CHAPTER IX
BARABBAS TOWN
A proa moved up-stream through the marshy region that Lhassa Camber had traversed in a similar craft two days before.
The white man amidships saw the same wilderness of reed-like plants, the lilies, the orchids and other poisonous blooms; saw the green-mirror pools, and the blue and black butterflies. But he found no beauty in them: they were foul and rotten, even the butterflies, which he knew bred in the miasma.
His fingers moved incessantly—long, tan fingers—tapping the sides of the canoe or pulling at his week's growth of beard.
Muscles crawled and knotted on the boatmen's arms as they swung the poles. The white man regarded this display of biceps appraisingly; marveled at the energy burning under the satiny skins. Thirty arms. He would need them.
It was mid-afternoon. The sun was rapidly sinking when the river led them out of the feculent area.
The Malay steering spoke.
"Do we halt to-night, Tuan Muda?"
The answer came promptly.
"No, Matu Baba. To-morrow, after we reach Abu Hassan's village, we rest."
The helmsman thrust a liberal quantity of betel into his mouth.
"Baik!" he commented, chewing. "The young lord is wise."
Some time later (dusk motes were multiplying) he spoke again.
"Tenngo! Look! A camp has been here, Tuan Muda," he announced, pointing to the right.
The Frenchman gave the order to go in close to shore. As the proa glided within a few feet of the bank Matu Baba slid overside. Near the water's edge were the black remains of burnt wood lying in ashes. The Malay examined the ground.
"A woman of the Orang Putih has been here, Tuan Muda," he reported. "Also a man."
Tuan Muda stared at the remnants of the fire.
"To-morrow," he pronounced, "I will send a runner to the Tuan Rajah, telling him. Mari!"
Matu Baba stepped into the proa and picked up the steering-oar.
Darkness fell across the water. In the forest, birds whistled an eery accompaniment to the splash of the paddles. A half-moon fastened a wisp of cloud to the sky.
2
Morning found the proa in the black forest. Black trees on the bank; black reflections on the water, the latter stamped with gold where the sunlight seared a path.
Tuan Muda peered inquisitively at the immobile wall of jungle; peered, and wondered why he felt that his gaze was being returned from behind that leafy barricade. Neurotic imaginings, he decided, passing one hand over his red-veined eyes.
Shortly before noon the stockade of Abu Hassan's village came into view.
As the bow of the canoe crunched into the bank Tuan Muda swung over the side, seeming not to care when mud closed about his ankles.
"I am going to the house I occupied before," he flung over his shoulder to Matu Baba as he moved off. "You know the one."
He passed several natives, but if he saw them he gave no evidence of it. Two children, hovering in the gateway of the stockade, fled before his approach. When he was within the inclosure, his pupils contracted to a sharp focus. He observed the usual mild activities: women dyeing on the open verandas or pounding paddy in the granaries; children playing in the streets; men lounging about, chewing betel; conspicuously few men. There was, he thought, a hostile element in the quiet that was emphasized by the beating of a tom-tom somewhere close by.
As he neared the palace he saw a group of Sea Dyak warriors just outside the entrance, in the clearing. He did not fail to notice that they wore padded jackets and carried shields and spears. In their midst was a huge-muscled Malay whom he recognized as the sultan's cousin, the Datu Tumanggong or commander-in-chief of the army. The latter greeted Tuan Muda as he came up; the warriors shifted uneasily, their beads tinkling.
"Waleika salaam!" returned the Frenchman, then, omitting preliminaries, he instructed, "Tell the sultan I wish an audience."
Nakoda Mubin, the Datu Tumanggong, was a big, sensual-looking Malay, with rounded chest-muscles and great thighs, a type too bovine to be very clever yet stubborn enough to be dangerous. He regarded Tuan Muda with narrow, yellow-suffused eyes, fingering his gold breast-plates.
"My cousin is not in an approachable mood this morning, O Rajah Besar," he said. "May I counsel you to wait until to-morrow?"
"I will see him now, Nakoda Mubin," was the white man's reply.
"With that he passed on, making his way to a hut perched on poles some distance away. Climbing to the gallery that ran the length of the front, he seated himself within view of the group in the clearing. The commander-in-chief had disappeared; the warriors' spears made points of fire in the sunlight. He took from his pocket a cheroot; lighted it; inhaled the strong tobacco. An introspective expression clouded his eyes. With one hand he tapped his knee. Thus he sat, evidently absorbed, until Nakoda Mubin came out of the palace; even then he only shifted his position. The commander-in-chief spoke to the warriors, then approached.
"The sultan will receive you, O Rajah Besar!" he said.
The Frenchman descended from the veranda and followed the Datu Tumanggong.
Abu Hassan Abdulla Boru, Sultan of Kawaras, was seated on a dais in the hall of state, smothered in silks and fanned with feathers of the fire-backed pheasant. Surrounding him were warriors and attendants. Tuan Muda remarked the absence of women; a disturbing sign. The great room was still but for the creaking of his leather puttees as he entered.
The sultan raised his right arm in greeting; he did not offer to shake hands. Tuan Muda nodded, halting in the center of the hall. The ruler's features were impassive—thin, arrogant features that told of Arab blood—but they were no more uncommunicative than the white man's.
"You come from the Tuan Rajah?" thus the sultan.
Again Tuan Muda nodded.
"The Tuan Rajah is well?" pursued Abu Hassan.
"He was well when I left Sadok," the Frenchman replied.
Silence followed. The two men stared at each other. Beads clashed softly as a warrior moved. At length Tuan Muda remarked:
"I saw only a few men in your village. They are on a hunting expedition, I presume."
Abu Hassan's expressionless face did not change.
"They have gone to a festival in the village of Rajah Orang Masahar."
Oblong portions of the roof, propped up to facilitate ventilation, admitted shafts of light; and Tuan Muda fixed his eyes upon one of these, contemplating it with a ghost of a smile. From outside, muffled by walls, came the faint pulsing of a tom-tom.
"I see," he commented, watching the particles of dust that swam in the light.
Another silence. Across the Frenchman's mind rode swift thoughts: "Ridiculous.... Conquest suspected the truth.... Diplomacy...." After a brief interval he announced, "I have come as an ambassador from the Tuan Rajah."
The sultan took an opium pill from a pouch at his side before he said, "Your mission is of peace, yes, Tuan?"
Tuan Muda dropped his gaze to the other.
"Why should it be otherwise, O Abu Hassan?"
The sultan scratched his sides in true Malay fashion.
"The ways of white men are strange, O Young Lord. They have wrought many changes among the Orang Malayu. Before the Tuan Rajah came, I ruled the coast between Sarawak and Sambas; now I am no more than a servant of the Tuan Rajah, who has robbed me of my lands, of my trade with the Javanese merchants and the Arabs of Macassar. Allah! That I, son of Hadji Abdulla, should permit such injustice!"
"You were willing to sign a charter with the Tuan Rajah's Government," reminded Tuan Muda.
"With the guns of a great war-canoe threatening—yes!"
"Not until now have you complained, O Sultan Besar!"
Abu Hassan spat, his gaze openly hostile. "Ya! Not until now! The guns of the Tuan Rajah are cruel—they bury protests in thunder! But there comes an end to everything, Young Lord!"
Tuan Muda gestured impatiently. "I am not here to discuss that, but another affair, an affair of more immediate importance. It is known to the Tuan Rajah that about the time of the new moon a white woman—the ranee whom you saw during your visit at Sadok—was brought into your territory. She is a great queen in her country, a Ranee Besar; therefore, the Tuan Rajah wishes your help in finding her. He declares that his agent, Salazar, called by your people Tuan-besar, carried her away in his absence. He commands your aid in apprehending him, or, if you already know where he is, orders that he be delivered over to me; also the white ranee."
The sultan had taken on a mask of impassivity again. For a moment after the Frenchman finished he chewed his opium pellet in silence, evidently framing an answer.
"I know nothing of this Ranee Besar," he declared at length, "nor of Tuan-besar. He bade me farewell the day I left Sadok—you were there, Tuan Muda—and since then I have not seen him."
Thought Tuan Muda, "He is lying." To Abu Hassan he said: "But they came up the river. I saw the marks of their camp a short distance below here."
"They may have passed in the night, O Young Lord!"
Tuan Muda smiled. "Do your men sleep at their posts, that they do not know and report who goes up and down the stream, O Sultan Besar?"
"I know nothing of them," Abu Hassan maintained stolidly. After a pause he suggested, "The forest is wide: they may have left the river and traveled around my kampong to the plantation. The agents of the Tuan Rajah who live there may have hidden them. They are evil men. Only a few days ago one of them forced the wife of a Datu to be unfaithful. That is not the first time such has happened to women of my village. My people are angry, particularly the Dyaks. They are savages, these Dyaks; they demand justice. There are among them young men desirous of wedding but who cannot marry until they each procure a head. They are not easy to hold in check, these young men."
"She is in the village," the Frenchman told himself. To the other he pointed out: "If, as you think, the men at the plantation are hiding Tuan-besar and the ranee, would it be wise for me to go there alone? They are fortified. They might refuse me entrance—or even kill me. Give me a hundred of your warriors. With them I will force my way into the fort—if it is necessary."
He watched the ruler's face as he spoke. The expressionless mold did not alter. However, he was not deceived.
"My warriors are at Rajah Orang Masahar's kampong," said the Malay. "They will not return until to-morrow. Then, if you desire, you may have, not one hundred, but two—nay! three hundred or a thousand!"
The Frenchman was thinking: "He plans to kill me; he will try it to-night if I remain.... Yet I cannot leave.... We are trapped unless.... Camel! Pig of a Malay! He must believe me entirely at his mercy...."
Aloud he protested: "Much may happen in a night. There are at least fifty men in the village now; they, with my boatmen, would be enough."
But Abu Hassan shook his head.
"They are too few to meet the guns of the fort. To-morrow, Young Lord."
Tuan Muda's lean fingers locked behind him. Again he fixed his gaze on the shaft of light, affecting a frown. Yes, he must appear dull; pretend to consider, then consent. Dirty nigger! Where were the warriors? Find out. At length:
"Very well," he agreed. "I shall wait." Then he added: "The Tuan Rajah will be pleased to learn of your magnanimity. I shall send my head-man, Matu Baba, to him with a message, telling all that has passed between us. Salaamat jalan!"
With that he turned and strode out.
Abu Hassan Abdulla Boru, Sultan of Kawaras, relaxed. He smiled and scratched himself contentedly.
"He is a very great fool," he thought. "The Tuan Rajah has followed and is waiting somewhere down the river. This messenger will tell him my warriors are away and ... Allah! The dregs of my shame are sprinkled with pearls!"
3
Tuan Muda returned to his temporary quarters, where he found Matu Baba waiting, seated amid the impedimenta brought from the canoe.
"Lord," announced the Malay solemnly, rising. "We will be killed if we remain here."
The Frenchman made no immediate comment. A faint smile crooked his mouth as he slipped his hand into his pack and groped among clothing.
"The Sea Dyaks are savages," the native went on. "They torture their captives. I heard of a man who was taken by them and impaled upon bamboo swords, and another whose arms and legs were broken and afterward hacked off with a parang-ilang. The sultan, who is cruel, would not interfere if——"
"Put those boxes inside," Tuan Muda broke in. "You observe those warriors in the clearing? Well, they are there to watch us.... Now. You were predicting impalement for us"—as he drew from his pack a deck of cards. "No, Matu Baba. They may intend to murder us, but—" He snapped his fingers. "Wits against force! Strategy; do you know what that means?"
Matu Baba, engaged in moving the boxes inside, said:
"The Young Lord is brave. But I have seen the warriors attired for battle; I have heard them singing, vae vae-ae vo vae; which is the head-hunter's song. My men have also seen and heard, and they threaten to leave before they are slain. Hassim swears that as he passed the Communal House he saw a head, newly severed; a white head, Lord."
Tuan Muda seated himself cross-legged near the doorway and shuffled the cards. He accepted the other's statements without visible emotion. However, a frown creased his forehead, not because of what Matu Baba had said, but because of the tom-tom that kept up its persistent throbbing somewhere in the village. Suddenly he demanded:
"Where is that drum? Why is it beating like that?"
"It may be a Dyak woman, Lord, trying to frighten away an evil bird. But my men say it is another thing, that it is a warning to leave."
The Frenchman was placing the cards for a game of solitaire.
"They need not desert, Matu Baba. I am going to send them out of danger—yes, now.... Lay out my mattress, there, where it can be seen by those monkeys in the clearing."
The boatman obeyed, asking:
"Where will you send them? Back to...."
"Yes, down the river. It will take a day and a night to reach the others, eh?"
"Yes, Lord. But——"
"And the same time to return with them. That would make it—this is Wednesday, eh?—well, about dusk of Friday. Hmm. But"—shrugging—"it cannot be helped. I counseled the Tuan Rajah not to leave them so far behind."
Matu Baba stood in the doorway, gazing anxiously at the white man.
"Lord, you will not stay here alone?"
"One of your men must remain with me."
"Why not I?"
"No, your task is to bring the others. Leave the swiftest runner—leave Hassim—yes, he is the one. I want him to carry a message to the Tuan Rajah to-night.... To the devil with that drum!"
"He will never do it; you both will be slain."
"Open the tin of biscuits," Tuan Muda directed; "also the meat. Do you realize I have had nothing in my stomach since dawn?... Slain, eh? Name of God! A pessimist!"
He paused, holding up a part of the deck; the other cards were arranged in seven piles on the floor.
"Attend, Matu Baba! If chance is with me, I match these cards with those. If not——" A shrug. He turned three cards. "A red deuce on a black three.... You must go as soon as my lunch is prepared. There will be no interference." He chuckled. "Indeed, Abu Hassan will be delighted to see you depart! When you have finished here, I want you to get some turmeric—powdered turmeric. I'll give you cigarettes to trade for it. Try the dukun. Say I have a terrible skin-disease—anything! Only get it—a pouchful.... You remember the place where we saw the marks of a camp? On your return you will find a messenger waiting there.... The cards are running well. A ten there—regard...."
He talked on, more to himself than to the Malay, while the latter set up a collapsible table and chair, and laid out a meal of tinned food. Punctuating his thoughts were the muffled beats of the drum.
"The devil!" he exclaimed suddenly. "The devil, again! I am blocked. In here"—tapping the pile of cards he had been turning—"is the queen of hearts; but a black knave stands in the way. You comprehend? Because of him I fail—this time." He rose. "Go and tell the men to prepare to leave. Also attend to the other matter. Here are the cigarettes."
Tuan Muda had eaten and was puffing a black cheroot when Matu Baba returned. The latter drew from under his jacket a leather pouch.
"I got it from a Dyak woman, Lord."
The Frenchman nodded approval, taking the pouch and dropping it into his pocket.
"You are ready? Where is Hassim?"
"He is coming, Lord." Matu Baba hesitated, then inquired, "Is there nothing more before I go?"
"Nothing."
Again the head-man hesitated, then said, "Farewell, Young Lord!"
A shadowy smile flickered across the white man's face, momentarily absorbing the tired, haggard look.
"Au revoir, Matu Baba!"
When the Malay had gone, Tuan Muda flung away the butt of his cheroot and lighted a fresh one, then, picking up the cards, shuffled them to the ominous accompaniment of the tom-tom.
4
A smoky dusk; embers in the west. Fireflies, sparks from the forge of the sunset, reeled through the forest. Black trees rose in charred tracery upon the sky. Before the palace a fire burned, its glare staining the men squatting around it. Other fires, scattered over the village, flaunted ragged banners.
As the sudden night fell, the glow of a cigarette marked the spot where Tuan Muda sat; where he had been sitting since Matu Baba's departure, smoking and playing solitaire.
The tom-tom had ceased, and not a moment too soon. Another throb and his nerves, at the point of disintegration, would have been powder. Now the quiet, although portentous, served as a lubricant for the clogged machinery of his brain and body: he dared surrender to the weariness and the doubts that through the day had been clamoring for recognition. Kaleidoscopically, the events of the last few weeks arranged themselves in his mind. Indecision and weakness; tension that threatened to snap his will; the burden of carrying a secret. A mosaic of emotions, colored by the glare of the days and the black pigment of the nights. In the center of this polychrome, a figure serene and poised, was the woman.
"Cold as ice-floes," he thought. "Splendid, brilliant, but cold. She will not forgive. It will stand between us—for ever. Garon! Bah! I hate the name! No, she will have no mercy—not even when the truth is known!"
A sensation of futility smote him. Life: a bitter quest. One sought a star only to find, upon reaching it, that beyond was another, more desirable; and so on until the body, weary of searching, wasted back to the substance that yielded it. If he won to-night, if his venture succeeded, it would be a brief victory, a moment of triumph, then—Guiana. There was irony in the realization that, as she had threatened, she would cause his return to the convict settlement. Yes, he would go back; there was nothing else to do. His duty was there, in that pestilential land. And she would continue on her splendid way, too magnificent to forgive or even know——He clipped off sharply.
"Hassim"—addressing a black shadow beside him—"make a fire and boil some water."
The Malay moved noiselessly into the house, and Tuan Muda rose. He stamped his cigarette underfoot and paced the gallery, watching the figures that were outlined darkly against the blaze in the clearing.
Presently he went inside. From his kit he got an electric pocket-lamp and writing-materials. For several minutes his pencil moved swiftly over the paper; then he read what he had written, and, satisfied, folded the note.
"Hassim"—to the boy, now squatting in front of the fireplace—"this is the message for the Tuan Rajah. Remember my instructions; also remember what I told you to do if caught. Before you go, find the dukun and tell him I am stricken with fever and wish to consult him. Do not return with him, but leave immediately. You comprehend?"
"Ya, Tuan putih! Go now?"
"Is the water boiling?"
The Malay bent over the pot. "It is steaming, Tuan."
"Here is the message. Pigi!"
When the boy had gone Tuan Muda switched off the pocket-lamp and thrust it under his mattress. Then, by the weird firelight, he poured part of the boiling water into another pot and mixed with it the turmeric which Matu Baba had procured. The powdered root dissolved quickly. For a few minutes he watched the liquid simmer, after which he examined his revolver and placed it with the flash-light.
"Now"—aloud—"we produce a temperature!"
He drank two cups of hot water, then soaked his handkerchief. When the cloth was heated sufficiently he folded it upon his forehead and lay down. In little more than a minute sweat streamed from his pores; his face burned. But the dukun did not appear.
"Name of God!" he thought. "If he does not come soon I shall have to do it again!"
He was on the verge of rising to get more hot water when he heard the creaking of the ladder. Flinging away the wet handkerchief, he closed his eyes and feigned heavy breathing. Came a step; then:
"Tuan sent for me?"
He opened his eyes, muttering, "Dmam"—Malayan for fever.
The dukun, or village doctor, bent over him, touching his forehead.
"What can I do, Tuan? Have you none of the great medicines of your people?"
The Frenchman shivered voluntarily.
"The draft," he said, gesturing toward the door.
"There is no wind, Tuan." Animal-like he sniffed the air, which was aromatic with the fumes of turmeric.
Tuan Muda shivered again. "I feel it.... Shut the door."
The Malay lowered the thong-swung weight that worked the door and returned to the white man's side. The latter spoke.
"In the fireplace"—weakly—"is medicine, great medicine. My boy put it there to boil. See.... Wait!"—lifting himself on one elbow—"take this light."
He drew the pocket-lamp from under the mattress with his left hand, snapping it on, while with his right he jerked out the revolver. As the glittering barrel caught the light, the dukun recoiled, springing to his feet. Tuan Muda also leaped up.
"Step back, O dukun!" he commanded. "And be silent! You understand? Back farther"—forcing the other against the wall—"there!"
The Malay stared at the muzzle of the weapon, apparently more surprised than frightened.
"Answer my questions," the Frenchman snapped, "and I shall not harm you! Where are the men of the village?"
"Apa?" meaning, "What?"—the usual recourse of a Malay when trying to gain time.
"You understand! Where are they?"
"I do not know, Tuan."
"A lie! Quickly!"—with a movement of the revolver.
"They are waiting to kill the Tuan Rajah and his men."
"Where?"
"Down the river."
"How far?"
"Less than a mile."
The native's words recalled to Tuan Muda his eery sensations when he passed through the black forest. Why, he wondered, had he been permitted to pass? He continued:
"Did you see the white ranee whom the Tuan-besar brought here? Where is she? In the palace?"
The dukun opened his mouth to answer; snapped it shut. A subtle cunning crept into his eyes. Tuan Muda saw it; knew instantly that the Malay had realized he would not dare sound an alarm by shooting; and he swung the revolver, hammerwise. Followed a cracking sound. The dukun staggered but did not fall, and, before the Frenchman could strike again, he was on guard.
It was not an encounter of thrusts and blows, but of sinew and muscle. One of Tuan Muda's arms was free; the other, upright and gripping the barrel of the revolver, was in the Malay's clutch. Straining and twisting, they reeled about the room; they grappled and pitched; they stumbled and crashed into the walls. Tuan Muda heard the creaking of the floor above their short, swift breathing; wondered how long the bamboo would hold. Twisting his leg about the dukun's, he clung with his entire strength. They thudded to the floor, chest to chest. For an instant the Frenchman was underneath, crushed by the other's weight, but with a wrench he rolled the body from him and struck. Crunch of teeth; a gurgling sound. He found himself suddenly released and gained his feet, his vision freckled with yellow. A corrugated butt met the rising native between the eyes.... Tuan Muda sank limply against the wall, trembling with reaction.
"Dead," he thought, sparks still bursting before him. "Men ... bodies ... wherever I go ... God of Gods!"
Weakly, scarcely conscious of the action, he moved to the fireplace and kicked several branches into the embers. The dry wood flared. He gazed at the fire stupidly, his senses crawling out of a smoky sphere. The odor of turmeric brought him back to his task.
"Pah! A Malay!" Thus compromising his conscience. "I slew him for a purpose!"
He crossed to the door, opening it a crack and peering out. Black figures in the clearing. He smiled grimly. Assassins? Fools, instead. He found his kit and took from it a shaving-outfit and a mirror, arranging them on a box in front of the fire. On a folding chair close by he placed his pocket-lamp, lighted, propping it against the pot of turmeric. He then stripped himself of all garments but his singlet.
Ten minutes later he was shaved and ready to apply the pigment. It was no easy task, for the liquid dried almost the instant it touched the skin and he had to work swiftly to accomplish a smooth coat. When this was done—his body stained except between armpits and thighs—he set about, grimly, to divest the Malay of clothing. The garments were repugnant to him, but, stifling his disgust, he put them on, and, attired in sarong, jacket, and turban, proceeded to dress the native in his own clothes. Cold insects seemed to crawl up and down his spine as he worked. Afterward he lighted a cigarette to purge himself, and, puffing furiously, dragged the body to the mattress and dropped it face downward. Then he arranged the mosquito curtain over it.
"Now"—with a sigh—"let them come!"
A look at his watch: nearly ten. He dropped the time-piece into a pocket of the jacket; in the other he placed the revolver and flash-light. Once more he peered outside. "Too early," he thought. From the door his gaze roved about the room, rising at length to the roof, which, like those of other Malay houses, was of thatch and built so that strips could be lifted and propped as a means of ventilation. One corner was raised. It offered a suggestion that he immediately accepted.
Quenching the fire, he groped his way into the corner with a folding chair, and, stepping upon the taut canvas, gripped one of the transverse poles supporting the roof and drew himself into the opening. The space was small, the ridge upon which he perched narrow, but by crouching and clamping his elbows upon the sides of the thatch he was able to establish himself with a certain amount of comfort. A glance behind showed him, between forking palms, the augmented brilliance of stars. A tawny glow filtered through the trees, but the dense foliage denied a view of the clearing. Some distance away, bulking against massed shadows, was the palace. At sight of it a dreadful possibility rose to the surface of his thoughts. What if she were not there or even in the village! He thrust the doubt away. She was near; he could feel her ... cold as northern lights.
From the river came the basso of frogs. Once a monkey chattered somewhere in the ambient darkness; frequently he heard rats in the room below. With the passing of minutes fatigue gnawed at his brain and muscles, and he found himself on the offensive against insidious attacks of drowsiness. Repeated inspections of his watch apprised him of the advancing seconds.
Soon a copperish moon rose, limning the trees blackly against the sky. With it came a breeze, languorous and burdened with sweet jungle odors. These fragrances were potent wine to his already tired senses. Several times, on the very verge of sleep, he almost tumbled from his perch. Finally, in desperation, he decided to run the risk of a smoke to occupy and stimulate him. He struck a match; stifled it instantly.
A muffled creak.
Drowsiness dropped from him like a cloak. He drew out his flash-light, holding it in readiness and clinging to the thatch with his other hand.
Another creak.
He made out a faint line of gray in the blackness below, a line that slowly widened into a rectangle and disclosed a crouching form. Then, magically, the rectangle shrank, vanished. He marveled at the soundlessness of that entrance. Clever devil! He was crossing the floor now, probably creeping on all fours. In a moment he would strike.... Yes: there! Thud! Thud! Thud! Name of God! He was hacking! Revulsion uncoiled in the Frenchman. Waiting no longer, he snapped on the flash-light.
The sudden ray photographed a naked back and a lifted blade—a blade that did not fall. The native whirled, staring wildly into the circle of light.
Tuan Muda jumped. As he landed, the floor sagged threateningly. The Malay, a shaggy-haired creature, stood not four feet away, transfixed. His weapon, the Frenchman perceived, was a heavy, concave sword known as a parang-ilang.
"Son of Shaïtan!" he flung in Malayan, drawing his revolver and thrusting it into the light. "Whelp of abomination! It is I, Tuan Muda, whom you came to slay! Look! See whom you have hacked to pieces! Regard your own end, for when the sultan learns of your mistake he will have you spitted like a goat and sliced to death! Look, foolish one!"
As the surprised native turned Tuan Muda seized his wrist and twisted it until the sword dropped. Then he planted his foot upon the blade.
"If you make a sound," he threatened, "I shall kill you! Did you come alone—or is there another outside? Answer, lizard—crawling thing!"
Evidently the Malay's mind could not grasp the situation beyond the bare realization that he had made a mistake, a terrible mistake.
"Are you alone?" pressed Tuan Muda. "Answer!"
The native blinked stupidly at the light. After a moment his lips moved.
"The sultan sent me, O Tuan."
"Alone?"
"Yes, Tuan."
"What has become of the mem-sahib whom the Tuan-besar brought here?"
"Tuan?"—not understanding.
"The white woman," Tuan Muda snapped. "The ranee from Sadok."
"She was in the palace until to-day, Tuan, but she fought the sultan's wives, so they moved her."
A thrill passed through the Frenchman. A leopardess! Yes, a snow leopardess! But suddenly the thrill ended in fear.
"Moved her?" he echoed. "Where?"
"She is in the house of Sajut."
"In the village?"
"Yes, Tuan."
"Who is with her?"
"Two of the sultan's warriors are guarding her; I saw them early in the evening, sitting on the gallery."
Silence. Tuan Muda was thinking rapidly. "If you have lied," he said at length, "I——"
"I have not lied," the native put in hastily, dropping on his knees. "Slay me, O Tuan Putih—slay me quickly, then all will be at an end! If I live, the sultan will have me tortured! He will have me spitted like a goat, as you said! Be merciful, Tuan—strike my head from my body!"
Tuan Muda slipped the revolver into his pocket and quickly picked up the sword. He had no intention of deliberately murdering the Malay, but a plan had unfolded whereby he might divert this circumstance into a useful channel. The native was motionless, waiting calmly for death. The Frenchman lifted the blade; paused.
"No," he pronounced, "I will not soil it with your blood. I shall tie you and stuff your mouth and leave you to be spitted like a goat."
Fear glazed the Malay's eyes.
"O Most Generous, Most Kind!" he pleaded. "Slay me now! Slay me, O Rajah Putih!"
Again Tuan Muda raised the blade; paused.
"No," he reiterated, "I will not! Indeed, I am moved to spare you, toad that you are. If you will come with me and do as I direct, I shall free you when we have escaped from the village, and then you may fly from the wrath of Abu Hassan."
An incredulous stare greeted this announcement.
"Go with you, Tuan? Not die?" It required a moment for him to adjust himself to the fact that he was being offered freedom from a predicament that, to him, seemed soluble only by death. "What would you have me do, O Rajah Besar?"
"Lead me to the house where the Ranee Putih is confined."
"Ya, Tuan!"—eagerly. "I will, I——"
"Silence, snake!" the white man hissed. "I said I would spare you, yes, but only if you do as I command; and, first of all, I order you to be quiet! Furthermore, if you make a suspicious move, if anything happens to even suggest that you intend treachery, I shall—no, not kill you, but wound you and leave you to be tortured! Swear by Allah that you will obey!"
"I swear, O Tuan!"
"And if you break that oath may your soul be delivered to Shaïtan, may your traitorous name be a stink among men, even to those of your own family! Repeat that!"
The Malay did.
"Now"—thus the Frenchman—"answer my questions. Is the sultan waiting for you?"
"He commanded me to return with your head."
Tuan Muda thought a moment, then announced: "We shall have to work fast. There were two men guarding her, you said—only two?"
"I saw no more, O Tuan."
"Hmm. We must surprise them—er.... Your name? Tama? We must surprise them, Tama—strike swiftly, you with your sword, I with my gun. Then—but I will tell you what to do then. Is there a trail to the plantation, to the fort?"
"Yes, Tuan, through the swamp."
Tuan Muda moved to the door, being careful to keep the native under observation, for, whereas he did not believe the Malay's superstitious nature would permit him to break so terrible an oath, he could not afford to take the chance. The fire in the clearing had burned low, and two figures squatted near the embers, whether facing him or not he was unable to see. That they might be watching was a risk he must run. Turning, he flung the parang-ilang on the floor and drew his revolver.
"Pick up your sword," he directed, switching off the flash-light and opening wide the door. "Climb down the ladder and go under the house—do it quickly!"
Tama obeyed, and Tuan Muda followed, his attention divided between his newly acquired ally and the figures in the clearing.
"Now," he murmured when they were beneath the log-raised dwelling, "which way?"
The native made a gesture, and, at a word from the Frenchman, led off through the sleeping village.
5
In a house in one corner of the stockade, Lhassa Camber sat wrapped in dull contemplation.
A bar of moonlight plunged under a raised portion of the roof and splintered on the floor.
Since morning, when she had been brought from the palace, an increasing sense of helplessness had cemented her into stolid acceptance of whatever the somber future held. Her passivity, indeed, if it was that, was neither weakness nor surrender. It was the indifference following a succession of blows, the hardening of the tissues to pain. She was bruised from the struggle with the sultan's wives. But the blow that had left her stunned was not upon her body. Words, a few small words, and, like cruel steel, they had bitten into her heart; they had severed the magic pattern that had been spun about her. And the amazing feature was that the very thread which had woven the design was the one that snarled it!
Since that evening in Singapore, the blue slendong had become integrated into her thoughts, into her being, with a meaning that she had only dimly sensed; now, with sudden vision, she perceived its true significance. It was a symbol, the symbol of Romance. It had unrolled out of nowhere, bright with the promise of adventure, and had carried her over sea and into jungle, only to betray her to reality. In the light of this treachery, the Emerald Buddha, once a power that conjured dreams of battle and valor and death, all the splendid sacrifices and tragedies of Romance, became merely a piece of jade which millions worshiped with bovine stupidity. "Romance, the beautiful illusion." Conquest had said; Conquest, himself proof of the words.
She had believed herself clever. But she had been blind. For why had not she guessed the truth before Salazar told her? She could hardly have recognized him: the previous glimpses were too brief, the one in Singapore and the other in Bangkok, and each time he was disguised with a beard and a distorted back. But intuition should have stirred the embers; intuition, and his brown, slender hands. Hands that had stolen. Hands....
All day they had haunted her. They had crept in among her thoughts and commanded them. They had woven lithely about her heart and pulled. She had tried to tear them away, had, in fancy, bruised them as they had bruised her. But they persisted. She even pictured them fighting in the trap Salazar had set, pictured them lying stilled by a blow. But she could not exult in these imaginary scenes: they wounded her. Wounded her. She repeated that, stupefied by the realization. He, Tuan Muda—she would never call him Garon—had the power to hurt her.
The acknowledgment of this truth was accompanied by an agony so profound that it seemed to crack her. She felt a rending as of ice under tremendous pressure, a grinding and crushing of emotions. It was as though her father, that impatient-mouthed man of the oil-painting, had sheathed her in restraint, but the fire of her mother, the vivid creature in the peacock shawl, had burned through the prison. She was, suddenly, free and pagan; a touch of barbaric Africa in the sensation. She remembered a night in Saigon when she had watched a tide of faces sweep by and felt utterly separated, secure, in her calm back-water off the main stream. A gesture, a grandiose gesture that had vanished before the advent of this man ... this man from the prisons. Out of the very sphere that she had condemned, out of turmoil and sweat and the shambles of dreams, he had come, bringing a revelation of the beauty and the agony of life. Life! In a flash she saw its strength and its weakness, its conquests and its defeats; all emotions that welded into one magnificent purpose in the blast-furnace of mercy. To be merciful! To cleanse his hands in compassion!
But as the hours passed, crawling hours, dreary with doubt and suspense, the fire burnt out; and now not a spark animated the dead cells. She sat there, neither condemning nor forgiving, only waiting; waiting without hope, without even the conscious desire to hope.
About her was the hush of a necropolis. Yet she knew that beyond the door were two beings very much alive. Frequently she heard them moving or talking. She heard one of them now. He spoke. It sounded like a challenge. Her imagination answered: Salazar!
She rose, trembling. If it were he she knew what she would do; she knew. Throughout the day the thought had recurred insistently, but until now she had rejected it. Yes, she would do it. His coarse muscles were greater than her strength. But she remembered a trick she had seen on the voyage from Nagasaki to Hong Kong, a fatal trick. Two Japanese were fighting in the steerage, and one pressed his thumbs into the hollows under the other's ears....
Again she heard a challenge. Another voice replied. Came a sudden thudding crash beyond the door, then the concussion of a great weight striking the gallery. Footsteps; blows. The floor beneath her shook. She realized, frightened, that two bodies were rolling and struggling outside. Even as she realized it, the noises ceased. The sudden quiet was as confusing as a roar.
She started toward the door; stopped. Was the door opening or did she only fancy it? As if answering the question, a form emerged from an oblong diffusion of gray light. She recognized the dress and turban of a native, and relief sent a sharp charge into her throat. She asked:
"What do you want?"
The splintered moonlight lay between them, and he moved into it, transformed from a ghost into a being of flesh. Dizziness blurred her gaze; the room was no longer stationary. He spoke, and his voice was reminiscent of another; his face, too. Long hands, reaching slowly, doubtfully toward her, furnished the last clue. The space between them shrank. She was not aware of movement, nor did she see him stir; it was as though an invisible force carried her into his arms. The warmth of him struck an answering flame. It seemed to fuse them into one. Then, swiftly as it had kindled, it died, leaving them to break apart like cold and brittle metal. Her lips felt bruised where he had crushed them.
"I didn't mean...." she began, but gave up as adequate words refused to form.
"You didn't...."
She gestured weakly, inexpressively. The sudden breath of fire had left white ashes.
"You understand," she resumed incoherently. "The strain, the frightful strain; and then you came; came out of nowhere! Oh, you understand!" she repeated. "I know you do!"
He was standing in the moonlight, and she saw the muscles of his cheek tense. The old insolent expression was absent, perhaps because the scar that was responsible for it was under his turban-cloth. Garon! No, he couldn't be! He couldn't!
"Tell me," she breathed swiftly, "tell me who you are; tell me if Salazar lied when he said you—your name——" Again words failed her; the remainder of her appeal was a plea from her eyes.
His fingers—those restless fingers!—tapped the haft of a sword thrust under his sarong. A long, deliberate pause preceded his words.
"I was called"—he moistened his lips—"I was called Garon—and I was there, in Bangkok, that night—but——"
"Don't lie!"—in dead tones.
His expression changed: something of his former impudence, the proud intolerance that was part of his individuality, flashed back. He lifted his eyebrows; shrugged.
"Lie? Why should I?"
Her inherent arrogance responded to the change, but she crushed it; crushed it and repeated that inexpressive gesture. She desired passionately to believe—But the blue slendong! Barthélemy!
"I don't know," she sighed. "I am too tired to think. My brain seems crippled. I——" She paused, groping desperately for something to say. "Oh, I'll believe!" she finished up, surrendering. "I'll believe if you swear, swear to God, that you didn't do it. Will you swear? To God?"
Silence. His face was still as bronze in the moonlight. Vainly she tried to draw from his immobile countenance some hint of his thoughts. Finally, he drew a deep breath. The muscles over his jaw rippled.
"I swear—that I did not—touch him."
Relief; a melting of tension. But she pressed on. "And you don't know who did? Or what became of Captain Barthélemy?"
"No."
"You swear to that, too?"
An exclamation of impatience. "You have my oath that I am not guilty! Is not that sufficient? If I told you everything now you wouldn't believe. Furthermore, if we remain here talking we will be killed."
As he spoke a shadow flickered past the doorway, accompanied by a creak. Startled, she whispered, "Who is that?"
"One of the sultan's men. He has agreed to show us the trail to the fort."
"Are you alone? I mean, is Mr. Conquest with you?"
"He is at the fort—or should be by now. This is no time for explanations. If we reach him it will mean at least temporary safety, and then——"
"But I must know more!"—insistently. "I will not go blindly! How did Mr. Conquest get there? What has happened?"
His hands flashed impatiently. "Name of God! A woman must know every detail!"
"Are my feelings to be ignored?" she flared. "You have been active, occupied, but I ... waiting—waiting—not knowing! I can't endure it any longer!"
The expression of annoyance vanished from his face.
"My nerves; like that"—snapping his fingers. "Forgive me. What has happened? Well, when we returned to Sadok and learned what had occurred, the Tuan Rajah gathered together as many men as possible, including the crew of the Narcissus, and we set out. We knew, of course, that Salazar and the sultan were allied. Two days ago we separated; a tactical move. Conquest, with about thirty Malays, left the river to march by a circuitous route through the jungle to Barabbas Town. He suspected that Salazar may have corrupted the men there, and, if that was the case, he intended to seize the fort. It would gain a strategical point; you see? We figured that he would reach there this afternoon or to-night. Meanwhile, the greater part of his little army, under the captain of the Narcissus, set up camp to wait, and I, with a few men, went on to—to take the temperature of the situation, so to say. I was to sound the sultan and find you—if possible. It was agreed that if affairs proved ugly I would send for the captain and his force, and join Conquest at Barabbas Town. If there was no trouble smoldering, then—well, our warlike advance would not be generally known, and no strained situation would rise from it. Savages, you comprehend, must be handled with diplomacy. They——"
"But trouble is smoldering," she inserted.
"It has broken. An attempt to murder me was made to-night, and the sultan's men are ambushed along the river. Earlier in the evening I sent a runner to Barabbas Town to tell Conquest I suspected you were here. If we reach the fort, and he has succeeded in his venture, we can hold it until relief comes. I have sent for the others." He stopped suddenly, then asked, "Where is Salazar?"
"I don't know. I haven't seen him since morning. He told me of the ambushed warriors, and I.... But I don't understand why you were permitted to pass into the village."
"Obviously, the sultan wished to learn how much I knew. But Salazar...." A significant pause.
She forced a smile. "It's all so fantastic, so—so ridiculous. He is like a bad character out of a story. He.... But what does he expect to gain?"
"Loot in the Tuan Rajah's house," he explained. "There is enough even to be divided among those rogues at the plantation should they aid him. After that, freedom. Do you forget that they are hunted men?"
She had not. Nor had she forgotten that he, also, was hunted. As she started to speak there came a creak from the veranda. He crept to the doorway, peering out.
"We are squandering time"—turning back. "Are you ready?"
She stepped into the bar of moonlight, pausing, irresolute. Hunted men. Those words were a shuttle that carried an insidious thread.
"We shall have to climb the stockade," he announced. "There are a few houses outside, Dyak houses. But if we are cautious there is small danger, and, even if we are seen, our dress should protect us." When she made no move to join him he said: "You hesitate—why?"
The shuttle had woven a definite design. She dreaded to pronounce the words that hovered on her tongue, yet she knew she would not be satisfied until she did, until she had his reply.
"Tuan Muda"—in a low, faintly husky voice—"one more question. Don't be impatient. There's a possibility, you know, that we may not reach the fort. A thousand things could happen. So tell me, tell me truthfully: why were you sent to Guiana?"
He stood motionless by the door, darkness thick on his face. She could hear his heavy breathing. He answered:
"I had charge of certain funds at Hanoi; a government position. I.... It was a sordid affair."
Her tense body relaxed. There flowed over her a strange, thrilling sense of stillness, a sort of passionate peace, driving in its very calm.
"Come here," she commanded.
The scarf had slipped from her head, and the moonlight made a pale nimbus in her hair; about her body, too, was a faint glow, a weaving, illusory sheen in her silken robe. He came toward her slowly, like a man approaching a cathedral image. She extended her hands.
"Take them"—almost in a whisper—"hold them." He obeyed. "I believe you, Tuan Muda—Young Lord!"
He stood facing her for a moment, eyes lowered. Then he released her hands; moved quickly to the door; stood waiting on the threshold.
6
That exodus from the village was printed upon Lhassa's mind in a series of etchings: the still, dark houses, the chalky moon; the native gliding ahead, and Garon at her side. Once outside the stockade and beyond the houses scattered around it, she seemed to enter a new world; a world inhabited by shadows that took on human shape and vanished magically, and alive with snapping twigs, with leafy whispers, and strange little bird and insect calls. To her, this ghostly shadow-play, these sounds, were part of a conspiracy to torment her.
A path plunged through an arcade in the forest, but they shunned it, thus lessening the danger of an encounter. Moist plants brushed her ankles; the snaring filament of creepers. Frequently her long skirt was caught and torn. With each rustle of the grass, each hiss of the leaves, she expected to feel some slithering thing loop about her legs or drop sinuously from above. Terror of the dark, most despotic of fears, was rapidly sweeping her into its fold. The Frenchman walked beside her, saying not a word. Ahead, flickering noiselessly through the gloom, was the guide. She wanted desperately to hear a human voice, tones other than those of forest creatures, but she perceived the wisdom of silence. Questions, pricking doubts, thoughts relevant and impertinent, flashed in and out of her mind, all trivial beside the one dominant desire to fly from the night.
Suddenly she became conscious that the ground was yielding under her feet. She saw that the trees had thinned and were being replaced by rushes and high grasses. A damp breath rose from the earth. Her impulse was to rebel against going through the swamp, but she mastered the weakness; ground her teeth together in expression of her determination. Garon was holding her arm now. His grip gave her a poignant sense of security, to which she abandoned herself wholly. About them played a dim luminosity from decaying matter—pulsing phosphorus and glowing fungi. In front, squelching in mud, moved the native, a black shadow leading them deeper into the phantom bog. To her, in her condition of abnormal alertness, every log was an armored monster. Once when a bird wheeled out of hiding she almost screamed. Garon must have felt the tremor that shot through her, for he tightened his grip and pressed closer.
"How far?" she breathed, more to hear her own voice than from an actual desire to know.
"Not far—a mile, perhaps."
She seemed to slip back centuries. In her thoughts, in her elemental emotions of fear, of horror, of instinctive clinging to the man-creature at her side, she reverted to the plane of those beings who hunted and fought in Silurian forests. The morass stretched before them in an endless succession of pools and mire-traps through which they slushed and stumbled. The deliquescing vapors nauseated her, and she wondered if she had the strength to continue. Fatigue assaulted her like a tangible weight: she found herself on her knees, with Garon standing over her, gripping her shoulders.
"Tired," she whispered. "Rest—just a moment." She sank to a sitting position, regardless of the moist ground, and smiled up at him wearily. "Stupid to be so weak, isn't it? But I can't help it. You understand."
A quick pressure on her shoulders answered.
The native, she observed, had halted and was hovering close to the speared palisade of swamp-grass; and, suddenly, she saw him stiffen into an attitude of listening. Presently he addressed Garon in Malayan.
"What is it?" she demanded, weariness absorbed in anxiety.
The moonlight was so bright that it transformed night into weird, livid day, and his expression of concern was visible to her. He drew from his pocket a gleaming cylinder.
"He says there is some one coming on the trail."
The path was hidden by reeds so high that even a tall person passing would be precluded from view. Garon crept toward the fringe of grass, and she followed. Not five yards from the trail, he sank on his heels, waiting; she crouched behind.
There came to her, faintly, the irregular beat of footsteps. Apprehensively, she watched, her vision dancing with strain. Nearer. The footfalls seemed to pound upon the quiet. Then, suddenly, the night gave up a white form that staggered rather than walked along the path. Without warning, Garon shot up. The white form halted, swinging about to face him across the intervening space.
"Don't fire!" Garon called. "It is Tuan Muda!"
A short, hysterical laugh answered him. Lhassa knew. That laugh! She had not heard it since the night she tricked her way into the room of the two portraits.
Garon had reached the trail, and she hurried after him, her heart throbbing as though it would burst. Conquest was coatless; his unbuttoned cuffs dangled ridiculously. A swelling on his forehead marred his flawless face. His collar was torn open, and a great rent gaped from shoulder to waist, revealing skin that, in the moonlight, was dark, and splotched with even darker stains. As she came up, taking in these details at a glance, he toppled over. But he had not fainted, for he raised himself on one arm and regarded her with wide eyes.
"Done up," he muttered. "Miss Camber ... God knows ... glad you're safe." He paused; swallowed. His breathing was jerky. "Devil of a mess. Salazar, he...." Again he was forced to stop, to swallow painfully.
"Don't try to explain," Garon advised. "Where are you hurt?"
"Nothing serious," deprecated the other. "Must tell you—what's happened. The cowardly Malays! They ran away, deserted! I tried to stop them, and this—this is what I got"—touching his bare side. "When I woke up I started for the village to——"
"Why did they desert?" the Frenchman broke in. "What happened?"
Conquest shuddered, closing his eyes as though to exclude some terrible sight. Lhassa's attention was momentarily drawn from his face to a glitter in his hand. A dagger. In the moonlight she could see the perforated blade, and she recognized the misericorde he had shown her at Malay House.
"Ghastly!" he murmured. "Ghastly! All—every one!" His eyes opened. "We reached the fort about four hours ago; it may have been five; at any rate, it was after dark. Still as a tomb; not a light. I suspected treachery. The gate was open. So I went in, taking only half of the force." Another shudder. "God! We found them all ... twenty-seven ... scattered over the place ... some in the house, others outside.... Beastly! Awful!"
His words spread their poisonous meaning through her. She was not shocked; she could not so quickly accept a statement of tremendous tragedy. Had she witnessed it she could have felt the most exquisite horror, instantly, but only hearing made it seem too unreal to affect her immediately beyond a sense of something imminently disastrous.
Conquest went on:
"Must have surprised them. Early this morning, perhaps. Time the Dyaks attack, you know; no doubt about them being Dyaks. You understand.... Monstrous. My Malays were terrified. They refused to stay. I argued with the beggars, threatened. But no; white feather. Too few, they said, all be killed. I tried to interfere. Foolish, of course. But I did. A miracle I wasn't killed. Soon as I came out of it I started for the village. I knew Abu Hassan—damned murderer!—had sent those Dyaks. I.... But how do you happen to be here?"
Garon briefly recounted his adventures, from the arrival at the village to the escape. Lhassa heard his recital fragmentarily. What Conquest had told was revolving in her mind, increasing in ghastliness with each turn. Her own paltry pains and anxieties were ground to dust under the sheer brutality of the realization. That there was no protection at the fort, that they were trapped, left her strangely unafraid; fear for her personal safety was lost in a rapidly augmenting horror of the unspeakableness of what had occurred at Barabbas Town.
"Don't you see!" exclaimed Conquest. "Salazar! He intends that there shall be no one to share the spoils; he knows the sultan will be satisfied with the return of his former power. The damned renegade!" He turned his eyes upon Lhassa. "You said that some day one of my pack would turn and bite me; you remember? But I'm not finished—not yet!"
He struggled to his feet, thrusting aside Garon's restraining hand. To Lhassa, there was splendid defiance in that gesture. By it he dominated his soiled, rent clothing and the sordid reality of his wound. She saw, in a flash of comprehension, the colossal failure that his life had been. A relentless Fate had snatched from him, even before birth, the love that is human heritage, leaving him to discover the injustice as he grew, and, embittered, to replace the real with counterfeit. She understood the desperation that had driven him to a career of lawlessness. Now he was facing the supreme tragedy of losing even the substitutes with which he had deceived himself into happiness; and yet, with a gesture, he mocked the destiny that sought to crush him.
"I have a plan," he said. "You, Tuan Muda, must help me by taking Miss Camber to the fort. That's the safest place for her."
"And yourself?" queried Garon.
"A chance, a single chance if I go to Abu Hassan!"
"Death!" was the Frenchman's opinion.
"No time to explain now. But I will succeed."
"You will be slain before you reach him."
Lhassa shivered. Slain. She must ask him quickly, before he escaped her again; ask the question that had haunted her for days. Only a minute; it would require no longer.
"No," Conquest declared. "I'll go alone to the village; they'll take me prisoner. Then I'll demand an interview. I won't be refused—I'm still rajah of Kawaras. They won't dare kill me without orders from the sultan, and when I've seen him——"
"I will accompany you," broke in Garon.
"And leave Miss Camber alone?"
Lhassa spoke. "I am not afraid."
"It's not a question of courage," Conquest told her; one hand was pressed to his side, and he swayed unsteadily. "It's part of my plan that you two go to the fort. I.... What's that?" The question was evoked by a rustle in the swamp. "Only my native," explained Garon. Conquest continued: "You, Tuan Muda, can do nothing with the sultan. But I—well, my position gives me prestige."
"You are too weak," Lhassa said, then, "Before you go I must ask——"
"That you even think of my welfare," he interrupted, with his twisted smile, "will give me the strength I need. It's the one chance. Unless I take it—well, wherever we fly, Abu Hassan's warriors will follow. Our forces can't reach here before day after to-morrow. So go to the fort; wait." He paused, breathing heavily. "You will go, won't you?"
He directed a pleading gaze at her; a gaze that was eloquent, that seemed to entreat: "This is the splendid opportunity I have dreamed. Will you deny me that?" Yet what could he do? A pygmy in the path of overshadowing events!
Said Garon decisively, "Take this"—extending his revolver.
Conquest flashed the misericorde in answer. "I shall have to dispose of this before I reach the village." He grimaced with pain. "Go! If you delay, if.... Listen!"
In the quiet following his injunction, Lhassa heard swift, squelching steps in the march. The native was no longer waiting by the fringe of grass: a black, rapidly diminishing shadow marked his retreat through the rushes. Garon raised his pistol; dropped it.
"Treacherous pig!" he muttered. "Now he will probably go to the sultan. I should have——"
"No time to waste," Conquest cut in. "Hurry!" As he made a move to go, he smiled at Lhassa, that smile of mingled whimsy and melancholy. "Do you remember," he said, "how Lord Jim went up the river, at Patusan, with an unloaded revolver?"
He laughed a rattling laugh and stumbled off. Paler became his receding figure, paler still; then it was absorbed, a white shadow blotted out by somber darkness.
"Come."
Garon's voice. She followed, thinking of that rattling laugh; a laugh that, a few minutes later, she echoed bitterly. She did not answer the Frenchman's inquisitive glance. For the story of Pi-noi, the bayadere, was locked in her mind, to remain until she learned the truth—if, indeed, she ever did! Again Fate had interfered, this time in the form of the fleeing native. The door had closed—for ever? In fancy, she saw the woman of the peacock shawl, a figure inscrutable in the mauve shadows of her frame, her eyelids drooping lower over her eyes, as if mocking the possibility of ever divulging the secret behind her enigmatic smile.
7
From the moment Conquest left Lhassa and Garon he had been rehearsing, in his mind, the details of his plan; now, as he neared the village, he went over them again, doggedly, persistently. Fever was burning in his brain, threatening to consume his thoughts; an icy flame seared his side. His puttees cramped his swollen legs, but he would not remove them; no; he needed them.... His plan....
He skirted the Dyak houses surrounding the stockade and approached the gate from the river. Through the trees that separated him from the stream he saw lights, wavering torches. They moved, were evidently on some craft. Dully he realized that the boat was going up-stream. Up-stream! Toward the plantation—the fort! Had the escape been discovered so soon? he wondered. Hurry. Boat; going to fort. That throbbed in his inflamed brain. Fort. She was there, she——At thought of her the entire force of his being was swept into an agonizing desire. So sheer and draining was his passion that his limbs seemed to melt under him. He stumbled; clutched at a tree-trunk; lay against it weakly. Put her from his mind; put her away—for ever. She belonged to a sphere immeasurably higher than this. Pi-noi; out of reach. His throat filled. He sensed malignant powers, forces that were gathering, typhoon-black, and riding him down bent on destroying his individual entity. Impotent rage shook him. He went on.
He had an unobstructed view of the front of the stockade now. From the angle at which he approached, the long wall seemed to taper into darkness. There were figures at the gate, warriors carrying torches. Above the palisade waved a ruddy fan, sequined with sparks. For an instant it startled him, but he swiftly perceived that it was reflected from a bonfire in the inclosure. Undoubtedly, he told himself, their escape was known. Abu Hassan's men would be combing the jungle soon. He must hasten. He paused; loosened his puttees; resumed.
Like a specter, a wraith from the black forest, he must have appeared to the warriors as he stumbled into the radius of their torches. They stared; made no movement to touch him. He had halted and was standing with both hands at his side. The flame was biting deeper; it seemed to devour the last reserve of strength. The world became a sable band and struck at his eyes. In the midst of the blackness he saw, as one looking through a telescope, a swarm of figures beyond the gateway, figures about a fire; to him, coal-hued demons dancing against a back drop of flame. With a desperate effort, he sought to crawl back from the border of unconsciousness. Suddenly the telescope expanded, including in its range the stockade and the bronze-skinned men who were lifting him. As he gained his feet he strained away from them.
"Do you not know me?" he cried in Malayan. "I am the Tuan Rajah! Release me!" Then, lapsing into English, "Let go, I say—let...."
With a jerk he broke free and staggered through the gateway. The natives had multiplied; surrounded him. The dizziness had not dissolved entirely, and, as he slewed drunkenly, hands seized him. He did not protest nor struggle this time.
"Take me to the sultan," he demanded faintly.
He was half carried, half dragged forward between rows of men and women. Ahead, the black demons still trembled against the flames. He saw the clearing, the palace; saw shaggy, feathered shields and the nimbuses of spears and swords. Faces—faces dark and hostile, faces curious, faces tattooed and made hideous by disfiguring designs—seemed welded together, bound him in like a chain of coins. An innate dignity, rising to the surface though purgatorial pain, made him shake off the hands that held him and reel on alone. In the clearing—a sphere of smoke and flame and coal-hued figures—he found himself confronted by a huge-muscled individual whom he recognized as Nakoda Mubin, the Datu Tumanggong.
"... expect you so soon, Tuan Rajah," he heard the Malay saying. He laughed; an ugly, mirthless sound. Control of his mind and body was returning, and he stood without aid, swaying only slightly.
"Your people will regret this night, O Datu," he told Nakoda Mubin, his eyes narrowed and burning in the white oval of his face. "Do you remember the great gray ship that came to Sadok, with guns mightier than the sultan's paltry six-pounders?"
The commander-in-chief's huge shoulders heaved expressively.
"What have I done? Am I sultan?" And he added, "There are wrongs, O Tuan Rajah, wrongs that must be settled with the parang."
"No, not with blood! And you do not believe that, Nakoda Mubin!"
Another heave of the biceped shoulders. "Am I sultan?" he repeated.
"Take me to Abu Hassan," the white man ordered.
"I must first see if my cousin can receive you, Tuan Rajah. He had retired, but when it was reported——"
"Yes, I know," Conquest interposed. "About them I have come to talk, O Datu." He drew wide the gap in his shirt. "I am wounded, Nakoda Mubin, and if I delay, my strength will be gone; then I shall be unable to speak. And I know where Tuan Muda and the woman of the Orang Putih are. Tell your cousin that! Tell him quickly!"
He stood there, a lone white figure in the midst of brown humanity, while a warrior hurried into the palace with his message. Again the faces welded into an encircling chain. In his febrile mind they took on a savage significance. They were the faces of dark races, of yellow and brown and black, merged into a barrier of flesh and bone; a threatening wall that surrounded him, imprisoned him. All the arrogant pride of blood answered the challenge of that swarthy menace. He seemed suddenly touched with an accolade, invested with the responsibility of his race. Mail and chain, a crimson cross at his breast! And about him, a rising flood of color! Armageddon!