at the things it held, that the two men stared in wonder. A number of great porcelanous jars, containing water, stood about. Near them, packets of food, which Kilgore recognized as taken from his own mess supplies. To the right hand, against the rear wall, were packs— the personal belongings of Day. To the left, at the other end of the chamber, were those of Kilgore.

"This is most amazing—extraordinary!" said Kilgore astoundedly.

"Our own stuff!" cried Day, starting forward.

The voice of their guide filled the cavern with its richly throbbing note.

"Wash," it said. "Eat. Shave. Dress. Then— talk."

The yellow figure vanished from sight.

Struck beyond speech, Kilgore walked forward to examine his own belongings, while Day strode toward the other side of that long chamber with the same intent. The feelings of the two men were unutterable. Kilgore knelt and tore open the nearest pack and stared down at the toilet kit which fell out at his knee. Tears sprang to his haggard, bearded cheeks at sight of the well-remembered thing.

"It's true, all right!" came the voice of Day, no longer sullen and growling. "By Heaven, it's true! This is our own stuff, Kilgore!"

At this instant came a most singular sound, which drew the attention of both men.

It appeared to come from overhead, in a queer squeaking and protesting of iron rubbed against iron. The stone roof of the chamber was rugged and uneven and badly lighted; they could make out little. But from this roof glided an object suddenly, shooting downward with incredible speed, until it plunged into the sanded floor with a loud clang.

This object was a grill of heavy iron, which began at the rear wall, separated the chamber into two parts, and protruded at a distance of ten feet from the wall.

While the two men were still staring open-mouthed at this apparition, a second grill came down with a shriek and a clash. This grill met the outer end of the first one at right angles, and then ran to the wall on one side. Before the noise of its fall had died, a third appeared, opposite the second, and came clanging to the floor. Each of these grills extended fully to the ceiling, and were formed of closely twisted iron.

Day and Kilgore were now separated and enclosed in iron cages.

"You are welcome, sahibs!" floated that peculiar voice, in queerly clipped English. "Be comfortable. Be happy, honorable nephew of Sir Cecil Kilgore!"

There was silence. Kilgore stood petrified, his face fixed into lines of spasmodic horror. A cold sweat had sprung out on his whole body.

He recognized the voice— too late.

Chapter 11

"No Matter Where You Hide The Egg, The Chicken Will Hatch."

—Chinese proverb.

DAY calmly dropped the glowing butt of his cigaret. He did not perceive the peculiar emotion which had gripped his companion.

"This is more like it!" he exclaimed heartily. "The devil has trapped us— a neat business, too! I've seen affairs like this in some of the western hill temples; they got the idea from India, probably, and kept wild animals in the cages. Well, let's get shaved and dressed, Kilgore. This part of it seems too good to be true."

Kilgore made no response; he appeared sunk in a stupor of despair. When Day set about unpacking his stuff, however, the Canadian roused himself to follow suit.

"Here's my spare pipe!" cried Day suddenly. "Bully for Esrun! Never mind the iron bars now— we're a lot better off then we were five hours ago, Kilgore. Perhaps Severn and Sir Fandi are alive after all."

At the name of the Rajput, Kilgore shivered. He lifted his eyes for a moment, and in them was a fearful look.

"If we had only guessed!" he murmured.

"Guessed what?" queried Day.

Kilgore caught himself up with an effort, straightened his shoulders.

"Tell you later," he said. "Any weapons in your kit?"

"Not a sign of one. You?"

"The same. Unless you call safety razors weapons! I don't."

Silence ensued. The two men, each in his own barred partition of the chamber, were occupied in removing their rags, in shaving, in searching for articles of clothing. To Day, this singular reception appeared quite encouraging; to Kilgore, it was terrible.

Half an hour effected a huge transformation in the looks of each man. Kilgore remained pallid, his eyes sunken, the square chin projecting more than usual; but he was nearly his old self. Day was more gaunt— he had become a man of iron, refined and hardened in the fire of torture and suffering. His haggard features were harsh, almost brutal, in their betrayal of his aggressive character.

Shirted, trousered, booted, the two came to the grating that separated them and surveyed each other, cigaret and pipe alight.

"My word, you look fit!" said Kilgore.

"Same to you, old man. How about some grub? That solidified alcohol stove of yours is over here. Got anything to cook?"

"No end; here, I'll pass some stuff through the grating."

They set about the preparation of a meal. Another half-hour effected a further transformation in appearance and looks. The only difference was that as Day became more cheerful and confident, Kilgore became more silent. The two sat side by side at the grating for their meal. When the last drop of tea was gone, Kilgore spoke up.

"I say, have you any open scratches or cuts?"

"A few," rejoined the American. "Why?"

Kilgore passed him a bottle of iodine. "Fill up. Here's plaster— cover them."

"Not much! You have to leave a cut open to drain—"

"Cover them!" snapped Kilgore, a snap of steel to his voice.

Day obeyed the mandate, then refilled and lighted his pipe, and stretched out.

"Spill it," he ordered briefly. "What's on your mind?"

Kilgore tossed away his cigaret, clasped both hands about his knees and stared at his companion fixedly.

"Listen, old chap. We're up against a worse proposition than I ever dreamed," he said, a note of dreadful calm in his voice that gained Day's instant attention. "If I had known outside there what I now know, we would never have entered."

"I'm a better looking corpse than I was," said Day whimsically. "But have it your own way. Go on."

"You remember that I told you Fandi and I were boys together? Long before my pater came out to Canada, of course. Well, I mentioned having an uncle high up in Government—"

"The chap that woman's voice referred to, of course!" exclaimed Day. "How did she know so much? Thought transference?"

Kilgore smiled.

"Not at all. Cecil Kilgore and the father of Sir Fandi were good friends. Don't mind sayin' that my uncle was a bit of a wild 'un at times. So was the Rajah—Fandi's father. They went shootin' together and that sort of thing. Before my time, it was. Thirty years ago a chap could stir up considerable excitment in India, you know!"

"Thirty years ago? I'm surprized at you," intervened Day judicially. "I've had a taste or two myself of Indian nights, and if you think India has changed—"

He fell silent at a gesture from Kilgore, who pursued his subject quickly.

"No use blinkin' the fact, Day; my avuncular relative did run a bit wild. Well, it seems that on one occasion they went to Kashmir together to look up some ruins, and they met a girl. She was a pure-blooded Rajput of the royal blood. Her name I don't know; I always heard her referred to as the Rani. She was very beautiful."

"They all are," said Day.

Kilgore made a gesture of irritation.

"When I say that my uncle wanted to marry her," he said sharply, "you will understand that she was more than beautiful. Englishmen don't marry native girls, you know; not even queens. It isn't done. The hitch was that the rajah wanted to marry her also."

"Ah!" said Day with interest. "A duel? The poor girl committed suicide? Broken hearts and the thrill of tragedy!"

"Not yet," returned Kilgore. "As a matter of fact, she was in love with some native and turned up her nose at white men and rajahs. Well, one day her lover showed up with a knife in his side, dead. Whether the rajah was behind it, I can't say; at all events, the Rani swore that he and my uncle had murdered her man. Now, it seems that she had a most extraordinary voice— remarkably musical, with a vibrant thrill to it that a man could not forget."

"And in that voice she swore vengeance?" asked the irreverent Day.

"Yes. Some months later, the rajah's coffee was poisoned; so was the rajah. He died. My uncle, meantime, had returned to England. He got my father and me and went back to India with a knighthood and a seat on the woolsack.

"One day I was in court, a bit of a lad, hearing my great uncle try cases. They brought in a veiled woman who was accused of being a leper and evading restraint— I fancy she had stabbed some one, or somethin' of the sort. At the first word she said, my uncle rose out of his seat like a man daft and commanded her to unveil. She did so. I can remember her face to this day— the most beautiful native woman I ever saw in my life!"

Kilgore paused for a moment, then continued.

"She was sentenced and taken away, but not before I had heard her speak a good deal; she threatened my uncle in a mild way. Ever since, her voice haunted me. It came to me in my dreams, in the midst of a musical concert, in the harmonies of an orchestra— that singular, thrilling timbre such as no other human throat has ever known!"

Day entertained a conviction that his friend was maundering. He should have known better; perhaps it was because he was actually drunken with this sudden return to physical comfort— this abrupt reversion to his former self. At all events, he had been listening in a perfunctory manner, his gaze fixed upon the iron grating which cut off his escape from the chamber.

Now he rose with a sudden movement and advanced to this grating.

" 'A touch o' sun, a touch o' sun,' the color-sergeant said!" he hummed. "Excuse me, most venerable Canuck, but I have an idea. They are rare with me; I can't afford to lose one." He stopped and examined the grating, tested the iron and rose. Without a word, but with a sudden brilliancy in his eye, he returned to his place. "Now, proceed! You were speaking of the haunting voice. Did the lady die of leprosy?"

"I have always thought so until today," said Kilgore. "You heard me spoken of as the nephew of Sir Cecil Kilgore? That was her voice."

He sat staring at his clasped hands.

Day regarded him for a space in stupefied disbelief and only gradually comprehended that Kilgore was speaking in dead earnest. Then he swore softly.

"Old man, what's come over you? My ——, you can't be ass enough to believe that this Esrun is the same woman!"

Kilgore lifted his head, looked his friend in the eye for a moment.

"You saw that bed of saffron flowers? You saw the yellow robes of our guide? Only a Kashmiri would affect such things in this place. I don't say that Esrun is the woman, of course, but I do say the woman is here. I would know that voice again in ——."

Day looked at Kilgore, shook his head sadly and rose.

"You believe it, all right— poor chap! You can't make me believe it. So let's respect each other's convictions and be happy. Me, I'm going to bust out of this cage in two minutes. Quit repining, and watch Mr. Day exert his manly muscle, old sport!"

So saying, the American returned to the iron grating which formed the front of his prison chamber. Kilgore watched him frowningly.

Day went to the center of the long grill and attempted to shake it. It gave slightly. The lattice-work of iron had openings of not more than six inches across. After examining these, Day uttered a low grunt of satisfaction. He seated himself upon the floor, planted his feet apart and against the iron grill, then seized one of the rusty segments of the lattice in both hands.

In effect, he transformed himself into a crossbow, a human fulcrum. He was pitting the strength of his legs and thighs against the strength of his arms and shoulders— and both of these against the slender bars of wrought iron.

His arms drew taut. His legs, still bent at the knee, shoved in a steady pressure against the grill. The curve of his back, the bowed curve of his shoulders and bent-over head, settled into rigidity as absolute as that of the iron segments before him. Inch by inch his legs straightened.

His face became suffused with blood, purple; the eyes bulged terribly. From his lips came a sound that was half a gasp of effort, half an oath of rage. Kilgore stared— it was impossible for flesh and blood to endure such a frightful effort without being torn asunder! Yet, inch by inch, the bent legs continued to straighten. The man had lifted himself from the floor by this time.

Crack! Day fell backward.

"Told you so!" he panted as he scrambled to his feet.

His hands, dripping blood, held out a segment of the iron. "Rusted—"

"Quit it!" said Kilgore. "It's insane— useless "

For answer, Day uttered a joyous laugh and sat down again before the grill. Once more he planted his feet in position. Once more he gripped the iron, a segment adjoining that which had given way. Once more his body settled into lines of frightful tension. He expended his strength with reckless abandon.

Kilgore, drawn out of his apathy by his prodigious exhibition, came to his feet. He saw Day once again lift himself from the ground, his body bent nearly double, the leg muscles expanding inch by inch. It was too much; he uttered a sharp cry of protest. His cry was lost in the sound of Day falling, the dull crack of iron. It was not the man which had given way, but the metal.

This time Day did not scramble up at once, but slowly staggered to his feet. Triumph had blazoned its mark in his bloodshot, staring eyes. This time a section of the iron had come away, leaving a hole in the grating a foot square.

"Next— time— wins!" gasped Day exultantly.

He wrapped about his bleeding palms some of his discarded rags. For a moment he stood eying the grating with a vast satisfaction, puffing mightily. Then with a final deep breath of resolution he again sat down. Kilgore watched in silence; he no longer cherished any doubt that the grating would give way—he only hoped that the man's body would not give way likewise.

For the third time Day strained. But on this occasion, instead of taking a single bit of iron between both hands, he grasped two separate strands of the lattice! Again he was bent double, again a violent rush of blood suffused his face and neck, while his rigid hands clamped upon the iron— crack! Weakened by the previous breakage, the grill sundered. A yawning hole answered the efforts of the man.

Day did not rise, but sat where he had fallen. For an instant he was incapable of speech. Then he dragged himself to one knee and shook the broken fragment of iron at the grill before him.

"Beat you!" he cried savagely. "Beat you— muscle over iron! Now—"

He paused abruptly as another voice floated upon the cavern chamber, a voice whose thrilling timbre was by this time haunting Day himself.

"Good!" it cried. "Good! Try again, burra sahib!"

From the roof came a sudden creaking and grind of iron. Sudden and swift, an object rushed downward, came to the floor with a clangor and strident ring of iron. This object was a second grating, six inches inside the first one!

"Try again, burra sahib!" echoed that haunting voice.

Day uttered a despairing gasp and dropped again to the floor. He was beaten.

Chapter 12

"Mencius Said 'That Was One Time; This is Another.' "

—Kung-sun Ch'ou.

FOR A TIME Day sat in gloomy silence. At length he picked up his pipe and lighted it.

"I am beginning to be converted to your belief," he said in a changed voice. "If this Rani woman of yours were here, Kilgore— you think she would squeeze us?"

Kilgore nodded.

"The cards are stacked," he answered briefly.

Both men lifted their heads and looked toward the entrance of the chamber. The grate of footsteps on the sanded floor reached them. They saw, flitting into the circle of light from their lamps, the yellow-shrouded figure of their guide.

This figure came toward the grill that prisoned them, halted a yard from it and felt with extended hand. Touching the iron, the figure recoiled a pace and then sat down. At this gesture, at this entire action, the two captives for the first time perceived that the figure was blind.

"Now we shall talk, sahibs," said that same vibrant voice.

"Who are you?" demanded Kilgore, staring.

"I am Esrun," came the answer, with a laugh that rang eerily from the rock walls. "But once you knew me by another name, sahib. Would you recognize me again?"

It was here that Esrun abandoned her broken English and spoke in Hindustani. Kilgore made answer in the same tongue, which Day understood fairly well.

"If you are the Rani—" and Kilgore's voice shook a trifle— "then I would remember you indeed!"

For response, Esrun drew the yellow cloths from her figure.

Kilgore stiffened with horror; Day uttered a low, choked gasp. The thing before them had once been a woman— this much was certain. More, it was hard to say. Leprosy had wrought its frightful vengeance on the human flesh. The creature appeared to be an old hag, yet Kilgore knew that if this were indeed the Rani, she could be not yet fifty years. Thirty years since, his uncle had loved the Rani, and women ripen young in Kashmir.

"There is nothing left of the Rani," said Esrun, a mournful note in her tone, "except the voice. But you, who heard that voice only once, still remember it. Sir Fandi Singh had forgotten it— but perhaps he was not to blame. I was frightened that day. Nor did I give him any chance to recognize my voice."

Kilgore strained forward.

"Fandi— and Severn! They were here?"

"They were here," repeated Esrun.

"And now—"

"Let us talk of them later." The answer came with a tinge of mockery. The hag again shrouded herself in the yellow cloths. "It will be more interesting now if we talk of you, sahib! Or shall we speak first of the days that are dead— of Kashmiri days?"

In the mocking voice of this blinded, ravaged atom of humanity there lay a dreadful significance. Kilgore comprehended this and straightened up. He was master of himself now, and he lighted a cigaret with steady fingers.

"As you please," he said coolly. "Then the Rani and Esrun are one?"

"They are one, sahib. Do you remember the day when you sat in the courtroom by the side of your uncle? Do you remember that I threatened him and his on that day?"

"Quite well," said Kilgore.

"The threat was well meant. Listen, sahib! My lover was murdered by your uncle and the rajah. That deed changed the entire course of my life. In striving to avenge it, I became a leper. Later, your uncle sent me to a leper's prison. I escaped. I took jewels and fled, with two faithful men who served me. We fled far, into the north, into this land. And here we came to rest."

Day intervened.

"Tell her she's away off the mark!" he said roughly. "Tell her that your uncle never had anything to do—"

"Oh, I say!" said Kilgore languidly. "Why bother, old chap. We can't demean ourselves to argue with this creature, you know."

Esrun laughed, and her laughter rang acidly in their ears. The words had stung.

"This creature was a princess of the Rajputs!" she returned. "And she has made herself strong, powerful, feared! And rich, also. What is better, after the lapse of many years she is about to avenge her ruined life upon the rajah's son, and the nephew of Sir Cecil Kilgore, the proud sahib! "

To this Kilgore returned no answer.

"Your two friends were here— they trapped me," went on Esrun after a moment. "I shot Fandi Singh. His companion shot me and left me for dead. But I was not dead. I was badly hurt— so badly that I was unable to prevent the escape of the two men. They joined the party of the Chinaman who came to aid you."

"Sheng Wu!" exclaimed Kilgore sharply. "Then Sheng Wu was at the temple?"

"Yes. He found Fandi Singh, who did not die, and Severn, who lost one arm from blood-poisoning. They could find no trace of you, and they returned."

"Ah! And they got away?"

"They got away. They reached Urga safely. My followers at Urga so informed me."

Day drew a deep breath and relaxed. He had been sitting under tension.

"Then it's all right!" he exclaimed loudly. "They'll come back to look for us!"

"They will come back," repeated this deathly Echo. In those words was a note so sinister, so pregnant with meaning, that Kilgore shivered despite himself. "In fact, they are nearly here!"

There was a moment of silence.

"If you mean to kill us," said Kilgore suddenly, "why not do it and put an end to this waste of words?"

Esrun laughed— a delicious peal of girlish mirth that was frightful to hear, so bitter was its contrast with realities.

"I have thirty years of suffering to make up," she answered. "Do you think that this can be repaid in a moment— in a day— in a year? Do you think it can be repaid by the destruction of the body alone? No, sahib! The gods have been kind, by sending me you and Fandi Singh. Why should I hurry? I am not yet near death."

Day watched the creature in a species of horrified fascination. Kilgore remained cool; the more definitely their position became pronounced, in fact, the cooler he grew.

"You have suffered slightly," she continued. "Now I have returned to you your razors and the things that make you happy. Why? Because presently you shall lose them again, and suffer the more. I could have ordered my followers at Urga to kill Sir Fandi Singh, but I chose to let him return here. Let your strong comrade break all the iron he wishes— when he has finished, another grill will descend!"

The two captives began dimly to perceive what frightful refinements of cruelty this loathsome hag was capable of applying to them. The iron grating over which Day had triumphed, only to have a second descend in his face at the moment of victory, was only a slight instance; a symbol. Their return from slavery and torture to all the comforts afforded by their own food and personal effects, was another symbol. Realities would come later.

"Now, sahib, let us have an understanding. I have little quarrel with your friends; it is with you and Fandi Singh the Rajput that I wish to deal. Of course, if you make it necessary to kill your friends, as the Sikhs were killed at the temple, so much the worse for them!"

"Ah!" exclaimed Kilgore. "Then instead of being an execution, this is a parley!"

"Neither; it is a choice. And the choice remains with you. Your friends in Urga, Severn, Sheng Wu and the Rajput, have proceeded cleverly. They interviewed the Hutuktu and obtained his authority to act, also a hundred horsemen. With these men, and a strong party of Manchu soldiers, they have crossed the desert and are now close at hand. They have taken every precaution. They mean to search out these caverns and discover your fate. They think me dead. They do not know that in their company are two of my men who communicate daily with me and inform me of their doings."

Esrun laughed— this time a chuckle of malicious amusement. Day, thinking of the unsuspecting band of men, began to perspire freely.

"All very well," said Kilgore in a calm voice. "What of it? Your spies will be discovered. Your telepathic communications will be discovered. This place will be found out. What then?"

"If the thought makes you happy, cherish it!" was the sardonic response. "But I would advise you to be cautious. I shall let this strong friend of yours, this American, go free. He shall be found by your friends. Let Fandi Singh hear his tale, then give himself up to me, join you here. The others may return home to Urga unhurt."

Kilgore laughed a little.

"You do not know my friends! If Day joined them, he would bring them here to my rescue."

"The word of a sahib is as the word of a Rajput," came the response. "And if the promise is broken, what matter? Your friends are powerless before me. The race of priests who once inhabited this place had many secrets, which I have discovered. They had much treasure, which I have used. Shall I set this friend of yours at liberty?"

"Let him return his own answer," said Kilgore curtly. "Speak up, Day!"

The American wet his lips with his tongue. In this moment, he was swiftly weighing the chances pro and con—not of his own safety, but of rescuing Kilgore. He perceived the one great danger. Knowing Fandi Singh as he did, and the highly chivalrous nature of the Rajput, he did not doubt that if he gave a promise, it would be kept by Fandi. He did not doubt that Fandi would return here in his place and trust the others to rescue them. And he dared not risk this.

"May the lowermost —— swallow you!" said Day.

"I'll stay here."

Without a word, the figure in yellow rose and flitted away into the darkness.

For a space, the two white men regarded each other in silence, each of them oppressed by what had just taken place.

"Would you have kept your word to her?" asked Kilgore suddenly.

"Not by a —— sight!" Day said frankly. "But Fandi would have kept it for me."

Kilgore nodded, relaxed his cramped limbs and rose. He yawned and stretched himself.

"Well, I'm for a bit of sleep, old chap. What say?"

"Suits me," was the response.

Neither man cared to discuss the recent conversation; it was too fresh in their minds.

Kilgore found his blankets, spread them out and rolled up. He was at the point of bodily and mental exhaustion, and in two minutes he was fast asleep. The conversational duel with Esrun had been so terrific a  drain upon his inner self that the reaction was swift and sure. He slept like a man drugged.

When awakened he knew that he must have slept the clock around. The two lamps still burned, softly illumining the cavern chamber. Kilgore yawned and sat up. Somewhere on the other side of that dividing partition of iron Day must be asleep still. Kilgore put out his hand to seize the grating and rise -

An exclamation broke from him. He leaped to his feet, staring. The central grating had disappeared— lifted again to whence it came! The others were still in place. "Day!" cried Kilgore sharply. "Look here— wake up!" The American did not answer. With the entire chamber to himself Kilgore strode forward. Half a minute later he realized that he was alone in this place. Day had absolutely vanished.

Chapter 13

"This Paper Currency Is Circulated In Every Part Of The Grand Khan's Dominions."

—M. Polo

ESRUN THE LEPER had told the exact truth. A hundred horsemen of the Living Buddha, with fifty Manchus, were encamped under the orders of Severn, Sheng Wu and Fandi Singh. In addition they had Kilgore's machine gun, which Sheng Wu had removed from the Temple of the Ten.

It was the singular fate of this weapon to remain untried amid a thousand chances.

The camp was made nearly at the entrance to the long and tortuous defile which gave access to the lake of singing fishes and the abode of Esrun. To proceed to the temple was out of the question. Sheng Wu considered it the abode of devils. Severn and Sir Fandi were convinced that it contained secret passages through which had come the gas-bearers who destroyed the Sikhs.

In making camp near the entrance to the lake and valley, which they intended to explore thoroughly, the three companions effected a compromise. From here they could search all the hills and valleys round-about for the scattered skin-houses of the Darkan tribe. As a first step, Sir Fandi and Sheng Wu had ridden on with the Manchus to search the temple anew and to bring back fresh water.

Severn remained in charge of the camp.

The savant had become a changed man. His own sorrows lay behind him; he had embarked upon those of his friends. The kindliness of his eyes had deepened. A new strength to endure had uprisen in his soul, and he was reconciled to living out his life to its fullness; the peril of cynicism had been lifted from him.

He was unpacking his things when there arose a sudden tumult of alarm. Sentries cried out. A rifle was discharged. Horses were mounted in haste. Severn rushed from his shelter-tent to ascertain the cause, and beheld a man mounted upon a dromedary issuing from the mouth of the defile.

Under his sharp orders the horsemen of the Hutuktu lost their confusion and became orderly. Three of them detached themselves and galloped away to summon Sir Fandi's party. It grew evident that the single man on the dromedary was approaching the camp, and that he was alone.

Examining this single rider through his field-glasses, Severn uttered a cry of amazed recognition.

"Day!" he exclaimed.

In this moment, however, he kept his head. This might be some ruse; he dared take no chances of a surprize attack. He remained beside the machine gun and dispatched a dozen of the horsemen to bring in the lone rider without harm. They dashed forth on the errand.

Watching narrowly, Severn perceived that Day was not a free agent by any means. The dromedary was unsaddled, without bridle. Day was merely tied in between the two humps which distinguished the Bactrian breed, and he appeared to be unconscious. At the approach of the horsemen the dromedary flung up his head, swerved in his course and tried to flee. A rifle barked and the animal fell. The horsemen closed in about him.

The Mongols cut Day loose, mounted him behind a saddle and returned. It was close to sunset, but there remained an hour or more of daylight.

Severn received the body of Day in his arms, and made a hasty examination. So far as he could tell, Day was unhurt save for a bump on the back of the head— a slight matter. His unconsciousness had not come from this hurt; his stertorous breathing, his deep stupor of slumber, had been caused by some drug.

"Carry him to my tent," ordered Severn. "What is this?"

One of the Mongols put a sheaf of black papers into his hand. The papers were tied about with a strip of tom cotton.

"It was hanging about his neck. There was nothing else."

Severn examined the papers. They were of varying sizes, from six inches in length and four in width to three times as much. They were nearly black in color. Upon each was imprinted a series of ideographs in vermilion; the papers were clear as if fresh from the press.

When he saw the ideographs, Severn barely repressed a cry of incredulous wonder.

"Mulberry paper— bank-notes!" he said, staring at them. He glanced again at the red imprints. "Issued by Kublai Khan— impossible! These must be imitations—"

They were not imitations; he was convinced of this, even while he uttered the words. His false arm told him nothing; but the fingers of his remaining hand were too sensitive to feel for deception to answer here. He had the instinct of the archeologist for delicate perceptions of patina and fiber. He knew that he was holding genuine bank-notes of the Yuan dynasty, issued in the thirteenth century, yet preserved perfectly!

With an effort, he thrust the papers into his pocket and hurried to the side of his rescued comrade. As he gained the tent he halted abruptly, lifting his head. From the direction of the Temple of the Ten had come a sustained burst of firing. It ended as suddenly as it had begun.

Severn ordered out scouts and sentinels, then examined Day.

He was not long in determining what drug held his friend unconscious. It was cannabis Indica, that Indian hemp about which so much misinformation is spread abroad. This drug when given internally throws a man into a slumber which lasts for hours or days, an intense and deep slumber. Upon awakening, the victim is in something akin to a subconscious mental state; all power of concentration is gone for a time, and his brain is horribly relaxed. He can repeat, but he cannot think. His initiative is destroyed. Then, literally, he cannot tell a lie.

Severn guessed that Day's slumber had nearly run its course, but it was no time for delay. Kilgore might be somewhere near at hand, and in danger. Sheng Wu and Fandi had obviously fallen upon enemies. The need for action was imperative.

Without hesitation Severn procured a hypodermic, melted a stiff restorative solution and injected it into Day's arm. Then he awaited results in an agony of impatience.

He was still waiting when, with the sunlight gone, Sheng Wu and a dozen Manchus came riding into the camp. The Chinaman's report was brief. They had found a score of Darkan tribesmen encamped at the temple and had fallen upon them instantly.

"Where is Sir Fandi?" demanded Severn. "Did you get my message about Day?"

Sheng Wu assented.

"That was why I returned," and he blinked a little. "Sir Fandi Singh remained with the rest of our men. Some of the barbarians were being pursued and others had been captured. My Manchus undertook to make them talk. I did not care to witness the proceedings."

At this Severn's lips clenched for an instant. He comprehended that Sir Fandi would stop at nothing to get news of Kilgore.

He took Sheng Wu to the side of Day. The latter's eyelids were fluttering. He gazed up at them vacantly, then his lips formed the name of Severn.

He was conscious again.

For half an hour the two men remained sitting beside Day. The latter told a rambling but perfectly coherent story. He had been hit on the head while he slept and knew nothing more. Of the Yuan bank-notes he could tell nothing.

Of himself and Kilgore and Esrun he could tell everything, and he did so. Before his story was half-finished, Sheng Wu arose and summoned the officer of his Manchu troops.

"You will order the Mongol barbarians to remove their camp to a distance of a hundred yards. Place three of our own men as sentries about this spot, and shoot any one who comes near."

The officer departed. Severn glanced up in surprize "You heard what he said," explained Sheng Wu blandly. "Esrun has spies among our men; those spies will be among the barbarians, not among my Manchus. That is all."

"Esrun— still alive!" murmured Severn.

"Trapped!" came the hollow voice of Day, who was dimly conscious of why he had been allowed to join his friends. "All she wants— Sir Fandi. No hatred to others."

He rambled along, giving vaguely jointed fragments of Esrun's conversation with himself and Kilgore. Severn might have discounted it as a mad dream, but Sheng Wu, who was an oriental, knew better. He gave a brief and correct exegesis of Day's remarks as the latter went on. Little by little they uncovered the whole affair.

When half an hour had passed the two listeners comprehended everything. Day lay with closed eyes, conscious but drowsy and without animation.

"Here is what has happened," said Sheng Wu softly, blinking at the darkness which closed them in. "Esrun wanted no trouble with us, but desired greatly to have Sir Fandi in her power. She sent Day to us. When Sir Fandi hears this story, what will he do? He will refuse to jeopardize us and will go to join Kilgore— not meekly as a victim, but trusting in himself to effect a rescue."

Severn nodded thoughtfully.

"That seems correct. Well?"

"Esrun's spies have doubtless already reported by telepathy that Day is here," went on the bland yellow man. "We cannot discover who they are; no matter! If our force attempts to reach the lake, Esrun will summon her barbarians to overwhelm us in the defile. Therefore, we must leave most of them camped here. Remember, whatever we do will be at once reported to her!"

"I see." Severn frowned deeply. "If we are to rescue Kilgore, we must take Esrun by surprize. But to surprize her is impossible. She expects Sir Fandi to come alone to the lake, and there she will be prepared to ensnare him. Why, it's absurd— yet true! To think of a blind old leper woman doing this—"

"Nothing is absurd," said Sheng Wu, and then added, "And nothing is impossible."

"What do you mean?"

"She will expect Sir Fandi. She knows him for a Rajput— a man of honor, a man of high chivalry, a man who would readily sacrifice his life for his friends. She is blind, however, and cannot see him. She will speak with him in Hindustani to convince herself that he is the right man and to confirm the report of her spies here. Unfortunately, I do not speak Hindustani—"

Severn started.

"I do!" he said, and remained for a space in thought.

Sheng Wu waited, patient and quite comprehending Severn's thoughts.

At length the American lifted his head.

"We must prevent Sir Fandi's hearing Day's story," he said, speaking slowly.

"I will answer for that," replied the other. "I will put him to sleep again."

"We must make our Mongols believe that Sir Fandi has gone to the lake, alone. In fact he must go, so that they will believe it."

"I will answer for that, Mr. Severn. He can go— and then return to the temple. In the darkness, that will be very easy."

"Yet Sir Fandi must not realize the truth."

"I will answer for that."

"And," concluded Severn, "the Mongols must not know that I have gone to the lake."

"Right. I will send you off now with my Manchus, ostensibly to the temple. You will ride part way, then send them on to join Sir Fandi, and strike off by yourself."

Severn nodded.

"Good enough. And how will you answer to Sir Fandi for my absence?"

Sheng Wu was silent for a space. Then he smiled.

"I am afraid," he said, "that I must tell our friend a few lies. Well! That is quite all right. It is one of the duties of universal obligation belonging to the intercourse of friends, as set forth in the twentieth chapter Tsze-sze's 'Doctrine of the Mean.' There is only one thing that troubles me."

"And what is that?" queried Severn.

"Your fate."

Severn laughed softly.

"Don't worry about that, Sheng. Give me three days. If Kilgore and I don't return in that time—"

"Then we shall come and avenge your death. You are a person of great virtue, my friend. You are risking much."

"No; I have not much to risk," said Severn. "What remains to me is little enough to place at the service of my friends. Now, I want two horses, a supply of food, one of our electric torches and my revolver. I think that will be all."

Half an hour afterward Severn and six Manchu riders set off in the direction of the temple. One of the Manchus bore a note to Sir Fandi Singh.

Under the fine starlight Severn had no difficulty in ascertaining his position perfectly. When the camp was a mile away he drew rein and sent the Manchus onward. He watched them ride from sight toward the temple.

"I hope Sheng Wu can accomplish his part of the work," he thought. "It's more difficult than mine. I have only to fool a poor blind leper— while he has to deceive both Sir Fandi and the Mongols!"

And he rode toward the defile, trying to assure himself that he would this time be able to shoot down Esrun on sight. In his heart of hearts he knew that he could not do it, at least, without provocation. He had never forgotten the horror that had seized him when, as he thought, he had shot the woman to death— even in the moment when he thought she had murdered Sir Fandi.

After all sometimes these little things count big with the right sort of man. Day could have shot the woman without a scruple. Severn, although he knew that the life of Kilgore might hang in the balance, tried to persuade himself to do it, and could not.

"We'll see when the time comes," he reflected, and spurred his horses onward. "After all, it may not be necessary— she is only a blind woman, a helpless creature."

This was a mistake.

Chapter 14

"There Is Heaven So High, And The Stars So Distant!"

—Li Low.

SEVERN stood at the shore of the mysterious little lake, whose surface no wind ever ruffled, and wondered why Day had been given those bank-notes to carry.

"It was an ironic jest, more than likely," he concluded. "Probably Esrun guessed that he was looking for treasure—and gave it to him."

Noon had come and gone. He had waited here an hour, and nothing had happened. The two horses, hobbled, grazed among the lush grasses to the left. Everything was peaceful, hot, still as death itself. By dawn, at the latest, Esrun must have known that Sir Fandi had started for the lake; she would be so informed by her spies among the horsemen of the Hutuktu. How would she receive the expected Rajput?

Severn had not slept for twenty-four hours. He reclined under the trees and vowed that he would doze only for an hour. He needed sleep, and he could afford to risk that. He glanced at his watch, set the waking-time in his head and slept.

When he wakened, he looked again at his watch; he was correct, almost to the minute. With a breath of relief that he had not over-slept, he came to his feet. His eyes fell upon the boat of Esrun, drawn up on shore.

With a start of astonishment Severn whirled about, searching the shore. There was no sign of Esrun— yet the boat had come here while he slept! Had his presence passed unnoted? Very likely. Where, then, was Esrun?

Severn slowly approached the boat, suspecting some trick until he perceived that the rude craft was indeed empty, its paddle lying across the thwarts. He saw something else also— a paper on the forward thwart, weighted down with a stone. Concluding there was nothing to fear, Severn pocketed his automatic, leaned forward and picked up the paper.

Upon this paper was written in flowing Hindustani:

Come in the boat to the cliff-opening. I will wait for you.

Severn crumpled the paper into a ball, tossed it away and stepped into the boat. He pushed off from shore.

"That message was intended for the Rajput— she won't dream that others could read it!" he reflected. "Therefore, my appearance in the boat will be sufficient guarantee that I am Sir Fandi. Excellent!"

Standing erect in the stern, he paddled the boat toward the crags on the right. He had a good idea of where to seek the opening in the cliffs, since he had seen Esrun come out on the occasion of his former visit to the spot.

He asked himself no useless questions about the matter. He understood perfectly that while he slept Esrun had brought out the boat and had left the message for Sir Fandi. How she had regained the cavern did not matter. Could she pick his brain with her accursed telepathic power? He thought not. Had she been able to do so, she would never have been expecting the Rajput to arrive. This was comforting.

The cleft in the high rocks opened out before him. He beheld the sandy strip, the rock portal of the cavern, as Day had described; and standing on the sand, the yellow figure of Esrun, shrouded, blind.

Severn made rather difficult work of the paddling, inasmuch as his mechanical arm could offer little assistance. As he slowly drew in toward the sand, he perceived that Esrun had heard his approach. The hooded head came up and her voice sounded in Hindustani.

"Is it you, Fandi Singh?"

Severn imitated the accents of the Rajput as best he could; he dared take no chances.

"It is I, woman."

The prow of the boat touched the sand. Severn stepped out, pulled up the boat. Esrun lifted a hand as if in warning. Mockery rang in her voice.

"Welcome, son of the sun, lord of Rajputana, ruler of the blood of Mewar! Do not think to slay me, or you will never see your friend alive. Throw down your revolver at my feet."

Severn hesitated only an instant. He knew that he could not pistol this creature in cold blood. Only cowards can seek in sudden death, whether for others or for themselves, a resolvent for the problems of existence; and Severn, facing the fact, shrank. Besides, if need were, he could throttle this leprous creature in his one hand.

He threw down the pistol and Esrun picked it up.

"Come!" she said, and moved toward the cavern portal.

Severn followed.

Knowing that to this being both night and day were the same, Severn produced his electric torch as he stepped into the darkness after his guide. He feared some trap designed to lay him by the heels, since Esrun worked not with force, but with cunning. The light showed him little. The passage was wide and high and was intersected by other but smaller passages at intervals.

"Where is Kilgore sahib?" demanded Severn.

"You shall see him presently, lord of the Rajputs! First I will show you some of the wonders of this place—"

"I did not come here to see wonders."

"You shall see what I desire you to see, none the less."

Severn made no response. He reflected that, lacking a guide, he could hardly hope to discover Kilgore— the mountain appeared to be honeycombed with passages. He would of course chance it, in extremity, but the time was not yet.

"Turn here," said the voice. "Follow me closely, to the right!"

Severn swept his light around, suspicious of pitfalls or gins. He discovered nothing and followed into a passage leading off to the right. This proved to be short, and opened out in a large chamber. Here was burning a dim light in one of the ancient massive reservoirs of oil.

"I lighted the lamp in honor of you," said Esrun. "You came to this country desiring treasure. Well, look around! Take what you will, although I have used most of the gold. When you have seen enough, come and join me, and we will go to your friend, Fandi sahib! Here is the treasure-chamber of the ancient priests, O lion of the Rajputs!"

Severn examined the roof— there appeared to be no grills such as Day had told of, and he advanced toward the burning lamp. Then he paused.

Before him, scattered about the floor, were a few heaps of glinting gold-pieces. He knew what they were, since he had obtained a few from his first meeting with Esrun— they were broad, flat pieces of early Ming minting. This chamber and cavern, then, were not so very ancient!

There appeared to be little of the gold, nor could he perceive other treasure, until he advanced to the burning lamp. Then he beheld a great heap of packets bound in hide. One of these had been tom open. Severn stooped, and picked up a handful of the black paper bank-notes of Kublai Khan, known to the Chinese as Shih-tsu.

Severn choked down a laugh of bitter irony as he glanced around. Here was the vast treasure of which Day had dreamed— the treasure of Genghis Khan, perhaps! Instead, it was some hoard laid by under the Mings; a hoard of bank-notes stored away six hundred years since. A mighty treasure then, it was today not worth the effort of carrying away!

Impatience surged up in Severn. He cared nothing about all this— he wanted only to find Kilgore and get clear. He turned to Esrun with an angry word.

"Enough of this! Where is my friend?"

"Come," Esrun laughed softly as she turned. "There is another chamber that you must visit, first. There I have prepared a gift for you, Rajput lion!"

Severn followed her closely. These words evoked a swift alarm in him. In the next chamber the trap would be sprung!

His light showed him that they returned to the main passage, then crossed this and entered another transverse branch. As before, this was short and opened into a chamber of some size.

"Is the lamp burning?" asked Esrun.

"There is only darkness," growled Severn.

No lamp was lighted in the chamber.

"Then it has gone out! But wait— there may be some oil left in it."

Esrun stepped forward, quite ignorant of the electric torch that played upon her. Severn glanced about the place, and saw that in some far day it had served as an armory. Here were fantastic weapons of all sorts, and armor; dust-covered, rust-frayed, useless.

"Have you any matches?" demanded Esrun, turning.

"No."

"Then come! Give me your arm— I will guide you."

Severn threw the beam of light about the yellow figure. He saw that she stood by the wall, and made fast to a great ring in the wall there was a set of huge manacles. At this, a laugh rose in him— laughter, not unmixed with pity for the blind creature who was playing out her little treachery.

He stepped forward and touched the figure with his left arm. Her fingers seized his arm— swift as light, the rusted manacles clamped about the wrist. They had been oiled and made ready for this task.

"The lion is snared!" Esrun stepped quickly away and from her burst one wild laugh of triumph that reechoed dizzily in the cavern. "The Rajput lion is netted! And here is a gift for you, Rajput, a gift dyed with my own hands! Wait!"

She caught up a pile of yellow cloths and thrust them at Severn. Then a match flamed in her hand and she held it up so that her captive might see the gift.

"Turban cloth and robe for the royal Rajput!" she shrilled. "Saffron-dyed, the yellow robes of death! Take them and wear them, great rajah, lion of Rajputana!"

The match flickered down from her hand.

Severn was examining the manacles. He saw that he had no hope of getting free from them; so quietly he began to unfasten the mechanical arm which was bound feist. He could no longer hesitate. The moment for action was at hand. He must stake everything—

"And here is another gift for you, rajah's son!" cried the woman's voice. "A gift of leprosy, a gift of death and disease—"

Under the flashlight, Severn saw her leap forward. Horror seized upon him as her hands fell upon his false arm and her shroud was brushed aside. Her teeth closed upon the false hand— she was deliberately endeavoring to bite Fandi Singh, to infect him with the dread living rot that had blinded her.

Severn stepped back. He laid down the torch with the beam still playing. From the woman burst a frightful shriek as she perceived the trick—the false arm dangling loose in the manacle.

In desperation, Severn caught up the yellow cloths and flung himself upon the creature. He looped the cloth about her throat, about her upper arms; the shrouding robe fell away, revealing all her ghastly death-in-life. One hand flashed up a revolver— Severn tore it away and wound the cloths more tightly.

Try as he might, he could not avoid contact with the awful thing that flung itself about in his arms. Shriek after shriek echoed through the cavern. Esrun struggled and twisted like a mad thing. Hampered by having but one hand, Severn managed none the less to get fresh windings of the yellow cloth about the creature.

He was sickened by the very touch. A mad panic upgrew within him— as when a man touches some repulsive creeping thing in the dark and goes mad with a frantic horror, a desperate frenzy to kill the loathsome thing! Severn cried out incoherently, as a man cries when fighting. He struggled with the creature, wound the cloths tighter, fought back the insane impulse to strike and slay with the first weapon to hand.

Before he finished, he saw that it was in sober truth a madwoman with whom he was dealing. The shock of finding herself so tricked, perhaps, had finished that diseased brain. When the creature sank down at last amid her mufflings, her voice never ceased to pour forth a storm of raving.

It was horrible. Severn found himself shaken to the very soul, as if passing through some brain-searing nightmare of teror. He was not made for such work as this. A violent nausea seized upon him.

The shrieks of the maddened creature had now become low, shuddering groans. Each one of them went through Severn like a knife. He fell to his knees, sick with horror in both soul and body.

At this instant the sound of an explosion roared through the cavern.

Chapter 15

"A Hunted Tiger Will Leap The Wall."

—Proverb.

KILGORE, finding himself alone in his prison chamber, investigated his belongings.

Since all weapons had been removed, with everything that might serve as a weapon, he had small hope of finding the thing he sought. It was something he had prepared before the expedition started, in the vague anticipation of emergencies.

Presently, as he searched, an exclamation broke from him. With trembling fingers he brought forth from his pack a bundle of bamboo segments, tied together and wrapped in red paper marked with large ideographs. These characters proclaimed that the bundle held temple candles.

Such candles, made of very soft wax or animal fat, and painted, cannot be touched without smearing the hands with color. Accordingly, they are carried in bamboo segments, split asunder and joined about the candle, the bamboo joint at each end holding the prongs of the candles. Feverishly Kilgore tore open the bundle to let the individual candles come loose.

These candles were remarkable for one thing. The ordinary temple candle melts with heat. These had crossed the Gobi, yet they had not melted.

Kilgore laid them down and rose.

"By gad, I don't dare chance it!" he exclaimed, taking a cigaret and lighting it. "If there's no other way I'll try it— but it's madness. Let's have a look at that grill."

He went to the iron grating that enclosed his end of the chamber. It was out of the question for him to break away, as Day had done, although he found one point where the iron was badly eaten by rust. The idea came to him, however, that he could slide the grill upward again.

He fell to work.

Lifting the iron grating was beyond his power. He attempted to pry it with whatever he found to hand. After working an hour, he had it up two inches from the floor, resting now upon two fragments of a great water-jar that he smashed. This jar was neither of pottery nor of porcelain; it was of the intermediate period partaking of the qualities of each material and was extremely hard.

Another hour passed— an hour of minute and incessant labor. At the end of this period, the grating had been raised to a height of four inches. Kilgore was setting pieces of the jar in place to hold it up, when the props gave way suddenly. The grating clanged again on the floor.

Kilgore sank down, exhausted.

"No go," he said calmly. "I'll have to take the chance after all!"

When he was rested, he went to the bundle of bamboo segments and sat down. He worked loose the fastenings of the first segment. When the bamboo fell apart, he took out the temple candle, gaudily painted in red and gold and black. Under his hands a miracle took place; what had seemed a candle, became a stick of dynamite.

Kilgore was cool now, cold as death, absolutely deliberate. He opened the other bamboo segments. He stuffed the front of his shirt with sticks of dynamite, fuse, caps. Everything was here with which to work. He fitted a broken stick with cap and fuse.

"The stuff works downward—I must make it work otherwise," he murmured. "If it doesn't kill me, it'll bring down the roof. If it doesn't bring down the roof, it will close up the entrance. If it fails to close the entrance, it will blow aside the grill. And if it does that— I have a chance. At least, I'll enjoy a last cigaret."

He lighted the cigaret. His fingers were steady now. He was perfectly calm.

Going to the center of the caging grill, where the two sections came together, he worked with such materials as he could find to build up a platform that might direct the force of the explosive against the iron grating. When he had finished he inspected the work with a shrug of doubt.

"It may— and it mayn't," he said, and smiled.

He placed the broken stick of explosive, its fuse ready. With water and sand from the floor he tamped it in place as well as possible. Then he drew out his box of vestas and lighted one of the wax splinters.

"Well," he said, "here's how!"

He lighted the fuse, dropped the match, and ran to the far corner of the chamber. There he flung himself down, careful of the explosives in his shirt.

The half-minute that he waited dragged into an eternity of suspense.

Suddenly it came— a flash, a stunning roar, a blast that extinguished the lamps. Objects came hurtling, smashing, against the walls. Momentarily deafened, half-stunned, Kilgore dragged himself erect, coughing the choking fumes from his lungs as he groped a way forward.

He dared not strike a vesta, lest he behold failure.

At length he came to the grating, and his hands groped at it. A sobbing cry burst from him as he found the iron wrenched and twisted outward in a gaping hole large enough to admit his body. Without hesitation, he dropped and crawled through.

When he rose, he was shaking with excitement. Had the entrance to the chamber been closed? He struck a vesta and held it up.

"Thank Heaven!"

He started forward. Before the light burned his fingers and died, he had reached the main passage outside. For a moment he stood there in darkness—then, at some little distance, he saw a dancing ray of light.

"Kilgore!" cried a voice. "Kilgore!"

"Here!" Kilgore leaped forward toward the light.

It struck upon his figure and came to a halt. Then it dropped to the floor, and by good luck continued to bum.

Kilgore stared at Severn, a frightful shape. The American staggered and clutched at him.

"Out of this!" cried Severn in a wild voice. "Out of this hell-hole—"

"You're alone?" snapped Kilgore, wondering.

"Yes."

"Day?"

"Safe— get out, get out!" Hysteria shrilled in Severn's tone. "You've no idea what I've done— out of here, I tell you! Pick up the light—"

Kilgore obeyed. He had no idea what Severn had done; that was true. Nothing, in fact, but to tie up a leprous woman—and yet this absurdly simple thing had unstrung and shaken Severn to the very soul. He was still nauseated.

The two men ran. When they gained the cavern entrance, Severn flung himself forward with an inarticulate cry of thanksgiving on his lips. He threw himself into the warm sand and lay there, clutching at it.

Kilgore dropped the electric torch and looked about. He saw the boat there at the shore below, the blue sky above. He looked at Severn and perceived that the man was sick.

Then, with a queer smile twisting at his lips, Kilgore stepped back into the darkness.

Five minutes afterward he rejoined Severn, who by this time was sitting up and looking about. The American glanced up at his friend.

"I'm a fool," he said, his voice still uncertain. "It was a horrible thing— you can't imagine how horrible! To any one else it might not have mattered a bit."

Kilgore touched him on the shoulder and pointed to the boat.

"Never mind talking about it. Let's go."

Severn drew a deep breath and came to his feet.

They got into the boat. Severn sat on the forward thwart. Kilgore took the paddle and urged the rude craft outward along the narrow water-way into the lake. Once or twice he glanced back at the black portal of the cavern. At length they emerged from the cleft in the rocks, and were heading for the shore beyond. Kilgore saw the two horses there.

At length Severn raised his head.

"I want only to get out of here forever!" he said. "I've had enough. I'm done—"

"Buck up, old chap, we're on our way," said Kilgore kindly. "Where's Day?"

"Out there." Severn waved his hand vaguely. "With the others. I—"

A tremor passed through the boat—a shivering convulsion imparted from the water. It was followed by a full sound, a thudding smash. Severn leaped to his feet in alarm, nearly overturning the craft.

"Good - ! What was that?"

Kilgore smiled and glanced over his shoulder. Above the crags to the right was rising a little cloud of dust.

"Dynamite," he said curtly. "I blew in the entrance to that damnable place."

Severn stared at him for a moment, wide-eyed.

"But— but Esrun was there—"

"I should jolly well hope she was!" exploded Kilgore. For the first time, Severn heard an oath fall from his lips. In a sudden passion Kilgore shook his fist at the crags. "And let her stay there to eternity!"

Severn sat down, dropped his head into his hands, sat motionless.

Five minutes later the two men stepped ashore. Kilgore ran to catch the horses. He unhobbled them, led them back to Severn.

"Up with you!" he cried exultantly. "Free, man— free! Let's go"

"Yes—let's go!" echoed Severn in a firm voice.

The two mounted and rode.

_________________

4: Tigre

Zane Grey

1872-1939

Munsey’s Magazine, Sep 1912

"YES, I've a power over animals. Look at Tigre there! But the old women in Micas say I've found one wild thing I'll never tame."

"And that, señor?" asked Muella.

"My young and pretty wife."

She tossed her small head, so that her black curls rippled in the sunlight, and the silver rings danced in her ears.

"Bernardo, I'm not a parrot to have my tongue slit, or a monkey to be taught tricks, or a jungle cat to be trained. I'm a woman, and—"

"Yes— and I am old," he interrupted bitterly. "Look, Muella— there on the Micas trail!"

"It's only Augustine, your vaquero."

"Watch him!" replied Bernardo.

Muella watched the lithe figure of a man striding swiftly along the trail. He was not going to drive cattle up to the corrals, for in that case he would have been riding a horse. He was not going toward the huts of the other herders. He faced the jungle into which ran the Micas trail.

Surely he could not be on his way to Micas! The afternoon was far advanced and the village many miles away. No vaquero ever trusted himself to the dangers of the jungle at night. Even Augustine, the boldest and strongest of Bernardo's many herders, would scarcely venture so much. Yet Augustine kept on down the trail, passed the thatched bamboo fence, went through the grove of palms, and disappeared in the green wall of jungle.

"He's gone!" cried Bernardo. "Muella, I sent Augustine away."

She saw a dull red in her husband's cheeks, a dark and sinister gleam in his eyes; and her surprise yielded to misgiving.

"Why?" she asked.

"He loved you."

"No! No! Bernardo, if that's why you sent him away, you've wronged him. Of all your vaqueros, Augustine alone never smiled at me— he cared nothing for me."

"I say he loved you," returned Bernardo hoarsely.

"Bernardo, you are unjust!"

"Would you lie to me? I know he loves you. Girl, confess that you love him. Tell it! I won't bear this doubt another day!"

Muella stood rigid in his grasp, her eyes blazing the truth that her lips scorned to speak.

"I'll make you tell!" he shouted, and ran to a cage of twisted vines and bamboo poles.

As he fumbled with the fastening of a door, his brown hands shook. A loud purr, almost a cough, came from the cage; then an enormous jaguar stepped out into the sunlight.

"Now, girl, look at Tigre!"

Tigre was of huge build, graceful in every powerful line of his yellow, black- spotted body, and beautiful. Still, he was terrible of aspect. His massive head swung lazily; his broad face had one set expression of brute ferocity.

The eyes of any jaguar are large, yellow, cold, pale, cruel, but Tigre's were frightful. Every instant they vibrated, coalesced, focused, yet seemed always to hold a luminous, far-seeing stare. It was as if Tigre was gazing beyond the jungle horizon to palm-leaf lairs which he had never seen, but which he knew by instinct. And then it was as if a film descended to hide their tawny depths. Tigre's eyes changed— they were always changing, only there was not in them the life of vision; for the jaguar was blind.

Bernardo burst into rapid speech.

"The taunting old crones of Micas were right when they said I could not tame the woman; but I've tamed every wild creature of the Taumaulipas jungle. Look at Tigre! Who beside Bernardo ever tamed a jaguar? Look! Tigre is my dog. He loves me. He follows me, he guards me, he sleeps under my hammock. Tigre is blind, and he is deaf, yet never have I trained any beast so well. Whatever I put Tigre to trail, he finds. He never loses. He trails slowly, for he is blind and deaf, but he never stops, never sleeps, till he kills!"

Bernardo clutched the fur of the great jaguar and leaned panting against the thatch wall of the cage.

"I'll soon know if you love Augustine!" he went on passionately. "Look here at the path— the path that leads out to the Micas trail. See! Augustine's sandal-prints in the dust! Now, girl, watch!"

He led Tigre to the path and forced the nose of the beast down upon Augustine's footmarks. Suddenly the jaguar lost all his lax grace. His long tail lashed from side to side. Then, with head low, he paced down the path' He crossed the grassy plot, went through the fence, along the trail into the jungle.

"He's trailing Augustine!" cried Muella.

She felt Bernardo's gaze burning into her face.

"Tigre will trail him— catch him— kill him!" her husband said.

Muella screamed.

"He's innocent! I swear Augustine does not love me! I swear I don't love him! It's a horrible mistake. He'll be trailed— ah, he'll be torn by that blind brute!" Muella leaped back from her husband. "Never! You jealous monster! For I'll run after Augustine— I'll tell him— I'll save him!"

She eluded Bernardo's fierce onslaught, and, fleet as a frightened deer, she sped down the path. She did not heed his hoarse cries, nor his heavy footsteps.

Bernardo was lame. Muella had so little fear of his catching her that she did not look back. She passed the fence, sped through the grove, and entered the jungle.

ii

THE TRAIL was hard-packed earth, and ahead it lost its white line in the green walls. Muella ran swiftly, dodging the leaning branches, bowing her head under the streamers of moss, striking aside the slender palm leaves. Gay-plumaged birds flitted before her, and a gorgeous butterfly crossed her path. A parrot screeched over her head.

She strained her gaze for the trailing jaguar. Then she saw him, a long black and yellow shape moving slowly under the hanging vines and creepers.

When Muella caught up with Tigre, she slackened her pace, and watched for a wide place in the trail where she could pass without touching him.

"I must pass him," she muttered. "He can't hear me— I can do it safely— I must!"

But still she did not take advantage of several wide places.

Presently the trail opened into a little glade. Twice she started forward, only to hang back. Then desperately she went on, seeing nothing but the great spotted cat just in front of her.

Twice she started forward, only to hang back.

Sharp spear-point palm leaves stung her face, and their rustling increased her terror. She flashed by Tigre so close that she smelled him.

Muella uttered a broken cry and began to run, as if indeed she were the wild creature Bernardo had called her. She looked over her shoulder to see the sinuous yellow form disappear round a bend of the trail. Then she gathered courage. For a long time her flying feet pattered lightly on the trail. She was young, supple, strong, and it took much to tire her. She ran on and on, until her feet were heavy, her breath was almost gone, and her side pierced by a sharp pain. Then she fell to a walk, caught her breath, and once more ran.

Fears began to beset her. Had Augustine left the trail? How swiftly he had walked! It seemed as if she had run several miles. But that was well, for, the larger the distance the farther she would get ahead of the jaguar.

Shadows began to gather under the overhanging vines and creepers. Only the tips of the giant ceibas showed a glint of sunlight. The day was fast closing. Once more she ran on and on; and then, as she turned a curve, a tall, dark form stood out of the green, and blurred the trail.

"Augustine! Wait! Wait!" she cried.

The man swung round, and ran back. Muella, panting for breath and with her hand pressed over her heart, met him.

"Seqora! What has happened?" he exclaimed.

"Wait! My breath's gone!" she gasped. "Wait! But keep on— we— we mustn't stop!"

Muella took a fleeting upward glance at him. It was so hurried that she could not be positive, but she thought she had caught a strange, paling flush of his bronzed face and a startled look of his dark eyes. Why should his meeting her unexpectedly cause more than surprise or concern?

As she trotted along, she shot another quick glance up at him. He seemed unmistakably agitated; and this disconcerted her. She heard his amazed questions, but they were mostly unintelligible.

She had thought of nothing save to catch up with him and to blurt out that Tigre was on his trail, and why. The words now halted on her lips. It was not easy to tell him. What would he say— what would he do? A few moments back, he had been only one of Bernardo's herders— the best, truly, and a man whom it was pleasing to look upon, but he had been nothing to her. He alone of the vaqueros had not smiled at her, and this piquing of her pride had gained him notice which otherwise he might never have got.

As she pattered on, slowly regaining her breath, the presence of the man seemed to grow more real. It was well that she knew Augustine cared nothing for her, else she could not have told him of Bernardo's unjust suspicions.

The trail opened into a clearing, where there were several old palm-thatched huts, a broken-down corral, and a water hole. The place had once been used by Bernardo's herders, but was now abandoned and partly overgrown. At this point, Augustine, who for a time had silently stalked beside Muella, abruptly halted her.

"Seqora, what is wrong? Where are you going?"

"Going!" She uttered a little laugh. "Why, I don't know. I followed—to warn you. Bernardo put Tigre on your trail!"

"Tigre? Santa Maria!"

"Yes. I ran, and ran, and passed him. He must be far back now. He's slow at first, but he's sure, and he's trailing you. Hurry on! You mustn't stop here!"

"Señora! You ran— you risked so much to save me? Oh, may our Blessed Lady reward you!"

"Man, I tell you, don't stop. Go on! You have only your machete. Why did you start into the jungle without a gun?"

"Bernardo drove me off. I owned nothing at the hacienda except my blanket and machete."

"He's selfish— he was beside himself. Why, Augustine, he was jealous. He— he told me he drove you away because you— you cared for me. I'm ashamed to tell you. But, Augustine, he's growing old. You mustn't mind— only hurry to get safe from that terrible brute!"

"I forgive him, seqora. It's his way to fall in a rage; but he quickly repents. And you, seqora—you must take this old trail back to the hacienda. Go swiftly, for soon it will be night."

"I'm not going back," said Muella slowly. "I won't live any longer with Bernardo. Take me to Micas— to my sister's home!"

With one long stride Augustine barred the trail and stood over her.

"You must go back. It's best you should know the truth. Bernardo spoke truth when he told you I loved you!"

"Augustine, you're telling a lie—just to frighten me back to him!"

"No. Bernardo asked me for the truth; so I told him."

Muella's eyes dilated and darkened with shadows of amaze, wonder, and pain.

"Oh, why did you tell him? I didn't know. Oh, I swore by the Virgin that you had no thought of me. He'll believe that I lied."

"Señora, you are innocent, and Bernardo will learn it. You know him— how hotheaded he is, how quickly he is sorry. Go back. Take this old cattle road— here— and hurry. The sun has set. You must run. Have no fear for me!"

"I'm not going back to Bernardo." She straightened up, pale and composed, but as she stepped forward to pass the vaquero in the trail she averted her eyes. "Take me to Micas!"

With a passionate gesture Augustine stopped her.

"But, seqora, consider. Darkness is upon us. Micas is a long way. You're only a girl. You can't keep up. You've forgotten that Tigre is on my trail."

"I forget nothing," she replied coldly. "I've begged you to hurry."

"Muella, go back at once. To-morrow— after a night in the jungle— with me— you can't go. It'll be too late!"

"It's too late now," breathed the girl. "I can't go back— now!"

"Go first, then," he said, whipping out the long machete. "I'll wait here for Tigre."

"Seqor, there are other tigres. There are panthers, too, and wild boars. I may lose the trail. Will you let me go alone?"

iii

AUGUSTINE whispered the name of a saint, and turning his dark face toward where the trail led out of the clearing, he strode on without sheathing his machete.

Muella kept close to him, and entered the enclosing walls of jungle verdure. She felt indeed that she was the untamed thing Bernardo had called her, and now she was hunted. Light as dropping leaves, her feet pattered in the trail. Augustine loomed beside her, striding swiftly, and now and then the naked blade he carried, striking against a twig or branch, broke the silence with a faint ring.

The green walls became hovering shadows and turned to gray. Muella had an irresistible desire to look back. The darkening menace of the gloom before and on each side was nothing to that known peril behind. She saw nothing, however, but a dull, gray, wavering line fading into the obscurity of the jungle. She strained her hearing. Except for the soft swishing of her skirt on the brush, and the occasional low ring of Augustine's machete, there was absolutely no sound.

She noted that her companion never turned his head. Had he no fear? Quick flashes of memory recalled stories of this herder's daring. How tall and powerful he was— how swiftly he strode— how dark and stern and silent he seemed! He must know full well the nature of Bernardo's pet, the terrible blind brute that never failed on a trail.

All at once the jungle grew into two ragged walls of black separated by a narrow strip of paler shade. Night had fallen; and with it came a blinking of stars through dense foliage overhead, and the lighting of fireflies. Insects began to hum. Rustlings in the brush augmented Muella's sensitiveness. A strange call of a night bird startled her, and instinctively she shrank closer to Augustine. She wished to speak to him, to make the silence bearable; but stealthy steps off to the right made her heart leap and her tongue mute.

Augustine heard, for he struck the leaves with his machete. From the enshrouding blackness came the snapping of twigs, pattering little steps, the rush of animals running through grass or ferns, and soft rustlings in the brush. Then the night silence awoke to strange cries— squall of cat and scream of panther, squeaks and grunts and squeals of peccaries, and inexpressibly wild sounds, too remote to distinguish.

"Oh, Augustine!" whispered Muella, fear at last unlocking her lips. "Listen! All before us— do you hear?"

"Seqora, we have not greatly to fear ahead," he replied. "But behind— a trailing tigre warms with the night! We must not lag!"

"I'm not tired. I can walk so, all night; but the steps, the cries, frighten me. It grows darker, and I stumble."

She fancied she saw him reach out as if to help her, and then draw suddenly back. The darkness became so thick that she could scarcely see him. Like a tall specter he moved on.

She groped for his arm, found it, and slipped her hand down to his. Instantly she felt his strong fingers convulsively close round hers. The warm clasp helped and cheered her.

So, mile after mile, Muella kept tireless pace with the herder; and when the jungle creatures ceased their hue and quest, and the dead silence once more settled thickly down, the strange night flight lost its reality and seemed a dream. The black shadows lifted and paled to opaque gloom. A whiteness stole into the jungle; silver shafts gleamed through the trees. The moon was rising. Muella hailed it with joy, for it meant that the night was far advanced, and that their way would be lightened.

Soon all about her was a radiant, encompassing world of silver shadows and gleams. It was a beautiful night. The cold fear weighting her heart lessened, seemed momentarily to be thrilled and warmed away. She loved that great, silver- orbed, golden-circled moon; and now she looked up at it through a streaked and fringed and laced web.

She wondered if Augustine saw the beauty of the sharp-cut palms, the delicate- leaved bamboos, and the full-foliaged ceibas, all festooned with long silver streamers of moss. Gnarled branches of a dead monarch of the forest, silhouetted against the deep blue of the sky, showed orchids and aloes and long, strangling vines— parasites that had killed it. Every unshadowed leaf along the trail glistened white with dew. The glamor of the white night was upon Muella.

Augustine's voice broke the spell.

"You are tiring, but we must not lag. Shall I carry you?"

"No, no! I can keep up."

His words and the glint of his naked machete brought her back to actuality. She slipped her hand from his.

Slowly a haze overspread the moon. The brightness failed, and then the moonlit patches imperceptibly merged into the shadows, until all was gray. The jungle trees rose dim and weird and lost their tips in clouds of mist. A chicolocki burst into song, and the broken notes heralded the coming of day.

"Augustine, it is near dawn," said Muella. "Oh, how good the light will be! I'm so cold—so wet. We shall be safe in Micas soon, shall we not?"

The herder mumbled a reply that she did not understand.

iv

SWIFTLY upon the gray dawn came the broad daylight. The clouds of creamy mist rose and broke and rolled away, letting the sunshine down into the jungle. The balmy air rang with the melodies of birds. Flocks of parrots passed overhead, screeching discordant clamor.

Presently it struck Muella that the trail was growing narrow and rough and overgrown. She had journeyed to Micas often enough to be familiar with the trail, and this, so wild and crooked, was not the right one.

"Augustine, have you missed the way?" she queried anxiously.

Briefly he replied that he was making a short cut. Muella did not believe him. She walked on, and began again to look back. When she caught Augustine doing likewise, she gave way to dread.

The morning wore on, the sun grew warm, and with the heat of day came the jungle flies and mosquitoes. Augustine was inured to their attacks, but Muella impatiently fought them, thus adding to her loss of energy.

When, at the crossing of a network of trails, Augustine chose one at random, Muella was certain of the worst. She asked him about it, and he admitted he was off the course, but as he was sure of his direction there was no need of fear. He assured her that he would have her at her sister's home in Micas by noon.

Noon found them threading a matted jungle where they had to bend low along the deer and peccary trails. The character of the vegetation had changed. It was now dry, thorny, and almost impenetrable.

Suddenly Muella jerked her hand away from a swinging branch, which she had intended to brush aside.

"Look, Augustine, on my hand. Garapatas! Ugh, how I loathe them!"

Her hand and wrist were dotted with great black jungle ticks. Augustine removed them, and as he did so, Muella saw his fingers tremble. The significance of his agitation did not dawn upon her until she was free of the pests, and then she fancied that her touch had so moved him. It was wonderful, it warmed her blood, and she stole a glance at him. But Augustine was ashen pale; his thoughts were far from the softness and beauty of a woman's hand.

"Augustine! You have lost your way!" she cried.

Gloomily he dropped his head, and let his silence answer.

"Lost in the jungle! We're lost! And Tigre is on our trail!" she shrieked.

Panic overcame her. She tottered and fell against him. Her whole slender length rippled in a violent trembling. Then she beat her hands frantically on Augustine's shoulders, and clutched him tight, and besought him with inarticulate speech.

"Listen, señora, listen," he kept saying. "If you give up now, I can't save you. We're lost, but there's a way out. Listen— don't tear at me so— there's a way out. Do you hear? You go on alone— follow these deer tracks till you come to water. Soon they'll lead to water. That water will be the Santa Rosa. Follow up the stream till you come to Micas. It'll be hard, but you can do it."

"Go on alone! And you?" she said brokenly.

"I'll turn on our back trail. I'll meet Tigre and stop him."

"Tigre will kill you!"

"He is blind and deaf. I shall be prepared. I've a chance, at least, to cripple him."

"At the end of a trail Tigre is a demon. He has been trained to kill the thing he's put to trail. You— with only a machete! Ah, señor, I've heard that you are brave and strong, but you must not go back to meet Tigre. Come! We'll follow the deer tracks together. Then if Tigre catches us— well, he can kill us both!"

"Seqora, I can serve you best by going back."

"You think that if you took me to Micas the old women would talk— that my good name would be gone?" she asked searchingly.

"Señora, we waste time, and time is precious," he protested.

Muella studied the haggard, set face. This man meant to sacrifice his life for her. Deep through the fire of his eyes she saw unutterable pain and passion. If she had doubted his love, she doubted no more. He must be made to believe that she had followed him, not alone to save him from Tigre, but because she loved him. Afterward he would be grateful for her deceit. And if her avowal did not break his will, then she would use a woman's charm, a woman's sweetness.

"Señor, you told Bernardo the truth— and I lied to him!" she said.

Stranger than all other sensations of that flight was the thrill in her as she forced herself to speak.

"What do you mean?" demanded Augustine.

"He asked you if you loved me. You told the truth. He asked me if— if I loved you. And— I lied!"

"Santa Maria!" the man cried, starting up impulsively. Then slowly he fell back. "Señora, may the saints reward you for your brave words. I know! You are trying to keep me from going back. We waste precious time— go now!"

"Augustine, wait, wait!" she cried.

Running blindly, she flung herself into his arms. She hid her face in his breast, and pressed all her slender, palpitating body close to his. As if he had been turned to stone, he stood motionless. She twined her arms about him, and her disheveled hair brushed his lips. She tried to raise her face— failed— tried again, and raised it all scarlet, with eyes close shut and tears wet on her cheeks. Blindly she sought his mouth with her lips— kissed him timidly— tremulously— and then passionately.

With that, uttering a little gasp, she swayed away and turned from him, her head bowed in shame, one beseeching hand held backward to him.

"Don't go! Don't leave me!"

"Dios!" whispered Augustine.

Presently he took the proffered hand, and, leading her, once more plunged into the narrow trail.

v

FOR hours Muella walked with lowered eyes. She plodded on, bending her head under the branches, and constantly using her free hand to fight the pests.

Her consciousness, for the while, was almost wholly absorbed with a feeling of an indefinable difference in herself. She seemed to be in a condition of trembling change, as if the fibers of her soul were being unknit and rewoven. Something illusive and strange and sweet wavered before her— a promise of joy that held vague portent of pain. This inexplicable feeling reminded her of fancies, longings, dreams of her girlhood.

At length sensations from without claimed full share of Muella's attention. The heat had grown intense. She was becoming exhausted. Her body burned, and about her ankles were bands of red-hot fire. Still she toiled on, because she believed that Micas was close at hand.

The sun went down, and night approached. There was no sign of water. Augustine failed to hide his distress. He was hopelessly lost in the jungle. All the trails appeared to lead into the same place— a changeless yellow and gray jungle.

The flies pursued in humming wheel, and clouds of whining mosquitoes rose from the ground. The under side of every leaf, when brushed upward, showed a red spot which instantly disintegrated, and spilled itself like a bursting splotch of quicksilver upon the travelers. And every infinitesimal red pin point was a crawling jungle pest. The dead wood and dry branches were black with innumerable garapatas.

Muella had been born a hill native, and she was not bred to withstand the savage attack of the jungle vermin. The time came when she fell, and implored Augustine to put her out of her misery with his machete. For answer he lifted her gently and moved on, carrying her in his arms.

Night came. Augustine traveled by the stars, and tried to find trails that led him in a general direction northward. By and by Muella's head rolled heavily, and she slept.

At length the blackness and impenetrable thicket hindered his progress. He laid Muella down, covered her with his blanket, and stood over her with drawn machete till the moon rose.

The light aiding him, he found a trail, and, taking up his burden, he went on. And that night dragged to dawn.

Muella walked little the next day. She could hardly stand. She had scarcely strength to free her hair from the brush as it caught in passing. The burning pain of her skin had given place to a dull ache. She felt fever stealing into her blood.

Augustine wandered on, over bare rocks and through dense jungles, with Muella in his arms. He was tireless, dauntless, wonderful in his grim determination to save her. Worn as she was, sick and feverish, she yet had moments when she thought of him; and at each succeeding thought he seemed to grow in her impression of strength and courage.

But most of her thoughts centered on the trailing Tigre. The serpents and panthers and peccaries no longer caused Muella concern; she feared only the surely gaining jaguar.

vi

NIGHT closed down on them among tangled mats and labyrinthine webs of heavy underbrush.

"Listen!" whispered Muella suddenly, with great black eyes staring out of her white face.

From far off in the jungle came a sound that was like a cough and growl in one.

"Ah! Augustine, did you hear?"

"Yes."

"Was it a tigre?"

"Yes."

"A trailing tigre?"

"Yes, but surely that could not have been Bernardo's. His tigre would not give cry on a trail."

"Oh, yes. Tigre is deaf and blind, and he has been trained, but he has all the jungle nature. He has Bernardo's cruelty, too!"

Again the sound broke on the still night air. Muella slipped to the ground with a little gasp. She heard Augustine cursing against the fate that had driven them for days under trees, trees, trees, and had finally brought them to bay in a corner where there was no tree to climb. She saw him face about to the trail by which they had come; and stand there with his naked blade upraised. He blocked the dim, narrow passageway.

An interminable moment passed. Muella stopped breathing, tried to still the beating of her heart so that she could listen. There was no sound save the low, sad hum of insects and the rustle of wind in leaves. She seemed to feel Tigre's presence out there in the blackness. Dark as it was, she imagined she saw him stealing closer, his massive head low, his blind eyes flaring, his huge paws reaching out.

A slight rustling checked all motion of her blood. Tigre was there, ready to spring upon Augustine. Muella tried to warn him, but her lips were dry and dumb. Had he lost his own sense of hearing?

Her head reeled and her sight darkened; but she could not swoon. She could only wait, wait, while the slow moments wore on.

Augustine loomed over the trail, a dark, menacing figure. Again there came a rustling and a stealthy step, this time in another direction; and Augustine turned toward it.

Long silence followed; even the humming of insects and the moaning of the wind seemed to grow fainter. Then came more tickings of the brush and a padded footfall. Tigre had found them— was stalking them!

Muella lay there, helplessly waiting. In the poignancy of her fear far Augustine, expecting momentarily to see the huge jaguar leap upon him, she forgot herself. There was more in her agony of dread than the sheer primitive shrinking of the flesh, the woman's horror of seeing death inflicted. Through that terrible age-long flight through the jungle, Augustine had come to mean more than a protector to her.

She watched him guardedly facing in the direction of every soft rustle in the brush. He was a man at the end of his resources, ready to fight and die for a woman.

The insects hummed on, the wind moaned in the leaves, the rustlings came from one point and another in the brush, but Tigre did not appear. The black night lightened and the moon rose. Muella now distinctly saw Augustine—disheveled and ragged, white and stern and wild, with his curved blade bright in the moonlight.

Then the gray mist crept up to obscure the white stars and the moon, and at last the blue vault. The rustlings ceased to sound in the brush. From far off rasped the cough of a tigre. It appeared to come from the same place as when first heard. Hope had new birth in Muella's heart.

Moments like hours passed; the insects ceased to hum and the wind to moan. The gray shadows fled before a rosy dawn.

Augustine hewed a lane through the dense thicket that had stopped him, and presently he came upon a trail. He hurried back to Muella with words of cheer. Strength born of hope returned to her, and she essayed to get up.

Helping her to her feet, he half led and half carried her into the trail. They went on for a hundred paces, to find that the path suddenly opened into a wide clearing. To Muella it had a familiar look, and Augustine's exclamation assured her that he had seen the place before. Then she recognized a ruined corral, some old palm-thatched huts, and a water hole as belonging to the clearing through which they had long before passed.

"We've traveled back in a circle!" exclaimed Augustine. "We're near the hacienda— your home!"

Muella leaned against him and wept. First of all was the joy of deliverance.

"Muella, you are saved," Augustine went on. "The distance is short— I can carry you. Bernardo will forgive—you know how he flies into a passion, and then how he repents."

"Yes, yes. I'll go back to him— tell him the truth— ask his mercy!"

From the center of the clearing came a rustling of dry leaves, then a loud purr, almost a cough. Augustine stiffened, and Muella clutched frantically at him.

For a long moment they stood, dark eyes staring into dark eyes, waiting, listening. Then Augustine, releasing his hold on the trembling girl, cautiously stepped upon a log and peered over the low palms. Almost instantly he plunged down with arms uplifted.

"Santa Maria! Tigre! He's there!" he whispered. "He's there, beside the body of something he's killed. He's been there all night. He was there when we first heard him. We thought he was trailing. Muella, I must see closer. Stay back— you must not follow!"

But as he crept under the low palms she followed him. They came to the open clearing. Tigre lay across the trail, his beautiful yellow and black body stretched in lax grace, his terrible sightless eyes riveted on a dead man beside him.

"Muella— stay back— I fear— I fear!" said Augustine.

He crept yet a little farther, and returned with pale face and quivering jaw.

"Muella, it's Bernardo! He's dead—has been dead for days. When you started off that day to warn me, Bernardo must have run round by the old wagon road to head off Tigre. The blind brute killed him!"

"Bernardo repented!" moaned Muella. "He repented!"

______________

5: The Twenty-Four-Hour Croesus

Albert Payson Terhune

1872-1942

The Cavalier Jan 1910

"YOU'RE a bit behind your a usual time, sir," ventured the waiter. "Taking a holiday, if I may make so bold as to ask?"

"No," I answered, as I laid a napkin on my knee and glanced at the menu, "I'm a millionaire!

"Yes sir," assented the waiter, with a flattering yet wholly unenthusiastic chuckle. "Quite so. Very good, sir."

I eyed him dubiously.

"What is 'very good?' " I demanded, "the news or—"

"The— the little joke, sir," faltered the waiter, with somewhat less certainty. "American humor, of course, sir, I'm getting to recognize it at a glance now, sir."

"Would you mind," I inquired loftily, frowning at him, "would you mind telling me what you think you are trying to say? I told you something, just now. I don't know why I told you, except because you are the first person I've seen since I got the news, and it was hard to keep in. Anyhow, I told you. And instead of congratulating me, you giggle in an asinine fashion and talk about 'American humor.' "

"I beg pardon, sir,' he sputtered, doubling forward subserviently and wash- ing his knobby-knuckled hands appealingly, in invisible soap. "Beg pardon, I'm sure. I thought of course you were spoofing me, getting at me, you know— pulling my leg, as it might be."

"If all those terms are Anglican for 'guying' you, you're mistaken, Jarvis. I told you the simple, plain, unvarnished truth. I mentioned it to you, not only because you were the first person I've met to-day, but because you've waited on me ever since I joined this club, and because— oh, hang it, that's all!"

"Yes, sir," he agreed. But he still hovered near.

"Well?" I snapped, irritated, in spite of the wondrous new elation that had held me for the past half-hour. "What is it? What are you waiting for?"

"The— the order, sir," he ventured.

I reddened. In my excitement I had forgotten to name my breakfast. Jarvis noted my annoyance. Quick to seek atonement for his lack of subtlety in grasping American humor, he went on:

"I'd'a' fetched your reg'lar week-day rolls and coffee, sir, only I fancied maybe you'd want your special Sunday breakfast, seeing you are so late and in no hurry to-day. Shall I bring—"

"Wait!" I said, glancing again at the pink menu card. "This is an Occasion, Jarvis. An Occasion, with a capital 'O,' and I must order a repast worthy of it. I wonder now," I went on whimsically, much more to myself than to him, "I wonder what millionaires generally eat for breakfast? Goldfish frappés and government bonds au gratin? You see," I added, once more taking the old privileged club servant into my confidence, "I've only been a millionaire about forty minutes, and I'm new to their ways. Have we any millionaire members— I mean other millionaire members, Jarvis? If so, what do they eat for breakfast?"

"Well, sir," he answered, humoring what he deemed my joke, with a condescending civility that maddened me, "old General Camby, he eats toast and tea, usually— buttered toast. Judge Shelp— he just has an egg with—"

"Eggs! Toast! Tea!" I snorted loftily. "Not for mine! Not for my first meal in millionairedom, at any rate. Here!"

I ran a finger rapidly down the card, selecting a glittering array of dishes as sumptuous as they were incongruous.

Jarvis took my order with something of awe. Even at such times as I had chanced to receive a rare windfall of cash, I had never "plunged" on any such votive meal as this,

I felt an explanation was due. It was not my custom to chat with waiters— even with one so privileged as Jarvis— but I felt if I did not talk to some one my happiness might find vent in plate-throwing.

"I wasn't guying you," I said, "when I told you I was a millionaire. I am. I've been a millionaire— man and boy— for nearly an hour."

"Y-yes-sir," he murmured, trying to achieve the perfect blend between respectful appreciation of a jest and equally respectful belief of facts.

"It's like a Sunday-school story," I proceeded, "three years ago, up in the Adirondacks, I managed to haul a half-drowned old gentleman out of Raquette Lake. He called me his 'preserver' and vowed I should 'one day bless the heroism that made me save the life of T. Anthony Clegg, of Baltimore.' He was 'Million-Dollar Clegg.' You've read of him? I never heard from him again, and all the fellows at the office have been guying me for three years about my absent-minded benefactor. This morning, as I was starting for the office, this telegram was handed me."

I held out the yellow slip of paper, already much creased and thumbed by my frequent peeps at its marvelous contents. Jarvis took it gingerly—as though still fearing some new twist of "American humor"— and read in slow, painful, unaccented effort:

Baltimore,

Walbrook Branch Office,

Ten-Fifty p.m. (Night Rates.)

To Harry G. Clough, 7791 West 78th St., New York City: T. Anthony Clegg died yesterday. By terms of will you are residuary legatee estate estimated at $1,200,500. Congratulations. Please wait further news.

Marcia Clegg.

Jarvis handed back the telegram rev erently, as though it had suddenly ac- quired a fabulous money value.

"I— I beg to congratulate you most hearty, Mr. Clough, sir, if I may so far venture," he smirked. "Trooly, trooth is stranger'n friction, as the poet says, sir. There'll be no trouble, of course? No contest of the will, sir?"

"No," I returned, "I've thought of all that. Mr. Clegg left no immediate family. The fact that 'Marcia Clegg,' evidently a relative, from the name— not only notifies me, but congratulates me as well, proves the relations are not angry— or preparing  to dispute the legacy."

When I signed my check-slip for the meal, I tossed the bewildered and wholly slavish Jarvis a five-dollar bill, by way of tip.

It was my first meal and my first tip since I became rich. If each was lavish to the point of vulgarity, circumstances surely mitigated the offense.

When I went to bed the previous night, I had been Harry Clough, head clerk in the shipping house of Knolles & Son, Canal Street, on a salary of thirty-five dollars a week. I was twenty-seven, engaged to be married and trying to economize by living in a hall-bedroom and by getting frugal meals at my fraternity club. 'That was yesterday.

This morning I was Henry Clough, millionaire.

I strolled out into the pleasant, sun-lit street. It was with an almost guilty sense of luxury that I realized I was dawdling in the sunshine of an up-town neighborhood at 10.30 a.m., on a working day— when for the past hour and a half I should, by rights, have been crouching over a rickety desk in the noisy, dingy front office of Knolles & Son, in far-off Canal Street.

No one but a plow horse or a New York clerk can quite realize what a gen- uine thrill such a sensation may give.

My hands were in my pockets. I fell to jingling my change. Idly I pulled out the silver coins. Just seventy-nine cents.

An idea struck me. At the Aaron Burr National Bank I had six hundred and thirty dollars on deposit. It had seemed a huge sum, and had represented the savings of years. I had been hoarding it up to marry on.

I could have laughed aloud to recall how great an amount that same six hundred and thirty dollars had appeared to me only yesterday. Now, the whole sum represented less than one week's interest on my fortune.

ii

MY RESOLVE was taken. Ten minutes later I was at the bank, standing last in a short line before the paying-teller's window, a still inky order-slip for five hundred dollars in my hand.

As I handed in the order, and received the little sheaf of varicolored bills that to-day represented so little to me, a stout man at my elbow observed:

"Are you up here on office business, Clough?"

There was cold reproof in the tones. I turned to confront "Son"— as we clerks disrespectfully alluded to the junior partner of "Knolles & Son"— whom we all cordially detested. He tried always to be a martinet, and succeeded in being only a fussy petty tyrant.

"No, Mr. Knolles," I rejoined calmly, and without a trace of the humble re- spect he loved to enforce from us; "I am here on my own business."

"In office hours?" he rasped.

"Precisely," I agreed, with a pleasant smile. "I shall drop in at the office for a few minutes later in the day, "but I am going to loaf this morning."

Had a lisping kindergarten child hurled a bomb at him, "Son" could not have shown more genuine and choleric amaze.

"Don't lose your temper," I adjured coolly. " With a thick neck like yours, temper is liable to lead to apoplexy."

"What— what does this impertinence— this— this— this absence from your duties—what does it mean? I demand to know. Are you drunk or—"

"I'm a millionaire,' I retorted very quietly.

"I do not care for flippancy," he re- buked, when he could catch his breath. "You will go at once to the office. Later in the morning I shall—"

"I told you, Son," I cut in, "that I am not going to the office yet. When I do go it will bé only to clean out my desk and resign. In case you still think I am drunk, perhaps this will change your mind."

I handed him the telegram. He read it in silent wonder. Then he held out his thick, fat hand and said with stiff playfulness:

"This is indeed a lightning leap from poverty to affluence. Shake hands."

"Mr. Knolles," I answered, looking down at his open paw as at some odd specimen of fauna, "last month, when you came back from your vacation, I tried to welcome you to the office by shaking hands with you. You ignored my hand. Later, I heard you tell your father I ought to know my place better than to attempt such a familiarity. I won't detain you any longer. With my new responsibilities I must choose my acquaintances with more care than formerly."

I left him gasping at me like a fish out of water, and strolled out of the bank.

I hailed a taxicab— a luxury I had allowed myself but twice before in all my life— and spun up-town. I stopped once at a florist's, and emerged with an armful of glorious American Beauty roses; again at a confectioner's, and brought out a wondrous silken hand-painted five-pound box of candy.

Then I sat back in the taxi, and tried to look like a plutocrat as we sped Harlem-ward.

My cargo and I were soon ushered into the dainty little drawing-room of a West Side apartment, and I was facing the wondering, delighted eyes of the one girl.

"Harry," she exclaimed, "what are you doing here at this unearthly hour? And— oh, what flowers! Thank you ten thousand times. But, you extravagant boy, you know we can't afford such things, now that we're saving up for—"

"Madge," I interrupted, holding her at arm's length and looking down sol- emnly into her flushed, lovely little face, "how long have we been engaged?"

"As if you didn't know. Two years next—"

"And why haven't we married sooner?"

"Are you crazy? Because you said you wouldn't marry any girl until you had a salary of at least fifty dollars a week. And you're only earning—"

"To-day is Tuesday. Can you get ready to marry me a week from to-day?"

"Harry, Knolles & Son haven't raised you to fifty dollars?"

"My present income," said I airily, "is— let me see— at five per cent, fifty- two weeks to the year— well, a fraction under one thousand two hundred dollars a week!":

"It— it isn't nice to make fun of our beautiful little hopes like that, Harry," she reproved softly. "If—"

"Dear," I interrupted, "this is the second time in an hour that I've been accused of practical joking. You, at least, ought to know how I hate the very sight of a practical joker. Didn't I nearly lose my job for thrashing that idiotic little Murray Shane at the office, because he got me to the telephone on a fake message from you?"

"Yes," she admitted, "you did. And he swore he'd get even with you if it took him a lifetime."

"Well, he'll have to do it somewhere else than in the office," I laughed, "for I'm leaving Knolles & Son to-day."

"Leaving!" she echoed anxiously. " You're— you're not discharged? Oh, what is the mystery? You aren't one bit like yourself."

"No," I made answer. "I am like a millionaire. Probably because I am one."

I handed her the telegram.

Why go into the raptures and plans and air-castles of the next half-hour? After all, some things are sacred,

After that blissful time we consccrated the rest of the morning to plutocratic pursuits. In a taxicab we took a really wonderful ride through the park and alongside Riverside Drive, Madge and I.

We watched with lofty, joyous scorn the greedy haste of the little "indicator" in scoring up new and larger figures. What was an extra dime or dollar te.us?

We picked out no less than fourteen ideal houses and three grand building sites as we whizzed along, mentally furnishing and improving each residence and creating on the vacant lots veritable Aladdin palaces.

Then we turned south and raided two Fifth Avenue jewelers. Here Madge forced me to temporary sanity. One brooch, one little ring and a chased gold card-case were all she would let me get her.

We lunched at Sherry's— a place we had hitherto only known by name. Again I paid a record price for the privilege of eating like a millionaire.

Oh, it was a joyous morning!

Madge had an engagement at two. So, still in my trusty taxicab, I wended my way to the office. If I had limped up to the door with mud-splashed clothes, every one I knew would have been lounging just outside. As I whirled up in a taxi, not a soul, of course, was in sight.

I wandered into the clerk's room, hat on head, cigar in mouth. Five minutes later my news was out. I was a hero.

My hand was wrung so often, so hard, so frantically, that my arm was numb to the shoulder. It well-nigh brought a lump to my throat to see how honestly glad the whole crewd seemed to be. Not one, apparently, grudged me my good luck— not one cringed or toadied.

If for no other reason, I should have rejoiced in my fortune because of the in- sight it gave me into my office brethren's regard for myself.

The only man in the whole place whom I did not like— Murray Shane, self-appointed humorist of the office— was out of town on a tour for the firm. His absence gave me an idea. I was quick to voice it.

I forthwith invited every clerk in the place to dine with me that night at the club, and to celebrate my departure from Knolles & Son's in a banquet so notable that, henceforth, time would be dated from that hour.

There was unanimous acceptance. I called up the club steward, gave elaborate orders, and then proceeded to clean out my desk.

As I was leaving the office I almost collided, on the threshold, with Son Knolles.

"I hear you are giving a dinner tonight," said he, with a visible effort at cordiality. "I am invited, of course?"

"I am sorry," I answered, as politely as I could, "but it is just a little dinner to my old associates here."

"So!" he sneered. "A chance to patronize former equals, eh?"

"No," I returned. "A chance to let them forget for the moment that they have the bad luck to work for you."

iii

THE little clock on my chiffonier pointed to nine when I roused myself with a Start next morning. Nine o'clock! I was already due at the office! What would Son say? What would—

I was half out of bed before I remembered. Then I lay back in drowsy delight.

No more slavery to office hours! No more rush and bustle and worry to avoid the ill temper of a cranky employer! No more hoarding and skimping and living in a hall-bedroom, either!

Smilingly I recalled the events of yesterday— the happiest day of all my life. The jolly morning with Madge; the call at the office; the gay good fellowship of the banquet; the kindly things that the boys had said of me. What a day to remember!

Then, athwart my golden, lazy dreams, came a thunderous long knocking at the door.

"Who is there?" I called, wondering at so peremptory a summons.

For answer— in fact, before I had fairly spoken— the door was flung open and a man rushed unceremoniously into the room.

"Say, Clough!" cried the newcomer tremulously, "there's a deuce of a muddle! I came up right away. I only got to town an hour ago, and as soon as I reached the office—"

It was Murray Shane. I looked at him with as much amaze as if he had been the King of Barataria.

I was not on visiting terms with the fellow. Indeed, since I had thrashed him for that one caddish attempt to be funny at my expense I had never so much as spoken to him.

As soon as I reached the office, he babbled on in evident distress, "I heard how you'd resigned, and how you'd insulted Son, and about the banquet, and your throwing away money all day like a drunken sailor. Good Heavens, man!" His voice broke. "I never meant the joke to go as far as that!"

"The joke!" I echoed. "What joke? Are you trying to be funny again?"

"Why, I told you once I'd get even with you for that licking," he went on sheepishly. "So night before last, in Baltimore, when I read of old T. Anthony Clegg's death and remembered about his promising once to reward you for saving his life, the notion came to me all of a sudden to fake that telegram. I thought you'd blow about it at the office and we'd all have a laugh at you. I never dreamed— honestly, old man, I never dreamed you'd be, fool enough to—"

I was out of bed and half-way across the floor.

I don't know how I looked— not exactly pleasant, I'm afraid. For Shane bolted out of the room like a scared rabbit before I could reach him, and slammed the door in my face.

I did not follow him. I sank into the nearest chair, caught my head in my hands, and tried to think.

If, as cynics say, every happiness must be paid for in corresponding misery, I certainly paid my full debt then and there, with usurious interest.

What a fool! What a double fool and pounder I had been! I had had a gold- en day. In return I had lost— my position, the bulk of my savings, my self-respect, and I had become a laughing-stock.

Worst of all, I had unwillingly smashed Madge's glorious hopes! The world stretched forth before me, hopeless and barren as a rainy sea.

Then I pulled myself together. I had danced— I would pay the piper! I would begin payment at once. "The longer delay, the harder to pay."

"Rolls, coffee, no extra order of cream," I said to Jarvis as I sat down at my club breakfast-table.

"Yes, sir," he said, with a new, profound respect.

"And, Jarvis," I added, as one perversely bites on a sore tooth, "I'm not a millionaire."

"No, sir?' chuckled Jarvis, certain that he had at last captured a genuine specimen of American humor, "Of course not, sir. Very good, sir. Is there anything else I can do, sir?"

"No," I groaned viciously. "If there was, you wouldn't be a waiter."

Breakfast over, my first impulse was to go straight to Madge. But— I confess it— I was too much of a coward. To speak the words that would drive that bright, happy light from her dear eyes was more than I dared attempt just then.

Butterfly crushing is not pleasant sport for a white man.

No; that could wait. First, I must go to the office, eat humble pie, and strive to get back my job. After that—

iv

I WENT to Canal Street, jingling in my trousers-pocket two dollars and sixteen cents—all that remained of my five hundred dollars.

I walked straight into Son's private office. The junior partner lifted his fat, red face and favored me with a glower.

"What do you want?" he snarled. "I'm too busy to talk to four-flush millionaires. Shane has told us all. Get out!'"

"I want my job back, sir," I said with a boldness I was far from feeling. "If my work in the past—"

"That will do!" he interposed gruffly. "Your place as head clerk is given to Shane. I've nothing else for you. Perhaps you'll find out before long that insults aren't on the free-list. Get out!"

"Son," I said, battling back my mortification, "the insults I handed you have cost me my job. They were cheap at the price. Good day."

As I walked through the main office, a dozen chairs were pushed back from desks. Every man in the place was trying to shake hands with me at once, tc tell me in rough sympathy how sorry each was for my ill-fortune. Again— only more so— that lump came into my throat.

To hide my feclings, I turned away and mechanically began searching the letter-box for my mail. Two circulars a tailor's bill, a souvenir post-card, and a letter with a law firm's stamp and a Baltimore postmark. That was all.

I tossed the circular into the waste-basket, where, after one glance, the bill and the post-card followed them. Then, carelessly, I tore open the legal letter and read:

Henry Crouch, Esq.

Dear Sir:

The will of the late T. Anthony Clegg, of this city, was read to the relatives to-day. Under its provisions you are a beneficiary to the extent of C.G. and X. (preferred) railroad stock to the amount of 860 shares. As this stock is now quoted at par, the bequest is estimated at $86,000. Awaiting further instructions from you, we beg to remain,

Respectfully yours,

Miller & Muller,

Attorneys at Law,

Per A. L.

"Where's Shane?" I roared, after a third reading had allowed the sense of the note to sink into my brain. "If this is another joke of his, I'll—"

I caught sight of the long-distance telephone, made a bolt for it, and— in an unconscionably long time— was talking direct to Mr. Muller of Miller & Muller, in Baltimore.

"What's all this?" snapped Son, emerging from his office as I dashed out of the telephone-booth with a war-whoop that set the ink-wells to dancing. "I  thought you had been told to—"

"It's eighty-six thousand dollars!" I crowed. "It's four thousand three hundred dollars a year. It isn't one million two hundred thousand dollars, but it's real! Oh, Son! There's a special Providence that looks out for—"

"Born fools!" he growled, turning away in disgust.

"And it's right on the job!" I agreed.

___________________

6: Uncle Bentley and the Roosters

Hayden Carruth

Fred Hayden Carruth, 1862-1932

The Wit and Humor of America, 1911

THE BURDEN of Uncle Bentley has always rested heavily on our town. Having not a shadow of business to attend to he has made other people's business his own, and looked after it in season and out— especially out. If there is a thing which nobody wants done, to this Uncle Bentley applies his busy hand.

One warm summer Sunday we were all at church. Our pastor had taken the passage on turning the other cheek, or one akin to it, for his text, and was preaching on peace and quiet and non-resistance. He soon had us in a devout mood which must have been beautiful to see and encouraging to the good man.

Of course, Uncle Bentley was there— he always was, and forever in a front pew, with his neck craned up looking backward to see if there was anything that didn't need doing which he could do. He always tinkered with the fires in the winter and fussed with the windows in the summer, and did his worst with each. His strongest church point was ushering. Not content to usher the stranger within our gates, he would usher all of us, and always thrust us into pews with just the people we didn't want to sit with. If you failed to follow him when he took you in tow, he would stop and look back reproachfully, describing mighty indrawing curves with his arm; and if you pretended not to see him, he would give a low whistle to attract your attention, the arm working right along, like a Holland windmill.

On this particular warm summer Sunday Uncle Bentley was in place wearing his long, full-skirted coat, a queer, dark, bottle-green, purplish blue. He had ushered to his own exceeding joy, and got two men in one pew, and given them a single hymn-book, who wouldn't on week-days speak to each other. I ought to mention that we had long before made a verb of Uncle Bentley. To unclebentley was to do the wrong thing. It was a regular verb, unclebentley, unclebentleyed, unclebentleying. Those two rampant enemies in the same pew had been unclebentleyed.

The minister was floating along smoothly on the subject of peace when Uncle Bentley was observed to throw up his head. He had heard a sound outside. It was really nothing but one of Deacon Plummer's young roosters crowing. The Deacon lived near, and vocal offerings from his poultry were frequent and had ceased to interest any one except Uncle Bentley. Then in the pauses between the preacher's periods we heard the flapping of wings, with sudden stoppings and startings. Those unregenerate fowls, unable to understand the good man's words, were fighting. Even this didn't interest us— we were committed to peace. But Uncle Bentley shot up like a jack-in-a-box and cantered down the aisle. Of course, his notion was that the roosters were disturbing the services, and that it was his duty to go out and stop them. We heard vigorous "Shoos!" and "Take thats!" and "Consairn yous!" and then Uncle Bentley came back looking very important, and as he stalked up the aisle he glanced around and nodded his head, saying as clearly as words, "There, where would you be without me?" Another defiant crow floated in at the window.

The next moment the rushing and beating of wings began again, and down the aisle went Uncle Bentley, the long tails of that coat fairly floating like a cloud behind him. There was further uproar outside, and Uncle Bentley was back in his place, this time turning around and whispering hoarsely, "I fixed 'em!"

But such was not the case, for twice more the very same thing was repeated. The last time Uncle Bentley came back he wore a calm, snug expression, as who should say, "Now I have  fixed 'em!" We should have liked it better if the roosters had fixed Uncle Bentley. But nobody paid much attention except Deacon Plummer. The thought occurred to him that perhaps Uncle Bentley had killed the fowls.

But he hadn't.

However, there was no more disturbance without, and after a time the sermon closed. There was some sort of a special collection to be taken up. Of course, Uncle Bentley always insisted on taking up all the collections. He hopped up on this occasion and seized the plate with more than usual vigor. His struggles with the roosters had evidently stimulated him. He soon made the rounds and approached the table in front of the pulpit to deposit his harvest. As he did so we saw to our horror that the long tails of that ridiculous coat were violently agitated. A sickening suspicion came over us. The next moment one of those belligerent young roosters thrust a head out of either of those coat-tail pockets. One uttered a raucous crow, the other made a vicious dab. Uncle Bentley dropped the plate with a scattering of coin, seized a coat skirt in each hand, and drew it front. This dumped both fowls out on the floor, where they went at it hammer and tongs. What happened after this is a blur in most of our memories. All that is certain is that there was an uproar in the congregation, especially the younger portion; that the Deacon began making unsuccessful dives for his poultry; that the organist struck up "Onward, Christian Soldiers," and that the minister waved us away without a benediction amid loud shouts of, "Shoo!" "I swanny!" and, "Drat the pesky critters!" from your Uncle Bentley.

Did it serve to subdue Uncle Bentley? Not in the least; he survived to do worse things.

_______________

7: The Desert Road

Marjorie Pickthall

1883-1922

The Smart Set, July 1914

CUTHBERTSON, urging his jaded horse over the last of the weary miles from the mines to Los Santos, always pulled up at old Juana's hut. He had pulled up one day when new to the work and the land, deathly sunsick; and Juana had dragged him into the shadow of the wall, and given him water, and finally tramped into the town for the superintendent's buggy and mules. Cuthbertson never found out why she had done this, but he was grateful, in the silent way he had early learned of the desert. Since then she always had cool water for him, and a skin spread in the shade. And sometimes she would talk to him in brief Spanish. He was the only white man to whom she ever spoke; and she spoke to him because she thought him like the Rainmaker.

If you asked anyone in Los Santos how long Juana had been there, they said, "God knows." Cuthbertson thought it quite likely that God did know, and kept account of it.

There were peach-orchards round Los Santos, and the sound of running water, and a pleasant acreage of alfalfa fields. But green life stopped where the water stopped; and westward of the last irrigation ditch lay the desert, oldest of all things save the sea. When the east wind blew by day across Los Santos, the scent and bloom of the orchards was breathed out into the sands. But at sunset, when the west wind brought the bitterness of the alkali-wastes, the little town seemed to cower and shrink beleaguered in the heart of the vast night. Only the steady sound of running water, like the footfall of a sentry, stood between Los Santos and the eternal threat of the sand.

The road ran through the town and out into the desert. It paused at the mines, then went on and was lost in the coloured hills of the far distance. No rain fell on these hills, which were like great jewels worn brittle and thin with ceaseless wind and sun. If a man had business with the desert, he went by that road; sometimes he returned by it. Between the town and the mines, beside a tiny pool that dried to white dust in the heats, was Juana's hut.

When there was water in the pool, she grew a few melons and a patch of corn. When it dried, she carried water from the tanks, miles away. She had a pot hanging under the roof of her hut to keep cool, and in the drip of it, gray lizards and snakes and earth-coloured birds would gather silently. They were voiceless creatures of the voiceless waste, but not more dumb than old Juana.

Every evening she climbed to the crest of a long wave of sand and watched the sun going down at the end of the desert road. She saw the night sweeping inwards visibly with a movement that was as a sound, the sound of great wings trailed along the sand. Then the stars glowed out in the transparent heights of darkness, the lights of Los Santos, twinkling within their defences, were answered over the curve of the world by the one high light from the mines. Then she went home and slept, knowing that that day no word would come from the Rainmaker.

Once, looking at Cuthbertson with her grave eyes, she said, in the speech he but half understood, "Hate is more patient than day or night, the sand is more patient than hate, and love waits longer than the sand."

Cuthbertson leaned his head back in the shadow. Westward a mirage danced in the heat, and the crumbling dry hills seemed to lift from blue water and green reeds. He said, "I don't like the sand, Juana."

Old Juana laid her hand on her breast. "It takes youth and strength, wit and the memory of many gods. I'm only an old woman of the sands." Her eyes glinted at him like a snake's. "Only an old woman...  But the desire of the heart is stronger than the sand."

Cuthbertson sighed, thinking of the machinery abandoned at Lost Mesa when the water dried. "We've found nothing stronger than the sand," he said grimly, "but tell me about it, anyway." He had a queer liking for the old woman, and he was grateful; besides, if she would talk, he might profit to the extent of a paper for the Smithsonian.

Juana looked out over the desert. After a time she said, "It is a long time since I was a girl, and the young men fluted to me in the cool of the evening, and in the maize-dance my shadow was blest. Like a shadow at midday was the Rainmaker to me. He was my husband."

Cuthbertson shifted in the shadow so that he faced her, and his long boots creaked.

"There was no town then, and no mines. Only the cuttings of the Lost People in the mesas, and this little pool. We came here, my man and I, together. He said, 'Stay here and rest, it is a good place. I am going to look for turquoise in the hills, and when I find another good place, I will send word. Then follow.' He touched my long black hair and smiled upon me, and went. I watched him as he walked down the road into the wings of the sunset. Then I went back to my water-jars and waited."

She was silent so long that Cuthbertson said, lazily, "Well, Juana, what's the rest of it?"

"There is no more. I am waiting still for that word that tells me to follow. But it does not come. Somewhere between here and there"—she pointed to the vacant glare,—"the sand took him."

"The sand...?"

"Yes. Perhaps. The wind blew and the moving sand took him while he slept. Or perhaps the water had gone. I do not know. But if he lived, I should have seen his face, heard his voice. And I see him only in dreams, hear him only when the wind blows on the Lost Tombs of the mesas. There are many such."

"And— you're still waiting for word from him?"

"There is nothing else to do." Juana would say no more.

Cuthbertson rode into Los Santos silently that night, thinking of many things, and the Smithsonian was not one of them. He went to bed early at the superintendent's house, where he stayed; the superintendent's daughter had found him an inattentive listener to her songs; he slept to the faint whispering of blown sand on the iron roof. Sand and yellowed peach-leaves rustled on the floor of his room. And he dreamed all night of a nameless Indian who had gone to look for turquoise in the hills, years and years ago. He dreamed too of Juana. "Is there anyone," he found himself crying with a kind of passion to the night, "who'd wait like that for me...?" And he rode on his way before breakfast without saying good-bye to the superintendent's daughter. Somehow, old Juana had set him a new standard of the soul.

After that, as he rode into the hills in the endless search for water and wealth, he thought very much of Juana and the Rainmaker. Old Juana being an established fact, his thoughts went chiefly to the nameless dead man who still lived for one old woman. Riding up the stony Arroyos, through the wine-red gateways of the hills, the sun blistering his bridle-hand and the hot southwest drying his lungs, he began to reconstruct the Rainmaker's journey from the pool beside Los Santos. It amused him to map it out mentally and in time this mental map grew to be a very minute and logical thing. Then, after the manner of men who lead lonely lives in places where the wind gives death and the sun madness, he began to see his own imaginings.

The first time this happened, he rode to Mesa City for a case of assorted medicines. He dosed himself variously; but the doses did not affect whatever obscure brain-cells or nerve centres were thrown out of balance. They went on busily at their work of building for Cuthbertson the bodily likeness of the Rainmaker.

As the thing went on, and his mind remained otherwise unshaken, Cuthbertson began to regard it scientifically, as befitted one who kept Smithsonian Reports in his packing-case of a room at the mines. He had methodical notes in a diary:—

"April 7. Found reputed spring near Presidio Pass. Water strongly impregnated mineral salts. (Cf. Analyst's report on sample). Horse would not drink of it. Saw Rainmaker again. Hallucination commenced 11.45, continued until 12.4. He walked parallel with me at a distance of about 25 feet. Headband of antelope skin, circlets of copper or gold, large turquoise on right wrist. Appearance very vivid, as it has been from the beginning. Thought at first it was real Indian, like the one I rode down last week thinking he was an apparition, and had to pacify with 2 dols. (Mexican). Noticed at last that the hair, which is very long did not move in the wind. Face seemed turned away as usual, or somehow indistinct. Letter from MacNamara re sale of machinery at Lost Mesa. Bay pony injured.

"April 18. Sale of machinery fallen through; advised scrapping for old iron. Mac too thrifty make money here. Rode out to the Presidio pools again. Saw Rainmaker suddenly, walking along sand on parallel course as usual. Exceptional that he really does walk instead of sliding along like a magic-lantern picture. Have an idea that the face is not turned so far aside as it was. Don't like this. Apparition somewhat indistinct otherwise against violent stratification. Had to shoot bay pony. Ordered new safety razor.

"April 25. During hallucinations, which are becoming more frequent, pulse and respiration remain normal. It must be overwork. Rainmaker joined us to-day three miles east of the pools. Very vivid, but only lasted ten minutes. Face undoubtedly being turned towards me. Apparitions coincide remarkably with supposed route of journey. (Logical effect of conscious on sub-conscious ideas or vice versa). Sand moving badly in prevalent winds, lower end of Presidio drifting up. Should I tell Juana?"

But he kept silence, as a lonely child keeps silence over the visualization of his imaginary play-fellows. He was keenly interested, and only at times a little afraid. The apparition always came after a day of unusual fatigue, and in exactly the same way. He began to watch for it as for a friend... Turning some rock wall or corner of desert, he would find himself riding parallel with an Indian, who walked through the sand about twenty-five feet away as a tired man walks. Then Cuthbertson would say to his pony "There's the Rainmaker," and watch. The pony never paid any attention, and the moving figure never came any nearer. Through it there always ran a certain flicker of uncertainty, as through a mirage. And, like a mirage, it shook and thinned and went out.

Perhaps it was the lonely child, coming to the surface in the lonely man that made Cuthbertson, as the vision passed, lift his hand to the brim of his Stetson with a soft "Vaya con Dios,—go with God."

The machinery at Lost Mesa found a purchaser at last, and Cuthbertson, through three blinding hot weeks, had to see it taken apart and numbered and packed on mule-back to the Los Santos line. Mules died and men sickened, heads grew light and tempers uncertain. For these three weeks, Cuthbertson lived at the mines; he had no thought to spare by day or night for the Rainmaker.

On the last day he rode back from Lost Mesa to the mines, alone and tired out, sitting his tired pony like a sack. The hills reeled in the afternoon heat, the desert was a grayish glare under a sky so hot it had no colour in it. Cuthbertson was waiting thirstily for the hour when the mesas would suddenly stand up in the evening like the foundations of some apocalyptic city forgotten of God, and the dark sweep in on the world like a wave foamed with stars. He looked about him as he rode, as though half-consciously waiting for something. He was waiting for the Rainmaker. Presently, as he turned down a shallow arroyo grown with mummied yuccas, he saw the little white dazzle of the eyes that preceded the vision.

"There's the Rainmaker," he said as usual, the man clear in his brain. "But I didn't think he'd been so far west." The Rainmaker was walking through the sand as a tired man walks. With a little jump of the pulses, Cuthbertson saw that the face of the apparition was turned fully towards him.

He sickened for one strange instant, fearing, with a fear as old as the desert, the shadow of his own dream. But the face, seen uncertainly through the flicker of the heat, was only that of a young Indian of the sands; lean, grave, watchful. The headband gleamed with copper or gold, the hair fell long and straight. And beneath it the eyes were directed, not at Cuthbertson, but intently beyond him to the east, along the desert road.

"I know," said Cuthbertson, quick as thought, "you're looking for Juana..."

He reined in. But the figure moved on, still looking to the east. Against an outcrop of honey-yellow rock it broke and went out. Cuthbertson shook up his horse and followed slowly.

The rock was surrounded with great waves of loose sand that drifted perpetually before the prevailing winds. Sometimes it was buried, then in a few days, bared to the sky. Now as Cuthbertson stooped from the saddle, he saw that the wind had uncovered a little worn hollow in the rock, and in it a pale glitter of colour. He dismounted. The glitter of colour was a piece of turquoise veined with gold.

He had it in his hand. Then, slowly, he stooped and took out what else there was from the keeping of the desert. These things he tied in his handkerchief and fastened to the saddle, and his brown fingers shook a little over the knot. Mounting he rode on. But at the foot of the arroyo he looked back gravely, his hand at the hat-brim.

"Rest with God," said Cuthbertson.

It was late before he stopped at old Juana's hut. She sat just within, her chin on her knees, staring out at the low steady stars.

"Juana." Cuthbertson's voice was very tired.

"Come in, señor." Her eyes gleamed in the dusk, alert and watchful as a snake's. Her face slowly puckered into wrinkles of kindness. But Cuthbertson would not enter.

"It's the sand, Juana," he said, and now his voice was not quite steady. "It has given up something,— something it had hidden for a long, long time under a yellow rock beyond the last pools. It has spoken, Juana. Perhaps the word is for you, perhaps for someone else. I don't know. You told me once the sand gripped hard as the grave."

Old Juana raised her head. "But the hold of the heart is stronger," she said, in the language Cuthbertson scarcely understood. But her eyes commanded him. Silently he stooped across the hut's threshold, laying the beautiful veined turquoise at her feet. And with it what had once been a man's hand.

The sand had dealt with it so long that it was no more terrible than a child's toy of bone and leather. The night-wind moved it as it lay, lightly as the yellowed leaves of the peach-orchards, on Juana's mat. A small square agate, bound in gold wire, shifted on the forefinger. Cuthbertson showed it silently.

"It is the Rainmaker's ring," said Juana at last. "The word has come."

Cuthbertson bent his head. "There was nothing more. Just the turquoise in a little hollow and the curved hand,— kind of keeping it..."

"He was keeping it for me," said old Juana quietly.

"There was nothing else. The rest had been taken by the sand, long ago." His horse shifted restlessly outside, and he moved to leave. He was deadly tired in body and soul, lonely of heart.

The old woman sat motionless, but her eyes glowed. "It is the word," she said again contentedly. "I have waited a long time. Now I can go."

"Go with God," answered Cuthbertson in deep Spanish as he mounted and rode on to Los Santos.

And when he was out of hearing, Juana wept. She placed her water-jug where the lizards might reach it, and scattered her ground corn on the sand. What the desert had restored to her she hid in her bosom with little murmured words. Behind her the lights of Los Santos twinkled within the guarding water, and ahead the lonely light from the mines shone across the curve of the world. But as she went down the desert road her face was to the stars. Before her the clear dusk parted as in welcome, it closed behind her like a tender barrier to be passed no more. Above her was the infinite heaven and the hosts of it. Under her feet the sand that took all things, youth and strength and the works of all men's hands, but might not wholly take love.

Old Juana was going at last to join the Rainmaker in a good place.

__________________

8: Heatherville

Waif Wander

Mary Helena Fortune, 1833-1911

The Australian Journal, Feb 1883

High Victorian crime in colonial Victoria, Australia. One of the Mark Sinclair cases

DR. SMYTHSON, "one of the most eminent practitioners of the day," as the papers have it, was sitting in his surgery one evening, some years ago, when a servant announced a gentleman to consult the doctor, and, having obtained due permission, introduced him into the room and closed the door behind him.

"I have the pleasure of seeing Dr. Smythson?"

"Yes, Mr. Yorke," returned the doctor, as he glanced at the card his servant had placed before him. "What can I do for you? Pray be seated."

The visitor was a rather tall and decidedly thin man of about forty years, and he had the perfect manner and air that announced the well-bred and educated man at one glance. He was not to say handsome, but his dark hair and eyes were fine, and his features delicate and well formed, though there was an expression of weakness in the lines of his lips that a physiognomist would have avoided as denoting one who, as common parlance has it, "could not say no."

"I have come to consult you on the state of my health, and I have come fifty miles to do so."

"Had you no medical men in your neighborhood?" the doctor asked rather brusquely.

"Yes; but there were reasons why I should not make known my private affairs to any one with whom I am acquainted in OK around Wyranta."

"Wyranta! Do you belong to that neighborhood?"

"I do, and am well known there; in fact, I am myself a medical man."

"Ah! Indeed? Well, if you will tell me your symptoms I shall prescribe for you with pleasure."

"I shall find it difficult to do so, for bodily ailments I do not appear to have at all, unless some unaccountable feelings that seem to proceed from the mind may be traced to disease of the brain, which I fear."

Dr. Smythson became at once interested, as he was deeply read and had had wide practice in the treatment of brain diseases.

"Try and describe the sensations you allude to as closely as you can," he said, as he prepared to listen intently.

"I first noticed what I am about to describe to you about two months ago. There is on the road between my residence and the township a house belonging to a gentleman, who is a solicitor, and it is impossible to pass by that way without noticing the house in question, as it stands not more than twenty-five yards, or so, off the public road. I have for some time attended that house, professionally, one of Mr. Balmire's daughters being in delicate health."

"Balmire?" questioned Dr. Smythson.

"Yes, Balmire is the name— Jaspar Balmire. Are you by any chance acquainted with the gentleman?"

"The name seems familiar to me, but you know we often see a patient from the country. Pray proceed in your own case."

"Well, as I have said, I have visited at Mr. Balmire's place— it is called Heatherville— for some time, and did not, until about six weeks ago, observe the odd feeling in connection with it which has so grown upon me as to suggest serious brain disease. At first I felt uncomfortable in going to the house, or crossing the threshold; then the discomfort increased to a positive repugnance, and at last to a terror indescribable, and it fortunately happened at that juncture that Miss Balmire's health improved, and I was able to make my visits rarer. Notwithstanding the rarity of my visits, however, the influence which that house possessed over me increased, and now I cannot even pass it on horseback, or even in a vehicle, without shuddering from head to foot, and feeling the horror of some terrible thing making my very blood cold."

"And you can in no way account for the strange influence that house appears to have over you?"

"No; how should I? On the contrary, it is to others, and was to myself, one of the most attractive homes in the district. The place itself occupies a lovely position, and Mr. and Mrs. Balmire are everything a visitor could desire; while the young ladies are beautiful and accomplished— beautiful and accomplished, both of them."

While Mr. Yorke spoke, the doctor was watching his face and eyes closely. Yorke's looks were fixed strangely on the opposite wall as he added, suddenly, "There; I can see the house, Heatherville, as plainly as I ever saw it, and my very heart feels cold!"

And indeed the speaker shuddered visibly as he said the words.

"Is your sleep disturbed?"

"No— yes; I dream too much sometimes."

"Of Heatherville?"

"Yes, yes, and of darkness and fire or blood; yes my sleep is often disturbed."

"And your appetite?"

"It is reasonably good."

"Are you a great student? Are you reading or writing too closely, or doing anything, in short, that might overtax the brain?"

"No; indeed I cannot concentrate my ideas sufficiently for any application."

Many other questions Dr. Smythson put to this strange patient, and very closely he examined him before writing his prescription and dismissing Mr. Yorke.

"Your case greatly interests me," he said, "and I hope you will at least let me know by letter how you progress, even should you not find it convenient to visit town again."

"You shall certainly hear from me," he promised, as he took his leave, while the doctor turned to his writing-table, and penned the following letter:—

Dear Sir,—

I have just had a visit from a medical gentleman of your neighborhood, whose case has so much interested me that I take advantage of our old acquaintance to ask some particulars about him. The gentleman I allude to is Dr. Yorke, and his visit to me was for the purpose of taking my advice on the state of his own health.

Of course this is quite private, nor would I in any but an extreme case allude to it at all, but I want, in his own interests, to know if there is any reason known to you that your residence (Heatherville) should possess any extraordinary physical or mental influence over him?

Hoping all is well with you,—

I am faithfully yours,

F. Smythson.

And this letter was addressed—

Jaspar Balmire, Solicitor, Heatherville, Wyranta.

At Wyranta summer had fallen in warm rays over the vine-wreathed slopes and sheltered uplands, and roses waved and rustled their perfume abroad on the morning breeze as it floated over the breakfast table at Heatherville, the home of Mr. Balmire and his family. The party of four were collected around the board, Mr. and Mrs. Balmire and two fair daughters, aged nineteen and twenty-three respectively.

The eldest was a tall and largely built but most elegantly formed woman, with a Spanish cast of feature and large lustrous black eyes. The beauty of Inez Balmire was spoken of through all the neighborhood as inherited from her Spanish mother, but she was yet no general favourite. Her natural hauteur and regal style of receiving the compliments of would-be lovers or friends chilled their advances, and in most oases turned their admiration and attentions to her younger and fairer stepsister, Myra.

Myra, as I have said, was nineteen and a picture of shy, blushing, and beautiful youth. Her hair was like spun gold, her eyes like forest bluebells, her lips like the fairest petals of a red rose. She was formed in nature's fairest and most delicately sweet mould, and was as innocent and good as she was fair. Was there any wonder that her fond mother and proud father idolized her as though there had but been one daughter under the roof of Heatherville?

The mail had been delivered and two letters lay beside the solicitor's plate. The breakfast was being duly honored when the servant brought them in, and Mr. Balmire only allowed one glance toward them, for he was busy with a favourite dish and in no hurry to read business correspondence.

"I am quite curious about the contents of that upper envelope, my dear," said Mrs. Balmire, with a pleasant smile.

"Why so?" mumbled the busy solicitor, as he enjoyed a very agreeable breakfast.

"For a very good and sufficient reason, as you will acknowledge when I tell you what it is— I am a woman, and the envelope has a great 'private' on one corner."

"Private, eh? Has it so?" and Mr. Balmire laid down his knife and fork and lifted the letter.

"Never speak of female curiosity again, papa," said the stately, cold-looking Inez; "you see even you have succumbed to the weakness."

"Hum— um— ah? Yes—s— hum— um-um," was something of the sounds framed by the lawyer's lips as he read his letter.

"Well, dear?"

"Eh?"

"Who is it from?"

"Eh? Oh! You forget the private, Mrs. Balmire!" and Mr. Balmire, with a merry laugh, put the letter in his pocket and resumed his breakfast.

"Well, now, there is no "private" on the other one, Jaspar—may I open it?"

"Open it?— No! Lay it down at once! A pretty how-do-you-do it would be if a man's wife were permitted to read all his letters!" the merry gentleman returned gaily; "but to gratify you I will open it, for the writing is our friend the doctor's."

"Dr. Yorke?"

"Yes, Dr. Yorke. There, you can have it, it is only an enclosed note for his housekeeper, which he requests me to forward, as there is no delivery out at Grange Hall, and she may not send to the post during his absence. Are any of you girls going out to-day?"

"I, as the oldest girl, may say no," replied Mrs. Balmire; "and I, as the youngest, may say I don't know yet, papa," said fair Myra, with a pretty flash spreading in her sweet face.

"And you, Inez?"

"I am going out, papa, and I shall be pleased to deliver the note to Mrs. Crane as I pass Grange Hall," returned Miss Balmire, as she rose to leave the table.

"Good! That is straightforward and to the point; there is the letter for you. Wife, have you any idea what business took Dr. Yorke to town?"

"Not the least, Jaspar;" and the solicitor said no more until both the girls had left the room, but then he laid down the daily and reproduced his "private" letter from his coat pocket.

"Maggie, I want to speak to you about this letter," he explained, with a very serious air.

"It is private, you know, Jaspar!"

"Don't chaff, now, dear. Of course the letter is private, but my old friend, Dr. Smythson, knows very well that no sensible man ever keeps a letter private from his wife; but the 'private' refers to all but you, my dear."

"The letter is from Dr. Smythson, then?"

"Yes, and referring to Dr. Yorke. But read it for yourself." Mrs. Balmire read every word, and then raised her eyes to her husband's face.

"Strange, is it not?" he asked.

"More than strange. What can he mean? I wonder what is the matter with Dr. Yorke. I never heard him complain of illness in any way."

"Men do not complain for trifles, like you women," observed Mr. Balmire, with an attempt at loftiness, at which, as well as at the absurd assertion, his wife laughed immensely; "but it is satisfactory to find one medical man consulting another, as it proves that they believe in the science, which we are sometimes inclined to doubt."

"Or have no faith in their own thorough acquaintance with it," added Mrs. Balmire.

"Nonsense! You know it is not considered proper for a medical man to prescribe for any member of his own family."

"Or for himself."

"Oh, bother! Do try and tell me what sort of reply I can give to my friend's strange communication."

"Strange communication indeed! Let me see how it runs: he wants to know if you are acquainted with any reason why your residence, Heatherville, should possess any extraordinary mental or physical influence over him— that is how Dr. Smythson expresses it. But I must say that I think, if he has any idea himself what he means, he might have expressed it with considerably more lucidity."

There was a little pause, during which Mr. Balmire drummed on the table with his fingers, and his wife re-perused Dr. Smythson's letter.

"Maggie," at length said the solicitor, "have you ever thought that Dr. Yorke admired one or other of the girls?"

"Never!" was the prompt reply.

"There would be nothing surprising in it if he had, and that, in itself, may cause Heatherville to possess at least a mental influence over him."

"He is the last man I should expect of what is called 'falling in love', and, besides, think of his years."

"His years has nothing to do with the sentiment, save, indeed, to intensify it. I don't believe myself in a man knowing what real love is before at least thirty, and I'm sure that a man might be excused for being a victim to such beauty as Inez's at any age." Mrs. Balmire was an amiable woman, but she was also a mother, and a stepmother, and her maternal jealousy exhibited itself in her retort.

"It's a matter of taste, I suppose, though I cannot understand how people can admire that which is all oscuro. They, however (I mean the dark complexioned women), are not untruthfully accredited with being more open themselves to the warm influence of the rosy god."

"You are quite beyond me, Maggie; what do you mean?"

"Well, I mean then, that, from my own observations only, I am almost certain that Inez has bestowed her affections, entirely unsought, on our medico."

"Maggie!"

"Oh, it is only my idea, Jaspar; but you can watch for yourself."

"If there has been any real ground for your belief, why did you not tell me this before?"

"Why should I tell you? There is nothing degrading in a woman loving a worthy man, if her love is returned."

"But if it is not?"

"Of course, no delicate-minded woman would let any one perceive that her heart was no longer alone before she was certain that she had one in return."

"You think, then, that Dr. Yorke is enamored of Inez?"

"On the contrary, I think such an idea has never entered into the man's head."

"Good heavens, are you trying to drive me crazy, Maggie? You insinuate that Inez has given her heart unasked, and say that no delicate-minded woman would permit such a fact to be observed. What am I to think?"

"Only that I am a very observing woman, my dear, and that I am also a stepmother. Now, do reply to your friend's letter at once, while I go and see about what we are to have for dinner," and Mrs. Balmire went away, victorious in her assertion of jealous maternity, leaving her husband in a state of utter bewilderment.

As she was passing through the hall Mrs. Balmire met Inez, who was gracefully attired in the rather foreign but entirely becoming style she affected, and looked a very stately queen of beauty in gauzy black lace and ruby ribbons. She carried a parasol in one hand and a small basket in the other, and bowed to her stepmother with a stately grace as she passed.

"Going out so early, Inez?"

"Yes, before the heat. I have promised Mrs. Bernard a visit, and shall take Grange Hall on my way."

"Is the walk not too long for you?"

"To Grange Hall! It is only half-a-mile."

"I mean to Mrs. Bernard's. That is two miles away, if an inch."

"Oh! Well, if I feel unequal to it, I shall turn back from the Hall."

"As if she ever meant to go farther," soliloquized Mrs. Balmire, as she smiled cunningly. "I fancy indolent Inez walking two miles for all the Mrs. Bernards in the world."

Inez had passed out among the roses, and commenced her dainty walk to Grange Hall. Of course she was acquainted with the master's absence, or she would have considered the proprieties far more than to personally call, and alone, at the establishment of any bachelor, even though the bachelor should happen to be the medical man of the family. It was a smooth and pleasant path she had to go, nearly all the time under the shadow of old trees, and across patches of unmown grass that lay at their feet.

I have said that Inez Balmire was twenty-three— a mature age in these colonies it is true— but the woman's face had the stamp of thought and character indicative of many more years, at least when she was, as now, free to exhibit the workings of a determined and constructive mind on a countenance but too well calculated to display them. One accustomed to the almost perfect and placid beauty which Inez exhibited on all occasions when a single eye could scan her features, would have been astounded at the change could they have but seen them as she moved toward Grange Hall under the shadow of the great indigenous trees.

Her beautifully formed lips were so firmly compressed as to form but one ruby line, and there was a cloud of unpleasant thought on the low brow that pressed down the straight and rather too heavy black eyebrows. Her large, black eyes, now bent to the grass she stepped upon, and again raised suddenly to seek the roof of the hall, sometimes flashed with a fierceness that evidently proceeded from no pleasant feeling, while her small hand would clench on the handle of her little ornamental basket and bend it out of shape ruthlessly. More than once, too, she took Dr. Yorke's note from the basket, and turned it over and over with a strange lingering touch and a light pressure of her slender fingers ere she returned it to its place.

Mrs. Crane, the old housekeeper at the hall, sat at a window of an upper room when Miss Balmire opened the garden gate and entered. The old lady had lived long in her present service, and had got to consider "the doctor" some what in the light of personal property. She was a shrewd woman, too, and undoubtedly attached to her master, in whom she believed as one of, if not, the greatest of physicians. When she saw the young lady enter the garden she put away her work and went down to receive her, murmuring to herself all the way—

"I wonder what's brought her here, and she so proud a young lady, too? Good Heaven a mercy, I hope nothing has happened to the master!"

"Good morning, Mrs. Crane," was Inez's greeting, given in the attractive manner she knew so well how to assume becomingly.

"Good morning, Miss Balmire. I hope there is nothing wrong? It is such an unusual thing to see you, that I was afraid something was wrong."

"Oh, no, at least not that I am aware of. Papa got a letter from Dr. Yorke this morning, and he enclosed a note for you, which I undertook to deliver, as I was on my way to Mrs. Bernard's."

"Oh, that was very kind of you, Miss Balmire. Do come in and rest. I wonder what the doctor sent a note in such a roundabout way for?"

"Papa said it was to ensure its immediate delivery. Thank you, yes, I will sit down for a little while you read your note, as I shall be glad to know that Dr. Yorke is quite well.

Mrs. Crane placed a seat near a window for her unusual visitor, and fussily began to put her spectacles over her nose, preparatory to reading the, to her, important document. Her old hands were trembling with excitement, and the letter rustled as she tried to hold it steady.

Inez looked out of the window and tried to control her impatience. She could see in the distance Macedon's grand sides and a sweep of lovely country with threads of silvery creeks creeping through it under a sky as pure and blue as her sister's eyes; not that she once thought of such a comparison, or would have believed it held good had any one expressed it, for in the fair delicacy of her young sister the proud Inez saw nothing of a beauty she was only too self-conscious of possessing herself.

"Deary me! Deary me!" was the exclamation that turned the young lady's face toward Mrs. Crane inquiringly. "Deary me, was ever the like? I can't make it out at all, at all. Something queer must have gone wrong with the doctor."

"He is not ill, I hope?"

"No, no, Miss Balmire, there's nothing about illness; but of all things in the world I have orders to immediately change the furniture of his own room to the other side of the house. I never saw the master so decided about anything. I am to have it all ready today, for he is coming back by tomorrow's coach."

"To change his room?" repeated Inez inquiringly.

"Yes, and it's the strangest thing, for I have a hundred times heard the doctor say that he wouldn't give the view he owned from the window of his own room for the value of his practice. Deary me! Deary me!"

"Is the room he means on this floor, Mrs. Crane?"

"No, it's upstairs; and he chose it entirely on account of the view I'm telling you about. I don't know what I'm to do, for on account of the doctor being away I let Mary go home for a day or two, and he has the man with him. Certainly, Miss Balmire, there is nothing to prevent you having a look at the view, and it's worth seeing I can assure you."

This was in reply to a hint from Inez, who now followed the garrulous old lady up a broad staircase and into a large front room, from which two deep windows overlooked the scene in question. In one of the window recesses a writing-table and easy-chair were placed, and to that comfortable spot Mrs. Crane led the way.

"You see what a lovely room it is, Miss Balmire, so large and airy and lofty, and with his bedchamber so convenient, and such windows as these! I cannot understand it at all; but I must obey, for I never knew the doctor so decided in his orders. Would you mind sitting a little bit by yourself, Miss Balmire! I must go and see for a messenger to send for the servant, and I think I see the gardener's boy crossing the paddock."

Mind sitting alone indeed! If one could have seen the light gather in Inez's face as she sat down in Dr. Yorke's own chair, the question would have been needless. She bent forward and scanned the view so lauded, but her greatest interest in it was her own home, which was plainly visible in its verdurous surrounding of garden and vines.

"And I never guessed that this was his favourite window, though I have day and day watched the sun upon it and night by night the lamps gleam softly in its shelter," was how her thoughts ran; "and there is his pen and his books, and all the little articles sanctified by the touch of his fingers. How pleasant it would be to sit here for hours in sweet communion with them all!"

As she mused, the splendid black eyes of the impressionable girl wandered hither and thither among the various articles upon the writing-table, and her fingers touched softly those nearest to her with a touch that was almost caressing. At the right-hand side was a paper-weight of bronze and gold, and she lifted it gently, as though with a sensation of touch communicated from the last hand that had lingered upon it, and under it she saw a folded piece of tissue paper, on which was laid a pressed rose. As Inez recognized this rose to be one of a rare variety, possessed by no one in the neighborhood save the Balmires, a red rose flush of joy mounted to her very forehead, and under its influence her beauty was perfectly glorious in the glow of blushing happiness.

"Oh, I am not mistaken in my dearest hopes!" she mentally exclaimed; "and I am so happy. Can he— can he have valued it thus? It must be more than a month since I wore a rose in my belt, and I recollect losing it. Happy rose, to be at home in Grange Hall!"

As Inez spoke her thoughts thus, she laid the faded rose, against her lips, and, with a curiosity that proved deadly, she lifted the tissue paper to examine its contents.

"Some other little memento surreptitiously obtained," she guessed, with smiling fondness, and she opened it to meet the lovely face of her sister, Myra, gazing at her from a photographed card! The horrified and outraged woman stared at the awful thing for an instant, and then dashed it violently to the table in a vehemence of jealous rage.

"She? She! If I thought it was so, woe to them both! But it is so, how else could he have possession of that?"

Seconds that were uncounted, as the wretched Inez sat there staring at the pictured card, with every good feeling she had ever possessed in total abeyance to the fierce jealousy she inherited with her Spanish mother's blood. To be preferred to her? A colourless and commonplace chit of a child to be preferred to a woman in the zenith of undeniable charms? And she had believed him a godlike man! Bah, he was a fool, and she, Inez Balmire, hated him!

Just then she heard the returning foot of Mrs. Crane, and she hurriedly replaced the card and flower beneath the bronze paperweight, as she rose to leave the detested room.

"La, how pale you are, Miss Balmire! Do sit down while I get you a glass of wine."

"Thank you, no, Mrs. Crane, I do not feel ill, and it is later than I thought. Have you succeeded in getting help to make the alterations the doctor wishes you?"

"Oh yes; Mrs. Burrage is coming herself, and we can manage nicely. Take care of the stairs, Miss Balmire. Indeed you do look pale, and, if I was you, I would not go any farther today, for the walk has tired you already."

Yes, the walk had tired her exceedingly, tired her of the sunlight that fell upon her brightly, of the soft air that wooed her dark cheek, of the very life whose possession had so suddenly become a burden to her. No, she would not go any farther; she would go straight home and plot a revenge that should secure a peace of mind she would never again know until it was accomplished.

Darkly thus, and with the Evil One moving in close though unknown communion with her, the deluded girl went on her homeward way. Only once she paused to look back at the hall she had so lately approached in hopeful anticipation, and in the look she fixed upon it Bender Yorke might have read his doom. Poor being, could she have read her own—could she have pierced the few days that lay between her and horror, would she have paused so long by that steep river bank without plunging over to the comparative safety of death?

During her half-sister's visit to Grange Hall, Myra Balmire had slipped from the house into the beautiful garden attached to it, and paused before a certain rose bush, on which several lovely buds were blushingly opening to the warm embrace of the sun. The girl's sweet, pure face was more beautiful than ever as she selected a nearly open bud and smiled to herself as she pulled it gently from its stem. The golden hair in its wavy folds, the soft and liquid blue eyes, the sweet smile ingrained in the dimples around the rosy lips, the fair forehead, the pink-tinged cheek, like the flush in a sea-shell, formed in lovely Myra a picture of youthful loveliness nearly peerless. The broad garden hat, with its drapery of Indian muslin and lace, set off the beauty of Myra's simply clad form, as, with her hand, she waved an au revoir to her father and mother, who were standing at the breakfast-room window apparently, and in reality, engaged in admiring their mutual darling.

"Where is Myra going to, I wonder," said Mrs. Balmire. "See, she has gone out of the garden and down towards the creek. I don't think it is quite safe for the child to be rambling so much by herself."

"Ha, ha!" laughed Mr. Balmire pleasantly, as he looked queerly at his wife. "do you think Myra is so much by herself, Maggie?"

"What do you mean, Jaspar?"

"Oh! Oh! I can't help laughing, wife. You are such a closely observing stepmother, by your own showing, yet here you are, where Myra is concerned, as blind as a bat."

"As blind as a bat!" the astonished and somewhat alarmed woman repeated.

"Yes, or as a mole. Alone, indeed! Don't you see our girl is shaping up to Emilia Markham, eh?"

"Oh, certainly! Now I think of it, Myra did say something about going over to teach Emilia some new stitch or other in point lace, of course!"

"Yes, and also, of course, as Emilia happens to be in Melbourne just now, she has deputed her brother Wilder to take lessons in her stead."

"Good gracious! Yes, that is young Markham sure enough! Jaspar, I hope you do not think our Myra guilty of anything clandestine."

"She is incapable of either guilt or deception, my dear, for her heart and character are as lovely as her face; but I truly believe she has placed her affections on Wilder Markham. I have seen it for some time, but I have in no way interfered. Nothing can be said against the young fellow, and when they understand each other fully they will speak plainly."

"They are too young," murmured the fond mother.

"They will grow older, my dear, and age comes soon enough. Let them be happy while they can. Is not that Inez coming down the road?"

"Yes, it is. Have you answered Dr. Smythson's letter yet?"

"No; in truth I do not know how to answer it. Perhaps Inez may be able to give me some clue from the contents of the doctor's note to his housekeeper. By-the-by, I have been thinking a good deal about what you said regarding Inez. Have you any foundation for your suspicion that Inez appreciates Dr. Yorke more than can be accounted by the fact that he has been her medical attendant?"

"No foundation whatever, save what I have observed with my own eyes. A woman notices a woman more in matters of the heart than men do, and the first thing that aroused my suspicion was the frequent necessity she feigned to call in his attendance as a physician."

"Feigned, Maggie!"

"Yes, feigned. There never was a healthier girl than Inez, and the doctor knows it."

"Wife! Why Dr. Yorke told me himself that she was of an exceedingly nervous temperament, and required careful treatment."

"Bah! Medical men must use some kind of formula to put off unpleasant questions, but nothing can have been more evident than that he avoided visiting here of late as much as ever Inez would let him. He has found it difficult no doubt, for Inez is very absolute and peremptory."

"Well, there is no excuse of that kind now at all events, for she told me only this morning that she felt perfectly well; but if you think she really does like him— but nonsense, I cannot entertain the idea for a moment."

"Why?"

"Such a beautiful woman to waste her heart on a man of Dr. Yorke's years and mediocre appearance, as well as ability? No, it is absurd!"

"Did you never know of greater vagaries in a woman's heart? And, after all, the doctor is of a gentlemanly appearance, and not more than thirty-seven or eight I should say; but I am certain he does not care for her. However, use your own eyes, and never mind mine."

"I'll go and write to Smythson," was Mr. Balmire's reply; and he did write, stating in a point-blank way his disbelief that there was no reason whatever why Heatherville should possess any influence one way or other over any part of Dr. Yorke's system. Yet, while he was writing he was consumed by a humiliating dread that Heatherville might really have an influence, and a repelling one, over the gentleman in question, if his wife's surmise was correct, and that Dr. Yorke was conscious of Inez's favour, but was unwilling to encourage it by his presence.

"If things don't work out this problem satisfactorily," he decided as he folded his note, "I shall go right down and see Smythson personally, to find out what his strange inquiry meant." As soon as he had completed his letter his daughter Inez entered the room, just as she returned from her visit to Grange Hall, and seated herself wearily on a chair near him. Looking at her with more than usual interest, as connected in his mind with the contents of the note he had just dispatched, Mr. Balmire could not fail to observe the extreme pallor of her beautiful face.

"How ill you look, Inez, my dear! Your face appears to me strangely changed. What is the matter, love?"

"I am not so strong as I thought, papa, and the walk has fatigued me. I shall have to return to Dr. Yorke's prescriptions again, I fear."

"Um—m! You have delivered his note to Mrs. Crane? She happen to mention when his return was expected."

"Dr. Yorke is to arrive by tomorrow's coach, papa; and l left Mrs. Crane half demented with the work his coming entails upon her."

"Work! Why, I thought Orange Hall was one of the easiest households to keep straight in Wyranta— no company, no dinners, no dances. What fuss can she possible make about preparing for the doctor?"

"A fadge of his own, as Mrs. Crane would most probably term such a strange notion did it concern any one else but her idol. The doctor has sent orders to have his private sitting-room or study changed from the front to the back of the house."

"To the back? Why, he will see nothing but the face of that dreary hill!"

"That is what makes the notion so unaccountable, for one of the finest views of Wyranta scenery is commanded from his writing-table in the room Mrs. Crane is by this time busy dismantling."

"I know, I have seen it— the best view of Heatherville too. I think the house looks better from the hall than from any other point in the neighborhood."

"Heatherville?" Here was a new idea for Inez too. Could it be to avoid the sight of her home that Dr. Yorke insisted on seeing the barren ranges? The very possibility of such a thing sent the blood up in a living stream to flood the proud woman's face and neck, ere a second thought of Myra's portrait and its attendant rosebud helped to restore the balance of circulation. "If Dr. Yorke was enamored of Myra's milk-and-water style he would not object to seeing Heatherville," and a fierce joy flashed into her grand eyes as she rose to seek her own room. Perhaps after all she was mistaken; she must watch him and her, and watch them closely.

The night of that same day had fallen quietly, as usual, and only Myra remained in the drawing-room with her parents; for Inez had retired, complaining of feeling very much indisposed, and they were conversing about her case.

"I shall meet Yorke tomorrow and ask him to see her before he goes home," Mr. Balmire said firmly; "he understands the girl's constitution, and she says she would prefer his being consulted."

"Very well," calmly replied Mrs. Balmire; but she could not help adding, "if you can induce him to come."

"Why should he have any objection?" was the angry return, and, strange to say, sweet Myra's face blushed hotly up to the very roots of her golden hair, as she bent lower over the bit of embroidery on which her white fingers were feigning to be busy. Mrs. Balmire noticed the blush, but her husband did not.

"Why should you suggest the possibility of Dr. Yorke's objecting to come?" repeated the solicitor.

"I explained my reasons before, Jaspar; and I must remind you that they will not bear repeating at present."

The mother's glance toward her daughter pointed the remark, and Balmire remained silent, as he mentally commiserated the unhappy position of a man whose family consists of two unmarried daughters and a second wife. Poor man, the very treason of the thought was indicative of great mental irritation, for he loved all three women with the warm devotion due to each.

Shortly after Myra bade her father good-night, with her accustomed embrace, and left the room. It was Mrs. Balmire's custom to spend a few minutes with her darling before she retired herself, so Myra knew she should see her mother again, but she paused at her sister's door and knocked softly.

"Are you in bed, Inez? May I come in?" but with the privilege of her close relationship the young girl awaited no reply, but opened the door and entered.

Inez had removed her dress and donned a dressing gown of pale pink, that suited her dark style of loveliness to perfection; but there was such a terrible look of hate and loathing in her eyes as she suddenly turned to look at Myra, that made the gentle being's heart chill with a sudden and awful terror. Inez was sitting opposite her toilet, and her loosened hair of intense black partly shaded her face; but though she changed its expression instantly, the effect of that awful look made Myra's voice tremble as she spoke.

"How dreadful you look, dear Inez. I hope you do not feel worse. Should you like me to stop with you?"

"Nonsense, Myra; I am only fatigued, and it is this tumbled hair that makes me look what you call dreadful. I shall be all right when I get a night's rest."

"I wish Dr. Yorke was back," Myra murmured.

"Why? Why do you wish Dr. Yorke was back?" and again that awful fierceness glowed in the questioner's eyes.

"Because he might prescribe something to do you good. Good-night, Inez, I hope you will rest well. If you should want me in the night just knock at the wall."

While Myra sat before her glass and combed out the rich abundance of her lovely hair, and her eyes glanced occasionally at her own sweet face as it gazed at her from the mirror, a blush would ever and anon tinge the pink cheeks and white throat with the daintiest crimson. That her thoughts were very sweet and very innocent no onlooker could have doubted, for the fair face was a reflex of a purely happy maiden's heart. If, indeed, there was a shade of uneasiness or uncertainty, it was when she recalled the awful expression in her sister's eyes a short time previous, but all was joy and blushes again on her mother's entrance.

Mrs. Balmire had left her husband engaged in some writing he had overlooked, and gladly sat down to have the happiest moments of the day in full communion of soul with her darling child, and Myra's arms were around her and her head down on her warm bosom before they were sixty seconds together.

"What is it, my dear? You have something extra to tell me tonight. Is it not so?"

"Yes, indeed, mamma; oh yes, yet I do not know how to frame words in which to tell you."

"Myra love, to tell me? Surely I must be dreaming when I fancy I hear my darling say she feels any difficulty in telling her own mother anything!"

"I have never hidden anything from you until— until— dear, it makes a difference when one is a woman.""Do you think it ought, Myra? Until a girl is a wife, do you think she ought to have any secrets from her best friend and loving adviser."

Myra was silent a little, and her eyes remained hidden on her mother's shoulder; but then she raised herself, and fixed them lovingly on Mrs. Balmire's face.

"I do not think she ought, mamma, and I will tell you all; but it will be in confidence, for you know a girl may tell her mother what she would not like any one else to know."

"Yes, dear, so tell me all, and I will keep your counsel faithfully. Why do you hesitate, my love? Shall I help you just a little bit? Is it about Wilder Markham you wish to speak?" and Mrs. Balmire smiled pleasantly in her child's flushed face.

"Oh, you guess, mamma. I'm so glad. Yes, it is about Wilder. He told me today that he loved me with his whole heart, and the world is all heaven since I heard him."

"So you love him, my Myra? Don't you see I am jealous. Love any one but your mother, indeed."

"Don't laugh at me, mamma, for indeed it is a serious affair to me. I cannot imagine how I lived before I was sure of Wilder's love; and oh, I pity now with all my heart any one who loves and meets with no response to their affections. It must be a dreadful pain to suffer."

"Is your pity bestowed on any person in particular, dear?"

"Yes," and the reply was in a slow, hesitating voice; "it is Dr. Yorke I was thinking of, and what you said made me feel that I should have told you before, but I thought it might seem like boasting, and— and— I couldn't."

"Do you mean that Dr. Yorke has done you the honour to offer you his hand, my dear Myra?"

"Yes, mamma, and I was so sorry to see him suffer, but how could I help it, since I loved Wilder even then? I could not help it, could I, mamma!"

"Of course not, child; but I think your dear papa ought to know this."

"Oh, please no, mamma; there is no use, and he might unconsciously let his knowledge show in his manner to Dr. Yorke, and so give him pain. You may tell him about Wilder; but as Wilder is going away, and we cannot be married for a long time, even he must keep our secret, for indeed I could not bear to be smiled and hinted at as the young lady who is engaged. Girls are great teases, you know, mamma, even when they like one."

And so the mother and daughter heard and told the story of a first love with all its joys and hopes and fears, and mingled their embraces and words together in a sweet confusion until the subject of Inez cropped up, when Myra tried to explain to Mrs. Balmire the strange look she had seen in her stepsister's face that night.

"It is an odd thing, dear," the young girl said thoughtfully; "but I seem to have become a woman all at once, as it were, since I heard Wilder tell me he loved me, for now that I look back I can recall the same look in Inez's eyes very often of late. Mamma, do you think Inez likes me? If she positively hated me, she could not look more awfully at me than she did tonight."

"Myra, I confess to you that Inez is a character that has long puzzled me, and I am sure she is capable of very strong feelings, although she has every movement under control. You know that I have never seemed to gain her confidence, nor have I even tried since she reached womanhood and has, as it were, asserted her independent position in the house; but I cannot see why she should feel any unpleasantness respecting you, my darling; as for hating, it is absurd. No one could hate my unpresuming child!"

"I should be miserable if any one disliked me; but now you must go, mamma. You will look in to see if Inez is comfortable?"

"Yes, dear. God bless you; good-night."

When the next day's coach bowled in at a spanking pace, and drew up opposite the principal hotel in Wyranta, Mr. Balmire was among the little crowd assembled to see it arrive, and he seized Dr. Yorke before that gentleman had time to disentangle himself and make his escape. He looked as well as usual, and rather gratified at his home coming the solicitor thought, until he impeded the doctor's hasty steps, and welcomed him home, when a sudden cloud seemed to fall over the medical gentleman's eyes, and his forehead grew all at once wrinkled and heavy.

"I'm so glad I caught you, Yorke, for I want you to call at my place. I sent your note to Mrs. Crane all right; indeed it was Inez who took it, and the walk has been too much for her; she is far from well, and I should like you to resume your prescriptions for her."

"Go to Heatherville? Now? Oh, you may be assured that there is nothing serious about Miss Balmire's ailments, which are entirely nervous. I am really tired and anxious to get home after my journey. There is Dr. Milne, perhaps you would like his advice for the present, and I should be happy to consult with him if necessary."

The look of astonishment with which Mr. Balmire listened to this strange suggestion from his family doctor reminded Dr. Yorke that, no matter what was the depth of his private feelings, they must give way to appearances, and, with a strong effort over himself, he added—

"But I see you are anxious, and perhaps, as I understand Miss Balmire's case, I had better go with you."

"If you are quite certain you are well enough," was the hesitating reply of the solicitor; for the poor man recalled with humiliation his wife's words, "if you can induce him to come," and he would have given more than Dr. Yorke's fee to have prevented him from acceding to the request he had so lately made him to call professionally at Heatherville.

The two gentlemen together walked the short distance that intervened between the township and the doctor's residence, but the latter kept his eyes fixed obstinately on the ground. In spite of that, however, a chill struck him when he knew that Heatherville could be seen by the lifting of an eyelid.

"Are you cold?" asked Mr. Balmire, who was closely observing his companion, and could not help acknowledging that he looked ill.

"Not exactly, but I feel very uncomfortable. In fact, I am, as I hinted to you, far from well; indeed, I may add in confidence that it was to consult a physician on my own case that I went to town."

"Indeed? I hope he did not consider it serious?"

"He does not know what to make of the symptoms any more than I do myself, they are very strange and very uncommon. I have always been a nervous subject, and open to what might seem abnormal influences, and I confess to you that I have dreaded the soundness of my own brain lately."

"You surprise me! I should never guess such a thing; but do you know what, Yorke, I think you live too much alone and avoid society more than is good for you, and nothing could please me better than to see a young mistress at the hall. She would put life and sunshine in it."

At this awkward speech the faces of both men flushed. The poor doctor fancied that his proposal to Myra had become known to Balmire; and the solicitor feared that his imprudent words might be construed into a hint in aid of Inez's infatuation, or suspected infatuation, for Dr. Yorke.

"Such a change might be pleasant and beneficial, my friend, but it will never take place. The only one woman I could love on this side of the grave does not respond to my affection, and I could not marry a queen unless my heart chose her."

"Quite right, of course not. Well, here we are at Heatherville; come in."

Mr. Balmire was holding the gate open as he spoke, and Dr. Yorke looked desperately up. The front of the house, with its rose-wreathed verandahs and daintily lace-draped window, lay full before him with the sunbeams bathing it richly and the summer breeze rustling musically among its foliage. There was no one spot or mote before him that could suggest a painful thought, yet the doctor's veins ran cold with a chill like death.

A very glory of rays rested on the bowed golden head of lovely Myra, as she sat in one of the garden chairs, with her eyes drooped in a dreamy reverie of happy youth, yet, at sight of her sweet face, a strong shudder shook him from head to foot, as he grasped the gate and shut his eyes. It was at that moment that Mr. Balmire recalled Dr. Smythson's peculiar question if Heatherville could possess any peculiar influence over Dr. Yorke. Here were was the influence, but of what could it consist?

"You are really ill," was what he said aloud; "let me give you an arm, and we will get inside for a glass of wine."

"No, no! I beg of you to excuse me, Balmire; but I am not really in a position to see Miss Balmire. I shall get home at once, and Mrs. Crane will doctor me up."

"At least, you shall not go alone," insisted the solicitor; "I am determined to see you safe in your housekeeper's charge at all events. Why your colour is returning again already, Yorke; what a nervous being you are, to be sure."

Yes; he was better. No sooner had he placed a little distance between himself and Heatherville, than a weight seemed to be lifted from him, and a warmth to creep into his veins, and by the time he reached his own gate he was himself again.

The old housekeeper received him with effusion, and detailed her pleasure at his return, and her sorrow for being obliged to carry out his wishes with regard to moving the furniture of his study, in such a confused way that he was glad to escape from her and go upstairs to inspect for himself.

The doctor turned involuntarily into his old room and found there—desolation. He felt as if some one had died and been buried from that chamber. He paused a moment on the threshold, with his eyes turned longingly toward the window where his writing-table used to be, and then, with a fierce, sudden impulse, he strode toward it. There lay before him all the loveliness of land and water, mountain and valley he had been wont to scan, and there in the middle distance, glorious in summer sunbeams, shone the gleaming windows and pointed gables of Heatherville House. He gazed at it as one might at a shrine or a grave, and then a horror grew into his pale countenance as he staggered back, clutching his forehead and moaning to himself.

"Am I going mad? O God, help me! Is that what it means?" It was long before he could compose himself, but before night he had penned the following letter to Dr. Smythson:—

Dear Sir,—

You wished to hear from me as to how my extraordinary case progressed, and I can quite understand how great an interest you take in it, outside of any mere personal interest in myself. I have only reached home today, yet I have experienced a new and terrible symptom, and am decided upon writing to you fully if it were for no other reason than to assure myself that I still possess sufficient brain power to write such a letter.

To begin, then, at the beginning, my dear sir. I must say that I have led a lonely and visionary life ever since I was sent, a shy and nervous youth, to a German university. From choice I have avoided all unnecessary society, and reached the mature age of thirty-nine without ever seeing a woman it would make me happy to call a companion for life. I tell you this with seeming irrelevance to the subject, to make you in part understand with what power my first impression of the passion known as love seized me, and how I brooded over and cherished it until it became incorporated with my very being. Add to this, that the object of my affection is very young, and as beautiful and pure in heart and mind as any angel, and you will understand the miserable height of my folly and infatuation.

Now, I may tell you that I proposed to the young lady in question, though I must confess with little hope of receiving any reply save that which I did. My case was hopeless from the first, and Heatherville is the home of the lady I am to entirely, yet so hopelessly, devoted to.

Still you cannot, nor can any man, find in that fact any reasonable (as if reason had anything to do with my case!) cause for the shuddering feeling of terror that attacks me at the mere sight of the walls within which the one person in the world resides. I have changed my sitting-room, so as to avoid looking out of one window, yet, like an idiot as I am, I could not finally leave it without one last look at Heatherville. It was what I fancied I saw then that made me pen this to you as a fresh symptom of—what? God only knows.

I went to the window, as I have told you, and I saw Heatherville in the full bloom of summer-surrounded loveliness, and with warm bright sunbeams resting on its walls. I was thinking bitterly of the sweet and pure being the hallowed walls enclosed, and what a great blank was the life which lay before me, when all at once a great shadow seemed to fall down like a pall over the home of the too-beloved woman. I thought I was dreaming, that the numbness of death was floating over my brain, and I shut my eyes momentarily to open them on something so awful that I have rushed to you with my story. The shadow has partially cleared, and from it emerged, down the carriage-drive, out of the gates, into the white road, a funeral with many black-robed mourners and a hearse that had white plumes. I fled from the window, from which I shall never dare to look again. For mercy sake write, my dear sir, and tell me what you think of this. Am I going mad?—

Faithfully,

D. Yorke.

This letter dispatched, the unhappy man threw himself on a couch, and slept so profoundly and heavily that when Mrs. Crane was retiring for the night it was with difficulty she could arouse him.

"It is late, sir, and getting chilly; you had better go to bed or we shall have you laid up with a cold. I have brought your night-tray, doctor, and I am going to my room."

"Very well," he answered, so sharply that the old woman stared at him in wonder; "go to bed, but I should have been glad if you had let me sleep when nature permitted me. Go, I can manage myself. Stay, you have turned everything upside down, did you see a—"

"What, sir?" inquired Mrs. Crane as he paused.

"A bottle of chloroform I left on my writing-table?"

"No, sir, I saw no bottle, and I put everything just as I found it. There was a picture and a withered rose under the bronze paper-weight, and I put them in the same place."

"Very well," and poor puzzled Mrs. Crane went out grieved at the doctor's abruptness, and wondering what could have upset him so.

When the door had closed behind her Dr. Yorke went to the table and sat down before it. The paper-weight was on his right, and he raised it with a trembling hand. Yes, there was the rosebud, the innocent gift of Myra Balmire, which had bestowed on him the courage to tell her the secret of his heart, and there was the pictured face he had actually stolen from the album of a mutual friend. Fair and innocent as a white dove, pure and lovely as an angel of heaven, she seemed to gaze at him from the paper with pity, with sympathy, but, alas! not with the burning love he had felt for her. Fool as he was to gaze at her semblance so! A physician indeed who would continue to inhale the sweet poison that was destroying him! He lifted the card and the rose and pressed both to his lips, and then drove them down into the embers of the fire with a fierce grasp on the poker, as though he was making an auto da fé of his weakness and his love together.

INEZ WAS MUCH BETTER, at least so she had told them all, and fair Myra went about her little duties like one enchanted by the sweetest of all dreams—a maiden's first pure love. How unconscious was she of the viperous espionage in which she was held all the day, as Inez followed her movements with the large black eyes that could flash an unholy fire and melt with Southern languor at will. An awful suspicion had seized upon the jealous Spanish blood, a suspicion so terrible that her heart nearly stopped when it first occurred to her, and which was strengthened by hints which the fond and proud mother let drop involuntarily, and to which Myra responded most by brightly flushed cheeks.

"I think Myra must be in love," Inez complained crabbedly, as a button of her sister's dress caught accidently in her work and dragged it from her hands. "See what you have done, girl! A whole row ripped!"

"I am so sorry, Inez," replied Myra, with blushing cheeks. "Shall I do the row for you?"

"No, you would only spoil it! Look now, you have pulled out half-a-dozen stitches more!"

"My dear Myra, you must be in love!" Mrs. Balmire said archly.

"Mamma, please don't."

"Be more careful then, dear, or I shall certainly send for Dr. Yorke!"

"Is love a physical complaint, then?" asked Inez, sneeringly, as she kept her eyes grimly on her victim.

"Sometimes. My dear Myra, I am sure you would like to consult Dr. Yorke."

"Mamma, please— please don't," and poor Myra turned hurriedly and left the room.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," cried Mrs. Balmire, as she put away her work hurriedly and rose. "It was cruel of me, but I quite forgot. I must go at once and explain to the poor child."

"Stay a moment to enlighten me a little. Pray, what did you forget? Why is Myra behaving in that ridiculous and mysterious manner? Though she is only a child, she is quite old enough to behave a little better."

This was delivered with such an intolerable air of self-respect, and so determinedly deprecative of her darling's sense and sensibility, that all the mother— ay, and the stepmother— was roused in Mrs. Balmire.

"A child! I wonder what you call a child, Inez? Myra is in her twentieth year, and is quite old enough, and quite beautiful enough, to have won the heart you have vainly coveted."

In her rage at hearing this awful confirmation of her worst fears, Inez forgot the point of Mrs. Balmire's retort that would otherwise have wounded her pride too deeply, and she let her work fall to her lap.

"Do you mean Dr. Yorke?" she cried hoarsely. "Do you hint that a man like Dr. Bender Yorke could be taken by such a girl as Myra?"

"I do mean that, if you are so anxious to know," retorted the now really angry woman. "Dr. Yorke worships Myra as no one will ever worship you, and my darling will be a proud and happy wife before many weeks are over her fair head. You are my husband's daughter, Inez, but take care how you insult my child or me;" and the irritated mother left the room rapidly, little dreaming of the awful future her rash words had opened out before her.

"His wife? Never!" said the dark-looking woman as the door closed behind her stepmother. "My fate is nearer than I thought; but let it come in the form of death, for she shall never be his wife!"

Only a trio gathered that night around the drawing-room fire which the chilliness made acceptable, for Inez's indisposition had returned and she had retired to her own room. Quite innocent of what had occurred between Inez and her mother, Myra repeatedly asked why her sister kept her room and why she had not replied to her repeated knocks.

"She has got one of her awful headaches," the father said. "I was in her room a little ago and she told me she would not appear again tonight. Inez has inherited her poor mother's nervous organization, and there is nothing better for her than perfect quiet."

There was no reply. Indeed, they had all been unusually silent that evening, and it was with a great effort to arouse them that poor Mrs. Balmire spoke. The painful little scene she had enacted with her stepdaughter had left a weight like lead upon her heart, and shake it off fully she could not.

"I think Inez's headache has affected us all," she cried with an affectation of cheerfulness; "we are all so silent. What are you thinking about, dear Myra?"

Myra grew rosy as usual, and lifted her sweet blue eyes to her mother's.

"I can hardly tell, mamma, indeed I cannot," as Mrs. Balmire laughingly shook her head. "Just now as you spoke, indeed, I was thinking how very happy I was, and how strange it was, that I should feel low spirited and queer."

"Low spirited and queer, my love? Are you sure you do not feel ill?" questioned the anxious mother.

"I feel quite well, mamma, quite; only I am low spirited and lonely. Somehow I cannot help thinking as if I was going a long journey, and had forgotten something I wanted to take with me, without being able to discover what it is."

"Have you and Inez been quarrelling, Myra?" Mr. Balmire asked.

"Quarrelling, papa? Oh no!"

"I thought you might have disagreed and got both a little put out, especially as Inez would not admit you."

"We had no disagreement indeed, dear papa, and I shall certainly go and see Inez before I go to bed. Good-night, dear, kind papa. You will come to me soon, mamma?"

"Very soon, my darling," and so, with a parting embrace to her father, the gentle Myra passed from her home hearth for ever.

Mrs. Balmire kept her word and joined the young girl very shortly after she had retired. Myra was reclining in her white bed, with her golden cloud of unbound hair spread around her shoulders, and a little Bible lying on the night stand beside the lamp. She had been reading, and laid the book down as her mother entered.

"I am so glad you have come, dear, for I am very unhappy about Inez. Do you know, mamma, she would not admit me or even say good-night, though I could hear her distinctly walking up and down her room. Why can she be angry with me?"

"I suspect Inez is angry with me, if with any one, dear child, and you know how sad a temper is hers. The truth is, Myra, that I had a few words with Inez to-day myself, but I didn't want to make your dear papa uneasy by telling him anything about it. Make your mind easy, my dear, for all will be well in the morning. Your sister's tempers don't last long."

Don't last long! Oh, unhappy mother, if you could have seen her as you spoke. If you had noted the white face, the clenched hands and teeth, and the fiendish light in that woman's eyes when the sound of your voice reached her in fond blessings and good-nights as you left your darling's door, would your heart have foretold you of the abyss opening so close to the happiness fleeing for ever from Heatherville House? Little did you guess, poor fond woman, that under your roof that awful night was a fiend in human shape, or that over it were waving low and broad the wings of the Shadow of Death.

It was long before Mrs. Balmire slept, for she seemed to have caught Myra's infection of low spirits, and envied the heavy breathings of her less sensitive husband, who slept so soundly by her side; but at last she became unconscious and forgot every trouble for she never knew how long.

She awakened suddenly, or did she dream? There was a wave of cold air, a breath, a movement a something she could not define, and then she saw her darling standing by her bed. Never in life had she seen the sweet face plainer, though there was only the moon struggling through the open Venetians to lighten it. A smile seemed to hover on the girl's pale lips, a low voice to murmur, "Mother darling" in her ear, and then she gazed into vacancy.

"Husband, rouse up!" she called, shaking Mr. Balmire with all her might. "Oh, do waken! Get up instantly, for something awful has happened!"

"Something awful happened? What is it, my dear?" And the startled man sprang from the bed and began to dress himself, for Mrs. Balmire had lighted a lamp to examine every corner of the room.

"I cannot tell you, Jaspar, but it is something terrible! Myra was here by the bedside, and awoke me with such a strange look in her face. Oh, let us hasten and go to her!"

"Myra here? That was impossible, wife, for I have the key of the door, as usual, under my pillow. Get to bed, dear, you have been only dreaming, and just to satisfy you I will go and see that the girls are all right."

"No, no, I must go, too! Open the door quickly, for God's sake! See how I am trembling, Jaspar! Oh, my darling, my darling!"

Wonderful premonition of a mother's love! Who can define or yet deny its existence?

Softly Mr. Balmire pushed inwards the partially open door of Myra's bedroom, and with the lamp in his hand led the way in. Mrs. Balmire stole to the bed where her darling slept, and looked piteously up into her husband's face ere she dared to draw back the curtain and look upon the young face. It was turned towards them, framed in the golden masses of bright hair. It had upon the sweet lips the strange smile the mother had seen on the white mouth by her bedside, and the pale cheeks were yet warm to the loving touch that rested tenderly on them for one fearful second; but there was no breath between the pale-parted lips, and no throbbing heart to keep the veins flowing and the sweet cheek warm, for fair Myra, the lovely and loving, was dead.

"One of the strangest and saddest events that we have had to record for some years took place at Wyranta last night, or rather early this morning, and from the telegraphic report sent us by our own correspondent we are in a position to furnish our readers with the following particulars:—

An old resident of Wyranta, Jaspar Balmire, Esq., retired as usual, leaving everything in the house safe to all appearance. Mr. Balmire's family consisted of Mrs. Balmire and two daughters, aged respectively twenty-three and nineteen. Overcome during the night by what seems to have proved almost a supernatural warning, Mrs. Balmire aroused her husband, and they proceeded to the young lady's bedroom to find her dead. The horror and grief of the poor parents may be imagined at the sudden and awful discovery.

"But the worst part of the tragedy has yet to be related, for medical examination has proved that the young lady had died under the influence of chloroform, how or by whom administered there is as yet no evidence to show; but a medical gentleman who resides in the neighborhood has had grave suspicions laid at his door, yet, until an inquiry has taken place, we, in the interests of justice, refrain from remarking upon the causes of these suspicions. The sad event has thrown a deep gloom over the neighborhood, in which the family, and especially the unhappy young lady, was deservedly respected."

That was the first intimation I received of a case with which I, Mark Sinclair, had something to do immediately after, and it was Inspector ——, our superior officer, who drew my attention to it.

"I had a letter by the afternoon's mail," he said, "and you had better go up by the night train. It seems there are some odd features connected with the case, but you will get all the particulars from the local men."

Well, I arrived at Wyranta in due course, and a résumé of the information I got from the police there is as follows. The youngest daughter of a solicitor named Balmire had been discovered dead, but yet warm, in her bed at about three o'clock in the morning. She had died from the effects of chloroform, and a phial which had contained the same was found among the bed clothes, which phial was one bearing the name of a local doctor named Yorke. It had come out during the inquiry that Dr. Yorke had been a rejected suitor, and had inquired on the very night of the girl's death for a bottle of chloroform he had left on his table. Dr. Yorke had flown to Heatherville, where the dead girl lay, like a man bereft of his senses, and was not lying in his own house, though in charge of the police, and so seriously ill that Dr. Smythson in town had been telegraphed for.

"Is that all?" I asked.

"Not quite. When Mr. and Mrs. Balmire went to their daughter's room they found the door ajar, though it was usually locked; the front door also was standing open."

"And?

"This was found on the floor of the dead girl's room, indeed almost under her bed."

"This" was handed to me, and proved to be a ring of rather peculiar make; it was of colonial gold, and represented a skull at the back in which grinning teeth were simulated by particles of white quartz inserted in the gold. It was a very odd-looking article, and I put it carefully in my pocket.

My arrival had been too late to admit of my doing anything in a professional way, but I was over at Heatherville the first thing in the morning. My interview with the parents of the dead girl was a painful one on both sides, as I had to put many questions that could not but cause them the keenest suffering. Fortunately, Dr. Smythson, who had been sent for on behalf of Dr. Yorke, came in shortly after I did, and we went to see the chamber of death, accompanied by Mr. Balmire.

"How is Dr. Yorke this morning, Smythson?" the lawyer asked.

"Very bad; he is decidedly suffering from brain-fever. You do not believe in his guilt, Balmire?"

"No, no; I cannot understand it at all, but he could never have harmed our darling. O God, help us; she was the very light of our hearts, and only a fiend without fear or hope in the future could have laid one hurtful finger upon her."

"You have been sent up by the Department, Sinclair? Have you heard of, or seen, any clue yet?"

"Only this," I replied, as I produced the skull ring. "It was found in this room, I believe."

"Yes, under the poor child's bed," added Mr. Balmire. With an exclamation of astonishment, the doctor seized and examined the odd ring.

"It is the queerest coincidence!" he exclaimed. "I had a man some three years ago who wore just such a ring; I had to dismiss him, for, though I had no proof, I suspected him of dishonesty. Well, I am almost sure I saw that man at the Star Hotel last night."

"Here in Wyranta?"

"Yes, I knew him as John Slowman, and when I saw him last night I recognized the face, though it was much changed."

"I must go and see after that man," I said, and I went out by the hall toward the front door.

Standing under the verandah, as I passed out, I saw a regal looking woman. Having heard of Miss Balmire's dark beauty, I guessed that I was looking at the sister of the dead girl, and I perhaps looked longer than I should have done. Her figure was magnificent; her dress from head to foot of the deepest black. Her beautiful Spanish-looking features were as white as that of the fair corpse inside the wall against which she leaned and its pallor was only intensified by the black glossy hair and long black lashes that shaded brow and cheeks. When she observed my gaze she returned it haughtily at first and then angrily, as lurid fire flashed from under her brows.

"Who are you," she asked with a rude haughtiness, "and what are you staring at me in that manner for?"

"I am Detective Sinclair," I replied, "and I am looking for traces of your sister's murderer."

Not until afterwards did I account for the awful look that gathered in her face at my reply; the pale face grew actually livid, the blanched lips blue. She tried to speak at first, but then turned away with a gesture of disdain or despair, and I saw her going swiftly down among the shrubbery, as though she fled from a pursuer.

"No wonder the poor thing is out of sorts," I thought; "the fright would have laid most sisters on a sick bed."

I was going out of the gate when Dr. Smythson overtook me and reminded me of a great oversight.

"Hadn't I better go with you? I suppose you are going to make inquiries at the hotel, but do you know whom to inquire for, even by description?"

"No, you are right, I do not!" and we went on, chatting over the terrible affair and its natural sequences.

"It was a cruel deed," he said; "and I cannot believe in the idea of John Slowman committing it. He was unscrupulous to a certain extent, but not a man that any one would dream of as a murderer. Why, there he is!"

"Where?" I cried.

"That man leaning over the log fence, with the branch in his hand."

"Are you sure?"

"Certain; that man is John Slowman, my late servant. Shall I speak to him?"

"Do."

"Hallo, Slowman, what are you doing in this part of the world?"

"What! Oh, is that you, sir! What am I doing, sir? I am looking for a place."

"I will give you one," I said, coolly, as I held the ring before him; "do you recognize that?"

"It is mine. I— I— lost it," he stammered.

"I'll never believe that you murdered that poor child," the impulsive doctor burst in; "but appearances are against you, and you had better tell anything you may know about if for your own sake."

"Appearances against me!"

"Yes; don't you know that ring was found by the dead girl's bed?"

"My God! I didn't know I had lost it there."

"Stop!" I said, "before you say more. You ought to know that I am a detective, and that I arrest you on suspicion of murder, so it is my duty to warn you against saying anything you do not want repeated against you."

"Not say anything! Good lord, am I to hold my tongue? I have been hanging round here ever since, trying to reason myself that I was not called upon to split on my self for the sake of lagging a devil; but now I must speak! Me kill a woman? No, no; I am bad, but not that way!"

"Speak, then, if you have anything to say. I have warned you."

"Yes, I know. You have arrested me for a murder I never did; but I saw it done, and when I confess that I put myself in your hands."

"Saw it done!"

"Ay; did I not say so? And so may Heaven help me if I am not glad that you are, as it were, compelling me to tell the truth. Let me tell you all about it. Since I left the doctor's service I have been getting on as I could— that is to say, I worked when it paid me to do it, and when it didn't I stole. I came by chance to Wyranta a couple of days ago, and, passing Mr. Balmire's place pretty late, I noticed a window under the verandah wide open. I did not consider a moment, but got over the fence and went through the window into the bedroom— it was that of the poor girl now lying dead at Heatherville. The toilet was decorated prettily and all that, but there was not, as I had hoped, anything worth appropriating, and I was about to go out in search of another window when I heard some one approaching, and made for an old wardrobe that stood opposite the bed. The footstep I had heard was that of a servant who was going round fastening the outside Venetians, and so there I was trapped, and could not escape.

"There is nothing for it now, thinks I, but to wait till they are all asleep, and then I can try for a door; so I hid myself down in a corner as well as I could, and, before I knew how it happened, I was asleep. I had walked a long way, and the place was dark and quiet, and so I slept on until I was roused by voices, and I peeped out, to see one lady talking to another who was in bed; then she went away, and I listened and waited impatiently, for there were yet distant movements in the house, and I most have slept again.

"It was the door opening that once more awoke me, and it did do with such caution that I was frightened. Whoever opened it had come in darkness, but after a pause, in which I could hear the repressed breathings of some one, and soon streaks of light stole through the door of the wardrobe, and I saw a tall woman in a dark dress, with a shaded light in her hand, as she bent over the sleeper and seemed to listen intently; then I thought my time was come, for the woman put the lamp on the floor and came straight to my hiding-place, the door of which she cautiously opened. It might have been through excess of caution that she did not observe me behind the hanging gowns and things, but she did not find what she wanted; for she shut the door again, and in so doing left a bit of the lace trimming of her dress behind her."

"And you know that woman?" the detective questioned, when he reached that point of the story.

"I would know her among a thousand."

"Go on, what did she do next?"

"What did she do next? She did murder! And twenty deaths would not be enough punishment for the cold, cowardly, cruel deed! Yet I am suspected of it because of that ring. I had it in my pocket, and it must have fallen out as I crept in or out of the wardrobe."

"Go on, go on."

"It is soon told now. The heartless she-devil poured some liquid on to a handkerchief and laid it gently over the sleeping girl's month and nostrils. At first I had no idea what the fiend was about, and when I guessed it was too late; besides I would be accused and my word disbelieved, and I would be hung. I was terrified as well as horrified, and to my death I shall never forget that woman's face as she lifted the cloth and poured the rest of the stuff in the bottle over the face and pillow of the dead, or nearly dead, girl. I wonder she did not hear me, for I fled so close behind her that she shut her own door as I passed it and made for the front entrance. I might have saved her! I might even then have taken the dead girl from that fatal room to the reviving night-air, and I will never forgive myself."

"Come with me to that house," I said fiercely, for I was recalling the terror in that woman's face as she almost flew from me down the garden.

"Oh, what horror for the poor parents! It will kill them," cried Dr. Smythson.

"Better death than life, with a murderer sharing life with them," was my retort, and the man, John Slowman, followed us slowly to Heatherville.

There was the saddest of all scenes, in which the despairing mother sat by the head of her child's coffined form, and the poor father vainly tried to impart the resignation he did not feel himself.

"Spare them if you can," the sympathizing doctor begged. "If arrest is necessary, make it without them knowing at such an awful time," and I was only too willing to do so if I could. But where was that demoniac woman? We went in search of her. In her own room a dark, loose robe lay across a chair carelessly; it was trimmed with lace, and Slowman laid his hand upon it.

"That is the dress she had on, and there is the bit of lace torn out of it," he said, taking the piece from his pocket. "I took care of it, for it was all the proof I had, save my own word, and who would take that?"

The torn scrap fitted into the part it had been wrenched from. She was not in the house, and I thought of the garden; perhaps she had remained there. Following the path she had taken, we went down among the flowers and shrubs, and saw a woman in black, with an awful white, dazed-looking face, sitting on a garden chair, with her great staring black eyes turned up the hill toward Dr. Yorke's home. She did not seem to hear our approach, but when I laid my hand on her arm she started and shuddered, and turned her deathlike countenance toward me.

"Is this the woman?" I asked Slowman, and he answered, "That is the woman."

"I arrest you, Inez Balmire, for the murder of your sister." She gazed steadily at me for a second, and then burst into a shriek of maniacal laughter, as she rose to her full height, and clapped her hands like cymbals.

"It is done, and I defy you. Ha, ha! Where is her beauty now? There will be a marriage, but the bridal carriage will be a hearse, and the bridesmaids the undertaker's men. Io triomphe! And I defy you all!"

I can see the dread, terrible face of the madwoman yet, and almost fancy I hear the sound of her ringing hands as she clapped them in her unholy triumph, though she has long since passed from the asylum to the grave.

I met Dr. Smythson not very long ago and asked him if he had lately heard of his friend Balmire. Yes, he had heard. They had removed to another colony, and the strangest affection had sprung up between the solitary couple and the solitary man, Dr. Yorke.

"I saw them a few months ago," he added, "and the trio were like one family, Yorke occupying rooms under the same roof with them, and still attended by his old housekeeper, Mrs. Crane. Oh yes, Slowman is doing well too. That awful case gave him a beneficial fright, and they seem to take a sad pleasure in being attended by the man who saw the last of their living darling."

"Though he was too selfish a coward to save her," I grunted, and he answered me simply—

"Yes, there will always be cowards while the world lasts, and the cowardice of sin must always be the greatest.”

________________

9: The Revolt of Rustleton

Richard Dehan

Clotilde Graves, 1863-1932

From Off Sandy Hook, 1915

A NEW-COMER joined the circle of attentive listeners gathered round the easiest of all the easy-chairs in the smoking-room of the Younger Sons' Club. The surrounded chair contained Hambridge Ost, a small, drab, livery man, with long hair and drooping eyelids, who, as cousin to Lord Pomphrey, enjoyed the immense but fleeting popularity of the moment. Everyone panted to hear the details of the latest Society elopement before the newspapers should disseminate them abroad. And Hambridge was not unwilling to oblige.

"The first inkling of the general trend of affairs, dear fellow,"  said Hambridge, joining his long, pale finger-tips before him, and smiling at the new-comer across the barrier thus formed, " was conveyed to me by an agitated ring at the telephone in my rooms. Bucknell, my man, hello'ed. To Bucknell's astonishment the ring-up came from 000, Werkeley Square, the town mansion of my cousin, Lord Pomphrey, which he knew to be in holland covers and the care of an ex-housekeeper. And Lady Pomphrey was the ringer. When I hello'ed her, saying, 'Are you there, Annabella? So glad, but how unexpected; thought you were all enjoying your otium cum down at Cluckham-Pomphrey'— my cousin's country-seat in Slowshire, dear fellow— such a verbal flood of disjointed sentences came hustling over the wire, so to speak, that I felt convinced, even in the act of rubbing my ear, which tickled confoundedly, that something was quite absolutely wrong somewhere. Pomphrey— dear fellow!— was my first thought; then the Dowager— the ideal of a fine old Tory noblewoman of ninety-eight, who may drop, so to put it, any moment, dear creature, relieving her family of the charge of paying her income and leaving the Dower House vacant for Lord Rustleton, my cousin's heir and his— ahem!— bride. Knowing that Rustleton was to lead the Hon. Celine Twissing to the altar of St. George's, Hanover Square, early in the Winter season, it occurred to me, so to put it, that the demise of the Dowager could not have occurred at a more auspicious moment. Thank you, dear fellow, I will smoke one of your particular Partagas, since you're so good."

Four men struck vestas simultaneously as Hambridge relieved the nicotian delicacy of its gold-and-scarlet cummerbund. Another man supplied him with an ash-tray. Yet another pushed a footstool under his pampered patent-leathers. Exhaling a thin blue cloud, the Oracle continued:

"Amidst my distracted relative's fragmentary utterances I gleaned the name of Rustleton. Hereditary weak heart— circulation as limited as that of a newspaper which on strictly moral grounds declines to report Divorce Cases— and a disproportionate secretion of bile, so to put it, distinguishes him, dear fellow, from, shall I say, mortals less favored by birth and of lower rank. A vision of a hatchment over the door of 000, Werkeley Square— of the entire population of the county assisting at his obsequies, dear fellow— volted through my brain. I seized my hat, and rushed from my chambers in Ryder Street. An electric hansom had fortunately pulled up in front of 'em. I jumped in. 'Where to?' asked the chauffeur. 'To a broken-hearted mother,' said I, '000, Werkeley Square, and drive like the dooce!' "

Hambridge cleared his throat with some pomp, and crossed his little legs comfortably. Then he went on:

"Like the Belgian sportsman, who, in missin' a sittin' hare, shot his father-in-law in the stomach, mine was an effort not altogether wasted. All the blinds of the house were down, and the hysterical shrieks of Lady Pomphrey echoin' through practically a desert of rolled-up carpets and swathed furniture, had collected a small but representative crowd about the area-railings. I leaped out of the motor-cab, threw the chauffeur the legal fare, and bein' admitted to the house by an hysterical caretaker, ascended to my cousin's boudoir, the sobs and shrieks of the distracted mother growing louder as I went. Dear fellows, when Lady Pomphrey saw me, heard me saying, 'Annabella, I must entreat you as a near relative to calm yourself sufficiently to tell me the worst without delay, or to direct me to the nearest person who can supply authentic information,' the floodgates of her sorrow were opened to such an extent that— possessing a constitution naturally susceptible to damp— I have had a deuce of a cold ever since.

"Lord Rustleton— always a nervous faddist, though the dearest of fellows— Rustleton had suddenly broken off his engagement to the Hon. Celine Twissing, only child and heiress of Lord Twissing of Hopsacks, the colossal financier figurehead, as I call him, of the Brewing Trade. Naturally, the young man's mother was crushed by the blow. The marriage was to have been solemnized at the opening of the Winter Season— the trousseau was nearly ready, and the cake— a mammoth pile of elaborate indigestion— was bein' built up in tiers at Guzzards'. The presents (includin' a diamond and sapphire bangle from a Royal source) had come in in shoals. Nothing could be more confoundedly inopportune than Rustleton's decision. For all her muscularity— and she is an unpleasantly muscular young woman— you'd marry her yourself to-morrow did you get the chance, dear fellow. Vous n'êtes pas dégoûté.

"But Rustleton's a difficult man— always was. His personal appearance ain't prepossessin', but he is Somebody, and looks it; d'ye foller me? You feel at once that a long line of ancestors, more or less distinguished, must have handed down the bilious tendency from father to son. Originally— which goes to prove that first impressions are the stronger— Lady Pomphrey tells me he could not stand Celine Twissing, wouldn't have her for nuts, or at any price; but after the disaster to the steam yacht Fifi— run down by a collier at her moorings in Southampton Water, you recollect, when by pure force of muscle Miss Twissing snatched Lord Rustleton from a watery grave, so to put it— he seemed to cave in, as it were, and the engagement was formally announced. I thought his eye unsteady and his laugh hollow, when, with the rest of the family, I proffered my insignificant congratulations. On that occasion, dear fellow, he gave me two fingers instead of one, which amounts to a grip with him, and whispered to the effect that there was no use in cryin' over spilled milk— a familiar saw which has sprung to my own lips at the most inopportune moments.

"Celine was undoubtedly in love. Her being in love, so to put it, added immensely to Rustleton's discomfort. For the New Girl is, as well as a muscular being, a strenuous creature, omnivorous in her appetite for mental exercise, and from the latest theories in physics to the morality of the newest Slavonic novelist Rustleton was expected to range with her hour by hour. Her mass of knowledge oppressed him, her inexhaustible fund of argument exhausted him, her fiery enthusiasm reduced him to a condition of clammy limpness which was— I may say it openly— painful to witness. A backward Lower boy and an impatient Head Master might have presented such a spectacle. Thank you, I will take a Vermouth, since you are so kind. But the boy, in getting away for the holidays, had the advantage of Rustleton, poor fellow!"

Hambridge waited till the Vermouth came, and, sipping the tonic fluid, continued:

"These details, I need not say, were not culled from Lady Pomphrey, but extracted from Rustleton, who had rushed up to town and gone to earth at his Club, to the consternation of the few waiters who were not taking holidays at the seaside. Little by little I became master of the facts of the case, which was one of disparity from the outset. From the muscular as from the intellectual point Celine Twissing had always overshadowed her fiancé. But Celine's intimate knowledge of the mode of conduct necessary— I quote herself— to sane living and clear thinking positively appalled him. Rustleton began the day with hot Vichy water, dry toast, weak tea, and a tepid immersion. She, Miss Twissing, commenced with Indian clubs, a three-quarter-mile sprint in sweaters, coffee, eggs, cold game-pie, ham, jam, muffins, and marmalade. Did she challenge the man, to whom she was soon to pledge lifelong obedience at the altar, to a single at lawn-tennis, she quite innocently served him twisters that he could only follow with his eye, and volleyed balls that infallibly hit it. At croquet she was a scientist, winning the game by the time Lord Rustleton had got through three hoops, and coming back to stand by his side and goad him to silent frenzy by criticism of his method. She is a red-hot motorist, and insisted upon taking Rustleton, wrapped in fur coats, and protected by goggles, as passenger in the back seat of her sixty-horse-power 'Gohard' when she competed in the Crooklands Circular Track One Thousand Mile Platinum Cup Race, for private owners only, professional drivers barred; and upon my honor, I believe she would have pulled up the winner and heroine of the hour had not the racing diet of bananas, meat jujubes, and egg-nog created such a revolt in Rustleton's system, poor fellow, that at the sixth hour of the ordeal he was borne, almost insensible, and bathed in cold perspiration, from the tonneau to a neighboring hotel.

"To anxiety, in combination with exploding tires, I attribute the fact of Miss Twissing's finishing as Number Four. Dear fellow, since you are so good as to insist, I will put that cushion behind the small of my back. Lumbago, in damp weather, is my particular bane. Thankee!"

Hambridge drew forth a spotlessly white handkerchief, flourished it, and trumpeted.

"Now we come to the crux, dear fellows. The Admirable Twissing, as many call her, not content with bein' an acknowledged expert in salmon fishin' and a darin' rider to hounds, set her heart on Rustleton's being practically the same. With a light trout-rod and a tin of worms he has occasionally amoosed himself on locally-preserved waters; mounted on an easy-goin' cob, he is, so to put it, fairly at home. Scotch and Norwegian rivers now, shall I say, claimed him as their sacrifice; highly-mettled hunters— the Hopsacks stables are famous— took five-barred gates and quickset hedges with him; occasionally even bolted with him, regardless of his personal predilections. In the same spirit his betrothed bride compelled him to fence with her; instructed him, at severe physical expense to himself, in the rules of jiu-jitsu. The final straw was laid upon the camel's back when she insisted on his putting on the gloves with her, and standing up for half an hour every morning to be scientifically pummeled."

The listeners' mouths screwed themselves into the shape of long-expressive whistles. Glances of profound meaning were exchanged. One man said, with a gulp of sympathy, "Poor beggar!"

"And so the worm turned,"  said Hambridge Ost, running his forefinger round inside the edge of his collar. "Smarting from upper-cuts administered by the woman who was destined ere long to become the wife of his bosom, flushed from having his head in Chancery, gravely embarrassed by body-blows, dazzled by stars and stripes seen as the result of merciless punches received upon the nose, Rustleton summoned all his courage to the effort, and declined to take any more lessons. Miss Twissing, to do her justice, was thunderstruck.

" 'Oh!' she said, her lips quivering— like a hurt child's, according to Rustleton— 'and you were coming on so capitally— we were getting on so well. You are really gaining a knowledge of good boxing principles, you were actually benefiting by our light little friendly spars.' Rustleton felt his nose, which was painfully swollen. 'Of course, you could never, never become a first-rater. Your poor little muscles are too rigid. You haven't the strength to hit a print of your knuckles into a pound of butter, but you might come to show form enough to funk a big duffer, supposing he went for you under the impression that you were as soft as you look. But, of course, if you mean what you say'— she pulled her gloves off and threw them into a corner of the gymnasium at Hopsacks specially fitted up for her by a noted firm— 'there they go. I'll read the Greek Anthologists with you instead, or'— her eyes brightened— 'have you ever tried polo?' she asked. 'We have some trained ponies in the stable, and the largest croquet-lawn could be utilized for a ground, and I'll wire to the County Players for clubs and a couple of members to teach us the rules of the game. You'll like that?'

" 'I'm dashed if I shall!' were the actual words that burst, so to put it, from Rustleton. Celine drew herself up and looked him over, from the feet upwards, as though she had never, so he says, seen him before. Five feet five— his actual height— gave her an advantage of five inches and a bit over. He begged her to be seated, and, standing before her in as dignified an attitude as it is possible to assume in a light suit of gymnasium flannels, with sawdust in your hair and a painfully swollen nose, he broke the ice and demanded his release from their engagement, saying that he felt it incumbent on him to live his own life in his own way, that Celine crushed, humiliated, and oppressed him by the mere vigor of her intellect and the exuberance of her physical personality— with considerably more to the same effect.

"She looked up when Rustleton, almost breathless, reached a full stop. 'You give me your word of honor that there is no other woman in the case,' she murmured; 'I can stand your not loving me, I can't your loving somebody else better.' As Rustleton gave the required denial— scouted the bare idea— a tear ran down her cheek and dropped on her large powerful arms, which were folded upon her bust— really amazing, dear fellow, and one of her strong points. 'That settles it,' she uttered. 'It's understood, all's off between us; you are free. And there is a through express to London at 3:25. But I'm afraid I must detain you a moment longer.' She rang the bell, and told a servant to tell Professor Pudsey she was wanted in the gym. 'Tell her to come in sparring kit, and be quick about it,' were her actual words.

"Until the Professor appeared, Miss Twissing chatted quite pleasantly with Rustleton. The Professor was a large, flat-faced woman, of remarkable muscular development, with her hair coiled in a tight knob at the back of her head, her massive form attired in a thin jersey, short serge skirt, long stockings, and light gymnasium shoes. 'Let me introduce my friend and resident instructress in boxing, fencing, and athletics,' says Celine, 'and one of the best, so to put it, that ever put a novice through his paces. Celebrated as the wife and trainer of the late Ponto Pudsey, Heavy-weight Champion of England, and holder of the Hyam's Competition Belt three seasons running until beat by Bat Collins at the International Club Grounds in '92. Pudsey dear'— she turned to the Professor— 'you know my little way when I've had a set-back. Instead of playing le diable à quatre and being disagreeable and cantankerous all round, I simply send for you and say, as I say now, "Put up your hands, and do your best; I warn you I'm going in for a regular slugging match under the rules of the Amateur Boxing Association. Three rounds— the first and second of three minutes' length, the third of four minutes'. This gentleman will act as time-keeper, and pick up whichever of us gets knocked out. He has plenty of time before he catches the express to town— and the lesson will be good for him." ' She and the Professor shook hands, and, with heads erect, mouths firmly closed, eyes fixed, left toes straight, bodies evenly balanced, left arms workin' loosely, rights well across mark, and so forth, started business in the most thorough-goin' way. Such a bout of fisticuffs— accordin' to Rustleton— you couldn't behold outside the American prize-ring."

"By— Jingo!"  ejaculated one of the listeners.

"They led off in a perfectly scientific manner at the head, guarded and returned, retreated and advanced, ducked, feinted, countered, and cross-countered,"  said Hambridge Ost, "until Rustleton grew giddy. Terrific hits were given and taken before he could command himself sufficiently to call 'Time,' the Professor with a black eye, Celine with a cut lip, both of 'em smilin' and self-possessed to an astonishin' degree; went in again at the end of the brief breathin' space, and fairly outdid the previous round. When a smashin' knock-out on the point of the jaw finally floored the Professor and she failed to come up to time, leavin' Miss Twissing mistress of the gory field, Celine nodded significantly to Rustleton, and said, as she rolled down her sleeves, 'That would have been for you, Russie, old boy, if there had been another woman in the case. As there isn't— goodbye, and good luck go with you! I'm going to put dear old Pudsey to bed, and plaster this cut lip of mine.'"

"I like that girl!"  declared the man who had said "By Jingo!"  "A rattling good sort, I call her. But a punch-bag would have done as well as the Professor, I should have thought."  He tugged at his mustache and wrinkled his forehead thoughtfully. "A damaged lip is so fearfully disfiguring. Has it quite healed?"

"I know nothing of Miss Twissing,"  said Hambridge, settling his necktie, "and desire to know nothing of that very unfeminine young person, who, I feel sure, would have been as good as her word and pounded Rustleton into a human jelly, had she been aware that there actually existed, if I may so put it, an adequate feminine reason for the dear fellow's— shall I say, change of mind?"

"Of course,"  said the man who had been anxious about Miss Twissing's lip, "the little bounder— beg pardon! Of course, Rustleton was telling a colossal howler. As all the world knows, or will know when the newspapers come out to-morrow, there was another woman in the case."

"Petsie Le Poyntz,"  put in another voice, "of the West End Theater. Petsie of the lissom— ahem!— limbs, of the patent mechanical smile— mistress of the wink that convulses the gallery, and inventor of the kick that enraptures the stalls. Petsie, who has won her way into what Slump, of the Morning Gush, calls the 'peculiar favor of the British playgoer,' by her exquisite and spontaneous rendering of the ballad, 'Buzzy, Buzzy, Busy Bee,' sung nightly and at two matinées per week in The Charity Girl. Petsie, once the promised bride of a thriving young greengrocer, now—"

"Now, Viscountess Rustleton,"  said Hambridge Ost. "Don't forget that, dear fellow, pray. I can conceive, even while I condemn my cousin's ill-considered action in taking to his— shall I say bosom? yesterday morning at the Registrar's— a young lady of obvious gifts and obscure parentage without letting his family into the secret— that he found her a soothing change from Miss Twissing. No Greek, no athletics, no strenuousness of any kind. An appearance distinctly pleasing, even off the boards, a certain command of repartee of the 'You're another' sort, an agreeable friskiness varied by an inclination to lounge languidly— and there you have Petsie, dear fellow. The weddin' breakfast took place at the Grill Room of the Savoy Hotel, the extra-sized table, number three, at the east upper end against the glass partition havin' been specially engaged by the management of the West End Theater. That, not bein' an invited guest, I ascertained from the waiter who usually looks after me when I lunch there. The menu was distinctly a good 'un. Hors d'œuvres... a bisque, follered by turban de turbot.... Birds with bread-cream sauce, chipped potatoes, tomatoes stuffed, and a corn salad. Chocolate omelette soufflée— ices in the shape of those corrugated musk melons with pink insides, figs, and nectarines. Of course, a claret figured— Château-Nitouche; but, bein' a theatrical entertainment, the Boy washed the whole thing down. The name of the liqueur I did not get hold of."

"Parfait Amour, perhaps?"  said a feeble voice, with a faint chuckle.

"As I have said, I failed to ascertain,"  returned Hambridge Ost, with a dry little cough. "But as Lord Pomphrey, justly indignant with his heir for throwing over Miss Twissing, with whose hand goes a colossal fortune, has practically reduced his income to a mere" —he elevated his eyebrows and blew a speck of cigar-ash from his coat-sleeve— "that— the stirrup-cup that sped my cousin and his bride upon their wedding journey was certainly not, shall I say, Aqua d'Oro?"

There was a faint chorus of applause. Hambridge, repressing all sign of triumph, smoothed his preternaturally sleek head and uncrossed his little legs preparatory to getting out of his chair. The circle of listeners melted away; the man who had said "By Jingo!"  straightened his hat carefully, staring at the reflection of a distinctly good-looking face in the mantel-glass.

"If she had known— if that girl Celine Twissing had known— the game that bilious little rotter meant to play, he'd have had his liqueur before his soup, and it would have been punch— not Milk Punch or Turtle Punch, but the real thing, with trimmings."  He arranged a very neat mustache with care. "Sorry she got her lip split,"  he murmured; "hope it's healed all right.... Waiter, get me a dozen Sobranie cigarettes. It's a pity, a confounded pity, that the only man who is really able to appreciate that grand girl Celine Twissing happens to be a younger son. But, anyhow, I can have a shot at her, and I will."

_______________

10: Schalken the Painter

J. Sheridan Le Fanu

1814-1873

Originally published in the Dublin University Magazine, May 1839, as Strange Event in the Life of Schalken the Painter, this story was subsequently revised with shorter title by the author and collected in his collection Ghost Stories and Tales of Mystery, 1851. Gottfried Schalken was a real Dutch painter (1643-1706). The story was made into a TV film by the BBC in 1979.

"For he is not a man as I am that we should come together; neither is there any that might lay his hand upon us both. Let him, therefore, take his rod away from me, and let not his fear terrify me."

THERE exists, at this moment, in good preservation a remarkable work of Schalken's. The curious management of its lights constitutes, as usual in his pieces, the chief apparent merit of the picture. I say apparent, for in its subject, and not in its handling, however exquisite, consists its real value. The picture represents the interior of what might be a chamber in some antique religious building; and its foreground is occupied by a female figure, in a species of white robe, part of which is arranged so as to form a veil. The dress, however, is not that of any religious order. In her hand the figure bears a lamp, by which alone her figure and face are illuminated; and her features wear such an arch smile, as well becomes a pretty woman when practising some prankish roguery; in the background, and, excepting where the dim red light of an expiring fire serves to define the form, in total shadow, stands the figure of a man dressed in the old Flemish fashion, in an attitude of alarm, his hand being placed upon the hilt of his sword, which he appears to be in the act of drawing.

There are some pictures, which impress one, I know not how, with a conviction that they represent not the mere ideal shapes and combinations which have floated through the imagination of the artist, but scenes, faces, and situations which have actually existed. There is in that strange picture, something that stamps it as the representation of a reality.

And such in truth it is, for it faithfully records a remarkable and mysterious occurrence, and perpetuates, in the face of the female figure, which occupies the most prominent place in the design, an accurate portrait of Rose Velderkaust, the niece of Gerard Douw, the first, and, I believe, the only love of Godfrey Schalken. My great grandfather knew the painter well; and from Schalken himself he learned the fearful story of the painting, and from him too he ultimately received the picture itself as a bequest. The story and the picture have become heir-looms in my family, and having described the latter, I shall, if you please, attempt to relate the tradition which has descended with the canvas.

There are few forms on which the mantle of romance hangs more ungracefully than upon that of the uncouth Schalken— the boorish but most cunning worker in oils, whose pieces delight the critics of our day almost as much as his manners disgusted the refined of his own; and yet this man, so rude, so dogged, so slovenly, in the midst of his celebrity, had in his obscure, but happier days, played the hero in a wild romance of mystery and passion.

When Schalken studied under the immortal Gerard Douw, he was a very young man; and in spite of his phlegmatic temperament, he at once fell over head and ears in love with the beautiful niece of his wealthy master. Rose Velderkaust was still younger than he, having not yet attained her seventeenth year, and, if tradition speaks truth, possessed all the soft and dimpling charms of the fair, light-haired Flemish maidens. The young painter loved honestly and fervently. His frank adoration was rewarded. He declared his love, and extracted a faltering confession in return. He was the happiest and proudest painter in all Christendom. But there was somewhat to dash his elation; he was poor and undistinguished. He dared not ask old Gerard for the hand of his sweet ward. He must first win a reputation and a competence.

There were, therefore, many dread uncertainties and cold days before him; he had to fight his way against sore odds. But he had won the heart of dear Rose Velderkaust, and that was half the battle. It is needless to say his exertions were redoubled, and his lasting celebrity proves that his industry was not unrewarded by success.

These ardent labours, and worse still, the hopes that elevated and beguiled them, were however, destined to experience a sudden interruption — of a character so strange and mysterious as to baffle all inquiry and to throw over the events themselves a shadow of preternatural horror.

Schalken had one evening outstayed all his fellow-pupils, and still pursued his work in the deserted room. As the daylight was fast falling, he laid aside his colours, and applied himself to the completion of a sketch on which he had expressed extraordinary pains. It was a religious composition, and represented the temptations of a pot-bellied Saint Anthony. The young artist, however destitute of elevation, had, nevertheless, discernment enough to be dissatisfied with his own work, and many were the patient erasures and improvements which saint and devil underwent, yet all in vain. The large, old-fashioned room was silent, and, with the exception of himself, quite emptied of its usual inmates. An hour had thus passed away, nearly two, without any improved result. Daylight had already declined, and twilight was deepening into the darkness of night. The patience of the young painter was exhausted, and he stood before his unfinished production, angry and mortified, one hand buried in the folds of his long hair, and the other holding the piece of charcoal which had so ill-performed its office, and which he now rubbed, without much regard to the sable streaks it produced, with irritable pressure upon his ample Flemish inexpressibles. "Curse the subject!" said the young man aloud; "curse the picture, the devils, the saint—"

At this moment a short, sudden sniff uttered close beside him made the artist turn sharply round, and he now, for the first time, became aware that his labours had been overlooked by a stranger. Within about a yard and half, and rather behind him, there stood the figure of an elderly man in a cloak and broad-brimmed, conical hat; in his hand, which was protected with a heavy gauntlet-shaped glove, he carried a long ebony walking-stick, surmounted with what appeared, as it glittered dimly in the twilight, to be a massive head of gold, and upon his breast, through the folds of the cloak, there shone the links of a rich chain of the same metal. The room was so obscure that nothing further of the appearance of the figure could be ascertained, and his hat threw his features into profound shadow. It would not have been easy to conjecture the age of the intruder; but a quantity of dark hair escaping from beneath this sombre hat, as well as his firm and upright carriage served to indicate that his years could not yet exceed threescore, or thereabouts. There was an air of gravity and importance about the garb of the person, and something indescribably odd, I might say awful, in the perfect, stone-like stillness of the figure, that effectually checked the testy comment which had at once risen to the lips of the irritated artist. He, therefore, as soon as he had sufficiently recovered his surprise, asked the stranger, civilly, to be seated, and desired to know if he had any message to leave for his master.

"Tell Gerard Douw," said the unknown, without altering his attitude in the smallest degree, "that Minheer Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam, desires to speak with him on tomorrow evening at this hour, and if he please, in this room, upon matters of weight; that is all."

The stranger, having finished this message, turned abruptly, and, with a quick, but silent step quitted the room, before Schalken had time to say a word in reply. The young man felt a curiosity to see in what direction the burgher of Rotterdam would turn, on quitting the studio, and for that purpose he went directly to the window which commanded the door. A lobby of considerable extent intervened between the inner door of the painter's room and the street entrance, so that Schalken occupied the post of observation before the old man could possibly have reached the street. He watched in vain, however. There was no other mode of exit. Had the queer old man vanished, or was he lurking about the recesses of the lobby for some sinister purpose? This last suggestion filled the mind of Schalken with a vague uneasiness, which was so unaccountably intense as to make him alike afraid to remain in the room alone, and reluctant to pass through the lobby. However, with an effort which appeared very disproportioned to the occasion, he summoned resolution to leave the room, and, having locked the door and thrust the key in his pocket, without looking to the right or left, he traversed the passage which had so recently, perhaps still, contained the person of his mysterious visitant, scarcely venturing to breathe till he had arrived in the open street.

"Minheer Vanderhausen!" said Gerard Douw within himself, as the appointed hour approached, "Minheer Vanderhausen, of Rotterdam! I never heard of the man till yesterday. What can he want of me? A portrait, perhaps, to be painted; or a poor relation to be apprenticed; or a collection to be valued; or— pshaw! there's no one in Rotterdam to leave me a legacy. Well, whatever the business may be, we shall soon know it all."

It was now the close of day, and again every easel, except that of Schalken, was deserted. Gerard Douw was pacing the apartment with the restless step of impatient expectation, sometimes pausing to glance over the work of one of his absent pupils, but more frequently placing himself at the window, from whence he might observe the passengers who threaded the obscure by-street in which his studio was placed.

"Said you not, Godfrey," exclaimed Douw, after a long and fruitful gaze from his post of observation, and turning to Schalken, "that the hour he appointed was about seven by the clock of the Stadhouse?"

"It had just told seven when I first saw him, sir," answered the student.

"The hour is close at hand, then," said the master, consulting a horologe as large and as round as an orange. "Minheer Vanderhausen from Rotterdam— is it not so?"

"Such was the name."

"And an elderly man, richly clad?" pursued Douw, musingly.

"As well as I might see," replied his pupil; "he could not be young, nor yet very old, neither; and his dress was rich and grave, as might become a citizen of wealth and consideration."

At this moment the sonorous boom of the Stadhouse clock told, stroke after stroke, the hour of seven; the eyes of both master and student were directed to the door; and it was not until the last peal of the bell had ceased to vibrate, that Douw exclaimed—

"So, so; we shall have his worship presently, that is, if he means to keep his hour; if not, you may wait for him, Godfrey, if you court his acquaintance. But what, after all, if it should prove but a mummery got up by Vankarp, or some such wag? I wish you had run all risks, and cudgelled the old burgomaster soundly. I'd wager a dozen of Rhenish, his worship would have unmasked, and pleaded old acquaintance in a trice."

"Here he comes, sir," said Schalken, in a low monitory tone; and instantly, upon turning towards the door, Gerard Douw observed the same figure which had, on the day before, so unexpectedly greeted his pupil Schalken.

There was something in the air of the figure which at once satisfied the painter that there was no masquerading in the case, and that he really stood in the presence of a man of worship; and so, without hesitation, he doffed his cap, and courteously saluting the stranger, requested him to be seated. The visitor waved his hand slightly, as if in acknowledgment of the courtesy, but remained standing.

"I have the honour to see Minheer Vanderhausen of Rotterdam?" said Gerard Douw.

"The same," was the laconic reply of his visitor.

"I understand your worship desires to speak with me," continued Douw, "and I am here by appointment to wait your commands."

"Is that a man of trust?" said Vanderhausen, turning towards Schalken, who stood at a little distance behind his master.

"Certainly," replied Gerard.

"Then let him take this box, and get the nearest jeweller or goldsmith to value its contents, and let him return hither with a certificate of the valuation."

At the same time, he placed a small case about nine inches square in the hands of Gerard Douw, who was as much amazed at its weight as at the strange abruptness with which it was handed to him. In accordance with the wishes of the stranger, he delivered it into the hands of Schalken, and repeating his direction, despatched him upon the mission.

Schalken disposed his precious charge securely beneath the folds of his cloak, and rapidly traversing two or three narrow streets, he stopped at a corner house, the lower part of which was then occupied by the shop of a Jewish goldsmith. He entered the shop, and calling the little Hebrew into the obscurity of its back recesses, he proceeded to lay before him Vanderhausen's casket. On being examined by the light of a lamp, it appeared entirely cased with lead, the outer surface of which was much scraped and soiled, and nearly white with age. This having been partially removed, there appeared beneath a box of some hard wood; which also they forced open and after the removal of two or three folds of linen, they discovered its contents to be a mass of golden ingots, closely packed, and, as the Jew declared, of the most perfect quality. Every ingot underwent the scrutiny of the little Jew, who seemed to feel an epicurean delight in touching and testing these morsels of the glorious metal; and each one of them was replaced in its berth with the exclamation: "Mein Gott, how very perfect! not one grain of alloy— beautiful, beautiful!" The task was at length finished, and the Jew certified under his hand the value of the ingots submitted to his examination, to amount to many thousand rix-dollars. With the desired document in his pocket, and the rich box of gold carefully pressed under his arm, and concealed by his cloak, he retraced his way, and entering the studio, found his master and the stranger in close conference. Schalken had no sooner left the room, in order to execute the commission he had taken in charge, than Vanderhausen addressed Gerard Douw in the following terms:—

"I cannot tarry with you to-night more than a few minutes, and so I shall shortly tell you the matter upon which I come. You visited the town of Rotterdam some four months ago, and then I saw in the church of St. Lawrence your niece, Rose Velderkaust. I desire to marry her; and if I satisfy you that I am wealthier than any husband you can dream of for her, I expect that you will forward my suit with your authority. If you approve my proposal, you must close with it here and now, for I cannot wait for calculations and delays."

Gerard Douw was hugely astonished by the nature of Minheer Vanderhausen's communication, but he did not venture to express surprise; for besides the motives supplied by prudence and politeness, the painter experienced a kind of chill and oppression like that which is said to intervene when one is placed in unconscious proximity with the object of a natural antipathy— an undefined but overpowering sensation, while standing in the presence of the eccentric stranger, which made him very unwilling to say anything which might reasonably offend him.

"I have no doubt," said Gerard, after two or three prefatory hems, "that the alliance which you propose would prove alike advantageous and honourable to my niece; but you must be aware that she has a will of her own, and may not acquiesce in what we may design for her advantage."

"Do not seek to deceive me, sir painter," said Vanderhausen; "you are her guardian— she is your ward— she is mine if you like to make her so."

The man of Rotterdam moved forward a little as he spoke, and Gerard Douw, he scarce knew why, inwardly prayed for the speedy return of Schalken.

"I desire," said the mysterious gentleman, "to place in your hands at once an evidence of my wealth, and a security for my liberal dealing with your niece. The lad will return in a minute or two with a sum in value five times the fortune which she has a right to expect from her husband. This shall lie in your hands, together with her dowry, and you may apply the united sum as suits her interest best; it shall be all exclusively hers while she lives: is that liberal?"

Douw assented, and inwardly acknowledged that fortune had been extraordinarily kind to his niece; the stranger, he thought, must be both wealthy and generous, and such an offer was not to be despised, though made by a humourist, and one of no very prepossessing presence. Rose had no very high pretensions for she had but a modest dowry, which she owed entirely to the generosity of her uncle; neither had she any right to raise exceptions on the score of birth, for her own origin was far from splendid, and as the other objections, Gerald resolved, and indeed, by the usages of the time, was warranted in resolving, not to listen to them for a moment.

"Sir" said he, addressing the stranger, "your offer is liberal, and whatever hesitation I may feel in closing with it immediately, arises solely from my not having the honour of knowing anything of your family or station. Upon these points you can, of course, satisfy me without difficulty?'

"As to my respectability," said the stranger, drily, "you must take that for granted at present; pester me with no inquiries; you can discover nothing more about me than I choose to make known. You shall have sufficient security for my respectability— my word, if you are honourable: if you are sordid, my gold."

"A testy old gentleman," thought Douw, "he must have his own way; but, all things considered, I am not justified to declining his offer. I will not pledge myself unnecessarily, however."

"You will not pledge yourself unnecessarily," said Vanderhausen, strangely uttering the very words which had just floated through the mind of his companion; "but you will do so if it is necessary, I presume; and I will show you that I consider it indispensable. If the gold I mean to leave in your hands satisfy you, and if you don't wish my proposal to be at once withdrawn, you must, before I leave this room, write your name to this engagement."

Having thus spoken, he placed a paper in the hands of the master, the contents of which expressed an engagement entered into by Gerard Douw, to give to Wilken Vanderhausen of Rotterdam, in marriage, Rose Velderkaust, and so forth, within one week of the date thereof. While the painter was employed in reading this covenant, by the light of a twinkling oil lamp in the far wall of the room, Schalken, as we have stated, entered the studio, and having delivered the box and the valuation of the Jew, into the hands of the stranger, he was about to retire, when Vanderhausen called to him to wait; and, presenting the case and the certificate to Gerard Douw, he paused in silence until he had satisfied himself, by an inspection of both, respecting the value of the pledge left in his hands. At length he said—

"Are you content?"

The painter said he would fain have another day to consider.

"Not an hour," said the suitor, apathetically.

"Well then," said Douw, with a sore effort, "I am content, it is a bargain."

"Then sign at once," said Vanderhausen, "for I am weary."

At the same time he produced a small case of writing materials, and Gerard signed the important document.

"Let this youth witness the covenant," said the old man; and Godfrey Schalken unconsciously attested the instrument which for ever bereft him of his dear Rose Velderkaust.

The compact being thus completed, the strange visitor folded up the paper, and stowed it safely in an inner pocket.

"I will visit you tomorrow night at nine o'clock, at your own house, Gerard Douw, and will see the object of our contract;" and so saying Wilken Vanderhausen moved stiffly, but rapidly, out of the room.

Schalken, eager to resolve his doubts, had placed himself by the window, in order to watch the street entrance; but the experiment served only to support his suspicions, for the old man did not issue from the door. This was very strange, odd, nay fearful. He and his master returned together, and talked but little on the way, for each had his own subjects of reflection, of anxiety, and of hope. Schalken, however, did not know the ruin which menaced his dearest projects.

Gerard Douw knew nothing of the attachment which had sprung up between his pupil and his niece; and even if he had, it is doubtful whether he would have regarded its existence as any serious obstruction to the wishes of Minheer Vanderhausen. Marriages were then and there matters of traffic and calculation; and it would have appeared as absurd in the eyes of the guardian to make a mutual attachment an essential element in a contract of the sort, as it would have been to draw up his bonds and receipts in the language of romance.

The painter, however, did not communicate to his niece the important step which he had taken in her behalf, a forebearance caused not by any anticipated opposition on her part, but solely by a ludicrous consciousness that if she were to ask him for a description of her destined bridegroom, he would be forced to confess that he had not once seen his face, and if called upon, would find it absolutely impossible to identify him. Upon the next day, Gerard Douw, after dinner, called his niece to him and having scanned her person with an air of satisfaction, he took her hand, and looking upon her pretty innocent face with a smile of kindness, he said:—

"Rose, my girl, that face of yours will make your fortune." Rose blushed and smiled. "Such faces and such tempers seldom go together, and when they do, the compound is a love charm, few heads or hearts can resist; trust me, you will soon be a bride, girl. But this is trifling, and I am pressed for time, so make ready the large room by eight o'clock to-night, and give directions for supper at nine. I expect a friend; and observe me, child, do you trick yourself out handsomely. I will not have him think us poor or sluttish."

With these words he left her, and took his way to the room in which his pupils worked.

When the evening closed in, Gerard called Schalken, who was about to take his departure to his own obscure and comfortless lodgings, and asked him to come home and sup with Rose and Vanderhausen. The invitation was, of course, accepted and Gerard Douw and his pupil soon found themselves in the handsome and, even then, antique chamber, which had been prepared for the reception of the stranger. A cheerful wood fire blazed in the hearth, a little at one side of which an old-fashioned table, which shone in the fire-light like burnished gold, was awaiting the supper, for which preparations were going forward; and ranged with exact regularity, stood the tall-backed chairs, whose ungracefulness was more than compensated by their comfort. The little party, consisting of Rose, her uncle, and the artist, awaited the arrival of the expected visitor with considerable impatience. Nine o'clock at length came, and with it a summons at the street door, which being speedily answered, was followed by a slow and emphatic tread upon the staircase; the steps moved heavily across the lobby, the door of the room in which the party we have described were assembled slowly opened, and there entered a figure which startled, almost appalled, the phlegmatic Dutchmen, and nearly made Rose scream with terror. It was the form, and arrayed in the garb of Minheer Vanderhausen; the air, the gait, the height were the same, but the features had never been seen by any of the party before. The stranger stopped at the door of the room, and displayed his form and face completely. He wore a dark-coloured cloth cloak, which was short and full, not falling quite to his knees; his legs were cased in dark purple silk stockings, and his shoes were adorned with roses of the same colour. The opening of the cloak in front showed the under-suit to consist of some very dark, perhaps sable material, and his hands were enclosed in a pair of heavy leather gloves, which ran up considerably above the wrist, in the manner of a gauntlet. In one hand he carried his walking-stick and his hat, which he had removed, and the other hung heavily by his side. A quantity of grizzled hair descended in long tresses from his head, and rested upon the plaits of a stiff ruff, which effectually concealed his neck. So far all was well; but the face! — all the flesh of the face was coloured with the bluish leaden hue, which is sometimes produced by metallic medicines, administered in excessive quantities; the eyes showed an undue proportion of muddy white, and had a certain indefinable character of insanity; the hue of the lips bearing the usual relation to that of the face, was, consequently, nearly black; and the entire character of the face was sensual, malignant, and even satanic. It was remarkable that the worshipful stranger suffered as little as possible of his flesh to appear, and that during his visit he did not once remove his gloves. Having stood for some moments at the door, Gerard Douw at length found breath and collectedness to bid him welcome, and with a mute inclination of the head, the stranger stepped forward into the room. There was something indescribably odd, even horrible, about all his motions, something undefinable, that was unnatural, unhuman; it was as if the limbs were guided and directed by a spirit unused to the management of bodily machinery. The stranger spoke hardly at all during his visit, which did not exceed half an hour; and the host himself could scarcely muster courage enough to utter the few necessary salutations and courtesies; and, indeed, such was the nervous terror which the presence of Vanderhausen inspired, that very little would have made all his entertainers fly in downright panic from the room. They had not so far lost all self-possession, however, as to fail to observe two strange peculiarities of their visitor. During his stay his eyelids did not once close, or, indeed, move in the slightest degree; and farther, there was a deathlike stillness in his whole person, owing to the absence of the heaving motion of the chest, caused by the process of respiration. These two peculiarities, though when told they may appear trifling, produced a very striking and unpleasant effect when seen and observed. Vanderhausen at length relieved the painter of Leyden of his inauspicious presence; and with no trifling sense of relief the little party heard the street door close after him.

"Dear uncle," said Rose, "what a frightful man! I would not see him again for the wealth of the States."

"Tush, foolish girl," said Douw, whose sensations were anything but comfortable. "A man may be as ugly as the devil, and yet, if his heart and actions are good, he is worth all the pretty-faced perfumed puppies that walk the Mall. Rose, my girl, it is very true he has not thy pretty face, but I know him to be wealthy and liberal; and were he ten times more ugly, these two virtues would be enough to counter balance all his deformity, and if not sufficient actually to alter the shape and hue of his features, at least enough to prevent one thinking them so much amiss."

"Do you know, uncle," said Rose, "when I saw him standing at the door, I could not get it out of my head that I saw the old painted wooden figure that used to frighten me so much in the Church of St. Laurence at Rotterdam."

Gerard laughed, though he could not help inwardly acknowledging the justness of the comparison. He was resolved, however, as far as he could, to check his niece's disposition to dilate upon the ugliness of her intended bridegroom, although he was not a little pleased, as well as puzzled, to observe that she appeared totally exempt from that mysterious dread of the stranger which, he could not disguise it from himself, considerably affected him, as also his pupil Godfrey Schalken.

Early on the next day there arrived, from various quarters of the town, rich presents of silks, velvets, jewellery, and so forth, for Rose; and also a packet directed to Gerard Douw, which on being opened, was found to contain a contract of marriage, formally drawn up, between Wilken Vanderhausen of the Boom-quay, in Rotterdam, and Rose Velderkaust of Leyden, niece to Gerard Douw, master in the art of painting, also of the same city; and containing engagements on the part of Vanderhausen to make settlements upon his bride, far more splendid than he had before led her guardian to believe likely, and which were to be secured to her use in the most unexceptionable manner possible— the money being placed in the hand of Gerard Douw himself.

I have no sentimental scenes to describe, no cruelty of guardians, no magnanimity of wards, no agonies, or transport of lovers. The record I have to make is one of sordidness, levity, and heartlessness. In less than a week after the first interview which we have just described, the contract of marriage was fulfilled, and Schalken saw the prize which he would have risked existence to secure, carried off in solemn pomp by his repulsive rival. For two or three days he absented himself from the school; he then returned and worked, if with less cheerfulness, with far more dogged resolution than before; the stimulus of love had given place to that of ambition. Months passed away, and, contrary to his expectation, and, indeed, to the direct promise of the parties, Gerard Douw heard nothing of his niece or her worshipful spouse. The interest of the money, which was to have been demanded in quarterly sums, lay unclaimed in his hands.

He began to grow extremely uneasy. Minheer Vanderhausen's direction in Rotterdam he was fully possessed of; after some irresolution he finally determined to journey thither— a trifling undertaking, and easily accomplished— and thus to satisfy himself of the safety and comfort of his ward, for whom he entertained an honest and strong affection. His search was in vain, however; no one in Rotterdam had ever heard of Minheer Vanderhausen. Gerard Douw left not a house in the Boom-quay untried, but all in vain. No one could give him any information whatever touching the object of his inquiry, and he was obliged to return to Leyden nothing wiser and far more anxious, than when he had left it.

On his arrival he hastened to the establishment from which Vanderhausen had hired the lumbering, though, considering the times, most luxurious vehicle, which the bridal party had employed to convey them to Rotterdam. From the driver of this machine he learned, that having proceeded by slow stages, they had late in the evening approached Rotterdam; but that before they entered the city, and while yet nearly a mile from it, a small party of men, soberly clad, and after the old fashion, with peaked beards and moustaches, standing in the centre of the road, obstructed the further progress of the carriage. The driver reined in his horses, much fearing, from the obscurity of the hour, and the loneliness, of the road, that some mischief was intended. His fears were, however, somewhat allayed by his observing that these strange men carried a large litter, of an antique shape, and which they immediately set down upon the pavement, whereupon the bridegroom, having opened the coach-door from within, descended, and having assisted his bride to do likewise, led her, weeping bitterly, and wringing her hands, to the litter, which they both entered. It was then raised by the men who surrounded it, and speedily carried towards the city, and before it had proceeded very far, the darkness concealed it from the view of the Dutch coachman. In the inside of the vehicle he found a purse, whose contents more than thrice paid the hire of the carriage and man. He saw and could tell nothing more of Minheer Vanderhausen and his beautiful lady.

This mystery was a source of profound anxiety and even grief to Gerard Douw. There was evidently fraud in the dealing of Vanderhausen with him, though for what purpose committed he could not imagine. He greatly doubted how far it was possible for a man possessing such a countenance to be anything but a villain, and every day that passed without his hearing from or of his niece, instead of inducing him to forget his fears, on the contrary tended more and more to aggravate them. The loss of her cheerful society tended also to depress his spirits; and in order to dispel the gloom, which often crept upon his mind after his daily occupations were over, he was wont frequently to ask Schalken to accompany him home, and share his otherwise solitary supper.

One evening, the painter and his pupil were sitting by the fire, having accomplished a comfortable meal, and had yielded to the silent and delicious melancholy of digestion, when their ruminations were disturbed by a loud sound at the street door, as if occasioned by some person rushing and scrambling vehemently against it. A domestic had run without delay to ascertain the cause of the disturbance, and they heard him twice or thrice interrogate the applicant for admission, but without eliciting any other answer but a sustained reiteration of the sounds. They heard him then open the hall-door, and immediately there followed a light and rapid tread on the staircase. Schalken advanced towards the door. It opened before he reached it, and Rose rushed into the room. She looked wild, fierce and haggard with terror and exhaustion, but her dress surprised them as much as even her unexpected appearance. It consisted of a kind of white woollen wrapper, made close about the neck, and descending to the very ground. It was much deranged and travel-soiled. The poor creature had hardly entered the chamber when she fell senseless on the floor. With some difficulty they succeeded in reviving her, and on recovering her senses, she instantly exclaimed, in a tone of terror rather than mere impatience:—

"Wine! wine! quickly, or I'm lost!"

Astonished and almost scared at the strange agitation in which the call was made, they at once administered to her wishes, and she drank some wine with a haste and eagerness which surprised them. She had hardly swallowed it, when she exclaimed, with the same urgency:

"Food, for God's sake, food, at once, or I perish."

A considerable fragment of a roast joint was upon the table, and Schalken immediately began to cut some, but he was anticipated, for no sooner did she see it than she caught it, a more than mortal image of famine, and with her hands, and even with her teeth, she tore off the flesh, and swallowed it. When the paroxysm of hunger had been a little appeased, she appeared on a sudden overcome with shame, or it may have been that other more agitating thoughts overpowered and scared her, for she began to weep bitterly and to wring her hands.

"Oh, send for a minister of God," said she; "I am not safe till he comes; send for him speedily."

Gerard Douw despatched a messenger instantly, and prevailed on his niece to allow him to surrender his bed chamber to her use. He also persuaded her to retire to it at once to rest; her consent was extorted upon the condition that they would not leave her for a moment.

"Oh that the holy man were here," she said; "he can deliver me: the dead and the living can never be one: God has forbidden it."

With these mysterious words she surrendered herself to their guidance, and they proceeded to the chamber which Gerard Douw had assigned to her use.

"Do not, do not leave me for a moment," said she; "I am lost for ever if you do."

Gerard Douw's chamber was approached through a spacious apartment, which they were now about to enter. He and Schalken each carried a candle, so that a sufficiency of light was cast upon all surrounding objects. They were now entering the large chamber, which as I have said, communicated with Douw's apartment, when Rose suddenly stopped, and, in a whisper which thrilled them both with horror, she said:—

"Oh, God! he is here! he is here! See, see! there he goes!"

She pointed towards the door of the inner room, and Schalken thought he saw a shadowy and ill-defined form gliding into that apartment. He drew his sword, and, raising the candle so as to throw its light with increased distinctness upon the objects in the room, he entered the chamber into which the shadow had glided. No figure was there— nothing but the furniture which belonged to the room, and yet he could not be deceived as to the fact that something had moved before them into the chamber. A sickening dread came upon him, and the cold perspiration broke out in heavy drops upon his forehead; nor was he more composed, when he heard the increased urgency and agony of entreaty, with which Rose implored them not to leave her for a moment.

"I saw him," said she; "he's here. I cannot be deceived; I know him; he's by me; he is with me; he's in the room. Then, for God's sake, as you would save me, do not stir from beside me."

They at length prevailed upon her to lie down upon the bed, where she continued to urge them to stay by her. She frequently uttered incoherent sentences, repeating, again and again, "the dead and the living cannot be one: God has forbidden it." And then again, "Rest to the wakeful— sleep to the sleep-walkers." These and such mysterious and broken sentences, she continued to utter until the clergyman arrived. Gerard Douw began to fear, naturally enough, that terror or ill-treatment, had unsettled the poor girl's intellect, and he half suspected, by the suddenness of her appearance, the unseasonableness of the hour, and above all, from the wildness and terror of her manner, that she had made her escape from some place of confinement for lunatics, and was in imminent fear of pursuit. He resolved to summon medical advice as soon as the mind of his niece had been in some measure set at rest by the offices of the clergyman whose attendance she had so earnestly desired; and until this object had been attained, he did not venture to put any questions to her, which might possibly, by reviving painful or horrible recollections, increase her agitation. The clergyman soon arrived— a man of ascetic countenance and venerable age— one whom Gerard Douw respected very much, forasmuch as he was a veteran polemic, though one perhaps more dreaded as a combatant than beloved as a Christian — of pure morality, subtle brain, and frozen heart. He entered the chamber which communicated with that in which Rose reclined and immediately on his arrival, she requested him to pray for her, as for one who lay in the hands of Satan, and who could hope for deliverance only from heaven.

That you may distinctly understand all the circumstances of the event which I am going to describe, it is necessary to state the relative position of the parties who were engaged in it. The old clergyman and Schalken were in the anteroom of which I have already spoken; Rose lay in the inner chamber, the door of which was open; and by the side of the bed, at her urgent desire, stood her guardian; a candle burned in the bedchamber, and three were lighted in the outer apartment. The old man now cleared his voice as if about to commence, but before he had time to begin, a sudden gust of air blew out the candle which served to illuminate the room in which the poor girl lay, and she, with hurried alarm, exclaimed:—

"Godfrey, bring in another candle; the darkness is unsafe."

Gerard Douw forgetting for the moment her repeated injunctions, in the immediate impulse, stepped from the bedchamber into the other, in order to supply what she desired.

"Oh God! do not go, dear uncle," shrieked the unhappy girl— and at the same time she sprung from the bed, and darted after him, in order, by her grasp, to detain him. But the warning came too late, for scarcely had he passed the threshold, and hardly had his niece had time to utter the startling exclamation, when the door which divided the two rooms closed violently after him, as if swung by a strong blast of wind. Schalken and he both rushed to the door, but their united and desperate efforts could not avail so much as to shake it. Shriek after shriek burst from the inner chamber, with all the piercing loudness of despairing terror. Schalken and Douw applied every nerve to force open the door; but all in vain. There was no sound of struggling from within, but the screams seemed to increase in loudness, and at the same time they heard the bolts of the latticed window withdrawn, and the window itself grated upon the sill as if thrown open. One last shriek, so long and piercing and agonized as to be scarcely human, swelled from the room, and suddenly there followed a death-like silence. A light step was heard crossing the floor, as if from the bed to the window; and almost at the same instant the door gave way, and, yielding to the pressure of the external applicants, nearly precipitated them into the room. It was empty. The window was open, and Schalken sprung to a chair and gazed out upon the street and canal below. He saw no form, but he saw, or thought he saw, the waters of the broad canal beneath settling ring after ring in heavy circles, as if a moment before disturbed by the submission of some ponderous body.

No trace of Rose was ever after found, nor was anything certain respecting her mysterious wooer discovered or even suspected— no clue whereby to trace the intricacies of the labyrinth and to arrive at its solution, presented itself. But an incident occurred, which, though it will not be received by our rational readers in lieu of evidence, produced nevertheless a strong and a lasting impression upon the mind of Schalken. Many years after the events which we have detailed, Schalken, then residing far away received an intimation of his father's death, and of his intended burial upon a fixed day in the church of Rotterdam. It was necessary that a very considerable journey should be performed by the funeral procession, which as it will be readily believed, was not very numerously attended. Schalken with difficulty arrived in Rotterdam late in the day upon which the funeral was appointed to take place. It had not then arrived. Evening closed in, and still it did not appear.

Schalken strolled down to the church; he found it open; notice of the arrival of the funeral had been given, and the vault in which the body was to be laid had been opened. The sexton, on seeing a well-dressed gentleman, whose object was to attend the expected obsequies, pacing the aisle of the church, hospitably invited him to share with him the comforts of a blazing fire, which, as was his custom in winter time upon such occasions, he had kindled in the hearth of a chamber in which he was accustomed to await the arrival of such grisly guests and which communicated, by a flight of steps, with the vault below. In this chamber, Schalken and his entertainer seated themselves; and the sexton, after some fruitless attempts to engage his guest in conversation, was obliged to apply himself to his tobacco-pipe and can, to solace his solitude. In spite of his grief and cares, the fatigues of a rapid journey of nearly forty hours gradually overcame the mind and body of Godfrey Schalken, and he sank into a deep sleep, from which he awakened by someone's shaking him gently by the shoulder. He first thought that the old sexton had called him, but he was no longer in the room. He roused himself, and as soon as he could clearly see what was around him, he perceived a female form, clothed in a kind of light robe of white, part of which was so disposed as to form a veil, and in her hand she carried a lamp. She was moving rather away from him, in the direction of the flight of steps which conducted towards the vaults. Schalken felt a vague alarm at the sight of this figure and at the same time an irresistible impulse to follow its guidance. He followed it towards the vaults, but when it reached the head of the stairs, he paused; the figure paused also, and, turning gently round, displayed, by the light of the lamp it carried, the face and features of his first love, Rose Velderkaust. There was nothing horrible, or even sad, in the countenance. On the contrary, it wore the same arch smile which used to enchant the artist long before in his happy days. A feeling of awe and interest, too intense to be resisted, prompted him to follow the spectre, if spectre it were. She descended the stairs — he followed — and turning to the left, through a narrow passage, she led him, to his infinite surprise, into what appeared to be an old-fashioned Dutch apartment, such as the pictures of Gerard Douw have served to immortalize. Abundance of costly antique furniture was disposed about the room, and in one corner stood a four-post bed, with heavy black cloth curtains around it; the figure frequently turned towards him with the same arch smile; and when she came to the side of the bed, she drew the curtains, and, by the light of the lamp, which she held towards its contents, she disclosed to the horror-stricken painter, sitting bolt upright in the bed, the livid and demoniac form of Vanderhausen. Schalken had hardly seen him, when he fell senseless upon the floor, where he lay until discovered, on the next morning, by persons employed in closing the passages into the vaults. He was lying in a cell of considerable size, which had not been disturbed for a long time, and he had fallen beside a large coffin, which was supported upon small pillars, a security against the attacks of vermin.

To his dying day Schalken was satisfied of the reality of the vision which he had witnessed, and he has left behind him a curious evidence of the impression which it wrought upon his fancy, in a painting executed shortly after the event I have narrated, and which is valuable as exhibiting not only the peculiarities which have made Schalken's pictures sought after, but even more so as presenting a portrait of his early love, Rose Velderkaust, whose mysterious fate must always remain matter of speculation.

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11: Some Experiments With a Head

Dick Donovan

1843-1934

The Cornhill Magazine, 1889,

Stories Weird and Wonderful, J. E. Muddock, 1889

Original published as by Dick Donovan, the major pseudonym of J. E. Preston Muddock, it was reprinted in the collection Stories Weird and Wonderful under the authors real name.

Being a Record From the Papers of a Late Physician

THE FOLLOWING notes have reference to a time, now far off, alas! when I was a very young man, and imbued with an unquenchable desire for knowledge. I was an enthusiast, I freely admit; and there were some who called me a dreamer; but, if that is to be interpreted as meaning a visionary, I decline to admit that the term was applicable. I had a profound love of science in all its branches, and in those fields of research which the scientist must conscientiously explore if he wishes to be accepted as a trustworthy guide, I diligently sought for demonstrable facts. Scientists may be divided into two very distinct classes, your men of theory and your men of practice. I preferred to fall into the latter category, and asked for proof of all that was advanced. It was this very trait in my character which led to the extraordinary incidents related in this paper.

Let me at once state that at the time to which I refer I was a medical student, studying at the College de France in Paris. My father before me had been an eminent member of the medical profession, and from the very earliest period of my existence I evinced a strong desire to follow in his footsteps. The consequence was that, by the time I was twenty, I was studying hard in the French capital. I had already passed several examinations with flying colours, and was looking forward to obtaining my diploma within the next two years.

Now, there was one subject that had always possessed for me almost fascinating interest, and I am free to confess that it absorbed a very great deal of my attention. It was whether in cases of decapitation death was instantaneous. My professional brethren will know that opinions on the subject have been much divided, but 'instantaneous' is an elastic term. The coming and going of a flash of lightning is said to be instantaneous, and yet it occupies an appreciable space of time that is capable of being accurately measured. Now, the question that suggested itself to my mind was whether though life was extinguished in a space of time no longer than a flash of lightning takes to manifest itself, that is, in the blinking of an eye, there was still time for introspection, retrospection, and speculation? I was fully aware that the point involved was a peculiarly delicate one, and might be said to belong more to the domain of psychology rather than physiology. But in considering the subject one could not ignore the ex- periences of those who had come within an ace of losing their lives by drowning. In well-authenticated instances the drowning person had in an incredibly brief space of time traversed the whole record of his life; had recalled incidents of childhood long ago forgotten, and had even worked out speculatively what his friends would think of his death, how his affairs would be settled, and what would be the careers of his children— if he had any— in the far-off future. In such brief moments the mind is capable of grasping an extraordinary range of subjects, past, present, and to come; and yet the duration of consciousness in such cases can hardly exceed, in the extremest limit, five minutes.

In dwelling upon these facts I asked myself whether the brain of a decapitated person was not capable of thought for a period as correspondingly long as that experienced by a drowning man. I was, of course, aware that some of the most eminent anatomists affirmed that the entire severance of the jugular vein, the carotid arteries, especially the internal carotid supplying the brain with blood, and the spinal cord (or main nerve track of the body), must produce absolutely instantaneous death. But I had the boldness to answer to this that 'instantaneousness' was capable of being measured as a space of time, and such a space of time, to a dying man, was filled with potentialities that could not be ignored by the inquirer who had a due regard for minutise. Nor could I forget the well authenticated case of an unfortunate victim of the Reign of Terror, whose head was seized by the executioner as soon as the guillotine had severed it, and as the man was in the act of holding it up by the hair to the view of the crowd he saw the eyes turn upon him with such a look of anguish and unspeakable reproach that, with a cry of horror, he let the head fall and fled.

The professorial chair of anatomy in the College was filled by the celebrated Doctor Francois Grassard, who had been a friend of my father, and took a great interest in me. He was pleased at times to discuss my favourite subject with me, but his opinion was that cessation of thought and power of reflection was absolutely coincident with the severance of the neck, which, as every one knows, in the case of the guillotine is as quick as the blinking of the eye. But then I took my stand upon that elasticity of the term instantaneous, and which, as I have already urged, while counting for nothing in an ordinary way, might be much to a dying person, that is, a person dying by sudden and violent means.

On one occasion, after an argument with Doctor Grassard, I ventured to suggest that it might be possible to make some practical experiments with a view to substantiating or disproving my argument. The doctor reflected for a little time, and then said:

'Yes, I think it is possible, and such experiments can hardly fail to be deeply interesting, and even scientifically valuable.'

It was not until nearly a year after this that the opportunity for the suggested experiments occurred. It happened that about this time Paris was startled by a wholesale butchery of a peculiarly atrocious character. In one of the wretched dens of the Hue des Cascades a man named Gaspard Thurreau hacked his wife, his mistress, and four children to pieces. The Rue des Cascades is situated in the neighbourhood of St. Denis, which is perhaps one of the foulest spots to be found in any city in the world.

It is not necessary to dwell upon the details of the crime, which, however, were peculiarly horrible even for Paris; but the criminal himself was altogether a most remarkable man. He had formerly been an analytical chemist, and was a man of high intellectual attainments. In direct opposition, however, to the wishes of his friends and relations, he married a woman much below him in social rank and one of very indifferent character. Such a mesalliance was, of course, bound to bring misery and unhappiness. Madame Thurreau had a violent temper and a most jealous disposition. The result was, the ill-matched couple led a cat and dog life for years. At first the man struggled against his misfortunes; then he gave way to drink, and that brought the inevitable concomitant train of evils. He lost his position, his business, his honour; went from bad to worse; was deserted by all his relations; committed forgery, and served a long term of imprisonment. On his release, he sank down to the lowest stratum of society, and, together with his wife and four children, found shelter in the dreadful Alsatia of St. Denis. Here he formed a liaison with a woman who lived under the same roof. For a time the wife tolerated her rival, then the two women began to fight like wild cats until the feud ended in the awful tragedy. Thurreau, inflamed with wine, went to his den one night, when both the women reviled and reproached him until, excited into a fit of frenzy, he slew them and his children.

His history, such as I have sketched it in outline, was gradually unfolded at the trial, and, although he found some sympathisers, the weight of public opinion was decidedly against him. There never was from the first a shadow of a doubt about his being the culprit. The only question was whether, to their verdict, the jury could not append the 'extenuating circumstances' of which French juries are so fond, and which invariably saves the murderer's head. But Thurreau's crime was so revolting and barbarous that the 'extenuating circumstances' were left out, and the criminal was condemned to death without hope of reprieve.

As soon as Doctor Grassard heard of the sentence, he said to me:

'Well, young gentleman, I think we shall at last be able to try our experiments, and, what is more, we shall have an unusually good subject.'

I knew what he meant by 'an unusually good subject.' Thurreau was a man of striking physical mould. From an anatomical point of view he was perfect, with a well-shaped head, firmly set on massive shoulders. He was under forty, and had never had any disease, so that in such a man vitality would be very strong, and there would be a corresponding tenacity of life. Apart from sheer physical attributes he was endowed with a keen intelligence and mental powers of a high order, though he had shown himself weak in one respect—that was in his inability to rise superior to his misfortunes.

Doctor Grassard's position as one of the first anatomists in France gave him great influence, so that he had no difficulty in obtaining permission from the authorities to visit the condemned man. He found Thurreau callous as to his fate, and holding views with regard to a future state which rendered him deaf to the voice of spiritual consolation. As a matter of fact, he absolutely and determinedly refused to receive the prison or any other chaplain, though a day or two before his execution he so far relented as to consent to see a priest, to whom he made confession.

It will be readily comprehended in what respects such a man was about as good a subject as could have been selected for our purpose. With tact and delicacy, Doctor Grassard led up to the purpose that had induced him to visit him; telling him that in the interest of science it was desired to make certain tests, with a view to endeavour to establish the precise moment when the death of the brain ensued after decapitation.

With a grim smile Thurreau said that as a chief actor in the experiments, he was perfectly willing to do all that he possibly could to further the ends of science. But he wanted to know what part he was to play after he was beheaded. He was told that what was desired of him was that at the moment when he was laid upon the plank with his neck under the knife, he should concentrate all his thoughts upon four questions that would be spoken into his ear. These questions were:

1. Are you in pain?

2. Do you recognise those about you?

3. Do you remember what you have been guillotined for?

4. Are you happy?

The affirmative answer to these questions was to be a single blink of the eyelids, the negative two. Now, if consciousness remained for any appreciable space of time, there was no reason why this motion of the eyelids should not be made, because the palpebroe or eyelids are dependent for their action on certain muscles known as the orbicular or circular muscles and the levators, palpebroe superiores, the muscles used to raise the upper eyelids, which would be quite uninjured structurally. The same remark applies to the muscles of the eye known as the recti, which are six in number, so that the eye might also be moved if the will was there. On that the whole question turned. Would the will be there? By will I mean consciousness. These preliminaries having been settled, it now remained to make arrangements for carrying the experiments out, and in this we were aided in every possible way by the authorities, the matter, of course, being kept strictly secret. In discussing these arrangements with Professor Grassard I took the liberty to express myself to the effect that if the brain could be kept at its normal temperature by the blood, consciousness might be retained for many seconds if not minutes, and what we had to consider was how to prevent the tremendous drain of the vital fluid as soon as the severance was accomplished. Naturally, with the cutting through of the great veins and arteries the blood flowed away as water would flow from a reservoir if the banks were to burst, and what we had to do was to dam this flow. After some consideration Professor Grassard suggested that by plunging the bleeding surface into a basin of softened wax the end aimed at would be attained.

The month was November, and the morning of the execution was as dismal as could be imagined. All night long a drizzling rain had been falling, and a searching, biting wind made the streets unbearable. To this fact, no doubt, was due the comparatively small crowd that had assembled in the Place de la Eoquette, where the guillotine was erected. The hideous machine of death had been placed within three yards of the door of the prison through which its victim would have to pass on this his last journey. A corridor had been formed from the door to the steps of the guillotine by putting up a canvas screen on each side. This had been done for our special convenience. It had also been arranged that, instead of the basket which was to receive the head being placed on the scaffold in the usual way, some of the planks were cut, forming, as it were, a trap door, the basket being on the ground under the trap. Consequently, after the execution the head could be taken out without the spectators having any knowledge of what was being done. The authorities were also good enough to place at our disposal an ante-room just inside of the corridor of the prison, so that we had no difficulty whatever in completing our preparations, and being quite ready for the exciting moment.

As is well known, culprits condemned to death in France are never informed of the day of their execution until the very morning, and only then about an hour before the time. It was six o'clock when the prefect, the governor of the prison, various officials, and a priest entered Thurreau's cell, and, arousing him from a sound sleep, informed him that he had but an hour to live. The wretched man received the announcement with the most perfect sang froid. Then turning to the priest, who had approached him with a crucifix, he bowed, and said, politely but firmly:

'Monsieur, pardon me if I say I can dispense with your services. I have never attempted to deny that I committed the crime, and now in this supreme hour, in your presence and the presence of these gentlemen, I confess that my hand, and my hand alone, killed the women and the children. I am perfectly aware that by the laws of my country my life is forfeited, and the perfect justness of my sentence I freely admit. But if such crimes as mine are to be visited with the wrath of heaven, I cannot hope to turn aside that wrath by a hurried prayer now that I am all but dead. Therefore, monsieur, I pray that you will leave me to my own reflections during the brief time left to me, for, as a matter of fact, I have pledged myself, so far as I can, to aid certain experiments that Professor Grassard is desirous of carrying out.'

This speech at such a time will show that the culprit was no ordinary man. The priest, however, did not retire, but remained with the prisoner and accompanied him to the scaffold, and there Thurreau consented to press his lips to the crucifix that the good priest extended to him.

As soon as ever the mournful procession had passed through the doorway, one of our hospital assistants followed with a tin bowl half full of heated wax. A cordon of gendarmes was drawn round the guillotine, and beyond them, again, was a double line of mounted soldiers, so that the crowds of people were kept a long way off.

Exactly three minutes after Thurreau had crossed the threshold of the door he was lying on the plank. Daylight had scarcely yet begun to assert itself. From the murky sky the drizzling rain still descended, and away to the east there was an angry flush of red. The boom of the bell of Notre Dame, as it slowly tolled the hour of seven, fell on our ears as the gleaming and fatal knife flashed down the wooden uprights in which it worked, and Thurreau's head fell into the basket on the pavement. With extraordinary dexterity and coolness the assistant caught it up, and set it with the neck downwards in the basin of wax, and then with agile movement he rushed into the room where we waited for him. The face of the culprit was then perfectly natural in its colour and expression, but we noted that there was a slight twitching of the muscles of the mouth.

The basin was set on a table all ready prepared, and in the full rays of a strong light. Then the Professor placed his lips close to the right ear, and in a clear, deliberate, resonant voice asked: 'Are you in pain?'

Instantly there were two distinct blinks of the eyelids.

'Do you recognise those about you?' was next asked.

This time there was one blink.

'Do you remember what you have been guillotined for?' One blink again, but now the muscular motion of the eyelid was perceptibly slower.

The last question was then put: 'Are you happy?'

With the utterance of the word 'happy,' Professor Grasard straightened himself up, and instantly the eyes, which were full open, and also quite natural in colour and expression, turned upon him.

The effect of this was thrilling, and certainly would have unnerved men who had not been braced up by an enthusiastic love for science. The Professor moved round the table slowly, describing the segment of a circle in his movement, and as he did so the eyes followed him. Then suddenly we saw a film come over them, and the lids drooped, while the face assumed a bluish white tint, and there was a dropping of the lower jaw.

From the time that the head was taken out of the basket to this change setting in, exactly three minutes eight seconds had elapsed, as measured by a chronometer watch, so that there was consciousness of the brain for that period after the head was severed from the body. The proofs of this were beyond all question of possible doubt. It may of course be stated with positiveness that this in a great measure, if not entirely so, was due to the hermetically sealing of the ends of the cut vessels by means of the wax. We regretted exceedingly that an answer by the sign of negation or affirmation, which had been agreed upon, had not been given to question number four. It seemed probable that the question was understood, but instead of the motion of the eyelid, the eyes themselves turned, following the movements of the Professor, and on discussing this subsequently we came to the conclusion that it was due to Doctor Grassard rising from the bent position he had assumed while speaking into the ear, and naturally he regretted that he had altered his position so quickly. The change in the face that then set in was probably due to the congesting of the sinuses, which would at once deprive the brain of all sensibility. In other words, the brain there and then died. This was the conclusion we arrived at, but nevertheless we resolved to try what effect an electric current might have, though we were actuated more by curiosity than any absolute idea of results.

We had provided ourselves with a small battery, and, laying bare the ganglion cervicale superius, a nerve centre in the neck, we sent a current through it, but the only effect produced was some twitching of the nerves of the face. We therefore made a deep incision down on to the optic nerve behind the eye, and connecting the nerve with the positive pole of the battery, while the negative pole was applied to the base of the anterior lobe of the brain, we turned on the current. In a few seconds the face seemed to lose its bluish, waxen appearance, and become suffused with a warm flush as in life; the eyes lost their glassiness, and the eyelids their droop.

As we watched these phenomena with breathless interest we saw with amazement the eyes move in a perfectly natural way from right to left and left to right. Then Professor Grassard drew with his finger an imaginary line on a parallel axis to the eyes of the head, and the eyes slowly followed the motion of the finger.

Speaking for myself, I confess to being positively startled by this unlooked-for result; for anything more weird or awful than the bodiless head rolling its eyes in counterfeit presentment of actual life could hardly be imagined by brain of man. But the climax had not yet been reached; for the next moment the Professor brought his lips on a line with the right ear of the head, and in a clear, distinct voice said:

'If you are conscious of what is being done, make that known to us by blinking your eyelids.'

I had been looking at the face intently as this was said, and I was now absolutely horrified to observe that the eyelids actually did blink. I could endure no more. I seemed to be suffocating. I staggered to the door, flung it open, and, reaching the passage, fell down in a swoon.

When I recovered consciousness, Professor Grassard conveyed me to my residence in his carriage. I saw that he was very grave and thoughtful.

'I think,' he said quietly, as we neared our destination— 'I think our experiments went a little beyond what we intended, for we seem to have brought the dead to life again.'

'Yes,' I answered with a shudder, 'and we have substantiated my theory, that the head of a human being may live for some minutes after its severance from the body; but nothing would ever induce me to undertake such experiments again.

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12: A Tale of the Western Desert

Ernest Favenc

1845-1908

Bendigo Advertiser (Vic) 10 Feb 1894

Favenc was an explorer, journalist, poet and fiction writer who, indeed, explored the upper reaches of the Gascoyne, in 1888. This story is pure fiction. The 1888 expedition returned to base intact.

A PARTY of four of us— three whites and a black boy— while out on a prospecting trip in Western Australia, were induced by likely auriferous indications to push into the interior, far beyond the head of the Gascoyne. We were well equipped, and were especially lucky in the season; so we agreed, although the gold indications had failed, to go on and, if possible, work our way right through the unknown country to Kimberley. We were all experienced bushmen, and, as our horses were in good condition, there was nothing very hazardous in the attempt.

On Sunday, November 22nd, 1891, we were camped at a native well of fairly fresh water, where there was a patch of good feed for the horses, and about a mile away a small salt lake, on which were swans, geese, and other wildfowl. We determined to spell for a week in order to recruit, and, at the same time, do so without encroaching on our rations, as ti game in the lake would support us.

With the exception of the flat on which was the good grass I mentioned, the country was desolate and barren in the extreme, sandy, and covered with spinifex. From a low sandhill not far from our camp a range was just visible to the northwest. It was to this point we determined to steer when we again started How far away it was, we could not determine, but it was a considerable distance, as we could only see it before sunrise and after sunset during the short clear twilight. Dan, the black boy, who came from the coast and did not understand the phenomena of the plains, used to declare that it was no range, but a cloud; and in spite of all our laughter about a cloud remaining always in one place, and always of the same shape, he stuck to his opinion.

At the end of the week we started. From various indications we imagined that we should find it dry ahead, and took what precautions we could. We left as soon as our horses had had their morning drink, and all day rode through an unvarying tract of spinifex plains and low sandhills.

By a great stroke of good luck, we came towards evening to a grassed flat between two sand ridges, where a passing thunderstorm had left a little water in a clay pan. This was just enough for our wants; but, strange to say, even from the top of the sand ridges we could no longer sight the range, although so much nearer to it. This could easily be accounted for by the formation of the country; but Dan, of course, put it down to his cloud theory. From the time we left the salt lake we had not seen a living thing of any sort, not even a lizard.

Next morning we started in the same direction, but still the country remained unchanged. Shortly after mid-day we ascended a sand ridge somewhat higher than usual, and simultaneously all pulled up at the sight in front of us. About two miles ahead was the range we had been steering for, hitherto shut out by the high ridge we were standing on.

A grim, bare, rocky range, with level but somewhat serrated summit running north and south: between us and it was a sand plain, without a vestige of vegetation on it stretching right to the rock at the foot of the range. The whole, under the fierce vertical sun, was so blinding and radiating, that involuntarily we put up our hands, as though shading our faces from the open door of a furnace.

"We'll tackle that later on," said Westall, one of my companions.

We agreed, and retraced our steps to where there were some miserable stunted gums affording a little shade Here we turned out and boiled the billy Whilst we had our meal, after relieving the horses of the packs and water -bags, we discussed our movements, and agreed to ride over to the range and examine it, leaving Dan to mind the other horses.

It appeared, certainly, as though we would have to push back to the salt lake during the night. In the afternoon we rode to the range acrross the belt of bare, blistering sand. It was granite, and beyond its barrier-like formation and surroundings there was nothing uncommon in it.

I turned to ride slowly one way, and Westall and James went the other. In about half an hour I returned to the point where our tracks struck the range, but could see nothing of my companions. I waited some time, and then rode slowly on their tracks. Soon I met James coming back.

"Where is Westall?" I asked.

"Oh, he turned back," he replied; "there's nothing to do, unless go up the range on foot; but Westall said he would go on a little further.

We waited, and as we did there came to our ears an awful cry of agony for help, that simultaneously we both shouted in reply, and pushed forward as fast as the sand would permit. It must have been a terrible cry to have reached us, for seemed to traverse nearly a mile before we came upon Westall— up to his waist in sand, and his horse, from which he had thrown himself over the saddle, in the same. Which bore the most agonised expression, man or horse, it was impossible to say.

The horse was incapable of movement; but Westall could till move his arms. They were in a dry quicksand, and the sand was burning hot. James seemed paralysed; but I, who heard of such things, jumped off, calling him to do the same, and commenced frantically to unbuckle my reins and slip my stirrup-leathers, in response to the despairing yells for help that came to us.

While still engaged in tnis task, the horse, with a scream of pain, disappeared. As fast as we could, we worked; then, approaching as closely as we dared, we threw the substitute for a rope to the wretched man, now nearly up to the I armpits.

It was too short. We tnrew ourselves flat, and felt the uneasy mass of burning sand immediately in front, and thought we could trust it. James got on his knees and tried another cast. This time u was successful. Westall caught the stirrup-iron at the end, and I, too, rose to seize the leather, when, as if determined not to lose its prey, the sand began to heave and work, consequent on the submergence of the horse, and Westall, who must have been mercifully dead with the sudden increased pressure, disappeared.

"Save yourself!" shrieked James; "it's got us."

If by magic, the sand beneath became tremulous and yielding. I was nearest the range, and throwing myself flat once more, commenced to roll toward it. James instinctively started to his feet to run, and was caught, as were the horses.

I reached the range, clutched the burning rock, and dragged myself on it. When I dared look, I wonder I did not go mad. James was digging his hands in the hot sand, striving to drag himself out; and the horses!— one stood quiet, trembling only, while the sweat rained down; the other strove and struggled, and whinnied piteously. And I had to sit there and watch it all, utterly helpless. The only thing I could do was to throw myself in and perish with them. But such a death! I turned face down, and covered my eyes, and tried to stop my ears.

Once I looked. The devilish sand seemed alive with fury or joy, shaking and quaking, and boiling almost. James must have been dead, for he was lying forward with his head on his arms. One of the horses was the same, the other was quiet; and I turned away.

When I looked again, everything had disappeared, only the glowing sand was still full of motion. I was alone.

When at last I regained some mastery over myself, the sun was sinking low. The treacherous, horrible sand was quiescent; but determined to wait until far into the night before seeking a passage; meanwhile, I commenced to make along the rocks to the spot where we struck the range, as being the safest place to attempt it. But I reflected— the hellish thing having been once set in motion, it may be days before it settles down again; meanwhile, Dan will either come to look for us, and perish too, or return to the old camp at the salt lake, and leave me to perish by a more lingering death than that my companions met with.

As this comforting thought struck me, I came upon what seemed a confirmation of my fears. Three skeletons lay on the rocks, and further off I saw the remains of two more natives who had been entrapped like I had. Perhaps a whole tribe had gone under. Surely if they could find no means of escape, what chance had I?

It was more than once I approached the edge of the rocks, meaning to dare the fatal passage; but my courage failed me. The range, as I said, was bare, smooth rock, and I had weighty object with which to test the condition of the sand. At last I thought of the dead bodies, and although the task was sufficiently repulsive, I managed to accomplish it, and dragged them to the edge of the range, and pushed them out on to the quicksand. They lay there unengulfed. Apparently, the way was open.

Still, I was too frightened to trust myself on my feet, and rolled the whole way across to the firm ground. When I got up and looked back, the two bodies had disappeared. I waited for no more, but hurried back to camp.

I explained what had happened to the boy, and he at once became terribly alarmed, and showed the greatest anxiety to leave such a dangerous neighbourhood. We reached the settled country after some days— that is to say, I reached it, for Dan disappeared before then. It will easily be understood that his disappearance was necessary, as if left to tell some garbled tale he might have been the cause of suspicion that I had murdered my mates; our experience having been too startling for ordinary belief.

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13: The Swagman's Dream

Ernest Favenc

Yass Evening Tribune (NSW) 3 Jan 1901

For non-Australians, the "jackasses" in the last paragraph are kookaburras, birds popularly nicknamed "laughing jackasses" at the time.

TWO MEN— two swagmen— met on an out-back road, about an hour or two before sundown, and they squatted down for a smoke, and exchanged confidences.

"You'll strike Hungry Hartford's place about sundown, and I don't envy you. You'll get tucker, such as it is. A pint of weevily flour; it it's beef, you'll get the New England tongue, or it it's mutton, you'll get a scraggy piece of the neck and shoulder. As for the tea, it's all stalks, and as for the sugar it's black with age, and no sweetness in it."

"There should be a law," said No. 2, "compelling squatters to furnish decent rations. How can they expect a man to travel on such cag-mag ?"

"I quite agree with you" said No 1. "They talk about their Early Closing Acts and their Sunday closing, and their this, that, and the other, but how about our rights and privileges? Blow me, if they're regarded in the least. We should have a swagman's member in Parliament."

"We should," said No. 2, "and if I could make a rise I'd go in on that ticket; I can talk as well as most of them."

"You can, Bill, a deuced sight better than most. How would it be to get up a subscription through all the travelling fraternity, to subscribe to a fund to put you in Parliament."

"It might be done, Jim; but they'd all fight over who would be treasurer. Well, so long. I suppose I must put in an appearance at Hungry Hartford's, or I shall get no tucker, bad as it is;" and No 2 resumed his swag and his way.

While discussing Hungry Hartford's rations that night the conversation he had just had kept running in his head. Why should he not put up for Parliament? He was as well educated as the general run of members; he could talk fluently, and had any amount of assuranoe. On reflection, he seemed to possess the usual qualifications, and, thinking over it, he got into his rough bunk, and fell asleep.

"MR. SPEAKER, standing as I do here on the floor of the Parliament House of a great and coming nation, with the dust of honest tramping on my boots, and the taste of bad rations in my mouth."

These were the words that awoke him, and he found himself in the gallery of a large hall, looking down upon a gathering of legislators, one of whom was then addressing the Speaker. The figure of the speaking member was arrayed in the rough dress of a swagman, and at his feet lay his rolled blanket; and then he noticed that there were others amongst the assemblage who were dressed as swagmen and had their swags lying at their feet; but somehow, to his practised eye, these men did not look quite the correct style of thing. But, strangest thing of all, the man who was addressing the House, was himself. It is not often that a man is privileged to look upon himself in the flesh, and this was Bill Denner's strange experience.

His double was still speaking:

"I have the honor to represent a large and important section of the community, and in the same of the community of swagmen, of sundowners, as they are more poetically called, I claim that this bill, authorising a swagmen, when his billy or waterbag leaks, to obtain a new one from any station owner, should be brought forward at once. That it will pass, considering the intellectual status of the legislators of New South Wales, I have not the slightest doubt. Which of you— I ask the question with confidence in tho answer— would like to be stranded on the burning plains of the West, with a leaky billy and a waterbag with holes in it? Not one of you. Then why should these poor men have to suffer the dangers and disadvantages of such a misfortune. I leave the matter in the hands of the House, satisfied that the feelings of humanity, of justice, and of common altruism, will lead to this most necessary bill being at once passed."

Now, during the latter part of this speech Bill Denner had felt a strange kind of compulsory feeling creeping over him, insisting on him going down and interviewing his double. He rose from his seat and passed down the stains, seemingly by a mere act of volition. His feet carried him round, whether he would or no, to a front entrance, and there he came face to face with the other Bill Denner.

The attendants and others took no notice of him, seemingly did not see him, but his counterpart recognised him at once, and seized him eagerly by the hand.

"So you hare come at last," he said. "I'm very glad; I'm getting sick of the job; but I've put you in a good place, old man. Lord, what fun it has been! Mind you keep up to the mark." He took Denner's arm as he spoke and led him outside.

"But," protested Denner, "don't it seem strange for people to see two men be much alike together?"

"Lord, man, no one can see you as long as I have your body. Come along to a quiet place and I'll tell you all I've done."

The pair went on till they came to a small pub. with an empty bark room, and they went in and sat down. The double rang the bell.

"Bring two long beers," he said.

"Two?" said the girl, inquiringly.

"Yes, two. I expect a friend here shortly." The girl brought them in. Then, when she had left the room, Denner poured one down his dry and dusty throat.

"Now fire away," he said.

"Well, you remember when you went to sleep in the traveller's hut at Hungry Hartford's station. In point of fact you went off,in a trance, and I—"

"Was I buried?"

"Yes, you were buried right enough, and Hartford was very mad at your choosing his station to die on. So they didn't bury you deep, and I soon had you out, and thought I'd have a bit of fun in your body. As soon as I appropriated your body I found out what you had been thinking about, and the idea suited me down to the ground. Now, thinks I, if anybody can engineer this job I can."

"But who are you?" demanded Denner.

"Oh, one of the fourth spirits, who are allowed to play these pranks. I went into the thing con amore, and I very soon was returned as a member, ostensibly for Mudville, but in reality in the swagman interest. You'd be astonished how the idea took. The member of the Swagman's Interest became at once an important member of the House. I have got three bills through already— the Improvement of Rations Bill, the Disinfecting Travellers' Huts Bill, and the 4 o'clock Tea Bill, by which any traveller arriving at a station can demand afternoon tea if he comes early. The idea got so popular that other members commenced to copy the notion, and also my dress; but they can't do the real thing, as perhaps you have noticed. Anyway, they commenced to bring dogs in the House to make the thing realistic, but such a series of free fights followed that it had to be stopped. The dogs would fight, and then the members they belonged to would accuse one another of kicking their dogs, and more fights would follow. Now, I have put things in good working order for you, go ahead in the path I have marked out for you, only don't make a mess of things after I have had so much trouble in putting them right. Now, I'll tell you how you stand. I've saved a bit of money for you, living as I have done, nnd I cau't take it with me, for I am going back to the spirit world, here it is, £75; take it, and pocket it. Now, mind your follow my advice, and stick to the path I have chalked out. Good-bye, there is somebody calling me, I must go. Your lodgings are at 47 Duchess Street; the rent is paid for this month. Qood-bye, take care of yourself, for you are a noted man, and a celebrity in Sydney political circles."

Denner felt a sharp twinge of pain, and then he was sitting in the seat occupitd by the stranger, atd he was alone. Wondering much, be picked up the swag on the floor, and hoisting it on his shoulder, made a start out into the street to discover 47 Duchess-street.

With the money in his pocket, he had the sense to avoid the pubs, and reached his lodgings in safety. They were clean and tidy, and he was evidently a much respected man there, and was addressed as Mr. Denner, which was an innovation in a swagman's life.

He went to bed early, and next morning read in the paper the brilliant speech made by Denner, M.L.A., the night before, and he found himself styled the democrat of democrats.

Things went smoothly at first, for he stuck to the advice of his mysterious friend, and kept to the beaten path that was laid out for him. He received a deputation of swagmen, who, after presenting him with a testimonial for the benefits he had already obtained for them, requested him to introduce a bill to enable all swagmen to be provided with bicycles, at the expense of the State.

Gradually, as time went by, there crept over him a fatal longing for a tall hat. He resisted the fascination as long as possible, but at last it grew too strong, and he yielded to it. He bought a tall hat, and in the solitude of his room he tried it on. He looked in the glass, and shuddered. It was impossible to wear a top hat with his swagman's shirt and moleskins; no, he must have his hair and beard cut, and invest in full political rig; a frock coat must follow, or the old dress be retained— a compromise was impossible.

Fearing much, but led on by a fatal impulse, he indulged in the change of garments. As he stood before the glass, and noted his different appearance he seemed to hear an echo of mocking laughter in the room.

When he entered the House that night he was met with covert sneers and weak jokes. His speech fell flat, and as he looked upward he met the reproaching gaze of many swagmen in the gallery.

Next morning the papers alluded to him sb the reformed swagman or the transfigured democrat. From thenceforth his influence departed. Representative swagmen called on him to resign, and, as a final effort, he travelled down to the backblocks, there to address a meeting of his constituents. There was a large gathering, and a very indignant one, and he quailed as he saw a vista of swagmen of all ages and sizes, all angry, all indignant, and all crowding up to the balcony with missiles in their hands.

"Call yourself a democratic swagman," they roared, "and wear a top hat and frock coat! Ugh!"

And then a shower of missiles of all sorts were rained on him, and he felt himself struck on the head. He started, and the whole scene disappeared from view.

HE WAS lying in the travellers' hut at Hungry Hartford's, and the grey dawn was slowly stealing through the chinks in the slabs.

"What a dream ."' he muttered. "No, I don't think I'll try to get into Parliament as the swagmen's member. Doesn't suit me."

He rolled up his swag and marched off aloog the road just as the jackasses were beginning their morning song.

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14: The Drought Demons

Ernest Favenc

Evening News (Sydney), 30 April 1898

THE river had long ceased running, the water holes were few and far between, and the cattle had worn long, dusty pads in and out to their feeding grounds, gradually working further and further up the ranges that bounded the valley through which the river ran.

The drought showed no signs of breaking up. True, thunderstorms gathered, and grew black and threatening; but in the end they melted away in idle bluster; a few heavy drops of rain, a flash or two of lightning, some heavy peels of thunder, and then a storm of drifting, blinding dust. All day the whirlwinds stalked over the burnt country, tall, revolving black columns; and, all night the stars shone out of a cloudless sky, bright, clear, and pitiless.

No moisture was in the air in the early morning, no dew spangled the tussocks of white, dry grass, that here and there survived— all was desolate under the cruel sun that lorded it all the day. The station horses were too poor to work, even if there had been anything to do, but sit down and wait for the rain, which, seemed as though it would never visit that portion of the earth again.

It was on an out-station in North Queensland that two men were doomed to keep each other company during this dreary period of heat and enforced idleness. The elder man managed to pass the time fairly well, plaiting green-hide into whips, bridles, and hobbles; the younger, whose tastes did not lie that way, after one or two ineffectual attempts to learn the knack of it, gave it up, and read the two or three tattered novels on the place for the tenth or twelfth time.

'Bob,' he said one morning, 'I shall assuredly go mad if this lasts much longer. What do you say if we take a trip up to the head of the river?'

'What for?' asked Bob.

'Just to see where it comes from. You remember when we followed it up to a gorge twelve months ago, and were blocked by a waterhole. That hole must be pretty dry. now, and we can get up higher.'

'What's the good,' muttered Bob, tugging at his plaits; 'only knocking horses about for nothing— and they're as fat as fools now; aren't they?' he added sarcastically.

'Oh! if we go steady, it wont hurt them. I'm dead sick of staying here doing nothing; we might find something interesting.'

'Pooh! This river just heads from the coast range just like all the others. There can't be anything new about it.'

'I don't know. That range seemed very curious to me, and I've had a hankering to get through that gorge ever since we were up there. Will you come?'

'Oh! I suppose so. We may as well do something to earn our rations. You can run some horses up from the four-mile bend this afternoon. I saw their tracks there the other day.'

The next morning the two men started, taking a packhorse with them, as they anticipated being away at least three days.

THREE days passed, and three hungry dogs at the out-station looked vainly for their return, and consulted together as to the feasibility of going out calf-killing. Three more passed, and the lean and famished dogs held a council of war, but could decide nothing, until one of them hit on the happy thought of shifting their quarters over to the head station, eighteen miles away.

In consequence the residents there were astonished by the advent of three famished spectres, who were recognised as three out of the four dogs belonging to the out-station; the fourth had gone with the two men. Something was wrong evidently, and the manager and another man started over at once, well-armed, thinking the blacks might have raided the place.

It was dark when they arrived; but the slab hut, with its grey roof of bark, stood there, silent and lifeless, with no sign of any tragedy having taken place. There was a half-moon, and the night was bright and clear. They dismounted, and, knowing the secret of the clumsy latch, opened the door and entered. The manager struck a match, and surveyed the empty interior. As if the light had aroused something, a long, dismal, melancholy howl arose from the river, about a hundred yards away. Again and again it sounded, and the two stared at each other, until the match burned the superintendent's fingers, and he dropped it hastily.

'Surely that wasn't a dingo?' he asked. 'Didn't sound like one; but what else was it?'

'Blessed if I know. 'Twasn't a man, anyhow. Try if you can find the slush lamp; we'll make up a fire and boil our quarts.'

The lamp was trimmed, and a fire lighted, the quarts were put on, and the horses hobbled out to pick up such dry stuff as was left. The deserted hut had a weird, uncanny appearance, and dark shadows seemed to hide in the corners, dimly illuminated by the flickering flame.

'I wish it was morning; we can do nothing till then,' said Greenwood, the manager.

Of a sudden the cry arose again; but now it came swiftly towards the house, and with it came a sound like the beat of heavy wings. Both men had faced death in their lives, and were plucky enough; but now they were fairly stricken still with fright. And the cry came near, and circled round the hut, and the beat or the heavy wings accompanied it; and the wings seemed to flap against the walls, as though the wailing thing was trying to find entrance to the light.

'Come on, Dick!' cried Greenwood, in desperation; and flinging open the door, he rushed out, followed by his companion.

In the still, calm air the trees stood erect and motionless— not a bough or leaf stirred. The vertical moon searched every spot; but all around there was no sign of anything. The beat .of the huge wings was silent; but a sound came from a distant belt of scrub like some strange being sobbing in great distress. The horses were standing still, sulking over the absence of feed, and did not appear to have been startled.

'We must tie them up to-night,' said Dick, breaking the silence, 'or they'll be miles away in the morning.'

'What on earth was that thing?' answered Greenwood, unheeding, and straining his senses to catch any sound or murmur; but all was quiet.

'Yes; tie them up, Dick,' said the manager, recovering himself. 'Tie them up in the verandah. They'll be company for us.'

He laughed mirthlessly, and after the horses had been secured they turned into the hut, and commenced their interrupted meal.

The night passed without their being disturbed, and by the first dawn the men were mounted, and glad to lose sight of the hut, where they had had such  a dreary experience. They managed to pick up the tracks of the two men, and follow them up the river, until they got beyond the tracks of the horses' feeding grounds; then it was pretty easy work, for it was soon evident that the men were following the river for some purpose or other.

It was late in the afternoon when they reached a narrow gorge in the range, through which the river descended, and here their progress was blocked by a long and, apparently, deep waterhole, with sheer rocks rising on each side of it; but, strange to say, although they tracked the two right up to the water's edge, there were no return tracks.

Greenwood gazed at the water in perplexity. The sides were steep and inaccessible. Unless they had gone over the range, they could not have got round the hole. But then there was no turning back; the tracks went straight into the water, and were lost.

'They must have swum their horses across; but what for?'

It was getting late and their horses had had no feed the night before, so it was impossible to do anything more that night. Fortunately, Dick had noticed a patch of grass at the entrance of the gorge, and they went back there, and turned their hungry horses out and camped.

All night the silence was unbroken. No weird cries disturbed their restless naps, and no phantoms came to their camp, beating the air with invisible wings.

In the morning Greenwood determined to leave their horses where they were, there being no sign of blacks about, and try and get over the side of the gorge on foot. This they did, and in due course arrived at a point from which they could see the end of the water-hole, and some of the country beyond. But to theirs astonishment the end was impassable, blocked up by huge boulders and fallen rocks, a complete barricade.

'Whoever went in that hole never came out at the end,' said Dick.'

Greenwood examined the place carefully. '

'It seems to me that those rocks have fallen recently. There's been a landslip lately.'

'Perhaps since they went through, and they can't get back,' suggested Dick. 'They would have managed it on foot; more likely the landslip caught them and their horses. Let's get as close as we can.'

They clambered on until they were right over the ruin below, and in sight of the country beyond the gorge.

A terrible looking place it was too, a barren, rocky basin, seemingly without vegetation of any sort. The course of the river could still be traced, showing a little water at intervals. But the singular thing about the landscape was that it was dotted over, with isolated, fantastic-looking rocks that took little imagination to conjure into eccentric and devilish forms, most of them like huge bats with extended wings.

'Blow me!' said Dick, 'but I never see'd rocks like that before.'

'Nor I either. Let's see if we can get down and find any tracks.'

After some trouble they reached the lower ground, and stood at the upper end of the water hole that blocked the gorge, above the huge mass of debris and rocks that formed an impassable barricade. Just above this Greenwood drew his companion's attention to a spring issuing from the scarred face of the cliff.

'I have it,' he said, after a little consideration. 'That hole was nearly dry when they came here, and they rode through it easily, then came this landslip, and that spring broke out and filled the hole up again.'

'We ought to find them up here then?'

'I'm afraid something has happened; they could have got back the way we came.'

'Dashed queer-looking place,' said Dick, looking round. Now that they were down in the basin the outlook was more weird than from up above. The strange isolated rocks rose up in front of them like an army of grotesque forms suddenly turned into stone. Greenwood went over to examine one of them. His footsteps made a hollow ring rise from the bare, flat rock, as though it was cavernous. He called Dick over.

'These things are easily accounted for,' he said. 'There's a soft stratum in this rock, and in heavy floods this flat we are on is all submerged, and that stratum has been washed away, and the hard rock left, standing. Look! there are one or two where the soft stuff has been washed clean away, and the rock has tumbled over.'

He pointed out the objects he was speaking of, but Dick, after looking at them, suddenly exclaimed, 'What's that there, Mr. Greenwood? There's something lying there as isn't a rock.'

They hastened over to it, and found to their dismay the clean-picked skeleton of a horse.

'Twasn't the crows did that, or dingoes either,' said Dick after a long pause. 'Besides there's no sign of them about.'

Both men stood silent and listened, but the stillness was unbroken by even the common sounds of the bush.

'Not a scrap of anything left but the bones,' remarked Greenwood, after examining the remains. 'Do you think it is one of theirs?'

Dick looked puzzled. Then he stooped down and examined one of the feet.

'It's old Ranger,' he said. 'See this crack in his hoof. When I was over a fortnight ago I put a shoe on for Bob to stop Ranger going lame. This is the shoe.'

'It's no good looking for tracks on this hard rock, but we must have a search round, anyhow. Don't get out of hearing, but cooee to me occasionally, and I'll answer. Fire a shot if you want me.'

The men parted and soon lost sight of each other amongst the standing pinnacles, but kept touch of each other's whereabouts by calling out at intervals. Presently Greenwood heard a shot, and going in the direction found Dick standing over the skeleton of a dog. Like the other the bones were picked clean and bare.

'Wonder how many horses they had with them?' said Dick.

'Wonder what sort of thing it is that has done this. It's not been done by anything in the bush that we know of, and I don't think there's much we don't know of.'

'By jingo! suppose they tackle our horses while we are away,' said Dick, and the thought made both men start.

'We must find something of Bob and young Daly before we leave,' returned Greenwood firmly, 'or come back to-morrow and keep on until we do. Whatever's left of them must be about here. We'll follow the river for a bit; it's early in the day yet.'

They followed the river up for a couple of miles, and found it only a channel worn in the solid rock, which spread on either side. No soil, no trees, nothing but the strange pinnacles all around them. They saw the ranges closing in ahead, and turned back without having found any clue.

'I have often wondered why this river came down so quickly,' said Greenwood.  'The water would accumulate in this barren, rocky basin and burst through the gorge with a rush ? '

'By God! there's Bob,' suddenly interrupted Dick, running forward and calling Greenwood followed him, and found him wondering and perplexed.

'I'll swear I saw him as plain as I can see you, and he seemed to dodge behind one of these rocks, and now he ain't here.'

'It's strange he didn't answer you and come to us.'

'Strange. The old fellow must have got a touch of the sun and gone dotty. I've heard that they keep away when they are like that.'

'At any rate we must get on. If you saw him he must have seen and heard you.'

'If,' muttered Dick, aggrieved. 'I tell you, Mr. Greenwood, I did see him. Bob! Bob Blackburn!' he shouted.

Every echo in the ranges shouted back, 'Bob! Bob Blackburn!' but the cries were only echoes, and the two started again.

'There he is!' exclaimed Greenwood. 'You were right, Dick. Blackburn, here we are!'

He had gone again. They looked round every pinnacle and rock, but he was not in hiding anywhere.

Astonished and somewhat uneasy, the two resumed their way, and all the way to the gorge the mysterious figure appeared ahead, to first one, then the other, of them, and when they reached the gorge both saw it standing on the top of the tumbled rocks and boulders, and there it vanished.

The two looked at each other, and whispered awe-struck, 'You saw it too.'

Their nerves were getting a bit unhinged, but after a little they rallied.

'We must search these rocks,' said Greenwood. 'You saw where that thing disappeared?'

'Yes, what was it? It was Bob, and it wasn't Bob. However, we'll find out.'

Talking pretty loudly to keep one another's courage up, the two men commenced to climb the mass of fallen boulders to reach the place where they had seen the figure standing.

At times a boulder slipped and rolled down with a rumbling sound, and it was after one of these mishaps and some bad language from Dick, who had slipped, that they heard a cry, a voice seemingly calling for help. It seemed to float all round them; they could not locate it.

'It was a human voice, at any rate,' said Greenwood, and he shouted loudly in answer.

Again came the cry, but now they were on the watch, and were able to place it.

'It comes from underneath,' said Dick. 'One of 'em is buried alive.'

They were now close to the spot where. the wraith had been seen, and a little search soon showed a rift, opening into a cavity under their feet. Greenwood stooped down and shouted,

'Any one there?'

His voice rumbled round the opening, which was apparently of some size, and an answer came back, '

Yes; Daly!'

It seemed some distance below, and Greenwood called out to know if it were safe to drop.

'I'm afraid not,' returned the imprisoned man. 'I'll crawl underneath, and you can judge.'

'What's the matter?'

'My leg's hurt; we got buried by a fall of rocks; but one big one has fallen across and saved me.'

'Where's Bob?' cried out Dick.

'He was killed, I hope. But something came and took him out. But I will tell you all. First get me out, get me out of this.'

After a time the entombed man stood beneath them, and by means of their belts and a handkerchief they managed to ascertain that there was nearly twelve feet of a drop.

'You're the strongest man, and I am the lightest,' said Dick; 'I'll drop down— you can lower me as far as you can.'

Greenwood lay down, and Dick lowered himself down and hung on by the edge of the hole; then Greenwood took his wrists and lowered him as far as he could and Dick reached the bottom safely.

'How have you lived all this time?' he asked.

'The pack-horse was killed too, and I managed to get the bags off, and there's water here.'

'How do you propose to get out?' shouted Greenwood, from the top.

'Hanged if I know. Daly can only stand on one leg, and he's mighty shaky. Could you cut some saplings, and—'

'Saplings!' retorted Greenwood.' 'You know there's nothing here but rocks.

'Pile some rocks up,' said the wounded man. 'I commenced to do it, but had to give up.'

'That's the only way, unless you wait here another night.'

'No!' called out Daly, in a voice of terror, 'it's at night if comes. Not another night.'

'Go ahead, Dick,' shouted Greenwood. 'I'll collect some on top as well, and drop them down. Stand from under when I sing out.'

The two men worked hard, for the afternoon was now wearing on, and at last had a heap high enough to enable Dick to assist Daly to crawl to the top, and from there Greenwood was able to reach down and help him, and they got him out. He was worn and haggard from pain and misery, but they forbore to ask him any questions, only Greenwood descended into the hole and examined it.

A great slab of the cliff seemed to have fallen forward, and got chocked in a leaning position. The rocks and rubble had rolled off this and blocked the sides. Daly called out to him to look at the lowest end behind the stones, and he would find the pack bags, tomahawk, and surcingle. Greenwood struck some matches, and by their aid found a sort of barricade of stones erected, and behind the articles specified. He handed them up, and followed himself.

'What was that barricade for?' he asked Daly.

'To hide from the thing that comes at night. It took away Bob and the horses.'

They asked no more, but set to work to help the hurt man away. It was a hard task, but, thanks to the moon, they succeeded in getting him over the range, and found the camp as they had left it.  The horses had not strayed away, and, as Greenwood said, they were luckier than they deserved to be.

The next morning; after a sound sleep, Daly felt somewhat recovered and told his story.

'WHEN we came to the waterhole in the gorge, we found it quite shallow, not over our horses' knees, so we rode through it, meaning to camp on the top side of the gorge. When we got in sight of the open country we saw that it was all flat rock, and no place to camp, so we pulled up and were talking of coming back here, to this place, which he had noticed, when there was a tremendous crash, and the cliff seemed to fall in on us. We were knocked down by the stones, for the big rock did not touch us, but in fact saved my life. I believe they were all killed at once, Bob, the horses, and the dog. I was bruised, but the worst blow I got was this one on my ankle. As I lay there, half stunned and stupid, I heard the rocks raining down on the huge slab that protected me, until at last it grew darker, and I knew that I was completely shut in, I got up, and found that I could only stand on one leg. I limped about, and at last got underneath the opening, and wondered if I could get out. The moon was not very strong, then, so I had to wait till morning, at daylight l commenced to look about, and saw poor old Bob and the horses and dog all lying in the dim light, quite still; just where they had fallen before the big slab came down and saved them from being crushed. Then I began to collect stones to make a stand to clamber out through the hole, but I hurt my foot trying to stand on it, and had to give over. I took the bags off the pack-horse, and that night the thing came.

'I first heard a cry, far away, come nearer and nearer... It was not a human cry, but like nothing I have heard before. It came close, I heard a noise like the beating of great wings, and then something, commenced to clamber up the rocks outside, . and there was noise like sobbing; then the hole was darkened; and presently I heard something rustling and crawling about the place inside. I crouched in the leaning corner as far as I could, and then I heard the noise of something being dragged, along the rock, then the light came back through the hole, and I heard the howling again. This time it was answered; other things came up howling and crying, and once more the hole was darkened, and the dragging sound recommenced. Sometimes the thing crawling about seemed to come quite close to me, but it never touched me.  At last the light of the stars was visible once more, and with great crying and the flapping of many wings the things departed; but for a long time I heard the wailing -noise they made.

'In the morning I saw to my horror that Bob and the horses and dog had been taken away. I tried all I knew to get out, but only made my ankle worse, and I felt like blowing my brains out, for I saw no hope of anyone coming to my assistance. But I thought I'd stick to life as long as I could, for surely I could manage to make a hole somehow amongst the loose stones. So I gathered all the boulders I could crawl with and barricaded the low end of the cavern, for I was sure the horrid things would come back again. They did; every night there has been hooting and calling, and something rustling and searching about the cave. Whatever it was they could not get in altogether; but I think the awful things had a trunk that they thrust in, and it was not long enough to reach me. How I lived through it I don't know. It has put its mark on me for my life.'

After some further questions, Greenwood told Daly of the experiences he and Dick had been through, the winged thing that came to the hut, which was evidently one of the creatures that had been at the cave; how the ghostly appearance of poor Bob Blackburn led them to the opening, but for which probably he would not have been found.

'Then,' finished Greenwood grimly, 'I'm going to find out what these things are.'

'Take me home first,' cried Daly; 'I can stand no more.'

'Yes, we must go home first; there are a few things I want to prepare. Dick, you'll see the matter out?'

'Rather,' returned Dick, with force and brevity.

By easy stages, they took Daly to the head station, and then Greenwood made his preparations for a start.

The story, of course, had been told, and talked of, and the evening before Dick and he and a third volunteer were going to start, his black boy came to him with a tale he had heard from an old gin. No blacks went up that river now, though once, right, at the head of it, a large tribe used to camp; for there was a big lagoon there with fish and ducks in plenty.

One year it was fearfully dry, and some strange things came to the lagoon, flying things that killed the blacks, and sucked all their flesh away. The fish died in the lagoon, for the water turned black and stinking, the trees around it died; and what natives were left fled for their lives. Then the story went amongst the blacks that these awful things only came out when there had been no rain for. a long, long time, and only when the rain came did they leave for the unknown places they came from.  The description given of these creatures by the old gin was vague; but it agreed with what Greenwood had guessed.

THE NEXT morning they started. After some trouble they found a way up the range, by which they could take their horses, and following the range round they finally arrived at the river again, having thus gone round one side of the rocky basin. Just beyond should lie the lagoon, if there was any truth in the blacks' yarn. Expectantly, they looked over the crest, of the range, and there, sure enough, was a dismal black lagoon, surrounded by skeleton trees, in the midst of a barren, desolate tract of land. No sign of life was visible.

They descended but could not approach the water, as the ground became marshy and boggy. The whole country seemed under a blight and a curse: Once Greenwood thought he saw a dark, undulating body rise above the gloomy surface, but he was never sure. His plans were formed, he had only come to make certain of the lagoon's existence. They turned their horses' heads back, and returned to their old camp at the end of the first gorge.

The next day they, were busy at work at the cave where Daly had been entombed. Having finished their work there, they repaired to the side opposite to where the hind slip had been, and after some trouble made a rude pathway, by which a lower ledge could be reached. Greenwood had brought a coil of fuse and some dynamite cartridges, intended for timber-splitting. He was going to try its effects on a little trap, he had thought of. The edge of the fallen slab looked very shaky, a charge might start it, and if so it would pin down any animal or thing with its head in the hole.

It was a brilliant moonlight night, now only a few days before full moon, when the watches took their position on the cliff, Greenwood being concealed: on the ledge, where the fuse terminated.

At last, the hooting and the beat of wings was heard; and in the moonlight they saw a huge dark shape come in sight, and drop on its feet at the side of the hole. Still bent on getting its victim, it thrust the long trunk it had into the aperture, and commenced to explore it, its enormous black bulk standing clearly defined, the wings propping at its sides. Dick nearly uttered an exclamation, for there was a stealthy step at his side. But it was only Greenwood, who had lit the fuse and joined them for safety.'

Some anxious minutes passed, then, the horrible thing lifted its head, and gave vent to the howls they had heard before. Greenwood was afraid, that the cartridges might explode while the thing had its head raised, but it plunged it in once more, and, as it did so, the explosion rang out, and the huge slab slipped down, and pinned it there.

The din that arose was awful. From far away came swift approaching hoots in answer to the cries of their desperate and struggling companion. They assembled round him to the number of half-a-dozen or so, and a babel of sound came up.

The men crouched in terror, dreading discovery when there suddenly came a loud crack and a dull grinding noise, followed by an almighty crash. The explosion had started another fall in the opposite cliff, and an avalanche came crashing on the monsters. A cloud of dust arose, thick with waiting cries; then followed another fall.

Out of the dust reek, Greenwood saw some gigantic form emerge, and sail away with a thunderous beating of wings, and then the cloud cleared and settled, but all was quiet down below, only the cliff they were on still seemed to rock with the  concussion. The gorge was piled half full of rocks and rubble, but the creatures who had been caught in the fall were buried under tons and tons of rock.

The next day the rain clouds burst in fury, and since then the drought-demons have never been seen.

Only a white-headed man named Daly still tells to everyone who will listen his strange story. He is slightly deranged, and has been ever since that time.

___________________

15: The Case of Mrs Helmer

Robert W. Chambers

1865-1933

Harper's Monthly Magazine, Oct 1904

HE HAD really been too ill to go; the penetrating dampness of the studio, the nervous strain, the tireless application, all had told on him heavily. But the feverish discomfort in his head and lungs gave him no rest; it was impossible to lie there in bed and do nothing; besides, he did not care to disappoint his hostess. So he managed to crawl into his clothes, summon a cab, and depart. The raw night air cooled his head and throat; he opened the cab window and let the snow blow in on him.

When he arrived he did not feel much better, although Catharine was glad to see him. Somebody's wife was allotted to him to take in to dinner, and he executed the commission with that distinction of manner peculiar to men of his temperament.

When the women had withdrawn and the men had lighted cigars and cigarettes, and the conversation wavered between municipal reform and contes drolatiques, and the Boznovian attaché had begun an interminable story, and Count Fantozzi was emphasizing his opinion of women by joining the tips of his overmanicured thumb and forefinger and wafting spectral kisses at an annoyed Englishman opposite, Helmer laid down his unlighted cigar and, leaning over, touched his host on the sleeve.

"Hello! What's up, Philip?" said his host cordially; and Helmer, dropping his voice a tone below the sustained pitch of conversation, asked him the question that had been burning his feverish lips since dinner began.

To which his host replied, "What girl do you mean?" and bent nearer to listen.

"I mean the girl in the fluffy black gown, with shoulders and arms of ivory, and the eyes of Aphrodite."

His host smiled. "Where did she sit, this human wonder?"

"Beside Colonel Farrar."

"Farrar? Let's see"— he knit his brows thoughtfully, then shook his head. "I can't recollect; we're going in now and you can find her and I'll—"

His words were lost in the laughter and hum around them; he nodded an abstracted assurance at Helmer; others claimed his attention, and by the time he rose to signal departure he had forgotten the girl in black.

As the men drifted toward the drawing-rooms, Helmer moved with the throng. There were a number of people there whom he knew and spoke to, although through the increasing feverishness he could scarce hear himself speak. He was too ill to stay; he would find his hostess and ask the name of that girl in black, and go.

The white drawing-rooms were hot and over-thronged. Attempting to find his hostess, he encountered Colonel Farrar, and together they threaded their way aimlessly forward.

"Who is the girl in black, Colonel?" he asked; "I mean the one that you took in to dinner."

"A girl in black? I don't think I saw her."

"She sat beside you!"

"Beside me?" The Colonel halted, and his inquiring gaze rested for a moment on the younger man, then swept the crowded rooms.

"Do you see her now?" he asked.

"No," said Helmer, after a moment.

They stood silent for a little while, then parted to allow the Chinese minister thoroughfare— a suave gentleman, all antique silks, and a smile "thousands of years old." The minister passed, leaning on the arm of the general commanding at Governor's Island, who signaled Colonel Farrar to join them; and Helmer drifted again, until a voice repeated his name insistently, and his hostess leaned forward from the brilliant group surrounding her, saying: "What in the world is the matter, Philip? You look wretchedly ill."

"It's a trifle close here— nothing's the matter."

He stepped nearer, dropping his voice: "Catharine, who was that girl in black?"

"What girl?"

"She sat beside Colonel Farrar at dinner— or I thought she did—"

Do you mean Mrs. Van Siclen? She is in white, silly!"

"No— the girl in black."

His hostess bent her pretty head in perplexed silence, frowning a trifle with the effort to remember.

"There were so many," she murmured; "let me see— it is certainly strange that I cannot recollect. Wait a moment! Are you sure she wore black? Are you sure she sat next to Colonel Farrar?"

"A moment ago I was certain—" he said, hesitating. "Never mind, Catherine; I'll prowl about until I find her."

His hostess, already partly occupied with the animated stir around her, nodded brightly; Helmer turned his fevered eyes and then his steps toward the cool darkness of the conservatories.

But he found there a dozen people who greeted him by name, demanding not only his company but his immediate and undivided attention.

"Mr. Helmer might be able to explain to us what his own work means," said a young girl, laughing.

They had evidently been discussing his sculptured group, just completed for the new façade of the National Museum. Press and public had commented very freely on the work since the unveiling a week since; critics quarreled concerning the significance of the strange composition in marble. The group was at the same time repellent and singularly beautiful; but nobody denied its technical perfection. This was the sculptured group: A vaquero, evidently dying, lay in a loose heap among some desert rocks. Beside him, chin on palm, sat an exquisite winged figure, calm eyes fixed on the dying man. It was plain that death was near; it was stamped on the ravaged visage, on the collapsed frame. And yet, in the dying boy's eyes there was nothing of agony, no fear, only an intense curiosity as the lovely winged figure gazed straight into the glazing eyes.

"It may be," observed an attractive girl, "that Mr. Helmer will say with Mr. Gilbert,

"'It is really very clever,

But I don't know what it means.'"

Helmer laughed and started to move away. "I think I'd better admit that at once," he said, passing his hand over his aching eyes; but the tumult of protest blocked his retreat, and he was forced to find a chair under the palms and tree ferns. "It was merely an idea of mine," he protested, good-humoredly, "an idea that has haunted me so persistently that, to save myself further annoyance, I locked it up in marble."

"Demoniac obsession?" suggested a very young man, with a taste for morbid literature.

"Not at all," protested Helmer, smiling; "the idea annoyed me until I gave it expression. It doesn't bother me any more."

"You said," observed the attractive girl, "that you were going to tell us all about it."

"About the idea? Oh no, I didn't promise that—"

"Please, Mr. Helmer!"

A number of people had joined the circle; he could see others standing here and there among the palms, evidently pausing to listen.

"There is no logic in the idea," he said, uneasily— "nothing to attract your attention. I have only laid a ghost—"

He stopped short. The girl in black stood there among the others, intently watching him. When she caught his eye, she nodded with the friendliest little smile; and as he started to rise she shook her head and stepped back with a gesture for him to continue.

They looked steadily at one another for a moment.

"The idea that has always attracted me," he began slowly, "is purely instinctive and emotional, not logical. It is this: As long as I can remember I have taken it for granted that a person who is doomed to die, never dies utterly alone. We who die in our beds— or expect to— die surrounded by the living. So fall soldiers on the firing line; so end the great majority— never absolutely alone. Even in a murder, the murderer at least must be present. If not, something else is there.

"But how is it with those solitary souls isolated in the world— the lone herder who is found lifeless in some vast, waterless desert, the pioneer whose bones are stumbled over by the tardy pickets of civilization— and even those nearer us— here in our city— who are found in silent houses, in deserted streets, in the solitude of salt meadows, in the miserable desolation of vacant lands beyond the suburbs?"

The girl in black stood motionless, watching him intently.

"I like to believe," he went on, "that no living creature dies absolutely and utterly alone. I have thought that, perhaps in the desert, for instance, when a man is doomed, and there is no chance that he could live to relate the miracle, some winged sentinel from the uttermost outpost of Eternity, putting off the armor of invisibility, drops through space to watch beside him so that he may not die alone."

There was absolute quiet in the circle around him. Looking always at the girl in black, he said:

"Perhaps those doomed on dark mountains or in solitary deserts, or the last survivor at sea, drifting to certain destruction after the wreck has foundered, finds death no terror, being guided to it by those invisible to all save the surely doomed. That is really all that suggested the marble— quite illogical, you see."

In the stillness, somebody drew a long, deep breath; the easy reaction followed; people moved, spoke together in low voices; a laugh rippled up out of the darkness. But Helmer had gone, making his way through the half light toward a figure that moved beyond through the deeper shadows of the foliage— moved slowly and more slowly. Once she looked back, and he followed, pushing forward and parting the heavy fronds of fern and palm and masses of moist blossoms. Suddenly he came upon her, standing there as though waiting for him.

"There is not a soul in this house charitable enough to present me," he began.

"Then," she answered laughingly, "charity should begin at home. Take pity on yourself— and on me. I have waited for you."

"Did you really care to know me?" he stammered.

"Why am I here alone with you?" she asked, bending above a scented mass of flowers. "Indiscretion may be a part of valor, but it is the best part of— something else."

That blue radiance which a starless sky sheds lighted her white shoulders; transparent shadow veiled the contour of neck and cheeks.

"At dinner," he said, "I did not mean to stare so— but I simply could not keep my eyes from yours—"

"A hint that mine were on yours, too?"

She laughed a little laugh so sweet that the sound seemed part of the twilight and the floating fragrance. She turned gracefully, holding out her hand.

"Let us be friends," she said, "after all these years."

Her hand lay in his for an instant; then she withdrew it and dropped it caressingly upon a cluster of massed flowers.

"Forced bloom," she said, looking down at them, where her fingers, white as the blossoms, lay half buried. Then, raising her head, "You do not know me, do you?"

Know you?" he faltered; "how could I know you? Do you think for a moment that I could have forgotten you?"

"Ah, you have not forgotten me!" she said, still with her wide smiling eyes on his; "you have not forgotten. There is a trace of me in the winged figure you cut in marble—not the features, not the massed hair, not the rounded neck and limbs—but in the eyes. Who living, save yourself, can read those eyes?"

"Are you laughing at me?"

"Answer me; who alone in all the world can read the message in those sculptured eyes?"

"Can you?" he asked, curiously troubled. "Yes; I, and the dying man in marble."

"What do you read there?"

"Pardon for guilt. You have foreshadowed it unconsciously—the resurrection of the soul. That is what you have left in marble for the mercilessly just to ponder on; that alone is the meaning of your work."

Through the throbbing silence he stood thinking, searching his clouded mind.

"The eyes of the dying man are your own," she said. "Is it not true?"

And still he stood there, groping, probing through dim and forgotten corridors of thought toward a faint memory scarcely perceptible in the wavering mirage of the past.

"Let us talk of your career," she said, leaning back against the thick foliage— "your success, and all that it means to you," she added gaily.

He stood staring at the darkness. "You have set the phantoms of forgotten things stirring and whispering together somewhere within me. Now tell me more; tell me the truth."

"You are slowly reading it in my eyes," she said, laughing sweetly. "Read and remember."

The fever in him seared his sight as he stood there, his confused gaze on hers.

"Is it a threat of hell you read in the marble?" he asked.

"No, no thing of destruction, only resurrection and hope of Paradise. Look at me closely."

"Who are you?" he whispered, closing his eyes to steady his swimming senses. "When have we met?"

"You were very young," she said under her breath— "and I was younger— and the rains had swollen the Canadian river so that it boiled amber at the fords; and I could not cross— alas!"

A moment of stunning silence, then her voice again: "I said nothing, not a word even of thanks when you offered aid…. I— was not too heavy in your arms, and the ford was soon passed— soon passed. That was very long ago." Watching him from shadowy sweet eyes, she said:

"For a day you knew the language of my mouth and my arms around you, there in the white sun glare of the river. For every kiss taken and retaken, given and forgiven, we must account— for every one, even to the last.

"But you have set a monument for us both, preaching the resurrection of the soul. Love is such a little thing— and ours endured a whole day long! Do you remember? Yet He who created love, designed that it should last a lifetime. Only the lost outlive it."

She leaned nearer:

"Tell me, you who have proclaimed the resurrection of dead souls, are you afraid to die?"

Her low voice ceased; lights broke out like stars through the foliage around them; the great glass doors of the ballroom were opening; the illuminated fountain flashed, a falling shower of silver. Through the outrush of music and laughter swelling around them, a clear far voice called "Françoise!"

Again, close by, the voice rang faintly, "Françoise! Françoise!"

She slowly turned, staring into the brilliant glare beyond.

"Who called?" he asked hoarsely.

"My mother," she said, listening intently. "Will you wait for me?"

His ashen face glowed again like a dull ember. She bent nearer, and caught his fingers in hers.

"By the memory of our last kiss, wait for me!" she pleaded, her little hand tightening on his.

"Where?" he said, with dry lips. "We cannot talk here!— we cannot say here the things that must be said."

"In your studio," she whispered. "Wait for me."

"Do you know the way?"

"I tell you I will come; truly I will! Only a moment with my mother— then I will be there!"

Their hands clung together an instant, then she slipped away into the crowded rooms; and after a moment Helmer followed, head bent, blinded by the glare.

"You are ill, Philip," said his host, as he took his leave. "Your face is as ghastly as that dying vaquero's— by Heaven, man, you look like him!"

"Did you find your girl in black?" asked his hostess curiously.

"Yes," he said; "good night."

The air was bitter as he stepped out—bitter as death. Scores of carriage lamps twinkled as he descended the snowy steps, and a faint gust of music swept out of the darkness, silenced as the heavy doors closed behind him.

He turned west, shivering. A long smear of light bounded his horizon as he pressed toward it and entered the sordid avenue beneath the iron arcade which was even now trembling under the shock of an oncoming train. It passed overhead with a roar; he raised his hot eyes and saw, through the tangled girders above, the illuminated disk of the clock tower all distorted—for the fever in him was disturbing everything—even the cramped and twisted street into which he turned, fighting for breath like a man stabbed through and through.

"What folly!" he said aloud, stopping short in the darkness. "This is fever— all this. She could not know where to come—"

Where two blind alleys cut the shabby block, worming their way inward from the avenue and from Tenth Street, he stopped again, his hands working at his coat.

"It is fever, fever!" he muttered. "She was not there."

There was no light in the street save for the red fire lamp burning on the corner, and a glimmer from the Old Grapevine Tavern across the way. Yet all around him the darkness was illuminated with pale unsteady flames, lighting him as he groped through the shadows of the street to the blind alley. Dark old silent houses peered across the paved lane at their aged counterparts, waiting for him.

And at last he found a door that yielded, and he stumbled into the black passageway, always lighted on by the unsteady pallid flames which seemed to burn in infinite depths of night.

"She was not there— she was never there," he gasped, bolting the door and sinking down upon the floor. And, as his mind wandered, he raised his eyes and saw the great bare room growing whiter and whiter under the uneasy flames.

"It will burn as I burn," he said aloud— for the phantom flames had crept into his body.

Suddenly he laughed, and the vast studio rang again.

"Hark!" he whispered, listening intently. "Who knocked?"

There was someone at the door; he managed to raise himself and drag back the bolt.

"You!" he breathed, as she entered hastily, her hair disordered and her black skirts powdered with snow.

"Who but I?" she whispered, breathless. "Listen! do you hear my mother calling me? It is too late; but she was with me to the end."

Through the silence, from an infinite distance, came a desolate cry of grief— "Françoise!"

He had fallen back into his chair again, and the little busy flames enveloped him so that the room began to whiten again into a restless glare. Through it he watched her.

The hour struck, passed, struck and passed again. Other hours grew, lengthening into night. She sat beside him with never a word or sigh or whisper of breathing; and dream after dream swept him, like burning winds. Then sleep immersed him so that he lay senseless, sightless eyes still fixed on her. Hour after hour— and the white glare died out, fading to a glimmer. In densest darkness, he stirred, awoke, his mind quite clear, and spoke her name in a low voice.

"Yes, I am here," she answered gently.

"Is it death?" he asked, closing his eyes.

"Yes. Look at me, Philip."

His eyes unclosed; into his altered face there crept an intense curiosity. For he beheld a glimmering shape, wide-winged and deep-eyed, kneeling beside him, and looking him through and through.

________________

16: The Haunted Flat

Marie Belloc Lowndes

1868-1947

The Grand Magazine August 1920

"THE ONLY THING against the house— perhaps I ought to say against the flat— is that the last people who had it thought that it was haunted."

The speaker, Ivy Brent, said the words lightly and yet firmly. "I don't believe in concealing anything," she went on, "especially as the house does, after all, belong to my aunt."

May Murchison answered eagerly: "I don't mind how haunted it is! You can't imagine what a joy and delight it is to feel that at last I have a chance of getting something nice— something clean— something cheap— in which to live by myself. I'm sure I've worn two pairs of shoes quite out, tramping about looking for rooms. Your aunt is a true philanthropist!"

"My aunt," said the other girl slowly, "is a good woman of business. When she found it impossible to let that enormous house in South Place Gardens, she divided it up in a rough kind of way into flats— and had a hundred applications in one morning! That's why I've hurried round, dear, to tell you of this top floor being empty. Would you like to come and see it now? I'm afraid you'll have to decide at once; but she's promised to say nothing about it to anyone until tomorrow morning."

As the two girls walked quickly through the empty Kensington streets, for it was a Sunday afternoon, "I've a sort of feeling," said May Murchison, "that I've heard the name of South Place Gardens before— not lately, but a long time ago. I've been puzzling over it ever since I got your note last night."

May Murchison's father had been one of those men of business who, while apparently very prosperous, yet make but very slender provision for their wife and daughter. Now, May, motherless as well as fatherless, at five-and-twenty, was confidential secretary to the head of a big city firm.

South Place Gardens runs round two sides of a pleasant green enclosure. The houses are large and imposing, with big porticos, each house consisting of a huge basement, and of four high stories connected by a steep stone staircase.

The two friends stopped at No. 6, and Ivy Brent rang the bell. A pleasant-faced woman opened the door.

"This is Mrs Clarke, May," observed Ivy pleasantly. "She and her daughter look after the tenants."

"Most of the people who live here are out all day and only want breakfast and supper," said the housekeeper.

"I should only want breakfast and supper," said May Murchison eagerly, "for I'm out all day, working in the city."

"We'll go along upstairs and see the top-floor flat," said Ivy. "You needn't bother about us, Mrs Clarke. I know the way."

"Several friends of the tenants have been to see the flat already, miss," said Mrs Clarke; "but I know that Mrs Brent means to keep it till this young lady has seen it."

The two girls started walking up the staircase, and May Murchison told herself that there was something curiously quiet and eerie about the big house, perhaps because it was a fine summer Sunday, and most of the people living there were out.

Up and up they went, till they reached the top floor of all. There, what is sometimes called a "nursery gate" barred the way.

"This gate was here when uncle bought the house, twenty-three years ago. The people had evidently used this top floor for their nurseries, but as aunt and uncle had no children, they didn't use this floor, so the gate was never taken away."

May Murchison walked across the landing into the first big room with quickened interest, asking herself if this was to be her future home.

It was a large, square, pleasant apartment. Off it, to the left, was a much smaller room, with a door on to the staircase lobby; a bathroom with a small gas-stove also opened out of the big front room.

It was not a flat in the ordinary sense of the word, but the rooms offered good points to any intelligent, good-humoured, and healthy solitary seeker after a London home. This top floor was airy and bright, and both the front windows and the big bathroom window commanded a wide expanse of sky and green tree-tops. "I think it simply perfect," exclaimed May. "I never saw a place that looked less haunted! And oh! how glad I shall be to get away from that stuffy boarding-house!"

May Murchison's case was a common one, but none the less painful and disagreeable for that. She had gradually formed a close friendship with a man named Roger Byng, and, on both sides, "friendship" had soon become something much warmer. But perhaps the touch of rather hard, and yet sensitive, commonsense which made her different from her girl friends, had caused it gradually to become quite clear to her that, though he sometimes behaved as if he could not bear life without her company for more than a few hours at a time, yet Roger Byng with his aristocratic name and "good connections," did not intend to marry her. He had first come to the boarding-house where May lived, while he was looking for new rooms, and he had stayed on and on, as she knew very well, because of his attraction to herself. In the peopled solitude of a boarding-house, a young man and a young woman can become far more really intimate than is possible in a watchful home, or even office, atmosphere.

When the girl had gradually discovered that her friend Roger was, to use an old-fashioned phrase, "only amusing himself," her pride and her heart both suffered more than she cared to admit, even to herself.

She made up her mind to make a complete break, with the boarding-house, with her work, and with— him. There should be no harrowing and humiliating farewell. Like most prosperous bachelors, Roger Byng had a large acquaintance; he was often away for the weekend, paying country-house visits. She would choose her time to leave the boarding-house and also to effect a change of work, during one of his absences.

ii

AND NOW had come May Murchison's first evening in what, by way of courtesy, was called her "flat." It had taken her far longer to settle in than she had expected it to do, but she had stayed with Ivy Brent after leaving the boarding-house, and each day she had been at No. 6, South Place Gardens for hours; staining the floor of what was to be her sitting-room, putting up and painting her own bookshelves, and superintending the work she could not manage herself in the bathroom-kitchen.

In a sense, she had been glad of all the worries, big and little, which now attend any kind of "flitting," however humble, for it banished painful thoughts. But all the same, there were times, especially at night, when she wondered, wondered, wondered whether Roger Byng was really missing her, and what he had thought on reading the cool little note which told him that she had suddenly had the good fortune to find exactly the kind of place she had been looking for, and that she had arranged to take up some new work which would practically absorb all her time. It had been quite a good letter, cheerful and matter-of-fact, and it had ended with the words: "As I expect to be dreadfully busy, I don't suppose there is any chance of our meeting until after your summer holiday,"— in other words, for three or four months ahead!

She had been proudly, steadfastly determined that her letter should in no sense convey an undignified, melodramatic note of farewell. But now that everything had gone exactly as she had meant it to, May Murchison went through some sad hours of self-questioning, in which her future seemed both drab and lonely, and she had felt very depressed when leaving Mrs Smithson to take up her solitary life.

Now, at last, with everything more or less shipshape, and the cold meal she had brought in daintily laid out on the low but solid, well-made little table which was associated in her mind with her dead mother, she stood at one of the windows of her new sitting-room and gazed over the green tree tops.

Suddenly she experienced the curious sensation that someone was looking at her, with a long, eager, steady look. So vivid was the impression that she actually blushed all over.

May Murchison had no claim to beauty. Her upper lip was too long, her forehead too high, but she had a pair of fine grey eyes, swept by long, dark eyelashes; in fact her eyes were her best feature and gave a rather uncommon look of distinction to her pale face.

She turned her head slightly, fully expecting to see the housekeeper standing at the door, and then with a little shock of surprise, she realized that if there had indeed been someone there, that person had noiselessly withdrawn. Withdrawn? But where? Every footfall on the stone staircase could be heard echoing through the house. That was one of the disadvantages of 6, South Place Gardens. She walked across the room and went through into the quaintly shaped apartment which was at once her kitchen, scullery and bathroom. But there was no one there.

After waiting a moment, she went into the third room, that which completed the flat. May had turned it into a pleasant little bedroom, though the furniture she had had stored was all too large for it. Still, it was a comfort to feel that her few clothes would hang henceforth in a well-made, dust-proof wardrobe, and that every drawer would run in and out easily, and not stick, perpetually, as had done those in the boarding-house.

There was a door leading from the bedroom on to the landing, but she had made up her mind to keep it always locked, and to go in and out through the sitting-room. She now noticed, with some surprise and annoyance, that it was ajar. Mrs Clarke must have unlocked it. May shut it, and ran the bolt in. Then she went back into her sitting-room and ate her supper. After she had finished, following an arrangement she had made with the housekeeper, she pressed the bell three times.

She waited a while, and then rang again, but nothing happened. It was clear that Mrs Clarke and her daughter must be out.

May did a little more unpacking in the now deepening twilight, and then she was just about to go to bed, for she felt very tired, when she heard the sound of heavy footsteps coming slowly up the staircase, and Mrs Clarke appeared at the door.

"I wasn't quite sure if you was in yet, Miss," she said dubiously, "or I'd have been up before."

May hesitated; she didn't want to begin her tenancy by being disagreeable, but after all, she had rung twice. "I had understood," she said quite pleasantly, "that you wanted me to ring as soon as I had finished supper."

The woman hesitated oddly. "We did hear you ring, Miss, in fact we heard two rings, but the bells from this top floor have a way of ringing when there's no one up here."

"I wish you'd told me that while I had the workmen here," May exclaimed, "for whatever's wrong ought to be put right. It will be so very awkward indeed if you never know if it's I who am ringing or not!"

"It isn't the kind of thing that a workman can put right," said Mrs Clarke positively.

"Then we must have an electrician in." May spoke very decidedly.

"That was one of the reasons the last people left," said Mrs Clarke slowly, "that— and other things they couldn't do with—"

"Couldn't do with?" echoed May. "Oh, I remember now. This flat is supposed to be haunted, isn't it? Were the last people afraid? Did they think they saw anything?"

The housekeeper remained silent, but in the gathering twilight, the new tenant saw that the woman looked very uncomfortable.

May felt a thrill of interest and excitement run through her. "I wish you'd tell me," she asked eagerly, "what it is that is supposed to haunt this top floor? For my part, I should like to see a ghost." The girl spoke very gravely.

Mrs Clarke took a few steps nearer. "I don't know as what it's likely you'll ever see a spirit," she observed in a low voice, and looking rather fearfully into the gathering gloom, "but I don't think you'll be here many days before you'll feel as if someone is looking for something. That's what it's like— it's as if whatever's here was looking, looking, looking— and never finding—" She spoke in a very matter-of-fact voice.

"But how do you know that the ghost, or spirit, is looking for anything, and what could there be to look for in these three rooms?" asked May, puzzled.

"It's looking for someone that it's been expecting for a long time, and who don't come— that's what anyone who comes up here by themselves soon gets to feel. Yesterday it was dreadful: my daughter, she wouldn't stay up here by herself; she came and fetched me, and we both felt quite scared, that we did!"

May got up from her low chair. She went across to the door and switched on the electric light. She hadn't got any electric fittings yet, and there was just a plain suspension in the middle of the room. She felt a strange, eerie sensation come over her; she felt rather sorry she had asked these questions—

"I suppose," said Mrs Clarke dubiously, "you haven't felt anything yet, miss?"

"I've certainly felt nothing of the kind you describe," said May frankly, "but soon after I first arrived, when I was standing by the window over there, I had the feeling that someone was watching me rather intently, in fact I thought, Mrs Clarke, that you had come upstairs without my hearing you."

"Did the door open after you'd shut it?" asked Mrs Clark in an odd tone.

May shook her head, and then she said: "By the way, Mrs Clarke, I do want that door of my bedroom kept locked. I locked it after the workmen had gone yesterday. I suppose you or your daughter opened it today?"

"I never opened it," said Mrs Clarke in a rather offended tone, "I haven't got a key that would open it, Miss. But there— you'll soon find out how queer things are up here!"

She took up the tray. May had made an arrangement that the mother and daughter should do her washing up.

After Mrs Clarke had gone, May went into her bedroom and slowly undressed. Her mind went over and over again the odd things that the housekeeper had told her. But with regard to the locked door, Mrs Clarke had reddened when it was mentioned. If she were not the culprit, then her daughter must be. They both were aware that all her small personal belongings had been moved in the day before, and May knew by certain unpleasant happenings at the boarding-house, how extraordinarily inquisitive and curious a certain type of young woman can be.

For the first time since she had made the break with Roger Byng, she went to sleep without thinking of him, and perhaps because of that, she slept really well— a good omen, so she thought, when she woke up, for her new work.

As she went off that morning, she saw for the first time one of her fellow tenants. He was a nice looking man, and as he looked at her he smiled pleasantly. She knew that his name was James Dowson, for his card was up on a board in the hall.

When she came back, late that afternoon, her mind full of her new work and her new employer, she did experience one very curious sensation. She felt, that is, as she passed into her sitting-room, that there was someone there waiting to welcome her— so vivid was the impression that she uttered joyfully the name of the good, faithful girl-friend whom she felt sure must be in one of the two other rooms. "Ivy!" she called out, opening the bathroom door— but there was no Ivy Brent there. And then quickly she went across to her bedroom— it too was empty.

There are times in life when nothing seems to happen and yet which are, in a spiritual sense, constructive. Such a time followed for May Murchison the coming to 6, South Place Gardens. Her stormy heart grew calmer; the new work she was doing began really to absorb her, and she gradually acquired a jealously-guarded secret belief that her new home was indeed— could it be called haunted? No, rather pervaded— by some gentle, beneficent influence which wished her well. She kept this belief to herself, but it was strange that the more she became convinced that there was about her constantly some other-worldly influence, the more the housekeeper and the housekeeper's daughter asserted that the new tenant had banished the ghost which had so disturbed her predecessors in the flat. They both declared that now they could feel nothing.

The weeks went by quickly. May could not take a holiday that autumn, for moving in had taken all her ready money; but she felt well, extraordinarily fit, and she had soon formed a slight, pleasant acquaintance with the man who lived downstairs. Once when Ivy Brent was to be there, she asked him up to tea… It comforted her sore, lonely heart to feel that this stranger was beginning to feel keenly interested in her… But there came a day when he too went off for his holiday, and when there was no one left in the big house but May herself.

It was then, on a Saturday afternoon in September, that she bethought herself of her only remaining social link with her long-dead mother. This was an old lady named Mrs Smithson, who lived in a tiny house close to South Kensington station. May made a point of going to see her perhaps two or three times a year. Mrs Smithson never altered: she was always the same, placid, kindly soul, interested in all that her dead friend's daughter had to tell her, and yet never disagreeably inquisitive about May's concerns.

But this time, when the girl explained that she had at last found pleasant quarters which had induced her to leave the boarding-house where she had lived so long, Mrs Smithson showed unwonted excitement.

"6, South Place Gardens? My dear, what an extraordinary thing! Unless I'm mistaken, it's the very house which your poor mother made your father give up after your poor little sister Sally's death."

"Do you mean that my parents lived at 6, South Place Gardens?" exclaimed May. "I understand now why the name seemed vaguely familiar."

"They were only there a year," answered old Mrs Smithson. "Your father bought the lease cheap, but all the same, I think they weren't sorry to give it up. It was too large a house for them. And then there came the tragedy of little Sally's illness and death. I can remember as if it were yesterday, your mother taking me up to the top of that big house, into a large, airy room (people didn't have day nurseries in those days). The child was lying close up to the window in a kind of big cot. She was four years old; you, my dear, were only two, and they had sent you away to the country, to some friends."

"What was Sally like?" asked May. She felt moved and interested, although the little sister who had died when she, May, had been little more than a baby, was but a name to her. Still, she had always been slightly jealous of her mother's ever-enduring grief for the long dead child.

"Sally was a strange little thing," answered Mrs Smithson slowly. "She was like a child out of one of those curious little goody-goody books that people used to give me when I was a child, sixty years ago. She was so intelligent, and so unselfish, poor little mite, bearing her pitiful disease— a most unusual one for a child to suffer from— with extraordinary resignation and patience. Your mother, my dear, never really got over her death."

"No," said May sadly, "I don't think she ever did."

When the girl at last got up to go, her old friend exclaimed. "I can make quite sure as to whether No. 6 was the house. I expect you'd like to know?"

It was on the tip of May's tongue to say, "Oh, don't trouble, I don't really mind one way or the other— " or, as a fact she would have preferred to think that No. 6 had not been associated with that long-ago tragedy. But Mrs Smithson was already unlocking one of the bottom drawers of an old-fashioned upright desk. Out of it she extracted a fat bundle of letters. "Yes," she exclaimed, "here they are! I was a good deal in the country then, keeping house for my widowed brother, and your mother wrote to me constantly. Look, my dear—?"

May came across the small room almost reluctantly. From one of the peculiar-looking, small, highly-glazed envelopes she took out a sheet of note-paper. On it, written in her mother's delicate, clear handwriting was the address, "6, South Place Gardens," the date, "May 29th, 1898," and the words: "My dearest Laura; don't think I am ungrateful for your sympathy, but my little child is dying, and my heart is breaking…"

May did not read any more. She handed Mrs Smithson back the letter…

That evening May Murchison found that she could not banish the thought of little Sally from her mind and heart. She would shut her eyes and try and think what the room had looked like as a nursery. She wondered near which window the sick child's cot had been placed. As it grew darker and darker, she began to cry, softly. That strange, tragic mysterious thing, human life, suddenly overwhelmed her with a sense of infinite sadness. She felt she would give years of this finite life to know that there is a happier beyond.

iii

ROGER BYNG stepped hesitatingly into the large, square room which had been transformed by its present occupant into such a delightful sitting-room study. He felt at once triumphant, anxious, ill at ease, and, yes, extraordinarily happy! He had spent such nightmare days and weeks trying to track her down, and now he could hardly believe in his own good fortune!

The woman who had opened the door had not seemed surprised at his nervous question— "Does Miss Murchison live here?" At once she had invited him to go upstairs and wait, adding that Miss Murchison would be sure to be in very soon. Walking through the hall, he had noticed the names of the tenants written up on a board. There were four sets of names— all women's names, with one exception, "Mr James Dowson." Roger Byng had felt acutely, ridiculously jealous of May Murchison's fellow-occupier of this big, bare-looking house! But he had gone up the steep stone staircase, torn with an extraordinary mixture of feelings in which joy, a simple human emotion, seldom experienced in Roger Byng's conventional, self-centred life, certainly predominated.

After a few minutes, he began moving about the room. What a different setting for this girl he now knew he loved, and wished ardently would be his wife, to the rather dingy boarding-house where he and she had first become acquainted! He looked about him with an almost painful interest, and spent what seemed to him a long time examining her books, some of them old friends he and she had often discussed, others which had evidently belonged to her father, obviously a man of cultivation and taste.

How different was this room— how different the woman he was waiting for, to the room and to the lady on whom he had paid an early call on this Saturday afternoon! The lady was a novelist, and Roger Byng had stood by smiling, while in answer to some question as to how she composed her stories, she had said: "I seem to hear the people in my stories talking to one another; it is as if I were eavesdropping—"

He had thought to himself, "How silly and affected!"

And then, quite suddenly there came to Roger Byng the experience which in his heart he had utterly disbelieved to be possible when he had heard it described by his late hostess. He seemed to sense, that is, a voice speaking quite close to him, almost into his ear. The voice seemed to belong— if one could so express it— to a being from another sphere, and to a different dimension. "Roger Byng! Roger Byng!" came the whispering voice. "You have entered into an enchanted hour, into that hour in which a man may be happy all his life— can he but find it." And his heart thrilled a wordless "Yes" in answer.

And the tiny stuffless voice went on: "Give up being the manner of man you have been. Be no longer a cautious, self-seeking, timorous, and snobbish, if in a sense, worthy example of the great nation to which you belong. You won the Military Cross for an act which in any other war would have won you the Victoria Cross, but this War did not give you the finest courage of all, moral courage. Forget yourself, and think henceforth only of the girl who, as even you realize, has made a man of you. You do not deserve the wife that she will make."

"Most true," he whispered back.

"You are only just in time, Roger Byng! In a very little time a better man than you would have won her…" And then it was as if he saw before his shrinking eyes the card on which was written the name "James Dowson"— that card which had attracted his unwilling, inimical attention as he had walked through the empty hall downstairs.

The voice stopped suddenly, and as Roger Byng moved uneasily in his chair he heard a curious fluttering sound. It was as if a bird, prisoned for a moment between the four walls of the room, had flown out of one of the widely opened windows. Had he unconsciously fallen asleep on this hot autumn afternoon? Of late, especially during the last few days, he had experienced the disconcerting sensation that youth was slipping fast away from him. And then all at once he felt a curious, violent physical commotion! There fell on his ears the sound of May Murchison's footsteps on the stone steps of the staircase outside.

Roger Byng jumped up from his chair and stood at attention. Then came the click of the latch of the little nursery gate, and May Murchison opened the door.

For a moment they stood looking at each other. Then, very, very humbly he said; "I've been looking for you so long! And now that I've found you at last I never want to lose you again—" And, as May remained silent, he asked, and she felt the pain in his level voice, "Are you sorry I've found you, darling?" And as he took her in his arms, she whispered, "Not exactly sorry… glad. Though I was trying, Roger, to forget you, and I'd very nearly succeeded!"

__________________

Table of Contents

1: The Return / R. Murray Gilchrist

2: The Night the Devil Walked / Hal Field Leslie

Unnamed

4: Tigre / Zane Grey

5: The Twenty-Four-Hour Croesus / Albert Payson Terhune

6: Uncle Bentley and the Roosters / Hayden Carruth

7: The Desert Road / Marjorie Pickthall

8: Heatherville / Waif Wander

9: The Revolt of Rustleton / Richard Dehan

10: Schalken the Painter / J. Sheridan Le Fanu

11: Some Experiments With a Head / Dick Donovan

12: A Tale of the Western Desert / Ernest Favenc

13: The Swagman's Dream / Ernest Favenc

14: The Drought Demons / Ernest Favenc

15: The Case of Mrs Helmer / Robert W. Chambers

16: The Haunted Flat / Marie Belloc Lowndes