CHAPTER XIX

THE BRIDGE OF BROKEN HEARTS

Listless leaves were tossing in the light wind or borne downward in the

swirl of the flooded Midburn, to the weary shallows where they lay,

beached high and sodden, till the frost nipped and shrivelled their

rottenness into dust. A bleak, thin wind it was, like a fine sour wine,

searching the marrow and bringing no bloom to the cheek. A light snow

powdered the earth, the grey forerunner of storms.

Alice stood back in the shelter of the broken parapet. The highway with

its modern crossing-place was some hundreds of yards up stream, but

here, at the burn mouth, where the turbid current joined with the cold,

glittering Avelin, there was a grass-grown track, and an ancient,

broken-backed bridge. There were few passers on the high-road, none on

this deserted way; but the girl in all her loneliness shrank back into

the shadow. In these minutes she endured the bitter mistrust, the sore

hesitancy, of awaiting on a certain but unknown grief.

She had not long to wait, for Lewis came down the Avelin side by a

bypath from Etterick village. His alert gait covered his very real

confusion, but to the girl he seemed one who belonged to an alien world

of cheerfulness. He could not know her grief, and she regretted her

coming.

His manners were the same courteous formalities. The man was torn with

emotion, and yet he greeted her with a conventional ease.

"It was so good of you, Miss Wishart, to give me a chance to come and

say good-bye. My going is such a sudden affair, that I might have had

no time to come to Glenavelin, but I could not have left without seeing

you."

The girl murmured some indistinct words. "I hope you will have a good

time and come back safely," she said, and then she was tongue-tied.

The two stood before each other, awkward and silent--two between whom no

word of love had ever been spoken, but whose hearts were clamouring at

the iron gates of speech.

Alice's face and neck were dyed crimson, as the impossible position

dawned on her mind. No word could break down the palisade, of form.

Lewis, his soul a volcano, struggled for the most calm and inept words.

He spoke of the weather, of her father, of his aunt's messages.

Then the girl held out her hand.

"Good-bye," she said, looking away from him.

He held it for a second. "Good-bye, Miss Wishart," he said hoarsely.

Was this the consummation of his brief ecstasy, the end of months of

longing? The steel hand of fate was on him and he turned to leave.

He turned when he had gone three paces and came back. The girl was

still standing by the parapet, but she had averted her face towards the

wintry waters. His step seemed to fall on deaf ears, and he stood

beside her before she looked towards him.

Passion had broken down his awkwardness. He asked the old question with

a shaking voice. "Alice," he said, "have I vexed you?"

She turned to him a pale, distraught face, her eyes brimming over with

the sorrow of love, the passionate adventurous longing which claims true

hearts for ever.

He caught her in his arms, his heart in a glory of joy.

"Oh, Alice, darling," he cried. "What has happened to us? I love you,

I love you, and you have never given me a chance to say it."

She lay passive in his arms for one brief minute and then feebly drew

back.

"Sweetheart," he cried. "Sweetheart! For I will call you sweetheart,

though we never meet again. You are mine, Alice. We cannot help

ourselves."

The girl stood as in a trance, her eyes caught and held by his face.

"Oh, the misery of things," she said half-sobbing. "I have given my

soul to another, and I knew it was not mine to give. Why, oh why, did

you not speak to me sooner? I have been hungering for you and you never

came."

A sense of his folly choked him.

"And I have made you suffer, poor darling! And the whole world is out

of joint for us!"

The hopeless feeling of loss, forgotten for a moment, came back to him.

The girl was gone from him for ever, though a bridge of hearts should

always cross the chasm of their severance.

"I am going away," he said, "to make reparation. I have my repentance

to work out, and it will be bitterer than yours, little woman. Ours

must be an austere love."

She looked at him till her pale face flushed and a sad exultation woke

in her eyes.

"You will never forget?" she asked wistfully, confident of the answer.

"Forget!" he cried. "It is my only happiness to remember. I am going

away to be knocked about, dear. Wild, rough work, but with a man's

chances!"

For a moment she let another thought find harbour in her mind. Was the

past irretrievable, the future predetermined? A woman's word had an old

right to be broken. If she went to him, would not he welcome her

gladly, and the future might yet be a heritage for both?

The thought endured but a moment, for she saw how little simple was the

crux of her destiny. The two of them had been set apart by the fates;

each had salvation to work out alone; no facile union would ever join

them. For him there was the shaping of a man's path; for her the

illumination which only sorrows and parting can bring. And with the

thought she thought kindly of the man to whom she had pledged her word.

It was but a little corner of her heart he could ever possess; but

doubtless in such matters he was not ambitious.

Lewis walked by her side down the by-path towards Glenavelin. Tragedy

muffled in the garments of convention was there, not the old picturesque

Tragic with sword and cloak and steel for the enemy, but the silent

Tragic which pulls at the heart-strings.

"The summer is over," she said. "It has been a cruel summer, but very

bright."

"Romance with the jarring modern note which haunts us all to-day," he

said. "This upland country is confused with bustling politics, and

pastoral has been worried to death by sickness of heart. You cannot

find the old peaceful life without."

"And within?" she asked.

"That is for you and me to determine, dear. God grant it. I have found

my princess, like the man in the fairy-tale, but I may not enter the

kingdom."

"And the poor princess must sit and mope in her high stone tower? It is

a hard world for princesses."

"Hard for the knights, too, for they cannot come back and carry off

their ladies. In the old days it used to be so, but then simplicity has

gone out of life."

"And the princess waits and watches and cries herself to sleep?"

"And the knight goes off to the World's End and never forgets."

They were at Glenavelin gates now, and stood silent against the moment

of parting. She flew to his arms, for a second his kisses were on her

lips, and then came the sundering. A storm of tears was in her heart,

but with dry eyes she said the words of good-bye. Meanwhile from the

hills came a drift of snow, and a dreary wind sang in the pines the

dirge of the dead summer, the plaint of long farewells.

PART II

CHAPTER XX

THE EASTERN ROAD

If you travel abroad in certain seasons you will find that a type

predominates among the travellers. From Dover to Calais, from Calais to

Paris, there is an unnatural eagerness on faces, an unrest in gait, a

disorder in dress which argues worry and haste. And if you inquire

further, being of a speculative turn, you will find that there is

something in the air. The papers, French and English, have ugly

headlines and mystic leaders. Disquiet is in the atmosphere, each man

has a solution or a secret, and far at the back sits some body of men

who know that a crisis is near and square their backs for it. The

journalist is sick with work and fancied importance; the diplomat's hair

whitens with the game which he cannot understand; the statesman, if he

be wise, is in fear, knowing the meaning of such movements, while, if he

be foolish, he chirps optimistically in his speeches and is applauded in

the press. There are grey faces at the seats of the money-changers, for

war, the scourge of small cords, seems preparing for the overturning of

their tables, and the castigation of their persons.

Lewis and George rang the bell in the Faubourg St. Honoré on a Monday

afternoon, and asked for Lord Rideaux. His lordship was out, but, if

they were the English gentlemen who had the appointment with M. Gribton,

Monsieur would be with them speedily.

Lewis looked about the heavily furnished ante-room with its pale yellow

walls and thick, green curtains, with the air of a man trying to recall

a memory. "I came over here with John Lambert, when his father had the

place. That was just after I left Oxford. Gad, I was a happy man then.

I thought I could do anything. They put me next to Madame de Ravignet

because of my French, and because old Ankerville declared that I ought

to know the cleverest woman in Europe. Séry, the man who was Premier

last year, came and wrung my hand afterwards, said my fortune was

assured because I had impressed the Ravignet, and no one had ever done

it before except Bismarck. Ugh, the place is full of ghosts. Poor old

John died a year after, and here am I, far enough, God knows, from my

good intentions."

A servant announced "Monsieur Gribton," and a little grizzled man

hobbled in, leaning heavily on a stick. He wore a short beard, and in

his tanned face two clever grey eyes twinkled sedately. He shook hands

gravely when Lewis introduced George, but his eyes immediately returned

to the former's face.

"You look a fit pair," he said. "I am instructed to give you all the

help in my power, but I should like to know your game. It isn't sport

this time, is it, Haystoun? Logan is still talking about his week with

you. Well, well, we can do things at our leisure. I have letters to

write, and then it will be dinner-time, when we can talk. Come to the

club at eight, 'Cercle des Voyageurs,' corner of Rue Neuve de St.

Michel. I expect you belong, Haystoun; and anyway I'll be there."

He bowed them out with his staccato apologies, and the two returned to

their hotel to dress. Two hours later they found Gribton warming his

hands in the smoking-room of the Cercle, a fussy and garrulous

gentleman, eager for his dinner. He pointed out such people as he knew,

and was consumed with curiosity about the others. Lewis wandered about

the room before he sat down, shaking hands with several and nodding to

many.

"You seem to know the whole earth," said Gribton.

"I suppose that a world of acquaintance is the only reward of

slackness," Lewis said, laughing. "It's a trick I have. I never forget

a face and I honestly like to see people again."

George pulled his long moustache. "It's simply hideous the way one is

forgotten. It's all right for the busy people, for they shift their

sets with their fortune, but for drones like me it's the saddest thing

in life. Before we came away, Lewie, I went up for a day to Oxford to

see about some things, and stopped a night there. I haven't been down

long, and yet I knew nobody at the club except the treasurer, and he had

nothing to say to me except to ask after you. I went to dinner with the

dons at the high table, and I nearly perished of the blues. Little

Riddell chirped about my profession, and that bounder Jackson, who was

of our year, pretended that he had been your bosom friend. I got so

bored that I left early and wandered back to the club. Somebody was

making a racket in our old rooms in the High, windows open, you know,

and singing. I stopped to look at them, and then they started, 'Willie

brewed a peck o' maut,' and, 'pon my soul, I had to come away. Couldn't

stand it. It reminded me so badly of you and Arthur and old John

Lambert, and all the honest men that used to be there. It was

infernally absurd that I should have got so sentimental, but that wasn't

the worst of it. For I met Tony and he made me come round to a dinner,

and there I found people I didn't know from Adam drinking the old toasts

we started. Gad, they had them all. 'Las Palmas,' 'The Old Guard,'

'The Wandering Scot,' and all the others. It made me feel as low as an

owl, and when I got back to the club and saw poor old John's photograph

on the wall, I tell you I went to bed in the most wretched melancholy."

Lewis stared open-mouthed at George, the irrepressible, in this new

attitude. He, as the hardened traveller, had had little more than a

decent pang of home-sickness. His regret was far deeper and more real

than the sentimental article of commerce, and he could afford to be

almost gay while George sat in the depths.

"I'm coming home, and I'm not happy; you young men are going out, and

you have got the blues. There's no pleasing weak humanity. I say,

Haystoun, who's that old man?" Gribton's jovial looks belied his words.

Lewis mentioned a name for his host's benefit. The room was emptying

rapidly, for the Cercle dined early.

"Now for business," said Gribton, when a waiter had brought the game

course, and they sat in the midst of a desert of linen and velvet. "I

have given the thing up, but I spent twenty of my best years at Bardur.

So, as I am instructed to do all in my power to aid you, I am ready.

First, is it sport?

"Partly," said George, but Lewis's head gave denial.

"Because, if it is, I am not the best man. Well, then, is it

geographical? For if it is, there is much to be done."

"Partly," said Lewis.

"Then I take it that the residue is political. You are following the

popular avenue to polities, I suppose. Leave the 'Varsity very raw,

knock about in an unintelligent way for three or four years on some

frontier, then come home, go into the House, and pose as a specialist in

foreign affairs. I should have thought you had too much humour for

that."

"Only, you see, I have been there before. I am merely going back upon

my tracks to make sure. I go purely as an adventurer, hoping to pick up

some valuable knowledge, but prepared to fail."

Gribton helped himself to champagne. "That's better. Now I know your

attitude, we can talk like friends. Better come to the small

smoking-room. They've got a '51 brandy here which is beyond words.

Have some for a liqueur."

In the smoking-room Gribton fussed about coffee and cigars for many

minutes ere he settled down. Then, when he could gaze around and see

his two guests in deep armchairs, each smoking and comfortable, he

returned to his business.

"I don't mind telling you a secret," he said, "or rather it's only a

secret here, for once you get out there you will find 'Gribton's view,'

as they call it, well enough known and very much laughed at. I've

always been held up to ridicule as an alarmist about that Kashmir

frontier, and especially about that Bardur country. Take the whole

province. It's well garrisoned on the north, but below that it is all

empty and open. The way into the Punjab is as clear as daylight for a

swift force, and the way to the Punjab is the way to India."

Lewis rose and went to a rack on the wall. "Do you mind if I get down

maps? These French ones are very good." He spread a sheet of canvas on

the table, thereby confounding all Gribton's hospitable manoeuvring.

"There," said Gribton, his eyes now free from drowsiness, and clear and

bright, "that's the road I fear."

"But these three inches are unknown," said Lewis. "I have been myself

as far as these hills."

Gribton looked sharply up. "You don't know the place as I know it.

I've never been so far, but I know the sheep-skinned devils who come

across from Turkestan. I tell you that place isn't the impenetrable

craggy desert that the Government of India thinks it. There's a road

there of some sort, and if you're worth your salt you'll find it out."

"I know," said Lewis. "I am going to try."

"There's another thing. For the last three years all that north part of

Kashmir, and right away south-west to the Punjab borders, has been

honoured with visits from plausible Russian gentlemen who may come down

by the ordinary caravan routes, or, on the other hand, may not. They

turn up quite suddenly with tooth-brushes and dressing-cases, and they

can't have come from the south. They fool around in Bardur, and then go

down to Gilgit, and, I suppose, on to the Punjab. They've got excellent

manners, and they hang about the clubs and give dinners and charm the

whole neighbourhood. Logan is their bosom friend, and Thwaite declares

that their society reconciles him to the place. Then they go away, and

the place keeps on the randan for weeks after."

"Do you know a man called Marker by any chance?" Lewis asked.

Gribton looked curiously at the speaker. "Have you actually heard about

him? Yes, I know him, but not very well, and I can't say I ever cared

for him. However, he is easily the most popular man in Bardur, and I

daresay is a very good fellow. But you don't call him Russian. I

thought he was sort of half a Scotsman."

"Very likely he is," said Lewis. "I happen to have heard a good deal

about him. But what ails you at him?"

"Oh, small things," and the man laughed. "You know I am getting elderly

and cranky, and I like a man to be very fair and four-square. I confess

I never got to the bottom of the chap. He was a capital sportsman, good

bridge-player, head like a rock for liquor, and all that; but I'm hanged

if he didn't seem to me to be playing some sort of game. Another thing,

he seemed to me a terribly cold-blooded devil. He was always slapping

people on the back and calling them 'dear old fellows,' but I happened

to see a small interview once between him and one of his servants.

Perhaps I ought not to mention it, but the thing struck me unpleasantly.

It was below the club verandah, and nobody happened to be about except

myself, who was dozing after lunch. Marker was rating a servant in some

Border tongue--Chil, it sounded like; and I remember wondering how he

could have picked it up. I saw the whole thing through a chink in the

floor, and I noticed that the servant's face was as grey as a brown

hillman's can be. Then the fellow suddenly caught his arm and twisted

it round, the man's face working with pain, though he did not dare to

utter a sound. It was an ugly sight, and when I caught a glimpse of

Marker's face, 'pon my soul, those straight black eyebrows of his gave

him a most devilish look."

"What's he like to look at?" George asked.

"Oh, he's rather tall, very straight, with a sort of military carriage,

and he has one of those perfect oval faces that you sometimes see. He

has most remarkable black eyes and very neat, thin eyebrows. He is the

sort of man you'd turn round to look at if you once passed him in the

street; and if you once saw him smile you'd begin to like him. It's the

prettiest thing I've ever seen."

"I expect I'll run across him somewhere," said Lewis, "and I want badly

to know him. Would you mind giving me an introduction?"

"Charmed!" said Gribton. "Shall I write it now?" And sitting down at a

table he scribbled a few lines, put them in an envelope, and gave it to

Lewis.

"You are pretty certain to know him when you see him, so you can give

him that line. You might run across him anywhere from Hyderabad to

Rawal Pinch, and in any case you'll hear word of him in Bardur. He's

the man for your purpose; only, as I say, I never liked him. I suspect

a loop somewhere."

"What are Logan and Thwaite like?" Lewis asked.

"Easy-going, good fellows. Believe in God and the British Government,

and the inherent goodness of man. I am rather the other way, so they

call me a cynic and an alarmist."

"But what do you fear?" said George. "The place is well garrisoned."

"I fear four inches in that map of unknown country," said Gribton

shortly. "The people up there call it a 'God-given rock-wall,' and of

course there is no force to speak of just near it. But a tribe of

devils incarnate, who call themselves the Bada-Mawidi, live on its

skirts, and there must be a road through it. It isn't the caravan

route, which goes much farther east and is plain enough. But I know

enough of the place to know that every man who comes over the frontier

to Bardur does not come by the high-road."

"But what could happen? Surely Bardur is strongly garrisoned enough to

block any secret raid."

"It isn't bad in its way, if the people were not so slack and easy.

They might rise to scratch, but, on the other hand, they might not, and

once past Bardur you have the open road to India, if you march quick

enough."

"Then you have no man sufficiently adventurous there to do a little

exploring?"

"None. They care only about shooting, and there happens to be little in

those rocks. Besides, they trust in God and the Government of India. I

didn't, so I became unpopular, and was voted a bore. But the work is

waiting for you young men."

Gribton rose, yawned, and stretched himself. "Shall I tell you any

more?"

"I don't think so," said Lewis, smiling; "I fancy I understand, and I am

sure we are obliged to you. Hadn't we better have a game?"

They went to the billiard-room and played two games of a hundred up,

both of which George, who had the idler's knack in such matters, won

with ease. Gribton played so well that he became excessively

good-humoured.

"I almost wish I was going out again if I had you two as company. We

don't get the right sort out there. Our globe-trotters all want to show

their cleverness, or else they are merely fools. You will find it

miserably dull. Nothing but bad claret and cheap champagne at the

clubs, a cliquey set of English residents, and the sort of stock sport

of which you tire in a month. That's what you may expect our frontier

towns to be like."

"And the neighbourhood?" said Lewis, with lifted eyebrows.

"Oh, the neighbourhood is wonderful enough; but our people there are too

slack and stale to take advantage of it. It is a peaceful frontier, you

know, and men get into a rut as easily there as elsewhere. The

country's too fat and wealthy, and people begin to forget the skeleton

up among the rocks in the north."

"What are the garrisons like?"

"Good people, but far too few for a serious row, and just sufficiently

large to have time hang on their hands. Our friends the Bada-Mawidi now

and then wake them up. I see from the _Temps_ that a great stirring of

the tribes in the Southern Pamirs is reported. I expect that news came

overland through Russia. It's the sort of canard these gentry are

always getting up to justify a massing of troops on the Amu Daria in

order that some new governor may show his strategic skill. I daresay

you may find things a little livelier than I found them."

As they went towards the Faubourg St. Honoré a bitter Paris

north-easter had begun to drift a fine powdered snow in their eyes.

Gribton shivered and turned up the collar of his fur coat. "Ugh, I

can't stand this. It makes me sick to be back. Thank your stars that

you are going to the sun and heat, and out of this hideous grey

weather."

They left him at the Embassy, and turned back to their hotel.

"He's a useful man," said Lewis, "he has given us a cue; life will be

pretty well varied out there for you and me, I fancy."

Then, as they entered a boulevard, and the real sweep of the wind met

their faces, both men fell strangely silent. To George it was the last

word of the north which they were leaving, and his recent home-sickness

came back and silenced him. But to Lewis, his mind already busy with

his errand, this sting of wind was the harsh disturber which carried him

back to a lonely home in a cold, upland valley. It was the wintry

weather which was his own, and Alice's face, framed in a cloak, as he

had seen it at the Broken Bridge, rose in the gallery of his heart. In

a moment he was disillusioned. Success, enterprise, new lands and faces

seemed the most dismal vexation of spirit. With a very bitter heart he

walked home, and, after the fashion of his silent kind, gave no sign of

his mood save by a premature and unreasonable retirement to bed.

CHAPTER XXI

IN THE HEART OF THE HILLS

All around was stone and scrub, rising in terraces to the foot of sheer

cliffs which opened up here and there in nullahs and gave a glimpse of

great snow hills behind them. On one of the flat ridge-tops a little

village of stunted, slaty houses squatted like an ape, with a vigilant

eye on twenty gorges. Thin, twisting paths led up to it, and before, on

the more clement slopes, some fields of grain were tilled as our Aryan

forefathers tilled the soil on the plains of Turkestan. The place was

at least 8,000 feet above the sea, so the air was highland, clear and

pleasant, save for the dryness which the great stone deserts forced upon

the soft south winds. You will not find the place marked in any map,

for it is a little beyond even the most recent geographer's ken, but it

is none the less a highly important place, for the nameless village is

one of the seats of that most active and excellent race of men, the

Bada-Mawidi, who are so old that they can afford to look down on their

neighbours from a vantage-ground of some thousands of years. It is well

known that when God created the earth He first fashioned this tangle of

hill land, and set thereon a primitive Bada-Mawidi, the first of the

clan, who was the ancestor, in the thousandth degree, of the excellent

Fazir Khan, the present father of the tribe.

The houses clustered on the scarp and enclosed a piece of well-beaten

ground and one huge cedar tree. Sounds came from the near houses, but

around the tree itself the more privileged sat in solemn conclave. Food

and wine were going the round, for the Maulai Mohammedans have no taboos

in eating and drinking. Fazir Khan sat smoking next the tree trunk, a

short, sinewy man with a square, Aryan face, clear-cut and cruel. His

chiefs were around him, all men of the same type, showing curiously fair

skins against their oiled black hair. A mullah sat cross-legged, his

straggling beard in his lap, repeating some crazy charm to himself and

looking every now and again with anxious eyes to the guest who sat on

the chief's right hand.

The guest was a long, thin man, clad in the Cossacks' fur lined military

cloak, under which his untanned riding-boots showed red in the

moonlight. He was still busy eating goat's flesh, cheese and fruits,

and drinking deeply from the sweet Hunza wine, like a man who had come

far and fast. He ate with the utmost disregard of his company. He

might have been a hunter supping alone in the solitary hills for all the

notice he took of the fifty odd men around him.

By and by he finished, pulled forth a little silver toothpick from an

inner pocket, and reached a hand for the long cherry-wood pipe which had

been placed beside him. He lit it, and blew a few clouds into the calm

air.

"Now, Fazir Khan," he said, "I am a new man, and we shall talk. First,

have you done my bidding?"

"Thy bidding has been done," said the great man sulkily. "See, I am

here with my chiefs. All the twenty villages of my tribe have been

warned, and arms have been got from the fools at Bardur. Also, I have

the Yarkand powder I was told of, to give the signals on the hills. The

Nazri Pass road, which we alone know, has been widened. What more could

man do?"

"That is well," said the other. "It is well for you and your people

that you have done this. Your service shall not be forgotten.

Otherwise--"

"Otherwise?" said the Fazir Khan, his hand travelling to his belt at the

sound of a threat.

The man laughed. "You know the tale," he said. "Doubtless your mother

told you it when you clutched at her breast. Some day a great white

people from the north will come down and swallow up the disobedient.

That day is now at hand. You have been wise in time. Therefore I say

it is well."

The stranger spoke with perfect coolness. He looked round curiously at

the circle of dark faces and laughed quietly to himself. The chief

stole one look at him and then said something to a follower.

"I need not speak of the reward," said the stranger. "You are our

servants, and duty is duty. But I have authority for saying that we

shall hold your work in mind when we have settled our business."

"What would ye be without us?" said the chief in sudden temper. "What

do ye know of the Nazri gates or the hill country? What is this talk of

duty, when ye cannot stir a foot without our aid?"

"You are our servants, as I said before," said the man curtly. "You

have taken our gold and our food. Where would you be, outlaws, vagrants

that you are, hated of God and man, but for our help? Your bodies would

have rotted long ago on the hills. The kites would be feeding on your

sons; your women would be in the Bokhara market. We have saved you a

dozen times from the vengeance of the English. When they wished to come

up and burn you out, we have put them past the project with smooth

words. We have fed you in famine, we have killed your enemies, we have

given you life. You are freemen indeed in the face of the world, but

you are our servants."

Fazir Khan made a gesture of impatience. "That is as God may direct

it," he said. "Who are ye but a people of yesterday, while the

Bada-Mawidi is as old as the rocks. The English were here before you,

and we before the English. It is right that youth should reverence

age."

"That is one proverb," said the man, "but there are others, and in

especial one to the effect that the man without a sword should bow

before his brother who has one. In this game we are the people with the

sword, my friends."

The hillman shrugged his shoulders. His men looked on darkly, as if

little in love with the stranger's manner of speech.

"It is ill working in the dark," he said at length. "Ye speak of this

attack and the aid you expect from us, but we have heard this talk

before. One of your people came down with some followers in my father's

time, and his words were the same, but lo! nothing has yet happened."

"Since your father's time things have changed, my brother. Then the

English were very much on the watch, now they sleep. Then there were no

roads, or very bad ones, and before an army could reach the plains the

whole empire would have been wakened. Now, for their own undoing, they

have made roads up to the very foot of yon mountains, and there is a new

railway down the Indus through Kohistan waiting to carry us into the

heart of the Punjab. They seek out inventions for others to enjoy, as

the Koran says, and in this case we are to be the enjoyers."

"But what if ye fail?" said the chief. "Ye will be penned up in that

Hunza valley like sheep, and I, Fazir Khan, shall be unable to unlock

the door of that sheepfold."

"We shall not fail. This is no war of rock-pigeons, my brothers. Our

agents are in every town and village from Bardur to Lahore. The

frontier tribes, you among the rest, are rising in our favour. There is

nothing to stop us but isolated garrisons of Gurkhas and Pathans, with a

few overworked English officers at their head. In a week we shall

command the north of India, and if we hold the north, in another week we

shall hold Calcutta and Bombay."

The chief nodded his head. Such far-off schemes pleased his fancy, but

only remotely touched his interest. Calcutta was beyond his ken, but he

knew Bardur and Gilgit.

"I have little love for the race," he said. "They hanged two of my

servants who ventured too near the rifle-room, and they shot my son in

the back when we raided the Chitralis. If ye and your friends cross the

border I will be with you. But meantime, till that day, what is my

duty?"

"To wait in patience, and above all things to let the garrisons alone.

If we stir up the hive in the valleys they may come and see things too

soon for our success. We must win by secrecy and surprise. All is lost

if we cannot reach the railway before the Punjab is stirring."

The mullah had ceased muttering to himself. He scrambled to his feet,

shaking down his rags over his knees, a lean, crazy apparition of a man

with deep-set, smouldering eyes.

"I will speak," he cried. "Ye listen to the man's words and ye are

silent, believing all things. Ye are silent, my children, because ye

know not. But I am old and I have seen many things, and these are my

words. Ye speak of pushing out the English from the land. Allah knows

I love not the breed! I spit upon it, I thirst for the heart of every

man, woman, and child, that I might burn them in the sight of all of

you. But I have heard this talk before. When I was a young priest at

Kufaz, there was word of this pushing out of the foreigner, and I

rejoiced, being unwise. Then there was much fighting, and at the end

more English came up the valleys and, before we knew, we were paying

tribute. Since then many of our people have gone down from the

mountains with the same thought, and they have never returned. Only the

English and the troops have crept nearer. Now this stranger talks of

his Tsar and how an army will come through the passes, and foreigner

will fight with foreigner. This talk, too, I have heard. Once there

came a man with a red beard who spoke thus, and he went down to Bardur,

and lo! our men told me that they saw him hanged there for a warning.

Let foreigner war on foreigner if they please, but what have we to do in

the quarrel, my children? Ye owe nothing to either."

The stranger regarded the speaker with calm eyes of amusement.

"Nothing," said he, "except that we have fed you and armed you. By your

own acts you are the servants of my master."

The mullah was rapidly working himself into a frenzy. He swung his long

bony arms across his breast and turned his face skywards. "Ye hear

that, my children. The free people, the Bada-Mawidi, of whose loins

sprang Abraham the prophet, are the servants of some foreign dog in the

north. If ye were like your fathers, ye would have long ago ere this

wiped out the taunt in blood."

The man sat perfectly composed, save that his right hand had grasped a

revolver. He was playing a bold game, but he had played it before. And

he knew the man he had to deal with.

"I say again, you are my master's servants by your own confession. I

did not say his slaves. You are a free people, but you will serve a

greater in this affair. As for this dog who blasphemes, when we have

settled more important matters we will attend to him."

The mullah was scarcely a popular member of his tribe, for no one

stirred at the call. The stranger sat watching him with very bright,

eager eyes. Suddenly the priest ceased his genuflexions, there was a

gleam of steel among his rags, then something bright flashed in the air.

It fell short, because at the very moment of throwing, a revolver had

cracked out in the silence, and a bullet had broken two of his fingers.

The man flung himself writhing on the ground, howling forth

imprecations.

The stranger looked half apologetically at the chief, whose glum

demeanour had never relaxed. "Sorry," he said; "it had to be done in

self-defence. But I ask your pardon for it."

Fazir Khan nodded carelessly. "He is a disturber of peace, and to one

who cannot fight a hand matters little. But, by Allah, ye northerners

shoot quick."

The stranger relinquished the cherry-wood pipe and filled a meerschaum

from a pouch which he carried in the pocket of his cloak. He took a

long drink from the loving-cup of mulled wine which was passing round.

"Your mad priest has method in his folly," he said. "It is true that we

are attacking a great people; therefore the more need of wariness for

you and me, Fazir Khan. If we fail there will be the devil to pay for

you. The English will shift their frontier-line beyond the mountains,

and there will be no more lifting of women and driving of cattle for the

Bada-Mawidi. You will all be sent to school, and your guns will be

taken from you."

The chief compressed his attractive features into a savage scowl. "That

may not be in my lifetime," he said. "Besides, are there no mountains

all around? In five hours I shall be in China, and in a little more I

might be beyond the Amu. But why talk of this? The accursed English

shall not escape us, I swear by the hilt of my sword and the hearts of

my fathers."

A subdued murmur of applause ran around the circle.

"You are men after my own heart," said the stranger. "Meanwhile, a word

in your own ear, Fazir Khan. Dare you come to Bardur with me?"

The chief made a gesture of repugnance. "I hate that place of mud and

lime. The blood of my people cries on me when I enter the gates. But

if it is your counsel I will come with you."

"I wish to assure myself that the place is quiet. Our success depends

upon the whole country being unsuspicious and asleep. Now if word has

got to the south, and worse still to England, there will be questions

asked and vague instructions sent up to the frontier. We shall find a

stir among the garrisons, and perhaps some visitors in the place. And

at the very worst we might find some fool inquiring about the Nazri

Pass. There was once a man in Bardur who did, but people laughed at him

and he has gone."

"Where?" asked the chief.

"To England. But he was a harmless man, and he is too old to have any

vigour."

As the darkness grew over the hills the fires were brightened and the

curious game of _khoti_ was played in groups of six. The women came to

the house-doors to sit and gossip, and listened to the harsh laughter of

their lords from beside the fires. A little after midnight, when the

stars were picked out in the deep, velvet sky, Fazir Khan and the

stranger, both muffled to the ears, stole beyond the street and

scrambled down the perilous path-ways to the south.

CHAPTER XXII

THE OUTPOSTS

Towards the close of a wet afternoon two tongas discharged Lewis,

George, two native servants, and a collection of gun-cases in the

court-yard of the one hotel in Bardur. They had made a record journey

up country, stopping to present no letters of introduction, which are

the thieves of time. Now, as Lewis found himself in the strait valley,

with the eternal snows where the sky should be, and sniffed the dry air

from the granite walls, he glowed with the pleasure of recollection.

The place was the same as ever. The same medley of races perambulated

the streets. Sheep-skinned Central Asians and Mongolian merchants from

Yarkand still displayed their wares and their cunning; Hunza tribesmen,

half-clad Chitralis, wild-eyed savages from Yagistan mingled in the

narrow stone streets with the civilized Persian and Turcoman from beyond

the mountains. Kashmir sepoys, an untidy race, still took their ease in

the sun, and soldiers of South India from the Imperial Service Troops

showed their odd accoutrements and queer race mixtures. The place

looked and smelled like a kind of home, and Lewis, with one eye on the

gun-cases and one on the great hills, forgot his heart-sickness and had

leisure for the plain joys of expectation.

"I am going to get to work at once," he said, when he had washed the

dust out of his eyes and throat. "I shall go and call on the Logans

this very minute, and I expect we shall see Thwaite and some of the

soldiers at the club to-night." So George, much against his will, was

compelled to don a fresh suit and suffer himself to be conducted to the

bungalow of the British Resident.

The Sahib was from home, at Gilgit, but Madame would receive the

strangers. So the two found themselves in a drawing-room aggressively

English in its air, shaking hands with a small woman with kind eyes and

a washed-out complexion.

Mrs. Logan was unaffectedly glad to see them. She had that trick of

dominating her surroundings which English ladies seem to bear to the

uttermost ends of the globe. There, in that land of snows and rock,

with savage tribesmen not thirty miles away, and the British

frontier-line something less than fifty, she gave them tea and talked

small talk with the ease and gusto of an English country home.

"It's the most unfortunate thing in the world," she cried. "If you had

only wired, Gilbert would have stayed, but as it is he has gone down to

Gilgit about some polo ponies, and won't be back for two days. Things

are so humdrum and easy-going up here that one loses interest in one's

profession. Gilbert has nothing to do except arrange with the foreman

of the coolies who are making roads, and hold stupid courts, and consult

with Captain Thwaite and the garrison people. The result is that the

poor man has become crazy about golf, and wastes all his spare money on

polo ponies. You can have no idea what a godsend a new face is to us

poor people. It is simply delightful to see you again, Mr. Haystoun.

You left us about sixteen months ago, didn't you? Did you enjoy going

back?"

Lewis said yes, with an absurd sense of the humour of the question. The

lady talked as if home had been merely an interlude, instead of the

crisis of his life.

"And what did you do? And whom did you see? Please tell me, for I am

dying for a gossip."

"I have been home in Scotland, you know. Looking after my affairs and

idling. I stood for Parliament and got beaten."

"Really! How exciting! Where is your home in Scotland, Mr. Haystoun?

You told me once, but I have forgotten. You know I have no end of

Scotch relatives."

"It's in rather a remote part, a place called Etterick, in Glenavelin."

"Glenavelin, Glenavelin," the lady repeated. "That's where the

Manorwaters live, isn't it?"

"My uncle," said Lewis.

"I had a letter from a friend who was staying there in the summer. I

wonder if you ever met her. A Miss Wishart. Alice Wishart?"

Lewis strove to keep any extraordinary interest out of his eyes. This

voice from another world had broken rudely in upon his new composure.

"I knew her," he said, and his tone was of such studied carelessness

that Mrs. Logan looked up at him curiously.

"I hope you liked her, for her mother was a relation of my husband, and

when I have been home the small Alice has always been a great friend of

mine. I wonder if she has grown pretty. Gilbert and I used to bet

about it on different sides. I said she would be very beautiful some

day."

"She is very beautiful," said Lewis in a level voice, and George,

feeling the thin ice, came to his friend's rescue. He could at least

talk naturally of Miss Wishart.

"The Wisharts took the place, you know, Mrs. Logan, so we saw a lot of

them. The girl was delightful, good sportswoman and all that sort of

thing, and capital company. I wonder she never told us about you. She

knew we were coming out here, for I told her, and she was very

interested."

"Yes, it's odd, for I suppose she had read Mr. Haystoun's book, where

my husband comes in a good deal. I shall tell her about seeing you in

my next letter. And now tell me your plans."

Lewis's face had begun to burn in a most compromising way. Those last

days in Glenavelin had risen again before the eye of his mind and old

wounds were reopened. The thought that Alice was not yet wholly out of

his life, that the new world was not utterly severed from the old,

affected him with a miserable delight. Mrs. Logan became invested with

an extraordinary interest. He pulled himself together to answer her

question.

"Oh, our errand is much the same as last time. We want to get all the

sport we can, and if possible to cross the mountains into Turkestan. I

am rather keen on geographical work just now, and there's a bit of land

up here which wants exploring."

The lady laughed. "That sounds like poor dear Mr. Gribton. I suppose

you remember him? He left here in the summer, but when he lived in

Bardur he had got that northern frontier-line on the brain. He was a

horrible bore, for he would always work the conversation round to it

sooner or later. I think it was really Mr. Gribton who made people

often lose interest in these questions. They had to assume an indolent

attitude in pure opposition to his fussiness."

"When will your husband be home?" Lewis asked.

"In two days, or possibly three. I am so sorry about it. I'll wire at

once, but it's a slow journey, especially if he is bringing ponies. Of

course you want to see him before you start. It's such a pity, but

Bardur is fearfully empty of men just now. Captain Thwaite has gone off

after ibex, and though I think he will be back to-morrow, I am afraid he

will be too late for my dance. Oh, really, this is lucky. I had

forgotten all about it. Of course you two will come. That will make

two more men, and we shall be quite a respectable party. We are having

a dance to-morrow night, and as the English people here are so few and

uncertain in their movements we can't afford to miss a chance. You

_must_ come. I've got the Thwaites and the Beresfords and the Waltons,

and some of the garrison people who are down on leave. Oh, and there's

a man coming whom you must know. A Mr. Marker, a most delightful

person. I don't think you met him before, but you must have heard my

husband talk about him. He is the very man for your purpose. Gilbert

says he knows the hills better than any of the Hunza tribesmen, and that

he is the best sportsman he ever met. Besides, he is such an

interesting person, very much a man of the world, you know, who has been

everywhere and knows everybody."

Lewis congratulated himself on his luck. "I should like very much to

come to the dance, and I especially want to meet Mr. Marker."

"He is half Scotch, too," said the lady. "His mother was a Kirkpatrick

or some name like that, and he actually seems to talk English with a

kind of Scotch accent. Of course that may be the German part of him.

He is a Pomeranian count or something of the sort, and very rich. You

might get him to go with you into the hills."

"I wish we could," said Lewis falsely. His curiosity was keenly

excited.

"Why does he come up here such a lot?" George asked.

"I suppose because he likes to 'knock about,' as you call it. He is a

tremendous traveller. He has been into Tibet and all over Turkestan and

Persia. Gilbert says that he is the wonder of the age."

"Is he here just now?"

"No, I don't think so. I know he is coming to-morrow, because he wrote

me about it, and promised to come to my dance. But he is a very busy

man, so I don't suppose he will arrive till just before. He wrote me

from Gilgit, so he may find Gilbert there and bring him up with him."

Marker, Marker. The air seemed full of the strange name. Lewis saw

again Wratislaw's wrinkled face when he talked of him, and remembered

his words. "You were within an ace of meeting one of the cleverest men

living, a cheerful being in whom the Foreign Office is more interested

than in any one else in the world." Wratislaw had never been in the

habit of talking without good authority. This Marker must be indeed a

gentleman of parts.

Then conversation dwindled. Lewis, his mind torn between bitter

memories and the pressing necessities of his mission, lent a stupid ear

to Mrs. Logan's mild complaints, her gossip about Bardur, her eager

questions about home. George manfully took his place, and by a

fortunate clumsiness steered the flow of the lady's talk from Glenavelin

and the Wisharts. Lewis spoke now and then, when appealed to, but he

was busy thinking out his own problem. On the morrow night he should

meet Marker, and his work would reveal itself. Meanwhile he was in the

dark, the flimsiest adventurer on the wildest of errands. This easy,

settled place, these Englishmen whose minds held fast by polo and games,

these English ladies who had no thought beyond little social devices to

relieve the monotony of the frontier, all seemed to make a mockery of

his task. He had fondly imagined himself going to a certainty of toil

and danger; to his vexation this certainty seemed to be changing into

the most conventional of visits to the most normal of places. But

to-morrow he should see Marker; and his hope revived at the prospect.

"It is so pleasant seeing two fresh fellow-countrymen," Mrs. Logan was

saying. "Do you know, you two people look quite different from our men

up here. They are all so dried up and tired out. Our complexions are

all gone, and our eyes have got that weariness of the sun in them which

never goes away even when we go home again. But you two look quite keen

and fresh and enthusiastic. You mustn't mind compliments from an old

woman, but I wish our own people looked as nice as you. You will make

us all homesick."

A native servant entered, more noiseless and more dignified than any

English footman, and announced another visitor. Lewis lifted his head,

and saw the lady rise, smiling, to greet a tall man who had come in with

the frankness of a privileged acquaintance. "How do you do, Mr.

Marker?" he heard. "I am so glad to see you. We didn't dare to expect

you till to-morrow. May I introduce two English friends, Mr. Haystoun

and Mr. Winterham?"

And so the meeting came about in the simplest way. Lewis found himself

shaking hands cordially with a man who stood upright, quite in the

English fashion, and smiled genially on the two strangers. Then he took

the vacant chair by Mrs. Logan, and answered the lady's questions with

the ease and kindliness of one who knows and likes his fellow-creatures.

He deplored Logan's absence, grew enthusiastic about the dance, and

produced from a pocket certain sweetmeats, not made in Kashmir, for the

two children. Then he turned to George and asked pleasantly about the

journey. How did they find the roads from Gilgit? He hoped they would

get good sport, and if he could be of any service, would they command

him? He had heard of Lewis's former visit, and, of course, he had read

his book. The most striking book of travel he had seen for long. Of

course he didn't agree with certain things, but each man for his own

view; and he should like to talk over the matter with Mr. Haystoun.

Were they staying long? At Galetti's of course? By good luck that was

also his headquarters. And so he talked pleasingly, in the style of a

lady's drawing-room, while Lewis, his mind consumed with interest, sat

puzzling out the discords in his face.

"Do you know, Mr. Marker, we were talking about you before you came in.

I was telling Mr. Haystoun that I thought you were half Scotch. Mr.

Haystoun, you know, lives in Scotland."

"Do you really? Then I am a thousand times delighted to meet you, for I

have many connections with Scotland. My grandmother was a Scotswoman,

and though I have never been in your beautiful land, yet I have known

many of your people. And, indeed, I have heard of one of your name who

was a friend of my father's--a certain Mr. Haystoun of Etterick."

"My father," said Lewis.

"Ah, I am so pleased to hear. My father and he met often in Paris, when

they were attached to their different embassies. My father was in the

German service."

"Your mother was Russian, was she not?" Lewis asked tactlessly, impelled

by he knew not what motive.

"Ah, how did you know?" Mr. Marker smiled in reply, with the slightest

raising of the eyebrows. "I have indeed the blood of many nationalities

in my veins. Would that I were equally familiar with all nations, for I

know less of Russia than I know of Scotland. We in Germany are their

near neighbours, and love them, as you do here, something less than

ourselves."

He talked English with that pleasing sincerity which seems inseparable

from the speech of foreigners, who use a purer and more formal idiom

than ourselves. George looked anxiously towards Lewis, with a question

in his eyes, but finding his companion abstracted, he spoke himself.

"I have just arrived," said the other simply; "but it was from a

different direction. I have been shooting in the hills, getting cool

air into my lungs after the valleys. Why, Mrs. Logan, I have been down

to Rawal Pindi since I saw you last, and have been choked with the sun.

We northerners do not take kindly to glare and dust."

"But you are an old hand here, they tell me. I wish you'd show me the

ropes, you know. I'm very keen, but as ignorant as a babe. What sort

of rifles do they use here? I wish you'd come and look at my

ironmongery." And George plunged into technicalities.

When Lewis rose to leave, following unwillingly the convention which

forbids a guest to stay more than five minutes after a new visitor has

arrived, Marker crossed the room with them. "If you're not engaged for

to-night, Mr. Haystoun, will you do me the honour to dine with me? I

am alone, and I think we might manage to find things to talk about."

Lewis accepted gladly, and with one of his sweetest smiles the gentleman

returned to Mrs. Logan's side.

CHAPTER XXIII

THE DINNER AT GALETTI'S

"I have heard of you so much," Mr. Marker said, "and it was a lucky

chance which brought me to Bardur to meet you." They had taken their

cigars out to the verandah, and were drinking the strong Persian coffee,

with a prospect before them of twinkling town lights, and a mountain

line of rock and snow. Their host had put on evening clothes and wore a

braided dinner-jacket which gave the faintest touch of the foreigner to

his appearance. At dinner he had talked well of a score of things. He

had answered George's questions on sport with the readiness of an

expert; he had told a dozen good stories, and in an easy, pleasant way

he had gossiped of books and places, people and politics. His knowledge

struck both men as uncanny. Persons of minute significance in

Parliament were not unknown to him, and he was ready with a theory or an

explanation on the most recondite matters. But coffee and cigars found

him a different man. He ceased to be the enthusiast, the omnivorous and

versatile inquirer, and relapsed into the ordinary good fellow, who is

no cleverer than his neighbours.

"We're confoundedly obliged to you," said George. "Haystoun is keen

enough, but when he was out last time he seems to have been very slack

about the sport."

"Sort of student of frontier peoples and politics, as the newspapers

call it. I fancy that game is, what you say, 'played out' a little

nowadays. It is always a good cry for alarmist newspapers to send up

their circulation by, but you and I, my friend, who have mixed with

serious politicians, know its value."

George nodded. He liked to be considered a person of importance, and he

wanted the conversation to get back to ibex.

"I speak as of a different nation," Marker said, looking towards Lewis.

"But I find the curse of modern times is this mock-seriousness. Some

centuries ago men and women were serious about honour and love and

religion. Nowadays we are frivolous and sceptical about these things,

but we are deadly in earnest about fads. Plans to abolish war, schemes

to reform criminals, and raise the condition of woman, and supply the

Bada-Mawidi with tooth-picks are sure of the most respectful treatment

and august patronage."

"I agree," said Lewis. "The Bada-Mawidi live there?" And he pointed to

the hill line.

Marker nodded. He had used the name inadvertently as an illustration,

and he had no wish to answer questions on the subject.

"A troublesome tribe, rather?" asked Lewis, noticing the momentary

hesitation.

"In the past. Now they are quiet enough."

"But I understood that there was a ferment in the Pamirs. The other

side threatened, you know." He had almost said "your side," but checked

himself.

"Ah yes, there are rumours of a rising, but that is further west. The

Bada-Mawidi are too poor to raise two swords in the whole tribe. You

will come across them if you go north, and I can recommend them as

excellent beaters."

"Is the north the best shooting quarter?" asked Lewis with sharp eyes.

"I am just a little keen on some geographical work, and if I can join

both I shall be glad. Due north is the Russian frontier?

"Due north after some scores of the most precipitous miles in the world.

It is a preposterous country. I myself have been on the verge of it,

and know it as well as most. The geographical importance, too, is

absurdly exaggerated. It has never been mapped because there is nothing

about it to map, no passes, no river, no conspicuous mountain, nothing

but desolate, unvaried rock. The pass to Yarkand goes to the east, and

the Afghan routes are to the west. But to the north you come to a wall,

and if you have wings you may get beyond it. The Bada-Mawidi live in

some of the wretched nullahs. There is sport, of course, of a kind, but

not perhaps the best. I should recommend you to try the more easterly

hills."

The speaker's manner was destitute of all attempt to dissuade, and yet

Lewis felt in some remote way that this man was trying to dissuade him.

The rock-wall, the Bada-Mawidi, whatever it was, something existed

between Bardur and the Russian frontier which this pleasant gentleman

did not wish him to see.

"Our plans are all vague," he said, "and of course we are glad of your

advice."

"And I am glad to give it, though in many ways you know the place better

than I do. Your book is the work of a very clever and observant man, if

you will excuse my saying so. I was thankful to find that you were not

the ordinary embryo-publicist who looks at the frontier hills from

Bardur, and then rushes home and talks about invasion."

"You think there is no danger, then?"

"On the contrary, I honestly think that there is danger, but from a

different direction. Britain is getting sick, and when she is sick

enough, some people who are less sick will overwhelm her. My own

opinion is that Russia will be the people."

"But is not that one of the old cries that you object to?" and Lewis

smiled.

"It was; now it is ceasing to be a cry, and passing into a fact, or as

much a fact as that erroneous form of gratuity, prophecy, can be. Look

at Western Europe and you cannot disbelieve the evidence of your own

eyes. In France you have anarchy, the vulgarest frivolity and the

cheapest scepticism, joined with a sort of dull capacity for routine

work. Germany, the very heart of it eaten out with sentiment, either

the cheap military or the vague socialist brand. Spain and Italy

shadows, Denmark and Sweden farces, Turkey a sinful anachronism."

"And Britain?" George asked.

"My Scotch blood gives me the right to speak my mind," said the man,

laughing. "Honestly I don't find things much better in Britain. You

were always famous for a dogged common sense which was never tricked

with catch-words, and yet the British people seem to be growing nervous

and ingenuous. The cult of abstract ideals, which has been the curse of

the world since Adam, is as strong with you as elsewhere. The

philosophy of 'gush' is good enough in its place, but it is the devil in

politics."

"That is true enough," said Lewis solemnly. "And then you are losing

grip. A belief in sentiment means a disbelief in competence and

strength, and that is the last and fatalest heresy. And a belief in

sentiment means a foolish scepticism towards the great things of life.

There is none of the blood and bone left for honest belief. You hold

your religion half-heartedly. Honest fanaticism is a thing intolerable

to you. You are all mild, rational sentimentalists, and I would not

give a ton of it for an ounce of good prejudice." George and Lewis

laughed.

"And Russia?" they asked.

"Ah, there I have hope. You have a great people, uneducated and

unspoiled. They are physically strong, and they have been trained by

centuries of serfdom to discipline and hardships. Also, there is fire

smouldering somewhere. You must remember that Russia is the

stepdaughter of the East. The people are northern in the truest sense,

but they have a little of Eastern superstition. A rational, sentimental

people live in towns or market gardens, like your English country, but

great lonely plains and forests somehow do not agree with that sort of

creed. That slow people can still believe freshly and simply, and some

day when the leader arrives they will push beyond their boundaries and

sweep down on Western Europe, as their ancestors did thirteen hundred

years ago. And you have no walls of Rome to resist them, and I do not

think you will find a Charlemagne. Good heavens! What can your

latter-day philosophic person, who weighs every action and believes only

in himself, do against an unwearied people with the fear of God in their

hearts? When that day comes, my masters, we shall have a new empire,

the Holy Eastern Empire, and this rotten surface civilization of ours

will be swept off. It is always the way. Men get into the habit of

believing that they can settle everything by talk, and fancy themselves

the arbiters of the world, and then suddenly the great man arrives, your

Caesar or Cromwell, and clears out the talkers."

"I've heard something like that before. In fact, on occasions I have

said it myself. It's a pretty idea. How long do you give this

_Volkerwanderung_ to get started?"

"It will not be in our time," said the man sadly. "I confess I am

rather anxious for it to come off. Europe is a dull place at present,

given up to Jews and old women. But I am an irreclaimable wanderer, and

it is some time since I have been home. Things may be already

changing."

"Scarcely," said Lewis. "And meantime where is this Slav invasion going

to begin? I suppose they will start with us here, before they cross the

Channel?"

"Undoubtedly. But Britain is the least sick of the crew, so she may be

left in peace till the confirmed invalids are destroyed. At the best it

will be a difficult work. Our countrymen, you will permit the name, my

friends, have unexpected possibilities in their blood. And even this

India will be a hard nut to crack. It is assumed that Russia has but to

find Britain napping, buy a passage from the more northerly tribes, and

sweep down on the Punjab. I need not tell you how impossible such a

land invasion is. It is my opinion that when the time comes the attack

will be by sea from some naval base on the Persian Gulf. It is a mere

matter of time till Persia is the Tsar's territory, and then they may

begin to think about invasion."

"You think the northern road impossible! I suppose you ought to know."

"I do, and I have some reason for my opinion. I know Afghanistan and

Chitral as few Europeans know it."

"But what about Bardur, and this Kashmir frontier? I can understand the

difficulties of the Khyber, but this Kashmir road looks promising."

Marker laughed a great, good-humoured, tolerant, incredulous laugh. "My

dear sir, that's the most utter nonsense. How are you to bring an army

over a rock wall which a chamois hunter could scarcely climb? An

invading army is not a collection of winged fowl. I grant you Bardur is

a good starting-point if it were once reached. But you might as well

think of a Chinese as of a Russian invasion from the north. It would be

a good deal more possible, for there is a road to Yarkand, and

respectable passes to the north-east. But here we are shut off from the

Oxus by as difficult a barrier as the Elburz. Go up and see. There is

some shooting to be had, and you will see for yourself the sort of

country between here and Taghati."

"But people come over here sometimes."

"Yes, from the south, or by Afghanistan."

"Not always. What about the Korabaut Pass into Chitral? Ianoff and the

Cossacks came through it."

"That's true," said the man, as if in deep thought. "I had forgotten,

but the band was small and the thing was a real adventure."

"And then you have Gromchevtsky. He brought his people right down

through the Pamirs."

For a second the man's laughing ease deserted him. He leaned his head

forward and peered keenly into Lewis's face. Then, as if to cover his

discomposure, he fell into the extreme of bluff amusement. The

exaggeration was plain to both his hearers.

"Oh yes, there was poor old Gromchevtsky. But then you know he was what

you call 'daft,' and one never knew how much to believe. He had hatred

of the English on the brain, and he went about the northern valleys

making all sorts of wild promises on the part of the Tsar. A great

Russian army was soon to come down from the hills and restore the

valleys to their former owners. And then, after he had talked all this

nonsense, and actually managed to create some small excitement among the

tribesmen, the good fellow disappeared. No man knows where he went.

The odd thing is that I believe he has never been heard of again in

Russia to this day. Of course his mission, as he loved to call it, was

perfectly unauthorized, and the man himself was a creature of farce. He

probably came either by the Khyber or the Korabaut Pass, possibly even

by the ordinary caravan-route from Yarkand, but felt it necessary for

his mission's sake to pretend he had found some way through the rock

barrier. I am afraid I cannot allow him to be taken seriously."

Lewis yawned and reached out his hand for the cigars. "In any case it

is merely a question of speculative interest. We shall not fall just

yet, though you think so badly of us."

"You will not fall just yet," said Marker slowly, "but that is not your

fault. You British have sold your souls for something less than the

conventional mess of pottage. You are ruled in the first place by

money-bags, and the faddists whom they support to blind your eyes. If I

were a young man in your country with my future to make, do you know

what I would do? I would slave in the Stock Exchange. I would spend my

days and nights in the pursuit of fortune, and, by heaven, I would get

it. Then I would rule the market and break, crush, quietly and

ruthlessly, the whole gang of Jew speculators and vulgarians who would

corrupt a great country. Money is power with you, and I should attain

it, and use it to crush the leeches who suck our blood."

"Good man," said George, laughing. "That's my way of thinking. Never

heard it better put."

"I have felt the same," said Lewis. "When I read of 'rings' and

'corners' and 'trusts' and the misery and vulgarity of it all, I have

often wished to have a try myself, and see whether average brains and

clean blood could not beat these fellows on their own ground."

"Then why did you not?" asked Marker. "You were rich enough to make a

proper beginning."

"I expect I was too slack. I wanted to try the thing, but there was so

much that was repulsive that I never quite got the length of trying.

Besides, I have a bad habit of seeing both sides of a question. The

ordinary arguments seemed to me weak, and it was too much fag to work

out an attitude for oneself."

Marker looked sharply at Lewis, and George for a moment saw and

contrasted the two faces. Lewis's keen, kindly, humorous, cultured,

with strong lines ending weakly, a face over-bred, brave and finical;

the other's sharp, eager, with the hungry wolf-like air of ambition,

every line graven in steel, and the whole transfused, as it were, by the

fire of the eyes into the living presentment of human vigour.

It was the eternal contrast of qualities, and for a moment in George's

mind there rose a delight that two such goodly pieces of manhood should

have found a meeting-ground.

"I think, you know, that we are not quite so bad as you make out," said

Lewis quietly. "To an outsider we must appear on the brink of

incapacity, but then it is not the first time we have produced that

impression. You will still find men who in all their spiritual sickness

have kept something of that restless, hard-bitten northern energy, and

that fierce hunger for righteousness, which is hard to fight with.

Scores of people, who can see no truth in the world and are sick with

doubt and introspection and all the latter-day devils, have yet

something of pride and honour in their souls which will make them show

well at the last. If we are going to fall our end will not be quite

inglorious."

Marker laughed and rose. "I am afraid I must leave you now. I have to

see my servant, for I am off to-morrow. This has been a delightful

meeting. I propose that we drink to its speedy repetition."

They drank, clinking glasses in continental fashion, and the host shook

hands and departed.

"Good chap," was George's comment. "Put us up to a wrinkle or two, and

seemed pretty sound in his politics. I wish I could get him to come and

stop with me at home. Do you think we shall run across him again?"

Lewis was looking at the fast vanishing lights of the town. "I should

think it highly probable," he said.

CHAPTER XXIV

THE TACTICS OF A CHIEF

There is another quarter in Bardur besides the English one. Down by the

stream side there are narrow streets built on the scarp of the rock,

hovels with deep rock cellars, and a wonderful amount of cubic space

beneath the brushwood thatch. There the trader from Yarkand who has

contraband wares to dispose of may hold a safe market. And if you were

to go at nightfall into this quarter, where the foot of the Kashmir

policeman rarely penetrates, you might find shaggy tribesmen who have

been all their lives outlaws, walking unmolested to visit their friends,

and certain Jewish gentlemen, members of the great family who have

conquered the world, engaged in the pursuit of their unlawful calling.

Marker speedily left the broader streets of the European quarter, and

plunged down a steep alley which led to the stream. Half way down there

was a lane to the left in the line of hovels, and, after stopping a

moment to consider, he entered this. It was narrow and dark, but smelt

cleanly enough of the dry granite sand. There were little dark

apertures in the huts, which might have been either doors or windows,

and at one of these he stopped, lit a match, and examined it closely.

The result was satisfactory; for the man, who had hitherto been

crouching, straightened himself up and knocked. The door opened

instantaneously, and he bowed his tall head to enter a narrow passage.

This brought him into a miniature courtyard, about thirty feet across,

above which gleamed a patch of violet sky, sown with stars. Below a

door on the right a light shone, and this he pushed open, and entered a

little room.

The place was richly furnished, with low couches and Persian tables, and

on the floor a bright matting. The short, square-set man sitting

smoking on the divan we have already met at a certain village in the

mountains. Fazir Khan, descendant of Abraham, and father and chief of

the Bada-Mawidi, has a nervous eye and an uneasy face to-night, for it

is a hard thing for a mountaineer, an inhabitant of great spaces, to sit

with composure in a trap-like room in the citadel of a foe who has many

acts of rape and murder to avenge on his body. To do Fazir Khan justice

he strove to conceal his restlessness under the usual impassive calm of

his race. He turned his head slightly as Marker entered, nodded gravely

over the bowl of his pipe, and pointed to the seat at the far end of the

divan.

"It is a dark night," he said. "I heard you stumbling on the causeway

before you entered. And I have many miles to cover before dawn."

Marker nodded. "Then you must make haste, my friend. You must be in

the hills by daybreak, for I have some errands I want you to do for me.

I have to-night been dining with two strangers, who have come up from

the south."

The chief's eyes sparkled. "Do they suspect?"

"Nothing in particular, everything in general. They are English. One

was here before and got far up into your mountains. He wrote a clever

book when he returned, which made people think. They say their errand

is sport, and it may be. On the other hand I have a doubt. One has not

the air of the common sportsman. He thinks too much, and his eyes have

a haggard look. It is possible that they are in their Government's

services and have come to reconnoitre."

"Then we are lost," said Fazir Khan sourly. "It was always a fool's

plan, at the mercy of any wandering Englishman."

"Not so," said Marker. "Nothing is lost, and nothing will be lost. But

I fear these two men. They do not bluster and talk at random like the

others. They are so very quiet that they may mean danger."

"They must remain here," said the chief. "Give me the word, and I will

send one of my men to hough their horses and, if need be, cripple

themselves."

Marker laughed. "You are an honest fool, Fazir Khan. That sort of

thing is past now. We live in the wrong times and places for it. We

cannot keep them here, but we must send them on a goose-chase. Do you

understand?"

"I understand nothing. I am a simple man and my ways are simple, and

not as yours."

"Then attend to my words, my friend. Our expedition must be changed and

made two days sooner. That will give these two Englishmen three days

only to checkmate it. Besides, they are ignorant, and to-morrow is lost

to them, for they go to a ball at the Logan woman's. Still, I fear them

with two days to work in. If they go north, they are clever and

suspicious, and they may see or fancy enough to wreck our plans. They

may have the way barred, and we know how little would bar the way."

"Ten resolute men," said the chief. "Nay, I myself, with my two sons,

would hold a force at bay there."

"If that is true, how much need is there to be wary beforehand! Since

we cannot prevent these men from meddling, we can give them rope to

meddle in small matters. Let us assume that they have been sent out by

their Government. They are the common make of Englishmen, worshipping a

god which they call their honour. They will do their duty if they can

find it out. Now there is but one plan, to create a duty for them which

will take them out of the way."

The chief was listening with half-closed eyes. He saw new trouble for

himself and was not cheerful.

"Do you know how many men Holm has with him at the Forza camp?"

"A score and a half. Some of my people passed that way yesterday, when

the soldiers were parading."

"And there are two more camps?

"There are two beyond the Nazri Pass, on the fringe of the Doorab hills.

We call the places Khautmi-sa and Khautmi-bana, but the English have

their own names for them."

Marker nodded.

"I know the places. They are Gurkha camps. The officers are called

Mitchinson and St. John. They will give us little trouble. But the

Forza garrison is too near the pass for safety, and yet far enough away

for my plans." And for a moment the man's eyes were abstracted, as if in

deep thought.

"I have another thing to tell of the Forza camp," the chief interrupted.

"The captain, the man whom they call Holm, is sick, so sick that he

cannot remain there. He went out shooting and came too near to

dangerous places, so a bullet of one of my people's guns found his leg.

He will be coming to Bardur to-morrow. Is it your wish that he be

prevented?

"Let him come," said Marker. "He will suit my purpose. Now I will tell

you your task, Fazir Khan, for it is time that you took the road. You

will take a hundred of the Bada-Mawidi and put them in the rocks round

the Forza camp. Let them fire a few shots but do no great damage, lest

this man Holm dare not leave. If I know the man at all, he will only

hurry the quicker when he hears word of trouble, for he has no stomach

for danger, if he can get out of it creditably. So he will come down

here to-morrow with a tale of the Bada-Mawidi in arms, and find no men

in the place to speak of, except these two strangers. I will have

already warned them of this intended rising, and if, as I believe, they

serve the Government, they will let no grass grow below their feet till

they get to Forza. Then on the day after let your tribesmen attack the

place, not so as to take it, but so as to make a good show of fight and

keep the garrison employed. This will keep these young men quiet; they

will think that all rumours they may have heard culminate in this rising

of yours, and they will be content, and satisfied that they have done

their duty. Then, the day after, while they are idling at Forza, we

will slip through the passes, and after that there will be no need for

ruses."

The chief rose and pulled himself up to his full height. "After that,"

he said, "there will be work for men. God! We shall harry the valleys

as our forefathers harried them, and we shall suck the juicy plains dry.

You will give us a free hand, my lord?"

"Your hand shall be free enough," said Marker. "But see that every word

of my bidding is done. We fail utterly unless all is secret and swift.

It is the lion attacking the village. If he crosses the trap gate safely

he may ravage at his pleasure, but there is first the trap to cross. And

now it is your time to leave."

The mountaineer tightened his girdle, and exchanged his slippers for

deer-hide boots. He bowed gravely to the other and slipped out into the

darkness of the court. Marker drew forth some plans and writing

materials from his great-coat pocket and spread them before him on the

table. It was a thing he had done a hundred times within the last week,

and as he made his calculations again and traced his route anew, his

action showed the tinge of nervousness to which the strongest natures at

times must yield. Then he wrote a letter, and, yawning deeply, he shut

up the place and returned to Galetti's.

CHAPTER XXV

MRS. LOGAN'S BALL

When Lewis had finished breakfast next morning, and was sitting idly on

the verandah watching the busy life of the bazaar at his feet, a letter

was brought him by a hotel servant. "It was left for you by Marker

Sahib, when he went away this morning. He sent his compliments to the

sahibs and regretted that he had to leave too early to speak with them,

but he left this note." Lewis broke the envelope and read:

/#

DEAR MR. HAYSTOUN,

When I was thinking over our conversation last night, chance put a

piece of information in my way which you may think fit to use. You

know that I am more intimate than most people with the hill tribes.

Well, let this be the guarantee of my news, but do not ask how I

got it, for I cannot betray friends. Some of these, the Bada-Mawidi

to wit, are meditating mischief. The Forza camp, which I think you

have visited--a place some twenty miles off--is too near those

villages to be safe. So to-morrow at latest they have planned to

make a general attack upon it, and, unless the garrison were

prepared, I should fear for the result, for they are the most

cunning scoundrels in the world. What puzzles me is how they have

ever screwed up the courage for such a move, for lately they were

very much in fear of the Government. It appears as if they looked

for backing from over the frontier. You will say that this proves

your theory; but to me it merely seems as if some maniac of the

Gromchevtsky type had got among them. In any case I wish something

could be done. My duties take me away at once, and in a very

different direction, but perhaps you could find some means of

putting the camp on their guard. I should be sorry to hear of a

tragedy; also I should be sorry to see the Bada-Mawidi get into

trouble. They are foolish blackguards, but amusing.

Yours most sincerely,

ARTHUR MARKER.

#/

Lewis read the strange letter several times through, then passed it to

George. George read it with difficulty, not being accustomed to a

flowing frontier hand. "Jolly decent of him, I call it," was his

remark.

"I would give a lot to know what to make of it. The man is playing some

game, but what the deuce it is I can't fathom."

"I suppose we had better get up to that Forza place as soon as we can."

"I think not," said Lewis.

"The man's honest, surely?"

"But he is also clever. Remember who he is. He may wish to get us out

of the way. I don't suppose that he can possibly fear us, but he may

want the coast clear from suspicious spectators. Besides, I don't see

the good of Forza. It is not the part of the hills I want to explore.

There can be no frontier danger there, and at the worst there can be

nothing more than a little tribal disturbance. Now what on earth would

Russia gain by moving the tribes there, except as a blind?"

"Still, you know, the man admits all that in his letter. And if the

people up there are going to be in trouble we ought to go and give them

notice."

"I'll take an hour to think over it, and then I'll go and see Thwaite.

He was to be back this morning."

Lewis spread the letter before him. It was a simple, friendly note,

giving him a chance of doing a good turn to friends. His clear course

was to lay it before Thwaite and shift the responsibility for action to

his shoulders. But he felt all the while that this letter had a

personal application which he could not conceal. It would have been as

easy for Marker to send the note to Thwaite, whom he had long known.

But he had chosen to warn him privately. It might be a ruse, but he had

no glimpse of the meaning. Or, again, it might be a piece of pure

friendliness, a chance of unofficial adventure given by one wanderer to

another. He puzzled it out, lamenting that he was so deep in the dark,

and cursing his indecision. Another man would have made up his mind

long ago; it was a ruse, therefore let it be neglected and remain in

Bardur with open eyes; it was good faith and a good chance, therefore

let him go at once. But to Lewis the possibilities seemed endless, and

he could find no solution save the old one of the waverer, to wait for

further light.

He found Thwaite at breakfast, just returned from his travels.

"Hullo, Haystoun. I heard you were here. Awfully glad to see you. Sit

down, won't you, and have some breakfast." The officer was a long man,

with a thin, long face, a reddish moustache, and small, blue eyes.

"I came to ask you questions, if you don't mind. I have the regular

globe-trotter's trick of wanting information. What's the Forza camp

like? Do you think that the Bada-Mawidi, supposing they stir again,

would be likely to attack it?"

"Not a bit of it. That was the sort of thing that Gribton was always

croaking about. Why, man, the Bada-Mawidi haven't a kick in them.

Besides, they are very nearly twenty miles off and the garrison's a very

fit lot. They're all right. Trust them to look after themselves."

"But I have been hearing stories of Bada-Mawidi risings which are to

come off soon."

"Oh, you'll always hear stories of that sort. All the old women in the

neighbourhood purvey them."

"Who are in charge at Forza?"

"Holm and Andover. Don't care much for Holm, but Andy is a good chap.

But what's this new interest of yours? Are you going up there?

"I'm out here to shoot and explore, you know, so Forza comes into my

beat. Thanks very much. See you to-night, I suppose."

Lewis went away dispirited and out of temper. He had been pitchforked

among easy-going people, when all the while mysterious things, dangerous

things, seemed to hang in the air. He had not the material for even the

first stages of comprehension. No one suspected, every one was

satisfied; and at the same time came those broken hints of other things.

He felt choked and muffled, wrapped in the cotton-wool of this easy

life; and all the afternoon he chafed at his own impotence and the

world's stupidity.

When the two travellers presented themselves at the Logans' house that

evening, they were immediately seized upon by the hostess and compelled,

to their amusement, to do her bidding. They were her discoveries, her

new young men, and as such, they had their responsibilities. George,

who liked dancing, obeyed meekly; but Lewis, being out of temper and

seeing before him an endless succession of wearisome partners, soon

broke loose, and accompanied Thwaite to the verandah for a cigar.

The man was ill at ease, and the sight of young faces and the sound of

laughter vexed him with a sense of his eccentricity. He could never,

like George, take the world as he found it. At home he was the slave of

his own incapacity; now he was the slave of memories. He had come out

on an errand, with a chance to recover his lost self-respect, and lo!

he was as far as ever from attainment. His lost capacity for action was

not to be found here, in the midst of this petty diplomacy and

inglorious ease.

From the verandah a broad belt of lawn ran down to the edge of the north

road. It lay shining in the moonlight like a field of snow with the

highway a dark ribbon beyond it. Thwaite and Lewis walked down to the

gate talking casually, and at the gate they stopped and looked down on

the town. It lay a little to the left, the fort rising black before it,

and the road ending in a patch of shade which was the old town gate.

The night was very still, cool airs blew noiselessly from the hills, and

a jackal barked hoarsely in some far-off thicket.

The men hung listlessly on the gate, drinking in the cool air and

watching the blue cigar smoke wreathe and fade. Suddenly down the road

there came the sound of wheels.

"That's a tonga," said Thwaite. "Wonder who it is."

"Do tongas travel this road?" Lewis asked.

"Oh yes, they go ten miles up to the foot of the rocks. We use them for

sending up odds and ends to the garrisons. After that coolies are the

only conveyance. Gad, I believe this thing is going to stop."

The thing in question, which was driven by a sepoy in bright yellow

pyjamas, stopped at the Logans' gate. A peevish voice was heard giving

directions from within.

"It sounds like Holm," said Thwaite, walking up to it, "and upon my soul

it is Holm. What on earth are you doing here, my dear fellow?"

"Is that you, Thwaite?" said the voice. "I wish you'd help me out. I

want Logan to give me a bed for the night. I'm infernally ill."

Lewis looked within and saw a pale face and bloodshot eyes which did not

belie the words.

"What is it?" said Thwaite. "Fever or anything smashed?"

"I've got a bullet in my leg which has got to be cut out. Got it two

days ago when I was out shooting. Some natives up in the rocks did it,

I fancy. Lord, how it hurts." And the unhappy man groaned as he tried

to move.

"That's bad," said Thwaite sympathetically. "The Logans have got a

dance on, but we'll look after you all right. How did you leave things

in Forza?"

"Bad. I oughtn't to be here, but Andy insisted. He said I would only

get worse and crock entirely. Things look a bit wild up there just now.

There has been a confounded lot of rifle-stealing, and the Bada-Mawidi

are troublesome. However, I hope it's only their fun."

"I hope so," said Thwaite. "You know Haystoun, don't you?"

"Glad to meet you," said the man. "Heard of you. Coming up our way? I

hope you will after I get this beastly leg of mine better."

"Thwaite will tell you I have been cross-examining him about your place.

I wanted badly to ask you about it, for I got a letter this morning from

a man called Marker with some news for you."

"What did he say?" asked Holm sharply.

"He said that he had heard privately that the Bada-Mawidi were planning

an attack on you to-morrow or the day after."

"The deuce they are," said Holm peevishly, and Thwaite's face

lengthened.

"And he told me to find some way of letting you know."

"Then why didn't you tell me earlier?" said Thwaite. "Marker should

know if anybody does. We should have kept Holm up there. Now it's

almost too late. Oh, this is the devil!"

Lewis held his peace. He had forgotten the solidity of Marker's

reputation.

"What's the chances of the place?" Thwaite was asking. "I know your

numbers and all that, but are they anything like prepared?"

"I don't know," said Holm miserably. "They might get on all right, but

everybody is pretty slack just now. Andy has a touch of fever, and some

of the men may get leave for shooting. I must get back at once."

"You can't. Why, man, you couldn't get half way. And what's more, I

can't go. This place wants all the looking after it can get. A row in

the hills means a very good possibility of a row in Bardur, and that is

too dangerous a game. And besides myself there is scarcely a man in the

place who counts. Logan has gone to Gilgit, and there's nobody left but

boys."

"If you don't mind I should like to go," said Lewis shamefacedly.

"You," they cried. "Do you know the road?"

"I've been there before, and I remember it more or less. Besides, it is

really my show this time. I got the warning, and I want the credit."

And he smiled.

"The road's bound to be risky," said Thwaite thoughtfully. "I don't

feel inclined to let you run your neck into danger like this."

Lewis was busy turning over the problem in his mind. The presence of

the man Holm seemed the one link of proof he needed. He had his word

that there were signs of trouble in the place, and that the Bada-Mawidi

were ill at ease. Whatever game Marker was playing, on this matter he

seemed to have spoken in good faith. Here was a clear piece of work for

him. And even if it was fruitless it would bring him nearer to the

frontier; his expedition to the north would be begun.

"Let me go," he said. "I came out here to explore the hills and I take

all risks on my own head. I can give them Marker's message as well as

anybody else."

Thwaite looked at Holm. "I don't see why he shouldn't. You're a wreck,

and I can't leave my own place."

"Tell Andy you saw me," cried Holm. "He'll be anxious. And tell him to

mind the north gate. If the fools knew how to use dynamite they might

have it down at once. If they attack it can't last long, but then they

can't last long either, for they are hard up for arms, and unless they

have changed since last week they have no ammunition to speak of."

"Marker said it looked as if they were being put up to the job from over

the frontier."

"Gad, then it's my turn to look out," said Thwaite. "If it's the

gentlemen from over the frontier they won't stop at Forza. Lord, I hate

this border business, it's so hideously in the dark. But I think that's

all rot. Any tribal row here is sure to be set down to Russian

influence. We don't understand the joint possession of an artificial

frontier," he added, with an air of quoting from some book.

"Did you get that from Marker?" Holm asked crossly. "He once said the

same thing to me." His temper had suffered badly among the hills.

"We'd better get you to bed, my dear fellow," said Thwaite, looking down

at him. "You look remarkably cheap. Would you mind going in and trying

to find Mrs. Logan, Haystoun? I'll carry this chap in. Stop a minute,

though. Perhaps he's got something to say to you."

"Mind the north gate ... tell Andy I'm all right and make him look

after himself ... he's overworking ... if you want to send a

message to the other people you'd better send by Nazri ... if the

Badas mean business they'll shut up the road you go by. That's all.

Good luck and thanks very much."

Lewis found Mrs. Logan making a final inspection of the supper-room.

She ran to the garden, to find the invalid Holm in Thwaite's arms at the

steps of the verandah. The sick warrior pulled off an imaginary cap and

smiled feebly.

"Oh, Mr. Holm, I'm so sorry. Of course we can have you. I'll put you in

the other end of the house where you won't be so much troubled with the

noise. You must have had a dreadful journey." And so forth, with the

easy condolences of a kind woman.

When Thwaite had laid down his burden, he turned to Lewis.

"I wish we had another man, Haystoun. What about your friend Winterham?

One's enough to do your work, but if the thing turns out to be serious,

there ought to be some means of sending word. Andover will want you to

stay, for they are short-handed enough."

"I'll get Winterham to go and wait for me somewhere. If I don't turn up

by a certain time, he can come and look for me."

"That will do," said Thwaite, "though it's a stale job for him. Well,

good-bye and good luck to you. I expect there won't be much trouble,

but I wish you had told us in the morning."

Lewis turned to go and find George. "What a chance I had almost

missed," was the word in his heart. The errand might be futile, the

message a blind, but it was at least movement, action, a possibility.

CHAPTER XXVI

FRIEND TO FRIEND

He found George sitting down in the verandah after waltzing. His

partner was a sister of Logan's, a dark girl whose husband was Resident

somewhere in Lower Kashmir. The lady gave her hand to Lewis and he took

the vacant seat on the other side.

He apologized for carrying off her companion, escorted her back to the

ballroom, and then returned to satisfy the amazed George.

"I want to talk to you. Excuse my rudeness, but I have explained to

Mrs. Tracy. I have a good many things I want to say to you."

"Where on earth have you been all night, Lewis? I call it confoundedly

mean to go off and leave me to do all the heavy work. I've never been

so busy in my life. Lots of girls and far too few men. This is the

first breathing space I've had. What is it that you want?"

"I am going off this very moment up into the hills. That letter Marker

sent me this morning has been confirmed. Holm, who commands up at the

Forza fort, has just come down very sick, and he says that the

Bada-Mawidi are looking ugly, and that we should take Marker's word. He

wanted to go back himself but he is too ill, and Thwaite can't leave

here, so I am going. I don't expect there will be much risk, but in

case the rising should be serious I want you to do me a favour."

"I suppose I can't come with you," said George ruefully. "I know I

promised to let you go your own way before we came out, but I wish you

would let me stick by you. What do you want me to do?"

"Nothing desperate," said Lewis, laughing. "You can stay on here and

dance till sunrise if you like. But to-morrow I want you to come up to

a certain place at the foot of the hills which I will tell you about,

and wait there. It's about half distance between Forza and the two

Khautmi forts. If the rising turns out to be a simple affair I'll join

you there to-morrow night and we can start our shooting. But if I

don't, I want you to go up to the Khautmi forts and rouse St. John and

Mitchinson and get them to send to Forza. Do you see?"

Lewis had taken out a pencil and began to sketch a rough plan on

George's shirt cuff. "This will give you an idea of the place. You can

look up a bigger map in the hotel, and Thwaite or any one will give you

directions about the road. There's Forza, and there are the Khautmis

about twenty miles west. Half-way between the two is that long Nazri

valley, and at the top is a tableland strewn with boulders where you

shoot mountain sheep. I've been there, and the road between Khautmi and

Forza passes over it. I expect it is a very bad road, but apparently

you can get a little Kashmir pony to travel it. To the north of that

plateau there is said to be nothing but rock and snow for twenty miles

to the frontier. That may be so, but if this thing turns out all right

we'll look into the matter. Anyway, you have got to pitch your tent

to-morrow on that tableland just above the head of the Nazri gully.

With luck I should be able to get to you some time in the afternoon. If

I don't turn up, you go off to Khautmi next morning at daybreak and give

them my message. If I can't come myself I'll find a way to send word;

but if you don't hear from me it will be fairly serious, for it will

mean that the rising is a formidable thing after all. And that, of

course, will mean trouble for everybody all round. In that case you'd

better do what St. John and Mitchinson tell you. You're sure to be

wanted."

George's face cleared. "That sounds rather sport. I'd better bring up

the servants. They might turn out useful. And I suppose I'll bring a

couple of rifles for you, in case it's all a fraud and we want to go

shooting. I thought the place was going to be stale, but it promises

pretty well now." And he studied the plan on his shirt cuff. Then an

idea came to him.

"Suppose you find no rising. That will mean that Marker's letter was a

blind of some sort. He wanted to get you out of the way or something.

What will you do then? Come back here?"

"N--o," said Lewis hesitatingly. "I think Thwaite is good enough, and I

should be no manner of use. You and I will wait up there in the hills

on the off-chance of picking up some news. I swear I won't come back

here to hang about and try and discover things. It's enough to drive a

man crazy."

"It is rather a ghastly place. Wonder how the Logans thrive here. Odd

mixture this. Strauss and hill tribes not twenty miles apart."

Lewis laughed. "I think I prefer the hill tribes. I am not in the

humour for Strauss just now. I shall have to be off in an hour, so I am

going to change. See you to-morrow, old man."

George retired to the ballroom, where he had to endure the reproaches of

Mrs. Logan. He was an abstracted and silent partner, and in the

intervals of dancing he studied his cuff. Miss A talked to him of polo,

and Miss B of home; Miss C discovered that they had common friends, and

Miss D that she had known his sister. Miss E, who was more observant,

saw the cause of his distraction and asked, "What queer hieroglyphics

have you got on your cuff, Mr. Winterham?"

George looked down in a bewildered way at his sleeve. "Where on earth

have I been?" he asked in wonder. "That's the worst of being an

absent-minded fellow. I've been scribbling on my cuff with my programme

pencil."

Soon he escaped, and made his way down to the garden gate, where Thwaite

was standing smoking. A _sais_ held a saddled pony by the road-side.

Lewis, in rough shooting clothes, was preparing to mount. From indoors

came the jigging of a waltz tune and the sound of laughter, while far in

the north the cliffs of the pass framed a dark blue cleft where the

stars shone. George drew in great draughts of the cool, fresh air. "I

wish I was coming with you," he said wistfully.

"You'll be in time enough to-morrow," said Lewis. "I wish you'd give

him all the information you can about the place, Thwaite. He's an

ignorant beggar. See that he remembers to bring food and matches. The

guns are the only things I can promise he won't forget."

Then he rode off, the little beast bucking excitedly at the patches of

moonlight, and the two men walked back to the house.

"Hope he comes back all right," said Thwaite. "He's too good a man to

throw away."

CHAPTER XXVII

THE ROAD TO FORZA

The road ran in a straight line through the valley of dry rocks, a dull,

modern road, engineered and macadamized up to the edge of the hills.

The click of hoofs raised echoes in the silence, for in all the great

valley, in the chain of pools in the channel, the acres of sun-dried

stone, the granite rocks, the tangle of mountain scrub, there seemed no

life of bird or beast. It was a strange, deathly stillness, and

overhead the purple sky, sown with a million globes of light, seemed so

near and imminent that the glen for the moment was but a vast jewel-lit

cavern, and the sky a fretted roof which spanned the mountains.