EUTHANASIA
"Did you see yon?" cried Mackenzie, turning to the others.
"The Chinky!" gasped Jackson, under his breath.
"Och, man! there's no need to moderate your voice. We've no hobgoblins
or supernatural beings of any kind whatever to deal with, but just that
ruffian of a fellow I've had my suspicions about all along. That's an
established fact."
Mackenzie spoke loudly and emphatically; he was indeed a little sore at
the recollection of his own uneasiness. To his practical mind the
secret stairway and the mysterious procession counted for nothing
against the solid fact that here was the Chinaman whom he had
mistrusted.
"He has shut us in," he added. "Well, he may be sorry for it yet.
We'll just gang on, my laddies."
"But how about getting back?" asked Jackson.
"Eh, now! That's not a practical question. The shutter is a sort of
portcullis, you may say, defending a sort of castle. Well, we will
assume that this Beresford man is a prisoner in the castle. To get him
out, the first thing was to get in ourselves. That we have done.
What's more, we can't get out just at present, and, speaking for myself,
I'll not go out without Beresford, if he's alive."
"I'm with you, Mac," said Forrester. "But, after all, we don't know that
Beresford is here."
"We don't _know_, but there's good warrant for the suspicion. D'ye ken
what I've been thinking? Beresford and the other man happened upon some
secret here about, and the inhabitants--Chinese, by the look of
it--collared them to prevent the secret getting abroad. That ruffian
guessed from our line of march that we were coming here, just out of
curiosity, maybe, for he couldn't have known anything about
Beresford----"
"Unless he was here at the time, and left after Redfern's escape,"
Forrester suggested.
"Ah! That didn't occur to me. Anyway, he gave us the slip in the scrub
back yonder just to prepare for our reception if we came along, and I
acknowledge that the nature of our reception is a disagreeable
surprise."
"Whatever the motive for detaining Beresford may be, it applies to us,
too," said Forrester.
"True, and therefore we'll have to watch out. It's a difficult
situation."
"They might starve us, or murder us, or anything," said Jackson,
somewhat nervously.
"There's just one thing against that," returned Mackenzie, "and that's
the fact that our carriers are not with us. The Chinky knows that;
he'll guess, or discover, that they're waiting for us in the village
away yonder, and fear that if we don't return they'll hie back to
Dibrugarh, and give the alarm."
"What do you think he'll do, then?" Forrester asked.
"Keep us here until we're starved or cowed into submission, and then let
us go under a vow to say nothing at all. But it's no good speculating.
We're in the castle; the first thing is to explore it. Come away!"
There seemed nothing better to be done. The party turned their backs on
the shutter, and once more marched along the rift. The events of the
last half-hour had made Mackenzie more uneasy than he cared to admit;
but as the most level-headed of the party he felt the necessity of
keeping up the spirits of his companions, and resolutely tried to
conquer his misgivings.
They pushed on through the rift, searching the wall on either side for
signs of an outlet; but the rock was still as smooth as heretofore. At
last a couple of unusually sharp bends brought them to another
constricted passage, which, like the one behind them, was closed by an
iron shutter. Checked by this, they stood for a few moments in absolute
silence, looking at one another without any attempt to disguise their
alarm. The distance between the two shutters was, perhaps, 120 yards.
On each side rose an unscalable wall. They were prisoners, as it were,
at the bottom of a well.
The silence was broken by a wail from Hamid Gul. It served to brace up
the white men.
"Whisht!" exclaimed Mackenzie. "Wait while I strike a light."
He kindled a match, and raised it above his head.
"This shutter is not so high as the other," he said. "We've just got to
climb over it."
"How?" asked Forrester. "It's twelve or fourteen feet high, and as
smooth as a board. There's nothing to stand on."
"Except our shoulders," Mackenzie retorted. "Here, Sher Jang, you're
the broadest of us. Come and stand just here. I'll mount you; then,
Bob, you're the slimmest, you swarm up. On my shoulders you'll be able
to see over. Take the matches. Keep a look-out, Dick, and if you see
anyone above threaten mischief, just fire off your revolver--not to hit
him, you understand. Diplomacy comes before war."
Sher Jang stooped while Mackenzie mounted his back, then slowly rose to
his full height. Mackenzie rested his hands on the shutter, and Jackson
clambered up the human pedestal, and grasped the top of the iron gate.
Next moment he fell back with a stifled cry. Mackenzie caught him in
his arms; but his weight was too much for the stability of the column.
It tottered, and all three men fell sprawling on the ground.
"The top was red hot!" cried Jackson, lifting himself and rubbing his
elbow.
"Hold up your hands, man!" cried Mackenzie, picking up the fallen box of
matches. He struck a light and examined Jackson's palms. "Your nerves
are all to pieces," he added. "Yon's no red hot, or your hands would be
blistered and branded red. There's something in it, though. Look here,
Dick!"
They saw a faint purple streak about an inch wide across the middle of
the fingers of each hand.
"Any pain now?" asked Forrester.
"No; only a sort of tingle," Jackson replied, feeling a little ashamed
of himself. "I was taken by surprise, but it really is hot."
"I'll have a try," said Forrester. "Get up again, Mac."
Once more Mackenzie stood on the shikari's shoulders, and Forrester
clambered up as Jackson had done. Forewarned, he did not start back and
upset the balance when he touched the top of the shutter; but he removed
his fingers from it quickly, and called out that it was certainly very
hot--too hot to grasp while he hauled himself over. He slid down,
Mackenzie leapt to the ground, and they looked at one another in a sort
of despair.
"Can't we blow down the shutter with our cartridges?" Forrester at
length suggested.
"We might not succeed, and, anyway, it would be a loss of ammunition we
may badly need before long," replied Mackenzie.
"What in the world are we to do?" muttered Jackson, peering about him
anxiously.
"The fact is----" Forrester was beginning; but at this moment they were
all startled, and yet relieved, at hearing a human cry from above them.
"Who's that?" Mackenzie called, lifting a lighted match above his head.
For a moment they searched the face of the rock in vain; but then the
light struck dimly upon a head, projecting, as it were, out of the solid
wall thirty feet above them. They could distinguish neither shape nor
feature, but before the match went out they saw a second head
projecting, like a gargoyle from a Gothic wall, close beside the first.
"Who's that?" Mackenzie called again.
"Gentlemen!"
The word floated down eerily; it was as though a gargoyle were speaking;
and the voice was that of the younger Chinaman whom they knew--high
pitched, yet low in tone, hardly more than a whisper.
"Gentlemen," he said, "the August and Venerable welcomes you to his
sanctuary. Uninvited you come, but none the less are you welcome. The
August and Venerable will extend to you such hospitality as lies within
his means. But it is not meet that armed parties should enter the holy
precincts. Be content, therefore; withdraw to the lower gate, and leave
your weapons there. When you return, this upper gate will be opened to
you, and I shall have the honour and privilege of introducing you to the
Presence."
This speech was delivered in the dull, dreamy, expressionless tone which
had characterised all the young man's utterances, except in those few
tense minutes succeeding his rescue from the elephant--the monotonous
sing-song of a child nervously reciting a lesson.
"The 'Presence' is that one-armed rascal beside him, I suppose,"
whispered Forrester. "The poor weed says what he is told to say. What's
our answer?"
"We're in an awkward fix," Jackson began, but Mackenzie cut him short.
"Things aren't so hopeless as that," he said, quickly. "We'll not part
with our arms--our only protection. We don't know when we may need
them. I'll answer the fellow." Raising his voice, he said: "We refuse
to lay down our arms. We have no hostile intentions--we're as meek as
lambs--but the shutting of the gates is a dashed unfriendly act, and
makes us mighty doubtful about our welcome. Lift this gate, and lead us
to the presence of the August and Venerable. We demand an audience with
him."
His comrades thought that a more conciliatory manner and more formal
phrases might have served them better, but they said nothing. There was
no reply from above; they supposed that the young Chinaman was
translating to his master, though they heard no sound. It was too dark
to see the heads without artificial light; and after a minute or two had
passed in silence Mackenzie struck a match, and held it so that its
light would fall on the spot where the shapes had been seen. But the
wall was blank; the gargoyles had disappeared.
"What's going on now?" Forrester murmured.
"Maybe they're sending someone to work the machinery," answered
Mackenzie.
They waited silently, expecting every moment to hear the harsh grating
of the rising shutter, and the rattle of the chains. But minutes passed,
and there was no sound except the hard panting breaths of Hamid Gul.
Gradually, however, they became conscious of a strange feeling of
oppression. The mustiness of the air, which they had felt ever since
they entered the rift, became impregnated with a subtle new odour. At
first they paid little attention to it, merely remarking on it one to
another. But presently Jackson began to sway on his feet.
"I feel funny," he said, slowly. "Getting--awfully--sleepy."
"Hold up, man!" said Mackenzie, sharply, as Jackson staggered against
him. "Dick, take him by the arm; we'll walk him about."
"If I can," returned Forrester. "I feel uncommonly drowsy, too."
They took Jackson by the arms, and led him down the rift in the
direction of the first shutter. A few yards away they passed Hamid Gul,
lying with relaxed limbs on the ground. With growing alarm Mackenzie
tried to hurry the pace, but his companions became moment by moment
heavier on his hands. After a minute or two he let Jackson's arm go
without knowing it. In a few seconds more his grip of Forrester
loosened, and he walked on two or three paces alone. Then he, too, fell
a prey to the overmastering influence of the atmosphere.
[Illustration: Taking Jackson by the arms, they led him down the rift,
and a few yards away, they came upon Hamid Gul, lying with relaxed limbs
on the ground.]
"Hold up, I'm telling you!" he muttered, staggering and reaching out
with his hands.
Next moment, without volition of his own, he sat down on the ground,
striving, like a man half drunk, to keep himself erect, and declaring to
himself that he was "quite all right." But his hands fell limply to his
sides, his body swayed gently, his head nodded, and in a few seconds he,
like the rest, was prone in unconsciousness.