George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

“Arthur—something startling! What do you mean?”

“That he seems to have bolted with Helen Perowne!”

“Henry!”

“Well, my dear, they were seen together last, and they are now missing. What is one to say?”

“If you cannot say words of greater wisdom than that, Henry, pray be silent.”

“All right, my dear—come along.”

But if the doctor was disposed to be silent, so was not his lady, who began to find out cause after cause for her brother’s absence.

“Someone is ill, I’m sure, Henry, and Arthur has been summoned to the bedside.”

“Nonsense! If anyone were ill,” said the doctor, testily, “I should be sent for; and there is no one ill now, though we shall have half a dozen poorly to-morrow after that supper of Perowne’s.”

“Then some terrible accident has happened,” said Mrs Bolter. “Arthur would never have stopped away like this without some special reason.”

“Well, we shall see,” said the doctor.

“Henry,” said the lady, suddenly; and she came to a full stop.

“Yes, my dear.”

“Do you think it likely that Helen Perowne—poor foolish girl—would do such a thing?”

“What, as to run off with Arthur?” chuckled the little doctor.

“For shame, Henry! I say do you think she is likely to have walked down to the river-side because it is cool and slipped in? There is not the slightest protection.”

“No, my dear, I do not think anything of the sort,” replied the doctor, angrily. “She is a deal more likely to be courting some coxcomb or another in a shady walk, and they have forgotten all about the time.”

“Absurd!” exclaimed Mrs Bolter. “Absurd, eh? Why, that’s what she is always thinking about. How many fellows has she been flirting with since we knew her?”

“I am waiting for you, Dr Bolter,” said the lady, austerely, “and I must say that I think your words are very unfeeling indeed.”

“I’ll bleed her if she has fainted!” said the doctor, grimly. “I should like to bleed that girl, old-fashioned as the notion is! If I don’t, I’ll give her such a dosing as she shan’t forget in a hurry—calling a fellow up like this!”

They hurried out into the star-lit night, with everything seeming hushed and strange. The trees whispered low from time to time; then came a sullen splash from the river, as if some huge creature had just plunged in. Once or twice came a peculiar, weird-sounding cry from the jungle—one which made Mrs Doctor forget her annoyance with her husband and creep close to his side. Just then they heard hurried footsteps. “Did you bring your pistols with you, dear?” whispered Mrs Bolter.

“No,” he said, sharply; “I’ve got a rhubarb draught, a bottle of chlorodyne, the sal-volatile, and a lancet. That will be enough. Think I meant to shoot the girl?”

“Don’t be absurd, dear! Take care, there is someone coming.”

“Another call for me!” grumbled the doctor, sleepily. “That’s the effect of giving parties in a hot climate. Hullo!”

“Yes, doctor,” said a familiar voice.

“Oh! it’s you two. Well have you found her all right?”

“We’ve been to Stuart’s,” said the Resident, sharply.

“Well, what news?”

“They have not seen or heard of either of them,” replied the Resident.

“Do you know that my—”

“Oh, hush!” whispered Mrs Doctor, excitedly, “you had better not—”

“Why, they must know it, my dear,” he whispered back. “It is of no use to hide anything.”

“I did not understand you, doctor,” said the Resident.

“I say that my brother-in-law, Rosebury, has not been home.”

“The chaplain!” cried Mr Harley, and he stopped short upon the path.

“Hasn’t been home,” continued the doctor. “They’ve all gone in somewhere. Who else is away?”

“Hilton and Chumbley.”

“Oh, it’s all right. They’re somewhere; but it’s very foolish of them to frighten some people and rouse others up like this,” said the doctor.

“I hope we shall find a pleasant solution of what is at present a mystery,” said the Resident. “Mrs Bolter, it is very kind of you to come,” he added, warmly.

“Yes; I thank you too,” said Perowne, in a dreamy, absent way. “It is very strange; but where is Miss Stuart?”

“Stuart said she was asleep,” said the Resident.

“Oh, to be sure. Yes; I remember,” said Mr Perowne.

“We took her safely home,” said Mrs Bolter, quickly.

They had not far to go to the gates of the merchant’s grounds, but it seemed to all to be a long and dreary walk past the various dark houses of the European and native merchants, not one of which gave any token of the life within.

The gates were open, and they walked over the gritting gravel to where the door stood, like the windows of the bungalow, still open, and a lamp or two were yet burning in the grounds, one of which paper lanterns, as they approached, caught fire, and blazed up for a moment and then hung, a few shreds of tinder, from a verdant arch.

It was a mere trifle, but it seemed like a presage of some trouble to the house, seen as it was by those who approached, three of the party being in that unreal, uncomfortable state suffered by all who are roused from their sleep to hear that there is “something wrong.”

The servants looked soared as they entered, and announced that they had been looking, as they expressed it, “everywhere” without success.

Lanterns were lit and a thorough exploration of the grounds followed, the only result being that a glove was found—plainly enough one that had been dropped by someone walking near the river.

That was all, and the night passed with the searchers awaking everyone they knew in turn, but to obtain not the slightest information; and daybreak found the father looking older and greyer by ten years as he stood in his office facing the Resident, the doctor, and Mrs Bolter, and asking what they should do next.

“We must have a thorough daylight search,” said Mr Harley. “Then the boatmen must all be examined. It hardly appears probable, but Hilton and Chumbley may have proposed a water trip. It seems to us now, cool and thoughtful, a mad proposal, but still it is possible.”

“Yes, and Helen would not go without my brother to take care of her,” said Mrs Bolter, triumphantly, for she had been longing for some explanation of her brother’s absence, and this was the first that offered.

“Oh, no, Mary,” said the doctor, crushing her hopes as he shook his head.

“No, Mrs Bolter,” said the Resident, slowly; and he seemed to be speaking and thinking deeply the while. “I am sure Miss Perowne could not be guilty of so imprudent an act.”

“No,” said her father, speaking now more boldly and without reserve. “You are right, Harley. Helen loves admiration, but she would not have compromised herself in such a way, neither would Mr Rosebury have given such an act his countenance.”

The Resident raised his head as if to speak, and then remained silent.

“What are you thinking, Harley,” said the doctor.

“Yes, pray speak out,” cried Mrs Bolter. “I am sure we are all only too anxious to find some comfort.”

“I was thinking of what could have happened to them, for depend upon it they are all together.”

“Yes,” said Mr Perowne; “but you were thinking more than that.”

“I must think,” said the Resident. “I cannot say anything definite now.”

“Then I know what it is,” cried Mrs Bolter.

“Will you kindly speak out, madam?” said the old merchant, harshly.

“I should be sorry to accuse falsely,” said Mrs Bolter, excitedly; “but I was warned of this, and I can’t help thinking that someone else is at the bottom of this night’s work.”

“And who’s that?” said the doctor, quickly.

Mrs Bolter was silent.

“Rajah Murad, you mean,” said the doctor, quickly; “and he has been waiting his time.”

“And now strikes at us like a serpent in the dark!” cried Mr Perowne, angrily. “It is the Malay character all over. Heaven help me! My poor girl!”

Volume Two—Chapter Four.

Mrs Barlow.

Mr Perowne’s house was literally besieged the next morning, for the news of the disappearance ran through the little community like wildfire. British and native communities were equally excited; and after snatching an hour’s rest at the imperative command of his wife, the doctor was hastily swallowing some breakfast previous to going back to Mr Perowne’s, but could hardly get on for interruptions.

“I am not alarmed, Henry,” said the little lady, in a quiet, decided way; “and I insist upon your being properly fortified before unduly exerting yourself. I could not bear for you to be ill.”

The words were said very quietly, but in such a tone that Dr Bolter set down his cup, and rising, left his place, and tenderly embraced the earnest little woman he had made his wife.

“I will take all the care I can, my dear Mary,” he said.

“I know you will, Henry,” said the little lady, whose lip quivered slightly as she spoke; “but now go and finish your breakfast, and then start. Don’t be uneasy about me, dear, but go and do what you think best under the circumstances.”

“I will, my love—I will,” said Dr Bolter, with his mouth full of toast.

“It all sounds very alarming, dear, but I cannot help thinking that it will be explained in a very simple manner.”

“I hope so.”

“You see there are four of them; and as Arthur is one, I think we may feel assured.”

“Well, my dear these are business times,” said the doctor, “and we must speak in business ways. Arthur is the best old fellow in the world; but I am sorry to say that he is a terrible old woman.”

“Henry!” said the lady, reproachfully.

“Well, my dear, he is. Now, would you have much confidence in him if it were a case of emergency?”

“I—I think I would sooner trust to you, Henry,” said the little lady, softly; “but do make haste and get a good breakfast. If you want me, send a message, and I will come directly.”

“All right,” said the doctor, rising once more. “Now I’m off.”

“But one moment, Henry,” said the little lady, whose feelings now got the upper hand. “Tell me, dear—do you think anything dreadful has happened?”

“What do you call dreadful, my dear?” said the doctor, cheerily.

“That the crocodiles—”

She did not finish, but looked imploringly at her lord.

“Bah!—stuff!—nonsense! No, Mary, I don’t.”

“Then that this dreadful Rajah has carried them off?”

“If it had only been Madam Helen, I should have felt suspicious; but what could he want with Hilton and Chumbley, or with our Arthur?”

“To marry them,” suggested Mrs Bolter.

“Stuff! my dear, not he. If Murad had carried her off, he would not have bothered about a parson.”

“But Arthur was waiting about her all the evening.”

“So he was, my dear.”

“And he may have killed Hilton and poor Mr Chumbley, while they were defending her.”

“Yes, he might, certainly,” said the doctor, drily; “but how the—”

“Henry!”

“I only meant dickens. I say how the dickens he was going to carry her off when he was at the party all the time I can’t see.”

“But was he?”

“To the very last. Oh! it will all settle itself into nothing, unless Arthur has taken Helen off into the jungle and married her himself, with Hilton and Chumbley for witnesses.”

“Is this a time for joking, Henry?” said the little lady, reproachfully.

“Really, my dear, it would be no joke if Arthur had his own way.”

“I’m afraid,” sighed little Mrs Bolter, “that Helen Perowne had a good deal to with my brother accepting the chaplaincy.”

“I’m sure she had,” chuckled the doctor.

“If I had thought so I would never have consented to come,” said the lady with asperity.

“Wouldn’t you, Mary? Wouldn’t you?” said the little doctor, taking her in his arms; and the lady withdrew her words just as a step was heard outside.

“Here’s another stoppage,” cried the doctor, impatiently. “Why, it’s Mrs Barlow. What does she want?”

Mrs Barlow was a widow lady of about forty, the relict of a well-to-do merchant of the station, who, after her widowhood, preferred to stay and keep her brother’s house to going back to England; at any rate, as she expressed it, for a few years.

She was one of the set who visited at Mr Perowne’s, and had also been at the trip up the river to the Inche Maida’s home; but being a decidedly neutral-tinted lady, in spite of her black attire, she was so little prominent that mention of her has not been necessary until now.

“Stop a minute;” she exclaimed, excitedly, as she arrested the doctor on his step.

“Not ill, are you, Mrs Barlow?” queried the doctor.

“Not bodily, doctor,” she began, “but—”

“My wife is inside, my dear madam,” cried the doctor, “and I must be off.”

“Stop!” exclaimed Mrs Barlow, authoritatively; and she took the little doctor’s arm, and led him back into the breakfast-room. “You are his brother, Dr Bolter. Mrs Bolter, you are his sister, ma’am. I can speak freely to you both.”

“Of course, madam, of course,” said the doctor; and then to himself, “Has the woman been taking very strong tea?”

“I have only just learned the terrible news, Dr Bolter—Mrs Bolter,” cried the lady, “and I came on to you.”

“Very kind of you I am sure, ma’am.”

“What do you think, doctor? You have some idea.”

“Not the least at present, ma’am. I was just off to see.”

“That is good of you; but tell me first,” cried the widow, half hysterically. “You do not—you cannot think—that that dreadful woman—”

“What, the Inche Maida, ma’am?”

“No, no! I mean Helen Perowne—has deluded him into following her away to some other settlement.”

“Whom, ma’am, Hilton or Chumbley?”

“Oh, dear me, no, doctor; I mean dear Mr Rosebury.”

“Oh, you mean dear Mr Rosebury, do you?” said the doctor.

“Yes, Dr Bolter; oh, yes. Tell me; do you think that dreadful girl has deluded him away?”

“No, ma’am, I don’t,” cried the doctor, stoutly. “Hang it all, no! I’d give her the credit of a good deal, but not of that. Hang it, no.”

“Thank you, doctor,” said the lady hysterically. “Of course I should have forgiven it, and set it all down to her; but you do me good, doctor, by assuring me that my surmise is impossible. What do you think then?”

“That it’s all a mystery for us to find out, and I was going to hunt it up when you stopped me, ma’am.”

“Excuse me, Mrs Barlow,” said little Mrs Bolter, who had been fidgeting about, and waiting for an opportunity to speak, “but will you kindly explain what you mean by your very particular allusions to my brother?”

“Must I?” said the lady, with a martyred look.

“If you please, ma’am,” said Mrs Bolter, sternly; and the little lady looked as if she were ready to apply the moral thumbscrews and the rack itself to the visitor if she did not make a clean breast.

“Do you not know?” whispered Mrs Barlow, with a pathetic look, and a timidly bashful casting down of the eyes.

“No, ma’am, I do not,” said little Mrs Bolter, haughtily.

“I thought you must have known,” sighed the lady. “But under these circumstances, when he may be in terrible peril, perhaps crying aloud, ‘Rosina, come to my aid,’ why should I shrink from this avowal? I am not ashamed to own it. Ah, Dr Bolter—oh, Mrs Bolter—I have loved him from his first sermon, when he looked down at me and seemed to address me with that soft, impressive voice which thrilled the very fibres of my heart, and now he is gone—he is gone! What does it mean! What shall we do?”

“Mary, you’d better administer a little sal-volatile, my dear,” said the doctor. “You know the strength; I’m off.”

The doctor backed out of the room, leaving Mrs Barlow sobbing on the sofa, and hurried off in the direction of the Residency, talking to himself on the way.

“This is something fresh!” he muttered; “and it isn’t leap-year either. Rum creatures women! I wonder what Mary is saying to her now! Here, paddle me across,” he said to one of the natives who was cleaning out his sampan ready for any passengers who might want to be put across to the island.

As he neared the landing-stage, he found Mr Harley anxiously busy despatching boat after boat up and down stream, each boat being paddled by a couple of friendly natives, and containing a noncommissioned officer and private selected for their intelligence.

“Ah! that’s right, Harley!” said the doctor, rubbing his hands after a friendly salute, and the information given and taken that there was not the slightest news of the missing people. “But don’t you think we ought to take some steps ashore?”

“Wait a moment; let me ease my mind by getting these fellows off,” said the Resident hoarsely; and he gave the men the strictest injunctions to carefully search the banks of the river, and also to closely question every Malay they met as to whether anything of the missing party had been seen. Eight boats had been sent off upon this mission, the men accepting the task readily enough, irrespective of the promise of reward; and hardly had the last been despatched, when the Resident proposed that they should go across to Mr Perowne’s.

“It is only fair to consult him as to our next proceedings,” said the Resident, gloomily; and almost in silence they were paddled across to the mainland, and went up to the scene of last night’s festivities, where everything looked dismal and in confusion. Half-burnt lanterns hung amidst the trees, tables and chairs were piled up anyhow in the grounds, and the lawn was strewn with the débris of the feast yet uncleared away, the attention of the servants having been so much occupied with their search.

The two new-comers found Mr Perowne quite prostrate with this terrible anxiety, and Mr Stuart trying, with his daughter, to administer some little consolation in the way of hope.

“Cheer up, mon!” the old Scot was saying. “I daresay she’ll turn up all right yet.”

Mr Perowne looked at him so reproachfully that the old Scot paused and then turned uneasily away.

“Poor wretch!” he muttered; “he has trouble eneuch—enough I mean.”

“Ah! Harley, what news?” cried Mr Perowne.

“None as yet,” was the reply.

“Have you sent out boats?”

“Yes, eight; and let us hope that they will discover something.”

“But you do not think they will?”

The Resident was silent.

“Harley here thinks that the Rajah is at the bottom of it all,” said the doctor.

“Impossible!” cried the unhappy father. “He was here when she was missed, or I might have suspected him. I fear it is something worse than even that.”

“I cannot help my suspicions,” said the Resident, quietly. “Perhaps I wrong him.”

“I think ye do, Harley,” said the old Scot. “I saw him here long after Miss Helen must have been gone. I’m thinking she and the young officers have taken a boat and gone down the river for a wee bit of game, seeing the night was fine.”

“Oh! papa,” cried Grey, “I am sure Helen would not have been so imprudent.”

“I’m sure it’s very kind of ye to think so well o’ your schoolfellow, but I’m no’ so sure. Trust me, the Rajah had no hand in the matter.”

“He has plenty of servants who would work his will,” said the Resident, thoughtfully; “but this charge of mine must not go forth to Murad’s ears. If I am wronging an innocent man, we shall have made a fresh enemy; and Heaven knows we have enough without that!”

“You may be right,” said the doctor, “but I have my doubts.”

“He’s wrong,” said old Stuart. “He’s not the man with the spirit in him to do so stirring a thing.”

“And he would never take off those two young fellows and my brother-in-law.”

“I begin to think he has,” said Perowne, snatching at the solution once more, after holding the opinion and casting it off a dozen times. “He has never forgiven her for her refusal. Are we to sit still under his insult, Harley? You have plenty of men under your command.”

“True,” said the Resident; “but should I be justified in calling them out and making a descent on Murad’s town upon the barest suspicion?”

Suggestion after suggestion was offered, as the reason of the Resident’s remark was fully realised; but as time went on the little knot of English people more fully than ever realised how helpless they were in the midst of the Malays, whose good offices they were compelled to enlist.

Volume Two—Chapter Five.

A New Phase.

The meeting was soon after strengthened by the arrival of Mrs Bolter and the principal ladies of the little community, when before long it became evident that Helen Perowne’s behaviour had made the ladies of one mind.

Their sole idea was that which found vent at last from the lips of Mrs Bolter, who, after a good deal of pressing as to her belief, gave it:

“I am very sorry to express my feelings upon the subject,” she said, “and perhaps I am prejudiced; but I cannot help thinking that Miss Perowne has eloped with Captain Hilton, and Lieutenant Chumbley has gone with them to save appearances.”

“That doesn’t account for Rosebury’s disappearance, my dear,” said the doctor, rather tartly, for he was annoyed at his wife’s decided tone.

“I am sorry to say that Miss Perowne,” continued the lady, “had gained a great deal of influence over my brother, and I daresay he would have acquiesced in anything she wished him to do.”

“I am quite sure you are wronging Helen, and Mr Rosebury as well!” cried Grey Stuart, suddenly. “Mrs Bolter, these words of yours are cruel in the extreme!”

“Maybe, my dear,” said Mrs Bolter, tightening her lips.

“And I am sure,” cried Grey, “that Captain Hilton would never have taken such a step; while Lieutenant Chumbley would have been the first to call it madness!”

“And who made you their champion, miss?” cried old Stuart, sharply.

“I only said what I thought was right, papa,” said Grey, with no little dignity. “I could not stand by and hear Helen accused of so great a lapse of duty without a word in her defence.”

“And I am sure, from her father to the humblest here,” said the Resident, taking Grey’s hand and kissing it, “we all honour you for your sentiments, Miss Stuart. And now, Mrs Bolter,” he continued, turning to the doctor’s wife, “as we have heard your belief, let me ask you, as a sensible woman, whether you think such an assertion can be true.”

“I don’t see why you should take up the cudgels so fiercely on Miss Perowne’s behalf, Mr Harley,” said the little lady, quietly.

“That is beside the question,” he retorted, “and I ask you again, do you think this true?”

“I told you beforehand, Mr Harley,” replied the lady, “that I was no doubt very much prejudiced, and I believe I am; but I am at least frank and plain, and repeat, that after due consideration it does wear that aspect to me.”

“Speak out, Mrs Bolter, please,” said the father. “I will have no reservations.”

“It is a time, Mr Perowne, when I feel bound to speak out, and without reservation. I grieve to say that Miss Perowne’s whole conduct has been such as to lead any thoughtful woman to believe that what I say is true.”

There was a murmur of assent here from the ladies present.

“You are in the minority, Miss Stuart,” said the Resident, gravely, as he turned to Grey, who, pale of face and red-eyed, was now and again casting reproachful glances at the severe-looking little lady, “and I thank you for what you have said.”

“I’m beginning to think myself that the wife is right,” said Dr Bolter. “She tells me she has been making inquiries amongst the Malay women—many of whom we know from their coming up to our house for help. They are very friendly towards us; and if there was anything in the Murad theory they would have known, and let it out. You are wrong, my dear. I’m afraid you are wrong.”

Grey raised her eyes to the doctor’s with quite a fierce look, and she turned red and pale by turns ere she answered, loyally:

“No, I am not wrong. Helen would not have been guilty of such an act. I know her too well. Neither,” she added, in a lower voice, “would Captain Hilton.”

“Brave little partisan,” said the Resident, sadly. “You and I will fight all Helen Perowne’s detractors. As you say,” he cried, raising his voice, and a warm flush showing through his embrowned skin, “it is impossible!”

Mr Perowne had been called from the room before the discussion assumed quite so personal a nature, and now he returned, gazing piteously from one to the other as he was asked whether there was any news.

“This suspense is terrible!” he moaned. “Harley, Bolter, pray do something! My poor child!—my poor child!”

There was a sympathetic silence in the now crowded room, as the occupants waited for one of the gentlemen to speak, Dr Bolter looking at his wife, as if to ask, “What shall I say?” and receiving for response a shake of the head.

“The Rajah must, I am sure,” cried Mr Perowne, “be at the bottom of this terrible affair. Mr Harley!” he cried, passionately, “I can bear this no longer, and I insist—I demand of you, as one of her Majesty’s representatives—that you send troops up to the village at once!”

“I have thought of all this, Mr Perowne,” said the Resident, “but that would be a declaration of war, and I should not feel justified in taking such a step without authority from the Governor.”

“I do not care!” cried the father, frantically. “War or no war, I demand that, instead of waiting in this cold-blooded way, you have the place searched! This outrage must be due to the Rajah!”

There was a low hum of excitement in the room, as all eagerly watched for the Resident’s reply to what seemed to be, but was not—a just demand.

“I would gladly do as you wish, Mr Perowne,” he replied, “the more readily because it is what my heart prompts; but I must have some good grounds—stronger than mere suspicion—before I can do more than ask the aid of Murad, who is, as you know, a friendly Prince. Again, I must ask you to consider my position here, and my stringent instructions to keep on good terms with this Rajah. Recollect, sir, once again, to do what you propose would be interpreted by the Malays as an act of war. I have the whole community to study as well as your feelings, sir—as well,” he added, in a low voice, only heard by Grey Stuart, “as my own.”

“But my child—my child!” groaned Mr Perowne.

“I have done what I could, sir; sent messengers at once to Murad asking his aid, and whether any of his people can give us help.”

“You did not accuse him then?” said Mr Stuart.

“How could I, sir, on suspicion? No, I have done what is best.”

“But it is horrible!” cried Mr Perowne. “The thought of her being in the power of this unprincipled man is more than I can bear.”

“But we do not know, sir, that this is the case, whatever our suspicions may be.”

“I think they are wrong,” cried Mrs Bolter, quickly, “for here comes someone to tell us who is right.”

She pointed through the window as she spoke, and every head was turned to see the Rajah come hurrying up the pathway leading to the house, his steps seeming to partake of the excitement of the whole group, as he dashed up to the door; and as soon as he was admitted he half ran into the midst of the silent assembly, gazing wildly from face to face, till his eyes rested upon Mr Perowne, to whom he ran, threw his arms over his shoulders, and exclaimed with a passionate, half-sobbing cry:

“Tell me—quick! Tell me it is not true!”

Volume Two—Chapter Six.

A Prince’s Anger.

The merchant stared in the young Rajah’s convulsed face without speaking, and Murad exclaimed:

“I had heard news, and was coming down. Then came the messengers; but tell me,” he cried, “I cannot bear it! This is not true?”

Mr Perowne gazed fixedly in the dark, lurid eyes before him, as if fascinated by their power, and then said sternly:

“It is quite true, sir; quite true.”

“No, no!” cried the Malay Rajah, excitedly, “not true that she is gone; not true that she cannot be found?”

“Yes, sir,” repeated the merchant again, in a low, troubled voice. “She was taken from us last night.”

The Rajah uttered some words in his own tongue that sounded like a passionate wail, as he staggered back, as if struck heavily, reeled, clutched at the nearest person to save himself, and then fell with a crash upon the floor.

The little party assembled crowded round the prostrate man; but at a word from Dr Bolter they drew back, and he went down on one knee beside the young man to loosen his collar.

“A little more air. Keep back, please!” said the doctor, sharply. “Mary, a glass of water.”

As Mrs Bolter filled a glass from a carafe upon the sideboard, the doctor took a bottle of strong salts offered by one of the ladies present, and held it beneath the young man’s nostrils, but without the slightest effect.

Then the water was handed to the doctor, who liberally used it about the young Prince’s face, as the Resident drew near and gazed upon the prostrate figure, keenly noting the clayey hue of the face and the great drops of dank perspiration that stood upon the brow.

“What is it, doctor?” he whispered.

“Fainting—over-excitement,” replied Dr Bolter. “He’s coming round.”

The fact was beginning to be patent to all, for a change was coming over the young man’s aspect, and he began to mutter impatiently as the drops of water were sprinkled upon his face, opening his eyes at last and gazing about him in a puzzled way, as if he could not comprehend his position.

Then his memory seemed to come back with a flash, and he started up into a sitting position, muttered a few Malay words in a quick, angry manner, sprang to his feet, and then, with his eyes flashing, he snatched his kris from the band of his sarong, showing his teeth and standing defiant, ready to attack some enemy with the flame-shaped blade that was dully gleaming in his hand.

“Come, Rajah,” said the doctor, soothingly, “be calm, my dear sir. You are among friends.”

“Friends!” he cried, hoarsely. “No: enemies! You have let him take her away, I know,” he hissed between his teeth; “but you shall tell me. Who else has gone?”

“Captain Hilton,” said the doctor.

“Yes, I was sure,” hissed the Malay. “He was always there at her side. I was ref—fused; but I cannot sit still and see her stolen away by another, and I will have revenge—I will have revenge!”

The Malay Prince’s aspect told plainly enough that he would have sprung like a wild beast at his enemy’s throat had he been present; and saving Mrs Bolter and Grey, who stood holding her hand, the ladies crowded together, one or two shrieking with alarm as the Resident quietly advanced to the young Malay.

“Put up your weapon, sir,” he said firmly. “We are not savages. Recollect that you are amongst civilised people now.”

The Rajah turned upon him with so fierce and feline a look that Grey Stuart turned paler than she already was, and pressed Mrs Bolter’s hand spasmodically; but Harley did not shrink, he merely fixed the young man as it were with his eyes, before whose steady gaze the sullen, angry glare of the young Prince sank, and he stood as if turned to stone.

“Yes,” he said, in a guttural voice; “you are right;” and slowly replacing his kris in its sheath, he covered the hilt with his silken plaid before standing there with his brows knit, and the veins in his temples standing out as if he were engaged in a heavy struggle to master the savage spirit that had gained the ascendant.

“That is better,” said the Resident, quietly. “Now we can talk like sensible men.”

“Yes,” replied the Rajah; “but it is hard—very hard. It masters me, and I feel that I cannot bear it. You know what I have suffered, and how I fought it down. Mr Harley, Mr Perowne, did I not act like an English gentleman would have done?”

“Yes, yes,” said Mr Perowne, hastily.

“I tried so hard that I might,” he whispered. “I was born a Malay; but I am trying to become more like you. I thought I had mastered everything; but when I hear this news it is too much for me, and—Mr Harley—doctor—give me something to make me calm, or I shall go mad.”

He turned away and stood for a few moments with his back to them, while the party assembled whispered their thoughts till the young man turned once more, and they saw that his face was calm and impassive, as if no furious storm of rage had just been agitating its surface.

“What are you going to do?” he said, in a low, deep voice, gazing from Mr Perowne to the Resident and back again.

“Search, sir, until we have found the lady,” said the latter, quietly.

“I will help,” said the Rajah; whose eyes emitted a flash that told of the rage in his heart.

“Thank you,” said the Resident, quietly.

“You will pursue them?” continued the Rajah. “Tell me, by your laws do you kill this man for what he has done?”

“We do not think there is any need of pursuit, sir,” replied Mr Harley, quietly; “we fear that there has been an accident.”

“I have brought down two nagas, and two smaller boats,” cried the Rajah, eagerly. “There are a hundred of my people waiting. Shall I send them to follow, or will you give them your commands? They are your slaves until this is done.”

The Resident stood thinking for a minute or two, and the Rajah turned from him impatiently.

“We lose time!” he cried, angrily. “Mr Perowne, you do not speak. Tell me—you are her father—what shall I do?”

Mr Perowne held out his hand, which the Rajah seized.

“Thank you, Rajah,” he said simply; “but we must be guided by wisdom in what we do. Mr Harley will speak directly. He is trying to help us. I cannot say more,” he faltered. “I am crushed and helpless under this blow.”

“Tut, mon! don’t give way!” whispered old Stuart, going to his side. “Keep a stout hairt and all will be well.”

A couple of hours of indecision passed away, for the coming of the Rajah had thrown them off the track. They had had one scent to follow, and, however blindly, they were about to attempt it, but were now thrown back upon two other lines—the one being the suggestion of an accident; the other of elopement.

The hot day was wearing on, and the boatmen were returning boat by boat, but without the slightest information, not even a vague suggestion upon which hope could be hung. Still, nothing more had been done—nothing seemed possible under the circumstances; and a general feeling of despondency was gathering over the little community, when a new suspicion dawned in the Resident’s mind, and he blamed himself for not having thought of it before.

The suspicion had but a slight basis, still it was enough; and eager as he was to find something to which he could cling, Neil Harley felt for the moment glad of the mental suggestion, and felt that all idea of some terrible boat accident might be set aside, for at last he had found the clue.

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

No False Scent.

Neil Harley’s new suspicion, one which he was cautious not to mention as yet, was that, in accordance with the Malay character, this revengeful blow had come from one who owed the English community or Government a grudge.

The Rajah had been the first to suffer from suspicion, but his coming had cleared him somewhat in the eyes of his friends; still there was one who might well feel enmity against the English for the part they had played, and this was one who had not been to clear herself from suspicion.

The Inche Maida had come to the Residency island humbly with her petition—a reasonable suppliant for help against her enemies. She had had her request, if not refused, at all events treated with official neglect. It was no wonder, then, that she should feel aggrieved, and, while wearing the mask of friendship, take some steps to obtain mental satisfaction for the slight.

The Resident pondered upon all this, and felt that she must naturally be deeply wounded. She had borne her disappointment with the patience and stoicism of one of her religion; but all the same she might have been waiting for an opportunity to strike.

“Allah’s will be done!” she had said at their last interview, when the Resident had made a further communication from Government; and she had bent her head and sighed deeply as she turned to go away, but only to return, shake hands with Mr Harley, and thank him.

“You are a good man, Mr Harley,” she had said, “and I know you would have helped me if you could.”

“Yes, she has been most friendly ever since,” he mused, “and her behaviour last night at the party was all that could have been desired.”

Still, he argued, she was a Malay, and all this might have been to serve as a blind to her future acts. She must feel very bitter, and, with all an Eastern’s cunning, she must have been nursing up her wrath till an opportunity occurred for revenge.

This, perhaps, would be that revenge.

“No,” he said, “it was childish;” and he felt directly after that he was maligning a really amiable woman.

He ended by thinking that he could judge her by her acts. If she were innocent of all complicity in the abduction of Helen—if abduction it was—she would come and display her sympathy to her English friends in this time of trouble.

“What do you think, Miss Stuart?” he said, leading her into the opening of a window. “The Inche Maida has cause of complaint against us. Do you think she has had anything to do with getting Helen away?”

“No, I’m certain she has not,” cried Grey, flushing warmly. “She is too good and true a woman.”

“Do you think she likes Helen?” asked the Resident.

“No, I think she dislikes her,” replied Grey; “but she could not be guilty of such a crime as you suggest.”

“I am suspicious,” said the Resident. “Why does she stay away? She must have heard something by this time. Did you see her very late last night?”

“Yes, till very late—till after the disappearance. She was wondering where Helen had gone.”

“Yes,” said the Resident, “that is all in her favour, my dear child; but still she stops away.”

“No,” said Grey, quietly, “she is not staying away. See: here she comes, with her servants. I think she has arrived to offer her services in this time of trouble.”

Grey Stuart was right, for directly after the Malay princess entered the large drawing-room, eager with her offers of help, as her English friend had said.

“I did not know till a messenger came in,” she exclaimed, excitedly. “I was home late, and I was asleep. When I heard of the trouble at the station, I came and brought my servants. What shall I do?”

She was most affectionate and full of pity for Mr Perowne. To the Resident she was friendly in the extreme, and in a frank, genial way, utterly free from effusiveness; while to Grey Stuart she was tenderness itself, kissing her and talking to her in a low voice of the trouble, and keeping her all the time at her side.

“Henry,” said little Mrs Bolter, suddenly.

“Yes, my dear.”

“I don’t trust these black people a bit. They are very friendly and full of offers of service, but I cannot help thinking that they are at the bottom of all this trouble. Do you hear?”

“Yes, my dear, I hear,” said the doctor; “but I cannot say that you are right. It’s as puzzling as the real site of Ophir; but I hope it will all come right in the end.”

Suspicious as Mrs Bolter felt, she did not show her feelings, but joined in the conversation; and she was obliged to own that the conduct of the Inche Maida seemed to be quite that of an English lady eager to help her friends in a terrible time of trial.

In the midst of the conversation that ensued there was the sound of voices outside, and the Resident, closely followed by Mr Perowne and the Rajah, hurried out to see if there was any news.

One of the sergeants, with a private of Hilton’s company, had just arrived on the lawn, these being two of the men who had gone down the river in a sampan.

“Ah! Harris,” exclaimed the Resident, eagerly, on seeing something in the sergeant’s face which told of tidings, “what news?”

The sergeant glanced at Mr Perowne in rather a troubled manner, and hesitated.

“Speak out, my man, for Heaven’s sake!” exclaimed the latter, “and let me know the worst.”

“It mayn’t be the worst, sir,” replied the sergeant, with rough sympathy. “I hope it isn’t, sir; but we found a boat, sir—one of our own boats—left by the ‘Penguin’ for our use at the island.”

“Yes—yes, I know!” exclaimed Mr Perowne.

“Quick! speak out, Harris. What of her?” cried the Resident.

“She was lying bottom up, sir, on a bit of sandbank, a dozen miles down the river, sir; and this was twisted round one of the thwarts—the sleeve just tied round, sir, to keep it in its place.”

As he spoke he held up a light coat, saturated with water, and muddy and crumpled, where it had dried on the way back.

Neil Harley took the coat and examined it carefully. Then laying it down, he said, slowly:

“It looks like Chumbley’s; but I cannot feel sure.”

“I made sure it was one of the lieutenant’s coats, sir,” said the sergeant, respectfully.

“Let us see the boat,” said Mr Perowne. “Where is it?”

“Down at your landing-stage, sir, and—”

He stopped short, as if afraid he should say too much.

“What is it, Harris? Speak out,” said the Resident, sternly.

“She seems to have been laid hold of, sir, by one of them great river beasts. There’s a lot of teeth marks, and a bit ripped out of her side.”

Mr Perowne shuddered, and Neil Harley recalled the various stories he had heard of crocodiles attacking small boats—stories that he had heretofore looked upon as mythical, though he knew that the reptiles often seized the natives when bathing by the river bank.

“As far as I could judge, sir,” said the sergeant, who, seeing that he gave no offence in speaking out, was most eager to tell all he knew, “it seems as if the officers, sir, had taken the ladies for a row upon the river, when the boat perhaps touched one of the great beasts, and that made it turn and seize it in its teeth. Then it was overset, and—”

The men started and stopped short, for there was a faint cry of horror, and they all turned to see Grey Stuart standing there pale, with her lips apart, and a look of horror in her fixed eyes, as she saw in imagination the overturned boat, and the vain struggles of those who were being swept away by the rapid stream.

The whole scene rose before her eyes with horrible substantiality—all that she had heard or been told of the habits of the great reptiles that swarmed in the river helping to complete the picture. For as she seemed to realise the scene, and saw the struggling figures in the water, there would be a rush and a swirl, with a momentary sight of a dark horny back or side, and then first one and then another of the hapless party would be snatched beneath the surface.

But even then her horror seemed to be veined with a curious sensation of jealous pain, for she pictured to herself Helen floating down the stream with her white hands extended for help, and Hilton fighting his way through the water to her side. Then he seemed to seize her, and to make a brave struggle to keep her up. It was a hard fight, and he did not spare himself, but appeared to be ready to drown that she might live. The water looked blacker and darker where they were, and there was no help at hand, so that it was but a question of moments before they must sink. And as, with dilated, horror-charged eyes, Grey stared before her to where the river really ran sparkling in the sunshine, the imaginary blackness deepened, and all looked so smooth and terrible that she watched for where that dreadful glassiness would be broken by some reptile rising to make a rush at the struggling pair; and—yes, there at last it was! And with the name of Hilton half-formed upon her lips, she uttered another cry, and fell fainting in the Inche’s Maida’s arms.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

Danger Ahead.

Grey Stuart lost her cavalier Chumbley soon after supper, for the Princess pointed to a chair beside her, Hilton being very quiet and distant, and in spite of several reproachful glances from his companion’s eyes, proving to be very poor company indeed.

In fact, as soon as he could with decency give up what was to him a tiresome duty, Hilton left the Malay Princess’s side, making the vacancy that was filled up by Grey, while soon after the Rajah came and took a chair upon the other side of the Scottish maiden, chatting to her with a slight hesitancy of speech, but pleasantly and well.

“Do you enjoy—this party?” he said.

“Oh! so much!” replied Grey. “It is so different from anything at home.”

“At home?” queried the Prince, who knew the simplicity of old Stuart’s household.

“I mean at home in England.”

“Oh! yes, I see. At home in England,” said the Prince musingly. “I must go and see at home in England. I should like to go.”

“You would be much pleased, I am sure,” said Grey, smiling; “but it is a very bad climate.”

“That is why you English come to our beautiful land. I see!” exclaimed the Prince. “But you enjoy yourself—this party?”

“Oh! very much!” cried Grey; but a shadow crossed her countenance as she spoke.

“I have said I will try and pass you all,” said the Prince, laughing. “I mean mine to be the greatest of the fêtes. It must be; for if I do not make mine a grander party than all, my people will look down upon me, and say, ‘See how weak and poor he is compared to the English!’ I must make mine very brave and good.”

“I hear what you are saying,” exclaimed the Inche Maida; “but I will excel you; for I will give another party, greater, and brighter, and more beautiful still. Miss Stuart will help me with good advice, and mine shall be more English than yours. We will not be beaten.”

“No, no!” said the Rajah, laughing; “do not help her, Miss Stuart; help me, and I will be so grateful. It is so easy to say I will give a grand party, but it is hard to make it so that it will please these English gentlemen and ladies.”

“Ladies and gentlemen, Prince,” said the Inche Maida.

“Of course—yes,” he replied. “That is where I make things wrong. You English place the ladies first, and I always make mistakes like that.”

“You will soon acquire our habits,” said Grey, who could not help her eyes wandering in search of Hilton.

“Thank you,” said the Prince. “I shall try; but as I say, it is so hard to make a feast quite right. If I want to make a banquet for my people with flowers, and fireworks, and elephants, and gongs, and tom-toms, it is all so easy; but an English party, to satisfy all you—ah! it is too much.”

Meanwhile, heart-sick and disgusted with everything and everybody present, Hilton wandered away to the pagoda, where Mr Stuart had taken up hi quarters directly after supper.

“Hullo! young fellow,” said the old merchant, gruffly, “come to your senses again?”

“Senses? Haven’t been out of them that I know of,” retorted Hilton.

“Well, ye’ve been running wild after Perowne’s lassie.”

“Mr Stuart!”

“And one never sees her without Captain Hilton ahint her.”

“Mr Stuart, I was not aware that I was answerable to you for my conduct,” exclaimed the young officer, hotly.

“Nay—nay—nay—dinna—don’t be fashed, laddie, I was vexed to see ye rinning after a lassie who will throw ye over for the next man she sees—that’s a’—”

“Mr Stuart, I will not listen to anything in Miss Perowne’s disparagement!” cried the young man hotly. “How dare you speak to me like this!”

“Have a cigar, laddie?” said the old Scot, drily. “They’re verra good, and they’ll soothe ye down better than anything I ken.”

Hilton glared at him angrily. “There, there, there, let me have my say, laddie. I rather like ye, Hilton, though ye are only a soldier; so don’t fly in a passion with an old man. Tak’ a cigar.”

Hilton hesitated, but finally took the cigar, lit it, and began to smoke.

“I ken weel what’s wrong,” said the old man; “but never heed it, mon. It mak’s ye sore to-day, but ye’ll soon get over it. I’ve seen ivery thing that’s gone on sin the lassies have been here. Try a drappie o’ that whuskie, laddie; that and yon cigar will mak’ ye forget all about the trouble wi’ the girl.”

“Mr Stuart, I must request you to be silent upon this question, unless you wish to quarrel.”

“Quarrel? Not I, lad! I’m as peaceable a body as ever lived; but tak’ my advice—don’t wherret yoursel’ about Helen Perowne. She’s not made for ye.”

“Sir!”

“Hoot, laddie, in a passion again! I tell ye you’re much too good for such a body as she. I ken she’s handsome enough for an angel; but what’s all that if she don’t care a twistle o’ the finger for ye?” Bertie Hilton frowned heavily and smoked furiously; while, when the old merchant thrust the whiskey decanter towards him, he snatched it up, poured out half a tumbler full, and had stretched out his hand to take it and gulp it down, when, to his surprise and anger, old Stuart snatched the tumbler away, poured half of the spirit back into the decanter, and then filled up the tumbler with water.

“Not while I’m sitting by ye, Bertie Hilton,” said the old man. “I like my whuskie and I like to see a fren’ enjoy his drappie wi’ me; but it must be a drappie. When I see a man making a fool o’ himsel’ by taking more than is good, I just stop him if I can, as I stopped you.”

The young man’s face flushed, and an angry remark was about to issue from his lips, when the ridiculous and friendly sides of the question presented themselves to him, and instead of going into a fit of temper consequent upon his irritable state, he burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

“Hah! That’s better, my lad,” said the old merchant, smiling in his dry, grim fashion. “I like that. Ye’re an officer and ye know how to command yourself as well as your men. Now then, sit down and sup your whuskie and smoke like a man.”

“You shall be obeyed, sir,” said Hilton, good-humouredly.

“That’s right, laddie. Tak’ your misfortunes like a man. I know it’s hard to bear, and nothing wherrets a man more than seeing a lassie play wi’ others before his very een, when a’ the time she has been leading him to believe she cares for him alone?”

“Would it be a very difficult task to you, Mr Stuart, to leave my private affairs alone?” said Hilton, quietly.

“Oh, ay, I’ll leave them alone if ye’ll only be sensible and act like a mon. Bertie Hilton, ye’re a big mon, and a captain in Her Majesty’s service, and ye’re been acting like a weak boy.”

Hilton’s eyes flashed again as he turned angrily upon the old man, who seemed to become more Scottish in his language as he slowly imbibed his native drink.

“I see ya glowering at me, my lad; but I dinna mind it, for I’m one of your best frens, and when I thrash ye with words about your lassie it’s a’ for your good. There, haud yer whisht. I ken what ye’d say, that ye’re a mon and not a boy to be dictated to by an old Scotchman like this.”

“Well, I was thinking something of the kind, Mr Stuart, and so I tell you frankly,” cried Hilton, who could not help feeling amused at the old man’s dry ways. The reproofs, too, came at a time when the younger was very much open to conviction, for his experiences of the last few days had all been towards showing him that Helen Perowne was trifling with him, and if she were now, he felt that she had been from the first.

Still, it was very painful to have to be taken to task like this upon so tender a subject; and after sitting awhile with the old man, he suddenly jumped up, relit his cigar, which he had allowed to go out, and nodding shortly, he strolled out of the pagoda into the grounds.

“Coming to his senses,” said old Stuart, in a thoughtful way. “Hah! I should go rather cross it my lassie were to carry on like Perowne’s Helen. Why, she drives nearly all the young fellows wild. The young hussy! she ought to be shut up in a convent till she comes to her senses. I’d have none of it at home with me.”

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

A Supplement to a Strange Evening.

It was very beautiful in the gardens, and in spite of the number of people present, the place was so large that Hilton had no difficulty in finding a shady path in whose gloom he could walk up and down, finding the silence and darkness congenial in his present state of mind.

Every here and there there were lanterns, and flashes of light came from the illuminated lawn in company with the strains of music; but for the greater part the light was that from the great soft stars in the begemmed arch overhead, and the music that of the swift river rippling against the bank.

What should he do? he asked himself. Would he not be acting a wiser and a more manly part if he at once gave up his pursuit of Helen, and treated her with the contempt she deserved?

For she did deserve contempt. He felt this, and he knew the state of the warm affection he had had for her. He knew she had flirted a little before, but he looked upon that as mere maiden trifling before she had been ready to bestow upon him all the riches of her fresh young love. He was ready to condone anything that had taken place before; but when, after some long experience, he found that he was only being made the plaything of the hour, and that she was ready to throw him over in favour of the newest comer, his heart rebelled.

The fact was that Hilton was coming back to his normal senses very fast, and the idol that he had been worshipping and accrediting with all the perfections under the sun, was beginning to assume a very matter-of-fact, worldly aspect in his eyes.

The chaplain, officer after officer on board ship, Chumbley, Mr Harley, himself—they had all been favoured lovers in turn, and then thrown over after a certain amount of trifling.

“I cannot think how I could have been so foolish!” he exclaimed, suddenly; “and yet she is very beautiful—most beautiful; and when she gives a fellow one of those tender, beseeching looks, he need be made of iron to resist her.”

He walked up and down a little longer, finished his cigar, lit another, and went on, evidently feeling in better spirits.

“I shall get over it in a few days,” he said, with a half laugh, “unless I turn disappointed swain, and go and jump into the river. The crocodiles would soon make short work of me. By jove! how beautiful those fire-flies are!” he exclaimed.

Then he sighed, and went backward mentally.

“They put one in mind of Helen’s beautiful eyes,” he muttered. Beautiful Helen! Bah! Stuff! I’ll be fooled by no woman living!

“‘Shall I, wasting in despair. Die because a woman’s fair? Shall I pale my cheeks with care Because another’s rosy are?’”

He sang softly, enjoying more and more the delicious coolness of the breeze off the river.

“I’m nearly cured,” he said, bitterly.

“‘I know a maiden fair to see, Take care! She can both false and friendly be, Beware! beware! Trust her not, She is fooling thee!’”

He sang again in a low voice.

“My case exactly. Oh! my dear madam. I’m afraid you will come to grief one of these days, for it is not every fellow who will give you up as I do, and hide his wound under a smiling face.

“And do I give her up?” he said, softly; and there was a tender, dreamy look in his eyes as he spoke.

“Bah! what a madman I am!” he cried, with a mocking laugh; “she throws me over as she has thrown over others. What an idiot I was not to see all this sooner!

“The old story—the old story,” he muttered. “Man’s vanity and woman’s pride. I was conceited enough to think that, though she might trifle with others, I was her one special choice. There was no such other man upon the earth as I, Captain Hilton, the Apollo among his fellows. Serve me right!” he cried passionately, “for a weak fool, and I deserve it all, if only to be a lesson to bring me to my senses?”

Growing excited with his thoughts, he strolled down another path, leading to the lower lawn which sloped to the river.

“I wonder who is with her now!” he muttered, as he gazed with lowering brow at the smooth, star-spangled stream.

“What does it matter! I’ll get a lesson in nonchalance from old Chum! I’ve been fooled like the rest. I might have known that I should be, but I was conceited enough to think that I had thoroughly won her heart.”

He told himself that it was all over now, and smoked away viciously, sending forth great puffs of vapour, still thinking of his position.

“What the dickens did that woman, the Inche Maida, mean!” he said, suddenly, as he strolled now close beside the river in complete forgetfulness of all the dangers with which it was invested by his friends. “Why, if I were a conceited fellow—well, so I am, horribly,” he said, bitterly—“I should have fancied that she was making love to me. It is too ridiculous!” he exclaimed, stopping short, and seeing nothing but introspectively, hearing nothing but the echoes of his own thoughts. “This place is growing hateful to me. I shall get leave or exchange. I feel as if I could not stay here any longer, and—Hah! Help! What! Good Heav—”

The rest of Hilton’s words did not reach the soft midnight air, for, deep in thought, he had not seen the shadow even of the coming danger which had fallen in an instant, and his mad struggles were proving all in vain.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

Plus.

As Hilton cried for help his voice sounded stifled and dull, while he vainly tried to cast off a great woollen cloth that had been deftly thrown over his head. It took hardly an instant before it was wound tightly round him. Then a rope was twisted so rapidly round arms and legs, that he was turned, as it were, into a complete mummy; and when his assailants threw him upon the grass he was so helpless that they literally rolled him over and over down the slope of closely shaven herbage into a large row-boat, into whose bottom he fell without pain, and almost without a sound.

“I thought it was the crocodiles,” he said to himself, as his heart beat painfully; and then he began to writhe in spirit at his want of caution, for he felt sure that this, the capture of an officer, was one of the first steps towards an attack upon the Residency island.

Just then he heard a voice, and what seemed to be a whispered order in Malay; and the boat might have been seen to glide away like a shadow over the starry water, breaking it up into spangles as it went on and on towards the middle of the stream without so much as a sound.

Then a pang shot through the young officer’s heart, to tell him that he was not, in spite of his word, quite cured, for his first thought now was: “What will become of Helen!” A few minutes later Chumbley strolled up to the pagoda, where old Stuart was comfortably enjoying his glass.

“Well, old fellow,” he drawled: “not melted away yet.”

“No; nor you neither,” retorted the old merchant. “Want some whuskie?”

“No; I want a cigar,” said Chumbley; and he helped himself from the box. “Seen anything of Hilton?” he asked, as he lit the roll of tobacco.

“Yes! here a bit ago, and then went off to smoke in the cool air. Leave my little girl all right?”

“Yes; she was sitting talking to the Princess and the Rajah in front of the house. What a lovely night!”

“Humph, yes. Pretty well; but you should see the night, laddie, over one o’ the Scottish lochs, wi’ the ootline o’ a mountain stannin oot i’ front o’ the northern sky. Ay, but that’s a sight.”

“Yes, s’pose so,” said Chumbley; “but as we can’t have the night over the Scottish loch, isn’t it as well to make the best of this?”

“Humph! yes,” said the old man; “but I’m getting tired of sitting here. I want to go back home. How much longer is this tomfoolery going to last?”

“Can’t say, sir. Why don’t you go on to the lawn and have a chat?”

“Pah! Do I look like a man who could do that sort of thing?”

“Can’t say you do,” replied Chumbley, cheerfully. “Well, I’m going to look for Hilton!” and, stepping out of the pagoda, he went across the lawn, with his hands deep down in his pockets.

“Now, let’s see,” he said to himself, as he strolled lazily on, “where would that chap be likely to have stuck himself up for a quiet smoke?

“Seems to have had a tiff with beauty to-night. P’r’aps she has pitched him as she has other people before, present company not excepted. All the more likely for him to have gone off for a quiet smoke—Now where would he go?”

There was a pause here, as if for someone else to answer, but as no one did—

“Down by the river,” he said—“safe.” Chumbley thrust his hands lower down into his pockets, and as if led by fate, he followed slowly almost the very track taken by Hilton so short a time before.

Finding that portion of the extensive grounds quite solitary, Chumbley began to hum what was meant for an air, in a peculiar voice more remarkable for noise than tune—due, no doubt, to his having his cigar in his lips, at which he gravely sucked away as if keeping time to the melody he emitted with the smoke.

“Grass too damp to lie down,” he said to himself, “else it would be rather jolly, and I’m precious tired. Not safe though. Old Bolter would vow there was rheumatism and fever in every blade. Why the dickens don’t they put garden seats down here?”

He strolled on, casting his eyes about in every direction in search of his friend.

“Precious dark!” he said. “Now where has old Hilton hidden himself? Hallo! Why there he is! What a jolly old lunatic he must be. I wonder what old Bolter would say?”

For not very far from the bank of the stream, he could dimly make out a figure lying apparently asleep.

Chumbley immediately began to think of the risks to be incurred from crocodiles, and walking quickly up he bent down over the sleeping figure.

“Here—hi! Hallo! Hilton, is that you? Hang it, man, don’t lie there!”

There was no reply, and Chumbley hesitated as to whether he should touch the figure.

“’Tisn’t Hilton!” he said to himself. “One of the servants, perhaps, keeping up his Mohammedan rules on the question of wine upon the wrong side.”

“Hallo! you sir!” he cried aloud. “’Tisn’t safe to lie there; do you hear?” and going down on one knee, he turned the figure completely over. “Here wake up or the crocs will have you! Is anything the matter?”

“Help me up,” came in reply, spoken in good English.

Chumbley was too earnest a man to resist that appeal; and bending lower, he tried to pass one hand beneath the prostrate figure, the man feebly laying his hands upon the lieutenant the while.

Then, in an instant, the feeble clasp became one of iron; and before Chumbley could more than realise that he was being held, a second figure bounded from behind a bush on to his back, dexterously throwing a sort of bag over his head and drawing it tight about his neck.

The young officer was taken by surprise; but he was not so easy a prey as Hilton. As a rule, Chumbley resembled the elephant in his slow, ponderous movement. Now, there was something almost leonine in his activity, the latent almost herculean strength he possessed being brought into play.

Uttering a smothered roar, he tried to shake off his assailants as they clung to his back and neck, pinioning his arms, and holding on so closely, that in the dark the figures of the three men seemed like one huge monstrous creature writhing savagely upon the grass.

Four more dark figures had suddenly appeared upon the scene, looking weird and strange in the starlight; and while the distant sound of voices, with an occasional burst of laughter, came to where the struggle was going on, all here was so quiet—save for the oppressed breathing—that no attention was drawn towards them from the visitor-dotted lawn.

The fresh-comers leaped at Chumbley like dogs at their hunted quarry; but so fierce was the resistance that one of them was dashed to the earth, the others shaken off, and the young man followed up the display of his tremendous strength by making a blindfold effort to ran.

The probabilities are that, as he had instinctively taken the direction leading to the house, he would have got so far that his assailants would not have cared to follow, had not one of them thrust out a foot as Chumbley was passing, and tripped him up, when he fell with a heavy thud to the ground.

Before he could make a fresh effort to rise, half a dozen Malays were upon him; and while some sat and knelt upon, others bound him hand and foot.

Then they paused to listen whether the struggle had been overheard; but finding it had excited no attention either at the house or the Residency island, they leisurely rolled their prisoner over and over down the grassy slope into a waiting boat close up to the bank. A few vessels of water were dipped, and quickly poured over the grass where the struggle had taken place, and then once more the star-spangled surface of the river was broken up as a shadowy boat softly glided out to the middle of the river, and then seemed to die away.

But the incidents of the night were not yet at an end, Fate seemed to lend her aid to bring them to one peculiar bent.

For, hot and weary of the insipid attentions of her new conquest, and fagged out with her task of entertaining so many guests, Helen Perowne began to think of how she should escape, wishing the while that everyone would go, and far from satisfied with her last encounter with Hilton.

She looked round the lit-up space for someone on whom to inflict herself, but Hilton was not there; she could see neither Chumbley nor the Resident, only several of the younger men, merchants and civil officers—no one at all worth talking to save the chaplain, who had been watching her wistfully all the evening, and who now stood with one hand resting upon a chair, looking as if he would have given his life for one kind word from her lips.

“Poor Arthur!” she said, in a half amused, half troubled way, “I wish he would not be so weak?”

She gave another impatient look round, but there was no victim worthy of her arrows; and with an imperious glance at Arthur Rosebury, she let her eyes once more pass over the various groups of guests, for the most part carrying on an animated conversation, and turned to enter the house.

Just as she reached one of the open French windows, a Malay servant approached, and saluted her respectfully.

“The master says will the mistress come down the garden a minute to speak to him?”

“How tiresome!” she exclaimed petulantly. “Where is my father?”

“By the river, mistress, where it is cool to smoke,” replied the man, softly. “He says he will not keep you, but you must come at once.”

This was all in broken English, but sufficiently plain to be understood.

“He might have come to me,” said Helen, impatiently. “I am so hot and tired. There, go on. No, not that way. Let us go by the side path.”

The man bowed and went on, with Helen following, when the chaplain seized the opportunity to join her.

“It is getting cold and damp, Miss Perowne,” he said, softly. “Will you let me put this over your shoulders?”

“What!” she said; “have you been carrying that ever since I gave it to you hours ago?”

The chaplain bowed, and held the light, filmy shawl, that he had felt it a joy to bear, ready to throw over her shoulders.

“No,” she cried, petulantly, “I am too hot as it is. There,” she cried, relenting, as she saw his fallen countenance, and for want of another victim, “you may come with me and carry the shawl till I want to put it on.”

The chaplain’s heart gave a bound, and, too pleased to speak, he followed Helen closely, as the man led her towards the bottom of the lawn, where, as they drew nearer, a dark figure could be dimly seen slowly pacing up and down.

“How angry dear Mary would be if she knew,” thought the Reverend Arthur; “but I cannot help it. I suppose I am very weak, and it is my fate?”

“What is wrong now?” thought Helen, whose conscience was quick to take alarm. “Is he going to speak to me about Hilton? No; he would not have—he could not have been so cowardly as to speak to my father about our quarrel.”

They were very near now, and Helen could see that her father had one hand up to his face, resting the elbow in his other hand.

“It cannot be about Murad. That must be over,” mused Helen. Then aloud, “Is anything the matter, papa? Are you unwell?”

At that moment she realised the fact that the figure in evening dress was not her father, the chaplain noticing her start, and trying to go forward to her aid; but, as he took a step, a hand was clapped over his lips, an arm tightly embraced him, and as he dimly saw a white handkerchief tied across Helen’s face, he was lifted from the ground and borne away, too much surprised to do more than struggle weakly at such a disadvantage that even a strong man would have been as helpless as a child.

Helen made an effort to shriek for aid, but a black cloud seemed suddenly to envelop her in the shape of a great cloth, wrapping her round and round. Then she felt herself lifted from her feet, and half-stifled, half-fainting with the horror of her situation, she was just conscious of being carried for a few minutes, and then of being placed in a boat; while in the midst of her horror and excitement there seemed to come up before her the faces of her three old mistresses at the calm, quiet school, then that of Grey Stuart looking reproachfully, and then all faded away into one complete void.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

A Floating Captivity.

What seemed to be an endless ride by water, during which the captives felt over and over again as if they would be suffocated by the folds of the cloths in which they were enveloped.

Several times had the two first prisoners made such desperate efforts to free themselves that the boats in which they were rocked dangerously, that in which Chumbley had been thrown shipping a little water more than once; but finding by degrees that it was only a waste of strength, and contenting themselves with the idea that though an Englishman may never know when he is beaten, they had done everything possible to vindicate their character, they lay quite still, dripping with perspiration and gasping for air.

An hour must have gone by when, in each boat, as the prisoner lay perfectly quiescent, it seemed to strike the captors almost simultaneously that if something were not done suffocation might ensue. Under these circumstances efforts were made to give them a little of that bounteous provision of air that was waiting to revive their exhausted frames.

Chumbley was lying upon his face in the bottom of the boat, the exhaustion having produced a semi-delirious sensation, in which he fancied that he was in evening dress, of a very thick texture, dancing in a crowded ballroom, and so giddy that he was in a constant state of alarm lest he should hurl his partner, the Malay princess, headlong upon the floor.

This sensation kept coming and going with saner thoughts of having done his best, and its being useless to struggle, in the midst of one of which intervals he awoke to the fact that his hands were being held tightly behind him, and back to back. Then someone, with a deftness of habit that told of long custom, tied his thumbs together, and then his little fingers.

Next he felt a stout cord passed round his ankles and another about his legs just above the knees, after which the thick cloth was drawn from his head, and he gasped and panted as he filled his lungs again and again with the pure night air, which cleared his brain and sent the crowded ballroom, the thick costume, and the giddiness of the waltz far back into the unreal region from which they came.

For a moment he revelled in the sight of the brilliant star-lit heavens, and then, almost before he knew it, a cloth was bound tightly round his eyes.

“A seizure by banditti,” muttered Chumbley, “quite in the romantic style, and I shall be held to ransom, when, seeing that I have nothing but my pay—and that is hardly enough for my expenses—I may say, in the words of the monkey who held out his tail to the chained-up dog, ‘Don’t you wish you may get it!’ Oh, I say, though, I’m as sore as if I’d been thrashed. Whatever game is this?”

“If you will promise to be silent,” said a deep voice at his ear in the Malayan tongue, “we will not thrust a cloth into your mouth.”

“I wish they’d pour a glass of Bass into it instead,” thought Chumbley. “I say, you sir,” he replied, in as good Malayan as he could command, “what does this mean?”

“Wait and see.”

“Are you going to kris me?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s a comfort,” muttered Chumbley. “I might have known it by their taking so much trouble, though five minutes ago it would have been a charity to put me out of my misery.”

“Will you be silent if I leave your mouth free?” was asked again.

“I don’t see that it’s of much use to halloo,” said Chumbley, sullenly, “but look here, old chap, what does this mean? Tell me, and I’ll be as quiet as a lamb.”

“Wait and see,” was the reply.

Chumbley was silent for a few minutes, drawing in long breaths of air. Then, addressing his captors, who seemed to him to be steadily rowing on:

“I say,” he exclaimed, “can I have this rag off my eyes?”

“No.”

Another pause, during which the prisoner listened to the pleasant ripple of the water against the boat.

“I say,” from Chumbley.

“Yes.”

“I can’t fight now or else I would.”

There was a low laugh, which seemed to come from a dozen throats, and the same deep voice replied:

“My lord is a giant in strength, but we have him fast.”

“Then set me up, so that I can sit comfortably, or I shan’t be worth a Chinese dragon dollar if you want me for sale.”

There was another low laugh, as if the Malay captors were amused; and then, in obedience to a whispered order, the prisoner was lifted and placed in a more comfortable position, but not without some effort and grunting on the part of the men who essayed to move him, the boat rocking about ominously the while.

“That’s better,” said the prisoner. “Hah, I can get on now! Here I say, old chap, whoever you are, put your hand in my breast.”

“Does my lord wish me to promise that we will not slay him?” said the deep-voiced Malay.

“Bosh! No!” cried Chumbley. “In my breast-pocket. That’s right. Now take out the cigar-case. Not the pocket-book. The cigar-case. That’s it! Now open it and take out a cigar. Put it in my mouth. Have one?”

“My lord’s servant does not smoke when he has work to do,” replied the Malay.

“All right, then, I have none,” said Chumbley, coolly. “Put the end in my mouth, and give me a light. There’s a match-box in my vest.”

There was a low laugh once more in the fore-part of the boat; but the prisoner was too intent upon feeling the hand thrust into his breast, his cigar-case opened and snapped again, the case returned, the roll of tobacco placed in his lips, and then the light struck and held convenient for him to draw.

“Hah!” he said to himself, “it’s wonderful what comfort there is in a cigar at a time like this! How I do pity the poor little women who are not allowed to smoke!”

He said a few words to the Malays, but they were very quiet and reticent; and feeling that it was of no further use to talk to them in their own tongue, which was a trouble to him, he began to think in English, which, if not of much comfort, was at all events an occupation for the time being.

“This is a rum set-out,” he thought, as he settled himself as comfortably as he could, and smoked away. “An hour or so ago I was at an English evening-party, held for coolness upon a lawn. Now I am here in a boat; but where the dickens here is I don’t know.

“But what does it mean? I’m not of the slightest use to anybody; and they are not doing it for revenge, because I haven’t made any enemies. Let me see, though—have I?”

He paused thoughtfully for a few minutes. “No—no, I can’t think of anybody except Miss Helen, for rejecting her tender glances. Let’s see, what did Byron or some other chap say about there being no what-you-may-call-it so dangerous as a woman scorned? Can’t recollect quotations—never could. But that’s all nonsense. Helen Perowne wouldn’t want to have me carried off like this.

“That’s it,” he said, half aloud this time, and after a thoughtful pause. “It’s ransom, that’s what it is. The noodles think because I am an English officer, and flash about in scarlet and gold, that I must be very rich. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”

Chumbley indulged himself with a long and rumbling chuckle.

“They’ll be preciously disappointed on finding out I’ve none, and if they expect to get it out of the British Government they’ll find that the payment will be made in rifle balls, unless some very urgent appeals are made in Parliament respecting the risk, when the question will arise, what will the noble, the British Government, as represented by its Secretary for the time being, think that my great carcass is worth.”

Chumbley had sat there for a considerable time smoking and listening, for he had suddenly awakened to the fact that there was another boat hard by, with whose occupants his captors conversed in a low voice.

Then suddenly he heard a familiar voice speaking fiercely in the Malayan tongue.

Chumbley hesitated for a moment to make sure, and then shouted:

“Why, Hilton, old man, are you there?”

“Chumbley! Here! Help!” cried Hilton. “Help, man, help!”

“Bring it here, then,” said Chumbley, coolly.

“I cannot. I’m a prisoner: seized by Malay scoundrels.”

“Same here, old man,” said Chumbley, puffing away at his cigar, the incandescent part of which was getting dangerously near his nose. “Pleasant finish to the Perowne fête, isn’t it?”

Here there was a fierce adjuration from the Malays in the other boat, which Hilton obeyed to the extent of speaking in a lower tone.

“What is to be done?” he said, “I’d come and help you, but I’m bound hand and foot.”

“So am I, old man,” replied Chumbley, coolly. “Tighter than you are, I’ll swear.”

“But what is to be done?” said Hilton again.

“Goodness knows. Nothing, I should say. Have a cigar?”

“Chumbley!” cried Hilton, passionately, “is this a time for joking, when at any moment our lives may be taken! Be sensible if you can.”

“I thought that was being sensible or philosophical if you like it better, old man. I don’t see that it’s of any use to fret so long as they don’t kill us. It will be a change from pipe-clay and parade; and judging from what I saw between you and someone else in a certain quarter to-day, I should have thought that you would have been glad of a holiday.”

“Holiday, with a kris at our throats,” cried Hilton, passionately.

“Bah! they won’t kill us!” said Chumbley.

“I tell you that is what the scoundrels mean!” replied Hilton. “Not that it matters much,” he added gloomily.

“Oh, doesn’t it!” said Chumbley, “but it does, a good deal. I don’t know that we should make much fuss—soldiers can’t; but I know of plenty of people who would cry their eyes out about me.”

“If the English rajahs,” said a voice, that seemed to the two young men in their bandaged condition to come out of the darkness, and to speak haltingly, as if the utterer were not quite sure of the language in which he spoke—“If the English rajahs will be patient, and not try to escape, no harm shall be done to them.”

“There,” said Chumbley, “do you hear that, old man! Better have a cigar.”

“Rubbish!” cried Hilton, angrily.

“Not a bit of it, old man,” said Chumbley; “they are some of old Perowne’s best, and I have just finished one, and am going to have another. Here! hi! my lord the Malay chief, Maharajah, Muntri, Tumongong, or whatever you are, stop the boat, and give my friend a cigar. Load us both and fire us old chap, and then we can go off comfortably.”

There was no cessation in the rowing; but as Chumbley sat back there he felt his request attended to, the smoked-out cigar being taken from his lips and thrown into the water, where it fell with a loud hiss, the case taken from his breast, opened, and then it seemed that the boats were drawn together, and a cigar was passed to Hilton.

“Got it, old man?” said Chumbley, sucking at his own, and biting off the end.

“Yes,” said Hilton gruffly, as if he were resenting the attentions of his captors.

Then came the sharp sound of a striking match; and though Chumbley tried hard, he found that his eyes were too well bandaged for him to catch even a gleam of the light, so he contented himself with drawing at his cigar, after which there was the loud hiss of the match thrown into the water, and the boats were once more urged onward at a goodly speed.

A little conversation was kept up; but over their cigars the two prisoners seemed to grow thoughtful, and at last there was a pause, which Chumbley broke at last with the question:

“I say, old chap, don’t you think this means ransom?”

There was no reply, and the deep-voiced Malay said, in his own tongue:

“The other boat is far behind.”

It must have been towards morning that a few words were uttered in Chumbley’s boat; there seemed to him, as he immediately became on the qui vive, to be a quickening of the rower’s strokes, the rustling of bushes, some twigs of one of which brushed his arm, and then they ascended, as far as he could judge, a narrow stream for a short distance, for the oars kept striking bushes or reeds on either side; and now the boat that held Hilton had evidently come up close behind.

“They mean to hide us away well, at all events,” thought Chumbley. “Now I wonder whether we have come up the stream or down.”

He had hardly given life to that query, when a gentle check, as if the bows of the boat had run into mud, told that the shore was reached.

A few rapid orders succeeded, and it seemed to Chumbley that now they were about to land he would have his cramped legs unbound; but no. The next minute he was seized by four men, lifted out, and laid upon the soft, mossy ground.

“You there, Hilton?” he said, as he lay upon his side as helpless as a newly-landed fish.

“Yes, I am here,” was the reply.

“The English rajahs can talk as they like,” said the deep-voiced Malay. “No one can hear them now.”

“Humph! Thanks for the great concession,” growled Chumbley; and he was about to take advantage of the permission, when he felt himself again lifted, and laid this time in a kind of hammock that seemed to be slung upon poles, and then for a couple of hours at least, he and Hilton, who was in a similar conveyance behind, were borne along some narrow pathway of the jungle, the leaves, and strands, and thin verdant canes brushing against them constantly, and sweeping their faces at times when they were halted for the bearers to be changed.

“Well,” said Chumbley, chuckling softly, “I hope they are enjoying themselves with their job over me. They’ll declare that they have had the honour of carrying a very great man.”

A final halt at last, when fresh voices were heard. The hammocks were set down upon what seemed to be a framework; then they were lifted, tilted very much at one end, as if a flight of steps were being ascended, and at last the prisoners felt themselves to be landed upon what felt like a bamboo floor.

Next they were lifted out, carried a few steps, and laid upon soft matting; there was the pad, pad—pad, pad of shoeless feet over the floor, and all was perfectly still.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

A Bird in a Cage.

Helen Perowne’s horror upon finding herself borne helplessly away was so great that she swooned, remaining insensible for some very considerable time, and when she did recover herself it was only to faint again and again, becoming afterwards so thoroughly prostrate that she took no note of either time or the direction in which she was being taken.

Hours must have elapsed before, in the total darkness caused by the stifling veil thrown over her head, she found that she was being carried in some kind of litter along a forest path, whose leaves and vines brushed her as she passed.

This seemed to last a long time, and to be very unreal and dreamy. In fact, more than once she felt that she must be in some terribly troubled dream, out of which she kept awaking to the reality of her position and calling for help.

It was in vain she knew, for her voice seemed to return upon her; and at last, wearied out and exhausted, she lay there passive, thinking of the past, and wondering what her future was to be.

She was too much prostrated to be able to think with clearness; but her thoughts kept turning to her career since she left England, and the dark, threatening face of Murad was constantly before her eyes. That he was connected with this outrage she felt no doubt, and as she thought of her weak vanity and the strait to which it had brought her, the tears filled her eyes and trickled slowly down her cheeks.

Then other faces rose before her in the darkness, as if upbraiding her for what she had done. She saw the Rev. Arthur Rosebury, calm, patient, and uncomplaining, satisfied if she only gave him a look or word; Chumbley, her very slave at first, but then a rebel, ready to look at her mockingly, as if laughing at his broken chain; Hilton, devoted and tender but exacting, as if he doubted her truth; Murad, again fierce and lurid in his love, so that she shuddered as she saw his dark eyes and white teeth; a dozen others with whom she had trifled; and lastly, the quiet, firm face of Neil Harley, half laughing, half angry with her, but full of determination, as if he were constantly telling her that he was but waiting till she had grown wiser, for she would yet be his.

As these faces seemed to rise before her out of the thick darkness, it was as though she were haunted, and it was in a wild, passionate way that she seemed in her dreamy state to be defying them, bidding them go—all but one, whose power was too great even for her angry words to repel. No; Neil Harley merely mocked and laughed, and seemed to say: “I can wait; I shall appeal no more, for some day I know, as I have often said, I shall have you humbled, a suppliant at my feet, begging me to take you, to protect you, to make you mine. Till then I can wait!”

It was all darkness again, and these words but a fancy of her brain; but how real it all seemed—so real that Helen shuddered as she wept.

“I hate him—I detest him!” she panted. “I would sooner die than humble myself as he has said—sooner become the wife of this Indian prince, of Hilton, or of anyone who pleaded for my love. Supplicate! And to him! What madness! Why do I think such things? Is my brain reeling? Are my senses leaving me? Heaven help me? What shall I do?”

The heat was intense, and the prisoner could hardly breathe, so closely was she veiled; and once more she sank into a dreamy swoon, in which the realities of her condition were so commingled with fancy that she could not separate them, and her efforts to master her reason were growing vain, when she was roused by what she doubted to be real at first, but which proved to be the gruff voices of men speaking by her litter-side.

Soon after she, too, found that she was being carried up a ladder, and rousing herself, she made a feeble effort to get free; but so weak was her straggle, that she was lifted by one man, carried up the steps, and laid upon a couch.

There was a few moments’ pause then, and she heard her late companions depart. Then she felt busy hands about her, their touch making her shriek with horror; but as the stifling veil was removed she found it was nearly daylight, and her relief was great as she saw that she was surrounded by women.

She was too much exhausted to speak; but she found strength enough to join her hands together in a mute appeal for help; and one of the women bent over her, and proceeded to smooth back her dark and tangled hair.

“Give me water!” she panted, hoarsely. “Water!” but her words were not understood, and it was not until she had made signs, pointing to her mouth, that those in attendance brought her a cup of the refreshing fluid.

Whether it was drugged or not she never knew, but directly after she sank into a sleep that was deep enough to resemble a stupor, though most probably this was the effect of her utter weakness and prostration, her mental agony and excitement having been extreme. From this sleep she did not awaken for many hours, when, upon unclosing her eyes, she found that a couple of young Malay girls were watching her, evidently waiting for her to awaken, for no sooner had Helen unclosed her eyes than they proceeded to attend to her toilet, bringing water, brushes, and other necessaries, bathing her face, and then laughingly dressing her hair, chattering away to each other the while.

Helen plied them well with questions, but they only shook their heads; and feeling that it would be of no avail to resist, she submitted quietly to their attentions, letting them arrange her hair, which they did according to their own national tastes, and afterwards began to solicit her to partake of food.