The Heart of Denise, and Other Tales

by S. Levett Yeats

CHAPTER IV.

[CONCLUSION--THE TORRE DOLOROSA.]

Days were yet to pass before Guido Moratti was able to leave his chamber; but at last the leech who attended him said he might do so with safety; and later on, the steward of the household brought a courteous invitation from the Count of Pieve to dine with him. As already explained, Moratti had not as yet seen his host; and since he was well enough to sit up, there were no more dreamy visions of the personal presence of Felicità. He had made many resolutions whilst left to himself, and had determined that as soon as he was able to move he would leave the castle, quit Italy, and make a new name for himself, or die in the German wars. He was old enough to build no great hopes on the future; but fortune might smile on him, and then--many things might happen. At any rate, he would wipe the slate clean, and there should be no more ugly scores on it.

Not that he was a reformed man; he was only groping his way back to light. Men do not cast off the past as a snake sheds his skin. He knew that well enough, but he knew, too, that he had seen a faint track back to honour; and difficult as it was, he had formed a determination to travel by it. He had been so vile, he had sunk so low, that there were moments when a despair came on him; but with a new country and new scenes, and the little flame of hope that was warming his dead soul back to life, there might yet be a chance. He knew perfectly that he was in love, and when a man of his age loves, it is for the remainder of his life. He was aware--none better--that his love was madness, all but an insult, and that it was worse than presumption to even entertain the thought that he had inspired any other feeling beyond that of pity in the heart of Felicità. It is enough to say that he did not dare to hope in this way; but he meant to so order his future life, as to feel that any such sentiment as love in his heart towards her would not be sacrilege.

He sent back a civil answer to the invitation; and a little after eleven, descended the stairway which led from his chamber to the Count's apartments, looking very pale and worn, but very handsome. For he was, in truth, a man whose personal appearance took all eyes. The apartments of the Count were immediately below Moratti's own chamber, and on entering, he saw the old knight himself reclining in a large chair. He was alone, except for a hound which lay stretched out on the hearth, its muzzle between its forepaws, and a dining-table set for three was close to his elbow. Bernabo of Pieve received his guest with a stately courtesy, asking pardon for being unable to rise, as he was crippled. "They clipped my wings at Arx Sismundea, captain--before your time; but of a truth I am a glad man to see you strong again. It was a narrow affair."

"I cannot thank you in words, Count; you and your house have placed a debt on me I can never repay."

"Tush, man! There must be no talk of thanks. If there are to be any, they are due to the leech, and to Felicità, my daughter. She is all I have left, for my son was killed at Santa Croce."

"I was there, Count."

"And knew him?"

"Alas, no. I was on the side of Spain."

"With the besieged, and he with the League. He was killed on the breach--poor lad."

At this moment a curtain at the side of the room was lifted, and Felicità entered. She greeted Moratti warmly, and with a faint flush on her cheeks, inquired after his health, hoping he was quite strong again.

"So well, Madonna, that I must hurry on my journey to-morrow."

"To-morrow!" Her large eyes opened wide in astonishment, and there was a pain in her look. "Why," she continued, "it will be a fortnight ere you can sit in the saddle again."

"It might have been never, but for you," he answered gravely, and her eyes met his, and fell. At this moment the steward announced that the table was ready; and by the time the repast was ended, Moratti had forgotten his good resolutions for instant departure, and had promised to stay for at least a week, at the urgent intercession of both the Count and his daughter. He knew he was wrong in doing so, and that, whatever happened, it was his duty to go at once; but he hesitated with himself. He would give himself one week of happiness, for it was happiness to be near her, and then--he would go away forever. And she would never know, in her innocence and purity, that Guido Moratti, bravo--he shuddered at the infamous word--loved her better than all the world beside, and that for her sake he had become a new man.

After dinner the Count slept, and, the day being bright, they stepped out into a large balcony and gazed at the view. The balcony, which stretched out from a low window of the dining chamber, terminated on the edge of a precipice which dropped down a clear two hundred feet; and leaning over the moss-grown battlements, they looked at the white winter landscape before them. Behind rose the tower they had just quitted, and Felicità, turning, pointed to it, saying: "We call this the Torre Dolorosa."

"A sad name, Madonna. May I ask why?"

"Because all of our house who die in their beds die here."

"And yet you occupy this part of the castle."

"Oh, I do not. My chamber is there--in Count Ligo's Tower;" and she pointed to the right, where another grey tower rose from the keep. "But my father likes to occupy the Torre Dolorosa himself. He says he is living with his ancestors--to whom he will soon go, as he always adds."

"May the day be far distant."

And she answered "Amen."

After this, they went in, and the talk turned on other matters. The week passed and then another, but at last the day came for Moratti's departure. He had procured another horse. It was indeed a gift which the old Count pressed upon him, and he had accepted it with much reluctance, but much gratitude. In truth, the kindness of these people towards him was unceasing, and Moratti made great strides towards his new self in that week. He was to have started after the mid-day dinner; but with the afternoon he was not gone, and sunset found him on the balcony of the Torre Dolorosa with Felicità by his side.

"You cannot possibly go to-night," she said.

"I will go to-morrow, then," replied Moratti, and she looked away from him.

It was a moment of temptation. Almost did a rush of words come to the captain's lips. He felt as if he must take her in his arms and tell her that he loved her as man never loved woman. It was an effort; but he was getting stronger in will daily, and he crushed down the feeling.

"It is getting chill for you," he said; "we had better go in."

"Tell me," she answered, not heeding his remark, "tell me exactly where you are going?"

"I do not know--perhaps to join Piccolomini in Bohemia--perhaps to join Alva in the Low Countries--wherever a soldier's sword has work to do."

"And you will come back?"

"Perhaps."

"A great man, with a condotta of a thousand lances--and forget Pieve."

"As God is my witness--never--but it is chill, Madonna--come in."

When they came in, Bernabo of Pieve was not alone, for standing close to the old man, his back to the fire, and rubbing his hands softly together, was the tall, gaunt figure of the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo.

"A sudden visit, dear cousin," he said, greeting Felicità, and turning his steel-grey eyes, with a look of cold inquiry in them, on Moratti.

"The Captain Guido Moratti--my cousin, the Cavaliere di Lippo."

"Of Castel Lippo, on the Greve," put in di Lippo. "I am charmed to make the acquaintance of the Captain Moratti. Do you stay long in Pieve, captain?"

"I leave to-morrow." Moratti spoke shortly. His blood was boiling, as he looked on the gloomy figure of the cavaliere, who watched him furtively from under his eyelids, the shadow of a sneer on his face. He was almost sick with shame when he thought how he was in di Lippo's hands, how a word from him could brand him with ignominy beyond repair. Some courage, however, came back to him with the thought that, after all, he held cards as well, as for his own sake, di Lippo would probably remain quiet.

"So soon!" said di Lippo with a curious stress on the word soon, and then added, "That is bad news."

"I have far to go, signore," replied Moratti coldly, and the conversation then changed. It was late when they retired; and as the captain bent over Felicità's hand, he held it for a moment in his own broad palm, and said: "It is good-bye, lady, for I go before the dawn to-morrow."

She made no answer; but, with a sudden movement, detached a bunch of winter violets she wore at her neck, and thrusting them in Moratti's hand, turned and fled. The Count was half asleep, and did not notice the passage; but di Lippo said with his icy sneer: "Excellent--you work like an artist, Moratti."

"I do not understand you;" and turning on his heel, the captain strode off to his room.

An hour or so later, he was seated in a low chair, thinking. His valise lay packed, and all was ready for his early start. He still held the violets in his hand, but his face was dark with boding thoughts. He dreaded going and leaving Felicità to the designs of di Lippo. There would be other means found by di Lippo to carry out his design; and with a groan, the captain rose and began to pace the room. He was on the cross with anxiety. If he went without giving warning of di Lippo's plans, he would still be a sharer in the murder--and the murder of Felicità, for a hair of whose head he was prepared to risk his soul. If, on the other hand, he spoke, he would be lost forever in her eyes. Although it was winter, the room seemed to choke him, and he suddenly flung open the door and, descending the dim stairway, went out into the balcony. It was bright with moonlight, and the night was clear as crystal. He leaned over the battlements and racked his mind as to his course of action. At last he resolved. He would take the risk, and speak out, warn Bernabo of Pieve at all hazards, and would do so at once. He turned hastily, and then stopped, for before him in the moonlight stood the Cavaliere Michele di Lippo.

"I sought you in your chamber, captain," he said in his biting voice, "and not finding you, came here----"

"And how did you know I would be here?"

"Lovers like the moonlight, and you can see the light from her window in Ligo's Tower," said di Lippo, and added sharply: "So you are playing false, Moratti."

The captain made no answer; there was a singing in his ears, and a sudden and terrible thought was working. His hand was on the hilt of his dagger, a spring, a blow, and di Lippo would be gone. And no one would know. But the cavaliere went on, unheeding his silence.

"You are playing false, Moratti. You are playing for your own hand with my hundred crowns. You think your ship has come home. Fool! Did you imagine I would allow this? But I still give you a chance. Either do my business to-night--the way is open--or to-morrow you are laid by the heels as a thief and a bravo. What will your Felicità----"

"Dog--speak her name again, and you die!" Moratti struck him across the face with his open palm, and Michele di Lippo reeled back a pace, his face as white as snow. It was only a pace, however, for he recovered himself at once, and sprung at Moratti like a wild-cat. The two closed. They spoke no word, and nothing could be heard but their laboured breath as they gripped together. Their daggers were in their hands; but each man knew this, and had grasped the wrist of the other. Moratti was more powerful; but his illness had weakened him, and the long lean figure of Michele di Lippo was as strong as a wire rope. Under the quiet moon and the winter stars, they fought, until at last di Lippo was driven to the edge of the parapet, and in the moonlight he saw the meaning in Moratti's set face. With a superhuman effort, he wrenched his hand free, and the next moment his dagger had sunk to the hilt in the captain's side, and Moratti's grasp loosened, but only for an instant. He was mortally wounded, he knew. He was going to die; but it would not be alone. He pressed di Lippo to his breast. He lifted him from his feet, and forced him through an embrasure which yawned behind. Here, on its brink, the two figures swayed for an instant, and then the balcony was empty, and from the deep of the precipice two hundred feet below, there travelled upwards the sullen echo of a dull crash, and all was quiet again.

---

When the stars were paling, the long howl of a wolf rang out into the stillness. It reached Felicità in Count Ligo's Tower, and filled her with a nameless terror. "Guard him, dear saints," she prayed; "shield him from peril, and hold him safe."

[THE TREASURE OF SHAGUL]

It was past two o'clock, and Aladin, the elephant-driver, had gathered together his usual audience under the shade of the mango tree near the elephant-shed. Aladin was a noted story-teller; he had a long memory, and an exhaustless fund of anecdote. It was ten years since he had come from Nepaul with Moula Piari, the big she-elephant, and for ten years he had delighted the inhabitants of the canal-settlement at Dadupur with his tales. It was his practice to tell one story daily, never more than one; and his time for this relaxation was an hour or so after the midday meal, when he would sit on a pile of sal logs, under the mango tree, and his small audience, collecting round him in a semi-circle, would wait patiently until the oracle spoke. No one ever attempted to ask him to begin. Once Bullen, the water-carrier, the son of Bishen, after waiting in impatient expectation through ten long minutes of solemn silence, had suggested that it was time for Aladin to commence. At this the old man rose in wrath, and asking the water-carrier if he was his slave, smote him over the ear, and stalked off to the elephant-shed. For three days there was no story-telling, and Bullen, the son of Bishen, had a hard time of it with his fellows. Finally matters were adjusted; both Aladin and Bullen were persuaded by Gunga Din, the tall Burkundaz guard, to forget the past, and affairs went on in the old way. That was three years ago, but the lesson had not been forgotten. So although it happened on this April afternoon, that all the elephant-driver's old cronies were there,--Gunga Dino the Burkundaz, Dulaloo the white-haired Sikh messenger who had been orderly to Napier of Magdala, Piroo Ditta the telegraph-clerk, and Gobind Ram the canal-accountant, with a half-score others--yet not one of them ventured to disturb the silence of Aladin, as he sat, gravely stroking his beard, on the ant-eaten sal logs which had mouldered there for so many years. They were the remains of a wrecked raft that had come down in a July flood, and having been rescued from the water, were stacked under the mango tree for the owner to claim. No owner ever came, but they had served as food for the white ants, and as a bench for Aladin, for many a year. The afternoon was delicious; a soft breeze was blowing, and the leaves of the trees tinkled overhead. Above the muffled roar of the canal, pouring through the open sluices, came the clear bell-like notes of a blackbird, who piped joyously to himself from a snag that stood up, jagged and sharp, out of the clear waters of the Some. To the north the Khyarda and Kalessar Duns extended in long lines of yellow, brown, and grey, and above them rose the airy outlines of the lower Himalayas, while higher still, in the absolute blue of the sky, towered the white peaks of the eternal snows. Beeroo, the Sansi, saw the group under the mango tree as he crossed the canal-bridge, and hastened towards it. Beeroo was a member of a criminal tribe, a tribe of nomads who lived by hunting and stealing, who are to be found in every Indian fair as acrobats, jugglers, and fortune-tellers, or tramping painfully through the peninsula with a tame bear or performing monkeys. In short the Sansis are very similar to gipsies, if they are not, indeed, the parent stock from which our own "Egyptians" spring. Beeroo came up to the sitters, but as he was of low caste, or rather of no caste, he took up his position a little apart, leaning on a long knotted bamboo staff, his coal-black eyes glancing keenly around him. "It is Beeroo," said Dulaloo the Sikh, and with this greeting lapsed into silence. Aladin ceased stroking his henna-stained beard, and looked at the new-comer. "Ai, Beeroo! What news?"

"There is a tiger at Hathni Khoond, and I have marked him down. Is the Sahib here?"

"The Sahib sleeps now," replied Aladin; "it is the time for his noontide rest. He will awaken at four o'clock."

"I will see His Honour then," replied Beeroo, "and there will be a hunt to-morrow."

"Is it a big tiger?" asked Bullen, the son of Bishen.

"Aho!" and the Sansi, sliding his hands down the bamboo staff, sank to a sitting posture.

"When was it the Sahib slew his last tiger?" asked Piroo Ditta, the telegraph-clerk.

"Last May, at Mohonagh, near the temple," answered Aladin; "I remember well, for the elephant lost a toenail in fording the river-bed--poor beast!"

"At Mohonagh! That is where the Shagul Tree is," said Gobind Ram.

"True, brother. Hast heard the tale?"

There was a chorus of "noes," that drowned Gobind Ram's "yes," and Aladin, taking a long pull at his water-pipe, began:

"When Raja Sham Chand had ruled in Suket for six years, he fell into evil ways, and abandoning the shrine of Mohonagh, where his fathers had worshipped for generations, set up idols to a hundred and fifty gods. Prem Chand, the high priest of Mohonagh, cast himself at the Raja's feet, and expostulated with him in vain, for Sham Chand only laughed, saying Mohonagh was old and blind. Then he mocked the priest, and Prem Chand threw dust on his own head, and departed sore at heart. So Mohonagh was deserted, and the Raja wasted his substance among dancing-girls and the false priests who pandered to him. About this time Sham Chand, being a fool although a king, put his faith in the word of the emperor at Delhi, and came down from the hills to find himself a prisoner. In his despair the Raja called upon each one of his hundred and fifty gods to save him, promising half his kingdom if his prayers were answered; but there was no reply. At last the Raja bethought him of the neglected Mohonagh, and falling on his knees implored the aid of the god, making him the same promise of half his kingdom, and vowing that if he were but free, he would put aside his evil ways, return to the faith of his fathers, and destroy the temples of his false gods. As he prayed he heard a bee buzzing in his cell, and watching it, saw it creep into a hollow between two of the bricks in the wall, and then creep out again, and buzz around the room. Sham Chand put his hand to the bricks and found they were loose. He put them back carefully, and waited till night. Under cover of the dark he set to work once more, and removing brick after brick, found that he could make his passage through the wall. This he did and effected his escape. When he came back to Suket he kept his vow, and more than this. Within the walls of the mandar of Mohonagh grows a shagul, or wild pear tree. On this tree the Raja nailed a hundred and fifty gold mohurs, a coin for each one of the false gods whose idols he destroyed, and decreed that every one in Suket who had a prayer answered, should affix a coin or a jewel to the tree. That was a hundred years ago, and now the stem of the Shagul Tree is covered with coins and jewels to the value of lakhs. I saw it with my own eyes. This is not all, for when at Mohonagh I heard that the god strikes blind any thief who attempts to steal but a leaf from the tree. Bus!--there is no more to tell."

"Wah! Wah!" exclaimed the listeners, and Beeroo put in, "Lakhs of rupees didst thou say, Mahoutjee?"

"I have said what I have said, O Sansi, and thou hast heard. Hast thou a mind to be struck blind?"

Beeroo made no answer, and the group shortly afterwards broke up. But Gobind Ram, the canal-accountant, who knew the story of the Shagul Tree, went straight to his quarters. Here he wrote a brief note on a piece of soft yellow paper, and sealed it carefully. Then he drew forth a pigeon from a cage in a corner of the room, and fastening the letter to the bird, freed the pigeon with a toss into the air. The carrier circled slowly thrice above the neem trees, and then spreading its strong slate-coloured wings, flew swiftly towards the hills. Gobind Ram watched the speck in the sky until it vanished from sight, then he went in, muttering to himself, "The high priest will know in an hour that Beeroo the Sansi has heard of the Shagul Tree--Ho, Aladin, thou hast too long a beard and too long a tongue," and the subtle Brahmin squatted himself down to smoke.

An hour afterwards, as Aladin was taking the she-elephant to water, he saw a figure going at a long slouching trot along the yellow sandbanks of the Some, making directly towards the north. The old man shaded his eyes with his hands and looked keenly at it; but his sight was not what it was, and he turned to Mahboob, the elephant-cooly, who would step into his shoes some day, when he died, and asked: "See'st thou that figure on the sandbank there, Mahboob?"

"It is the Sansi," answered Mahboob. "Behold! He limps on the left foot, where the leopard clawed him at Kara Ho. Perchance the Sahib will not hear of the tiger to-day."

"If ever, Mahboob," answered the Mahout; "would that mine eyes were young again. Hai!" and he tapped Moula Piari's bald head with his driving-hook, for her long trunk was reaching out to grasp a bundle of green grass from the head of a grass-cutter, who was bearing in fodder for the Sahib's pony.

Mahboob was not mistaken; it was Beeroo. When the party broke up, he alone remained apparently absorbed in thought. After a time he took some tobacco from an embroidered pouch hanging at his waist, crushed it in the palm of his hand, and rolled a cone-shaped cigarette with the aid of a leaf, fastening the folds of the leaf together with a small dry stick which he stuck through the cigarette like a hair-pin. At this he sucked, his forehead contracted into a frown, and his bead-like eyes fixed steadily before him. Finally he rose quickly, as one who has made a sudden resolve.

"The tiger can wait for the Sahib," he said to himself; "but lakhs of rupees--they wait also--for me. I will go and worship at Mohonagh. The idol will surely make the convert a gift."

Laughing softly to himself, he stole off with long cat-like steps in the direction of the river. He forded the Some where it was crossed by the telegraph-line, and the water was but breast-deep. Once on the opposite bank, he shook himself like a dog, and breaking into a trot, headed straight for the hills. His way led up a narrow and steep track, hedged in with thorns over which the purple convolvulus twined in a confused network. On either hand were sparse fields of gram and corn, which ran in lozenge shapes up the low hillsides, ending in a tangle of underwood, beyond which rose the solid outlines of the forest. As the sun was setting he came to a long narrow ravine, over which the road crossed. Here he stopped, and instead of keeping to the road, turned abruptly to the right and trotted on. In the darkening woods above him he heard the cry of a panther, and the alarmed jabbering of the monkeys in the trees above their most dreaded enemy. Beeroo marked the spot with a glance as he went on: "I will buy a gun when I come back from Mohonagh," he muttered to himself, "a two-barrelled gun of English make. The Thanadar at Thakot has one for sale, a birich-lodas;[^[1]] and then I will shoot that panther." Hough! Hough! The cry of the animal rang through the forest again, as if in assent to his thoughts, and Beeroo continued his way. Just as the sun sank and darkness was setting in, he saw the wavering glimmer of a circle of camp-fires and the outlines of figures moving against the light. The flare of the burning wood discovered also a few low tents, shaped like casks cut in half lengthwise, and lit up with red the grey fur of a number of donkeys that were tethered within the radius of the fires. In a little time he heard the barking of dogs, and five minutes later was with the tents of his tribe.

One or two men exchanged brief greetings with him, and answering them, he stepped up to the centre fire, where a tall good-looking woman addressed him. "Aho, Beeroo, is it you? Is the hunt to be to-morrow?"

"The Sahib was asleep," answered Beeroo; "give me to eat."

The woman brought him food. It was a stew made of the flesh of a porcupine that had been kept warm in an earthenware dish, and Beeroo ate heartily of this, quenching his thirst with a draught of the fiery spirit made from the blossoms of the mhowra, after which he began to smoke once more, using a small clay pipe called a chillum. His wife, for so the woman was, made no attempt to converse with him, but left him to the company of his tobacco and his thoughts. Beeroo sat moodily puffing blue curls of smoke from his pipe, and with a black blanket drawn over his shoulders, stared steadily into the fire. So he sat for hours, no one disturbing him, sat until the camp had gone to rest, and the wind alone was awake and sighing through the forest. Sagoo, his big white hound, came close to him, and lay by his side, as if to hint that it was time to sleep. Beeroo stroked the lean, muscular flank of the dog, and looked around him. "In a little time," he said to himself, "I will be Beeroo Naik, with a village of my own and wide lands. Beeroo Naik," he repeated softly to himself, with a lingering pride on the title implied in the last word. Then he rolled himself up in his blanket; Sagoo snuggled beside him, and they slept.

Beeroo awoke long before sunrise. He drank some milk, stole into his tent, and crept out again with a stout canvas haversack in his hands. Into this sack, which contained other things besides, he stuffed some broken meat and bread made of Indian corn, and slung is over his shoulders. Then grasping his staff, he gave a last look around him, and plunged into the jungle. Sagoo would have followed, but Beeroo ordered him back, and the hound with drooping tail and wistful eyes watched the figure of his master until it was lost in the gloom of the trees. Beeroo walked on tirelessly, and by midday was far in the hills. He could go from sunrise to sunset at that long trotting pace of his, rest a little, eat a little, and then keep on till the sun rose again. He was now high up in the hills. The sal trees had given place to the screw-pine, silk-cotton and mango were replaced by holm-oak and walnut. In the tangle of the low bushes the dog-rose and wild jasmine bloomed, and the short green of the grass was spangled with the wood violet, the amaranth, and the pimpernel. Far below the Jumna hummed down to the plains in a white lashing flood, and the voice of the distant river reached him, soft and dreamy, through the murmur of the pines. As he glanced into the deep of the valleys, a blue pheasant rose with its whistling call, and with widespread wings sailed slowly down into the mist below. The sunlight caught the splendour of his plumage, and he dropped like a jewel into the pearl grey of the vapour that clung to the mountain-side. Beeroo looked at the bird for a moment, and then lifting his gaze, fixed it on a white spot on the summit of the forest-covered hill to his left. He made out a cone-like dome, surmounting a square building, built like an eagle's nest at the edge of the precipice which fell sheer for a thousand feet to the silver ribbon of the river. It was the mandar, or temple of Mohonagh, and so clear was the air, that it seemed as if Beeroo had only to stretch out his staff to touch the white spot before him. He knew better than that, however, and knew too that the sun must rise again before he could rest himself beneath the walls of the temple, and look on the treasure of the shagul.

"Ram, ram, Mohonagh!" he cried, saluting the far-off shrine in mockery, and then continued his way. When he had gone thus for another hour or so, he came upon the traces of a recent encampment. There was a heap of stale fodder, one or two earthenware pots were lying about, and the remains of a fire still smouldered under the lee of a walnut tree. Hard by, on the opposite side of the track, a huge rock rose abruptly, and from its scarred side a bubbling spring plashed musically into a natural basin, and, overflowing this, ran across the path in a small stream, past the tree and over the precipice, where it lost itself in a spray in which a quivering rainbow hung. Here Beeroo halted, and having broken his fast and slaked his thirst, proceeded to totally alter his personal appearance. This he did by the simple process of removing his turban of Turkey red and his warm vest, the only covering he had for the upper portion of his body. After this he let down his long straight hair, which he wore coiled in a knot, to fall freely over his shoulders. Then he smeared himself all over, head and all, with ashes from the fire; and when this was done he stood up a grisly phantom in which no one would have recognised the Sansi tracker. He hid his sandals and the wearing apparel he had removed in a secure place in a cleft in the rocks, and marking the spot carefully, went on--no longer Beeroo the Sansi, a man of no caste, but a holy mendicant. In his left hand he held one of the earthen vessels he had found under the walnut, in his right, his bamboo staff, and the knapsack hung over his shoulders. When he had gone thus for about a mile he heard the melancholy "Aosh! Aosh!" of cattle-drivers in the hills and the tinkling of bells. Turning a bluff he came face to face with a small caravan of bullocks, returning from the interior, laden with walnuts, dried apricots, and wool. Each bullock had a bundle of merchandise slung on either side, and the frontlet of the leading animal was adorned with strings of blue beads and shells. The caravan-drivers walked, and as they urged their beasts along, repeated at intervals their call, which to European ears would sound more like a sigh of despair than a cry of encouragement. Beeroo stood by the side of the road, and, stretching out his ash-covered hands, held out the vessel for alms. Each man as he passed dropped a little into it for luck, one a brown copper, another some dried fruit, a third a handful of parched grain, and Beeroo received these offerings in a grave silence as became his holy calling. He stayed thus until the caravan was out of sight; then he collected the few coins and tossed the rest of the contents of the vessel on to the roadside. He was satisfied that his disguise was complete, and that he could face the priests of the temple at Mohonagh without fear of discovery, for the carriers were Bunjarees, members of a tribe allied to his own, whose lynx-eyes would have discovered a Sansi in a moment unless his disguise was perfect.

"Thoba!" laughed Beeroo to himself as he pressed on. "Had the Bunjarees only known who I was, I had heard the whisper of their sticks through the air, and my back might have been sore; but the blessing of Mohonagh is upon me," he chuckled.

Beeroo rested that evening in a cave. He rose at midnight, however, and travelling without a check was by morning ascending the winding road that led to the shrine. He was not alone here, for there were a number of pilgrims toiling up the ascent, halting now and again to take breath, as they wearily climbed the narrow track set in between the red and brown rocks, and overhung by wild apricot and holm-oak. Among the pilgrims were those who, in expiation of their sins, wriggled up the height on their faces like snakes, others who laid themselves flat at every third step, others again who crawled up painfully on their blistered hands and knees; there were women going to thank the god for the blessing of children, bearded Dogras of the hills, ash-covered and ochre-robed mendicants, and a fat mahajun, or money-lender, who had won a lawsuit and ruined a village. All these were hurrying towards the shrine, and their hands were full.

Under the arch of the gateway stood Prem Sagar, the high priest of Mohonagh, and flung grain towards a countless number of pigeons that fluttered and cooed around him. "They are the eyes and ears of the temple," he said to himself as he gazed upon them; "they warn the shrine of danger, they bring the news of the world beyond the hills, they are surer than the telegraph of the Sahibs, for they tell no secrets. Perchance," and he looked down on the specks slowly nearing the gate, "amongst that crowd of fools is Beeroo the Sansi; if so the god will welcome him, and there will be another miracle. Purun Chand!" and he called out to a subordinate priest who approached him reverently, "Purun Chand, awaken the god."

Purun Chand placed a conch-horn to his lips, and blew a long deep-toned call. Its dismal notes were caught up in the hills and echoed from valley to valley, until they died away, moaning in the deeps of the forest. As the call rang out dolefully, the pilgrims ascending the road fell on their knees, and with one voice cast up a wailing cry, "Ai, ai, Mohonagh!" And Beeroo the Sansi, the man of no caste, whose very presence so near the temple was an abomination, shouted the loudest of all.

---

Half an hour later, Prem Sagar, the high priest, naked to the waist, with his brahminical cord hanging over his left shoulder and a red and white trident painted on his forehead, stood on the stone steps leading up to the shrine, and watched with keen eyes the pilgrims as they came within the temple walls. The devotees took no notice of him, except some of the women who prostrated themselves, while he bowed his head gravely in answer, but said nothing. His lips were muttering prayers in a sing-song tone, but his eyes were tirelessly watching the groups as they came up in files. At last Beeroo appeared, and on his coming to the steps, slightly dragging his left foot, a quick light shone in the high priest's eyes.

"Soh! It is the holy man!" his thoughts ran on. "Gobind Ram did well to warn me of his limp. There too are the five marks of the leopard's claws, running down the inside of the calf." As Beeroo approached the priest, he imitated the action of a woman before him, and prostrated himself. Prem Sagar pretended not to see him; but raised his voice to a loud chant, and repeated the mystic words Om, mane padme, om![^[2]] There was a time when these words caused the heavens to thunder as at the sacred name of Jehovah; but now the limpid blue of the sky was undisturbed, as the priest called out to the jewel in the lotus, the symbol of the Universal God.

"Om, mane padme, om!" repeated Beeroo, and passed into the shrine. He found himself in a room about twenty feet square, the walls and floor blackened by age and by the smoke from the cressets which burned day and night in little niches in the walls. Overhead the vault of the dome was in inky darkness, and in front of him, three-headed and four-armed, painted a bright red, was the grinning idol of Mohonagh. At the feet of the god were the offerings of the pilgrims, and on each side of the idol stood an attendant priest holding a censer, which he swung to and fro, and the fumes from which, heavy with the odour of the wild jasmine and the champac, curled slowly up to the blackened dome. But it was not on the idol, nor on the priests, nor on the worshippers, that Beeroo's eyes were fixed. They were bent to the right of the idol, where the trunk of the Shagul Tree rose from the flooring of the temple like the body of a huge snake, and, escaping outside through a cutting in the wall, spread out into branches and leaves. In fact the temple was built around the tree, and even through the gloom, Beeroo could see that the part of the tree within the temple walls was covered with coins and gems. The coins, old and blackened with smoke, looked like scales on the snake-like trunk of the Shagul Tree: the gold and silver of the jewels were dimmed of their brightness; but through the murky scented atmosphere the Sansi saw the dusky burning red of the ruby, the green glow of the emerald, the orange flame within the opal, and the countless lights in the diamond; and all these came and went like stars twinkling through the veil of a dark night. The Sansi almost gasped, such riches as these were beyond his dreams; they truly meant lakhs of rupees. A single one of the gems would buy him a village and lands; if he could get the whole! His brain almost reeled at the thought, and it was with an effort that he steadied himself, and laying his offering at the feet of the god, backed slowly out of the temple.

Between the outer walls and the shrine was a space about a hundred feet square, shaded by a number of walnut trees. Hither the Sansi betook himself, and placing his earthen bowl on the ground, sat down behind it, staring stolidly before him as if trying to lose himself in that abstraction by which the devotee attains to nirvana. Some of the pilgrims piously dropped food into the vessel; but Beeroo took no heed of this, his eyes were fixed on vacancy, and his mind was revolving many things. So hour after hour passed, and Beeroo still sat motionless as a stone. Prem Sagar approached him once and spoke; but the holy man made no answer, judging it better to pretend to be under a vow of silence, than to betray anything by converse with the Brahmin. The high priest turned away smiling to himself. "Blue-throated Krishna," he murmured, "but the Sansi plays his part well! I had been deceived myself, had I not been warned by the--god," and he walked to the temple gates, and gazed down into the valley beneath him.

At last the strain of the position he had assumed began to tell upon Beeroo. Tough as he was, he had not had practice in those incredible feats of patient endurance to which the regular Bairajis, or holy men, have accustomed themselves. Beeroo would have followed the track of a wounded stag like a jackal for three days; he would lifted a cow at Jagadri at nightfall, and by morning been in the Mohun Pass; he would have danced his tame bear at Umritsur at noontide, and when the moon rose would have been resting at the Taksali Gate of Lahore; but to sit without motion for hour after hour, to sit until his limbs seemed paralyzed and his blood dead--this was unbearable. At all hazards this must be ended; and he suddenly rose, and began to move up and down, gesticulating wildly. The people who looked on thought he was mad, and therefore more holy than ever. They little knew of the method in the Sansi's madness, and that he was making the frozen blood circulate once again in his cramped limbs. When he had done this he came back, ate a little, and coiling himself up in the dust went to sleep, his sack under his head.

By sunset most of the pilgrims had departed from the shrine, leaving only those who, having far to go, determined to camp within the inclosure of the temple walls for the night. They had brought provisions with them, and soon fires were sputtering merrily, and little groups sat around them, enjoying themselves in the subdued fashion of Indians. The holy man was not forgotten; his vessel was soon full of smoking hot cakes of Indian corn, and one kinder than the others placed a brass lota of milk beside him. The holy one proved himself to be very willing to accept these gifts, and doubtless refreshed by his sleep, ate and drank with a very mundane appetite. While thus engaged, a little child came, and placing an offering of a string of flowers at his feet, shyly ran back to his parents. Prem Sagar saw this, and turning to the same priest who had aroused the idol in the morning, said: "Purun Chand, while standing at the temple gates this morning, mine eyes became dim, and there was a roaring in mine ears. Then I heard the voice of the idol of Mohonagh, and he said unto me: 'Five score years have passed to-day since the days of Sham Chand the king, since the days of the high priest Prem Chand, since I, Mohonagh, have spoken. Now to-night is the night of the new moon, and I, Mohonagh, will work a sign.' Then the darkness cleared away, and all was as before. Therefore I say to thee, Purun Chand, let not the idol be watched tonight: let the temple gates be kept open that Mohonagh may enter; and to-morrow at the dawning we shall behold his sign."

Purun Chand bowed his obedience to the high priest; and then the darkness came, and with it the stars, and the thin scimitar of the young moon set slantwise in the sky. Beeroo was in no hurry; he had plenty of time to think out his plan of action, and had resolved to make his attempt in the small hours of the morning, for choice, in that still time between night and day, when all would be asleep, when even if it became necessary to remove an obstacle from his path, on one would hear the stroke of the knife or the groan of the victim. A little after midnight, then, Beeroo arose to his feet, and looked cautiously about him. Everything was very still; the camp-fires burned low and there was no sound except the rustle of the leaves overhead. The tree beneath which he rested was very near to the temple gates, and it struck him that they were open. He crept softly towards them, and found it was as he thought. "The blessing of Mohonagh is on me," he laughed lowly to himself as he came back. He thrust his hand into his sack, and pulled out a light but strong claw-hammer, and a knife with a pointed blade keen as a razor. As he brought them forth they clicked against each other, and in the dead stillness the sharp, metallic sound seemed loud enough to be heard all over the inclosure. Something also disturbed the pigeons on the temple, and there was an uneasy fluttering of wings. The Sansi drew in his breath with a hissing sound. "This will cause a two hours' delay," he said to himself. "I will risk nothing if I can help it." Then he sat him down again and waited.

At last! He rose once more softly, and crept with long cat-like steps towards the entrance of the shrine. The cressets burning within cast a faint pennon of light out of the pointed archway of the entrance, and as they wavered in the night wind, this banner of fire shook and trembled with an uncertain motion. Beeroo halted in the shadow. He was about to step forward again when he was startled by a strange, shrill chuckling cry that made his very flesh creep. He looked around him in fear, and the elvish laugh came again from amidst the leaves of the walnut trees. The man heaved a sigh of relief; "Pah!" he exclaimed in disgust at himself, "it is but a screech-owl." He had to wait a little, however, to steady himself; and then he boldly pressed forward and through the door of the shrine. There was not a soul within. The glimmering lights cast uncertain shadows around them, and the three heads of the idol faced the Sansi in a stony silence. There was but one eye in the centre of each forehead; but all three of these eyes seemed to lighten, and the thick lips on the three faces to widen in a grin of mockery at the thief. Like all natives of India, Beeroo was superstitious, and a fear he could hardly control fell on him. What if, after all, the stories of the idol's power were true? Aladin had not lied about the Shagul Tree; why should he lie about the power of the idol? Still Mohonagh was not the god of the Sansis. He would invoke his own gods, deities of forest and flood, against this three-headed monster. Then the Shagul Tree was there. He could all but touch it; he caught the flash of the winking gems, and the instincts of the robber, fighting with his fears, brought back his courage.

"Aho, Mohonagh! Thy blessing is on me, the Sansi." He said this loudly in bravado, and was almost frightened again at the echoes of his own voice in the vault of the dome. He had spoken with the same feeling in his heart that makes a timid traveller whistle when passing a place he dreads. He had spoken to keep his heart up, and the very sound of his own voice terrified him. At last the echoes died away and there was silence in the shrine. Large beads of sweat stood on the man's forehead. Almost did he feel it in his heart to flee at once; but to leave that priceless treasure now! It could not be. In two strides he was beside the tree. A wrench of the claw-hammer and a jewelled bracelet was in his hand; another wrench and he had secured another blazing trophy.

"Beeroo!"

The man looked up in guilty amazement. To his horror he saw that the three heads of the idol, which were facing the door when he entered, had moved round, and were now facing him. The hammer fell from his hand with a crash, and he stood shivering, a grey figure with staring eyes and open gasping mouth.

"Ai, Mohonagh!" he said in a choking voice.

"The blessing of Mohonagh is on thee;" and something that seemed all on fire rose from behind the idol, and laid its hand on Beeroo's face. With a shriek of agony the Sansi rolled on the floor, and twisted and curled there like a snake with a broken back.

When, roused by his cries, the people and the priests awoke and hurried to the temple, they shrank back in terror; and none dared enter, not even the priests, for from the mouths of the idol three long tongues of flame played, paling the glow of the cressets and throwing its light on the blind and writhing wretch at its feet.

Suddenly a quiet voice spoke at the temple-door, and Prem Sagar the high-priest appeared. "O pilgrims," he said, "be not afraid! Mohonagh has but protected his treasure, and given us a sign. Said I not he would do this, Purun Chand? See," he added, as he stepped into the temple, and lifted up the gems from the floor, "this man would have robbed a god!" And the people, together with the priests, fell on their knees and touched the earth with their foreheads, crying "Ai, ai, Mohonagh!"

Prem Sagar pointed to Beeroo. "Bear him outside the temple-gates and leave him there," he said; "he is blind and cannot see."

Two or three men volunteered to do this, and they bore him out as Prem Sagar had ordered, and cast him on the roadside without the temple-gates; and he, to whom day and night were to be henceforth ever the same, lay there moaning in the dust.

Late that morning certain pilgrims returning to their houses found him there, and, being pitiful, offered to guide him back. It is said that the first question he asked was, "When will it be daylight?" And a Dogra of the hills answered bluntly, "Fool, thou art blind"; whereat the Sansi lapsed into a stony silence, and was led away like a child.

In the tribe of the Sansis, who wander from Tajawala to Jagadhri where the brass-workers are, and from Jagadhri to Karnal, is a blind madman who bears on his scarred face the impress of a hand. It is said that he can cure all diseases at will, for he is the only man living who has stood face to face with a god.

---

Footnotes to
The Treasure of Shagul.

[Footnote 1]: Breechloader.

[Footnote 2]: "Om, the jewel in the lotus, om!" The padma, or lotus, is the flower from which Brahma sprang.

---

[THE FOOT OF GAUTAMA]

The Gregory Gasper, or, as the Lascars insisted on calling her, the Gir Giri Gaspa, bound from Calcutta to Rangoon and the Straits, had injured her machinery, and was now going, as it were, on one leg, and going very lamely, across the Bay of Bengal. We had got into a dead calm. The sea and the sky fused into each other in the horizon, and the water around us was as molten glass, parting sluggishly before the bows of the ship, instead of dancing back in a creamy foam.

"By Jove!" said Sladen, as he leaned over the side and watched the lazy brown swell lounge backward from our course, "this is a dirty bit of water: that wave should have had a white head to it. I believe we've got into a sea of flat beer."

"We've got to go to Rangoon for hospital, and this is the outwater of the Irawadi," said a passenger from his seat. "We can't be more than sixty miles from the coast, and an Irawadi flood shoots its slime out quite as far as that."

"I prefer to think it's flat ale. It's too hot to go into physical geography, Burgess"; and Sladen, flinging the half-burnt stump of his cheroot overboard, joined us who sat in torpid silence. The heat was intense. We had tried every known way to kill time, and failed.

The small excitement of the morning, caused by a shoal of turtles drifting by solemnly, had passed. They looked like so many inverted earthen pots in the water, and we had wasted about fifty of the ship's snider cartridges on them, until, finally, they floated out of range and sight, unhurt and safe. Then an Indian Marine vessel passed us in the offing, and there was a hot discussion between Sladen and myself whether it was the Warren Hastings or the Lord Clive. We appealed to the captain, who, being a member of the Royal Naval Reserve, looked with profound scorn on the Indian Marine. He scarcely deigned to glance at the ship as he grunted out:

"Oh, it's one of those damned cockroach navy boats: it's that old tub the Lord Clive," and he walked off to the bridge. Ten minutes afterwards we lost the grey sides of the old tub in the grey of the sea, and a dark line of smoke running from east to west was the only sign of the Lord Clive, as she steamed through the dead calm at fourteen knots an hour. Then we tried nap, we adventured at loo, and we bluffed at poker. There was no balm in them, and Sladen twice held a flush sequence of hearts. Therefore we sat moody and silent, some of us too sleepy even to smoke.

It was at this moment that the skipper rejoined us, and behind him came his stout Madrassee butler, with a tray full of long glasses, in which the ice chinked pleasantly.

"Drink, boys!" he said, settling himself in the special chair reserved for him. "It's the chief's watch, and I've brought you a particular brew, as you seem dull and lonesome, so to speak."

It was a particular brew, and we sucked at it lovingly through the long amber straws.

"Ha!" said the skipper, "I thought that would stiffen your backbones. Phew! it is hot!" and he mopped his face with a huge handkerchief.

Sladen burst out: "We've got absolutely on the hump. Somebody do something to kill time. Can't some of you fellows tell a story? Any lie will do! Come, Captain!"

"No, no!" said the skipper. "I'm the senior officer here, and speak last. Here's Mr. Burgess: he's been in all sorts of uncanny places, and should be able to tell us something. I put the call on him--so heave away."

Burgess, the man who had spoken about the outwater of the Irawadi, leaned back for a moment in his chair, with half-closed eyes. He was a short, squarely built man, very sunburnt, with mouth and chin hidden by the growth of a large moustache and beard. There was nothing particular in his appearance; yet in following his calling--that of an orchid-hunter--he had been to strange places and seen strange things. Sladen, who knew him well, hinted darkly that he had traversed unknown tracts of country, had hobnobbed with cannibals, and held his life in his hands for the past thirty years.

"You've hit on the very man, Captain," said Sladen. "Now, Burgess, tell us how you found the snake-orchid, and sold it to a duchess for a thousand pounds. You promised to tell me the story one day, you remember?"

"That's too long. I'll tell you a story, however"; and Burgess lifted up his drink, took a pull at it, and, picking up the straw that leaned back in a helpless manner against the edge of the glass, began twisting it round his fingers as he spoke.

"All this happened many years ago----"

"When flowers and birds could talk," interrupted the Boy; and Burgess, turning on him, said slowly: "Flowers and birds can talk now. When you are older you will understand."

The Boy looked down a little abashed, and Burgess continued: "I am afraid to say how many years ago I first went to Burma. I was as poor as a rat, and things had panned out badly for me. Rangoon then was not the Rangoon of to-day, and the old king Min-Doon Min, who succeeded to the throne after the war, was still almost all-powerful. He was not a bad fellow, and I once did a roaring trade with him at Mandalay: exchanged fifty packets of coloured candles for fifty pigeon's-blood rubies. They had a big illumination at the palace that night, and I only narrowly escaped being made a member of the cabinet. I, however, got the right of travelling through his majesty's dominions, wherever and whenever I pleased; but the chief queen made it a condition that I should supply no more coloured candles. She preferred the rubies; and I fancy old Min-Doon Min must have had a bad time of it, for the queen was as remarkable for her thrift as for her tongue. She was as close as that"--Burgess held up a square brown fist before us, and, as he did so, I noticed the white line of a scar running across it, below the knuckles, from thumb to little finger. He caught my eye resting on it, and laughingly said: "It's a seal of the kind friends I have in Kinnabalu. But to resume, as the story-books say. All this about Min-Doon is a 'divarsion,' and I'll go back to the point when I found myself first at Rangoon, with all my wardrobe on my back, and a two-dollar bill in my pocket. After drifting about for some time, I got employment in a rice-shipping firm, and set myself to work to learn the language. In about a year I could speak it well, and, having got promotion in the firm, felt myself on the high road to fortune. It was hard work: the boss knew the value of every penny he spent, and took every ounce he could out of his men."

"Bosses are cut out of the same pattern even now," murmured the Boy. "The breed don't seem to improve."

Burgess took no notice of the interruption, but went on: "I was finally placed in charge of some work at Syriam; and a little misfortune happened--my over-man died. It was rather a job to get another. Men were not easily picked up in those days. But at last I unearthed one, or rather he unearthed himself. He hailed from the States, and described himself as a Kentucky man--the real 'half-horse, half-alligator' breed. I asked no questions, but set him to work, and reported to the boss, who said 'All right.' The new man seemed to be a gem: he turned up regularly, stayed till all hours, and never spared himself. He was a great lanky fellow, with dark hair, and eyes so palely grey that they seemed almost white. They gave him an odd appearance; but, as good looks were not a qualification in our business, it did not matter much what he was like. He had been a miner, and had also been to sea, and knew how to obey an order at the double. One day he suddenly looked up from his table--we sat in the same room--and asked if I had heard of treasure ever being buried in or near old pagodas.

"'Every one hears such stories,' I answered; 'but why do you ask?'

"'Wal,' he went on, in his slow drawl, 'I've bin readin' ez haow a Portugee called Brito, or some sich name, did a little bit of piracy in these hyar parts, until his games were stopped by the local Jedge Lynch. They ran a stick through him, as the Burmese do now to a dried duck.'

"'What's that got to do with buried treasure?'

"'You air smart! This Brito, before his luck petered out, had a pow'ful soothin' time of it with the junks an' pagodas, and poongyies, as they call their clergy. Guess he didn't lay round hyar for nuthin', an' if all I've heard be true, vermilion isn't the name for the paint he put on the squint-eyes.

"'But----'

"He put up his hand. 'So long. I'm thinkin' that, ef I'd a smart pard--one who saveyed their lingo--we might strike a lead of luck.'

"I was always a bit of a roving character, and fond of a little adventure, so that the conversation interested me; still, however, I objected, more with a desire to see how much Stevens, as he called himself, knew than anything else.

"'See thar,' he said, pulling out a map from his drawer and unrolling it on the table. 'See thar! This is where Brito and his crowd were,' and he laid a long forefinger on the mouths of the Irawadi. 'When they bested him, the Burmese got little or nuthin' back. I want a pard--one who knows the lingo, an' is a white man. You set me up when I'd struck bed rock; an' I says to myself, Wal, this 'ere is a white man. Ef ever Hake Stevens gets a pile, it's to be halves. The pile's thar--will you jine?'

"He stood up, and put his hand on my shoulder. It really wasn't good enough. Stevens had simply got hold of a very ordinary legend after all, and I laughed back, 'You'll make more out of a rice-boom, Stevens, some day, than ever you will out of Brito's treasure.' He rolled up the map and put it back into his drawer.

"'I've done the squar' thing by you, pard,' he said. 'No one can deny ez I haven't done the squar' by you.'

"'Of course,' I answered, and turned to my duties. From that time, however, Stevens seemed to be able to think of nothing but his imaginary treasure. Some days afterwards he did not come to work, and the following day we got an ill-spelt letter, resigning his post, and asking that the money due to him should be sent to a certain address. We paid up, and got a Chinaman in his place."

"In a short time the Chinaman will be doing everybody's work in Burma," said Sladen. "Hand over the baccy, please, Captain."

The skipper flung Sladen a black rubber tobacco pouch, and Burgess, in this interlude, finished his glass.

"I clean forgot all about Stevens, when one evening, as I was sitting in my rooms over a pipe, my servant told me some one wished to see me. I told the man to admit him, and Stevens came in. He seemed fairly well off; but was, if possible, a trifle thinner than when I last saw him. He shook me by the hand, disjointed himself like a fishing-rod, and sank into a chair.

"'Wal, pard, will you jine?'

"'Still at the old game, Stevens? No, I don't think I'll join on a fool's search like that.'

"'Fool's search, you call it. Very wal, let it be naow; but I want you to come with me this evening to an entertainment. It's a sort of swarrey; but I guess ez we'll be the only guests.'

"'Have a whiskey first?'

"'I guess ez haow a wet won't hurt,' and he poured himself out a glass from the bottle--we weren't up to decanters in Burma then.

"I thought I might as well go, and, having made up my mind, we were walking down the street in the next ten minutes. Rangoon was not laid out in squares as it is now, with each street numbered, so that losing your way is an impossibility. Well as I knew the place, I found that Hake Stevens was aware of short cuts and by-lanes which I had never seen before. We entered the Chinese quarter. It was a feast-day for John, and the street was alight with paper lanterns: dragons, serpents, globes, and tortoises swung to and fro in all manner of colours. Here a green dragon went openmouthed at a yellow serpent, there an amber tortoise swung in a circle of crimson-and-blue globes. We passed a joss house, where there was an illuminated inscription to the effect that enlightenment finds its way even amongst the outer barbarians, and, turning to the left, much where Twenty-Seven Street is now--a fire wiped out all that part of Rangoon years ago--went up a gully, and finally stopped before a small shop. Sitting in a cane chair in the doorway was a short man, so enormously stout that he was almost globular. 'Is he in?' asked Stevens, in English; and the man, with his teeth closed on the stem of the opium pipe he smoked, answered 'Yess,' or rather hissed the words between his lips. We passed by him with some little difficulty, for he made no effort to move, and, ascending a rickety staircase, entered a small room, dimly lighted by a cheap kerosene lamp. In one corner of the room an old man was seated. He rose as we entered, and saluted us.

"'This is the host,' and Stevens waved his hand in introduction. 'But he knows only about six words of English, and I know nothing of his derned lip, so you see my new pard an' I cayn't very well exchange confidences.'

"I confess to a feeling of utter disappointment when I saw what we had come to; but there was no use in saying anything. 'Who is he? How did you get to know him?' I asked Stevens. He closed an eyebrow over one of his white-grey eyes with a portentous wink.

"'That, pard, is one of the secrets of the past. We hev the future before us.'

"I never could quite make Stevens out. He spoke the most obtrusive Yankee; yet with turns of expression which at times induced me to think he was playing a part.

"'Very well,' I laughed,' I don't want to look back; but may I ask what is the entertainment this gentleman has provided for us?'

"'Wal,' replied Stevens, 'he's just one of their medicine-men: goes off to sleep, and then tells you all about everything. I'm goin' to lay round for him to tell us where Brito's pile is. Spirit-rappin' does strange things in my country, an' I don't see ez how this old cuss moutn't be of help.'

"The old tack again!--I resigned myself to fate. There is no use in going into preliminaries. Stevens stated what he wanted, and I explained fully and clearly what was required. We then paid our fee, which the old gentleman wrapped up for security in a corner of the saffron sash he wore round his head, and told us to sit down before him. Then he stripped himself to the waist--there wasn't much to remove--and spread a square of white cloth on the floor; on this he placed a mirror, brought the light close to the mirror, and then settled himself cross-legged before his arrangement of mirror and light.

"'Listen!' he said in Burmese. 'I have given my word, and will show you what you want; but you must not speak, and you must follow my directions implicitly.'

"I translated to Stevens, who willingly agreed. "'Now shut your eyes.'

"We did so, and I felt his hands passing over my face. Then something cold touched my forehead, leaving a sensation much like that caused by a menthol crystal. A moment later a subtle odour filled the room--an odour indescribably sweet and heavy, the effect of which on me was to make me feel giddy.

"'Open your eyes!'

"I almost started, for the words were spoken in the purest English. We obeyed, and found the room full of a pale blue vapour. The lamp had gone out; but the mirror was instinct with light, and threw a halo around it, showing the dim outline of the sorcerer crouched low down with his face between his hands. "'Look!'

"The voice seemed to come from all parts of the room at once, and Stevens' hand clutched on to my shoulder, the fingers gripping in like a vice. We bent over the glass, and saw reflected in it, not our own faces, but a wide creek, overhung by forest on each side, and a row of six colossal images of Buddha, or Gautamas as they are called, lining one of the banks. Whilst we looked on this silent scene, a boat with a couple of native oarsmen came round the elbow of the creek. In the stern sat a man in an old-fashioned dress, with a cuirass on; and as the boat grounded lightly near the figure of the largest Gautama, he leaped actively to land, holding up from the ground a long, basket-hilted rapier. The two men followed, bearing with them an iron-bound chest, and laid it at the feet of the biggest Gautama; then returning to the boat, they brought picks therefrom, and began to dig, the man with the rapier standing over them, resting on the hilt of his sword. They dug away under the foot of the idol, and finally concluded they had gone far enough. The chief examined their work, and some words passed. We saw the lips moving, but heard nothing. The box was buried carefully, and the stones and earth put back, so as to remove all traces of the hiding-place of the treasure. Some further directions were given, and one of the two natives stooped as if to throw some brushwood over the spot. The next moment the rapier passed through his body. He twisted himself double, and rolled over dead. The other turned to flee, but there was a flash, a small curl of blue and grey smoke, and he fell forward on his face into the water and sank. The cavalier, still holding the pistol in his hand, went up to the first man. There was no doubt he was dead; so the Don put back his pistol, wiped his sword carefully with a handful of grass, and returned it to its scabbard; then he dragged the body to the creek and flung it in. After that he gave a last look at the foot of the Gautama, and, jumping into the boat, began to paddle himself away.

"'Dead men tell no tales.' The words seemed to burst from Stevens. Instantly there was a blinding flash, and when we recovered ourselves the room was as before. The cloth and mirror had gone, and the old sorcerer was seated on his stool in the corner of the room, the lamp burning dimly beside him.

"'You spoke,' he said. 'I can do no more.'

"I looked at Stevens reproachfully, and he understood. His face was very pale, and his lips blue with excitement. After a little he recovered himself, and said, with a shake of eagerness in his voice:

"'Cayn't this old cuss start fresh, an' give us another run?'

"'I can do nothing,' replied the man to my inquiry. 'You must go now.'

"We turned to depart, and when we got into the street Stevens said to me: 'I'll see you home. I'm afraid I busted the show.'

"'I'm afraid you have; but it's no use crying over spilt milk.'

"Stevens made no answer, and we walked back to my rooms without saying a word. At the door he left me abruptly, refusing all offers to come in. Once in my rooms, I tried to think out the matter, but gave it up and went to bed. Sleep wouldn't come, so I lay awake the whole night, picturing to myself over and over again the grim scene I had seen enacted in the mirror. Towards morning I dropped into a troubled sleep, and awoke rather late. I got out of bed thinking that the events of the past night were, after all, nothing more than a dream; but it all came back to me. When I went down to breakfast I found Stevens waiting for me, and he pressed me earnestly to join him in a search for the place we had seen in the looking-glass. I was in an irritable mood. 'Great Scott!' I said, 'can't you see that all this is only a conjurer's trick? How many thousand Gautamas are there in Burma? Are you going to dig them all up?'

"'Some men don't know their luck, pard,' he said, as he left me; and, although I thought of him sometimes, I never heard anything more of him for a long time.

"A run of bad luck came now, and the boss suspended payment--went bung, in fact--and I was thrown on my beam ends. I had something in the stocking, though; and it was about this time that my thoughts kept turning continually towards the orchid trade. It first struck me in this way: A friend of mine had written from home, pointing out that a demand had arisen for orchids; and the small supply I sent was sold on such favourable terms that I was seriously considering a larger venture. I thought the matter over, and one evening after dinner determined to give it a final consideration. So I lit my pipe, and strolled out towards the jetties--a favourite walk of mine. It was bright moonlight; and I walked up and down the planking, more and more resolved at every turn I took to decide upon the orchid business.

"At one end of the jetty there was a crane that stretched out its arm in a how-de-do sort of manner to the river below it. I walked up to it with idle curiosity, and when I came close, saw the figure of a European, apparently fast asleep, near the carriage of the crane. A common 'drunk' or a loafer, I thought to myself--when the figure rose to a sitting posture, and, as the moonlight shone on its face, I could not make a mistake.

"'Stevens!' I said.

"'Wal, pard?' and Hake Stevens, without another word, rose up and stood before me.

"I saw at a glance that he was in rags, and that about the third of one stockingless foot was protruding in an easy manner from his boot; the other boot seemed more or less wearable. Stevens had a habit of walking with a lurch to his left--heeling over to port, as it were--which accounted for the fact I observed.

"'Why,' I said, putting my hand on his shoulder, 'how has it come to this? Why didn't you come to me?'

"'Have you got a smoke?' he asked.

"For answer I handed him my baccy pouch, and he loaded an old pipe.

"'Light-o!'

"I struck a vesta, and handed it to him. By the flare of it I could see him very white and starved.

"'Now,' I added, 'you come straight home with me.'

"'Guess ez haow I was making tracks thar, when I broke down, an' had to heave to. I hev found it this time. See hyar.'

"'First come home with me, and then you can tell me all about it. I won't hear a word till you've had something to eat and a rest.'

"It was only a few minutes' walk to my rooms; but I had to half carry Stevens there. Those were the days when cabs were unknown, remember. As soon as we arrived, I told my boy to raise supper; and in the meantime Stevens had a stiff whiskey, a bath, and changed into some of my things. He looked a figure of fun as he came out, with about a yard of lean leg and leaner arm sticking out of the things I'd given him. But, Lord! you should have seen him wolf the cold meat and pickles! When he'd done, I was for just marching him straight to bed. But, no: he was determined to tell me his story; so I let him run his course.

"'Pard,' he said, 'when I busted the caboodle that night, an' left you, I said to myself: "Hake Stevens, you chowder-headed clam, you jest make this level; you've done an all-fired foolish thing, an' now you've got ter eat yer leek." The next mornin' I gave you another try, but you wouldn't rise to it; so I went off an' took a passage to Henzada. It was all in the low countries that Brito was, an' I determined to work the thing in square--work every inch of it, ef it took me a hundred years, until I found thet creek with the images. I got to Henzada in a rice boat; then I pulled out my map, marked my square, an' set to work. I bought a paddle canoe, an' blazed every creek I went up. I made up my mind ez I should work down'erds from Henzada, ez thet was the furthest point old Brito struck. I calc'lated thet ef he was hard pressed, an' the Burmee squint-eyes were gettin' the jamb on him, he would lay fur to hide his greenbacks ez far from his usual bars ez possible. Wal, I worked those creeks up an' down, night an' day, gettin' what I could out of the villagers on payment, an' when the dollars ran out, got it without payment. Snakes! How the squitters fed on me! An' I was a'most so starved thet, ef I could on'y hev managed it, I'd hev fed on them like a fish, an' got some of myself back agen. Wal, it woke snakes when they found I swooped down on their cokynut plantations, and one thing and another; but a freeborn American ain't goin' fur to starve when these hyar yeller Burmans gits their bellies full. The local sheriff and his posse turned out, an' thar was a vigilance committee behind every tree. Shootin' was not in my line, unless forced to; so I skedaddled, an' they after me. It was a tight race, an' I was so weak I felt I could hardly hold out; so I thought I'd better take to land. I shot the canoe under some branches, an', to my surprise, found they overhung an' concealed a small passage, hardly wide enough for two canoes abreast. Up this I went: it was easier goin' than walkin' through the thorns. After about four hours of shovin' through slime, it widened out; an' then, turnin' a great clump of bamboos, I swung round to my right--an' what do you think I saw?'

"He stretched his hand out to me, and the grey of his eyes seemed absolutely to whiten. "'Ez I live, I saw the six big images all in a row, each one bigger than the other; an' they war smilin' across the creek, as they smiled when Brito buried his treasure thar, an' God knows how many years before. I ran the boat ashore, jumped off, an' patted the big idol's knee--couldn't reach further up; an' then I came back to find you. The gold lies thar, pard, an' we are made men: it's thar, I say. Come back with me; share an' share alike--hands on it.'

"His voice cracked as he brought his story to this abrupt close; and I said nothing, but shook his outstretched hand.

"'When can we start?' he asked.

"'You must pull yourself together a bit, Stevens, before we do anything of the kind.'

"Then I told him briefly how I was a free man, and able to go where I listed; and that, as I could combine my first essay in orchid-hunting with the search for Brito's treasure, I didn't care how soon I went. But it could not be until Stevens was better able to travel, as the rains were coming on, and further exposure might mean death to him.

"'And now,' I said, 'you'd better turn in and have a snooze. I'm a bit sleepy myself.'

"With that he got up and shambled off to bed. The next morning he was in a high fever, and it was some time before he was right again. At length he said he was once more fit 'to fight his weight in wild cats.' He wasn't by any means that: he was still weak, and not able to face any great hardship; but enforced idleness was sending the man mad, and I thought we'd better make a start. I did not mean to go in for any particular roughing it. It was only subsequently that I learned what sort of music an orchid-hunter has to face."

Burgess stopped for a moment, and pointed his finger at the Boy, who lay flat on his back, sound asleep, with his lower jaw open.

"If you're feeling like that, I'll reel up."

"Go ahead," said the skipper: "if you've done nothing else you've quieted that young limb for the present, and we owe you a vote of thanks for that."

"Go on, Burgess," said Sladen: "you've burnt your ships now, and can't go back."

The man laughed--a pleasant, low laugh, that was good to hear.

"Very well--I'll go on. I totted up my savings, and found I could fairly risk the venture. We made arrangements to go to Henzada first, and the passage was done in a big rice boat: there was no flotilla company in those days. We simply crawled to our destination, and I was pretty sick of the journey. It nearly drove Stevens mad, however; he fretted and fumed until I almost thought he'd be ill again. Whenever we could stop, we did; and I collected as many orchids as I could. Heavens! the rubbish I picked up in those days! Stevens did nothing but swear at the serang and pore over the notes in his pocket-book. He got into a way of repeating the notes in his book aloud. 'Third turnin' to the right, first to the left, three big jack trees, and then the passage.' He was learning his notes by heart, he said, in case anything happened.

"When we reached Henzada, a difficulty arose which we should have foreseen. Stevens was recognised, and his late visit only too well remembered. The result was trouble; but the Myook--there was only a Myook there in those days--was open to argument, backed up with palm oil, and Stevens was let off with a fine. Of course I paid, and was correspondingly sorry for myself; but we'd gone too far now to recede. We bought a boat--or rather I did--hired a couple of men to help, and started. Stevens had selected some good picks at Rangoon, and these formed a not unimportant item of our outfit. In three days we reached a big creek.

"'It was hyar that I cut from those Injuns on the war-path,' said Stevens, 'and we cayn't be mor'n a mile from the gully--we should be there by nightfall.'

"It was noonday, almost as hot as it is now, and I was snoozing comfortably, when I heard Stevens shout:

"'Hyar we are, pard--wake up!'

"The boat swung lightly round, and shot under the overhanging branches of a large jack tree as he spoke, and I had to stoop very low to save my head. Stevens was trembling with excitement.

"'In thar,' he called out--'tell them to steer in thar, an' then right ahead.' He pointed to a small opening, about three feet wide, up which a long straight cut of water extended. We got the boat in with some little trouble, and then slipped along easily. The cut was as straight as a canal, overhung on each side with a heavy undergrowth. As we went deeper into the forest this undergrowth became less, and finally almost ceased. Every yard of our advance took us amongst trees which grew more gigantic as we went on. Some of the trees were splendid, going up fifty or sixty feet before throwing out a single branch; and the bamboos--I never saw such bamboos. As we continued our course it became darker and darker, until we entered the blackest bit of forest I ever saw. We could hear the drip of the dew from leaf to leaf. The few rays of sunlight that straggled in fell in level bars on the green of the leaves, shadowing the dim outlines of the long colonnades of tree trunks, and occasionally lighting up the splendour of some rare orchid in full bloom. A hundred times I wanted to stop and collect specimens, but Stevens would not hear of it.

"'No, no, old pard! let's get on. We'll come back hyar in our steam yacht, an' you can then root away for etarnity. We're on the right trail, an' in ten hours--my God! I cayn't think ez how your mind can turn to roots now.'

"I was a little surprised myself; but the love of these flowers was in me, and not all the gold in Asia could stop that. In this way we travelled for about four hours; and then towards evening a broad band of daylight spread suddenly before us, and, almost before I was aware of it, we were out of the long, snake-like cutting, and, turning a magnificent clump of bamboos, came upon a wide stretch of water.

"'There they air!' said Stevens.

"There they were--six huge statues--standing in a row on the edge of the inland lake, each colossal image larger than the other, all with their faces set towards the west. It was almost sunset, and the sky was aflame with colour, which was reflected back by the water, over which the Gautamas looked in serene peace. There was not a sound except the soft murmuring of the breeze amongst the tree tops. As I live, it was the place we had seen in the mirror, and for a moment that tragedy of the past came before me in all its clearness--and I was in dreamland.

"'Wal, pard! Struck ile at last.'

"The sound of Stevens' voice came to me as from a far distance. In the sunlit haze before me I saw the Don paddling his boat away, his long black moustaches lifted with the snarling laugh he had laughed, when he hid his treasure so that no man could tell.

"The boat grounded softly, and Stevens shook me by the shoulder.

"'Wake up, old hoss!--wake up!'

"I pulled myself together and looked at my companion. His face was full of a strange excitement, and as for myself, I felt as if I could hardly speak. As a matter of fact, we wasted no time in words; but took off our coats and set to work. Our small crew lent a willing hand. It was under the left foot of the biggest Buddha we dug, and in about half an hour made a hole big enough for a man to stand in over his waist.

"'Guess he must have burrowed down far,' said Stevens, 'or we've missed the spot.' Even as he spoke his pick struck with a sharp clang against something.

"'Iron against iron,' yelled Stevens, as he swung his pick round like a madman. He worked so furiously that it was impossible to get near him; but finally he stopped, and said very calmly:

"'Thar's the pile, pard.'

"We shook hands, and then, with the aid of the men, lifted out the box. It was exceedingly heavy. When we got it out there was some difficulty in opening it, but a revolver cartridge and the pick solved the matter. As the lid went up, we saw before our eyes a pile of gold, jewellery and precious stones. Hake Stevens ran his fingers through them lovingly, and then lay down on the ground, laughing and crying. Then he got up again, and plunged his arms up to the elbows into the winking mass--and his eyes were as the eyes of a madman. I put my hand into the box and pulled out a fistful of gems. Stevens grasped me by the wrist, and then loosed his hold at once.

"'Oh God! oh God!'

"'Why, what is the matter, Stevens? Look at these beauties!' and I held out my hand to him. He looked back at me in a strange sort of way, and said, in a husky voice:

"'Keep that lot, pard. Don't let them be mixed with the others. See! I will take what I can hold, too, and we will divide the rest.' He put his hand amongst the jewels and drew it back with a shudder. 'They're hot as hell,' he said.

"I thought the best thing to do was not to notice his strange manner.

"'Keep them to cool,' I said, flinging what I had with me into the box, and shutting the lid, 'and come and have some dinner. I'm famished.'

"'Do you think these fellows are all right?' Stevens said, apparently trying to pull himself together, as he indicated the crew with a glance.

"'We ought to be a match for twice the number; but we'll keep a look out.'

"We went to dinner in the boat, carrying our box with us. Our crew lit a fire near one of the idols, and cooked their food, whilst we ate our very simple meal. The sun had gone down, and the moon was fighting with a heavy mass of clouds that had sprung up apparently from nowhere, and were gathering in mountainous piles overhead. The low rumbling of distant thunder came to our ears.

"'Looks like rain. Jehoshaphat!--it is rain.'

"A distant moaning sound that gradually increased in volume was audible, the tree tops bent and swayed, the placid surface of the lagoon was beaten into a white foam, and the storm came. We heard a yell from the boatmen on the bank. The next moment we were torn from our moorings, and went swinging down the creek in pitchy darkness. Overhead and around all hell was loose. The paddles were swept away, and we spun round in a roaring wind, in a din of the elements, and a darkness like unto what was before God said, 'Let there be light.' I shouted to Stevens, but could not hear my own voice. Suddenly there came a deafening crash, and a chain of fire hung round the heavens. I saw Stevens crouching in the boat, with his face resting on the box, and his arms clasped around it. 'By the Lord!' he was gibbering and mowing to himself--even above the storm I heard his shrill cry--'the idols, the idols! they're laffin' at us.' I turned my head as he spoke: the blackness was again lit up, and I saw by it the calm, smiling faces of the Buddhas. All their eyes were fixed on us, and in that strange and terrible light the stony smiles on their faces broadened in devilish mockery. The rain came down in sheets; and the continual and ceaseless flashes of lightning flared on the angry yellow water around us, and made the rain seem as if there were millions of strands of fine silver and gold wires hanging from the blackness above. It was all I could do to keep myself in the canoe. At each flash I looked at Stevens, and saw him in the same posture, crouching low, like a cat. Then he began to sing, in a shrill voice, that worked its way, as a bradawl through wood, past all the noise of the elements. And now the whole heavens were bright with a pale light that was given back by the hissing water around. The raindrops sparkled like gems, and hit almost with the force of hailstones. Stevens rose with a scream, and stood in the boat.

"'Sit down, for God's sake!' I called out.

"'I'm holding them with my life--the diamonds, the jewels!' he yelled with a horrid laugh, and shook his fist at something. I followed his movements; and there, riding in the storm, was a small canoe, paddled by a man in the dress of old days. He was smiling at Stevens as, with long easy sweeps of his paddle, he came closer and closer.

"'Shoot him!' yelled Stevens, as he pulled out his revolver and fired once, twice, and then flung it with all his might at the vision. In the effort he overbalanced the boat, and all I can remember is that I was swimming for dear life, and being borne down with frightful rapidity through that awful light. I saw something, which might have been Hake Stevens, struggling for a moment on the water; but, Stevens or not, it sank again almost immediately, and some one laughed too as this happened.

"And I think," said Burgess, "that's about all. I never saw Hake Stevens again, and I don't want ever to see Brito's jewels any more."

"How did you get out?"

"By absolute luck. I don't very well remember now; and By Jove! here comes the breeze."

Even as he spoke, a cool puff of wind fanned us into life.

[THE DEVIL'S MANUSCRIPT]