Notwithstanding the perplexity of friends, who could not imagine my motive for going there, and who made themselves quite merry at my expense, I found myself in a boat, with the blue letter pinned in my pocket, my boy at my side, and Monsieur and Madame L—— opposite me, at five o'clock one morning, sailing down with the tide to Pak Laut.
When I arrived there, I made a hasty breakfast with the sick man and his friends, and leaving my boy at play in charge of the lady, I hurried off in the direction of the governor's palace.
P'haya Keean, the governor, was a Peguan prince by birth, and the father of my dear friend, whose name, translated into English is "Hidden Perfume."
He received me so kindly and looked so benevolent that I felt encouraged to tell him the object of my visit at once.
Taking my hand in his, and keeping the smile of appreciation on his honest face, he led me through several long halls and corridors, which brought us at length to a very queer-looking old tower, covered with moss and black with age, with narrow loopholes for windows, and surrounded by a deep moat or ditch full of stagnant water.
From the roof of this extraordinary building descended two flights of steps built in the wall, and leading directly to two ruinous old drawbridges that spanned the moat. The one communicated with the governor's palace, while the other led to a low arched gateway which opened immediately on a canal, and thus had access to the river.
What the moat was intended for I could in no wise imagine, unless it were especially designed to connect the tower, independent of the bridges, with the river, and thus, in cases of necessity, afford the inmates an opportunity of immediate flight by water. There were two boats on the moat, ready for any such emergency.
The governor left me standing outside of the low wall that skirted the moat, crossed one of the crumbling old bridges, and entered the tower through an arched doorway, solemn and ponderous as if it had withstood the storms of many a dreadful siege.
In a few minutes May-Peâh, the Laotian slave-girl, came running out, crying, "O, I love you dearly! I love you dearly! I am so happy. Come in, come in and see the prince!" So saying, she pulled me after her into that singular, toppling-down-looking old edifice, which I must confess inspired me with a dread that I could not overcome, nor could I divest myself of the feeling that I was under the influence of some wild, fantastic dream.