George Manville Fenn (continued 9)

In an access of rage the Malay chief struck her across the face, and sent her staggering back, as he cursed her brutally for coming at such a time; and Helen saw how thin a veneer was the English upon the man’s nature, which now asserted itself in all its native savagery as he bade the girl go.

“No,” she cried, turning upon him in a patient, suffering way, displaying the strength of her weakness as she once more clung to his arm. “I do not mind your beating me,” she said patiently. “I am used to that: but you said you would love me always; and I will not have this strange girl come between us.”

“If you do not go—” he said hoarsely, and he bent down and whispered to her with a menacing look, and a touch at the hilt of his kris.

“I am not afraid,” she said in the same low tone, as she clung to his arm. “You would not kill me; and you may beat me. I am used to that. I say I will not have anyone come between us and stand quietly by.”

Murad’s hand sought his kris, and his lips parted from his teeth, when he half drew the weapon from its sheath; but he mastered his savage rage as he thought of Helen, and spoke quietly and in slow, measured tones, evidently meaning her to hear and comprehend every word.

“Go,” he said, “and you can tell the others this—I have no wife now but this lady. If either of you speak evil to her or annoy her in any way you die. I shall not touch you, but you will be taken to the river. Now leave me at once.”

The girl shrank from him, and trembling in every limb, she tottered towards the door; but her attachment and jealous feelings still refused to be mastered, and turning back once more, she burst into a wild passion of weeping, and flung herself upon his breast.

“Go?” he cried angrily, and he repulsed her roughly. “You hear my words.”

He flung her away, and Helen saw her opportunity. Here was one who hated her, but might be made her friend; and as the girl staggered back from the violent thrust she had received, Helen caught her in her arms and clung to her.

For a moment the girl shrank away; but directly after she gazed wildly in her eyes, and then with an hysterical cry clasped her tightly.

“Stay with me,” whispered Helen. “I hate him! Pray stay and save me from him!”

The trembling girl seemed to grow strong as she found out more fully what her rival’s real feelings were; and as Murad angrily advanced she retreated with Helen to one corner of the room, uttering so wild and piercing a shriek that the Rajah stamped his foot with rage, and going to the door, threw it open and uttered a fierce command.

The result was, that four of the women with whose faces Helen was already familiar came running in, and Murad pointed peremptorily to the pair.

“Take her away!” he cried sharply, and the women seized Helen’s defender; but with a quick movement she snatched a little kris from within her sarong, and they fell back in alarm; while with flashing eyes she placed one arm round Helen, and gazed menacingly from one to the other, as if ready to strike at the first who should advance.

The women uttered loud cries and fled to Murad, who fiercely ordered them once more to separate the pair. No one, however, advanced, and he threw open the door and bade them go.

The women hurried out, glad to escape, and then the Rajah pointed to the open door.

“Go!” he said fiercely, and he glared wrathfully at the girl, who pressed her arm more tightly round Helen, and looked her defiance. “Will you go?” he said hoarsely; “or am I to have you torn away?”

“No one dare tear me away!” retorted the girl. “I shall stay with her, and no one shall hurt her while I’m alive.”

They spoke so quickly now that Helen could only gather a few words here and there; but she could make out how fiercely the girl was threatening to resist any attempt to separate them, even going so far as to present the point of her weapon at Murad, who shrank angrily away, and stood at last biting his lips.

“Will you go?” he cried at last, in a furious tone; and as he spoke he gazed from the girl to Helen and back again.

“No!” she cried fiercely. “I will stay with her. She shall not be your wife!”

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

More Treachery.

Murad took a step towards the girl, and whispered something which Helen could not catch.

Then, turning sharply round, he dashed the curtain aside, swung open the door, and passing through, they heard the heavy bang as the curtain waved to and fro, when Helen’s defender sank trembling to her knees, her eyes closed, and the little weapon with which, but a minute before, she was ready to menace the Rajah’s life, fell with a musical tinkle upon the floor.

The noise startled her, and she opened her eyes to gaze piteously at the fallen curtain, and ended by bursting into a passionate fit of weeping.

Helen let her hands fall upon the Malay girl’s shoulder, eager to speak her thanks, but hesitating, as she felt that it would be better to let the outbreak have its course.

In this spirit she waited quite patiently, listening eagerly though for the slightest sound without that should betoken the Rajah’s return; but all remained silent till suddenly the girl rose and turned upon her angrily.

“Why did you come?” she cried; “he loved me before he saw you. Go: you make me hate you, and I shall kill you for it if you stay.”

For the moment Helen felt angry. At such a time the girl’s want of reason was irritating; but seeing that she was almost beside herself with jealous grief, she advanced and laid a hand upon the weeping girl’s arm.

“You know I hate him,” she said gently, “and that I would give the world to get away.”

“Yes, yes, yes, I know,” sobbed the girl; and her anger gave place to a most effusive display of affection. “Yes, I know, but it is so hard to bear. He used at one time to love me so well, and now he is quite changed for the sake of you. Why do you not go?”

“Will you show me the way?” cried Helen, eagerly.

“The way?” said the girl.

“Yes; how to escape—to get back to my own people.”

“Do you really want to go back?” said the girl, looking at her searchingly.

“Yes, yes; oh yes,” was the reply. “I’ll give you anything to help me away. You shall be made rich, and I will care for you and love you like a sister, only save me from this man.”

The girl fixed her great dark eyes upon Helen’s, and seemed to be trying to read her thoughts.

“It is very strange!” she said at last.

“What is strange? That I should ask you to save me?”

“No,” said the girl, dreamily; “that anyone should be able to hate Murad. He has been cruel to me, but I could never hate him, even though others have talked to me and tried to get my love. Hamet has loved me, he tells me, and that he is unhappy because I am cold; but I could never hate Murad, and the more cruel he is to me, the more he seems to have my love.”

“But it troubles you that he should make love to me?”

“Yes,” hissed the girl, fiercely. “It makes me mad.”

“Then help me to escape; help me to get away,” cried Helen, clinging to her passionately.

“And if I do he will kill me,” sighed the girl.

“Then do not stay here,” whispered Helen, glancing suspiciously at the great curtain, which seemed to wave to and fro, and moved as though some one were listening close behind.

“Do not stay?” said the girl, wonderingly.

“No. Let us escape together.”

“But to leave Murad?”

“He does not love you now.”

“But Hamet does; he would grieve. They would follow and kill me.”

“No, no. You shall not be harmed,” said Helen, excitedly. “I will protect you. You shall live with me.”

“No,” said the girl, sadly, “I could not go away and leave Murad. He is cruel to me, but I cannot be cruel to him. He would want me if I was gone.”

“But you say he would kill you if you stayed?”

“Yes,” sighed the girl. “He would kill me for helping you to escape if he found me out.”

“Then come with me and let my people protect you,” whispered Helen, excitedly. “Why should you stay here when I can give you a happier and better home?”

“Happier! better!” said the girl. “No; there is no life for me that could be happier when he is kind. There can be no better place than this.”

Helen passed her arm round her, for there was something beautiful in the girl’s faith and love for the tyrant who abused her affection at every turn; and the girl, feeling the unusual caress, turned to her lovingly.

“Tell me once again,” she said, “that you really mean it—that you would be glad to go,” and she looked searchingly in Helen’s eyes.

“I would sooner die than stay,” cried Helen, who had to repeat her words twice before she could make herself understood.

“Then let me think,” said the girl, quietly; “let me think how it can be done, for we should like to live and be happy once again.”

“As we shall be, if you help me to escape and come with me and share my home. Let us steal down to a boat as soon as it is dark, and then we can soon reach the great river by floating with the stream.”

The girl smiled sadly.

“You forget,” she said, “Murad’s people will watch us, for we are prisoners now.”

There was no doubt about this being the case, for door and window were securely fastened, as the girl showed with a smile, becoming very thoughtful directly after, and making impatient gestures every time Helen tried to draw her into conversation.

And so the day wore on, with the prisoner’s heart sinking as she saw the approach of night.

It was just at the time when her spirits were at their lowest ebb that the girl turned to her suddenly and caught her by the arm.

“I have been thinking,” she said, “and you shall go free.”

She spoke in her own tongue, and Helen had great difficulty in comprehending her, but the peril sharpened her understanding; and by making the girl repeat her words, she arrived at a pretty correct interpretation.

“And you will go with me?” whispered Helen, eagerly.

“A little while ago I felt that I could never leave Murad; but he is cruel, and he loves me no longer now. I will go.”

Helen’s heart throbbed with joy, as she caught the girl to her breast and kissed her passionately, loosing her though directly, for the door was suddenly opened, and they saw a group of four women standing there, evidently bearing food.

“Come and fetch it,” said one of them to Helen’s companion, for they did not attempt to enter the room.

The girl left Helen and went to the door, to return, bringing the materials for a respectable meal, returning again for water and palm wine, with vessels for drinking, and once more returning for the fruit that the women produced.

Helen was watching their movements intently and suspiciously, she hardly knew why, when suddenly, as the girl was taking a bunch of plantains from one of the women, another threw her arms round her neck and clasped her tightly, with the result that the others seized her as well; there was a slight struggle, the door was slammed to, and as Helen ran to it with throbbing heart, she heard the noise of renewed struggling, the excited angry cries of her poor companion, and these seemed to be dying away for a time, and then to suddenly end as if they had been stifled.

Helen Perowne was brave enough in her way; but the sounds of this struggle, the cries, and their sudden ending, coupled with the threats lately uttered by Murad, made her shudder as she turned, wet with the cold perspiration that gathered upon her face.

What did it mean—that sudden silence? Had they suffocated the poor girl, or had they slain her by some more sudden and deadly stroke?

Helen tried hard to maintain her composure; but her dread increased, and she tottered back to the mats that served her for a couch, to sink down, trembling in every limb.

It was a terrible ordeal, and the more she realised the horrors of her position the more deeply she regretted her conduct to Murad.

For evidently beneath his thin veneer of European manners the Rajah was a remorseless Eastern tyrant, ready to do anything—to sacrifice anything to obtain his wishes.

Unknowingly, or rather carelessly, and with her customary indifference, she had made this man her determined pursuer; and as she thought this, she turned faint, feeling that her position was hopeless in the extreme; and for the moment she felt as if she would go mad.

A violent flood of tears relieved her overburdened brain, and at last she sat up, thinking of her chances of escape, and wondering whether she had let her imagination run riot, and the girl was after all only in a fresh place of confinement.

She decided to take this hopeful view of the case; and feeling better, her eyes lit upon the food that had been brought in, and of which she partook, not so much from choice as from a belief in its being necessary for her strength, which she feared might fail her at any time, perhaps in the direst moment of her need.

Seating herself, then, beside the food, she was trying to eat, when the door was again opened, and one of the women entered quietly, bearing a lighted English lamp.

Helen eagerly questioned her respecting her late companion; but the woman either did not or professed not to understand, merely placing the tall lamp upon a mat on the floor, and hurrying away, seeming as it were to disappear in the gloom on the other side of the lamp, and directly after she heard the door close.

She sat listening, but all was very still. The sun had sunk, and the darkness was coming on so rapidly that she felt thankful for the lamp; and then she turned longingly towards the water and wine that had been brought to her, but which she shrank from touching lest they should happen to contain some drug.

Her thirst seemed to increase at the very sight of the drinking-vessels; and the more she tried wrench away her eyes, the more they sought the large native bottles and cups.

“I cannot bear it!” she panted at last, and bending down, she took the vessel containing the water, poured some out, and after tasting it suspiciously, with her throat growing parched with intense longing, she felt satisfied that the water was pure, and drank a long and hearty draught.

She set the cup down with a sigh of pleasure; and then her blood ran cold, for her sigh seemed to be echoed from out of the gloom near the door.

Murad was standing there, leaning against the doorpost, and it was evident to her now that he had entered when the woman brought in the lamp, and that he had been watching her ever since.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

Trying for a Change.

The days glided rapidly by, and still Hilton and Chumbley remained prisoners. They were well attended to; their diet, though Eastern in character, was admirably prepared: they had wine and cigars, capital coffee, and an abundance of fruit, but no liberty.

The Inche Maida was either away, or else she had taken such deadly offence that she was determined to see her prisoners no more for the present, until they were in a better frame of mind as regarded her wishes.

The slaves who attended upon them were ready to obey their slightest wishes, running eagerly to fetch coffee or fruit, or a kind of sherbet which was very pleasant to drink during the heat of the day.

But there was, with all the attention, a strict watch kept, Chumbley noticing that there was always an ostentatious display of force as if to show the prisoners that it was hopeless to attempt to escape.

Armed men sat about outside the door, and from the window the prisoners could see other armed men sitting about chewing betel, or practising throwing the limbing—the javelin with a blade of razor keenness—which they hurled with such unerring aim that the least skilful would have been certain to strike a man at thirty yards.

But all the same, the hearts of the prisoners were set upon scheming their escape; and they sat and smoked, and made their calculations as to how it was to be compassed.

“I’m sorry I was so rough with the poor woman,” said Hilton one evening, as they sat by the open window sipping their coffee, and gazing at the rich orange glow in the sky above the dark green foliage of the trees.

“Well, you were pretty rough upon her for displaying a remarkable feminine weakness in your favour,” replied Chumbley.

“Well, rough or no, I’m tired of this,” said Hilton. “It is evident that Harley is making no effort to find us out.”

“Perhaps he is, but can’t find the place. I’ve been trying hard to make out where we are.”

“So have I, but I’m puzzled. One thing is evident; we are a long way from the river.”

“So we cannot be at the Inche Maida’s seat.”

“No; I suppose this is a sort of private, lodge or hunting-box somewhere away in the jungle.”

“Yes; a place of retreat in case of danger.”

Then there was a pause, during which the prisoners sat gazing through the bars of the window at the glories of the sky, Chumbley disgusting his friend by continuously spitting.

“The Princess’s home is on the right bank of the river,” said Hilton, at last.

“Granted, oh! Solomon the wise!”

“Ergo” continued Hilton, “we are upon the right bank of the river.”

“Unless her ladyship’s dominions extend to the other side.”

“Take it for granted that they do not,” said Hilton.

“What then?”

“Why, we can pretty well tell where the river is.”

“Where is it then?”

“Due north from where we sit.”

“Humph!” said Chumbley. “Sun sets in the west. I’m looking at the sun, and the river, then, is straight away from my right shoulder?”

“Of course!”

“Then if we got out of this window, and walked straight through the jungle—which we could not do—we should come right upon the river?”

“Sooner or later,” said Hilton. “Then all would be plain sailing.”

“Don’t see it. No boat,” said Chumbley, spitting again.

“Why, my dear boy, we should journey along with the stream till we came to some campong, and then cut adrift a boat and escape in that.”

“But suppose the owner objected?”

“Knock him down with one of his own cocoa-nuts, or your fist. You’re big enough, Chumbley.”

“All right, I’ll try,” was the reply; “but that isn’t the difficulty.”

“No, of course not. You mean how are we to get away from here?”

“Exactly.”

“Well, I have a plan at last.”

“A good one?” said Chumbley, spitting through the window again.

“No, for all my good plans that I have invented turn out to have a bad flaw in them. This is the poorest of the lot, but it seems the most likely.”

“Well, let’s have it,” said Chumbley coolly; “not that I feel in any hurry to get back to duty, for I am very comfortable here.”

“Hang it all, Chum, I believe you would settle down as soon as not.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps I would. But how about this plan?”

“It is simply to wait till about one or two in the morning, when everyone will most likely be asleep, and then to climb up the side of the room here, and force our way through the thatch.”

“Go on,” said Chumbley, spitting again, and making his friend wince.

“Then we could climb along the ridge of the roof till we get to the farther end, where there is a big tree resting its boughs over the place. Once there. I think we could get down.”

“And if we could not?”

“We’d get down some other way.”

“Why didn’t we try that before?” said Chumbley; “it is quite easy.”

“Because it was so easy that we did not think it worth trying.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Chumbley. “I’ve been thinking out a plan too, which perhaps might do as well. I was going to tell you about it to-night, only oddly enough, you proposed this.”

“What is your plan?” said Hilton, yawning.

“Well, you see, I thought of getting out by the roof, breaking through the walls, and cutting the bars of the window; but they neither of them seemed to fit, so I tried another plan.”

“And what was that?”

“It seemed so much better to go through the bottom, so I have been at work at the bamboos.”

“Where—where?” cried Hilton, excitedly.

“Take it quietly, old fellow, or you may excite attention,” said Chumbley, spitting through the window. “Well, the fact is, I’ve been at work night after night, when you were asleep, upon the bamboos under my bed.”

“And you have cut through them?”

“Yes; through two of them, so that one has only to pull my bed aside, lift the two pieces of wood—”

“Chumbley!” ejaculated Hilton, joyously.

“Hullo!”

“Why, I’ve been giving you the credit of being ready to settle down here in the most nonchalant way.”

“Yes, I saw you did. That’s why I chiselled away so, to get through those bamboos.”

“While I was asleep?”

“While you were asleep,” said Chumbley, spitting vigorously.

“Ah, my dear fellow, I shall—”

“Hold your row. Light a cigar, or they’ll be suspicious.”

Hilton obeyed without a word, and Chumbley went on:

“So when you are ready we’ll pocket a table-knife apiece, fill our pockets with portable meat of some kind, and then be off.”

“Why not to-night?”

“I don’t see why not,” replied Chumbley, coolly; “I’m ready. It will do you good—a bit of a scamper through the jungle, even if we get caught.”

“No scoundrel shall catch me alive.”

“I say, old man, don’t talk as if the Malays were fly-papers and you were a pretty insect.”

“Don’t be absurd,” said Hilton excitedly. “Shall we try to-night?”

“Well, no; let’s leave it till to-morrow, when we can devote the day to storing up cigars and food; and then if they don’t find out the hole I have made, we can slip through and make for the river.”

“But suppose they find out the hole you have made.”

“Well, then we must try another plan: your way through the thatch.”

“Yes, of course. But, by the way, old fellow, I wish you would drop that habit you have just taken up of spitting through the window.”

“Certainly I will,” said Chumbley, coolly; “but don’t you see, old fellow, I’ve had to get rid of a lot of bamboo chips, and that was the only way I could destroy them. They’re awfully harsh chewing, by the way.”

Hilton looked at him with a kind of admiration.

“And to think that I’ve been abusing you for your indolence!” he cried.

“Didn’t hurt me a bit,” said Chumbley. “Go it. I don’t mind.”

That night and the next day seemed as if they would never pass. Every time a native servant entered Hilton felt sure that he had some suspicion about the loosened bamboos, and it seemed as if his eyes were directed towards the pile of mats upon which Chumbley slept.

But at last, after a false alarm of the Princess coming, the night fell, and with a beating heart Hilton set about filling his pockets and a handkerchief with provisions for the journey, Chumbley seeming all the while to be plunged into a state of lethargy.

“Come, Chum,” whispered Hilton, at last, “be stirring, man.”

“Heaps of time yet, my boy,” replied the other. “Lie down and have a nap.”

“Will nothing stir you?” whispered Hilton, wrathfully. “Good Heavens, man, rouse yourself!”

“Shan’t. I’m resting. There’s heaps to do when we start, and I want to be fresh. Lie down.”

“Hang it, don’t speak as if I were a dog,” cried Hilton, sharply.

“Have the goodness to lie down and rest yourself, my dear boy,” said Chumbley in a polite drawl. “It is of no use for us to attempt to stir till the fellows are all asleep, so save yourself up.”

Hilton obeyed, lying down upon the matting, and in spite of his excitement, he felt a strangely-delicious drowsy sensation stealing over him, to which he yielded, and the next moment—so it seemed to him—Chumbley laid a great hand over his lips, and whispered:

“Time’s up!”

He rose to his knees, to find that it was intensely dark, and saving an occasional howl from the forest, all was perfectly still.

“I’ve got the bamboos up,” whispered Chumbley, “and you are going first, because I can then hold your hands and lower you softly down. Don’t speak, but do as I bid you.”

Hilton felt ready to resist his companion’s autocratic ways, but he obeyed him in silence, Chumbley lowering him through the hole to the open space below the house, the building being raised some eight feet above the ground upon huge bamboo piles, as a protection from floods and the prowling tiger.

The next minute there was a faint rustle, a heavy breathing, a slight crack or two, and Hilton received a heavy kick.

Then Chumbley dropped to his feet.

“I got stuck,” he whispered, as he took his friend’s hand; “thought I should not have got through. Now then, the river lies straight before us, under that great star. ’Ware guards and tigers, and we shall be safe.”

It was intensely dark beneath the house, and but little better as they emerged from the piles upon which it was built, to stand with the dense jungle before them, impenetrable save where there was a path; and they were about to step boldly forth, when something bright seemed to twinkle for a moment between them and the stars, and by straining their eyes they made out that straight before them were the misty-looking forms of a couple of their Malay guards.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

In Time of Peril.

With eyes wild and hair dishevelled Helen Perowne sat crouched together as far from the Rajah as her means would allow.

“Why, Helen,” he said mockingly, and with a gleam of triumph in his eyes, as he half reclined against the bamboo wall, “how beautiful you look!” He made a movement as if to clasp her in his arms, but she sprang up with a cry of horror.

“What folly!” he said, laughing as he slowly changed his feet. “And you will not drink—you are afraid that I shall try to poison you. Don’t be afraid. Why should I now? I love you too well. When first you began to woo me—”

She burst into a piteous fit of sobbing, and then turned upon him her eyes full of misery and despair.

“That makes you more handsome!” he cried, excitedly. “Be angry with me; I love it! I will say that again. When you first began to woo me—”

It had not the intended effect, for Helen remained silent, watching him with dilated eyes, as if he were some tiger about to make a spring.

“I say when you first began to woo me,” he continued, “I resisted for a time, for you are only a white woman, and not of our blood or our religion; but I felt at last that you had made me your slave, and once my love had turned to you, fate told me that you would be mine, and I gave way to my passion. Then you led me on till I declared my love, when you professed to cast me off, and I accepted the words; but they were words only. Fate said that I was to take to myself a wife from the invaders of my country, and do you think I was going to let the opposition of your friends, as you did, stand in the way?”

He waited for her to reply, but she remained watchful and silent.

“I knew all along,” he went on, evidently to provoke her to speak, “that you only professed to reject me, and that you were waiting, as I was, the time when you would be mine; and though I grew daily more impatient, I was ready to wait for my reward. At last the time has come. Look at me well, my wife, for such you are; even the priests have studied, and found that a prince of my race was to marry a woman fair as the morning light.”

He took a step forward, and as she shrank back with a cry of horror, he stopped and laughed.

“Why do you shrink away, little wife?” he said. “The time has passed now for that, and you should cling to me, and pay me for my patient waiting and my brave deed. But you were afraid of the water and wine, as if I should poison or drug you. Why should I? You are here—my wife—in my home amongst my slaves. It is foolishness to think that I should give you poison to drink—to you who love me so well. See here!”

He walked quickly forward to where the wine was placed, and Helen watched him keenly as he poured out a cupful, smiled at her, and drank it slowly to the last drop.

“Now,” he said, smiling, “will you drink without fear? I will pour you out a cup. No; I will use this from which I drank. It is only your husband’s, and you need not mind.”

He poured out a fresh cup of the palm wine; but as if from clumsiness shook the native bottle that contained the liquid. Helen did not perceive it; but the wine as he partook of it himself was clear; now it was thick and discoloured, a fact that would have been seen at once in a glass.

She still kept aloof from him, with her mind actively at work, seeking some means of escaping from her enemy’s hands, for she could not conceal from herself that appeals and violence would be equally in vain.

She came to the full endorsement, then, of previous thoughts—that her sole hope of escape depended upon artifice: her womanly cunning must be brought to bear. She felt that she had mastered Murad before; why should she not now—by seeming to accept her fate? He would, she argued, doubtless submit to her wishes if she showed a semblance of accepting his suit, and in this spirit, as he pressed her once more to partake of the wine, she began to parley with him.

“I do not drink wine,” she said.

“But you must be faint,” he urged. “You have only drunk water; you have not eaten.”

“Then I will eat,” she said.

“May I seat myself, and eat with you?”

She paused for a moment, for her nature fought against the subterfuge she was about to practise; but he was keenly watching her, and she motioned to him to take his seat upon the mats.

“When you are seated,” he said, with a smile of triumph playing about his lips.

She hesitated for a moment or two, and then sat down, Murad following her example, and contenting himself, as she seemed ready to start away, with placing the wine-cup at her side, and seating himself opposite.

“That is better,” he said, smiling. “Now make me happy by letting me see you eat.”

Every mouthful seemed as if it would choke her, and her heart beat wildly as she thought of her unprotected state; but she battled bravely with her feelings, and spoke quietly, answering the Rajah’s questions, and striving all the while for strength and courage to carry out her designs.

As for Murad, he was perfectly triumphant in his way. The victory was his; and with all the pride of a weak man at his success in bringing the handsome English beauty to her knees, he laughed merrily, making Helen shiver as she saw the wild excitement in his eyes, and listened to the compliments he paid to her beauty.

“I like you the more for your brave resistance,” he said; “and most of all for your cleverness and wisdom. You see that it is of no use to fight, so like a wise captain you surrender.”

He laughed again, and kept his flaming eyes fixed upon her.

“You shall be my queen, Helen,” he said, talking in a quick, excited way. “You shall help me to fight all my enemies, and drive them out, till all the country round is mine, for you are Malayan now, and your people will have to go. I shall not slay them. No: they will find they have no position here, and they will go as they came; but you will stay. You will not wish to leave me, my queen. You will not wish to be white again. But you have not drunk your wine. Come: you must drink, Helen; it is my cup, and I wish to drink again.”

She took up the cup and held it to him, Murad taking it with a bow and smile, holding her fingers within his pressed against the side of the vessel, and keeping them prisoned there.

She did not shrink, but sat motionless, her hand becoming deathly cold, and the dank perspiration gathering upon her brow.

“No,” he said at last, with a smile; “it is not fair. You must drink to me. See!” he continued, raising the cup to his lips, and holding it there for some moments. “I drink to your happiness—a toast you English people call it.”

She watched him narrowly, and saw that he did not drink, merely held the cup to his lips, and then slowly let it down to the level of his breast, carefully wiping his lips before holding out the cup to her.

“Stay,” he cried, “I must fill it up again;” and taking the native bottle, his hand shook a good deal as he refilled the cup. “Your presence agitates me,” he said. “See how my hand trembles. It is all for love—the love you taught me to feel.”

Helen trembled with horror; and never had her heart reproached her in all her past more bitterly than at this moment. It was retribution, and she felt it cruelly.

“There,” he cried, touching the edge of the cup again with his lips, “drink from that, Helen, my love, my wife, as an earnest of the kisses you press upon these lips, for I will not force them from you; they shall come full and freely as your gifts. Forced kisses are from slaves, and I can command them when I will! I want your warm, true, freely-given English love, and in return I will worship you, and make you a queen as great as your own, far over the seas. There, take the cup and drink. Yes, you must—you shall drink. No, no,” he cried, laughing in a harsh, strange way, “I do not command, I beg and pray.”

He had risen now, and was bending down over her with the wine, and in her horror and fear of his presence she was ready to shriek aloud. His hand grasped her arm as he pressed the cup towards her. It was with no lustful caress, but with a spasmodic, furious grasp to save himself from falling as the cup dropped from his hand, making a great patch upon the soft brown matting that was spread with sweets and fruit.

He recovered himself though directly, and stood upright, but kept on muttering angrily and gazing about him in a wild, excited way. His eyes looked fixed and dilated, while his hands were extended as if feeling about for something to grasp.

Helen gazed at him in horror, and she shrank more and more away as Murad kept on muttering in the Malay tongue before sinking down heavily and then letting his head drop as if it were much too heavy to bear.

She stared, believing it to be some ruse, but a heavy, stertorous breathing set in, and the Rajah sank lower and lower, evidently in a heavy stupor, while now all became confused and misty before Helen’s eyes; and as, like a flash, the thought passed through her brain that after all the water that she had tasted had been drugged, a deathly sickness overcame her, and she sank back insensible upon the mats.

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

Light in Darkness.

When Helen Perowne came to her senses it was some minutes before she could realise what had taken place, and she lay there motionless, staring up at the bamboo and palm-leaf roof that looked dim, and weird, and strange, as she saw it softly illumined by the rays of the lamp; while there above her was one soft round patch of light glowing amidst the darkness, and reminding her of the nights when she had been ill at Miss Twettenhams’, and a night-light had been set to burn in a shade.

“Where am I?” she asked herself: for the past seemed gone.

Then all at once she seemed to hear, coming, as it were, out of the mental mist wherein she wandered, a dull, low, long-drawn breathing, and she rose to her elbow, to see there, lying with his face turned to the lamp, and not two yards away, Murad, apparently watching her, for his eyes were widely opened and staring in her direction.

Her heart began to throb violently, and, cautiously watchful, she rose slowly to her knees, supporting herself with her hands, as she felt how horror-stricken and weak she was; and it was only by a great effort that she found herself able to stand.

She was glad, however, to sit down again, to allow the sensation of giddiness that oppressed her to pass away. And now she fully realised the fact that the staring eyes before her, in which the light of the lamp was strangely reflected, were fixed and blind to what passed around, their owner being plunged in a deep stupor-like sleep.

It was some time before she could really believe this to be a fact; but when she did realise her position it gave her courage; while, as she tried to recall what had passed, she wondered how it had all come about.

Her common-sense soon told her that she had fainted entirely from fright, and that her suspicion concerning the water being drugged was ill-founded; while, on the other hand, as she gazed at Murad, her ideas gathered force, and she fully believed that her enemy had fallen into the trap that he had laid for his victim, and she wondered how long it would be before he awoke.

Helen’s suspicions were correct. Murad had had some little experience in the management and usage of the vegetable narcotics of the jungle, and believing from old experiments he had made that he could drink with impunity the clear wine from the top of the prepared vessel, he had, to disarm her suspicions partaken thereof, leaving the strong, thick portion for his victim, taking care to agitate it at the time of pouring out.

He was, however, wrong, for the narcotic he had used was a particularly strong preparation, and the clear portion at the top of the bottle contained ample quantity of the poison to overcome him in the fancied moment of his triumph, leaving him prone at his prisoner’s feet.

The dizziness passed off; but for a few minutes the girl felt that she dared not stir for fear that at the least motion on her part her persecutor might awaken; and in this spirit she remained for some time, listening to the heavy breathing, and watching intently, as if fascinated by the dark eyes that at times seemed gazing into hers.

At last, however, she gained a little more courage, and cautiously made a step or two towards the door.

Then she paused and listened, and gazed at the prostrate figure, fancying that she had detected some slight movement; but satisfying herself at last that Murad still slept, she went once more, step by step, her heart palpitating wildly, till she reached the door, when a louder inspiration than usual made her turn sick with dread, and she had to cling to the framework to keep from falling.

Finding, however, that Murad did not stir, she once more gained courage; and rousing herself for the effort, she drew aside the heavy matting curtain with cautious hand, tried the fastening of the door—growing more bold moment by moment as she strove to get it open—but all in vain. The handle would not stir, and it seemed to her that there must be a great bar across on the outside, making prisoners of both her and her captor.

It was not until the utter hopelessness of her effort dawned upon her that she gave up her task and turned to the window.

Here her efforts were equally vain, for the grill was formed of stout bamboos secured with ratan cane, bound at the intersections, and so strong, that without a powerful edge-tool even a stout-hearted man might well have given up the task in despair.

Helen’s delicate fingers, then, failed even to shake the bars; and at last, thrusting her arms through, she clasped her hands on the other side, and pressed her fevered brow to one of the openings that the soft night air might breathe upon it, and there she remained, alternately praying for help and listening to the Rajah’s heavy, stertorous breath.

A couple of hours must have passed like this, and the silence was terrible. There was at times the hoarse roar of a tiger in the jungle, and the Rajah now and then muttered some words in his own tongue; otherwise there was the regular breathing of the sleeper, and the dull thud—thud, thud—thud of the prisoner’s palpitating heart.

All at once there was a sharp exclamation and an uneasy movement which sent Helen’s blood bounding through her veins.

The time of peril had arrived then; and she thrust her arms more fully through the bamboo trellis, meaning to enlace her fingers firmly, and cling there to the last.

It was a strong position which she had accidentally taken, and it now dawned upon her that it would need a tremendous effort to dislodge her from her hold.

Here, then, she clung as the uneasy movement continued, and it was not for some time that she dared turn her head to look where, to her great relief, she found that Murad had only slightly changed his position, and was still sleeping heavily.

How long would this last, she asked herself, with a shiver of fear; and then, in the reaction after the horror of a few minutes before, when she fancied her enemy was waking, she became weak—so weak that she sobbed hysterically, and almost hung from the bars of the window, for her legs refused to bear her up.

But she recovered after awhile, and feeling stronger, satisfied herself that Murad was still sleeping heavily, and then stood gazing out at the darkness of the night.

The dense foliage made it seem blacker; but here and there the rays of a star penetrated to where she was, and seemed like a promise of hope. The faint perfume of flower and leaf made the soft, moist air odorous and sweet, and there was a delicious coolness that seemed to give strength to her enervated frame.

Every now and then came the ominous cry of some wandering tiger following the narrow jungle paths, and at times there were strange, mysterious sounds, evidently arising from the forest depths, and to which she could give no name, but which sent a shudder through her frame, as she thought that ere long she might be wandering there in the darkness, running the risk of an attack from one or other of the fierce beasts that haunted these shades.

But as these thoughts crossed her mind, she glanced back at where the sleeping figure of Murad lay full in the light of the lamp, and she felt that she would sooner risk the danger to be incurred by wandering through the jungle than remain another hour beneath that roof.

It must, from the time that seemed to have elapsed, have been near morning when, as she stood there with her weary head pressed against the bamboo barn, the cry of a tiger sounded very close at hand, followed a few minutes later by a low, rustling noise, as if the creature were forcing its way through the dense undergrowth towards the house.

This ceased, and then went on again and again, till, forgetting the peril that threatened her in the room, Helen strained her eyes to try and make out the long, lithe, striped form of the advancing tiger, which appeared to be approaching with the greatest caution the window where she stood.

It was so unmistakably making for where she stood that Helen felt a chill of horror run through her, thinking that sooner or later the fierce beast would make a tremendous spring, and perhaps force its paws through between the bars and seize her as its prey.

So horrible was the impression that once more she felt fascinated, and gazed down with starting eyes, her enlaced fingers clutching more tightly, and her whole being as if under the influence of a nightmare.

Then, all at once, the rustling noise ceased, and she stood listening intently for the next approach or for the final spring.

But even if she had known that the next moment the approaching tiger would launch itself through the air and seize her with its claws, she could not have stirred, for it seemed to be her fate.

The silence was awful: so perfectly still seemed everything that the breathing of Murad grew painfully loud, and the throbbing of her own heart more pronounced.

“Is he asleep?” said a low voice just then from out of the darkness where she stood, and Helen’s heart gave a great bound; for in the voice she recognised the tones of the Malay girl, who had that evening been dragged from her side.

For a few moments the reaction was so great that Helen could hardly speak; and when at last she could master her emotion, her dread was still so great that the words would hardly come.

“Speak low!” whispered the girl; and cautiously and beneath her breath, lest their common enemy should awake, each proceeded to make known her position to the other.

By degrees Helen learned from the girl, who spoke in a bitter, half-distant way, that she had been shut up in a room by herself, and threatened with death, but that she had immediately set to work to escape, and had succeeded by climbing up, and tearing a hole through the palm thatch, forcing her way out, and sliding afterwards down the steep slope, and falling pretty heavily amongst the bushes below.

She was not much hurt, however; and after lying still for a long time to make sure that she was not heard, she had slowly forced her way through the dense undergrowth, making a long circuit so as to approach the window of the room where Helen was a prisoner without exciting attention.

“You must speak lower,” she said, “or he will wake;” and then Helen told her of the drugged wine—or, rather, of her suspicions that the wine was drugged.

“And he drank it!” cried the girl, excitedly. “Ah, then, that is right,” and her whole manner changed. “He will not wake up till long after sunrise. I know what that poison will do. I drank of it when I was first brought here, and I slept for one whole day. We need not be afraid of him then, but we must mind not to waken the other people near.”

She ceased speaking, and Helen heard a loud rustling and panting noise, and a few minutes later a dark face rose to a level with hers, and she clasped the Malay girl towards her and began to sob.

The girl kissed her through the bars, there being just space enough for their faces to approach, and then, with an eager look at the sleeping figure, she whispered that it was time to act.

“But what shall we do—what can we do?” whispered Helen.

“You said you wanted to leave him, and that you would take me back with you to your own people. Will you do so now?”

“Oh, yes, yes,” whispered Helen, excitedly; “make haste and let us go!”

“But are you sure that you wish to leave him?” said the girl, dubiously.

“Oh, yes—yes—yes!” cried Helen, so eagerly that the girl uttered a warning “hush,” and then apparently satisfied, bade her be still while she tried to make a way to her.

For answer Helen stood listening, while the girl seemed to climb upwards and sidewise, standing with her feet resting upon the bars of the open window; and for some time there was a low tearing and rustling noise, as if an effort was being made to cut through the bamboo and cane-woven wall.

This went on for some time and then ceased, to Helen’s great relief, for Murad had several times moved uneasily, and it seemed to her that the noise had awakened him.

There was a slight rustling then, and the Malay girl came back to her former position.

“I cannot do it,” she whispered. “It would take strong men with parangs, and I am only a weak girl with a kris.”

“Can we not escape, then?” panted Helen, whose heart sank.

“Yes; but not that way. It must be through the roof, for the attap is only soft and the strings thin. I think I can manage to cut through there.”

As her words left her lips they both clung there as if paralysed, for, uttering a hoarse gasp, Murad struggled to his feet and staggered towards them with an angry cry.

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

A Faithful Ally.

The alarm was not of long duration, for it soon became evident that Murad was still under the influence of the powerful narcotic. He did not see either of the other occupants of the room, but staggered here and there for a few moments, and then sank heavily once more upon the mats, placing his head in an easy position, and falling into a heavy sleep, his breathing sounding deep and regular to the trembling girls.

“We need not mind,” said the Malay girl at last. “He cannot hear me. I will climb up.”

The bars of the window formed a ladder for her ascent, and she clambered slowly up till her feet were resting upon the topmost bar. Then there was a rustling and cutting noise, and every now and then a dull pat, as of something falling into the bushes below.

It was a terrible position for Helen, who, unable to assist, could only listen and keep her eyes fixed on Murad, whom she momentarily expected to see arise wrathfully and call for help to seize the brave girl working so hard without to obtain freedom for both.

Then, as the Rajah still remained breathing heavily, another form of dread attacked her; she felt sure that some of the guards or people must hear this loud rustling noise, so that it was with an intense feeling of relief that Helen heard the sounds cease. Then there was a louder rustling as of someone drawing herself up, and directly after the Malay girl climbed down into the room, Helen clasping her tightly in her arms.

The girl freed herself hastily and went across to where Murad lay sleeping, bent down over him, gazing steadily in his face, and then turned with a bitter laugh.

“I have said good-bye to him, so now let us go. If I look at him again I shall never be able to leave. Let us escape.”

“But how?” exclaimed Helen, helplessly.

“How?” said the girl. “Why, as I came in. I have opened the way,” and she pointed to the ragged hole in the palm thatch.

“I could not climb up there,” exclaimed Helen, with a look of helplessness and despair in her countenance; “it is impossible!”

“You white people!” cried the girl—“you are poor, and weak, and helpless! But come, you must go. Murad will soon waken, and what will you do then?”

The mention of that name and the prospect of the awaking seemed to nerve Helen to the effort she was called upon to make; and in answer to a fresh demand made upon her by her companion, she declared her readiness.

“I will go first,” said the girl, and with the nimbleness of a cat she seized the bars of the window, went up them like a ladder, and with an agility that made Helen, as she watched her in the dim light shed up there by the lamp, look upon her movements as almost miraculous.

Drawing herself quickly up, she passed through the hole in the attap roof, crawling right out; and directly after, having turned, Helen saw her leaning through.

“Now, come—quick!” whispered the girl. “Step up the window-bars as I did, and then give me your hands. You shall not fall; I will hold you.”

Helen made a couple of weak, ineffective trials to climb up and reach her friend, but sank back, and was ready to burst into feeble tears and give up in despair; but Murad uttered some angry words and threw out one arm, which fell heavily back upon the floor.

The noise electrified Helen, who darted to the window-bars, and how she managed she hardly knew, but she climbed up, caught spasmodically at the Malay girl’s hand, at the bamboo rafters, and partly by her own effort, partly by the girl’s exertion, was dragged up through the palm-leaf roof, and sat with her companion holding on tightly to the steep slope.

Here she rested, panting and trembling, so that the girl did not make any further effort for a few minutes, and even then it was Helen who proposed that they should move, placing her lips close to the other’s ear, and asking wildly what they should do next.

For answer the girl climbed over her, made Helen move slightly, and then, seating herself with the legs through the hole, she took off the sarong worn veil-fashion over her shoulders, and twisting it tightly, tied it to the one Helen wore, making of the two a strong silken rope, one end of which she secured to the trembling prisoner’s left wrist.

“Now,” she whispered, “I will hold you by this. Let yourself slide softly till you touch the bars with your feet, and then climb down. Afterwards hang from the sarongs, and I will lower you as far as I can.”

Helen drew a long, deep breath, trembling the while, for the height and position in which they were seemed to her to be awful!

But she did not shrink now; she felt committed to the desperate enterprise; and holding on by the tough palm-leaves, she lowered herself down the steep roof, and then clung to the woodwork with all her strength, as her feet were suspended now over the darkness, and she sought foothold for them with desperate haste.

But for the steady strain upon her wrist she would have fallen; but this encouraged her to renewed effort, and after a few trials, and just as she began to feel that her task was hopeless, her right foot touched and rested upon one of the bars, and taking a fresh hold, she stepped down, slipped, was held by the tight tension of the silken rope, saved herself, and the next minute stood panting, with hands and feet sustained by the stout bamboo trellis of the window.

Here she paused for a few moments, when once more it was Murad who startled her into action, and she lowered herself down till she was hanging by the sill of the window, seeking for some support for her feet, her companion jerking the sarong sharply to urge her on.

But Helen had exhausted herself by her efforts, and could do no more. She tried once feebly, but there was no result; and to make matters worse, the Malay girl was now straining the sarong, as if afraid that she would fall.

There was a faint cry, a slip, the sarong was held tightly, and Helen fell with a jerk that seemed to drag her left arm from the socket. She swung for a moment, and the silken rope was lowered so rapidly that she seemed to be falling. Then she did fall with a crash amongst the bushes, what seemed to her to be an immense distance, though it was only some half-dozen feet, and she lay perfectly still, feeling that she was terribly hurt.

She was half stunned by the fall and the excitement; but her companion climbed down lightly, and bent over her in the darkness.

“Quick!” she whispered. “Someone must have heard you fall? Are you hurt?”

“I don’t know. Not much,” faltered Helen, as she struggled to her feet, the girl meanwhile hastily rolling the sarong round Helen’s arm, catching then at her hand, and half dragging her through the tangled bushes, whose thorns checked them, tearing their garb, while every now and then they had to stoop and creep beneath the trees.

In this way they had made some fifty yards towards safety, when a fierce snarling growl, which they both knew well enough to be that of a tiger, sounded away in front; and almost simultaneously there was the report of a gun, then of another, and lights could be seen in the direction from which they had come.

“Which is it to be,” said the girl, hoarsely, “Murad or the tiger? Say which you will choose, for they will either of them kill us without mercy?”

Volume Three—Chapter Nine.

Another Escape.

“The Inche Maida need have someone to drill and discipline her men,” whispered Chumbley to his companion, as, after walking up and down for a few minutes, they saw the two Malays, whose duty it evidently was to guard their prison, light their pipes and then stroll away, their course being for a time indistinctly made out by the faint glow of one of the bowls.

Mutually regretting that they had not made an attempt to escape sooner, since they were finding the task so easy, Hilton led the way, going cautiously step by step upon their blind quest of a path which should lead them to the river.

That such a path would exist they felt pretty sure, the river being the great highway of the land; and paths were so few, that they were pretty certain of its being the right one if they should hit upon a track.

In spite of their efforts, though, first one and then the other leading, no path was found; and at last, in utter despair, after being driven back again and again by the density of the jungle, they were compelled to sit down amongst the bushes edging the forest to wait for day.

It was a grievous disappointment after escaping from the house and evading the guards. They had hoped to be miles away towards the river before daybreak, whereas now the chances were that they would hardly place to their credit a hundred paces even if they avoided the guards.

Day seemed as if it would never come, and yet so persevering had been their efforts that the first streaks of dawn began to appear in less than an hour after they had seated themselves in what proved to be a very fair hiding-place; and almost as they made their first step to reconnoitre, there was a flash of orange and gold in the sky.

Chumbley pressed his companion’s hand, pointing as he did so to what was evidently the pathway they had sought for; and after a glance round they were about to step out into the open, and then run as quickly as they could into the shelter, pushing rapidly on to make the best of their way into the depths of the jungle.

Hilton gave his companion a glance, and they were about to start off when a couple of spear-armed Malays took up their position on one side of the Inche Maida’s house, a couple more starting up from beneath a tree where they had been sleeping, and so near that the officers must have nearly trodden upon them as they passed.

Had the two young men not sunk down in their hiding-place they must have been seen, and it was evident now that the Inche Maida’s followers watched a part of the night, after which they lay down to sleep, and rose again at daybreak to continue their guard.

Regrets were unavailing, and it was as useless to wish themselves back in their comfortable prison, there to rest till night, when they could have easily got away with the knowledge they possessed.

Hilton uttered a weary sigh as he lay there trying to devise some means of escape; and meanwhile the sun rose higher, lighting up the dark places beyond where they lay, and showing them more and more that the slightest movement meant being seen and offering themselves as marks to the Malays’ spears.

They exchanged glances and lay perfectly still, with one of the Malays coming to and fro past them as he kept guard, and so near, that had he looked in their direction at the right moment, he must have seen them.

A couple of hours had passed away when the outcry that the fugitives had been expecting arose, the Inche Maida herself giving the alarm and furiously bidding her people to join pursuit.

Quite twenty well-armed men darted off through the opening into the jungle, the Princess following them at the end of a few minutes with half a dozen more of her followers, leaving the palm and bamboo edifice apparently deserted, and the way free.

“Now is our time, Chum!” whispered Hilton, and cautiously rising, they began to look for another path—one that would lead them to the water by a different route.

They ran round the house twice, and then gazed at each other in despair.

There was but one path, which led right to the opening in which the house was built. All around was impassable jungle; and the only way to escape was to follow the Inche Maida and her men.

The place was a regular trap, and could have been defended by a few resolute fellows against hundreds if there was an attack.

“What’s to be done, Chum?” said Hilton.

“Go in and hide somewhere, and wait till night.”

“With those women to tell the Princess where we have hidden ourselves!” said Hilton, angrily, pointing to a group of half a dozen women standing in the doorway and watching their movements.

Chumbley made a few steps as if to go to them, when they scuttled off like so many rabbits in an English warren; and there were but two courses open to them—either to follow their would-be pursuers, or to calmly go back and wait for the Inche Maida’s return.

“It will be taking trouble for nothing to go after them,” said Chumbley, wearily. “Let’s go back to our room and order the women to bring us some breakfast.”

“What? And give up without making an effort?” cried Hilton. “I’d sooner die!”

“I wouldn’t. But all right,” said Chumbley. “I’m with you; but we may as well be armed.”

He ran into the house, and as he expected, had no difficulty in finding a couple of krisses and spears, one of each of which he handed to his friend; and then they struck boldly into the jungle, following the path taken by their enemies hour after hour; and, though momentarily expecting to hear them returning, continuing their course in the most uninterrupted way.

It was always the same; a dense wall of verdure to right and left; tall trees shutting out the sunshine, and the greatest care necessary to keep from falling into one or other of the great elephant holes.

At last they came upon a place where the pathway forked; and after a moment’s hesitation they chose the path to the right, that to the left being the one most likely to bring them nearer to their friends, and, therefore, probably the one their pursuers had taken.

In fact, hardly had they gone a hundred yards down the way they had chosen, before they heard voices across the jungle, evidently those of their returning pursuers.

This lent fresh wings to their feet, and they hurried on, finding to their dismay that the enemy had turned into this path, and were now following them fast.

It was a race for liberty, perhaps for life; and whither the path led they could not tell. Whenever they paused for a moment to listen, they could hear the voices of their pursuers; and at last, panting, streaming with perspiration, their faces bleeding from contact with thorns, they glanced at each other, when, by mutual consent, they made another effort. The path took a turn, and Hilton uttered a cry of joy, for at the end of a long green tunnel there was the brilliant sunshine upon the river.

This put new life into them; and racing onward, they reached the water’s edge just as a couple of Malay fishermen were securing their sampan to a post.

The sight of the weapons, and the threatening words used by the desperate fugitives, silenced any opposition the fishermen might have made; and as the two officers sprang aboard, the men loosened the rope, took their paddles, and the boat was round the bend of the river and out of sight before the Inche Maida’s followers reached the water’s edge.

Before night the Residency island was in sight.

Hilton had been very silent for some time, but at last he spoke:

“Chum, old fellow,” he said, “I’ve been thinking about what we are to say.”

“Hilton, old fellow, I’ve been thinking the very same thing.”

“It would be too ridiculous to say that we had been carried off by a woman.”

“We should be roasted to death!” said Chumbley.

“But she ought to be punished.”

“Can’t go and carry sword and fire into the woman’s home because she took a fancy to you.”

“What are we to say, then? I dare not own to this affair!”

“I swear I won’t!” said Chumbley.

“Then what is to be done?”

“The only thing seems to me to be that we had better say we were carried off by the Malays.”

“Which is a fact,” said Hilton.

“And we were taken to a place that we had never seen before.”

“Another fact,” said Hilton.

“And kept prisoners.”

“Which is another fact.”

“I think that’s best,” said Chumbley. “It would be horrible to go and take revenge upon this woman.”

“But she deserves to be well punished.”

“Well, we are punishing her,” said Chumbley, “by coming away, and leaving her in a horrible stew, for she is safe to imagine that we shall go back with a company, and destroy her place. Besides, she will never dare to show her face at the settlement again.”

“Well, let the matter rest for the present,” said Hilton. “Only let us thank our stars that we have escaped.”

“To be sure!” said Chumbley, with a sigh of relief. “Poor woman, I should not like her to be hurt, she behaved so well; and—Hurrah! there’s Harley! Row, you ruffians—row! There—to that landing-stage!”

Then, as the men, who were in a great state of dread as to whether they should be allowed to depart, tremblingly placed the boat alongside the bamboo landing-stage, Hilton sprang out, Chumbley following, after placing some silver coin in the men’s hands, and sending them rejoicing away.

“What’s that?” cried Chumbley, as he caught part of a sentence and the Resident’s hand at the same moment. “Miss Perowne missing?”

“Yes; carried off, I suppose now,” said the Resident, between his teeth. “The same brain must have contrived your absence, though for what I don’t know, unless it was for ransom.”

Hilton and Chumbley exchanged glances. “Only one brain here could have plotted this,” cried the Resident, as he mastered the fact of his friends having been made prisoners in some out-of-the-way place; “and the brain was that of the doubly-dyed, treacherous scoundrel who has all along professed to be our friend. I always suspected it: Helen Perowne is a prisoner in Rajah Murad’s hands.”

Volume Three—Chapter Ten.

Hamet.

The disposition on the part of Helen Perowne and her companion seemed to be to trust the beasts of the jungle sooner than the Rajah; and after a few moments’ pause to listen, they went cautiously on, with the cries of the great cat-like creature that they knew to be in their neighbourhood seeming to grow more distant, as if it had been driven off by the noise and firing at the house.

It was terrible work that flight; and had she been alone Helen would have given up in sheer despair, for every atom of growth in the jungle seemed to be enlisted in the Rajah’s service, and strove to check the fugitives as they fled. Great thorns hooked and clung to their clothes; ratan canes wound across and across their way, tripping them up, so that again and again they fell heavily; while the dense undergrowth rose up constantly like a wall of verdure, as impenetrable as some monstrous hedge.

Streaming with perspiration, panting with exhaustion, and ready to give up in despair, Helen struggled on, nerved to making fresh attempts by the courage of her companion; but at last the jungle was so dense that any further effort seemed like so much madness, and they paused to rest, Helen sinking down amidst the thorns and leaves, too much exhausted to move.

The Malay girl did not speak, but stood leaning against a tree-trunk, listening for tokens of pursuit, but there was not a sound; and by degrees it dawned upon them that the Rajah’s people had taken alarm at the noise, and then, seeing nothing, hearing nothing more, they had quietly returned to their rest; for the probabilities were that they would not venture to disturb the Rajah, who would sleep on in his stupor perhaps till mid-day.

After a time the girl laid her hand upon Helen’s shoulder.

“We must try again,” she said; and with a weary sigh the fugitive rose and staggered on, following her companion as she tore aside the canes, pushed back thorny growth, and utterly regardless of self, kept on making a way for Helen to follow.

There was a strong display of kindness in her manner, but it was not unmingled with contempt for the helplessness of the English girl, who had to trust entirely to her for every step of their progress.

Just at the very worst time, when they had again become entangled in the wild jungly maze, the Malay girl stopped once more to take breath; and then making an angry effort to free herself from a bramble-like growth that was tearing her sarong into shreds, she uttered a cry of joy, for she found that she had broken through quite a thorny hedge of growth, and was now standing in a narrow pathway, evidently the track made by elephant, buffalo, or other large creatures of the jungle.

Her cheery words aroused Helen to fresh exertion; and following the track, painful as it was, and full of crossing strands and canes, they got on for the next two or three hours pretty well, when they seemed to have descended into marshy ground through which the track led.

Here they found a fresh difficulty, for if the Malay girl had had any doubt before that they were in an elephant path, it was made evident now by the series of great footprints, every one of which was a pitfall of mud and water, the custom of these huge beasts being to step invariably in the tracks left by those that have passed before, believing them to be indications of safety; and the result is that in a short time the path becomes in a wet soil one long series of muddy holes.

It was along such a way as this that Helen and her companion struggled on till the sun had risen and the rich shafts of orange and gold came pouring through the dense foliage above their heads.

With the sunrise came light and hope. The sombre forest seemed to be less depressing, and when they had struggled on for another hour, until the heat began to be steamy, a brighter light shone through the trees ahead, and they awakened to the fact that they were near the little river, whose banks they at last reached, to lie down beneath the spreading branches of a huge tree. The boughs formed a screen from everyone who might be passing in a boat; and here the Malay girl produced some food which she had had the foresight to bring; and this they ate, watching the rapid, sparkling stream, whose path through the jungle was all sunshine and light, while that of the fugitives had been one of gloom.

As they sat there resting, they now and then directed their attention to the stream, gazing up and down as far as their eyes would reach in search of danger; but sparkling water, blossom-burdened trees, and the occasional glint of some brightly-plumaged bird darting from side to side, was all that met their sight.

They both meant to be watchful, and as soon as they were rested to once more continue their flight, but the exhaustion produced by their unwonted exertions proved to be too much for them, and as the heat increased they both fell into a deep sleep.

Helen and her companion had been slumbering heavily for several hours, ignorant of the flight of time, and in these brief restful moments thoughts of peaceful days had come back to both; while in the sunshine beyond the tree that formed their shelter birds flitted here and there, the brilliant armour-clad beetles winged their reckless flight, making a whirring hum as they dashed over the stream. The surface of the river was flecked with the rising of the bright scaled fish, and what with the varied greens and the beauty of the blossoms that made the sides of the little river quite a garden, all looked peaceful, and as if trouble could not exist upon earth. But danger was near, for two of the Rajah’s boats came slowly up-stream with their occupants parting the leaves with bamboo poles, and peering beneath on either side in search of the fugitives; while, in utter ignorance of their proximity, the wearied girls slept on.

A tall, fierce-looking Malay, in a brilliantly-tinted sarong, stood in the prow of the boat nearest to the fugitives, and he was so indefatigable in his efforts to examine every foot of the way, that it seemed impossible for the girls to escape his search.

Nearer came his boat, and still those the crew sought lay insensible to danger, and with Helen’s thoughts far back in the past of her pleasant days with her friends at the little settlement. The tall Malay used the light pole he held with the utmost skill, and parted bough after bough, raising this one, depressing that, until it was down in the swift, pure water.

Every now and then he gave some short, sharp order to the men who paddled the boat, so that they sent it in closer or forced it back, giving him abundant opportunity for seeing anyone upon the bank; and in this way they approached the great tree beneath whose umbrageous foliage the two girls slept.

The boat was sent close in, and the swarthy face of the Malay peered between the branches, which he moved with the pole, so that over and over again they helped to shelter those who were sought, and at last the sharp order was given to back out from among the branches; but the moment after the leader rescinded his order and seemed to be desirous of searching more, for he raised a broad-leaved bough, held on by it, and looked in once more beneath the shade, shot with brilliant rays, and with flies dancing up and down in one broad band of sunshine.

That broad band of sunshine shone right athwart the Malay girl’s face, and as the searcher saw it a grim smile of satisfaction played for a moment about his lip, and then left him stern-looking and calm.

“Go on,” he exclaimed, in his own tongue, as he loosed the branch whose leaves hid the sleeping girl from sight, and the boat went forward, the Malay peering back for a moment with his great opalescent eyeballs rolling as he looked up and down the great tree, as if fixing it in his mind with the surroundings on either side of the stream. After this he went on in the same matter-of-fact way, pressing the branches aside and examining his bank of the river for quite an hour longer, when the leader of the other boat, which was well in advance, hailed him, and proposed that they should give up the search as of no avail.

The other searcher made a little demur, when the other became more pressing.

“They could not have wandered up so far as this,” he said; and the tall Malay reluctantly acquiescing, the two boats were turned, a man placed a paddle over the stern for steering purposes, the other paddles were laid in by the weary rowers, who, leaving the boats to descend the swift stream, settled themselves in easy attitudes, pulled out their betel boxes and leaves, and each man, after smearing a sirih leaf with a little paste of lime, rolled up in it a fragment of the popular betel-nut, and sat back with half-closed eyes, chewing, as if that were the be-all and end-all of existence.

The boats sped rapidly down-stream, past the glorious panorama of tropic vegetation spread on either side: but it was not noticed once save by the tall Malay, who sat back in the prow with his bamboo pole balanced in his hands, lazily peering out of his half-closed eyes.

As they approached the huge tree, beneath whose shade the two weary girls lay resting, the Malay’s dark eyes opened slightly, as if he were again carefully observant of the place. Then they half-closed once more, then quite closed, and he seemed to go fast asleep.

Then the two boats rapidly glided down with the current and disappeared.

The sun, which had before been shining straight down upon the river, had gone westward, and had begun to cast shadows across the foaming stream, when once more a boat appeared, but only propelled by one man, who, armed with a long pole, stood in the stern, as he kept close in under the trees, and thrusting the pole down in the bubbling water, forced the little vessel along at a rapid rate.

He did not look either to right or left, but aimed straight for the great tree, and even then passed it, but only to alter the course of the boat a little, and let it glide back right beneath the branches and close in shore, where he silently secured it, and then stepped out to where the Malay girl still lay sleeping.

He stood looking at her for a few moments before kneeling softly down at her side, when, with a light, firm touch, he placed one hand upon her right wrist and the other upon her lips.

The girl started into wakefulness, and would have shrieked, but the hand across her lips stayed her. She would have seized the kris with which she was armed, but her wrist was pinioned.

She gazed with fierce and angry eyes straight into her captor’s face, and thus for some moments they remained till he raised his hand.

“Well,” she said, “you have taken me.”

“Yes; at last,” he replied, in the same low voice as that in which the captured girl had spoken.

Involuntarily the Malay girl’s eyes turned towards her companion, but she closed them directly, believing that Helen had not been seen.

“Yes, she is there,” he said, in a low whisper. “I saw her before I saw you.”

“And now you are going to drag us back to Murad?” said the girl, adopting his tone. “How proud Hamet must feel now that he has become a slave-catcher!”

“I did not say I was going to take you back to Murad,” he said, laughing. “Do you wish me to take you back to have the kris?”

The girl shuddered, for she knew that this would be her fate; but with true Eastern spirit she recovered herself.

“What matter?” she said, indifferently. “I do not mind.”

“You do mind,” he said; “and you want to live.”

“Yes: then let me go,” she replied.

“No; I was sent to take you, and I have found you.”

“But you do not mean to take me back to Murad?” she cried, angrily.

He laughed again.

“It is for you to decide,” he continued, in a low voice. “I, Hamet, have loved you long now—ever since Murad grew tired of you and cast you off. You know it.”

“Yes,” she said, sullenly, “I know it. You have told me before; and if I had told the Sultan he would have had you slain.”

“Both of us,” said the tall Malay, coolly. “But now we are away from him and free. Will you listen to me?”

“I must,” she said, scornfully. “I cannot help it.”

“Yes; you could help it,” he said; “but you will not. I am obliged to take this opportunity, and I do, for I could not bear to see you hurt.”

“And yet you came to seek me?”

“Yes, and to save you. Two boats have been searching for you this afternoon, but only my eyes saw you. Had it been any others, you would have been in Murad’s power by now.”

“Did you come and see us sleeping?” she said, eagerly.

“Yes. How else could I have known that you were here waiting to be caught?”

“And now that you have caught me,” she said, indifferently, “what does Hamet mean to do?”

“Is it Hamet, Murad’s officer—or Hamet your friend?”

“How can I tell?” she said, indifferently. “You are a catcher of slaves, and you have taken two. Are you happy?”

“No,” he said, earnestly. “Make me happy.”

“How? Tell me what are your plans?”

“To save you if I can; but either you become my wife, or you go back to Murad. My orders are to take you.”

The girl remained perfectly silent for a few minutes, during which the tall Malay watched her intently.

“If I say I will be your wife, and go with you now back to your place, will you let her go free—where she will?” said the girl.

“Yes,” he said, eagerly. “I will not see her; she may go where she will.”

The girl hesitated for a few moments, and then tried to rise, but the Malay held her tightly by the wrist.

“I shall not try to run,” she said, scornfully. “Loose my arm.”

The Malay hesitated, gazing full in her eyes. He then tossed the girl’s arm lightly from him.

“I will trust you,” he said; and then he looked on curiously, as the Malay girl stooped softly over Helen, and just brushed her hair with her lips so gently that the sleeping girl did not stir. Then, turning to the Malay:

“Are you alone?” she asked.

“Yes: quite. I saw you before; but I did not want to capture you for Murad. Now, is it to be as I say? Will you come?”

The girl glanced once more at Helen; then placing her hand in that of the Malay, she let him lead her a few paces along the bank, and assist her into a seat, where, taking his place in the prow, he silently loosened the boat, guided it softly past the boughs, so that there was not even the rustle of a leaf; then, letting the pole dip into the water, he gave one powerful thrust, and the sampan darted out into mid-stream, and then rapidly glided out of sight, just as the shadows were deepening across the river and an orange glow began to tinge the surface of the leaves.

Volume Three—Chapter Eleven.

Through the Wilds.

Helen woke with a start just as the boat disappeared round the curve at the end of the reach, and her first movement was towards where her companion had lain down.

At first she could not believe that she was alone, but sat waiting for the girl’s return, believing that she had awakened first, and had gone for a short distance to try for a better path; but as the minutes sped, and the darkness would, as she well knew, soon return, a strange sensation of horror began to trouble her, and she started to her feet, and began to search around in various directions, even going so far as to call in a low voice.

She dare not go far for fear that her companion should return and find her absent, so she kept making little excursions here and there where the denseness of the jungle was not so great, and then returned to where she had slept.

Parting the boughs on either side, she then crept as near to the river as she could, so as to look up and down stream, for what purpose she could not tell, though it seemed as if an instinct led her to gaze at the highway by which her companion had departed.

It was now rapidly growing dark, and the feeling of depression and alarm rapidly increased. So thoroughly frightened did she become at last that she would gladly have called for help, but her common-sense warned her that such a proceeding would only bring down her enemies upon her if they were in hearing; and at last, with her horror of her loneliness increasing fast, and a feeling of dread that some savage beast of prey had seized upon the Malay girl gradually overmastering her, she sank upon the earth, weeping bitterly, helpless as a child, and asking herself if she dared face all those she knew again, and whether she had not better die.

How that night passed Helen never knew. Sometimes she sank into a weary kind of stupor, full of troublous dreams, from which she started awake with a sense of horror, and a full belief that some terrible creature was about to spring upon her. At times too, as if to carry out this illusion, she listened with beating heart to the distant howl of some wandering beast, or to one or other of the mysterious noises heard during the night in the primeval wilds.

The darkness seemed as if it would never end, and the rushing river, as it sped on like a stream of ink full of stars’ reflections, hissed and writhed, and at times lapped the bank upon which she sat as if it were a huge serpent seeking to make her its prey.

This idea suggested the loathsome monsters that she knew would haunt the hot, steamy jungle close to the river side; and with starting eyes, when some low rustle was heard amongst the leaves, she tried to pierce the darkness, believing over and over again that she saw some lithe, undulating reptile gradually approaching her; and at such times it required all her strength of mind to determine that it was but a mere fancy, and as unreal as the images of fierce creatures that she more than once believed that she saw coming out of the jungle.

Then her busy brain reminded her of other and more real perils of her position—the more dangerous from their insidious nature and approach. Depressed in spirit as she was, she could not help recalling the accounts she had heard of the deadly fevers, and the certainty of their attacking anyone who passed the night upon the bare earth.

Still, it would only mean death at the worst, she thought, in a weary, despondent way; and her misery was so great now that she felt ready to give up her very life sooner than fall again into Murad’s hands.

Then her thoughts flew to Harley, with whom she seemed to associate any hope that she might have of the future; and for a time she would brighten up, and contrast her present position with that of some few hours back. She was a prisoner then, and in terrible peril; now she was free, and the chances were, she hopefully told herself, that she might fall in with some party sent in search of her, for she would not believe Murad’s version of her disappearance to be true.

It seemed to her as if the morning would never come, and the first herald of its approach was a dank, chilling breath that came to her laden with the mist of the river; and as she sat and shivered she felt that her clothes were saturated with the heavy dew, and longed now for the coming of the sun with its warm, inspiring beams and hopeful light.

Her teeth chattered, and her limbs ached as the day broke. She had been awake for quite a couple of hours; and the weariness and oppression that troubled her was now supplemented by a throbbing headache, which was at times almost more than she could bear.

As the sun sent his beams glancing through the jungle, Helen rose painfully to her feet, gladly seizing the bough of a tree to cling to and support herself till the giddy sensation that oppressed her wore off.

And now, in place of the chill from which she had suffered, she began to burn; hands, cheeks, temples seemed as if they were on fire; there was a misty unreality in the waving branches of the tree as it overhung the river; and as she stood there, trying to master the giddiness that oppressed her, she felt as if this were only the continuance of one of the disturbed dreams that had haunted her during the darkness.

Then the fit passed away almost as suddenly as it had come; and trying to shake off the wearisome lassitude that oppressed her, she began to move forward along the slightly-beaten track that ran onward a few yards from the edge of the river, one evidently made by the wild creatures that from time to time came down to drink, or made the banks of the river their home.

It was an arduous journey, for she had constantly to stoop down to enable her to pass beneath the interlacing boughs and parasites that crossed the path in all directions; but still she progressed, sometimes strong, and hopeful, more often wearied by lassitude, and at times compelled to cling to the branches as she struggled on, her head reeling, her eyes blinded by pain, and the feeling of unreality coming on more strongly with each attack; till at last she went on, forcing her way through the jungle in a state of wild delirium, muttering incoherently as she staggered on.

A blind kind of instinct seemed to keep her to the savage track near the bank of the river, and the same strange instinct led her from time to time to lie down in some convenient place to lap the cool, fresh water from her hand, and bathe her burning cheeks and brow.

As the day wore on and the heat increased, Helen’s journey became to her a blind kind of dream. She had a sort of instinct as guide that she must get farther away—struggle on at any cost, in spite of heat, weariness, and the delirium that robbed her of her reason; and staggering forward with the hands bleeding that beat back the thorns and parasites enlacing her path, sunset still found her at the task.

How long this lasted Helen could not tell. She had a sort of memory of always hearing the rushing liver, and of sometimes lying down to bathe her face and drink. She knew, too, that she was in pain, and that the thorns cut her feet and tore her clothes; but pain and suffering were as nothing so long as she could struggle on.

Then a feeling of anger came over her at the Malay girl’s desertion, for this was a new light in which she viewed her absence; and at last she toiled on till the trees seemed to come to an end, and it was only her weary torn feet now that were hindered by low, thorny, interlacing bushes. These, too, at last almost came to an end; and she seemed to be climbing, slipping, and falling over rocks that sloped rapidly down to the river. Sometimes she had to clamber right away, because the rocks towered up above her head and became impassable.

Then once more she would be slipping and falling lower and lower towards where the river foamed, and flashed, and gurgled, plashing over stones, rushing over masses of rock, but ever singing a pleasant kind of music to her ear, for it seemed to be her friend and guide.

It never seemed to occur to her confused brain that in place of going down the river towards civilisation, she was painfully climbing up towards the mountains, where the river had its rise in the wildest parts, in a district only inhabited by the Sakais—the aborigines of the country—or as they were generally called, the hill-men.

This was nothing to her, for her blind instinct led her to struggle on till, as in a dream, she saw the help that she had believed would come.

Her brain was more beclouded than ever, but she had some instinct of what she ought to do, and that was to make signals.

Then she blindly struggled on towards that help, grew faint, and her power left her. She fell, and lay moaning on the rocky earth; struggled up once more to continue her efforts to reach friends, but in vain; her power seemed to leave her now for good, and she sank down unable to rise again, her next recollection being that she was lying back upon a rough couch, with a familiar face bending over her, and then all was mist.