CHAPTER XV.—The Lash in Unwilling Hands.
How We Outwitted the Guard. A Sword Encounter With a Native. Rawley Gives Me a Sensational Surprise. The Tragedy to Mr. Vancouver Delayed.
I WAS absorbed in conjuring up plans for Mr. Vancouver’s rescue; but the more I thought of it, the madder the undertaking seemed. Suppose we should take him; would not the whole island swarm in a search?
I had calculated that Beela and Hobart should come in four hours. More than half that time was already gone when Christopher and I returned to our original hiding-place. That the storm, the Black Face, and Mr. Vancouver’s fate were interwoven, there could be no doubt. Barring hindering contingencies, matters were rapidly drawing to a crisis. If the necessity for urgent action on Mr. Vancouver’s account should arise before Beela’s return with Hobart, that young man would be caught in a trap, as there would be none but savages to meet him. In whatsoever direction I turned, many chances for a fatal slip and added complications appeared.
A solution of one branch of the problem crept out of the strain,—that of clearing the way for Hobart. I mentioned it to Christopher, and was gratified at his acquiescence.
“But what about Mr. Vancouver?” I asked.
“We have to wait for her, sir,” he answered after listening, and his manner was final.
The triple bird-note came. We waited. It was repeated. I slipped round to the trail used by the guard, and openly approached them. They stared at me in silence. Beela had told me that in an emergency Christopher and I, to explain peculiarities of our appearance that no disguise could conceal, should explain that we were from the western end of the island, where some white blood had mingled with the native, producing, with other deviations from the normal type, men of a more aggressive and daring disposition, which gave them an advantage over the natives at this end, and that on occasion the king called on the western men for special services.
“Why haven’t you done your duty?” I sternly demanded.
The guard showed only dull surprise, none either moving or speaking.
“Haven’t you seen the Black Face scowling?” I went on. “Go immediately and attend to your duty, or the Face won’t wait for a white man.”
They were impressed and frightened. “What shall we do?” asked one.
“Clean the stone in the clearing, and so make it ready. Every one of you go, at once. Then come back here.”
They looked from one to another, bewildered, the order evidently being extraordinary. “And leave the pass unguarded?” the same one inquired.
“Am I not here? Go immediately!”
“Did Gato send you?” asked a big fellow, advancing, sword in hand. His weapon was held threateningly, and scraped the bushes as he came.
Not daring to take any chances with him, and not having had sufficient experience with these people to interpret their motive from their conduct, I sprang past him before he could raise his weapon, snatched a sword from an astonished native, backed away to keep the crowd before me until I had faced the one who had advanced upon me, and went at him with a determination that opened his eyes and instinctively brought his sword to guard. I discovered that the sword which I held was a heavy affair, broad and very old-fashioned. Before my inexpert antagonist knew what had happened, my sword had twisted his from his grasp and sent it flying into the bushes, and my point was at his breast. There was an excited movement in the crowd, but before anything could be done I loudly said to my captive:
“I have a good mind to kill you. Take your squad to the clearing at once.”
“Yes,” he hastily agreed, staring at me in wonder, and added, as his interest overcame his panic, “Are they coming with him soon?”
“That is neither your affair nor mine. If you don’t go instantly I’ll arrest the entire squad and take you all to the palace.”
They obediently marched away.
In returning to Christopher I made a detour, so as to pass the spot where Hobart was to appear. I had instructed Christopher to remain a short distance away, as it would be easier for one to meet Hobart than two. My real reason, which I did not mention to Christopher, was that as a native his appearance was one of singular ferocity. I did not wish to run the risk of shocking Hobart out of his self-command.
To my astonishment, Rawley, not Hobart, rose above the edge of the bluff. Perhaps my angry exasperation showed in my manner, for Rawley, after a startled glance, and seeing me alone, sprang upon me in the moment of my hesitation. His leap was swift and stirring, but I avoided him, and began to speak in a low voice. It had no effect. Rawley sprang again. I caught the violent thrust of his body, and an elbow better trained than he had expeded took him in the throat, crashed his teeth together jarringly, and sent him reeling and strangling.
I again spoke, but he was too dazed to hear, and came at me again, more warily, with the glare of killing in his eyes, and still not heeding my pacific words. The natural grace with which he began to work for an opening gave his feline ease a threat that set me tingling. He was desperately in earnest, and my windpipe was his objective. There was no falter in his play, which I critically observed as I stood on the defensive. And then it came to me that this was neither the madness of fear nor the desperation of the cornered coward, but the awakening of that ultimate manhood in him which for so long had been held down by an artificial life. Even had he not forced me to silence, the game was so fine and exciting that I should have been tempted to cease my efforts to explain in my desire to see it through.
As his leaps were astonishingly clever and he might land at any moment, I began to crowd him. While moving to do so, I heard Christopher’s signal to Beela, but did not pause to see where he was; Rawley also must have heard it, for something spurred his activities. In order to save Beela from the trap in which he supposed himself to have fallen, he must finish me at once.
I dodged his next spring, but his fingers scraped my throat. Then he found himself crushed in my arms. The short blows which he sent into my ribs had no effect, but they were delivered with a will. Beela rose above the summit, and understood all at a glance.
But, Beela-like, she saw only that it was ridiculous. Without taking the trouble to enlighten Rawley, who desisted as soon as he saw her laughing, she passed from surprise into unrestrained mirth. Rawley, standing away from me, stared at her in astonishment.
Seeing no sign of Hobart, I sharply inquired in the native tongue where he was.
“Captain Mason sent this one instead,” she answered after finding her breath.
I was aghast. “What reason did he give?”
“None, Choseph. He thought you would understand, I suppose.”
The blunder was incredible. Here were Mr. Vancouver and Rawley, the arch-enemies of the colony, sent out armed with fresh opportunity for destroying us, and we charged with the safety of their lives! The game had been sufficiently difficult and dangerous without that. I bitterly resented Captain Mason’s course. He was aware of the antagonism between Rawley and me.
“Why did Captain Mason send him?” I demanded.
“He begged to come, Choseph.”
That staggered me. What had happened to the man to change him so? “What did he say?” I asked.
“I don’t know. He said little, although he was very much in earnest. On the way he said to himself several times, ‘She called me a coward. They all think I’m a coward.’”
Christopher had come up and was standing placidly by. Of a sudden Rawley recognized me as the savage who had visited Mr. Vancouver in the camp. He was composed, but had not yet discovered my real identity. A word from Beela disclosed Christopher and me to him. It broke in a crash on the young man. What reflections were belaboring him I could only guess from the shame crimsoning his face. I took his hand.
“Mr. Rawley,” I said, “I am sorry that this has happened between us.”
I interrupted something that he was trying to stammer by telling Beela how I had disposed of the guard. “They’ll soon return,” I added. “We must leave.”
“Yes, but we must find out first whether they discovered the loss of the wood. Several hours would be required to bring up fresh fuel. Don’t you think it’s very interesting, Choseph? My! how solemn you look!”
Her careless insolence tried me, for the peril was great.
“It’s a pity you never had any one to teach you to be serious,” I let fly.
“That would be the funniest thing of all,” she returned, amused. “Would you like to try it?”
Her sweet archness made me take a half angry, half possessing step forward, but a look stopped me.
“They are coming!” said she, and we hid.
The savages were more animated than before, and they wondered among themselves when the white man would be brought up from the settlement, and whether all or any of themselves would be relieved from guard duty, that they might witness the proceedings. It was clear that they had not missed the wood.
We slipped away. When we had come near our hut, Beela asked us to wait while she took Rawley to that hiding-place.
“Beelo,” I firmly said, “you don’t understand. That man and I cannot live together.”
She regarded me with a suspicious-looking sadness. “Enemies among yourselves, Choseph! Is this the best that wise men with so much at stake can do?” With a smile I took her hand. “Thank you, dear little brother,” I said. “I will do my part.”
Tears easily came to Beela’s eyes, and made them moist now.
“But you and Christopher are not to stay here any longer. Wouldn’t you like to be nearer the beautiful, the good, the angel Lentala?”
“Explain, lad.”
“Wait till I come back.”
She darted to the hut with Rawley, and soon returned.
“The first thing,” she said, “is to find out the plans for Mr. Vancouver. Although the wood is gone, the king won’t be balked, and the getting of more wood will be but a matter of hours. When we discover that the preparations are really afoot, Mr. Vancouver must be taken by you. Before that, there is plenty to do.” We struck out for the slope overlooking the main settlement, and on the way passed near the hut where Mr. Vancouver was held. Beela disappeared within and soon returned with the news that the threatening weather was holding everything in abeyance.
Avoiding roads, we breasted the verdured heights and worked round the suburbs. As we mounted, the view expanded. The settlement, embowered among trees, made the fairest picture I had ever beheld. I longed to see it under the mellow sunshine, which would make its colors more vivid; but even without that, the scene was satisfying. It was a considerable city, which had grown more by natural accretion than by plan. Broad, tree-lined highways with curves instead of right lines swept lengthwise through it. Many houses were of stone roughly laid up, and with roofs of mud or thatch. Remarkable effects had been secured by use of the native stone in its color variations. Of exceeding beauty was a pleasant stream which loitered through the settlement.
Most conspicuous was the palace of the king, with its accessory buildings and walled grounds. Unlike all the other houses, the palace was two stories in height, was of great size, and sat in generous grounds enclosed with a massive stone wall. I discovered Lentala’s quarters; they were in a wing. Hamlets with adjoining farms dotted the farther slope and stretched up the valley; there were still more, said Beela, in other parts of the island.
With our further climbing, the ocean rose on the horizon, and a modern sea-going vessel sprang up inshore in a harbor at the foot of the settlement. My heart leaped as I studied her.
“What ship is that, Beelo?” I exclaimed.
“Yours, Choseph,” she answered with a bright smile. “I was waiting for you to find it. That is what is to take your people home if a great earthquake comes and we can bring them out of the valley. The king wanted to destroy it, but Lentala persuaded him not only to save it, but to put it in order, as he might need it some time.”
That she had reserved this precious information for so dramatic a use did not impress me at the time. Not till now did I realize that her purely feminine instinct for the theatrical made so large a figure in her withholdings and revelations.
My throat filled. I seized Christopher’s arm and tried to speak, but no words issued, and I found that he was already gazing seaward. I had never seen in his eyes such wistfulness, so far and deep a vision, as when he raised them to mine.
From him I turned to Beela, and found a look of neglect and expediency.
“Dear little brother,” I said, and extended my hand; but she pouted, and put her arms behind her.
“I am not your dear little brother,” she said, her lip trembling. “I am a savage. You gave your first joy to one of your race.” The pain in her face was deep.
“Forgive me, lad.” I was very humble, but her swimming eyes were turned away, and there was a swelling in her throat. What could I say? how make her understand? “Beelo, I———”
“It can’t be explained,” she interrupted, turning sadly away; and we went on in silence.
All at once, without any visible cause, she was her sunny, mischievous self again. I was exceedingly anxious for information,—what had become of the Hope’s salvable cargo; whether her seizure by us was part of the plan to which we were working. But I had not the courage to mention the vessel again, lest pain come to Beela’s face. Ever since her return from the valley I had been anxious for her report as to any plan of action that she had arranged with Captain Mason, and I now conjectured that she had deferred it until we should see our vessel. With a blunder in tact I had closed her lips.
“Now,” said she, “we’ll return and keep an eye on Mr. Vancouver. Do you think you know the settlement now and could make your way in the night through it?”
“Perfectly,” wondering at her impressiveness.
“And do you, Christopher?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Unmistakably she had a very intelligent purpose in thus making us acquainted with the topography of the settlement and the presence of our vessel. With that idea I began to make a closer study of the approaches and thoroughfares, although I could form no conception of means whereby the colony might use them against the overwhelming horde of armed natives. But Beela’s comely head was packed with shrewdness.
The weather became more threatening with the approach of evening. At night, Beela left us concealed near the prison hut, and went to bring our supper.
After she had returned and we had eaten, she suggested that Christopher and I go and see the prisoner, and learn all that we could. Gato would not be on duty, and the light was dim. Thence we should go to the postern in the palace wall, and there be met by her. Then she left.
When we were near the hut a shadow leaped out of the ground, and challenged. I answered as Beela had instructed, and the guard stepped aside. We entered, and the two natives sitting with the prisoner gave us only a glance. In an authoritative manner I bade them wait outside, and they obediently went.
Mr. Vancouver was sitting on a stool, his head bowed in dejection, but he quickly straightened, and drilled us with a keenly questioning look, in which fear, anxiety, and hope were present. It was evident that he was profoundly suspicious. He was too shrewd not to see the significance of his being kept under guard in a hovel instead of being the king’s guest.
I asked him in Senatra English if he was comfortable. Over his haggard face flashed an eager interest.
“That is nothing,” he impatiently answered. “I want to know why I am kept here.”
“Do you really expect to see the king?” I asked.
He started. “What do you mean?” he demanded.
“What do you think you are here for?”
“The king sent for me—for a conference.” A red light came into his eyes.
“A conference. Suppose he has made up his mind that he can dispose of the white people without your help, and that you happen to be first.”
The sallowness that already had entered his face since his imprisonment became livid, and the red light flared.
“To be sent away?” he thickly asked.
“Yes. Sent away. That is as good a name for it as any other.”
I had ignored Christopher’s gentle tug at my sleeve. A quiver ran through Mr. Vancouver as if a knife had been slipped between his ribs. It was with difficulty that he found breath for speech.
“Doesn’t the king know that I can make him incredibly rich from his gold and silver and diamond mines? Doesn’t he understand that———”
“Perhaps he is as rich as he cares to be. Besides, he has never trusted a white man; and why should he trust one that betrays his own friends?” I could not avoid giving him that thrust.
He came weakly to his feet, terror and despair in every line.
“Did the king send you to say this?” he gasped.
I made no answer. The man sent a wild glance about as though to measure his strength with his prison, and to end all doubts quickly by any means. Then I saw that his wits were gone, and that the purpose of my talk, which was to prepare him for the revelation I had come to make, that he might be on his guard, had miscarried.
Christopher, in the background, edged round, keeping his back, as I kept mine, to the feeble light. I could not imagine that Mr. Vancouver, desperate though he was, would seize this moment to try issues with his fate; but I had not guessed soon enough that the red light meant madness. With a choking curse he snatched up his heavy stool and sprang with it upraised in both hands to crush me.
Before his leap was ended, a heavy body crashed into him, and two giant arms were cracking his joints and sending the stool flying over my head. The two guards came running in, but I sent them back. Christopher needed no aid.
The pinioned man rolled his head and eyes horribly, and cursed through foaming lips. He made futile efforts to sink his teeth into Christopher; he kicked wildly; he squirmed like an animal under a strangling hand. But Christopher’s arms knew the mercy of strength, and he kept dropping soothing words. Like a pillar sunk deep in the earth stood Christopher while his prisoner gasped curses and put fierce energy into every muscle.
“I know you!” he sputtered at me. “You are the infernal native dog that fooled me and trifled with me in camp. Let me at his throat, you baboon!”—to Christopher. “Loose me! Let me die with my arms free!” He called the king and me and all the natives unspeakable names. “In decency and mercy,” he fumed, “kill me at once! I know now what you are going to do with me,—you cannibals!”
Christopher’s quieting tongue was as persistent as his arms, and under them Mr. Vancouver was gradually breaking down. Christopher assured the wretch that no harm would befall him. The man who could resist such persuasion would be less than human and worse than mad. Mr. Vancouver’s curses straggled off, his struggles ceased, and the red flame died in his eyes. Christopher had coaxed reason back.
He seated Mr. Vancouver, bathed his face, and gave him water to drink. With a gentle touch he unlaced and removed the sufferer’s shoes, and undressed him. The man had become a child in Christopher’s hands, and was wholly docile when made comfortable in bed.
There had been no personal heed of Christopher in Mr. Vancouver’s yielding; but it evidently occurred to him at last that here was something strangely different from the manner of the natives—something nearer and humanly akin. He had been studying Christopher; and when he was composed, and Christopher was turning away, Mr. Vancouver seized his arm and held him, looking earnestly into his face, and then covering his figure with a startled glance. His eyes opened with astonishment.
“Who are you?” he demanded under his breath.
“You know, sir.”
“Christopher!”
“Yes, sir. Speak low.”
“What are you doing here, disguised like that?”
“Captain Mason sent us, sir.”
“What for?”
“To save you, sir. Don’t talk.”
Mr. Vancouver breathed laboredly, and the veins in his forehead bulged.
“Who was sent with you?” he faintly asked.
“Him, sir,” indicating me.
I saw the knot come in the suffering man’s throat as he rolled his bloodshot eyes upon me, half raised himself on his elbow, and stared while his breathing rasped.
“Who is he?” came chokingly, with a clutch on Christopher’s arm.
“Mr. Tudor, sir.”
A spasm caught Mr. Vancouver in the chest, and a rigor ran through him. His eyes closed, his head swung back, his mouth fell open, and Christopher eased the insensible man down on the pillow.
CHAPTER XVI.—A Light in the Gloom.
Subtle Changes in Beela. A Startling Discovery in the Palace Vaults. The Secrets of the Council Chamber Overheard. Urgent Measures Planned.
YOU are late!” blithely greeted Beela when we arrived at the palace gate after leaving Mr. Vancouver. “That shows how much you think of the beautiful, the angel, the sweet, the good Lentala, for you are to sleep in her quarters tonight.”
We were just in time, for the heavens were opening, and the deluge was at hand.
With great caution Beela conducted us to a chamber in Lentala’s wing of the palace. Evidently it was a sanctuary, for it was quite different from the room in which Lentala had received us, and Beela carelessly remarked that in giving us the room, her sister was bestowing a special favor, since not even her servants were ever admitted.
“Because,” Beela chattered on as she lighted the beautiful lamps, “this is where she comes to lead alone the life that she dreams about, far, far away, where there are no Senatras,—the life that was born in our blood, Choseph, and that we can see very dimly, and in our dreams only. But this room helps Lentala to dream of it. Do you remember the story you told me one day? She has changed the room tonight merely by bringing in these couches for you and Christopher to sleep on.”
I felt something new in Beela’s manner,—a note of sentiment singing low in her voice, an augmented softness and grace in her bearing. She appeared to be struggling against it and striving to be the boy Beelo. Some success came, but the winning note still sang in her throat.
She opened an adjoining room, and disclosed a bath.
“Your Senatra tint is a little damaged,” she cheerily said. “Wash it off; you’ll not need it tonight. Here’s a fresh supply for tomorrow morning. Don’t forget to put it on! But there’s much to do before you sleep. I am going to take you to the Council Chamber. Dress as quickly as possible. I have to make some changes myself. When you are ready, give three light taps on that door.”
“Thank you, dear little brother, but where’s Lentala?”
“Lentala! Do you think she can sit up all night waiting for callers?”
“We are to see her in the morning, then?”
Beela had been bustling over finishing touches for our comfort, but my question—perhaps my tone—stopped her.
“Do you wish to see her?” she asked.
“Of course.”
“Why?”
“Beelo! Can you ask that? Unless we see Lentala whenever we come to the palace, the jungle is more comfortable.”
She turned away, pretending to be hurt.
“And so you don’t care for Beelo. It is nothing to sleep under the same roof with him.”
“But Beelo is a part of my life, dear lad. However far away he may be, he is always with me. Whenever and wherever I go, my dear little brother’s hand is in mine; and no matter when or where I sleep, his sweet breath is on my cheek; and the touch of his light fingers on my lids and the ring of his cheery laugh in my heart wake me in the morning. In my dreams——” I paused, for Beela embarrassed me by the breathless interest with which she was listening.
“In your dreams, Choseph?”
“Then Beelo comes with another. He leads that one by the hand, and smiles at me, and says in his musical voice, ‘This one also you must like, big brother, for this is Beelo’s best friend.’”
She came close and looked up into my eyes.
“That other one, big brother?”
“Is Lentala.”
Her breath caught as she moved away, and she was silent for a little while as she gave the last touches and started to leave. At the door she threw me a mischievous glance, and said:
“You have funny dreams, Choseph, but I’ll tell Lentala you wish to see her,” and was gone.
I had already observed that no touch of native savagery rested on this room. Every article of use or adornment was of a highly civilized production. The barbaric splendor of the reception-room was absent here, and a dainty, girlish simplicity was the note. Exceedingly charming were products of her needlework and other handicraft copied from foreign articles. There were some English books that showed signs of hard use. I picked up one and found a dainty handkerchief within it, and felt a pity for Lentala thus reaching out for what she could not understand.
Beela appeared in different clothes when I rapped, and was much fresher and smarter than I had ever seen her. She looked conscious under my admiring glance, and expressed gratification at the improvement in my looks.
“Beelo, you are as pretty as a girl. Fie!”
She pretended not to hear, and was busy lighting a lantern.
“They are all asleep in this wing,” she said. “Now we’ll go. Listen to the storm! Mr. Vancouver is safe for another day, I hope. And still no earthquake.”
I felt a twinge, but no opportunity had offered for my telling her of the incident in the hut. The truth is, I dreaded lest she find fault with Christopher for disclosing our identity to Mr. Vancouver and my knowledge of his perfidy.
It would be difficult to say in what lay the finer air of Beela’s dress. In cut the garments had a masculine approach, but in China they might have passed for feminine. The trousers and blouse were of fine dark-blue cloth, and were ample. In place of the somewhat shabby straw hat was a becoming red turban, and the shoes were Turkish, red, and richly embroidered in gold. The blouse opened like a V at the neck, and a negligee tie matching in shade the turban and the shoes was secured with a splendid diamond at the bottom of the V.
More insinuating than these outward things were the girl’s gentler voice and manner. There was a hint of the young mother in her caressing look and touch, and the cello note in her voice had fallen still softer and smoother.
In lighting the lantern, she disarranged her turban by striking it against a piece of furniture. She straightened, and raised her arms to readjust it. Her sleeves were wide and open, and they slipped down, baring her arms.
I had been trying with all my might to keep from my mind the delicious thought of Beelo’s metamorphosis, but self-deception was no longer possible. I must revel in this new and pleasant experience. The one duty that I must observe was the keeping of my promise to Lentala that I would not let her little sister know that I knew.
“Are we ready?” cheerily asked Beela, picking up the lantern and darkening it with a cloth. “Come. No talking till I give you leave. We must be careful in this wing, for Lentala’s servants might wake. The noises of the storm will help us, but the veranda is drenched. We must take the other way.”
She opened the door through which she had entered last, and we were in darkness when she closed it; but I had dimly seen that it was a corridor.
“We can’t use the lantern yet,” she whispered, slipping her hand down my sleeve to my fingers. “Can you find your way, Christopher?”
“Yes.” There was always something tragic in Christopher’s whisper.
“Do you love me, Christopher?” she teasingly asked, squeezing my fingers.
“Yes, ma’am.”
It required great stoicism for me to hold my hand passive and not return the pressure, but I was amazed when she abruptly dropped my fingers. I could see nothing except a faint glow through the cloth about the lantern, but I peremptorily seized her sleeve, drew her arm up, took her hand, and squeezed it hard, for reproof. She made no resistance. Beela was very sweet in the dark,—I remembered the passage through the mountain.
We almost immediately turned into a much longer stretch, as I knew by the whispering echoes of our steps; and soon the shrouded light of Beela’s lantern made the walls visible. After leading us down a dark stair she halted before a door, unlocked it, ushered us within, relocked the door, and removed the cloth from the light.
This chamber was a disordered lumber-room, filled with odds and ends of broken things, native and foreign. I was less interested in the rubbish than in the new picture of Beela in the ascending light from the lantern. It made a witchery of her chin, emphasized the graceful curve of her lips, filled her delicate nostrils, and threw her eyes into mystical shadow. I tried to get her hand again, but failed. Beela in the light was not the same as Beela in the dark.
She paused, and breathed more freely.
“We are safe for a while now,” she said. It was hard to listen composedly to her words, so sweet was the tone of them.
She wound and twisted through the stores, we following, and brought up at a door which a stranger, likely, never would have found. This she unlocked, passed us through, and secured behind us. The air was dank and musty, and despite the lantern there were uncanny patches of phosphorescent light on walls otherwise invisible as yet. The space was roomy, the floor earthen. It proved to be a large cellar-like chamber with a low ceiling supported by stone pillars groined into arches, and was paved, furnished with grated windows, and sweet and dry. Here were immense stores: American-tinned provisions in astonishing abundance; bale upon bale of cloth of many kinds; modern farming implements, and machinery and tools for sawyers, carpenters, cabinet-makers, upholsterers, and many other useful trades; and at one side an array of firearms and ammunition.
Beela was watching me in my astonishment, for not the smallest item of this store had I seen in use by the natives.
“Don’t you know what it all is, Choseph?” she asked.
I shook my head.
“It is the cargo of your vessel.”
I was speechless. Two things were clear: one, that the water-tight bulkheads in the Hope had not given way (which accounted for her pursuit of us instead of sinking), and the other, that the natives had carefully repaired all the water-damage possible. The thorough care of the cargo very likely had extended to the vessel herself.
My emotion was profound. I wrung Beela’s hand, but something in my eyes made her dim and floating. Only vaguely could I see the sweet uplift and happiness in her face. Christopher was standing apart like a man of wood except that his eyes were living. If he needed any expression from me of the almost cruel joy that filled me, he gave no sign, but stood in the pathetic loneliness that forever invested him.
“We must go on,” said Beela. “It is time for the king’s privy council.”
A devious way through another storage vault filled with things no doubt of great value, the ascent of a stone stair, a turning into this passage and another into that, and a short flight of steps, brought us at last upon a curtained balcony overlooking a dimly lighted council hall of considerable size and rich in savage appointments. The king was on a throne facing us, and in a semi-circle before him, seated on rugs on the stone floor, were old and elderly native men splendidly appareled. The king was even more sumptuously robed than on the day of our reception by him. He had no personal attendants, for this, Beela explained in a whisper, was not a state council, but a secret one, called occasionally for extraordinary purposes, composed of selected wise men, and generally held late at night. The balcony where we sat was for the use of the queen and her feminine friends at state meetings. The diaphanous curtains, of an exquisite native texture and handsomely embroidered, could be seen through from our side, which was in shadow, but not from the other.
One thing had been puzzling me exceedingly. It was that no American and European articles looted from wrecks were in use in their original form by any of the natives except Lentala and Beela.
“Because,” Beela had told me in answer to my question, “the natives don’t need them, and are more content without them. The king is wise with his people, and they love him.”
The council was under way. An old man had been droning something that I did not hear, for his voice was weak and the storm noisy. The king nodded to another, a younger man, who came to his splendid full height. His gold-embroidered cloak of office slipped from his great right shoulder and arm after he had risen from his obeisance.
“What is the temper of the Senatras, Gato?” the king asked.
“Very impatient, Sire. There are murmurings and small secret gatherings. Rebellion is in the air.”
The king moved uneasily. “And your soldiers?” he inquired.
“I have them in hand as yet, but they are naturally affected by the restlessness among the people, and are sick of waiting and of guarding the passes. They have never been on duty so long. They love their homes and farms, and they can’t understand the delay. If a wreck should come with this storm, where will the people from it be held?”
“There is plenty of room in the valley,” snapped the king, making an impatient gesture. “And don’t our people know that the crowd we have there is different from any castaways we have had before? Of course we can’t let any of them leave the island, for they suspect its wealth, and would return with soldiers and guns, and destroy us. But we have to proceed cautiously. There are more than a hundred and fifty picked men in the party, and their leaders, Mason and Tudor, and the giant ape Christopher, are shrewd, bold men, and have no fear.”
We three were sitting close together, Beela in the middle. One of her hands stole out, took Christopher’s, squeezed it, and released it. The other found my hand; I closed on its warm softness and kept it prisoned.
“In some mysterious way,” Gato explained, “they have outwitted us. Our plan was to break them up by using the old traitor Vancouver, but they evidently discovered his treachery, and I have just learned that they sent him out as our first offering to the Black Face, while letting him think that he was going to betray them to us.”
“I suppose,” said the king, “that he is as good as another for the sacrifice. That will satisfy the people for a time, but he is the first and the last that we’ll get from that crowd without bloody work, and I don’t wish my subjects to be killed.”
He paused, and the others waited. Beela’s breathing had grown quick; there was a slight quiver in her hand.
The king went on:
“Mason evidently suspects that the people taken out of the valley will not be sent away, and so he is holding them together. No doubt they have armed themselves, and are ready to fight. Mason will be in no hurry to precipitate an issue with us, for they can subsist indefinitely where they are, we can’t strengthen our position against them, and time, he reasons, may bring me to liberate them in a body.”
It was impossible not to recognize the kindliness and benevolence in the king’s voice and words.
“May I speak, Sire?”
“Yes, Gato.”
“I fear that Vancouver is going mad.”
The king looked his dismay.
“He mumbles,” proceeded Gato; “his eyes are wild at times; he calls for his daughter, and weeps like a child; he cannot eat, and his sleep is broken with loud cries.”
“Is there much of that?” the king asked in alarm.
“No, Sire; only rarely. If he is taken to the sacrificial altar when he has a lucid period,———”
“The risk is great,” groaned the king. “The people would resent the offering up of a madman; and we can do nothing while the storm lasts. The people can’t assemble. We must wait. You men go among the Senatras tomorrow and pacify them. Tell them that all will be well. Do they say that the Face is threatening, Gato?”
“Yes, Sire. Some fools have seen it and spread tales about it. One is that green water streams out of its eyes, and another is that the mouth has opened and that purple flames come forth.”
Beela’s start thrilled me. The news brought the king to his feet.
“Is it true, Gato,—the open mouth and the purple flame?”
“I do not know, Sire. I have not seen it, and I do not believe it.”
“But it may be true! Find out tomorrow morning, and let me know.” He was leaving the throne, and although the light was poor, I could see a totter in his step and haggardness in his face.
The others were rising. The king turned to them, and said:
“If that is true,—” He did not finish, but stood in a daze. “The council is ended,” he weakly added, and slowly left the chamber, the others filing after him.