IV

Dawn saw the dreadful march resumed. Major Fayne now exhibited

unmistakable traces of his course of heavy drinking. He brought up the

rear as hitherto, and often tarried far behind where some peculiar

formation of the path enabled him to study the country already

traversed. He had altered the route of the march, and now they were

leaving the Shan Hills upon the north-east and dipping down to a

chasm-like valley through which ran a tributary of the Selween River.

Since the dry season was commenced the entire country beneath them

showed through a haze of heat and dust.

They had partaken of a crude and hasty breakfast as strangers having

nothing in common who by chance share a table. Moreen no longer doubted

that her husband was mad, for he muttered to himself and was ever

glancing over his shoulder. This and his constant watching of the path

behind spoke of some secret terror from which he fled.

Towards noon, they skirted a village whose inhabitants poured forth _en

bloc_ to watch the passing of this unfamiliar company. A faint hope

that some European might be there died in Moreen's breast. Her position

was a dreadful one. Led by a madman--of this she was persuaded--and

surrounded by natives who, if not actively hostile, were certainly

unfriendly, with but one man to whom she could look for the slightest

aid, she was proceeding further and further from civilisation into

unknown wildernesses.

What her husband's purpose might be she could not conceive. She was

unable to think calmly, unable to formulate any plan. In the dull misery

of a sick dream she rode forward speculating upon the awakening.

The midday heat in the valley was so great that a halt became

imperative. They camped at the edge of a dense jungle where banks of

rotten vegetation, sun-dried upon the top, lay heaped about the bamboo

stems. None but a madman would have chosen to tarry in such a spot; and

Major Fayne's servants went about their work with many a furtive glance

at their master. Ramsa Lal's velvety eyes showed a great compassion, but

Moreen offered no protest. She was in an unreal frame of mind and her

will was merely capable of a mute indifference: any attempt to assert

herself would have meant a sudden breakdown. Something in her brain was

strained to utmost tension; any further effort must have snapped it.

In the hour of the greatest heat Major Fayne went out alone, offering no

explanation of his intentions and leaving no word as to the time of his

return. Moreen only learnt of his departure from Ramsa Lal. She received

the news with indifference and asked no questions. Inert she lay in

the little tent looking out at the wall of jungle, where it uprose but

twenty yards away. So the day wore on. Mechanically she partook of food

when Ramsa Lal placed it before her, but, although the man's attitude

palpably was one of uneasiness, she did not question him, and he

departed in silence. It was an incredible situation.

Throughout the afternoon nothing occurred to break this dread monotony

save that once there arose a buzz of conversation, and she became dimly

aware that some one from the native village which they had passed in

the morning had come into the camp. After a time the sounds had died

away again, and Ramsa Lal had stepped into view, looking towards her

interrogatively; but although she recognized his wish to speak to her,

the inertia which now claimed her mind and body prevailed, and she

offered him no encouragement to intrude upon her misery.

Thus the weary hours passed, until even to the dulled perceptions of

Moreen the sounds of unrest and uneasiness pervading the camp began to

penetrate. Yet Major Fayne did not return. The insect and reptile life

of a Burmese jungle moved around her, but she was curiously indifferent

to everything. Without alarm she brushed a venomous spider, fully one

inch in girth, from the camp-bedstead, and dully watched it darting away

into the jungle undergrowth.

Darkness swept down and tropical night things raised their mingled

voices; then came Ramsa Lal.

"Forgive me, Mem Sahib," he said, "but I must speak to you."

She half reclined, looking at him as he stood, a dimly seen figure,

before her.

"The men from the village," continued he, "come to say that we may

not camp. It is holy ground from this place away"--he waved his arm

vaguely--"to the end of the jungle where the river is."

"I can do nothing, Ramsa Lal."

"I fear--for him."

"Major Fayne?"

"He goes into the jungle to look for something. What does he go to look

for? Why does he not return?"

Moreen made no reply.

"All of them there"--he indicated the direction of the native

servants--"know this place. They are already afraid, and, with those

from the village coming to warn us, they get more afraid still. This is

a haunted place, Mem Sahib."

Moreen sat up, shaking off something of the lassitude which possessed

her.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"In that jungle," replied Ramsa Lal, "there is buried a temple, a very

old temple, and in the temple there is buried one who was a holy man.

His spirit watches over this place, and none may rest here because of

him----"

"But the men of the village came here," said Moreen.

"Before sunset, Mem Sahib. No man would come here after dark. Look! you

will see--they are frightened."

Languidly, but with some awakening to the necessities of the situation,

Moreen stepped out of the tent and looked across to where, about a great

fire, the retinue huddled in a circle. Ramsa Lal stood beside her with

something contemptuous in the bearing of his tall figure.

"A spell lies upon all this valley, Mem Sahib," he said. "Therefore it

is called the Valley of the Just."

"Why?"

"Because only the just can stay within its bounds through the night."

Moreen stared affrightedly.

"Do you mean that they die in the night, Ramsa Lal?"

"In the night, Mem Sahib, before the dawn."

"By what means?"

Ramsa Lal spread his palms eloquently.

"Who knows?" he replied. "It is a haunted place."

"And are you afraid?"

"I am not afraid, for I have passed a night in the Valley of the Just

many years ago, and I live."

"You were alone?"

"With two others, Mem Sahib."

"And the others?"

"One was bitten by a snake an hour before dawn, and the other, who was

an upright man, lives to-day."

Moreen shuddered.

"Do you know"--she still hesitated to broach this subject with the

man--"do you know where--Major Fayne has gone?"

"It is said, Mem Sahib, that a stream runs through the jungle close

beside the old temple, a stream which bubbles up from a cavern and which

is supposed to come underground from the Ruby Mine plateau. He goes

early in the morning to look for rubies--so I think."

Moreen tapped the ground with her foot.

"Do you think"--again she hesitated--"that Major Fayne is afraid of

something? Of something--where we have come from?"

Ramsa Lal bowed low.

"I cannot tell," he replied, "but we shall know ere sunrise."

For a moment Moreen scarcely grasped the significance of his words; then

their inner meaning became apparent to her.

"Make me some coffee, Ramsa Lal," she said; "I am cold--very cold."

She re-entered the tent, lighting the lamp.

The Valley of the Just! What irony, that her husband should have

selected that spot to camp in! She sat deep in thought, when presently

Ramsa Lal entered with coffee. He had just set down the tray when the

sound of a distant cry brought him rigidly upright. He stood listening

intently. The sound was repeated--nearer it seemed--a sort of hoarse

scream, terrible to hear--impossible to describe.

Moreen rose to her feet and followed the man out of the tent. Some

one--some one who kept crying out--was plunging heavily through the

jungle towards the camp.

The men about the fire were on their feet now. Obviously they would have

fled, but the prospect of flight into the haunted darkness was one more

terrible than that of remaining where they were.

It ceased, that strange cry; but whoever was approaching could be heard

alternately groaning and laughing madly.

Then out from the thicket on the west, into the red light of the fire,

burst a fearful figure. It was that of Major Fayne, wild eyed, and with

face which seemed to be of a dull grey. He staggered and almost fell,

but kept on for a few more paces and then collapsed in a heap almost at

Moreen's feet, amid the clatter of the strange loot wherewith he was

laden.

This consisted in a number of golden vessels heavily encrusted with

gems, a huge golden salver, and a dozen or more ropes of gigantic

rubies!

Amid these treasures, the ransom of a Sultan, the price of a throne, he

lay writhing convulsively.

Ramsa Lal was the first to recover himself. He leapt forward, seized

the prostrate man by the shoulders and dragged him into the tent, past

Moreen. Having effected this he raised his eyes in a mute question.

She nodded, and whilst Ramsa Lal seized the Major's shoulders, Moreen

grasped his ankles, and together they lifted him up on to the bed.

He lay there, rolling from side to side. His eyes were wide open, glassy

and unseeing; a slight froth was upon his lips, his fists rose and

fell in regular, mechanical beats, corresponding with the convulsive

movements of his knees.

Moreen dropped down beside him.

"Ramsa Lal! Ramsa Lal! What shall I do? What has happened to him?"

Ramsa Lal ripped the collar from Major Fayne's neck in order to aid his

respiration. Then, quietly signing to Moreen to hold the lamp, he began

to search the entire exposed surface of the Major's skin. Evidently he

failed to find that for which he was looking. He glanced down at the

ankles, but the Major wore thick putties and Ramsa Lal shook his head in

a puzzled way.

"It is like the bite of a hamadryad," he said softly, "but there is no

mark."

"What shall I do!" moaned Moreen--"what shall I do!"

There was a frightened murmur from the entrance, where the native

servants stood in a group, peering in. Moreen stood up.

"Hot water, Ramsa Lal!" she said. "We must give him brandy."

"But it is useless, Mem Sahib; he has not been bitten--there is no mark;

it may be a fever from the jungle."

Moreen beat her hands together helplessly.

"We must do _something_!" she said; "we must do _something_."

A sudden change took place in Major Fayne. The convulsive movements

ceased and he lay quiet, and breathing quite regularly. The glassy look

began to fade from his eyes, and with every appearance of being in full

possession of his senses, he stared at Moreen and spoke:

"You shall repent of your words, Harringay," he said in a quiet voice.

"You have deliberately accused me of faking the cards. I care nothing

for any of you. Why should I attempt such a thing? I could buy and sell

you all!..."

Moreen dropped slowly back upon her knees again, white to the lips,

watching her husband. With the same appearance of perfect sanity, but

now addressing the empty air, he continued:

"In my tent--my wife will tell you it is true--my wife, Harringay, do

you hear?--I have jewelled cups and strings of rubies, enough to buy up

Mandalay! I blundered on to them in that old ruined temple back in the

jungle, not five hundred yards from your bungalow. Harringay--think of

it--a treasure-room like that within sight of your verandah! There are

snakes there, snakes, you understand, in hundreds; but it is worth

risking for a big fortune like mine."

"He mixes time and place," murmured Ramsa Lal. "He talks to the

Commissioner Sahib in Mandalay of what is here in the Valley of the

Just."

Moreen nodded, catching her breath hysterically.

"You see," continued the delirious man, "I am as rich as Midas. Why

should _I_ want to cheat you! Don't talk to me of what you would do for

my wife's sake! Keep your favours, curse you!"

With a contemptuous smile, Major Fayne threw his head back upon the

pallet. Then came another change; the look of stark horror which Moreen

had seen once before crept into the grey face; and her husband raised

himself in bed, glaring wildly into the shadows beyond the lamp.

"You are a spirit!" The words came in a thrilling, eerie whisper. "Oh

God! I understand. Yes! I came away from Harringay's bungalow. My wife

was asleep and I sat drinking until I had emptied the whisky decanter."

He bent forward as if listening.

"Yes, I went back. I went back to reason with him. No! as God is my

witness I did not plan it! I went back to reason with him."

Again the uncanny attitude was resumed. Then:

"I stepped in through the verandah, and there he sat with Moreen's

photograph in his hand. Listen to me--_Listen!_" There was an agony of

entreaty in his voice; it rose to a thin scream--"My wife's photograph!

Do you hear me? Do you understand? _Moreen's_ photograph--and as I stood

behind him, he raised it to his lips--he----"

Major Fayne stopped abruptly, as if checked by a spoken word; and with

wildly beating heart Moreen found herself listening for the phantom

voice. She could hear the breathing of the natives clustered behind her;

but no other sound save a distant howling in the jungle was audible,

until her husband began again:

"I struck him down--from behind, yes, from behind. His blood poured over

the picture. You understand I was mad. If you are just--and is not this

called the Valley of the Just?--you cannot condemn me. Why did I fly?

I was not in my right mind; I had--been drinking, as I told you; I

was mad. If I was not mad I should never have fled, never have drawn

suspicion--on myself."

He fell back as if exhausted, then once more struggled upright and began

to peer about him. When he spoke again, his voice, though weak, was

more like his own.

"Moreen!" he said--"where the devil are you? why can't you give me a

drink?"

Suddenly, he seemed to perceive her, and he drew his brows together in

the old, ugly frown.

"Curse you!" he said. "I have found you out! I am a rich man now, and

when I have gone to England, see what Jack Harringay will do for you. I

will paint London red! I have looted the old temple, and they are after

me, they----"

The words merged into a frightful scream. Major Fayne threw up his hands

and fell back insensible upon the bed.

"Mem Sahib! Mem Sahib, you must be brave!" It was Ramsa Lal who spoke;

he supported Moreen with his arm. "There is a spell upon this place. No

medicine, nothing, can save him. There is only one thing----"

Moreen controlled herself by one of those giant efforts of which she was

capable.

"Tell me," she whispered--"what must we do?"

Ramsa Lal removed his arm, saw that she could stand unsupported, and

bent forward over the unconscious man. Following a rapid examination,

he signed to her to leave the tent. They came out into the white blaze

of the moonlight--and there at their feet lay the glittering loot of the

haunted temple, a dazzlement of rainbow sparks.

"Only for such a thing as this," said Ramsa Lal, "dare I go, but not one

of us will see another dawn if we do not go." He pointed to the heap of

treasure. "Mem Sahib must come also."

"But--my husband----"

"He must remain," he said. "It is of his own choosing."

V

The temple stood in a kind of clearing. Grotesquely horrible figures

guarded the time-worn entrance. Moreen drew a deep breath of relief on

emerging from the jungle path by which, amid the rustle of retreating

snakes, they had come, but shrank back affrighted from the blackness

of the ruined doorway. Ramsa Lal stood the lantern upon the stump of a

broken pillar, where its faint yellow light was paled by the moon-rays.

"It is _you_ who must restore," he said.

One by one he handed her the jewel-encrusted vessels and hung the ropes

of rubies upon her arm.

She nodded, and as Ramsa Lal took up the lantern and began to descend

the steps within followed him.

"No foot save his," came back to her, "has trod these sacred steps for

ages, for the secret of the jungle path is known only to the few...."

"How do you--know the way?"

Ramsa Lal did not reply.

They traversed a short tunnel; a heavy door was thrust open; and Moreen

found herself standing in a small pillared hall. Through a window high

in one wall, overgrown with tangled vegetation, crept a broken moonbeam.

Directly before her was the carven figure of a grotesque deity. A long,

heavily clamped chest stood before it like an altar step.

She staggered forward, deposited her priceless burden upon the floor,

and mechanically began to raise the lid of the chest.

"Not that one, Mem Sahib!" The voice of Ramsa Lal rose shrilly--"not

that one!..."

But he spoke too late. Moreen realised that there were three divisions

in the chest, each having a separate lid. As she raised the one in the

centre, a breath of fetid air greeted her nostrils, and she had a vague

impression that this was no chest but the entrance to a deep pit. Then

all these thoughts were swept away by the crowning horror which rose out

of the subterranean darkness.

A great winged creature, clammily white, rose towards her, passed

beneath her upraised hands and sailed into the darkness on the right.

She heard it flapping its great bat wings against the wall--heard them

beating upon a pillar--then saw it coming back towards her into the

moonlight--and knew no more.