I
The merciless sun beat down upon the little caravan, winding its way
upward and ever upward to the hill-land. Beneath stretched a panorama
limned in feverish greens and unhealthy yellows; scarlike rocks striated
the jungle, clothing the foothills, and through the dancing air, viewed
from the arid heights, they had the appearance of running water. Swamps
to the south-east showed like unhealing wounds upon the face of the
landscape; beyond them spread the muddy river waters, the bank of the
stream proper being discernible only by reason of a greater greenness
in the palm-tops: venomous green slopes beyond them again, a fringe of
dwarfed forest, and the brazen skyline.
On the right of the path rose volcanic rock, gnarled, twisted, and
contorted as with the agonies of some mighty plague, which in a
forgotten past had seized upon the very bowels of the world, and had
contorted whole mountains, and laid waste vast forests and endless
plains. Above, the cruel sun; ahead, more plague-twisted rocks, with
sandy scars dancing like running water; and, all around, the breathless
stillness, the swooning stillness of tropical midday. North, south,
east, and west, that haze of heat, that silence unbroken, lay like an
accursed mantle upon Burma.
Moreen Fayne could scarcely support herself upright in the saddle; her
head throbbed incessantly, and the veil which she wore could not protect
her eyes from the maddening glare of the sun. But although at any moment
during the past hour she could have slipped insensible from her saddle,
she sat stiffly upright, her dauntless eyes looking straight ahead, her
small mouth set with masculine sternness, and her hands clenched--the
physical reflection of the mental effort whereby, alone, she was enabled
to pursue the journey.
Just in front of her paced Ramsa Lal. His stride had not varied from
the lowlands, through the foothills, nor on the rocky mountain paths.
He had looked neither right nor left, but had walked, walked, walked.
At times Moreen had been hard put to it to choke down the hysterical
screams which had risen in her throat; madness had threatened her, as
she watched, in dumb misery, that silent striding man. Yet she knew that
it was only the presence of this tireless, immobile guide which had
enabled her to go on; although he never directed one glance towards her,
she knew that his steady march was meant for encouragement.
Behind, like the tail of a scorpion, trailed the native retinue, and on
the end of the tail, where the sting would be, rode her husband. This
simile had occurred to her at once, and she allowed her mind to dwell
upon the idea as an invalid will consider imaginary designs upon the
wall-paper of the sick-room.
Sometimes there was a sliding of hoofs and a sound of stumbling;
sometimes her own pony lost his footing. On such occasion, there would
be mechanical cries of encouragement from the natives, and perhaps
a growling curse from the man who brought up the rear of the little
company. The road wound through a frowning chasm, where lizards and
other creeping things darted into holes to right and left of their
progress. Grateful shadow ruled a while, and a stifled sigh escaped
from Moreen's lips. Ramsa Lal paced straightly onward, the others came
stumbling behind; fifty yards ahead the ravine opened out, and once more
the deathly heat poured unchecked upon their heads.
Again Moreen all but lost control of herself; her fortitude threatened
to slip from her; so that she bit her lips until the pain filled
her eyes with burning tears. The effort to control herself proved
successful, but left her white and quivering. She felt impelled to speak
to Ramsa Lal, and constrained herself only with a second effort of which
her will was barely capable. Then she saw that speech, which would be
dangerous, was unnecessary; the man's wonderful intuition had enabled
him to hear that crying of the soul, and he was answering her.
His brown fingers were clutching and unclutching convulsively, and as he
swung his arm, he would clench his right fist and beat the air. For a
moment he acted thus, and then, as if he knew that she had seen, and
understood, his fingers hung limply again, and his arm swung loosely
as before.
A sort of plateau was reached, and in a natural clearing, where giant
bamboos ranged back to the tangled, creeper-laden boughs of the forest
trees, the voice of Major Fayne cried a halt. Ramsa Lal was beside
Moreen's pony in a trice, and he so screened her exhausted descent from
the saddle, setting her down upon an hospitable bank hard by, that she
was enabled to maintain her inflexible attitude, when presently her
husband came striding along to stand looking down on her, where she sat.
His blackly pencilled brows were drawn together, and the pale blue eyes
shone out, saturnine, from cavernous sockets. His handsome face was
heavily lined, and in the appearance, in the whole attitude of the man,
was something aggressive, a violence markedly repellent. Moreen locked
her hands behind her, the fingers twining and intertwining, but she
raised a pale face to his, from which by a last supreme effort of will
she had driven all traces of emotion.
So they remained for a moment, whilst the servants busied themselves
with the baggage; he, with feet wide apart, staring down at her, and
slashing at the air with a fly-whisk, and she meeting his gaze with a
stony calm pitiful to behold, had there been any soul capable of pity
to see her. Ramsa Lal was directing operations.
"Here," said Major Fayne, "we camp."
His voice would have told a skilled observer that which the facial lines
and a certain odd puffiness of skin more than suggested, that Major
Fayne was not a temperate man.
Moreen made no sign, but simply sat watching the speaker.
"It's a delightful situation," continued he, "and your ambition,
frequently expressed in Mandalay, to see something of Burma other than
bridge parties and polo-matches, at last is realised."
He spoke with a seeming sincerity that had carried conviction to any,
save the most sceptical. But Moreen made no sign.
"Here," continued Major Fayne, "you may feast your eyes upon the glories
of a Burma forest. Those flowering creepers yonder, festooned from bough
to bough, are peculiar to this district, and if you care to explore
further, you will be rewarded by the discovery of some fine orchids.
Note, also, the perfume of the flowers."
He twirled his slight moustache, and turned away to supervise the work
of camping.
Ramsa Lal already had one of the tents nearly erected, and Moreen
watched his deft fingers at work, with an anxiety none the less because
it was masked. She knew that collapse was imminent. The cruel march
under the pitiless sun had had due effect, but it had not broken her
spirit. She knew that she had reached the end of her strength, but she
showed no sign of weakness before her husband.
It was done at last, and Ramsa Lal held the tent-cloth aside, and bowed.
Moreen stood up, clenched her teeth together grimly, and staggered
forward. As the tent-flap was dropped, she sank down beside the camp
bedstead, and her head fell upon the covering.