THE DEVIL DANCERS OF TUNA
Flat-roofed, arcaded buildings terraced one above the other, with gaily
painted walls from which covered wooden verandahs and box-like, latticed
windows jutted out, surrounded a paved courtyard, its rough flagstones
hidden by shifting, many-coloured throngs of gorgeously vestmented
priests, mitred bishops, hideous demons, skeletons with grinning skulls
and weird creatures with _papier maché_ heads of bears, tigers, dragons
and even stranger beasts. Wild but not inharmonious music from
shaven-headed members of an orchestra of weird instruments--gongs,
shawns, cymbals, long silver trumpets--deafened the ears. Crowds of
gaily-clad spectators covered the flat roofs of the building and
arcades, thronged the verandahs, filled the windows and squatted around
the courtyard--these last kept in order by bullet-headed lamas with
whips.
It was the annual ceremony of the Devil Dance of the great Buddhist
monastery of Tuna, one of the fantastic Mystery Plays, the now almost
meaningless functions into which the ideal faith preached by Gautama,
the Buddha, the high-souled reformer, has degenerated.
From all parts of Bhutan west of the dividing line of the great Black
Mountain Range, from Tibet, even from far-distant Ladak, the faithful
had made pilgrimage to be present at the great festival in this most
famous and sacred _gompa_ of the land. Red lamas from Western Tibet
and yellow from Lhassa, abbots and monks from little-known monasteries
lost among the rugged mountains, nuns with close-cropped hair from the
convents of Thimbu, Paro and Punaka, robber chiefs of the Hah-pa and
graziers from Sipchu, townsfolk from the capital and peasants from the
fever-laden Himalayan valleys--all had gathered there. For all who
attended the sacred festival could gain indulgences that would save them
a century or two's sojourn in the hot or cold hells of their religion.
In a gallery adorned with artistic wooden carvings and hung with
brocaded silk and gold embroideries sat a fat, bare-legged man with
close-cropped hair and scanty beard, wearing an ample, red silk gown
ornamented with Chinese designs worked in gold thread. He was the Penlop
of Tuna, the great feudal lord of the province, whose high-walled
_jong_, or castle, crowned the rocky hill on which the monastery and the
town were built. Behind him stood his officers and attendants clad in
silk or woollen kimono-like garments bound at the waist by gaily-worked
leather belts from which hung handsome swords with elaborately-wrought
silver hilts inlaid with coral and turquoises and with gold-washed
silver scabbards.
The courtyard was gay with fluttering prayer-flags, the poles of which
as well as the wooden pillars of the arcades were hung with the
beautiful banners artistically worked with countless pieces of coloured
silks and brocades and needlework pictures of Buddhist gods and saints
for which the monasteries of Bhutan are justly famed. From the blue sky
the sun blazed on the riot of mingled hues of the decorations and the
dresses of spectators and performers.
Especially gorgeous were the robes of the high priests in the spectacle.
They strongly resembled Catholic bishops in their gold-embroidered
mitres, copes and vestments as, carrying pastoral crooks or sprinkling
holy water, they moved around the courtyard in solemn procession behind
acolytes carrying sacred banners, swinging censers and intoning
harmonious chants. Troops of baffled demons fled at their approach
howling in diabolic despair. Shuddering wretches clad in scanty rags,
groping blindly as in the dark, wailing miserably and uttering weird,
long-drawn whistling notes, shrank aside from the fleeing devils and
stretched out their hands in supplication to the saintly prelates. They
were intended to represent the spirits of dead men straying in the
period of _Bardo_--the forty-nine days after death--during which the
soul released from the body is doomed to wander in search of its next
incarnation. In its journeyings it is assailed and terrified by demons,
who can only be defeated by the prayers of pious lamas to Chenresi the
Great Pitier.
The whole purpose of these representations is to familiarise during life
the devout Buddhists with the awful aspect of the many demons that will
obstruct their souls after death and try to lead them astray when they
are searching for the right path to the next world in which they are to
begin a fresh existence.
On this strange, bewildering spectacle an English girl looked down from
a small balcony not twenty feet above the courtyard. And the sight of
her caused the attention of many of the spectators to wander from the
Mystery Play. The fat old Penlop frequently looked across the quadrangle
at her from his gallery and as often uttered some coarse jest about her
to his grinning followers, while he raised a chased silver goblet filled
with _murwa_, the native liquor, to his lips.
It was Muriel Benson. For weeks she had been a prisoner in the lamasery,
cloistered in a suite of well-furnished rooms and waited on by a
close-cropped nun. She had been surprised in the bungalow and
overpowered by three of the Chinamen before she realised her danger or
could seize a weapon with which to defend herself. Had she been able to
snatch up a revolver she would have made a desperate fight for freedom.
But with fettered hands, a helpless captive, she had been carried away
on a mule. From the first she had recognised the pock-marked, one-eyed
leader of the gang as the _Amban's_ officer, and so had known who was
the author and cause of her abduction. For days she had been borne along
up the rough track over the mountains, through narrow, high-walled
passes, down deep valleys and across rushing torrents, closely guarded
but always treated with respect. Her captors used broken Tibetan and
Bhutanese when they desired to communicate with her, but they answered
none of her questions. She had dreaded reaching their destination, where
she expected to find Yuan Shi Hung awaiting her; and once, in fear of
it, she had tried to throw herself down a precipice along the brink of
which the path ran. After that she had been roped to a big, powerful
Manchu.
On her arrival at the monastery she learned from her garrulous
nun-attendant that the _Amban_ had been summoned to Pekin, where a
revolution had taken place and his friends there hoped to make him
President, which he regarded as a step towards the Imperial throne. The
monks of the monastery were his faithful allies on account of his
relationship to the powerful Abbott of the Yellow Lama Temple in the
Chinese capital. They had agreed to guard his prisoner, if his men
succeeded in capturing her, until he returned or sent for her.
At first the girl, relieved of the dread of falling at once into his
hands, lived in the hope of a speedy rescue. It was unfortunate, she
thought, that Colonel Dermot, with his extraordinary knowledge of and
influence over the Bhutanese, had left India. But even without him the
power of the British Empire would be set at once in motion to avenge
this outrage on an Englishwoman. Dermot's understudy, the Assistant
Political Officer, faithless lover though he was, would do all he could
to save her. Assuredly she would not have long to wait.
But as the days dragged by and she still remained a prisoner her heart
sank. She needed all her courage not to lose hope and give way to
despair. For she had always hanging over her the dread of Yuan Shi
Hung's return. But she had resolved to kill herself rather than fall
into his hands, and for that purpose had bribed her cheery, good-natured
attendant to procure a dagger for her. She pretended that she wanted it
as a protection in the lamasery, for the door of her apartments was
without a fastening. Even on the outside there was neither lock nor
bolt, for escape was considered impossible for her. If she got out of
the monastery she would be captured at once in the town.
She was not interfered with and saw no one but her nun. Once or twice
she ventured to creep down to the great temple of the monastery, drawn
by curiosity and the sound of harmonious Buddhist chants intoned by the
lamaic choir. But for her anxiety about her father and her dread of the
_Amban's_ return her worst trial would have been the monotony of her
captivity, were it not that the memory of Wargrave and her unhappy love
caused her many a sleepless night.
With nothing to occupy her mind she hailed the festival of the Devil
Dance as a welcome distraction. Not even the impertinent curiosity of
the spectators could drive her from her balcony. She followed the many
phases with interest, although she could not understand the meaning of
them. For the performance was a curious mixture of religion and
blasphemous mockery, of horse-play and coarse humour as well as a
strange impressiveness. A comic interlude would follow the most solemn
act. Troops of devils burlesqued the sacred rites of the faith, and
bands of comic masks filled the arena at times and delighted the
audience by playing practical jokes on the spectators and each other.
The solitary white woman attracted their clownish humour, and they
danced in front of her balcony, shouting out rude witticisms that caused
much amusement to the lookers-on. Fortunately the girl's command of the
language, fairly good though it was, was insufficient to enable her to
understand their coarse jests. But their intention to insult her became
obvious. The leaping, howling mob of strangely apparelled performers
threatened to storm her balcony. Some climbed on each other's shoulders
to get nearer her, others even began to swarm up the pillars supporting
her balcony. To the delight of the audience the noisy mob eventually
clambered up to the railing of the balcony and, jesting, laughing,
uttering weird cries, perched on it and shouted and jeered at her.
Her face flaming, the girl drew back and was about to retire into her
room when suddenly she stopped, rigid with surprise. For above the
shouts of the maskers, the roars of the spectators and the din of the
clashing cymbals and braying trumpets, she heard her name spoken
distinctly. Incredulous she stood rooted to the ground and stared at the
yelling clowns perched on the railing. The uproar redoubled; but again
she distinguished one word above it all:
"Muriel!"
A wild hope flashed into her heart. Pretending to be amused at the
antics of the performers she advanced laughingly towards them. They
gesticulated and shouted more furiously than ever. But in the medley of
strange sounds she distinctly heard the words:
"It's I, Frank. Don't be afraid."
They seemed to come from the _papier maché_ head of a grotesque serpent
worn by a man who was foremost among her tormentors and wildest in his
frenzied gestures. Smiling the girl stood her ground even when some of
the maskers, encouraged by her attitude, climbed down from the rail and
surrounded her, dancing, hallooing, leaping. The snake-headed one was
the wildest in his antics and shrieked and shouted loudest of them all.
But mixed up with incoherent cries and sounds she caught the words:
"Are you guarded?" A wild yell followed. "Can you get out?" Then he
yelled like a mad jackal.
With wildly-beating heart the girl pretended to repulse the advances of
the maskers good-humouredly and spoke to all in English, telling them to
leave her balcony and cease to molest her. But with her laughing
remonstrances she mingled the words:
"I am not guarded. I can leave my room. I will go down to the temple and
wait behind the statue of Buddha."
Then the serpent-headed one, aided by another with dragon mask, both
uttering fiendish yells, pushed his companions back to the railing, just
as the Penlop spoke to one of his officials who shouted across to them
an angry command to leave the white woman alone. The scared maskers
tumbled over each other in their hurry to quit the balcony.
Thrilled with delight the girl watched them go and then, when the entry
of a fresh body of mummers into the courtyard distracted the attention
of the spectators from her, she withdrew quietly to her room. She was
alone, the nun having gone long ago to witness the Devil Dance from
among the crowd. Muriel opened the door leading to a broad stone
staircase and peered cautiously out. There was no one to be seen. All
the inhabitants of the monastery were gathered in the courtyard. She
stole carefully down to a side door of the lamasery chapel.
This temple was a large and lofty building richly ornamented with fine
wood carvings, rich brocades and elaborately embroidered banners and
hangings. The pillars supporting the roof were covered with copper
plates beaten into beautiful patterns and the altars were of silver, the
chief one, as in all Bhutanese chapels, being adorned by a splendid pair
of elephant's tusks. Idols abounded. There was a central seated figure
of Buddha thirty feet high, heavily gilt and studded with turquoises and
precious stones, with a canopy and background of golden lotus leaves. On
either side were attendant female figures; and images of Buddhist gods,
larger than life size, stood in double rows.
Muriel concealed herself behind the colossal statue of Buddha and had
not long to wait before from her hiding-place she saw two maskers, the
Snake and the Dragon, enter the Temple cautiously. The latter remained
on guard at the door while his companion, who carried a bundle, advanced
furtively towards the great idol. As he drew near he opened the jaws of
the mask and said in a low tone:
"Muriel! Muriel! Are you here?"
At the sound of the well-remembered voice the girl trembled violently.
Her heart beat quickly as she came out from behind the statue. When he
beheld her the masker lifted the snake's head off; and Muriel saw that
the face revealed, disguised and stained a dull yellow, was that of her
lover. At the sight of it she forgot the painful past, forgot her
grievance against him, forgot the other woman, the sorrow that he had
caused her. As he sprang towards her with outstretched arms she cried:
"Oh, thank God you've come, dear!"
Frank caught her in his eager embrace. Then under the image of the Great
Dreamer who taught that Love is Illusion, that Affection is Error, that
Desire but binds closer to the revolving Wheel they kissed fondly,
passionately, like two faithful lovers met again after a lifetime of
parting. And the grotesque Devil-Gods around glared fiercely at them.
But the Lord Buddha looked mildly down, on his sculptured face the
ineffable calm of _Nirvana_, the peace of freedom from all Desire
attained at last. But, heedless of gods or devils, the man strained the
woman to his heart and rained kisses on her lips, her eyes, her hair.
There was little time for dalliance. Danger encompassed them. Wargrave
produced from the bundle that he carried a mask and a costume with a
pair of high, felt-soled boots, which effectively disguised Muriel. Then
they joined Tashi; and the three passed out into the vestibule only just
in time, for here they found a group of lamas and peasants from a
distant part of the country stopping for a moment to look at the great
pictured Cycle of Existence painted on the wall before they entered the
temple. The vestibule opened on to a courtyard lined with the cells of
the monks of the monastery and, as this led to the great quadrangle in
which the Miracle Play was being performed, a stream of mummers, lamas
and laymen was passing through it, mostly going to the spectacle,
although a few were coming away from it. With Muriel clinging closely to
him Wargrave followed Tashi as he pushed his way through the crowd,
exchanging jokes and careless banter as he went.
The rabbit-warren of steep lanes, flights of steps and bridges over
ravines through the town built on the precipitous slopes of the hill was
almost deserted, for most of the inhabitants had flocked to the Devil
Dance. So, unmolested and unnoticed, they reached the caravanserai in
which the two men had lodged for several days before the festival. Here
they hurriedly changed their costumes. When they emerged from it Muriel,
her hair cropped almost to the scalp and her face stained a yellowish
tint, was garbed as a boy-novice of a lamasery in the priestly dress,
with a great rosary round her neck. In one hand she held a begging-bowl
while with the other she guided the feeble steps of the aged lama whose
disciple she was supposed to be. Behind them limped a lame lay-brother
of their monastery.
In this disguise the fugitives met with no hindrance as they quitted the
town for the open country, heading towards the south. Only when well
clear of the houses did Frank and Muriel venture to converse in their
own language. Wargrave narrated all that had happened to him since they
had parted. Anyone watching them beyond earshot would have wondered at
the joy that shone in the face of the young _chela_ (disciple) clasping
the hand of the old priest and gazing affectionately at him as they went
along; for Frank was telling the girl of Violet's letter which had set
him free. He described his many fruitless attempts to cross the
frontier, his fortunate meeting with Badshah and the marvellous way in
which the wonderful animal had helped him. Safely inside Bhutan he and
Tashi had parted with the elephants in what appeared to be the same
forest as the one in which Colonel Dermot and they had left the herd on
their previous entry into the country. Frank had tried to imitate his
chief in ordering Badshah to meet them there again; but he was very
doubtful of the result.
They had not found it difficult to follow the trail left by Muriel's
abductors, for once inside the border the Chinamen had not tried to
hide themselves. At every village along the rough road Tashi had learned
of their passing with their captive, so the two had followed them
without difficulty to Tuna, where they soon discovered where the girl
was imprisoned. The festival had offered them an unhoped-for opportunity
of rescuing her. Tashi, once a star performer in similar devil dances in
his own monastery, procured costumes and taught his companion what to
do. As the number of those taking part in the performances ran to
hundreds it was easy to slip in unobserved among them.
Then Muriel told of her adventures. But, far more interesting to both
than the details of these mere happenings, each revealed to the other
the longings, the love, the hopes and fears, that had filled his and her
heart during the unhappy period of their estrangement.
Now began a wonderful odyssey that, but for the dread of pursuit and
capture would have seemed a journey in Fairyland to the re-united
lovers. Indeed, as they travelled on day after day and danger seemed
left behind, they forgot everything in the joy of being together once
more, their vows exchanged, their faith pledged, the Future a long vista
of golden days of delight. It was well that Tashi was with them to be on
the watch, for the lovers walked with their heads in the clouds.
And certainly theirs was an interesting pilgrimage. Bhutan is perhaps
the least-known country in Asia, the last that has kept its cherished
seclusion since Anglo-Indian troops burst the barrier of Tibet and
flaunted the Union Jack in the streets of the fabled city of Lhassa. But
Bhutan is still a secret, a mysterious, land. Only a few British Envoys,
from Bogle in the latter half of the 18th Century to Claude White and
Bell in the beginning of this, and their companions, had intruded on its
privacy before Colonel Dermot. So that for the lovers it had all the
fascination of the unknown.
Sometimes, among the ice-clad peaks of the giant ranges of the
Himalayas, they crossed snowy passes fourteen thousand feet above the
sea, and did not neglect to throw a stone upon the _obos_--the cairns
that pious and superstitious travellers erect to propitiate the spirits
of the passes. Sometimes the path led under beautiful cliffs of pure
white crystalline limestone that in the brilliant sunlight shone like
the finest marble. Often they journeyed through a lovely land of
gently-sloping hills, of grassy uplands, of deep valleys giving
delightful vistas of snow-clad mountains far away. They walked through
pinewoods, through forests of maple, silver fir, and larch, and miles of
huge bushes of flowering rhododendrons. They toiled up a rough and stony
track over bare and desolate land that was an old moraine and under
moraine terraces one above another, forming giant spurs of the rugged
hills. There were dark and fearsome ravines, so deep that they could
scarcely hear the roar of the foaming torrents rushing among the great
boulders below as they crossed on swaying suspension bridges of iron
chains. These had been built hundreds of years before by long-forgotten
Chinese engineers. Three chains on one level supported the bamboo or
plank footway, while one on either side served as a hand-rail, and a
bamboo or grass lattice-work between them and the roadbearers hid from
sight the deep gorge below. Often these bridges were only of ropes of
twisted withes or grass and swung and swayed in terrifying fashion with
the motion of the traveller. There were broad rivers over the eddying,
swirling waters of which strong cantilever bridges of stout wooden beams
were pushed out from the steep banks.
Truly a beautiful land Bhutan, at its loveliest perhaps in spring, when
the hills and upland meadows where the yaks graze, ten thousand feet
above the sea, blaze with the mingled colours of anemones blue and
white, of yellow pansies and mauve and white irises, of large white
roses and small yellow ones, of giant yellow primulas with six tiers of
flowers, when the oaks and the chestnuts are clothed in young green, and
the apricot, pear and orange trees are in bloom, when large and lovely
blossoms cover that little-known tree that the Bhutanese call _chape_,
when the bright green of the young grass runs up to the white
snowfields. The woods are full of a pretty ground orchid, beautiful
trailing blossoms of others droop from the boughs of the great trees,
and on the magnesium limestone hills one of the rarest orchids grows in
profusion.
But to the two pilgrims of Love the land seemed beautiful even now that
the winter was not far distant. In the silent woods, hidden from prying
eyes, they sat hand in hand and whispered to each other over and over
again the oldest, sweetest story that the Earth has known. Strange to
hear words of love from the lips of such a weird-looking couple; yet
Muriel in her quaint disguise with her silky hair cropped to the scalp
was as beautiful in her lover's eyes as when he had seen her in her
prettiest frocks. And she thought the yellow-skinned, wrinkled old lama
infinitely more attractive than the gay young subaltern of Ranga
Duar--for he was her own now. Such is Love's glamour. Muriel had
forgiven royally.
Bhutan is a Buddhist-ruled land, therefore slaying for sport and fishing
in the rivers is prohibited; nay, more, the Maharajah sometimes forbids
the killing of even domestic animals for food. So wild life abounds. The
fugitives often saw flocks of burhel--called _nao_ in Bhutan--feeding on
the precipitous slopes of the higher hills. Once Frank and Muriel
excitedly watched a snow-leopard stalking one of these big-horned sheep
sixteen thousand feet above the sea-level. And in these heights they
even saw an occasional lynx or wolf, generally only to be found in the
highest elevations bordering on Tibet. Silver-haired _langur_ apes, the
white fringes around their black faces giving them a comic resemblance
to aged negroes, awoke the echoes of the mountains with their deep
booming cry; while in the lower valleys little brown monkeys mopped and
mowed from the trees at the fugitives as they passed. On one occasion
Muriel, exhilarated by the keen, life-giving air, ran gaily on ahead of
the others in a wood--and came on a tiger enjoying its midday siesta.
But the striped brute only uttered a startled "Wough! Wough!" like a big
dog and dashed away through the undergrowth. Another time they disturbed
a red bear feeding on the carcase of a strange beast that seemed a
mixture of goat, donkey and deer--Tashi called it a _serao_. And at a
lower elevation they blundered on two black bears--not flesh-eaters
these, yet more dangerous--grubbing for roots, and on another occasion
saw one climbing a tree in search of wild bees' nests.
In a dense jungle early one morning a beautiful black panther with a
skin like watered silk glided stealthily by them, showing its white
fangs and red mouth in an angry snarl as it went. And deep down in a
valley they espied a rhinoceros feeding a thousand feet below them. But
they came across no elephants; and Frank noted the fact despairingly as
rendering even less probable a meeting with Badshah and his herd.
Bird-life abounded, from the snow partridges that flew in the hills
eighteen thousand feet high to pigeons of every kind: birds of all
sizes, from great eagles to the little quails that hid in the
cornfields; lammergeiers that were fed on human bodies, the dead of
families of high degree, exposed on a flat rock of slate with head and
shoulders tied to a wooden axle that stretched the corpse like a rack.
In Bhutan ordinary folk are cremated.
On their journey the fugitives met with wayfarers of every rank and
class. On a steep mountain track they stood aside to let a high official
go by. He was sitting pickaback in a cloth on a powerfully-built
servant, the ends of the cloth knotted on the man's forehead. Behind
trudged an escort of bare-legged swordsmen with leather shields and
shining steel helmets. Coolies, male and female, followed, carrying the
great man's baggage in baskets placed in the crutch of forked sticks
tied on their backs. Sometimes they passed a rival lama glaring with
jealous eye at them. Often they met groups of raiyats, sturdy peasants,
thick-limbed, bare-footed, bare-headed, the women clear-eyed,
deep-bosomed, but uglier than the males. These did reverence to the holy
men and put their modest offerings of copper coins or food into Muriel's
begging-bowl.
Another time it was a family group at food, eating by the wayside. The
group consisted of a stout, ruddy-faced woman with close-cropped hair,
hung with many necklaces of coral and turquoise, and waited on by her
three meek and submissive husbands, all brothers--for this is a land of
polyandry. She invited the fugitives to share their meal, and bade her
dutiful spouses serve the supposed lamas. They proffered cooked rice
coloured with saffron and other food in the excellent Bhutanese baskets
woven with very finely split cane. These are made in two circular parts
with rounded top and bottom pieces fitting so well that water can
actually be carried in them. From sealed wicker-covered bamboos the
hosts filled _choongas_ (bamboo mugs) with _murwa_, the beer of the
country, and _chang_, the native spirit. Frank and Muriel refused the
liquor; but Tashi drank their share as well as his, to give the pious
peasants an opportunity of acquiring merit. And wife and husbands
thought themselves amply rewarded by a muttered blessing.
A very different figure was that of a man lame of the right leg and
limping painfully down a steep hill in front of the fugitives. Muriel,
full of pity, whispered to her lover after they had passed him: "Oh, the
poor wretch! Did you see, dear, he had lost the right hand as well?" But
she shuddered when she learned that the cripple was a murderer punished
by the severing of the tendons of the leg and the loss of the hand that
struck the fatal blow.
In the cultivated valleys, where barley, buckwheat and mustard grew,
there were everywhere evidences of the religious feeling of the Western
Bhutanese. Every hill was crowned with a _gompa_ or chapel, _chortens_
and praying-wheels stood beside the road, and _mendongs_ or
praying-walls, a mile long, their stones engraved with sacred words,
were built near habitations.
In the villages the disguised fugitives were well treated. Food and
lodging were offered them freely in the cabins as in the great houses of
officials and rich folks, where they spent hours watching the skilled
artisans among the feudal retainers of their hosts weaving silk, making
woollen and cotton garments, brocade and embroideries, or hammering
artistic designs on silver or copper plates backed with lac. None
suspected the three of being other than they seemed. The Buddhism of
Bhutan and Tibet to-day has but one article of faith--"Acquire merit by
feeding and paying the lamas and they will win salvation for you." So
rich and poor vied in giving their best to the holy wayfarers, and
sought not to intrude on the meditations or privacy of lama and _chela_,
and welcomed the cheery company of the more worldly lay brother who
could crack a joke or empty a mug with any man and pitch the stone
quoits or shoot an arrow in the archery contests better than the village
champion.
Thus, contentedly and free from care, the three fugitives wandered on
towards the south where on the frontier they expected their troubles to
begin. One day when passing a hamlet by the roadside they tarried to
look on at a wedding at which a buxom country maid was being married to
a family of six brothers. The village headman performed the simple
ceremony, which consisted of offering a bowl of _murwa_ to the gods,
then presenting a cupful to the bride and eldest bridegroom, blessing
them, and expressing a hope that the union might be a fruitful one. The
rest, after the usual presents had been given to the bride's relatives,
was simply a matter of feasting everyone. The stranger lamas were
invited to join; but Frank refused and dragged away the convivial Tashi,
who was anxious to accept the invitation. Wargrave with difficulty led
him aside and was so occupied in arguing with his discontented guide
that he did not notice that Muriel had not followed.
A sudden cry from her and his name shrieked out wildly made him turn in
alarm. To his horror he saw the girl struggling in the grasp of a
Chinaman, while another on a mule and holding the bridle of a second
animal was calling on the villagers in the Penlop's name to assist his
comrade.