Kuei-lien tried in vain to learn what had been said between father
and daughter. She could get no clue. Herrick smilingly told her
that Nancy was too young to think of marriage. "We needn't bother
about it till the time comes." She was afraid to ask open questions
from the child, who was mistress of a baffling, innocent reserve at
times, which outwitted the clever fencing of the concubine.
Kuei-lien was not idly curious. Her acute instinct told her plainly
that momentous things had been said, things closely concerned with
her own fortune. She read this much in the faces of the man and the
girl. She read news of defeat and was vexed to find herself worsted
by an enemy she could not circumvent.
Already it was August, the last sultriness of summer; the terrific
rains, which would not come again for ten months, had poured down the
mountain side and swamped the plains. Even the rockiest slopes were
a lush green, while camels, ungainly brutes in charge of little naked
boys who guided their movements with a well-aimed pebble, had
excellent pasturage at the foot of the hills. The days would be
clear now, but soon there would be frost; the leaves of the maples
would change color. Herrick detested cold weather, would be restless
for the warmer comforts of town. If there were to be any profit from
this solitary retreat to the mountains Kuei-lien knew it was time to
make haste.
She altered her tactics, recognizing now that the episode of the
kiss, laughable though it had seemed, had snapped her hold upon
Nancy. So she diverted her attention to Edward, who was a quick,
lively youngster, ready to venture forth and slay monsters. The
watchtower was always a goad to the boy's imagination, making him
aware that he was treading the byways of an ancient hunting park
where the Tatar princes used to send swift arrows to the heart of
their quarry. Edward prepared his own bow and arrows while Kuei-lien
stirred him to mimic the exploits of his dead heroes. He took
advantage of Herrick's nodding eye and wandered far afield, achieving
merciless execution upon the trees and stones which were all these
degenerate days offered in place of the tigers and bears and antlered
stags men once hunted. He did get one thrilling glimpse of a fox,
which he magnified in his excitement to a leopard, and he often
twanged his bow ineffectually in the wake of rabbits and pheasants.
His most vigilant guard, however, was against foreigners. Against
their approach he had built a little beacon tower of stone, and he
secreted dry sticks from the all-seeing eye of the fuel-gatherer so
that when the time came, when alien hordes approached threatening
from the West, he could light a warning flame and save the golden
roofs of Peking!
Inevitably Edward pressed Nancy into his play. What was the good of
a sister unless she lent herself to something useful? Nancy was
quick enough to justify her own usefulness and not content to take
merely passive roles, to be nothing better than the Mongol foe or the
harassed tiger, which Edward with traditions unconsciously derived
from the boys of his English ancestral country thought a girl and a
sister predestined to play. The two children climbed and played and
quarreled and smiled again and explored devious sheep tracks with a
freedom they had never known; they grew bolder and bolder in the
distances they ventured, plunging down the gravelly paths before the
sun was high and trying to outstretch the light of the evening
twilight.
Kuei-lien knew just how lengthy was the chase Edward and Nancy were
leading. Stealthily she filled the boy with the hearsay she picked
up, the whereabouts of the foreigners, how they had been seen roaming
near the White Horse Temple or the Clear Spring Pagoda, not only men,
but women and children, always seeking some far-away place where they
spread a white cloth on the ground and sat down promiscuously to eat
food from tins and bottles.
One afternoon, when Kuei-lien held their father amused and little
inclined to disturb them with projects of his own, Edward drew Nancy
aside and whispered his plans for the most daring raid yet projected.
He intended nothing less than to scale the heights which overlooked
the summer village of the foreigners.
"I shall need all my arrows," he said.
"You can't shoot them," Nancy scoffed.
"I can shoot at them, anyway."
"Well, don't ask me to carry the bow if it gets heavy."
Edward grunted amiably and led his sister through the sleeping house.
An air of mystery came naturally to the occasion, for he knew the
expedition they were starting on was not one to win the blessing of
his father. Walking was hot so early in the afternoon, but the boy
and girl trudged forward valiantly, two slim figures in blue jackets
and trousers who startled an occasional wood-cutter, when they
stopped to ask the way, making him wonder what part of the realms of
Han produced such unusual faces.
"We can see them from there," said Edward, pointing to a ridge of
furrowed rock.
"Can we ever get to it?" asked Nancy. "It seems days away."
"Tired already?"
Nancy was too proud to be outdone by a younger brother. She
redoubled her efforts, hot and weary though she was, and felt
rewarded when they reached the remains of an imperial hunting forest,
a grove of stout pines shimmering with silver bark, which thrilled
the girl by their stateliness.
"There is a temple," she said. "Let's rest a few minutes. Perhaps
they will bring us tea."
"It's late," said Edward anxiously. The ridge was still a mile or
two distant. "We have to go back, you know. We can't waste time."
But Nancy suddenly felt overcome by a thirstiness which would yield
to nothing but many cups of boiling tea. She hurried toward the
red-washed walls of the monastery, while Edward, whose conscience
could not quell his own thirst, followed only half unwillingly.
The temple was neither large nor beautiful, but it was cool. They
passed the four monstrous figures of the Heavenly Kings and threw
barely a look at the fat little Maitreya with distended belly, who
sat in a glass case, cheerfully oblivious of the scowling guardians
of the portal. Beyond the first court with its iron incense-burner a
monk greeted them, uttering the mystical name, to which they replied
in his own words, "O-mi-t'o-fu." He led them to a table by the door
and left them surveying the gilded company of the gods while he
brought hot water to make an infusion of tea in the cracked cups.
"Oughtn't we to give him money?" suggested Edward. "I didn't bring
any."
"We'll bring it next time," said Nancy, determined that nothing
should stand between her and the tea she craved.
Edward, however, was too honest not to tell the monk and was easier
in mind when the latter deprecated all talk of payment. Another
monk, fingering his beads, came and sat down beside the children.
Nancy did not like him so well; he showed brown discolored teeth when
he laughed and his eyes protruded like the eyes in the fierce images
behind him.
"You are foreigners?" he asked.
"No," said Edward, scornfully, "we are Chinese."
The monk treated this as an excellent jest and repeated it to his
companion, as though Edward's fluent Chinese needed translation. He
asked the other usual questions, how old they were, who were their
family, where they were going, but to every word he gave an
impertinent accent which Nancy could not keep from resenting.
"Let's go," she said to Edward in English, "I don't want any more
tea."
"You are foreigners," exclaimed the monk in triumph, convinced by
this utterance of an unfamiliar tongue.
"We are not foreigners," Edward stoutly objected; "my father is a
Chinese official."
The man laughed again.
"I don't like him," said Nancy, again in English.
"Pooh," was Edward's response, "you can't expect manners from a
priest."
"I don't care. I am not going to stay any longer. We shall never
get home."
Edward stood up too, apologizing profusely because he had brought no
money and promising faithfully that he would recompense their trouble
on his next visit. The monks would not hear of excuses; they would
never have considered taking money for so mean an act of simple
hospitality. The boy, of course, knew their words were spoken merely
from politeness, but he felt so encouraged by their affable courtesy
as to inquire the shortest way to the ridge they were seeking.
"Oh, from our back door it is only a few steps," replied his
yellow-toothed host. "I'll show you."
He preceded them round the three great Buddhas who sat in repose on
lotus flowers, stopping first to point out to them the wizened
embalmed figure of the holy man of the temple, an old abbot whose
sanctified flesh had resisted the process of decay. The children
looked with awe at the shriveled body over which a cloak of faded red
satin had been thrown. Its clawlike finger nails, the sparse hairs
protruding from the gilt which did not hide the wrinkles of the face,
the puny withered legs on which the dead man sat, reminded them of a
monkey profanely set up beneath a canopy of gold and scarlet. The
sight filled them with horror. Nancy gladly hurried into the
courtyard beyond and followed the direction the monk pointed while he
waited for Edward, who wanted one more look at the hideous corpse.
She passed through a door, took a step or two, then paused in alarm.
This was a room, not a passage. She must have taken the wrong
turning. Before she had sufficient presence of mind to go back, she
heard a grating noise and wheeled round just in time to see the
grinning lips of the monk as he slammed the door in her face. There
followed a creaking of wooden bolts. She dashed frantically to the
door, but, as she anticipated all too correctly, it would not yield.
For the moment she was too much frightened over what might be
happening to Edward to consider her own peril. She heard his voice
crying shrilly, "What have you done with my sister?" then the voice
of the monk grunting, "Catch the little rat." After this came noise
of a scuffle and an exclamation of pain, then some cursing which
seemed to show that Edward had outwitted the man who was trying to
capture him. The noise went with a rush into the hall beyond so that
Nancy, whose heart was beating tumultuously, could not follow the
further fortunes of her brother. She was in an agony of fear for his
safety and looked wildly round the room to see what she could do.
There was the first and obvious precaution of drawing the inner bolts
of the door so that she was secure for the present from any but a
violent attempt to break into the chamber.
As a matter of fact, Edward had done well. The instant he realized
the evil purpose of the monk he had drawn his bow tight, suddenly
glad and proud of the weapon Nancy had derided. When the monk rushed
forward to seize him, Edward had let his arrow fly, catching his
adversary a blow in the pit of the stomach which effectually checked
the attack. The man took some seconds to regain his breath. They
were enough for Edward to run swiftly across the courtyards to the
outer hall of the temple where the other monk was still fumbling with
the gates. He was too slow. Edward eluded him and dashed down the
path till after a flight of several hundred yards he realized no one
was pursuing. Then he paused. The exhilaration of his doughty
resistance forsook him. He wanted to boast to Nancy about his
prowess as a marksman; he had vanquished a real enemy. But there
came the stupefying memory that Nancy herself was in great danger and
that he must save her.
Nancy was not only in great danger but sadly depressed by the quiet
which ensued upon Edward's escape. She did not have even the comfort
of knowing that the boy was free. The sound of excited voices came
from a distant part of the monastery but no clue to what had happened.
The girl looked anxiously about her prison. It was a bare,
whitewashed room, fortunately with only the one door, but also
without a vestige of furniture which could help her in climbing to
the high square windows. She tried jumping in hope of grasping the
wooden frame, but the effort was too great. Her hands slipped
uselessly down the rough tiles. After wearing herself out in frantic
leaps, she sat down exhausted on the floor, sobbing convulsively as
she realized that her only chance of escape depended upon Edward--the
possibility that he had been more successful and got away to call
help.
This passive ordeal was heart-rending, for Nancy had ample time to
remember all the tales of monks and their evil doings, which the
women of the household were wont to relate with much gloating zest.
She was under no illusions about their lust, their greed, their
cruelty, their perverted ways. She had heard too many stories about
young girls kidnapped and held in lewd bondage while their families
searched for years, unable to secure any hint of where they had been
taken; she knew too that these lonely monasteries often were the
haunt of bandits who recruited their wives from the guileless women
who came to worship; they were places where rascals hid children
while they extorted ransom from wealthy parents. Only the other day
Nancy had been told of a boy whose ears had been cut off and sent by
post to his parents to hurry payment of the money the robbers had
demanded. Would they treat Edward this way?--or herself?
She tried to avoid pondering the details of her own fate, but she
could not blot them out of mind. She would not yield, she vowed, but
she guessed the ruthless torturing ways of these men when they wished
to bend a handsome girl to their will. In a spurt of energy she
jumped up to examine the fastenings of the door. They were strong.
She took off the garters of brilliant orange elastic which she used,
like modern Chinese girls, now that the fad of silk stockings had
ousted the old foot wrappings. If the worst came to the worst she
might be able to hang herself from the bolts on the door; alas, her
experiments in the performance of suicide were not very convincing:
the garters were too short and if she used the string which held her
trousers in place she might practise too successfully and give
finality to a rehearsal which was meant to be tentative. Yet the
interest of examining the articles of her clothing for their possible
use in suicide had the paradoxical result of cheering the girl and
diverting her from the extreme depths of morbid terror. It was like
planning a game to think how self-destruction could be effected by
the limited means at her command. Nancy became more light-hearted
over the problem of this danger which had swooped down so
unexpectedly from the gayety of a summer stroll. The temple, at all
events, had relapsed into quiet. The girl's courage was not put too
quickly to the crisis of defending her door.