For many seconds after his departure Beryl sat quite rigid, watching his
tall figure pass swiftly downwards through the trees. She did not stir
till he had reached the road, then, with a sudden deep breath, she rose.
At the same instant there sounded behind her, high up the hillside among
the pine trees, the piercing scream of a jay.
It startled her, for she had not been listening for it. All her thoughts
had been concentrated upon the man below her. But this distant cry
brought her back, and sharply she turned.
Again came the cry, unmusical, insistent. She glanced nervously around,
but met only the bright eyes of a squirrel on a branch above her.
Again it came, arrogantly this time, almost imperiously. It seemed to
warn her that there was no time for indecision. She felt as though some
mysterious power were drawing her, and, gathering her strength, she
began impetuously to mount the hill that stretched up behind her,
covered with pine trees as far as she could see. It was slippery with
pine needles, and she stumbled a good deal, but she faltered no longer
in her purpose. She had done with indecision.
She had climbed some distance before she heard again the guiding signal.
It sounded away to her right, and she turned aside at once to follow it.
In that instant, glancing downwards through the long, straight stems,
she saw Fletcher far below, just entering the wood. Her heart leapt
wildly at the sight. She almost stopped in her agitation. But the
discordant bird-call sounded yet again, louder and more compelling than
before, and she turned as a needle to a magnet and followed.
The growth of pine trees became denser as she proceeded. It seemed to
close her in and swallow her. But only once again did fear touch her,
and that was when she heard Fletcher's voice, very far away but
unmistakable, calling to her by name.
With infinite relief, still following her unseen guide, at last she
began to descend. The ground sloped sharply downwards, and creeping
undergrowth began to make her progress difficult. She pressed on,
however, and at length, hearing the tinkle of running water, realised
that she was approaching one of the snow-fed mountain streams that went
to swell the sacred waters that flowed by the temple at Farabad.
She plunged downwards eagerly, for she was hot and thirsty, coming out
at last upon the brink of a stream that gurgled over stones between
great masses of undergrowth.
"Will the _mem-sahib_ deign to drink?" a deferential voice asked behind
her.
She looked round sharply to see the old snake-charmer, bent nearly
double with age and humility, meekly offering her a small brass
drinking-vessel.
His offer surprised her, knowing the Hindu's horror of a stranger's
polluting touch, but she accepted it without question. Stooping, she
scooped up a cupful of the clean water and drank.
The draught was cold as ice and refreshed her marvellously. She thanked
him for it with a smile.
"And now?" she said.
He bowed profoundly, and taking the cup he washed it very carefully in
the stream. Then, deprecatingly, he spoke.
"_Mem-sahib_, it is here that we cross the water."
She looked at the rushing stream with dismay. It was not very wide but
she saw at once that it was beyond a leap. She fancied that the swirling
water in the middle indicated depth.
"Do you mean I must wade?" she asked.
He made a cringing gesture.
"There is another way, most gracious."
She gazed at him blankly.
"Another way?"
Again he bent himself.
"If the _mem-sahib_ will so far trust her servant."
"But--but how?" she asked, somewhat breathlessly. "You don't mean--you
can't mean----"
"_Mem-sahib_," he said gently, "it will not be the first time that I
have borne one of your race in my arms. I may seem old to you, most
gracious, but I have yet the vigour of manhood. The water is swift but
it is not deep. Let the _mem-sahib_ watch her servant cross with the
snake-basket, and she will see for herself that he speaks the truth. He
will return for the _mem-sahib_, with her permission, and will bear her
in safety to the farther bank, whence it is but an hour's journey on
foot to Kundaghat."
There was a coaxing touch about all this which was not lost upon Beryl.
He was horribly ugly, she thought to herself, with that hideous red
smear across his dusky face; but in spite of this she felt no fear.
Unprepossessing he might be, but he was in no sense formidable.
As she stood considering him he stooped and, lifting his basket, stepped
with his sandalled feet into the stream. His long white garment trailed
unheeded upon the water which rose above his knees as he proceeded.
Reaching the further bank, he deposited his burden and at once turned
back. Beryl was waiting for him. For some reason unknown even to
herself, she had made up her mind to trust this old man.
"If the most gracious will deign to rest her arm upon my shoulder," he
suggested, in his meek quaver.
And without further demur she complied.
The moment he lifted her she knew that his strength was fully equal to
the venture. His arms were like steel springs. He grunted a little to
himself as he bore her across, but he neither paused nor faltered till
he set her upon the bank.
"The _mem-sahib_ will soon see the road to Kundaghat," he observed then.
"She has but three miles yet to go."
"Only three miles to Kundaghat!" she ejaculated in amazement.
"Only three miles, most gracious." For the first time a hint of pride
was mingled with the humility in his reedy voice. "The _mem-sahib_ has
travelled hither by a way that few know."
Beryl was fairly amazed at the news. She had believed herself to be many
miles away. She began to wonder if her friend in need would consider the
few rupees she had left adequate reward for his pains. Since she had
parted with Fletcher's gift, she reflected that she had nothing else of
value to bestow.
The way now lay uphill, and all undergrowth soon ceased. They came out
at last through thinning pine trees upon the crest of the rise, and from
here, a considerable distance below, Beryl discerned the road along
which she had travelled with Fletcher that morning.
White and glaring it stretched below her, till at last a grove of mango
trees, which she remembered to be less than a mile from Kundaghat,
closed about it, hiding it from view.
"The _mem-sahib_ will need her servant no more," said her guide, pausing
slightly behind her while she studied the landscape at her feet with the
road that wound through the valley.
She took out her purse quickly, and shook its contents into her hand. He
had been as good as his word, but she knew she had but little to offer
him unless he would accompany her all the way to Kundaghat. She stopped
to count the money before she turned--two rupees and eight annas. It did
not seem a very adequate reward for the service he had rendered her.
With this thought in her mind she slowly turned.
"This is all I have with me--" she began to say, and broke off with the
words half-uttered.
She was addressing empty air! The snake-charmer had vanished!
She stood staring blankly. She had not been aware of any movement. It
was as if the earth had suddenly and silently gaped and swallowed him
while her back was turned.
In breathless astonishment she moved this way and that, searching for
him among the trees that seemed to grow too sparsely to afford a screen.
But she searched in vain. He had clean gone, and had taken his repulsive
pet with him.
Obviously, then, he had not done this thing for the sake of reward.
A sense of uneasiness began to possess her, and she started at last upon
her downward way, feeling as if the place were haunted.
With relief she reached the road at length, and commenced the last stage
of the return journey. The heat was terrific. She was intensely weary,
and beginning to be footsore. At a turn in the road she paused a moment,
looking back at the pine-clad hill from which she had come; and as she
did so, distinct, though far away behind her, there floated through the
midday silence the curious note of a jay. It sounded to her bewildered
senses like a cracked, discordant laugh.