When Monella had finished reading this strange letter, he leaned his chin upon his hand and fell into a reverie, Leonard and Templemore meanwhile looking on in silence. Presently Monella roused himself, and, with a deep-drawn sigh, passed his hand across his forehead with a look of pain. His action was as though he had half-caught some flitting thought or memory, that had, after all, eluded him; and that the effort to retain it had cost him mental pain. After a short interval he said, with one of his rare smiles and in the musical voice that captivated every one, so full were they of kindliness,

“Now you know as much about me as I know myself. I did not show you this before, because I had been charged to hand it only to those to whom it was addressed; and this is the first opportunity I have since had, for the king sent it to Sanaima, who returned it only a day or two ago. But, since you must now consider seriously the question of your going or remaining, it is right that you should know all I can tell you of myself. It is very little; yet sufficient to explain my present feelings. You can understand, now that you have read that letter, that I am now, with all my heart and soul, one with these people. I look at everything from their point of view; I consider only their interest, their welfare, their safety, their advantage. If you shall elect to remain with us—to become one of us—you shall find me ever a staunch friend who will do all he can to make you feel at home amongst us, and will place you in positions of great honour. If, on the other hand, you prefer to leave us, you shall not go without such marks of the king’s favour as are beyond, perhaps, your dreams. These are the alternatives that lie before you. Take time to ponder them; there is, as I have already told you, no need for an immediate decision.”

When, after leaving Monella, the two were once more alone together, Leonard burst out with the thought that filled his mind,

“I scarcely know how to express my feelings. I am full of sadness and yet of joy, and I know not which predominates.”

“I know what it will be,” said Jack gloomily. “You will stay, and I shall have to return alone. What excuse I shall give to people for leaving you here—dead to them and to the world for ever—or whether I shall ever be forgiven for appearing to have deserted you, God only knows. I wish you would think a little upon all this. For the rest, I congratulate you with all my heart. To be the future king of so ancient and remarkable a nation, is a piece of ‘luck’ that does not fall to everybody. By Jove!” he exclaimed with increasing earnestness, “upon my word I don’t wonder at your going in for it—indeed, if—that is—well, if I had not already set my mind upon something else, I would chuck up the world in general and throw in my lot with you and be your—your Prime Minister—or State Engineer—or some other high functionary.” And he laughed good-naturedly at the ideas the suggestion called up in his mind.

“Don’t let us meet trouble half way,” said Leonard hopefully. “The time of parting is not yet; who knows what may turn up? Monella may make us some concession that will meet the case. And now look here. I have been thinking of a plan for sending a message home.”

Jack stared.

“How on earth?” he asked.

“It won’t be much of a message, and perhaps it will never reach home; but we can try. Let us find a place where we can get a view in the direction of ‘Monella Lodge’ and watch at night for camp fires out on the far savanna. We must find a spot screened from observation on this side. Then we will bring some powder up from our stores, and flash some signals as Monella had arranged.”

“But what good will that do? Even if they are seen it will only be by Indians who will not understand them.”

“Never mind. If any Indians see them they are sure to spread the news about; and probably the first place to hear of it will be Daranato, the Indian village where my old nurse Carenna lives. Matava may have told her about the signals, or even other Indians. At any rate, she will be pretty sure to hear of them and let Matava know when he returns; or perhaps even send a message down by some one going to the coast, to say that signals had been seen that showed we were alive on the summit of Roraima.”

Jack reflected.

“Yes!” he presently said slowly. “Yes. There is something in the idea. We will try it; it can do no harm. But, to be of any good, we shall have to signal frequently; once or twice would not be of much use.”

“Precisely. Before long, Matava will be back from the coast, and will hear of them, and will come out on to the savanna at night to see them for himself. And he would watch night after night with an Indian’s patience till he saw them.”

“Yes; I suppose Monella won’t object? We ought not to do it without his consent. But for that awful forest, we might even go farther; we might make an expedition for a week or two, and get to ‘Monella Lodge’ and leave a letter there; or even to Daranato, and leave letters to be taken to the coast by the first Indians going that way.”

“No, we can’t manage that, nor would Monella like us to be away so long. You never know what trouble might turn up here with these priests and their vile crew. And that reminds me of that letter Monella read to-day. What did you think of it?”

“An extraordinary letter! Really, I feel almost inclined to go back to my former idea that Monella and his friends were all mad together!”

Leonard stared aghast.

“What! You speak of that again?” he exclaimed, real indignation in his tones. “After the way everything has come out—after all Monella’s kindness——”

Jack stopped him with a smile and a touch of his hand on the other’s arm.

“Put the brake on, old man,” he said. “I don’t mean anything disrespectful. But if Monella, who already seems to have been about the world and to have seen as much as three ordinary men of three score years and ten—if the point to which his memory reaches is only a portion of his life—why, you see, he must be Methuselah, or the Wandering Jew himself, or some other mythical being. Already, he has puzzled me, times enough, with his extraordinary tales; at the same time you cannot doubt his absolute sincerity. So that if his ‘complete’ memory is to go back farther still, why—Heaven help us!—we sha’n’t know whether we are on our heads or our heels.”

After a short silence Leonard spoke.

“But, if they had this ‘Plant of Life’ with them—those he was with—would that not in part account for it?”

“It might; but it is making large demands on one’s credulity. But what I really mean is this. I am inclined, at times, to think Monella a bit mad. He has a religious mania; he has persuaded himself—and evidently, from that letter, has been encouraged by others to believe it—that he has a religious mission to these people. Well, no harm in that, you say. No; and that he is honourable, upright, sincere, I feel very certain. Still, he may be self-deceived. He seems to me to be one of those fervidly religious mystics who can persuade themselves into almost anything.”

“Yet he is no fanatic. See how mild and gentle he can be; how slow to anger, how just in his discrimination between right and wrong!”

“I admit all that. Still, I repeat, he might easily deceive himself.”

That afternoon Leonard sought out Ulama and asked to be allowed to row her on the lake; and to this she smiled a glad assent. When he had rowed the boat out a long distance from the shore, he laid down the oars, and let her drift. A gentle breeze was blowing, and this served to temper the ardour of the waning sun.

“Do you remember the last time we were thus alone, Ulama?” presently he asked her.

“Indeed I do,” she answered, her cheek, that had of late been very pale, now glowing with a rosy flush. “But I began to think you had forgotten, and were never going to take me out again.”

“Ah! It was not my fault, Ulama.”

“Whose else could it be?” she asked.

“Well—I cannot tell you now. But, if you remember the occasion, do you remember also what we spoke of?”

The colour deepened in the maiden’s face. She bent her head and fixed her eyes dreamily upon the water; and one hand dropped over the boat’s side, as on that day of which he had reminded her.

“I then said,” he went on, “that I loved you dearly, and asked you whether you could love me in return. And you said you did not understand such love as I described to you. Do you remember?”

“Yes; I remember,” she said softly. “But then I said I could scarce credit such sudden love for me; and that you might change. And it seems you have, for, since then, you have never told me that you loved me.”

He seized her hand.

“No, Ulama,” he cried passionately, “it was not so. I have not altered. But I feared—that—well, that your father might be angered. ‘Twas for that reason that I spoke no more to you of love.”

“In that you did my father wrong,” she answered frankly. “My father loves me far too well to cause me pain and——”

“Ah! Then—would it pain you were I to go away from here and never see you more?”

She started, and a look of mingled fear and grief came into her eyes.

“You are—not—going away?” she faltered anxiously.

“Not if you bid me stay, Ulama. If you but whisper in my ear that you may come to love me—if only a little—then I will stay—stay on always—forget my country, my own people, my friends; give up everything, and live for you—for you alone, my sweet, my gentle Ulama; my beloved Ulama!”

Gradually her head sank until it rested on her hand; her colour deepened, she made no reply, but still gazed pensively into the water.

“Tell me, Ulama—am I to stay or go? Oh, say that you will try to love me!”

He still retained her hand, and now he passed his own gently over it, she making no effort to withdraw it. Thus answered, he pressed his lips upon it, and at this, also, she showed no resentment.

“I would have you stay,” she presently murmured softly; “but indeed I fear it is too late for me to try to love you, for my heart tells me you have my love already.”

And the boat drifted aimlessly in the evening light. The sun had set, and the moon, the witness of so many lovers’ vows—both true and false—had shown her silvery light above the surrounding cliffs; and still the two sat on and scarcely spoke, yet, in speechless eloquence, recounting to each other the old, old tale.

And, when the sweet Ulama left the boat, her heart could scarce contain the joy that filled it; and in her eye there was a light that it had lacked before, so that the king, her father, drew her affectionately to him and asked her what had wrought this wondrous change.

She shyly bent her head and answered him,

“To-morrow thou shalt know, my father.” Then she hid her blushing face upon his shoulder. “I have a favour to ask of thee; but—I would fain not speak of it this evening.”

Then, as though fearing that he would wrest from her the secret of her joy, she stole swiftly to her room, and from her window looked across the lake, now shimmering in the silver moonbeams.

For long she sat there motionless, dreaming youth’s fond dreams; dwelling, in loving tenderness, on every word and look she could recall of Leonard while the boat had drifted here and there, and the lap, lap, lap, of the ripples against the sides had kept up a soft musical accompaniment to the rhythm of love’s heart-beats.

CHAPTER XXI.
THE GREAT DEVIL-TREE.

“And a very little ingenuity or a small charge of powder would force an opening; and their way would then be easy to get up here?”

“Certainly.”

Monella’s face clouded.

“That must not be; you must clearly understand that you must tell me in time if there seems any such probability. I wish not to seem unfriendly towards your friends—and personally I liked them—but to allow them to come in here would be as the beginning of a flood, as the letting out of water. It cannot, must not be.”

“Well, after all, it is only a supposition,” observed Jack. “Time enough to deal with it, if the occasion actually arise. They were going on to Rio on some law business which was likely to occupy them some time; they might be detained there indefinitely, they said.”

“Quite so,” Monella answered decisively. “Only, remember, I rely upon you to inform me in time. And be very cautious and vigilant upon that side of the country, for, as you know, it is in that direction that Coryon and his people have their habitation.”

In their walks they were often accompanied by one or both of Ulama’s pumas, and on the day referred to the male one, ‘Tuo,’ as it was called, came after them when they had gone a little way, and trotted quietly beside them; and this, as it turned out, saved their lives.

They came upon a place they had not seen before. Two great iron gates of highly finished workmanship, and picked out with gold, shut in a narrow opening in a high rock. They were such as might form the entrance to a public garden. A broad road wound round from the inside of the gates; but outside, where Templemore and Elwood were, the rocks rose up fifty or sixty feet, or even more, on either side; and though they followed them a considerable distance on both sides of the gates, the rocks still towered up precipitously for as far as they could see.

“This can scarcely be the entrance to Coryon’s ‘domain,’” said Jack, “or there would be some people about on guard. It must be some kind of public place.”

“A cemetery, perhaps,” suggested Leonard.

“I believe you’ve hit it. Well, there’s a gate open, so I suppose there’s no harm in our having a peep inside.”

“Suppose some one were on the watch, and were to pop round and close and lock the gates when we were inside and out of sight,” said Leonard suspiciously. “Monella warned us to be wary and to suspect traps.”

“We have our revolvers; and, if the worse came to the worst, we could climb over these rocks.”

In the result they went inside; then made their way to a wide terrace that ran round an extensive area of horseshoe shape, half natural, half artificial, as they judged. This terrace extended several hundreds of yards in both directions from the point at which they stood; but it narrowed off considerably on one side of the horseshoe. Above and behind it, cut out of the rock, were other terraces, like steps or rows of seats, but broad below and narrowing as they got higher. These went all round, almost to the top of the rocks. It was, in fact, a vast amphitheatre where many thousands of people could stand or sit. At the farther end it was open; and in the centre was a large arena sunk some fifteen feet below the main terrace on which they stood.

This arena opened out into a deep defile beyond, from the rocky heights of which there issued a rushing stream of water that flowed into a large, dark-looking pool below.

But what at once riveted their attention, almost to the point of fascination, was an extraordinary-looking tree that stood in the arena. This tree had no leaves, but branches only. In colour it was of a sombre violet-blue, tinged in places with a ruddy hue. The trunk was about thirty feet in height, and eight or nine feet in diameter. The branches, which were many—a hundred or more probably—drooped over from where the trunk ended and trailed about the ground. But what was most astonishing, these branches were all in motion. Though there was no wind, they waved to and fro, ran restlessly along the ground like lithe snakes, and intertwined one with another, at the same time making a harsh, rustling sound.

Straight in front of where they stood was a long pier of masonry that ran out towards the tree, which was not in the centre of the arena but was nearer to that part of the terrace where it grew narrow. In order the better to observe the object that had so roused their curiosity, the two young men walked across the terrace and some distance along the pier; and, when they had proceeded a little more than half its length, one of the long trailing branches—some of them appeared to be two hundred or three hundred feet in length—came up over the end of the pier, and, with a rustle, made its way swiftly towards them. It was within two or three feet of where they stood looking at it, when the puma, with a loud growl, sprang forward and bit at it. Immediately the branch curled itself round the animal’s body and began dragging it along the pier towards the tree. Then two or three other branches advanced and went to the assistance of the first one, coiling round the poor puma and dragging it farther along, despite its teeth and claws and its desperate struggles. In succession, other branches crept up over the end of the stonework, and, just in time, Jack seized Leonard and dragged him back.

“For Heaven’s sake come away, man!” he exclaimed in horror. “That tree is alive, and will drag us off, if once one of those branches touch us!”

They had stepped back only barely in time, for a moment after a trailing branch swept over the very spot on which they had halted. When assured that they were really out of reach, they stood fascinated, but filled with horror, while they witnessed the unavailing fight made by the poor animal that had saved their lives. More branches came to the aid of the others; they coiled round its mouth and closed it; round its legs and bound them; and soon, helpless, a mere bundle in the coiling, curling branches, as it were, it was drawn off the pier to the ground below. Then it was rolled on and on till it had almost reached the tree-trunk, where were shorter but thicker and stronger branches waiting for it. These, in their turn, soon coiled round it; then, slowly, they bent upwards, carrying the poor animal in their relentless grasp, and lowered it into a hollow in the centre of the top of the trunk, where it almost disappeared from sight. Then all the thicker branches coiled round it and shut it completely out from view, forming a sort of huge knot round the top of the tree and remaining motionless; while the longer and more slender branches continued to play restlessly about, seeking for further prey. Then, without a word, the two turned away; nor did they speak till they found themselves safely outside the great gates. Then they looked, horror-struck, at each other.

Jack was the first to break the silence.

“Great heavens!” he exclaimed. “What an escape! What an awful monster! What a frightful death! And that poor animal—that saved us both! What shall we say to the princess? Talk of ‘traps’! If this gate was left open as a ‘trap’—and it looks to me so—we have reason indeed to be thankful!”

“What is it?” Leonard asked at last.

“A ‘devil-tree.’ It is a carnivorous tree. I’ve seen a small one before; in a forest in Brazil that we were working through. One of the dogs got caught in it and was nearly killed before we cut it free with our axes. And then it was badly hurt, and so was I; a branch caught hold of my hand and tore some of the flesh off it. And where we cut this branch it bled! A dark crimson-blue liquid oozed out that stank! Oh, there, I can’t tell you what the stench was like! I’ve smelt some bad smells in my time, but that beat anything I ever came across! But that was only a small bush. I had no idea they could grow into great flesh-eating monsters like this! Why, that thing must have been there a thousand—ah—two thousand years, I should say. Fully that.”

“But,” said Leonard, “why is it kept here? who feeds it—and—what—is—it—fed—on?”

He asked this last question slowly, and looked at the other in blank, horrified amazement.

“It can’t live without food,” he continued. “And it must want a lot too. Whoever can take the trouble to get it food of the only kind—as I suppose—that it would care for? And why is it there in the middle of that strange place? One would almost think it was kept there as a kind of show or curiosity; and yet—we have never heard about it all the time we have been here! And it is there, with the gate open, no fence to guard people, or notice to warn them. Well! It’s a mystery to me!”

But if they had been astounded and horror-stricken at what they had seen, they were still more mystified and upset by Ulama’s behaviour when they told her of their adventure; for she fainted right off and, when she recovered, seemed so overcome with terror as to be unable to say a word. No explanation would she give; save that now and then she murmured, almost in a moan, to herself,

“Then it is true! And I never knew! It is horrible—too horrible!”

When Leonard expressed his sorrow about the puma, she hardly seemed to notice it.

“Ah yes!” she said once. “Poor Tuo! I shall miss him—and such a death, too! But oh, he saved you and your friend! And then, he was but an animal—but the others!”

At her express desire they promised not to speak to any one else about it.

“I will tell you why—or you will know why—later,” she added. “But you can speak privately to Monella about it; to no one else just now!”

When they found an opportunity of speaking to him about it, he looked very grave.

“You have had a narrow escape,” he said. “Heaven be thanked you did escape. I cannot explain more to you now, but may be able to do so shortly. Meantime, please do as the princess says, and keep this matter to yourselves.”

All this time Leonard’s relations with Ulama had remained unchanged; they had not been placed on any settled footing. Monella had asked him to take time to make up his mind, and had intimated that nothing would be said or done meanwhile. Leonard had, however, been too impatient to put his fate to the test to be able to wait after the encouragement Monella had given to him. But, whether Ulama had spoken on the subject with her father, he knew not; for it so happened that he had not seen her alone since their love-scene in the boat.

And now she was evidently much discomposed about their adventure with the ‘devil-tree’; though she did not refer to it again.

Naturally too, the recollection of it was very much in the minds of the two young men. Leonard asked Templemore, one day, what the branches of the one he had seen were like.

“They were covered with small excrescences,” he replied, “that are suckers and piercers in one. They pierce the flesh and then suck the blood. The whole affair is a sort of gigantic vegetable ‘octopus,’ or devil-fish, only that it has a hundred or more ‘arms’ or branches instead of eight, as the octopus has. I have heard of devil-fish having been caught as large as eighty feet in length, on the coast of Newfoundland. But I never knew that its vegetable prototype grew to anything like the size.”

“Of course I have seen devil-fish,” said Leonard thoughtfully; “but they have a mouth—a great beak—to which their arms carry the food. Do you think it is the same here? You saw that the branches carried the poor puma up into a hollow in the top of the trunk. Do you suppose the thing has a kind of mouth there?”

“Goodness only knows! It must be an awful sort of affair, if it is so. The whole thing is monstrous and uncanny. Don’t let us talk about it!”

But, as a result of this experience, they sought in another direction for a likely place from which to make their intended signals; and finally they found one convenient for their purpose. Then they made two or three trips to the canyon to bring up the requisite powder. They also brought back from the secret cave a number of things Monella wanted. From the first, at his suggestion, they had told no one except the king, Ulama, and Zonella, of the means by which they had gained access to the mountain; and these had promised to keep the knowledge to themselves.

“The place has evidently been so long unvisited,” Monella had remarked, “that probably most of those who once knew of it have forgotten all about it. No need to remind them just now. Many years ago, as I have been informed, a project was started for filling it up.”

“Filling it up!”

“Yes, and if you go to the other end of the canyon—that by which we entered—you will find, even now, in the thick wood that everywhere surrounds the top of the canyon, vast numbers of great boulders that were quarried from the surrounding cliffs and hauled to the edge in readiness to be thrown down. They lie, in fact, just over the cavern we came in by. There they have remained for a very long time, it seems. Had that intention been carried out, all our work in cutting through the forest and finding the entrance to the cavern, as you can see, would have been thrown away.”

“And what stopped it?”

“It is said that the people threatened a rebellion. The belief in the eventual return of Mellenda—of whom you have heard—is deep-seated; and, though the people here are anxious enough to keep to themselves, they would not assent to closing irrevocably the only means by which their hero could gain admittance, should he ever come.”

“Do they expect him to come with a host of followers—a conquering army—or do they expect the great lake to come back, and that he will arrive with a grand fleet of ships?” Templemore asked, with somewhat of a sarcastic smile.

Monella passed his hand across his brow in the half-dreamy manner that was his at times, as though striving to collect his thoughts, or to arrest and force into shape some half-formed conception that had flitted across his mind and escaped his grasp. For a minute he stared vacantly away into the distance and was silent. Then, with a look as though of pain at failing to catch the fleeting image, he turned away, saying simply,

“I cannot tell you.”

During the days that followed, Templemore passed much of his time in the museums; time that Elwood spent in a lover’s dream of happiness with Ulama. In the relics of the former history of this strange people, Templemore took a deep interest; and in the archives and ancient manuscripts he found many evidences of the former existence of scientific and engineering knowledge that astonished and perplexed him. On the true meaning and import of some of these he sought the help of Monella, who would frequently accompany him in these visits, and, from his better knowledge of the language, was able to assist him to unravel their curious contents.

“These people must once have been great engineers and architects!” he exclaimed in surprised admiration on one of these occasions.

Monella smiled and made reply,

“There is nothing so surprising in that, if you comprehend the true significance of the gigantic earthworks still extant in many places on this continent. Have you seen any of them?”

“No; but I have both heard and read of them.”

“I have seen them; and I tell you your mind can form no idea of their extent, of the scientific knowledge and the prodigious amount of time and labour that must have been expended on them, unless you actually see them. They are of various forms, mostly geometrical figures upon a vast scale—miles in extent. The wonderful thing is that a certain figure is repeated exactly in different places hundreds of miles apart. Yet you shall take your cleverest engineers of the present day, give them the advantages—or supposed advantages—of all your modern discoveries and machinery, and scientific instruments, and, say, unlimited workpeople to do their building, and then it would tax all their skill to construct a work exactly similar to one of those great figures. Yet now, upon some of them, trees are growing that must be over a thousand years old!”

“And what were they for—what was their object?” Templemore asked.

Then there came over the other’s face again that curious look as of one seeking for a lost recollection; but it seemed to evade him, and he answered somewhat as before,

“I think I ought to be able to tell you,” he replied, “but I cannot now seem to remember.”

It was while thus together one day that Templemore asked him for some further information concerning the ‘Plant of Life.’

“You have told me,” he said, “that your people, with whom you lived in that secluded valley high up in the Andes, had with them the ‘karina’ and cultivated it. Therefore I suppose you yourself have been in the habit of taking it?”

“Always. And in my travelling to and fro in the world I always had with me a good supply of the dried herb. I was accustomed to leave stores of it in certain towns, so that if I lost what I had with me by any accident, there was more within easy reach.”

“I see. But what I am puzzled about is this: why, if the virtues of the plant are so great, do people ever die at all? And why do some live longer than others?”

“As to the first question,” Monella answered, “man was never intended to live on this earth for ever. The human frame must wear out sooner or later. As to the second query, some constitutions are naturally stronger than others, and these endure longer, just as is the case in the world outside where the plant is not known. The effect of the plant is simply to keep the blood pure, if originally pure. If, however, there is an inherited taint, that taint will make itself felt sooner or later and undermine the vitality of the system. In this case the plant will only result in ensuring a somewhat longer life than would otherwise have been the case. Sooner or later the vitality will fall off and gradual decay set in, although (the blood being kept still pure) ordinary diseases are kept at bay. Lastly, there is the question of the will.”

“The will?”

“Yes; that has a most powerful influence. If a man who has inherited a constitution that is absolutely sound, from ancestors who have possessed the same through many generations, and if he has, in addition, a strong will, powerful beyond the average, he may live longer—if he is so minded.”

“I—do not understand you,” said Templemore, somewhat puzzled.

Monella gazed at him with a smile that was full of sadness.

“You would,” he answered, “if you were old yourself; if you had outlived all that made life worth having—your wife, and others you love, your ambitions, your hopes. Then does the soul grow weary, and restless as well; it is like unto a bird that is caged whose time for migration has come. It will either fret or pine itself to death, or beat itself to death against the bars of its cage. Only two things can then keep the soul from taking its flight; the will to live to complete some unfinished work, or a delight in a worldly, wicked life. A nature superlatively evil, like Coryon’s, may enable its possessor to live on and on for an indefinite time; where better men take the ‘falloa’ and die. Or a man, not himself enamoured of life upon this earth, may exert his will to carry out to its end some great work to benefit his fellow-creatures, and he too may keep the ‘falloa’ at arm’s length for an unusually long period. In other words, the ‘falloa’ is a form of melancholia, of weariness with the world, of an inward sense that life’s work is completed. It is the result of that feeling that we are told took possession at last even of him who has been called the Wise Man of the World—King Solomon—whose wisdom and riches and power only brought him to the same point I have indicated—that at which the soul declares that all earthly things are but vanity.”

On another occasion, Templemore was accompanied by Zonella and Colenna; and the latter took him into a gallery he had not before seen, the door being usually kept locked.

In it, to his surprise, were ranged hundreds of stands of arms and military uniforms, helmets, spears, shields, swords, daggers, and red tunics, all kept in splendid condition, as though for instant use. All the helmets had little silver wings at their sides, and the shields were engraved in the centre with a strange hieroglyphic, the same that he had noticed chiselled upon the fronts of many of the principal buildings.

“There,” said Colenna, “are the arms and uniforms of Mellenda’s soldiers. Over in Myrlanda, in the great temple of the White Priests, are hundreds more; all kept ready for use, as you see these here. You see the silver wings upon the helmets, similar to those on that of Mellenda’s suit that stands in the other gallery. And that figure upon the shields is the sacred sign that was engraved upon his signet-ring. It signifies his seal or sign-manual. Wherever you see that mark, it refers to him; on a building it implies that he designed or built it. His royal colour was red, as the king’s to-day is blue; and these red tunics are for his soldiers.”

“When they come,” said Jack, discreetly repressing the incredulous smile that almost forced itself upon his lips.

“When he comes,” said Colenna, lifting his hat reverently. “Yes, when he returns to us.”

“You don’t believe in that, I know,” interposed Zonella; “yet we all do; and it is a good thing we do, I think, for I fear many in the land would go mad under their dread of Coryon, if they did not believe in a happier future for the country. But there,” she added sadly, “it does not matter to you. You have no interest in what may go on here in the future. You intend to go back to your own country, and care little for the sorrows or the fate of those you leave behind.”

Colenna had walked away some little distance, to examine a shield that he thought was not quite so bright as it should be.

“Not care!” Jack exclaimed, impulsively. “Why, how can you say that? It is that thought that grieves me all the time I am here; that makes me doubt how I shall ever be able to make up my mind to leave. To leave behind one’s dearest——”

Zonella turned to him quickly, with a heightened colour and a bright look. This was so unexpected that he stopped and hesitated.

“Well?” she said. “You said your dearest——”

“My dearest friend, Leonard—of course,” he answered, looking at her in some surprise.

But Zonella’s face paled, and she turned away.

“Let us go,” she said with a shiver, as though a cold wind had blown upon her. “This old gallery is kept locked up so much it gets to smell musty, and makes one feel quite faint.”

CHAPTER XXII.
SMILES AND TEARS.

“It has been no secret to me for some time,” said Dranoa, “that thou hast looked with affection upon my child. She, too, hath spoken to me; I see that she hath set her heart upon this thing, and I love her too dearly to desire to thwart her wishes, unless for some weighty reason. Here I see no such reason; for, though thou art a stranger, yet thou art worthily recommended by one upon whose judgment I have learned to place reliance. He that led thee hither is not a man to act lightly or without full consideration in a matter of such paramount importance; if thou hast gained his confidence and esteem, I doubt not that there are good reasons for it. He hath the unerring eye that pierces to the very heart, and that no hypocrisy, no cunning, can deceive. Were it the case that my dominions were to-day the great empire over which my forefathers held sway, I would seek such a man’s advice in the appointment of my generals, my ministers, my governors for distant districts. Therefore do I feel that I can rely upon his judgment, even in a matter so momentous as the choice of one to espouse my child and to succeed me on my throne. And knowing, as I do full well, that the ‘falloa’ hath laid its hand upon me and that my days in this my land are numbered, it is grateful to mine heart to feel that my child will be comforted, when I am gone, by one whose affection for her is pure and wholly hers, and who will have at his side a friend and counsellor who will guide his youthful steps in the path that I would have him follow. This conviction hath lifted from mine heart a grievous trouble, and hath enabled me to bear without sorrow or regret the knowledge that the fatal sickness hath taken hold upon me. For the fact that I shall now soon quit this earthly life I care nothing in itself; it hath been the fear of what would then befall that hath filled me with forebodings and with fear. But, if I see—as I hope to see—the power of the Black Coryon broken and destroyed for ever; my child wedded to one worthy of her love and honour; my successor aided and advised by one so competent to guide as is thy friend, then indeed I shall feel I can lay down the burden of life with thanksgiving, and take my way to the great unknown of the hereafter without fear, without regret, without a sigh; but, instead, with the great content of one who feels he hath nothing more to wish or hope for upon earth. For know, my son,” continued Dranoa with grave emphasis, “no man wisheth to prolong his life for that which it hath yielded, but rather for that which he is hopeful it may yield. The proof of this is easy; no man desireth to live his life over again; therefore he is, at heart, and from actual experience, dissatisfied and wearied with life; not charmed with it. Yet do many cling to it, fatuously believing, in the face of all their own actual experience, that it shall yet, in the future, afford them joys and gratifications they have never found in the past. These, my son, are the words of one who hath lived long enough to gain the wisdom that teacheth how to sift the wheat from the chaff.”

Dranoa paused, and remained silent awhile. Then he resumed, with a change of tone,

“But I wish not to weigh down thy young imaginings with the sober knowledge that belongeth not to thine years but to mine. It will be sufficient to give thee counsel that is more suited to the circumstances. Therefore I say this to thee: thou hast a good heart and good instincts—trust them, follow them honestly; and leave the rest to the Great Spirit that ruleth over all. And now I have but one more thing to say; it were better for the present that this that is between us were not known openly. Personally, that will not concern thee. When the time hath come, I will myself announce it to my people. Meanwhile, thy mind will be at rest with the knowledge of my approval of thy suit.”

Leonard gratefully poured out his thanks to the kind-hearted king; then went to seek Ulama.

He found her sitting alone in an apartment that overlooked the lake, so deep in thought that she did not hear his coming. She was leaning on the window-sill gazing pensively upon the beauties of the scene that lay outspread before her.

But Leonard thought, as he caught sight of her and stayed his steps upon the threshold, that she herself was the fairest creation of all, posed as she was with that unconscious grace and charm that seemed with her to be innate. For a full minute he stood in silence; then, still without moving towards her, he softly called her name, as though fearing to approach her till he had permission.

She turned her head towards him with no surprise, but with a look of sweetest pleasure in her gentle eyes.

“I did not hear you,” she said dreamily, “and yet—I know not why—I was looking for your coming.”

“And what were you thinking of so profoundly, sweet Ulama?”

“I was thinking,” she replied, “how much more beautiful our lake and its surroundings have seemed to me of late. I scarce noticed them before; I suppose because I have known them all my life. Yet, now that you have pointed out some of their beauties, I not only feel and appreciate them, but I note many others on all sides that I never saw before. It is very strange! I wonder why it is?”

“It is love, Ulama,” Leonard said, coming quietly to her side and laying his hand lightly on her shoulder. “Love can make the plainest works of nature beautiful; small wonder then if it makes those that are really so display new and unsuspected charms. It is because love has taken up his dwelling in your heart that you now see new beauties in these familiar scenes.”

But Ulama shook her head sagely, and smilingly made answer,

“You know you told me that the first time you saw our lake you deemed it the fairest spot on all the earth. And you did not know me then, so could not love me. How then can what you say explain it?”

Leonard laughed and took her hand in his.

“You forget that I had seen you in my dreams and had loved you long before,” he said. “Perhaps some instinct told me that here I should find the abode of her who already had my heart. Or, if that explanation does not please you, here is another. Love and sympathy are inseparable; you admire, now, things that you thought little of before, because you see that I admire them.”

“Yes; that may be,” Ulama admitted, with a thoughtful look. “But then, it does not explain why you should see beauties where I did not. I think you must have a quicker appreciation of the beautiful in nature than is given to me.”

“It may be so; and that in turn explains how it came about that I was so quick to realise the beauty of the fairest daughter of Manoa!” And Leonard’s look was so tender, so full of loving admiration, that it brought a rosy glow to Ulama’s cheek. “And it also reminds me that I sought you here to tell you something of importance, something that has brought joy and gladness to my heart. I have just been talking about you with the king.”

The colour in the girl’s cheek grew deeper; and now she turned her glance again upon the landscape that lay sleeping in the morning sunlight.

“Dear love,” continued Leonard, “think what it means to me—to both of us, I hope—when I tell you that the king has given me permission to ask you to give yourself to me! Ah! Not only has he done that, but he has done it in a manner—accompanied it with kind words of trust and confidence that have filled my whole heart with gratitude. He speaks as though I had already proved that which I can only hope to show in the future—my true desire to make myself worthy of your love. His kindness and many marks of friendship towards one who is but a stranger here have overwhelmed me. I feel the whole devotion of my life to you and him can scarce repay such generous, ungrudging proofs of his confidence and favour.”

“You have a good friend in Monella,” Ulama said quietly. “He never fails to speak well of you when occasion offers. And he is one of our own race, and has had great experience of the world outside, of which we know nothing; and my father knows he can rely on his opinion.”

“Yes, I know that is true, dear love, and my heart burns with gratitude to him too. And now, beloved”—and he put his arms round her and drew her to him—“may I not think of you as all my own? Let me hear you say with those dear lips that you know now what love is, that it has sprung up unforced in your pure heart; let me hear you say, ‘Leonard, I love you!’”

And, as he drew her closer to him and her head nestled upon his shoulder, a whisper, that seemed but a faint sigh, breathed softly the words so sweet to hear for the first time from a loved-one’s lips—“I love you!”

Later in the day Leonard told Templemore of his interview with the king; and, as he did so, a look came over his face that, as his friend expressed it to himself, “did one’s heart good to see, even if but once in a lifetime!”

“In your happiness I too feel happy, dear old boy,” he said. “And I should have little concern, for the time being, if only those at home knew we were alive and well. As it is, the thought of their anxiety troubles me unceasingly.”

“Let us hope our signal flares were seen and will be reported,” Leonard answered. “I think they must have been seen; and, if so, Carenna is sure to hear of it, and will find some way of sending word.”

This referred to what they had done to carry out Leonard’s suggestion. After some perseverance in watching from the spot they had selected, they saw, one evening, camp fires far out on the savanna. At once they made their signals with small heaps of powder, and these they repeated several times. No response whatever came; nor did they expect any. There was nothing for it but to wait patiently in the hope that their signals had been seen.

Then ensued a time, lasting many weeks, which was almost uneventful. To Leonard and Ulama it was one uninterrupted dream of blissful happiness. To Templemore it was pleasant and interesting, for he found plenty to engage his mind. He studied the designs of the chief buildings; of the bridges that spanned the streams that fed the lake. In the arches and general construction of these he formed engineering ideas that were new to him. He visited often the great waterfall that formed the outlet of the lake, and declared that the sight of the vast body of water shooting out in its leap of two thousand feet, its deep, thundering roar, and the play of colour when the sun shone into the mist and spray, made up a combination that threw Niagara itself—which he had seen—into the shade.

One day, when Ulama and Zonella were alone together, the former thus addressed her friend,

“Sometimes of late I have fancied there has been some unpleasant passage between you and Leonard’s friend. I myself am so fortunate, so happy, that I like not to see those about me otherwise. I would have all my friends as happy as myself.” And she took Zonella’s hand and rubbed her face affectionately against it. “Tell me, Zonella, have you two quarrelled?”

For a moment Zonella’s face, usually so pleasant to behold, looked hard and almost fierce. Then it softened, and, with a loud cry, she threw her arms around Ulama; she hid her face in the gentle bosom, and burst into a torrent of impassioned tears.

It was some time before Ulama, greatly surprised as well as pained and puzzled, could understand the meaning of this outburst; but presently Zonella, growing somewhat calmer, sobbed out,

“Ah! You—you little know, little think what I have suffered. He cares no more for me than he does for you—perhaps less. His heart is elsewhere; he is set upon going away from our land, and only his regard for his friend delays him.”

Ulama’s beautiful face bent over Zonella’s, and her tears fell upon the other’s cheek as she pressed her lovingly to her bosom.

“Alas! Alas! My poor Zonella! And is it possible that love, which has been so sweet to me, should bring to you but pain and suffering? I almost fear for my own happiness; that my selfishness in yielding to it has blinded me to what was going on with the others. But it never occurred to me that love that is to me so wonderful in the joy and pleasure it confers, could also be the cause of misery and sorrow. And yet,” she added thoughtfully, “you are not without one to love you. Poor Ergalon has long been faithful to his love for you. Oh, how strange and contrary it all seems! Poor fellow! Perhaps you have made him suffer even as you yourself have suffered. Can his love not console you? I know so little myself that what I say may be only foolishness, yet——”

Zonella smiled faintly, and shook her head. Then she kissed the other tenderly.

“Let us say no more, my dear,” she said. “I am sorry I gave way as I did; but you took me by surprise. Perhaps, too, your implied advice is wise. It might be better to try to love the one you know does truly love you, than to fret your heart out after one who loves you not, and who is beyond your reach. At least, as you say, there is one in the world who loves me.”

Thus the time sped on. Monella was much away; sometimes for a week together; so the young men saw comparatively little of him. Templemore, on one occasion, expressed a wish to visit Myrlanda with him, but Monella said there were difficulties in the way.

“It is better you two should remain here for the present,” he declared. “At a future time, let us hope it may be different.”

But one day Monella came to him with a look of gravity that at once aroused his interest.

“It is time,” he said, “that I should show you something of the truth, that you may understand what lies before us. Can you brace up your courage and your nerve to stand a severe trial?”

Templemore opened his eyes in astonishment.

“Need you ask?” he answered. “Have you ever known me wanting in courage?”

“Ah, no. But this that I refer to requires courage of a different sort. Yet it must be faced. But I warn you it will be a shock. Make up your mind to a test that will tax all the nerve you can summon to your aid.”

“And Leonard too?” Jack inquired, wondering.

“No. Say nothing to him. Let his dream be happy while it may. Be ready to come out with me to-night, when Ergalon shall come to seek you. And bring your rifle.”

CHAPTER XXIII.
THE DEVIL-TREE BY MOONLIGHT.

Ergalon led the way; skirting the town he took a roundabout road that Templemore soon saw led to the neighbourhood of the scene of their adventure with the devil-tree, though they were approaching it from a different direction. Finally, they entered a thick wood that covered a steep hill; and now Templemore’s companions made signs to him to observe strict silence and to proceed as quietly as possible. When they had reached the summit of the slope, and stood on the ridge within the shadow of the trees, which here ceased abruptly, Templemore uttered a half-smothered exclamation. Instantly, he felt Monella’s heavy hand upon his shoulder grasping him with a grip of iron; and it brought to him the recollection of the caution he had received.

“Whatever you see or hear,” Monella had rejoined, “you must remain absolutely quiet and utter no sound; do nothing that might betray our presence.”

What had excited Templemore’s surprise was the fact that he found himself looking down into the great amphitheatre in which stood the well-remembered tree. Its long trailing branches were still moving about swiftly in their strange, restless fashion; but most of the shorter and thicker branches were curled up at the top of the trunk in the same kind of knot as they had formed after carrying thither the body of the puma. Viewed in the bright moonlight, the tree was a hideous monstrosity that had yet a certain terrible fascination which attracted and retained the sight while it revolted and repelled the mind. The coiled branches upon the top reminded one irresistibly of the snakes entwined round the head of the Medusa; they formed a kind of crown, of a character suitable to the frightful monster whose formless head, if one may so term it, they encircled. The appearance of the whole thing was repulsive, ghastly, ghoulish. There was that in the mere form and outline of this gruesome wonder of the vegetable world that instinctively aroused aversion. Its naked branches—that in ordinary circumstances could belong only to a dead tree—its colour—half funereal, half of a deep blood-tint almost unknown amongst botanical productions—its never ceasing movement, so suggestive of an everlasting hunting after prey, of an insatiable craving for its hateful diet of flesh and blood, of sleepless hunger, of tireless rapacity and relentless cruelty—all these made up an unnatural creation that appalled the instincts and chilled the very blood of those who looked upon it. This had been the feeling, or combination of feelings, that had made itself felt in Templemore’s mind when he had first seen the spectacle by daylight; it impressed itself much more strongly now that he saw the tree in the cold moonlight—now standing out clear and well-defined, now plunged into semi-obscurity, as the hurrying clouds chased each other across the sky above and threw their fleeting shadows beneath.

From the spot where the three men stood a clear view was presented of the opposite side of the enclosure—i.e., of the side nearest to the tree, which was there sufficiently close to the main terrace for its branches to sweep over it; but the terrace was here protected by a covered-way or verandah formed of metal gratings, the interstices in which were small enough to keep the dreadful writhing snake-like branches from pushing through them. When Templemore had seen the place before, this part of the terrace had been open; for the metal screens, or gratings, were, in reality, sliding shutters that could be withdrawn into grooves in the rock beyond. Here, at the end of the covered-way, was a gateway that formed the entrance to the labyrinth of caverns and galleries in the cliff in which Coryon and his adherents lived.

These sliding screens were movable at the will of those within the gateway. They could be either moved along in their grooves and thus protect those traversing the covered-way, or withdrawn, so that the branches of the fatal tree, in that case, guarded the entrance most effectually; for no man might then venture to approach the gateway and live.

Underneath, there were cells in the terrace, also within reach of the tree; and screened off, in like manner, by sliding grated doors. Through these gratings came faint beams of light.

Templemore noted all these things; yet, while his gaze wandered to them, each time the tree itself attracted it again and seemed to hold it spell-bound; and he waited—waited, hardly daring to breathe; waited for he knew not what; waited as one expectant and oppressed by a dim unshapen foreshadowing of some new and nameless horror.

Nor was it without reason; for, slowly, the coiled ‘crown’ unfolded, and something came little by little into view. Gradually the something rose out of the hollow in the trunk, was carried up clear of it, then lowered over the side towards the ground. In shape it was cylindrical, and of a colour that could not be discovered in the fitful moonlight. Soon it was deposited upon the ground, and the branches that had lowered it released their hold, and it remained for a brief space untouched. Then other branches crept up to it with tortuous twistings and, coiling round it, raised and swung it to and fro, then quickly dropped it. Anon, yet other branches would do the same; only, in their turn, to drop it or to hand it on to others. Thus was it passed about; now lifted high in the air by one end, then by the other, anon dangled horizontally in mid-air. In time it made the circuit of the tree; but each branch, or set of branches that laid hold of it, rejected it eventually, as though, by some fell but unfailing instinct, they knew there was nothing left in it to minister to their hateful appetite. And all the while the shadows came and went, and the moon looked down between them and lighted up the hideous scene.

Meantime, from out the dark and filthy water and thick slime of the large pool a few hundred yards away, crawled uncouth monsters the like of which Templemore had never looked upon, save, perhaps, in some fanciful representations of creatures said to have existed in pre-historic times. These mis-shapen reptiles were from ten to twelve feet in length. They had heads and tails like crocodiles, and in many other respects resembled them; but in place of the usual scales they were covered with large horny plates several inches in diameter; and in the centre of each plate was a strong spine or spike, thick at the base but sharp at the point, and four or five inches long.

These creatures crawled up to the fateful tree; and it was quickly evident that they came to claim their share in the foul repast—the dry husk and bones from which the tree had sucked the rest. Their armour made them safe against the tree; for the branches no sooner touched their bodies than they recoiled, baffled by the sharp points they everywhere encountered. Two or three of these horrid reptiles began to drag the dead body towards their haunt, and finally carried it away, but not without several tussles with the twisting, curling branches which seemed loth to relinquish their prey; or, perhaps, wished to play with it a little longer, as a cat might with a mouse.

Monella had handed his field-glass to Templemore, still keeping a hand upon his shoulder. The young man placed it to his eyes, and in an instant gasped out,

“Great heavens! It is a human body!”

Yes!—if that may be so called which was but the mutilated husk of what had once been a living, breathing, human being! But now there was little left beyond a shapeless form!

Templemore felt sick, and almost reeled; but Monella’s grasp up-held him, and was a silent reminder that he was expected to master his emotions, however strong and painful they might be.

“It is no time to give way,” Monella whispered in his ear. “Wait and watch!”

It was, however, almost more than Templemore could do. He felt like Dante led by his guide to witness the tortures of the damned. But here, as it seemed to him, was a scene that rivalled in horror, if not in agony, even the scenes in the ‘Inferno.’ He set his teeth and clenched his hands; his breath was laboured, and his heart almost stood still. But for Monella’s hold upon his shoulder he must have fallen.

But now there came out of the covered-way two figures; they stood on the terrace and bent their gaze upon the scene, silent and motionless. They were dressed in flowing robes of black, or some dark colour, that were emblazoned on the breast with a golden star.

Grim, weird figures were they; their dark forms showing sharply against the light-coloured rocks behind them, the while they gazed with cruel composure upon the ghastly contention between the loathsome reptiles and the tree.

When it was ended, and the beasts had disappeared with their prey into the dark waters of the pool, one of the figures on the terrace put a whistle to his mouth, and a low piping sound reached the ears of the concealed watchers.

Immediately a rumbling noise was heard; and one of the sliding gratings beneath the terrace rolled back, thereby disclosing a cavernous cell, in which was a lighted lamp on a rough table. Then a figure seated by it, his face buried in his hands, sprang up with a loud cry, and retreated into the thick gloom beyond. But the terrible trailing branches swept in after him, twined round his legs and threw him down, then quickly drew him out feet foremost. Vainly he shrieked, and clutched at this and that; at the table, at the edge of the sliding door; relentlessly, inexorably, he was dragged from one futile hold to another, upsetting the lamp in his struggles, till he was outside. Other branches swooped down upon him, coiling round him in all directions, and stifling his cries as, slowly, with an awful deliberation and absence of hurry, or even of the appearance of effort, he was hauled high into the air and disappeared into the hollow of the fatal tree. The great branches silently arranged themselves into their knot-like circle; at another sound of the low whistle the sliding door returned to its place with a sullen rumble, and the two dark-robed spectators turned and left the place.

Then Monella and Ergalon also came away; and it is no disparagement of Templemore’s courage or ‘nerve’ to state that they had almost to carry him between them. When they had got to a safe distance, Monella placed him on a boulder, and held to his lips a flask containing a strong cordial. Templemore, who had been on the point of fainting, felt revived by it at once; the liquid seemed to course quickly through his veins, and the feeling of deadly sickness, after a time, passed away.