A MESSAGE FROM MISS SANBURN.
A tumult in the street announced that Ommony’s ruse had only gained a
moment’s respite. The night was alive with curiosity; a voice that
bellowed like a fog-horn asked who the actors were—when they would
perform again—whether San-fun-ho was a Mahatma—if so, which of all the
pantheon he favored. Another voice shouted for San-fun-ho to come out
and speak.
However, it appeared the Lama had foreseen all that. The bleating sheep
gave notice that the barrier was down and the crowd swarmed into the
alley. But a string of elephants to all appearance loaded filed down the
alley from the compound and the crowd had to retreat; those elephants
paraded through the town streets, drawing the crowd after them, and
there were no spectators when the gate at the opposite end of the
compound opened and the Lama’s long procession—camels, elephants and
this time mules as well—swayed toward open country.
The same Tibetan shared a howdah with Ommony, Dawa Tsering and Diana,
and was just as uncommunicative as before. They crossed a railway line;
an engine whistled and they had to cling to the howdah when the elephant
climbed an embankment and descended on the far side; and once there was
hollow thunder underfoot as the procession crossed a long bridge. The
pace was much more leisurely than on the first night, and there were
fewer interruptions; but twice out of the darkness, once in the gloom of
overhanging trees, and once where the crimson glow of a bonfire shone
through the howdah curtains, muttered orders came from men on foot and
the direction changed.
About two hours before dawn a halt was called in what appeared to be
some kind of royal park; there was a wall all around it and there were
peculiar walled subdivisions, but nothing to show who the owner might
be. The elephants, camels and mules returned by the way they had come,
leaving the baggage heaped in a clearing between trees. Somebody shouted
a long series of incomprehensible commands, repeating it all three
times, and Ommony was hurried away to a tent in a triangular space with
a stone wall on either hand and trees in front. There was a good bed in
the tent, and a generous meal all ready on a linen-covered table.
When Ommony had finished eating Samding emerged out of the darkness like
a ghost and stood framed in the tent opening, looking like a cameo
against the sky.
“Tsiang Samdup sends a blessing,” he said calmly. “He requests that you
will not leave this enclosure. Kindly do not go beyond the trees.”
He disappeared again. It was not until he had gone that it occurred to
Ommony the language he had used was English. Speaking, thinking in two
languages concurrently, occasionally listening to a third, one does not
identify them without an effort. For a minute or two Ommony sat still,
trying to recall the _chela’s_ voice, intonation and accent; it seemed
to him that if the words had not been perfectly pronounced he would have
noticed instantly that the _chela_ was talking English, not Urdu. He
recalled the exact words one by one. “Blessing,” “enclosure” and “the”
were key-words that would inevitably have betrayed a foreign accent had
there been one; as far as he could remember all three words had been
stressed exactly as a well educated Englishman would use them; he was
sure there had been no accent on the vowel in “the”—a shibboleth that
everlastingly betrays the Asian born.
“I’ll swear that youngster is European,” he muttered—and then laughed
at himself. No European—certainly no English youth ever had it in him
to seem so saintly and at the same time to be so inoffensive. There
would have been an almost irresistible impulse to kick any western youth
who dared to look as virtuous as that. One did not want to kick Samding.
Ommony turned Diana loose to roam wherever she pleased; no inhibition
had been laid on her. He hoped natural canine curiosity might lead her
to make new acquaintances who in some way would help to throw light on
the mystery; for as he threw himself on the bed to sleep the whole thing
seemed a deeper mystery than ever. Was it propaganda intended to foist
Samding on the country as a new mahatma? A political mahatma, who should
bring on revolution? If so, why the sudden flight? What could be the
advantage of creating intense enthusiasm and then running away from it?
He was awakened late in the morning by a man who removed the dishes and
spread a fresh meal on the linen-covered table. The man was some one he
had not seen before, as silent as an oiled automaton. Diana was coiled
up asleep on her sacking. Dawa Tsering, smelling hot food, awoke with a
start to devour it, and it was he who first noticed the silence.
“Gupta Rao, we are—”
He left his bowl of food and ran to the trees that screened the end of
the enclosure, peered between them, and came hurrying back with a grin
on his face.
“It is true. They have gone and left us!”
Ommony’s obstinate jaw came forward with a jerk. An insult from the
Lama’s lips could not have produced a tenth of the effect.
“Damn him after all!” he muttered. “I admitted I was spying. If he’d
simply asked me to clear out, I’d have gone and waited for him at
Tilgaun. I’ll be blowed, though, if I’ll let up now. I’ll trace him if I
have to—”
He sat down on the bed, glancing in the dog’s direction, wondering how
much she had seen in the night and wishing she could really talk. She
was curled up fast asleep, but his eye detected something on her collar.
He called her, and removed a piece of paper that had been wired to the
brass ring; it was twisted and soiled, but the writing on the inside was
perfectly legible, English, and done in heavy quill pen strokes that he
believed were the Lama’s, although there was no signature.
“There is a time for silence and a time for speech; a time for
seeing and a time for covering the eyes. This is the time for
silence and not seeing. Obey him who will attend you.”
But the man in attendance had vanished. The only living creatures in
sight outside the tent were crows on the top of the near-by wall and
kites wheeling lazily overhead. There was almost perfect silence—no
roofs—no smoke—nothing to suggest that there were human beings within
ten miles.
“I will explore,” said Dawa Tsering. “That old Lama is a great one at
writing letters that mean nothing. Maybe I shall find that fellow who
brought the breakfast. If I beat him he may interest me with some news.”
Ommony sat still and read the note again. The Lama _might_ be simply
inducing him to waste time instead of starting in pursuit; but there
were several other possibilities, not the least that the Lama’s route
might be leading somewhere where it would be dangerous for a foreigner
to go disguised. There are individuals, in India as elsewhere, who would
dare to ask the devil or even a Bhat-Brahman for his identification
papers.
Another not unreasonable theory was that the Lama might be willing to be
spied on at just such times as his actions were not mischievous, but
would prefer to keep the spy at a distance when events of true
importance were under way.
At any rate, the wording of the note might be held to imply a diplomatic
threat that disobedience would terminate all communication. And on the
other hand, he supposed the Lama—a remarkably good judge of human
nature—knew that he, Ommony, would not permit himself to be dropped
into the discard quite so easily as that. If it was a trick, there would
be more to it than merely leaving him behind; the best course was to sit
still and await developments.
He awaited them for fifteen minutes, and then Dawa Tsering came, but not
as a free agent. He was being led by the ear, although his huge “knife”
was in his right hand and there seemed to be nothing to prevent plunging
it into his custodian’s stomach. Diana growled a challenge and ran
forward to sniff quarrelsomely at the legs of the stranger, who ignored
her as if she were not there; after a few sniffs she seemed to recognize
him and returned to the tent, where she lay down close to Ommony and
watched. She had ceased growling. The hair on her neck was no longer on
end.
The stranger appeared to be a Sikh, but was possibly a Rajput. He was
more than six feet tall, wore his black beard parted and brushed upward,
looked extremely handsome in a gray silk turban whose end fell down over
his shoulder, and was dressed in almost military looking khaki—jacket
and trousers, with a gray silk cummerbund around his waist. He strode
with consummate dignity that appeared to be natural, not assumed.
He let go Dawa Tsering’s ear when he came within three strides of the
tent, and took no further notice whatever of the Hillman, who stood a
couple of paces away and thumbed the edge of his weapon, making grimaces
that were nearly as inhuman as the grin on the devil-mask he had worn on
the stage. There was nothing to show there had been a struggle; both
men’s clothes were in order; neither man was breathing hard. The
stranger’s dark-brown eyes looked steadily into the gloom within the
tent and he presently saluted after a fashion of his own, quite
unmilitary, something like the ancient Roman, raising his right hand,
palm outward.
“Mr. Ommony?” he asked, in English.
“No!” roared Dawa Tsering. “Gupta Rao, thou ignorant idiot! A
Bhat-Brahman from Bikanir—a man who has a devil in him, who can teach
thee manners!”
“Yes, I’m Ommony.”
There was something in the voice and in the eyes that warned Ommony
there was nothing to be gained by evasion. He stood up and returned the
salute, also in his own way, adding to the gesture of his right hand an
almost unnoticeable finger movement. The other man smiled.
“I am Sirdar Sirohe Singh, of Tilgaun.”
Ommony laughed sharply, the way a deep-sea captain coughs sarcastic
comment when a pilot has missed the tide. Here was the Secret Service
after all! It was Sirdar Sirohe Singh who had sent the written report of
the missing piece of jade to McGregor.
“Come in,” he said abruptly, and made room on the bed for the _sirdar_
to sit down. He did not try to pretend to be glad to see him, but the
_sirdar’s_ next words altered the whole aspect of affairs.
“I do hope my letter to Number One did no harm,” he began, stretching
out long legs in front of him and speaking at the tent wall. His English
was almost perfect, but guttural and a trifle aspirated. “I was in a
difficult position. As a member of the Secret Service I was obliged to
report. As the Lama’s friend I felt—naturally—other obligations. It
was not until I learned that you were assigned to investigate that I
ceased to worry.”
“Who told you?” asked Ommony.
“Oh, I heard it. News travels, you know. No, I have not been in Delhi.”
(He had answered Ommony’s thought; the question was unspoken.) “I
arrived last night from the north. The Lama asked me to submit myself to
your disposal.”
“Does this place belong to you?” asked Ommony, examining the calm,
strong profile against the light. He had heard that the _sirdar_ was a
wealthy landowner.
“No. The Lama has the temporary use of it.”
“It was kind of you to—how did you express it?—submit yourself to my
disposal. What I most need is information,” said Ommony.
“Ah. That is elusive stuff.”
“Not if you keep after it. Tell me what you know about the Lama.”
The _sirdar_ turned his head quickly and looked straight at Ommony.
“Did you receive a note from him?” he asked. “It was tied to the dog’s
collar.”
Ommony looked into the baffling dark eyes and could read nothing there
except that the _sirdar knew much more_ than he proposed to tell. He was
also conscious of dislike, and knew that it was mutual.
“Just to what extent are you at my disposal?” he asked bluntly.
“I am to convey you to another place. Of course, that is, at the proper
time and if you wish to go; not otherwise.”
“Will the Lama be there?”
“Possibly.”
“Tell me what you know of Samding.”
“Did you read the note?” asked the _sirdar_, again meeting Ommony’s
stare. “I have a message for you from Miss Sanburn at the Tilgaun
Mission. She entertained me the night I left Tilgaun. I admitted to her
it was possible I might meet you somewhere. She asked me to convey
affectionate regards and to say that she would appreciate notice of
exactly when she may expect you.”
Ommony turned that over in his mind for half a minute. He could imagine
no legitimate reason why Hannah Sanburn should ask for notice in
advance. As a trustee it was his duty to pay surprise visits. Mrs.
Cornock-Campbell’s story of a girl named Elsa of whose very existence he
had never previously heard, was a perfectly good reason for paying his
next visit unannounced.
“When will you be seeing Miss Sanburn again?” he asked.
“Oh, quite soon.”
“Will it be necessary to admit to her that you have seen me?”
“Just as you like.”
“Please don’t admit it then.”
The _sirdar_ nodded; he seemed to regard the message as quite
unimportant. Ommony followed the train of thought, however, and tried to
catch him off-guard with a question asked casually, as if he were merely
making conversation:
“Have you seen Miss Sanburn’s friend Elsa lately?”
But the _sirdar_ was not to be caught. It was impossible to tell whether
or not he knew any girl of that name.
“Elsa?” he said.
“I see you don’t know her,” said Ommony, unconvinced but judging it
would be useless to pursue the subject. He did not see how a man who
lived on the outskirts of such a small place as Tilgaun could very well
be ignorant of the existence of Hannah Sanburn’s remarkable protégée,
more especially since he was a trained and trusted member of the Secret
Service, whose duty it would be to report any unusual circumstance. He
did not doubt that the _sirdar_ had been retained in the Secret Service
roster as much to keep an eye on the Mission as for any other reason.
“When are we to leave this place?” he asked.
“To-night. The Lama asked me to suggest to you the wisdom of not leaving
the tent until I come for you—after the evening meal.”
“Very well,” said Ommony, standing up to cut short the interview. There
was no sense in talking to a man who was determined to say nothing.
“I’ll be here when you come.”
The _sirdar_ bowed with dignity and strode away. The moment he was out
of earshot Ommony called Dawa Tsering into the tent.
“Is my trunk in sight?” he demanded.
“Nay, everything is gone. My yak-hair cloak is gone, and my good
blankets. Those Tibetans—”
That looked as if the Lama intended to await them somewhere. Ommony
interrupted with another question:
“How did that _sirdar_ manage you so easily?”
Dawa Tsering looked sulky. “I will lay him belly-upward one of these
days!”
“How did you come to let him lead you by the ear then?”
“Huh! He lives at Tilgaun.”
“What of it?”
“He is the friend of Missish-Anbun at the Mission.”
“What of that?”
“He is also the friend of the Rajah of Tilgaun; and of the monks in the
hills around Tilgaun; and of all the rascals who make Tilgaun a byword
all the way from Lhassa to Darjiling. He has a servant with him, who
would have seen, and would have told tales, if I had done more than draw
my knife; and I tell you, Ommon_ee_, that dog of a _sirdar’s_ influence
reaches all the way to Spiti. I don’t want too many enemies; I have
enough of them in Spiti as it is.”
“Why did you draw your knife?”
“Because I saw him, and he saw me, and I said to him, ‘Thou! We are not
in Tilgaun. Have a care; the kites in this part are just as hungry as
those that live farther to the north!’
“And to that he said, ‘Maybe. But the kites must say prayers to
Garudi[35], it is not I who must feed them.’ And at that he took me by
the ear and led me hither. He is altogether too despotic.”
“I’m afraid you’ll be a poor friend to rely on in a tight place,” said
Ommony, smiling.
“I? I am a terror in a tight place! That is just what I am good at. But
I like first to be sure it _is_ a tight place, and that the luck is
reasonable. Lately I have had bad luck. But wait and see!”
He sat down to sharpen his knife with a small imported hone that he had
stolen somewhere, humming to himself a song about the feuds of Spiti,
where
“A white mist rolls into a valley and sleeps,
O-ayee-O-ayee-O-ah!
There’s a knife in the mist, and a young widow weeps,
O-ayee-O-ayee-O-ah!”
Ommony lay on the bed in the tent and forced himself to accept the
situation calmly. There was no use in racking his brains; the mystery
now had become still more involved by the fact that Sirdar Sirohe Singh
was a member of the Secret Service, who considered himself obligated to
report unusual incidents to McGregor and yet did not hesitate to lend a
hand in obscuring the very trail he had requested McGregor to
investigate; who instantly returned the secret identification signal,
and yet refused to give information; who had been ordered by McGregor to
remain in Tilgaun and observe events, and yet did not mind showing
himself within two days’ march of Delhi (nearly a thousand miles from
Tilgaun) to a fellow member of the Secret Service, who he had no reason
to suppose would not report him!
The mystery increased again when night fell. The same dumb, nondescript
servant who had brought breakfast came with supper and hovered twenty
yards away, signaling with a white cloth when Ommony had finished
eating. Promptly in answer to the signal the _sirdar_ stepped out from
the trees with a lantern and called for Gupta Rao in a loud voice,
retreating as Ommony advanced toward him until, on the far side of the
belt of trees. Ommony was aware of shadowy forms of men—horses, at
least a dozen of them in a long line, with gaps between—great shadowy
carriages that filled the gaps as he drew nearer—and at last, smiling
as placidly as if the new moon that shone like a sliver of pure gold
over his shoulder were a halo he had just discarded, the Lama himself.
Samding was in attendance, moving about among the horses, patting them;
Ommony noticed him ease a bearing rein. The Lama nodded to Ommony,
stepped into the foremost carriage followed by Samding, and drove away
at a gallop, the carriage swaying like a big gun going into action.
Sirdar Sirohe Singh pushed Ommony into the next carriage (which had only
four horses, whereas the Lama’s had six) allowed Diana just sufficient
time to jump in behind him, and slammed the door, almost shutting it on
the dog’s tail. A whip cracked instantly and the carriage started
rocking and bumping in the Lama’s wake. A moment later a third and a
fourth carriage followed.
Within was almost total darkness. There were two windows made of slats,
forming part of the doors; Ommony tried them both, but the slides were
nailed in position. He opened a door and swung himself out on the
footboard to get a view of the following carriages, which he could just
discern through the gloom and the cloud of dust, their drivers swaying
on the high box-seats and shouting as they plied the whip. There was no
way of guessing whether Dawa Tsering had been left behind or not. He
climbed back into the carriage, holding the door open, but could not see
much except dust, darkness and occasional shadowy tree-trunks.
The pace was furious. The flight was evidently prearranged, and managed
perfectly. Horses were changed every ten miles or so, but whenever that
happened men came to either side of Ommony’s carriage and held the doors
shut, riding on the footboards afterward until the place where the
change was made was out of sight. The route, except at intervals, did
not lie along macadamed roads; once they lurched into a dry stream-bed
and followed that for a mile or two, the wheels sinking in sand. But
that, too, had been foreseen; men were waiting there, who ran alongside
and seized the wheels whenever they sunk too deep, toiling as silently
and smartly as a gun crew.
It was almost dawn when they rumbled over the paved streets of a
fair-sized town, but there was nothing to show what town it was. At last
squared stones rang underfoot, a great gate slammed, and a Tibetan
opened the carriage door. Ommony found himself in a courtyard in front
of what looked like a temple door, only there seemed to be no temple at
the back of it—nothing but a wall and a dense thicket of trees on
ground that sloped up-hill for more than a mile.
The Tibetan, taking him by the elbow, led him up steps through the
entrance and down again into a cavern that was lighted with little
imported kerosene lamps set in niches in the hewn rock walls. There was
a maze of passages to right and left, and one wide tunnel that wound
snake-wise until it opened into a vault, part natural and part very
ancient masonry, that would have held five thousand people.
The Tibetan led him across that great crypt, down a passage at the far
end, through a short tunnel into a shaft about fifty feet square at the
base. Its sides sloped inward so as to be utterly unclimbable and
seventy or eighty feet overhead was a patch of sky not more than twenty
feet across.
In the midst, exactly under the square patch of daylight was a tank,
brim-full of clean water. On every side of the enclosure there were
square openings half-concealed by curtains made of matting. Ommony was
led through one of those into a cave about twenty feet long, very
plainly but quite comfortably furnished, and there the Tibetan left him
without a word.
There was no restraint placed on him; he went and sat down in the
opening, watching the dawn gradually fill the place with light until the
clouds shone clearly reflected in the shallow tank.
After a while the Lama entered, followed by Samding and several
Tibetans, or men who looked like Tibetans; they crossed to the far side
and disappeared through one of the curtained openings. Not long after
that great quantities of food—enough for twenty or thirty people—were
brought in earthenware bowls; enough for two men was set down beside
Ommony and the remainder was carried through the opening through which
the Lama had disappeared.
Ommony was left entirely to himself. After a while he sent Diana to
explore, but though she disappeared through the Lama’s entrance and
stayed within for more than half an hour, nothing came of it; she
returned and lay down beside him with her head on her paws, as if she
had no information to convey.
So he proceeded to explore on his own account, commencing by merely
walking around the tank. Nothing happened, so he peered into one opening
that had no mat in front of it, walked in and found a cave almost
exactly like his own, leading nowhere. He stayed in there a minute or
two examining a very ancient carving on the wall, that bore no
resemblance to any monument he had ever seen and yet was vaguely
familiar; he could not guess its significance; it was extremely simple,
almost formless, and yet suggestive of an infinite variety of forms; he
tried to memorize it, for future reference, and then remembered that the
glyph, with which the letter to McGregor in a woman’s handwriting had
been signed, was almost if not quite the same shape.
He was on his way out when Samding met him in the door, his brown turban
and cloak outlined in gold by the daylight at his back. More than ever
the _chela_ seemed like some one from another world, and as usual he
spoke without preliminary, in a voice no man could quarrel with:
“Tsiang Samdup desires you should not ask questions.” The words were
English, beautifully spoken. “If anything is lacking for your comfort
you are to command _me_.”
Ommony laughed. “All right. I command you. Explain what all this means!”
Samding’s face became lit with sudden laughter—not
aggravating—friendly—wise—humorous.
“Tsiang Samdup says, knowledge comes from within, not from without,” he
answered. “As a man thinks, so are his surroundings. Tsiang Samdup says,
the eyes of curiosity see only what is not so, and it is not only a
man’s lips that ask questions; the eyes and the taste and the touch are
all inquisitive, seeking to learn from without what shall deny the truth
within. He who would see the dawn must wait for it; and even so, if he
is blind, it will be darkness to him.”
“Where did you learn English?” Ommony demanded.
“From within,” said the _chela_. “All knowledge comes from within.”
Ommony laughed back at him. “All right. Tell me from within where Dawa
Tsering is.”
“He shall tell you himself,” said the _chela_.
He stepped back and pointed to Ommony’s cave. There sat Dawa Tsering in
the doorway, scratching his back against the rock. The _chela_ walked
away, stroking Diana’s head, who followed him as far as the entrance to
the Lama’s cave.
“Where have _you_ been?” asked Ommony, going over and standing in front
of the Hillman.
“Nowhere. I rode in the carriage behind you, with a lot of Tibetans.
They are fools, and I won their money playing dice. Thinking to follow
the luck, when I reached this place I discovered where those girls
are—all in a big cave together—may it fall in and destroy them! They
were too many, and they made a mock of me. But wait until I get them one
at a time! I am not one to be mocked by women, Gupta Rao!”
-----
[35] The God of the birds.
This much I know: that it is easy to cause offense and easy to
give pleasure, but difficult to ignore all considerations except
justice, and much more difficult to judge rightly whoever,
ignoring both offense and pleasure, leaves the outcome of his
actions to the Higher Law. Therefore, judge yourself alone, for
that is difficult enough; and, depend on it, the Higher Law will
judge you also.
From the Book of the Sayings of Tsiang Samdup.