The whole purpose of these representations is to familiarise during life the devout Buddhists with the awful aspect of the many demons that will obstruct their souls after death and try to lead them astray when they are searching for the right path to the next world in which they are to begin a fresh existence.
On this strange, bewildering spectacle an English girl looked down from a small balcony not twenty feet above the courtyard. And the sight of her caused the attention of many of the spectators to wander from the Mystery Play. The fat old Penlop frequently looked across the quadrangle at her from his gallery and as often uttered some coarse jest about her to his grinning followers, while he raised a chased silver goblet filled with murwa, the native liquor, to his lips.
It was Muriel Benson. For weeks she had been a prisoner in the lamasery, cloistered in a suite of well-furnished rooms and waited on by a close-cropped nun. She had been surprised in the bungalow and overpowered by three of the Chinamen before she realised her danger or could seize a weapon with which to defend herself. Had she been able to snatch up a revolver she would have made a desperate fight for freedom. But with fettered hands, a helpless captive, she had been carried away on a mule. From the first she had recognised the pock-marked, one-eyed leader of the gang as the Amban's officer, and so had known who was the author and cause of her abduction. For days she had been borne along up the rough track over the mountains, through narrow, high-walled passes, down deep valleys and across rushing torrents, closely guarded but always treated with respect. Her captors used broken Tibetan and Bhutanese when they desired to communicate with her, but they answered none of her questions. She had dreaded reaching their destination, where she expected to find Yuan Shi Hung awaiting her; and once, in fear of it, she had tried to throw herself down a precipice along the brink of which the path ran. After that she had been roped to a big, powerful Manchu.
On her arrival at the monastery she learned from her garrulous nun-attendant that the Amban had been summoned to Pekin, where a revolution had taken place and his friends there hoped to make him President, which he regarded as a step towards the Imperial throne. The monks of the monastery were his faithful allies on account of his relationship to the powerful Abbott of the Yellow Lama Temple in the Chinese capital. They had agreed to guard his prisoner, if his men succeeded in capturing her, until he returned or sent for her.
At first the girl, relieved of the dread of falling at once into his hands, lived in the hope of a speedy rescue. It was unfortunate, she thought, that Colonel Dermot, with his extraordinary knowledge of and influence over the Bhutanese, had left India. But even without him the power of the British Empire would be set at once in motion to avenge this outrage on an Englishwoman. Dermot's understudy, the Assistant Political Officer, faithless lover though he was, would do all he could to save her. Assuredly she would not have long to wait.
But as the days dragged by and she still remained a prisoner her heart sank. She needed all her courage not to lose hope and give way to despair. For she had always hanging over her the dread of Yuan Shi Hung's return. But she had resolved to kill herself rather than fall into his hands, and for that purpose had bribed her cheery, good-natured attendant to procure a dagger for her. She pretended that she wanted it as a protection in the lamasery, for the door of her apartments was without a fastening. Even on the outside there was neither lock nor bolt, for escape was considered impossible for her. If she got out of the monastery she would be captured at once in the town.
She was not interfered with and saw no one but her nun. Once or twice she ventured to creep down to the great temple of the monastery, drawn by curiosity and the sound of harmonious Buddhist chants intoned by the lamaic choir. But for her anxiety about her father and her dread of the Amban's return her worst trial would have been the monotony of her captivity, were it not that the memory of Wargrave and her unhappy love caused her many a sleepless night.
With nothing to occupy her mind she hailed the festival of the Devil Dance as a welcome distraction. Not even the impertinent curiosity of the spectators could drive her from her balcony. She followed the many phases with interest, although she could not understand the meaning of them. For the performance was a curious mixture of religion and blasphemous mockery, of horse-play and coarse humour as well as a strange impressiveness. A comic interlude would follow the most solemn act. Troops of devils burlesqued the sacred rites of the faith, and bands of comic masks filled the arena at times and delighted the audience by playing practical jokes on the spectators and each other. The solitary white woman attracted their clownish humour, and they danced in front of her balcony, shouting out rude witticisms that caused much amusement to the lookers-on. Fortunately the girl's command of the language, fairly good though it was, was insufficient to enable her to understand their coarse jests. But their intention to insult her became obvious. The leaping, howling mob of strangely apparelled performers threatened to storm her balcony. Some climbed on each other's shoulders to get nearer her, others even began to swarm up the pillars supporting her balcony. To the delight of the audience the noisy mob eventually clambered up to the railing of the balcony and, jesting, laughing, uttering weird cries, perched on it and shouted and jeered at her.
Her face flaming, the girl drew back and was about to retire into her room when suddenly she stopped, rigid with surprise. For above the shouts of the maskers, the roars of the spectators and the din of the clashing cymbals and braying trumpets, she heard her name spoken distinctly. Incredulous she stood rooted to the ground and stared at the yelling clowns perched on the railing. The uproar redoubled; but again she distinguished one word above it all:
"Muriel!"