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.

-----------------------------------

Footnote 2: "_Om_, the jewel in the lotus, _om!_" The _padma_, or

lotus, is the flower from which Brahma sprang.

-----------------------------------

"_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.

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

CHAPTER I.

THE BLACK PACKET.

"M. De Bac? De Bac? I do not know the name."

"Gentleman says he knows you, sir, and has called on urgent business."

There was no answer, and John Brown, the ruined publisher, looked

about him in a dazed manner. He knew he was ruined; to-morrow the

world would know it also, and then--beggary stared him in the face,

and infamy too. For this the world would not care. Brown was not a

great man in "the trade," and his name in the _Gazette_ would not

attract notice; but his name, as he stood in the felon's dock, and the

ugly history a cross-examination might disclose would probably arouse

a fleeting interest, and then the world would go on with a pitiless

shrug of its shoulders. What does it matter to the moving wave of

humanity if one little drop of spray from its crest is blown into

nothing by the wind? Not a jot. But it was a terrible business for the

drop of spray, otherwise John Brown, publisher. He was at his best not

a good-looking man, rather mean-looking than otherwise, with a thin,

angular face, eyes as shifty as a jackal's, and shoulders shaped like

a champagne-bottle. As the shadow of coming ruin darkened over him, he

seemed to shrink and look meaner than ever. He had almost forgotten

the presence of his clerk. He could think of nothing but the morrow,

when Simmonds' voice again broke the stillness.

"Shall I say you will see him, sir?"

The question cut sharply into the silence, and brought Brown to

himself. He had half a mind to say "No." In the face of the coming

to-morrow, business, urgent or otherwise, was nothing to him. Yet,

after all, there could be no harm done in receiving the man. It would,

at any rate, be a distraction, and, lifting his head, Brown answered:

"Yes, I will see him, Simmonds."

Simmonds went out, closing the green baize door behind him. There was

a delay of a moment, and M. De Bac entered--a tall, thin figure,

bearing an oblong parcel, packed in shiny, black paper, and sealed

with flame-coloured wax.

"Good-day, Mr. Brown;" and M. De Bac, who, for all his foreign name,

spoke perfect English, extended his hand.

Brown rose, put his own cold fingers into the warm grasp of his

visitor, and offered him a seat.

"With your permission, Mr. Brown, I will take this other chair. It is

nearer the fire. I am accustomed to warm climates, as you doubtless

perceive;" and De Bac, suiting his action to his words, placed his

packet on the table, and began to slowly rub his long, lean fingers

together. The publisher glanced at him with some curiosity. M. De Bac

was as dark as an Italian, with clear, resolute features, and a

moustache, curled at the ends, thick enough to hide the sarcastic

curve of his thin lips. He was strongly if sparely built, and his

fiery black eyes met Brown's gaze with a look that ran through him

like a needle.

"You do not appear to recognise me, Mr. Brown?"--De Bac's voice was

very quiet and deep-toned.

"I have not the honour----" began the publisher; but his visitor

interrupted him.

"You mistake. We are quite old friends; and in time will always be

very near each other. I have a minute or two to spare"--he glanced at

a repeater--"and will prove to you that I know you. You are John

Brown, that very religious young man of Battersea, who, twelve years

ago, behaved like a blackguard to a girl at Homerton, and sent her

to----but no matter. You attracted my attention then; but,

unfortunately, I had no time to devote to you. Subsequently, you

effected a pretty little swindle--don't be angry, Mr. Brown--it _was_

very clever. Then you started in business on your own account, and

married. Things went well with you; you know the art of getting at a

low price, and selling at a high one. You are a born 'sweater.' Pardon

the word. You know how to keep men down like beasts, and go up

yourself. In doing this, you did me yeoman's service, although you are

even now not aware of this. You had one fault, you have it still, and

had you not been a gambler you might have been a rich man. Speculation

is a bad thing, Brown--I mean gambling speculation."

Brown was an Englishman, and it goes without saying that he had

courage. But there was something in De Bac's manner, some strange

power in the steady stare of those black eyes, that held him to his

seat as if pinned there.

As De Bac stopped, however, Brown's anger gave him strength. Every

word that was said was true, and stung like the lash of a whip. He

rose white with anger.

"Sir!" he began with quivering lips, and made a step forwards. Then he

stopped. It was as if the sombre fire in De Bac's gaze withered his

strength. An invisible hand seemed to drag him back into his seat and

hold him there.

"You are hasty, Mr. Brown;" and De Bac's even voice continued: "you

are really very rash. I was about to tell you a little more of your

history, to tell you you are ruined, and to-morrow every one in

London--it is the world for you, Brown--will know you are a beggar,

and many will know you are a cheat."

The publisher swore bitterly under his breath.

"You see, Mr. Brown," continued his strange visitor, "I know all about

you, and you will be surprised, perhaps, to hear that you deserve help

from me. You are too useful to let drift. I have therefore come to

save you."

"Save me?"

"Yes. By means of this manuscript here," he pointed to the packet,

"which you are going to publish."

Brown now realized that he was dealing with a lunatic. He tried to

stretch out his arm to touch the bell on the table; but found that he

had no power to do so. He made an attempt to shout to Simmonds; but

his tongue moved inaudibly in his mouth. He seemed only to have the

faculty of following De Bac's words, and of answering them. He gasped

out:

"It is impossible!"

"My friend"--and He Bac smiled mirthlessly--"you will publish that

manuscript. I will pay. The profits will be yours. It will make your

name, and you will be rich. You will even be able to build a church."

"Rich!" Brown's voice was very bitter. "M. De Bac, you said rightly. I

am a ruined man. Even if you were to pay for the publication of that

manuscript I could not do it now. It is too late. There are other

houses. Go to them."

"But not other John Browns. You are peculiarly adapted for my purpose.

Enough of this! I know what business is, and I have many things to

attend to. You are a small man, Mr. Brown, and it will take little to

remove your difficulties. See! Here are a thousand pounds. They will

free you from your present troubles," and De Bac tossed a pocket-book

on the table before Brown. "I do not want a receipt," he went on. "I

will call to-morrow for your final answer, and to settle details. If

you need it I will give you more money. This hour--twelve--will suit

me. _Adieu!_" He was gone like a flash, and Brown looked around in

blank amazement. He was as if suddenly aroused from a dream. He could

hardly believe the evidence of his senses, although he could see the

black packet, and the neat leather pocket-book with the initials "L.

De B." let in in silver on the outside. He rang his bell violently,

and Simmonds appeared.

"Has M. De Bac gone?"

"I don't know, sir. He didn't pass out through the door."

"There is no other way. You must have been asleep."

"Indeed I was not, sir."

Brown felt a chill as of cold fingers running down his backbone, but

pulled himself together with an effort. "It does not matter, Simmonds.

You may go."

Simmonds went out scratching his head. "How the demon did he get out?"

he asked himself. "Must have been sleeping after all. The guv'nor

seems a bit dotty to-day. It's the smash coming--sure."

He wrote a letter or two, and then taking his hat, sallied forth to an

aerated bread-shop for his cheap and wholesome lunch, for Simmonds was

a saving young man, engaged to a young lady living out Camden Town

way. Simmonds perfectly understood the state of affairs, and was not a

little anxious about matters, for the mother of his _fiancee_, a widow

who let lodgings, had only agreed to his engagement after much

persuasion; and if he had to announce the fact that, instead of

"thirty bob a week," as he put it, his income was nothing at all,

there would be an end of everything.

"M'ria's all right," he said to his friend Wilkes, in trustful

confidence as they sat over their lunch; "but that old torpedo"--by

which name he designated his mother-in-law-elect--"she'll raise Cain

if there's a smash-up."

In the meantime, John Brown tore open the pocketbook with shaking

hands, and, with a crisp rustling, a number of new bank-notes fell

out, and lay in a heap before him. He counted them one by one. They

totalled to a thousand pounds exactly. He was a small man. M. De Bac

had said so truly, if a little rudely, and the money was more than

enough to stave off ruin. De Bac had said, too, that if needed he

would give him more, and then Brown fell to trembling all over. He was

like a man snatched from the very jaws of death. At Battersea he wore

a blue ribbon; but now he went to a cabinet, filled a glass with raw

brandy, and drained it at a gulp. In a minute or so the generous

cordial warmed his chilled blood, and picking up the notes, he counted

them again, and thrust them into his breast-pocket. After this he

paced the room up and down in a feverish manner, longing for the

morrow when he could settle up the most urgent demands against him.

Then, on a sudden, a thought struck him. It was almost as if it had

been whispered in his ear. Why trouble at all about matters? He had a

clear thousand with him, and in an hour he could be out of the

country! He hesitated, but prudence prevailed. Extradition laws

stretched everywhere; and there was another thing--that extraordinary

madman, De Bac, had promised more money on the morrow. After all, it

was better to stay.

As he made this resolve his eyes fell on the black packet on the

table. The peculiar colour of the seals attracted his attention. He

bent over them, and saw that the wax bore an impress of a V-shaped

shield, within which was set a trident. He noticed also that the

packet was tied with a silver thread. His curiosity was excited. He

sat down, snipped the threads with a penknife, tore off the black

paper covering, flung it into the fire, and saw before him a bulky

manuscript exquisitely written on very fine paper. A closer

examination showed that they were a number of short stories. Now Brown

was in no mood to read; but the title of the first tale caught his

eye, and the writing was so legible that he had glanced over half a

dozen lines before he was aware of the fact. Those first half-dozen

lines were sufficient to make him read the page, and when he had read

the page the publisher felt he was before the work of a genius.

He was unable to stop now; and, with his head resting between his

hands, he read on tirelessly. Simmonds came in once or twice and left

papers on the table, but his master took no notice of him. Brown

forgot all about his lunch, and turning over page after page read as

if spellbound. He was a business man, and was certain the book would

sell in thousands. He read as one inspired to look into the author's

thoughts and see his design. Short as the stories were, they were

Titanic fragments, and every one of them taught a hideous lesson of

corruption. Some of them cloaked in a religious garb, breathed a

spirit of pitiless ferocity; others were rich with the sensuous odours

of an Eastern garden; others, again, were as the tender green of moss

hiding the treacherous deeps of a quicksand; and all of them bore the

hall-mark of genius. They moved the man sitting there to tears, they

shook him with laughter, they seemed to rock his very soul asleep;

but through it all he saw, as the mariner views the beacon fire

on a rocky coast, the deadly plan of the writer. There was money in

them--thousands--and all was to be his. Brown's sluggish blood was

running to flame, a strange strength glowed in his face, and an

uncontrollable admiration for De Bac's evil power filled him. The

book, when published, might corrupt generations yet unborn; but that

was nothing to Brown. It meant thousands for him, and an eternal fame

to De Bac. He did not grudge the writer the fame as long as he kept

the thousands.

"By Heaven!" and he brought his fist down on the table with a crash,

"the man may be a lunatic; but he is the greatest genius the world

ever saw--or he is the devil incarnate."

And somebody laughed softly in the room.

The publisher looked up with a start, and saw Simmonds standing before

him.

"Did you laugh, Simmonds?"

"No, sir!" replied the clerk with a surprised look.

"Who laughed then?"

"There is no one here but ourselves, sir--and I didn't laugh."

"Did you hear nothing?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Strange!" and Brown began to feel chill again.

"What time is it?" he asked with an effort.

"It is half-past six, sir."

"So late as that? You may go, Simmonds. Leave me the keys. I will be

here for some time. Good-evening."

"Mad as a coot," muttered Simmonds to himself; "must break the news to

M'ria to-night. Oh, Lor'!" and his eyes were very wet as he went out

into the Strand, and got into a blue omnibus.

When he was gone, Brown turned to the fire, poker in hand. To his

surprise he saw that the black paper was still there, burning red hot,

and the wax of the seals was still intact--the seals themselves

shining like orange glow-lights. He beat at the paper with the poker;

but instead of crumbling to ashes it yielded passively to the stroke,

and came back to its original shape. Then a fury came on Brown. He

raked at the fire, threw more coals over the paper, and blew at the

flames with his bellows until they roared up the chimney; but still

the coppery glare of the packet-cover never turned to the grey of

ashes. Finally, he could endure it no longer, and, putting the

manuscript into the safe, turned off the electric light, and stole out

of his office like a thief.

CHAPTER II.

THE RED TRIDENT.

When Beggarman, Bowles & Co., of Providence Passage, Lombard Street,

called at eleven o'clock on the morning following De Bac's visit,

their representative was not a little surprised to find the firm's

bills met in hard cash, and Simmonds paid him with a radiant face.

When the affair was settled, the clerk leaned back in his chair,

saying half-aloud to himself, "By George! I am glad after all M'ria

did not keep our appointment in the Camden Road last night." Then his

face began to darken. "Wonder where she could have been, though?" his

thoughts ran on; "half sorry I introduced her to Wilkes last Sunday at

Victoria Park. Wilkes ain't half the man I am though," and he tried

to look at himself in the window-pane, "but he has two pound ten a

week--Lord! There's the guv'nor ringing." He hurried into Brown's

room, received a brief order, and was about to go back when the

publisher spoke again.

"Simmonds!"

"Sir."

"If M. De Bac calls, show him in at once."

"Sir," and the clerk went out.

Left to himself, Brown tried to go on with the manuscript; but was not

able to do so. He was impatient for the coming of De Bac, and kept

watching the hands of the clock as they slowly travelled towards

twelve. When he came to the office in the morning Brown had looked

with a nervous fear in the fireplace, half expecting to find the black

paper still there; and it was a considerable relief to his mind to

find it was not. He could do nothing, not even open the envelopes of

the letters that lay on his table. He made an effort to find

occupation in the morning's paper. It was full of some absurd

correspondence on a trivial subject, and he wondered at the thousands

of fools who could waste time in writing and in reading yards of print

on the theme of "Whether women should wear neckties." The ticking of

the clock irritated him. He flung the paper aside, just as the door

opened and Simmonds came in. For a moment Brown thought he had come to

announce De Bac's arrival; but no--Simmonds simply placed a square

envelope on the table before Brown.

"Pass-book from Bransom's, sir, just come in;" and he went out.

Brown took it up mechanically, and opened the envelope. A type-written

letter fell out with the passbook. He ran his eyes over it with

astonishment. It was briefly to inform him that M. De Bac had paid

into Brown's account yesterday afternoon the sum of five thousand

pounds, and that, adjusting overdrafts, the balance at his credit was

four thousand seven hundred and twenty pounds thirteen shillings and

three pence. Brown rubbed his eyes. Then he hurriedly glanced at the

pass-book. The figures tallied--there was no error, no mistake. He

pricked himself with his penknife to see if he was awake, and finally

shouted to Simmonds:

"Read this letter aloud to me, Simmonds," he said.

Simmonds' eyes opened, but he did as he was bidden, and there was no

mistake about the account.

"Anything else, sir?" asked Simmonds when he had finished.

"No--nothing," and Brown was once more alone. He sat staring at the

figures before him in silence, almost mesmerizing himself with the

intentness of his gaze.

"My God!" he burst out at last, in absolute wonder.

"Who is your God, Brown?" answered a deep voice.

"I--I--M. De Bac! How did you come?"

"I did not drop down the chimney," said De Bac with a grin; "your

clerk announced me in the ordinary way, but you were so absorbed you

did not hear. So I took the liberty of sitting in this chair, and

awaiting your return to earthly matters. You were dreaming, Brown--by

the way, who is your God?" he repeated with a low laugh.

"I--I do not understand, sir."

"Possibly not, possibly not. I wouldn't bother about the matter. Ah! I

see Bransom's have sent you your pass-book! Sit down, Brown. I hate to

see a man fidgeting about--I paid in that amount yesterday on a second

thought. It is enough--eh?"

Brown's jackal eyes contracted. Perhaps he could get more out of De

Bac? But a look at the strong impassive face before him frightened

him.

"More than enough, sir," he stammered; and then, with a rush, "I am

grateful--anything I can do for you?"

"Oh! I know, I know, Brown--by the way, you do not object to smoke?"

"Certainly not. I do not smoke myself."

"In Battersea, eh?" And De Bac pulling out a silver cheroot case held

it out to Brown. But the publisher declined.

"Money wouldn't buy a smoke like that in England," remarked De Bac,

"but as you will. I wouldn't smoke if I were you. Such abstinence

looks respectable and means nothing." He put a cigar between his

lips, and pointed his forefinger at the end. To Brown's amazement an

orange-flame licked out from under the fingernail, and vanished like a

flash of lightning; but the cigar was alight, and its fragrant odour

filled the room. It reached even Simmonds, who sniffed at it like a

buck scenting the morning air. "By George!" he exclaimed in wonder,

"what baccy!"

M. De Bac settled himself comfortably in his chair, and spoke with the

cigar between his teeth. "Now you have recovered a little from your

surprise, Brown, I may as well tell you that I never carry matches.

This little scientific discovery I have made is very convenient, is it

not?"

"I have never seen anything like it."

"There are a good many things you have not seen, Brown--but to work.

Take a pencil and paper and note down what I say. You can tell me when

I have done if you agree or not."

Brown did as he was told, and De Bac spoke slowly and carefully.

"The money I have given you is absolutely your own on the following

terms. You will publish the manuscript I left with you, enlarge your

business, and work as you have hitherto worked--as a 'sweater.' You

may speculate as much as you like. You will not lose. You need not

avoid the publication of religious books, but you must never give in

charity secretly. I do not object to a big cheque for a public object,

and your name in all the papers. It will be well for you to hound down

the vicious. Never give them a chance to recover themselves. You will

be a legislator. Strongly uphold all those measures which, under a

moral cloak, will do harm to mankind. I do not mention them. I do not

seek to hamper you with detailed instructions. Work on these general

lines, and you will do what I want. A word more. It will be advisable

whenever you have a chance to call public attention to a great evil

which is also a vice. Thousands who have never heard of it before will

hear of it then--and human nature is very frail. You have noted all

this down?"

"I have. You are a strange man, M. De Bac."

M. De Bac frowned, and Brown began to tremble.

"I do not permit you to make observations about me, Mr. Brown."

"I beg your pardon, sir."

"Do not do so again. Will you agree to all this? I promise you

unexampled prosperity for ten years. At the end of that time I shall

want you elsewhere. And you must agree to take a journey with me."

"A long one, sir?" Brown's voice was just a shade satirical.

M. De Bac smiled oddly. "No--in your case I promise a quick passage.

These are all the conditions I attach to my gift of six thousand

pounds to you."

Brown's amazement did not blind him to the fact of the advantage he

had, as he thought, over his visitor. The six thousand pounds were

already his, and he had given no promise. With a sudden boldness he

spoke out.

"And if I decline?"

"You will return me my money, and my book, and I will go elsewhere."

"The manuscript, yes--but if I refuse to give back the money?"

"Ha! ha! ha!" M. De Bac's mirthless laugh chilled Brown to the bone.

"Very good, Brown--but you won't refuse. Sign that like a good

fellow," and he flung a piece of paper towards Brown, who saw that it

was a promissory note, drawn up in his name, agreeing to pay M. De Bac

the sum of six thousand pounds on demand.

"I shall do no such thing," said Brown stoutly.

M. De Bac made no answer, but calmly touched the bell. In a

half-minute Simmonds appeared.

"Be good enough to witness Mr. Brown's signature to that document,"

said De Bac to him, and then fixed his gaze on Brown. There was a

moment of hesitation, and then--the publisher signed his name, and

Simmonds did likewise as a witness. When the latter had gone, De Bac

carefully put the paper by in a letter-case he drew from his vest

pocket.

"Your scientific people would call this an exhibition of odic force,

Brown--eh?"

Brown made no answer. He was shaking in every limb, and great pearls

of sweat rolled down his forehead.

"You see, Brown," continued De Bac, "after all you are a free agent.

Either agree to my terms and keep the money, or say you will not, pay

me back, receive your note-of-hand, and I go elsewhere with my book.

Come--time is precious."

"And from Brown's lips there hissed a low 'I agree.'

"Then that is settled," and De Bac rose from his chair. "There is a

little thing more--stretch out your arm like a good fellow--the right

arm."

Brown did so; and De Bac placed his forefinger on his wrist, just

between what palmists call "the lines of life." The touch was as that

of a red-hot iron, and with a quick cry Brown drew back his hand and

looked at it. On his wrist was a small red trident, as cleanly marked

as if it had been tattooed into the skin. The pain was but momentary;

and, as he looked at the mark, he heard De Bac say, "Adieu once more,

Brown. I will find my way out--don't trouble to rise." Brown heard him

wish Simmonds an affable "Good-day," and he was gone.

CHAPTER III.

"THE MARK OF THE BEAST."

It was early in the spring that Brown published "The Yellow

Dragon"--as the collection of tales left with him by De Bac was

called--and the success of the book surpassed his wildest

expectations. It became the rage. There were the strangest rumours

afloat as to its authorship, for no one knew De Bac, and the name of

the writer was supposed to be an assumed one. It was written by a

clergyman; it was penned by a schoolgirl; it had employed the leisure

of a distinguished statesman during his retirement; it was the work of

an ex-crowned head. These, and such-like statements, were poured forth

one day to be contradicted the next. Wherever the book was noticed it

was either with the most extravagant praise or the bitterest rancour.

But friend and foe were alike united on one thing--that of ascribing

to its unknown author a princely genius. The greatest of the reviews,

after pouring on "The Yellow Dragon" the vials of its wrath, concluded

with these words of unwilling praise: "There is not a sentence of this

book which should ever have been written, still less published; but we

do not hesitate to say that, having been written and given to the

world, there is hardly a line of this terrible work which will not

become immortal--to the misery of mankind."

Be this as it may, the book sold in tens of thousands, and Brown's

fortune was assured. In ten years a man may do many things; but during

the ten years that followed the publication of "The Yellow Dragon,"

Brown did so many things that he astonished "the city," and it takes

not a little to do that. It was not alone the marvellous growth of his

business--although that advanced by leaps and bounds until it

overshadowed all others--it was his wonderful luck on the Stock

Exchange. Whatever he touched turned to gold. He was looked upon as

the Napoleon of finance. His connection with "The Yellow Dragon" was

forgotten when his connection with the yellow sovereign was

remembered. He had a palace in Berkshire; another huge pile owned

by him overlooked Hyde Park. He was a county member and a

cabinet-minister. He had refused a peerage and built a church. Could

ambition want more? He had clean forgotten De Bac. From him he had

heard no word, received no sign, and he looked upon him as dead. At

first, when his eyes fell on the red trident on his wrist, he was wont

to shudder all over; but as years went on he became accustomed to the

mark, and thought no more of it than if it had been a mole. In

personal appearance he was but little changed, except that his hair

was thin and grey, and there was a bald patch on the top of his head.

His wife had died four years ago, and he was now contemplating another

marriage--a marriage that would ally him with a family dating from the

Confessor.

Such was John Brown, when we meet him again ten years after De Bac's

visit, seated at a large writing-table in his luxurious office. A

clerk standing beside him was cutting open the envelopes of the

morning's post, and placing the letters one by one before his master.

It is our friend Simmonds--still a young man, but bent and old beyond

his years, and still on "thirty bob" a week. And the history of

Simmonds will show how Brown carried out De Bac's instructions.

When "The Yellow Dragon" came out and business began to expand,

Simmonds, having increased work, was ambitious enough to expect a rise

in his salary, and addressed his chief on the subject. He was put off

with a promise, and on the strength of that promise Simmonds, being no

wiser than many of his fellows, married M'ria; and husband and wife

managed to exist somehow with the help of the mother-in-law. Then the

mother-in-law died, and there was only the bare thirty shillings a

week on which to live, to dress, to pay Simmonds' way daily to the

city and back, and to feed more than two mouths--for Simmonds was

amongst the blessed who have their quivers full. Still the expected

increase of pay did not come. Other men came into the business and

passed over Simmonds. Brown said they had special qualifications. They

had; and John Brown knew Simmonds better than he knew himself. The

other men were paid for doing things Simmonds could not have done to

save his life; but he was more than useful in his way. A hundred times

it was in the mind of the wretched clerk to resign his post and seek

to better himself elsewhere. But he had given hostages to fortune.

There was M'ria and her children, and M'ria set her face resolutely

against risk. They had no reserve upon which to fall back, and it was

an option between partial and total starvation. So "Sim," as M'ria

called him, held on and battled with the wolf at the door, the wolf

gaining ground inch by inch. Then illness came, and debt, and

then--temptation. "Sim" fell, as many a better man than he has fallen.

Brown found it out, and saw his opportunity to behave generously, and

make his generosity pay. He got a written confession of his guilt from

Simmonds, and retained him in his service forever on thirty shillings

a week. And Simmonds' life became such as made him envy the lot of a

Russian serf, of a Siberian exile, of a negro in the old days of the

sugar plantations. He became a slave, a living machine who ground out

his daily hours of work; he became mean and sordid in soul, as one

does become when hope is extinct. Such was Simmonds as he cut open the

envelopes of Brown's letters, and the great man, reading them quickly,

endorsed them with terse remarks in blue pencil, for subsequent

disposal by his secretary. A sudden exclamation from the clerk, and

Brown looked up.

"What is it?" he asked sharply.

"Only this, sir," and Simmonds held before Brown's eyes a jet black

envelope; and as he gazed at it, his mind travelled back ten years, to

that day when he stood on the brink of public infamy and ruin, and De

Bac had saved him. For a moment everything faded before Brown's eyes,

and he saw himself in a dingy room, with the gaunt figure of the

author of "The Yellow Dragon," and the maker of his fortune, before

him.

"Shall I open it, sir?" Simmonds' voice reached him as from a far

distance, and Brown roused himself with an effort.

"No," he said, "give it to me, and go for the present."

When the bent figure of the clerk had passed out of the room, Brown

looked at the envelope carefully. It bore a penny stamp and the

impress of the postmark was not legible. The superscription was in

white ink, and it was addressed to Mr. John Brown. The "Mr." on the

letter irritated Brown, for he was now The Right Hon'ble John Brown,

and was punctilious on that score. He was so annoyed that at first he

thought of casting the letter unopened into the waste-paper basket

beside him, but changed his mind, and tore open the cover. A note-card

discovered itself. The contents were brief and to the point:

"_Get ready to start. I will call for you at the close of the day_. L.

De B."

For a moment Brown was puzzled, then the remembrance of his old

compact with De Bac came to him. He fairly laughed. To think that he,

The Right Hon'ble John Brown, the richest man in England, and one of

the most powerful, should be written to like that! Ordered to go

somewhere he did not even know! Addressed like a servant! The cool

insolence of the note amused Brown first, and then he became enraged.

He tore the note into fragments and cast it from him. "Curse the

madman," he said aloud, "I'll give him in charge if he annoys me." A

sudden twinge in his right wrist made him hurriedly look at the spot.

There was a broad pink circle, as large as a florin, around the mark

of the trident, and it smarted and burned as the sting of a wasp. He

ran to a basin of water and dipped his arm in to the elbow; but the

pain became intolerable, and, finally, ordering his carriage, he drove

home. That evening there was a great civic banquet in the city, and

amongst the guests was The Right Hon'ble John Brown.

All through the afternoon he had been in agony with his wrist, but

towards evening the pain ceased as suddenly as it had come on, and

Brown attended the banquet, a little pale and shaken, but still

himself. On Brown's right hand sat the Bishop of Browboro', on his

left a most distinguished scientist, and amongst the crowd of waiters

was Simmonds, who had hired himself out for the evening to earn an

extra shilling or so to eke out his miserable subsistence. The man of

science had just returned from Mount Atlas, whither he had gone to

observe the transit of Mercury, and had come back full of stories of

witchcraft. He led the conversation in that direction, and very soon

the Bishop, Brown, and himself were engaged in the discussion of

_diablerie_. The Bishop was a learned and a saintly man, and was a

"believer"; the scientist was puzzled by what he had seen, and Brown

openly scoffed.

"Look here!" and pulling back his cuff, he showed the red mark on his

wrist to his companions, "if I were to tell you how that came here,

you would say the devil himself marked me."

"I confess I am curious," said the scientist; and the Bishop fixed an

inquiring gaze upon Brown. Simmonds was standing behind, and

unconsciously drew near. Then the man, omitting many things, told the

history of the mark on his wrist. He left out much, but he told enough

to make the scientist edge his chair a little further from him, and a

look of grave compassion, not untinged with scorn, to come into the

eyes of the Bishop. As Brown came to the end of his story he became

unnaturally excited, he raised his voice, and, with a sudden gesture,

held his wrist close to the Bishop's face. "There!" he said, "I

suppose you would say the devil did that?"