THE HERMIT DOCTOR OF GAYA (continued 9)

Captain Compton came suddenly to the rescue.

"It's a queer thing," he said, in his deliberate way. "Meredith and Rasaldû and now Miss Fersen——"

"Rubbish!" Armstrong knitted his brows at his junior. "Meredith has probably taken the Rajah with him on his rounds. It's happened before. As to Mrs.—Miss Fersen, there are any amount of possible explanations. Her horse may have fallen lame. I've always set my face against this silly craze for riding alone, and now——"

He stopped. The stem of his wine-glass snapped under the sudden pressure of his fingers. The Simla woman gave a little scream and rose to her feet. He frowned at her. The men exchanged glances. The women were curiously still—looking towards the window. Armstrong laughed, mopping up his wine with his napkin. "'Pon my word, we're all suffering from nerves. Absurd. Some sentry——"

But no one listened to him. Compton got up and ran out of the window—down into the garden. They heard scuffling—a muttered exclamation—the sound of something soft and heavy being dragged up the steps. They sat still—waiting. They saw Compton hesitating on the threshold of the light. He was bending down——

"Give me a hand some one, for God's sake!"

George Brabazone pushed back his chair and turned to his assistance. Between them the huddled, shapeless something was pulled into the room. It lay inert. The shadow covered it. One of the men snatched up a light, holding it above his head.

"What is it——?"

"Tristram——"

"What—not——?"

"I don't know—tumbled off his horse. Pull the curtains—get the servants out of the room." Armstrong took over Compton's command. The natives fled noiselessly before his imperative gestures. The curtains were dragged across, shutting out the black, menacing gulf. They were all on their feet now—two brilliant lines of colour—with that blot lying in a pool of mud and rain——

"Give me wine—anything."

Tristram stirred. With Compton and Brabazone on either side of him, he dragged himself to his knees. The water dripped from his face—from his clothes. He was almost unrecognizable.

"It's nothing—they—missed me. Only winded——" He pushed the proffered glass aside. "Rasaldû—Meredith—both murdered yesterday—regiment mutinies—organized for tonight—not a soul to escape—any minute now. That was the first shot——"

"Where have you come from?"

"Heerut. Bridge gone. Had to swim for it——"

"Matherson——?"

"Gone—I don't know. Don't talk——"

"Of course not—we must act. Who's on duty to-night?"

"Farquhar—Haverton——"

"They must be warned."

"It's too late. It'd show them we were prepared. Our only chance is to take them by surprise— What's that——?"

"Firing. Poor devils! We shall be the next. Who's at the bottom of this, Tristram?"

"Ayeshi—Barclay—what's it matter? Do something!"

They looked at each other. Something like a smile passed over their faces. They were very calm—very quiet. The men and women were equally aware that there was not much they could do. They were cut off by hundreds of miles from any real assistance. It would have taken an hour at least to have gathered the rest of Gaya together and prepared a defence that might suggest even a fighting chance. As it was, they had perhaps a few minutes—if one or two of them had a weapon in his possession it would be a great piece of luck. The thought of a five-chambered revolver—three chambers empty—which he happened to have slipped into the pocket of his military overcoat some days back—gave Compton such an absurd thrill of satisfaction that he laughed.

"We shall have to shy the spoons at 'em!" he said.

Mrs. Boucicault brushed the fluffy grey hair from her forehead.

"My husband has a few guns in his rack," she said quietly. "He used them for hunting, but they might do. I think there are some cartridges, too—I don't know—we might look."

"Better than nothing." Armstrong began to direct, heavily but systematically. "Compton, get the servants together. Shut them up and see that they don't get a chance to communicate with any one outside. Five of you had better keep a lookout. The rest stay here. It would be better to go on as though nothing had happened. We shall defend this side of the house—this room, in fact. We're too few for anything more. Mrs. Boucicault, please lead the way——"

He was obeyed. The women reseated themselves. Mary Compton began to talk. Mrs. Brabazone took up the tangled thread of her story and unravelled it laboriously. The dead white tablecloth and the brilliant colours of the flowers made their faces look vivid.

"It's like old times," Mrs. Compton declared. "I expect it's really a blessing in disguise. If we didn't have these periodical shake-ups our livers would never work at all. We do eat such dreadfully unhealthy things. Somebody pass me the almonds. Let's have our desserts now as well as in the hereafter!"

It was an old and rather feeble jest, but it served its purpose. The Simla woman laughed heartily. Mrs. Brabazone grumbled.

"People always seem to find something in Mary's remarks. It's base favouritism. I'm every bit as funny——"

"A lot more, my dear." Mrs. Compton's manner was that of a rather over-excited school-girl. She ate salted almonds vivaciously and threw one at Tristram, who had stumbled to a chair and sat there with his face between his hands. "You look like a drowned rat, Hermit—not a bit lovable. Where's Anne?"

He glanced up with bloodshot eyes.

"I—think she's dead," he said, hoarsely. "She died alone in Heerut. Sigrid has gone with Barclay. It was his offer—you understand? I shouldn't be here now if it wasn't for her. She and Anne—they thought of you—they neither of them funked."

They were silent for a moment. A spasm passed over Mary Compton's face. She reached desperately for the sweetmeats.

"Mrs. Brabazone—for mercy's sake, tell that Lancashire story of yours——"

"It's about a miner," Mrs. Brabazone began jerkily. "You know how horribly dirty they are. And one day he came home—he was very ill, you know, and his wife said——"

She laboured on with quivering lips. They listened attentively. A sound of shouting came from the barracks not a quarter of a mile distant. Tristram and Mrs. Compton exchanged glances.

"They're working up to concert-pitch——"

* * * * *

In the quiet, whitewashed soldier's room, Armstrong and Brabazone were collecting what weapons they could find. Mrs. Boucicault had underestimated, but even so there was not much hope to be found in the six double-barrelled guns and the few cases of ammunition.

Mrs. Boucicault stood at the foot of her husband's bed looking at him. They were both so still—the grey-haired, painted woman and the big man lying stretched out beneath the thin sheet—that Armstrong almost forgot them. But at the door he remembered and looked back.

"You'd better explain to your husband—I'll send some one to carry him—he must be where we are——" He hesitated, and then added gruffly: "You don't need to worry, Boucicault. You shan't fall into their hands, I give you my word of honour."

They went out. Still Eleanor Boucicault remained at her place at the foot of the bed. The man's eyes were fixed on her. They were distended. The dim light could not reveal their expression, yet all the life which had made its last stand in their depths seemed to gather together—with a supreme effort—to spread over his face—to swell the withered muscles.

The distant shouting reached them. The sound released her from her still absorption. She threw herself down on her knees beside him.

"They're going to kill us, Richard—they're going to kill us. It's the regiment—your regiment.—Colonel Armstrong says we can't do much. They'll just—just do what they like! Do you hear that shouting? That means they're coming. They know we're here—they know you're here. You made them hate us—just as you made me hate you." She gripped him by the shoulders, her words rushing down on him in a fevered, awful torrent. "It doesn't matter to me—I'm dying, anyhow. You've killed me. That's what I want to tell you. I didn't tell you before, because I thought you'd be glad. But now we're going to die together I want you to understand. Look at this——" She tore open the bosom of her dress.

"You did that—that time you struck me. It never healed—it never will. It's cancer. Oh, but I've had a good time all the same. I've spent your money, Richard. I've made you suffer. I've had you to hurt when I couldn't bear the pain any longer. And now—now you're just going to die like a rabbit in a trap." She burst out laughing. There was a long flat chest against the wall, and she went to it with quick, tottering steps and opened it. The neatly folded uniforms, the sword in its leather case—she flung the whole contents down before him with a shrill cry of bitter triumph. "You'll never wear them again, Richard. You won't go down fighting—I shall, but not you—you'll just lie there and trust to us to have mercy on you. You're just a wreck—a crumbling, hideous ruin. That's why I hate you—why they hate you—those men who are coming to kill us. We loved you so. You were our god—our Bagh Sahib—and then you became—a devil."

She knelt down by the heap of red and gold splendour. She was crying, and the tears carved deep channels through the paint and powder.

"Bagh Sahib!"

She put her hand over her mouth. It was as though she had tried to smother a scream, but no sound had come from her lips. She shrank back from him, farther and farther back till she cowered on the floor, watching him.

Slowly—so slowly yet steadily that the movement seemed supernatural—he was lifting himself up. He did not look at her. His gaunt face was tense and absorbed as though the whole being of the man were turned inwards on the contemplation of a miracle. His arms hung straight at his sides. He lifted them—holding them out before him.

"Bagh Sahib!"

He pushed the sheet back and slipped his legs over the edge of the bed. They were mere sticks—fleshless, piteous—yet he stood up swaying like a tall reed in the wind. The woman, huddled on the floor, dragged herself to her feet and stumbled towards him. He put his arm round her shoulders, leaning on her.

"Nelly—poor Nelly—something in my head—it's better—help me——"

It was a child talking—a mumbling, broken appeal. Yet there was a purpose in him stronger than his weakness. He lurched across the room. "Nell—sweetheart—my uniform—my parade—things—my sword——"

"They're here—dear—you can't——"

A shot was fired—this time close at hand. He made an odd little sound like a laugh.

"They've not done with me yet—by the Lord—they shall meet Bagh Sahib again—we'll see who's strongest—even now——" He held out his palsied hands; he was gasping, but it was in the flood-tide of returning life. His eyes shone like a young man's. "Nell—you used to know the way—there wasn't a buckle you couldn't manage—quicker to spot things than a sergeant on parade. No mistakes now—Bagh Sahib never made mistakes—the smartest man in the Indian Army. By Gad—there's the sword—not rusty? No—that's like you—so—now—kiss me——"

Between each sentence there had been a gap of time. She had obeyed him like a woman possessed. Now he stood before her—a ghostly figure in the loose-fitting uniform—the shadow of the man whom she had once loved—but at least the shadow.

She clung to him—half supporting him, herself shaking from head to foot.

"My Richard——"

"Nell—sweetheart—help me—to go to them—just to the door—and then alone——?"

"Yes—yes——"

"Kiss me!"

Her poor, wizened little face glowed like a girl's as she lifted it to his. The years, with their bitterness, dropped from her memory. She did not need to understand more than one thing, that he had been given back to her as he had once been. Nothing mattered now—not even death itself.

"Lean on me, Richard—I am quite strong——"

They went together down the gloomy passage, his arm still about her shoulders. She had need of her boasted strength. At first his weight almost bore her to the ground. But with every step he held himself straighter, freeing himself from her support. At the door of the dining-room he stood upright, only his hands touching her.

He kissed her. Then he went in alone.

A handful of women still sat at the table and talked loudly and incessantly. The rest were helping the men barricade the verandah window. Mrs. Smithers worked with the grim energy of despair, keeping to Tristram's side as though his nearness brought her some comfort. It was she who saw Boucicault first, and in her consternation clutched at her companion's arm.

"Lawks a-mercy!" she whispered. "Look——!"

Tristram turned. It seemed to him that he had known even before she had touched him. Incredible though this thing was, it was also inevitable. The gaze of the two men crossed. Tristram waited for the hating, satiric smile, bracing himself to meet its triumph. But there was no change in Boucicault's face—scarcely recognition.

A bugle-call rang above the approaching storm.

Boucicault came forward.

"Gentlemen—gentlemen—this is child's-play! Do you suppose my fire-eaters care for a few arm-chairs and a crazy gun? Why, we've swallowed whole fortresses armed with cannon in my time. Who's in command here?"

He frowned round on them. Not even Armstrong himself moved. This man had risen from the dead. If their own nearness to death blurred the miracle of it, they were no less under the ban of a miraculous authority. Boucicault shrugged his shoulders. He crossed over to the window and pulled the curtains aside. To the right, towards the barracks, torchlights ran backwards and forwards like distracted fireflies, gradually converging together in a solid block of flame. A black rage settled on the old man's sunken features.

"Who the devil has been meddling with my men?" he cursed. "The 65th never revolted in its history. Whose fault is this? Can't somebody speak?" But they could only look at each other in pitying helplessness. He had forgotten. He was back in the old days when he had led his men triumphantly into a fire under which every other regiment had withered. He was Bagh Sahib, the hero, the demi-god. He had forgotten—and even if they could, they would not have penetrated that merciful oblivion.

He settled his helmet. His thin hand rested tremblingly on the hilt of his sword.

"The civilians stay here with the women," he said. "The rest follow me."

He went waveringly down the steps. And then only they recovered their power of action. Tristram was at his side as he reached the garden.

"Colonel Boucicault—you're not in a fit state——"

The light from behind him flashed into the cold eyes.

"Not fit? I'm more fit than those arm-chair soldiers." A wintry smile quivered under the grey moustache. "You were always confoundedly interfering, Major Tristram."

"What do you mean to do?"

"Take command of my regiment." He turned his back on them. Arabella, still panting and covered from head to foot in mud, had drawn his attention. "Your horse, Major, I am sure? Your mounts were always a disgrace to your service. Saddleless, too? However—better than nothing. Help me up——"

He was obeyed. They might have thrown themselves on him—held him back by sheer force, but they could not. He had taken command. Dr. Martin wrung his hands as though his own death were not howling at him within a couple of hundred yards.

"It's impossible—the man was paralysed half an hour ago—he ought not to be able to stand. If you allow him to go, I won't take the responsibility——"

Mrs. Compton shook him by the arm. Her eyes were shining like two points of fire.

"Shut up—don't you see—he's the Bagh Sahib—he can do things we can't—it's our only chance."

Bagh Sahib rode down the avenue at a walk. He did not hurry, though the sinister light swept down on him amidst a pandemonium of rattling drums and trumpet calls. His face was resolute—no longer brutal—and the smile lingered at his lips. It was as though the coming encounter amused him. He did not look to see whether he was followed.

The men he had commanded looked at one another. Compton fingered the revolver which he had retrieved. He glanced at his wife, and she nodded.

"Well, I'm going, anyhow," he said.

The twelve remaining officers of the 65th assented. Armstrong himself had already hurried on in front of Compton. He was a staid, humdrum type of man, but in that moment the fire was in his blood. None of them remembered that this same Boucicault was the source of the very evil which he had set out to master.

He was the Bagh Sahib.

That was all they knew of him.

They reached the compound gates as Boucicault, with Tristram at his heels, came in sight of the mutiny leaders. It was still pitch dark, but the rain had stopped and the torches burnt up luridly in the still air. Separate from the rest, a gaunt, spectral figure on the ungainly horse, Boucicault waited tranquilly. He was so motionless, so unexpected that the seething mass of soldiers came to a sudden halt. A shot rang out from somewhere in the rear, but those in the first ranks wavered. The superstition which was a very part of their blood chilled them to silence. The roll of drums died away to a faint beat, like the throb of a dying pulse. The trumpet no longer sounded. Boucicault's eyes passed from one dark, uncertainly lit face to another. Then he laughed.

"Well, what have you got to say for yourselves?"

He spoke clearly now. His voice had a metallic ring in it which awoke old memories. But it broke the spell. There were, perhaps, ten yards between him and the leaders, and they rushed, five of them, with a howl of triumph—then again halted—as though they had flung themselves against an invisible barrier. A shot whizzed past Boucicault's head. He grinned mockingly. He touched Arabella's sides and rode forward, till the last five yards were covered, and he stared down straight into their faces. "You don't shoot as well as you did, men. That sort of thing won't do. You want drilling, and, by God, you shall get it! That fellow who missed me shall have my special attention. The 65th wants polishing." He removed his helmet, so that the light flickered on his features. "And I shall polish it," he said.

They recognized him. It was the thought of him which had goaded them to their revolt. Yet now he sat there on his horse—the man whom they believed helpless and stricken—and gibed at them. For them, too, he was as one risen from the dead. A sergeant in the foremost line drew back, cowering from him.

"Bagh Sahib!" he muttered.

Boucicault leant forward and seized the man roughly by his ear.

"Yes—Bagh Sahib. You shall see that I can spring still. Ah, you, Heera, so you remember me? In the old days you fought at my heel like the tiger's cub you were. That was at Affra and Burda. Yes—you could fight then—now you can only mutiny like angry children. Then the 65th had a glorious name in India, and I was proud of you—but now—" He thrust the man from him so that he went reeling in the mud. "You cowardly pack—lay down your arms!" he thundered. His command fell like the lash of a whip. The man he had struck leapt at him. He had a revolver in his hand and he pointed it straight at Boucicault's breast.

"Bagh Sahib—you killed my brother——"

"And I shall live to court-martial you, my friend."

"Not now——"

"Shoot then, you cur!"

A splash of fire was flung up in Boucicault's face. Tristram, hiding in the shadow, sprang forward with a smothered cry of horror—then stood still—incredulous. Boucicault had not moved. He looked down into his assassin's stricken, gaping face and laughed.

"You can't touch me, Heera. Your very weapon refuses. We have fought together too often——"

There was a new note in his voice—stern yet curiously caressing. The man reeled, broke down, sobbing thickly.

"Bagh Sahib——!" he moaned. "Bagh Sahib——"

"It is well, Heera. I forgive." He looked over the sea of faces. "You see that you cannot touch me. For the sake of the old days-when you fought gallantly, this night's work is forgotten. Lay down your arms."

For an instant longer they stared at him. The red of his tunic hid the dark, widening stain. They only saw that the bullet had passed through him and left him unharmed. The older men among them remembered how in the bygone days he had passed scatheless through a hail of bullets. Then as now he had been a stupendous figure—half god.

To the younger men he was a legend. The evil that he had done them was forgotten. He was their own past—their own greatness—the greatness of their fathers. They could not touch him.

"Gentlemen—form your men into their companies. Lead them back to the barracks. Remember—what I tell you—this night is to be forgotten."

The little group of Englishmen behind him obeyed tranquilly. There was the sound of rifles being stacked. The disorderly crowd formed automatically into sections. The scene had lasted five minutes. Now it was finished.

But Boucicault turned Arabella's head and rode slowly back, and Tristram, who had seen that black stain upon the tunic, followed him.

Mrs. Boucicault stood separate from the rest upon the balcony and waited. She was smiling. There was no fear—only a girlish pride, a tragic happiness written on the grey face. As he came within the lights of the verandah she waved to him, and he saluted her with a chivalrous dignity.

Then he toppled from his seat into Tristram's arms.

They carried him into the bungalow and set him gently on one of the sofas. His wife knelt down beside him and he put his arm about her and held her close to him.

"There is nothing to be done—the whole breast. I am too old a soldier not to know. Please leave us these few minutes. We have so much to say to one another." But to Tristram he gave his hand, drawing him down so that his face almost touched the dying lips. "Major I'm—sorry—about—your dog——"

Tristram knew then that at the last it was not oblivion, but resurrection.

He lingered a moment. Even as he stood there hesitating, Boucicault's body straightened out a little. His wife's head rested on his shoulder, and there was blood mingled in the grey, untidy hair. Her eyes were closed, and she seemed asleep.

They had so much to say to one another.

Tristram crept out on tiptoe. He went down again into the compound. It was very still. The tumult of the last hour had died away. It had all been like an adventure in a mad, terrible dream. Arabella nozzled against his shoulder, and he stroked her gently. And, as he did so, the faint light from the room behind him showed him the slender, colourless band about his wrist.

It was as though a charm had laid itself on his aching senses. A gate of memory was opened. He passed through. In the tranquil solemnity of an Indian night, he heard voices—Ayeshi's voice, hushed yet passionate.

"Behold, according to the custom, Humayun accepts the bond, and from henceforth the Rani Kurnavati is his dear and virtuous sister, and his sword shall not rest in his scabbard till she is free from the threat of her oppressor."

The bo-tree whispered mysteriously:

"Ah—those were the great days—the great days——"

And Tristram Sahib swung himself on to Arabella's back and once more rode out towards Heerut.

CHAPTER XV

THE SNAKE-GOD

Vahana ran on ahead. Bent and twisted with age, his half-naked figure far outstripped the riders whose horses ploughed heavily through the morass of jungle-grass. Behind them, again, came the straggle, panic-driven horde of Ayeshi's army, and after them the flood, rising over Heerut.

Vahana halted from time to time and looked back, nodding and beckoning. He was too far in advance for them to see his face. But in that feverish agility, in that patient waiting on them there was a malignant joy, the expression of a soundless, senile laughter.

They had strange companions—cheetahs, antelopes, wild pigs—all the creatures of the plain—trotting at their sides, unheeded and unheeding, conscious only of their common peril. They moved slowly, dragging themselves painfully free from the clinging mud. It was the flight of an evil dream—the enemy at their heels, their limbs weighted, each step an anguished effort. They made no outcry, but the tortured breathing of these flying thousands became an unbroken moan of terror.

Vahana led them by a circuitous path back over a ridge of ground rising to the rear of the temple. They followed unquestioningly. There was no choice. Their retreat was already cut off: to the right the flooded plain, to the left the trackless jungle hemmed them in. The ridge was all that remained to them.

Sigrid rode between Ayeshi and Barclay. They had not spoken. Ayeshi held himself like a sleep-walker, his face blank, his eyes wide open and expressionless. The hand that held the reins was slack and indifferent. His horse, instinctively aware of the danger pursuing them, kept up of its own account, but he did not seek to control it. Compared with him, Barclay was the very spirit of sombre exultation. He turned persistently to the woman beside him, his eyes ugly with significance. But her small, white face betrayed no consciousness of him. Its serenity was deathlike. Her body rode beside him, but her mind, the living part of her, eluded him. He had not hoped that it would be otherwise—his pitiless intuition had showed him the limit of his power, the limit of all power; but there was Tristram, who by now knew the value of the freedom which she had bought for him—Tristram, who represented all that he, Barclay, had desired and hoped for and loved, all that he now hated with the intensity of a mutilated passion, Tristram who would suffer at the last.

He laughed at his own thought and pointed a shaking hand at the mournful immensity beneath them.

"Your friend will have a wet ride. Look out there—the bridge has gone. It was swept away an hour ago."

He laughed again, and urged his horse past her. He had triumphed, but he did not wish to see her face.

She turned her head in the direction which he had indicated. The night, mingling its sable with the dirty greys of sky and water, shrouded the familiar landmarks, but that very narrowing of her vision widened the boundaries of her hearing. The thunder of the torrent sounded nearer—she heard again the mysterious mutterings which had arrested her at the bridge-head only an hour or two before. She knew that Barclay had not boasted.

"Did you know that too, Ayeshi?"

"Yes, Mem-Sahib."

His voice was callous, toneless. She could not look at him.

"And you let him go? You had forgotten so easily?"

"Have you found it hard to forget, Mem-Sahib—you whom he loved——?" He awoke suddenly from his apathy. He bent towards her, his fevered hand on her arm. "Was not a little of that man's gold, stained with the sweat and blood of men, enough to buy your forgetfulness?"

And now she looked at him. She saw the quivering features—the eyes bloodshot and wretched with scorn of her.

"I went out of his life as you did, Ayeshi," she said gently. "Was that forgetfulness?"

"Mem-Sahib——!" he muttered.

"You tried to save him," she persisted—"as I tried. If we have both failed need we reproach each other now?"

"Mem-Sahib!" In that reiteration there was agony. His hand dropped from her arm. "It was for his sake—? Barclay Sahib threatened you?"

"Yes."

"And now——"

"Now it is for Gaya—for those lives your ambition has jeopardized. And even that may be useless."

The ridge they were traversing began to slope downwards. The water was at their feet. They could hear it sucking at the long grasses. The men immediately behind them were swept forward and lost their footing. A man who stumbled at Sigrid's side clutched at her and then went rolling ludicrously down the mud bank into the rising flood. She saw his head for an instant—his face gazing stupidly up at them. Something square and black and evil that had lain like a lump of wood on the surface of the water moved swiftly forward.

There was a scream. Ayeshi held up his hand before Sigrid's face, but she had seen enough. The man had vanished, and where he had been the greyness of the water had turned to red.

"Oh, God!" she whispered. "Tristram!"

"No, no, Mem-Sahib—not that—not that—they meant that he should die, but I—I who served him and loved him, I know that death cannot touch him when he fights for others. He fights for others now, Mem-Sahib—for those I have betrayed—for my salvation." He laid his hand on his breast with a gesture of unutterable despair. "No—not even he can do that. It is too late. I am accursed—accursed——!"

And, as though in answer, the crowd he led surged up closer to him. Arms were held up to him—thin, supplicating arms.

"Lord—the water—the water—save us!"

"I am accursed!" he whispered. "Accursed!"

She saw his face. The youth in it was dead—stamped out. Yet in that instant she recognized in him the boy, the dreamer who, crouched upon the step of her verandah, had told the story of the Rani Kurnavati. And the pity that surged over her had in it the passion of that memory.

"Ayeshi—why have you done this——?"

His wild eyes met hers for an instant's desperate intentness.

"Mem-Sahib—I loved my country—my gods—the history of them was in my blood. And then in Calcutta—the misery—the thwarted ambition—my people starving—the Englishman in the high place. They told me they were ripe for revolt—only they needed a leader—a leader who would carry the country-people with him. I came back. Vahana lied to me. I believed that my father had been robbed and murdered—that my heritage had been stolen from me—that Tristram Sahib himself had known who I was and made me his servant——" His voice broke. "But it was a lie—I had no heritage—no wrongs to avenge—I was their tool—and now—Mem-Sahib, if ever you should meet him, tell him it was a false dream—but that Ayeshi loved him——"

She nodded. She could not answer him, and they rode on in silence till suddenly, Vahana, whom they could still see dimly ahead of them, turned to the left and pointed up towards the jungle.

"There—there is escape, O Lord Ayeshi! The Sacred Path that leads to the Shrine of the Snake-god. Who follows?"

The shrill cry died into silence. There was no answer. Barclay came splashing back through the water. His face glowed with a sombre excitement.

"It seems there's some secret passage up through the jungle. We may be able to get right away. At any rate, it's our only chance."

But Ayeshi sat rigid in his saddle, and that which Barclay saw in his eyes silenced him.

"There is a curse on all those who profane the Snake-god's sanctity——"

Barclay burst out laughing.

"Good God, man, that silly native yarn——"

"I am a native."

"Still, you can't be such a fool——"

Ayeshi turned in his saddle and looked back at the black, silent mass behind him.

"Who follows Barclay Sahib through the jungle?" he called.

But there was still no answer. They stood there silent and inert, the water rising about their feet. There was no cry of terror from among them now. It was finished.

Those nearest Ayeshi lifted their faces to him in stubborn fatalism.

"Ayeshi, pull yourself together—they'll follow you right enough."

"I dare not," was the desperate answer.

"Afraid—? A coward—? You don't really believe——"

Ayeshi threw back his head. His features were terrible in their frozen composure.

"I believe."

"You accept the responsibility for all these lives——?"

"I cannot help myself—I am one of them."

Barclay made a gesture of angry impatience.

"Do you expect me to stay here and drown like a rat in a trap——?" he demanded.

"No—why should you? What are we to you—or you to us?"

Barclay shrank back. With a sound like a smothered groan, he turned his horse about and rode towards Vahana who still stood motionless and waiting beneath the black shadows of the trees. He dismounted and looked back. Sigrid had not moved. The water had risen swiftly to her horse's knees. Ayeshi bent towards her and laid his hand on her bridle.

"Go, Mem-Sahib-fear nothing—they will not harm you. You are not of our blood or faith. Go—do not let me have your death on my hands. Mem-Sahib—trust him—he will not fail you——"

She lifted her eyes to his face. Behind his passive despair there shone the old confidence—the re-birth of a faith. She gave him her hand, and he lifted it to his forehead.

"Mem-Sahib—remember that I loved him."

She saw Ayeshi for the last time as on the very verge of the jungle she turned and looked back. His silhouette, cut sharply against the fast-fading light, rose up from the midst of his unhappy followers like a tragic, heroic statue out of a black, uneasy sea. Vahana laughed shrilly, and the sound, breaking the spell of inarticulate terror, let loose a wailing cry which swept in a gust over the rising water.

"Lord—save us—save us——"

She saw Ayeshi lift his hands above his head. She could not have heard his voice, and yet the echo of his impotent agony reached her.

"I am accursed—accursed——"

She saw him no more. Vahana had hurried on into the darkness ahead of them, and Barclay half lifted, half dragged her from the saddle. She made no resistance. But her strength had begun to fail. She tried to free herself from his hold—to stand alone.

"Go on without me—I'm not strong enough—save yourself."

He shook his head stubbornly.

"No—I've nothing left but you. Keep your promise. The path is steep—I can carry you. We're safe now. The ground's rising all the way. We've nothing to fear—nothing. It's dark, of course—hideously dark. Give me your hand." His was dry and cold. It filled her with a nameless disgust—a strange pity. It was as though, helpless as she was, he clung to her.

"Why—you're shivering!" he muttered. "What is it? You're not afraid? What is there to be afraid of? We're safe here——"

"It's those others—Ayeshi——"

He laughed brokenly.

"What are they to me? What am I to them? Didn't you hear him? That settled it, didn't it? I'm not one of them—I've got English blood in my veins. I've nothing to fear—nothing."

She could not see his face. They were stumbling blindly up the steep and broken path, and the dense growth of jungle walled them in from whatever daylight remained. Yet his voice, the touch of his hand, painted him for her against the black canvas. She could see his face, eyes wide-open and distended, the mouth agape, the sweat on his forehead. She knew him to be possessed by an insidious terror.

"What is there to fear?" she asked in her turn.

He muttered incoherently.

Vahana had vanished. They could hear his body brushing against the tangled growths that hung across the narrow path like warning, invisible hands. Barclay called him by name, but there was no answer—only a sudden stillness. He faltered—the hand which still held Sigrid's relaxed. She stood apart from him. But for the sound of his breathing she could not have known that he was near her. The infinite relief of that moment's freedom kept her motionless, and then she realized that he was moving forward—that he had forgotten her, every ambition, every desire in the one formless, all-mastering dread.

"Vahana!"

Stillness. He groped wildly about him. The sudden consciousness of his isolation drove a scream from his dry lips.

"Vahana!"

The answer was almost in his ear—a soft, caressing whisper.

"I am here, Sahib."

"Don't leave me—I can't see—this darkness."

"The path is a straight one, Sahib. Give me your hand."

Barclay cowered back. A chill, foetid breath fanned his face. Something familiar coiled itself about his fingers. He tried to free himself.

"The Mem-Sahib!" he gasped thickly. "Where is she?"

"The Mem-Sahib is safe. The path leads to one end. Come, Sahib!"

The whisper had grown shriller, authoritative. There was a subtle hint of anger in its caress. Barclay heard its echo. Overhead a branch cracked under a moving burden. A thing slid over his foot and went hissing into silence. He threw up his free hand to beat off the invisible attack and touched a slimy, gliding mass which dropped on his shoulder, winding itself about his neck. He flung it from him. He was gasping—choking with fear and nausea. He heard Vahana's whisper, subdued, sibilant:

"Sahib—there are no snakes."

But the very hand that held him was a hideous memory. Something vague, indeterminate, which had begun to hem him in since that night when he had fled from the vision of himself, was closing in faster and faster. This, that was coming, had been from all time, a hand groping up through the black depths of the ages, a monstrous, inert mass rousing itself from long sleep to predestined action. The darkness, the jungle, was a huge prison alive with sound and movement. The sounds awoke under his feet and went hissing and murmuring like a train of fire into the far distance, setting alight other sounds till they surrounded him in an awful, mocking circle. The walls of the prison were narrowing—the air, thick and heavy with an evil sweetness, weighed down upon him till his strength reeled. With an effort he freed himself from Vahana's clutch and began to run. The steepness of the path, the uneven ground, jolted the breath from his body in agonized gasps. The branches of the trees were alive—sensate, twisting, winding bodies, which beat their cold, slimy tentacles against his face—their roots clutched at his stumbling feet, the hissing murmur had become the high, threatening note of a rising wind. And behind him was that pursuing Thing—that formless, familiar menace which he had foreseen, which had hung on the outskirts of his life waiting for its moment. He fled before it because his frantic body demanded flight, but he knew its futility. The Thing was there, silent and invisible, gibing at his pitiful effort. It was not Death—it was Horror itself——

A pale light broke ahead. He neither knew whence it came nor its significance. He made for it with a last call to every nerve and muscle in him. He reached it. He was dimly conscious of a brightening luminousness, of something black, serenely still, rising up out of the grey transparency before him. Then the end. It came upon him with a rush. It closed in in a clammy band about his throat. He turned. A flat head with a wizened face and small dead eyes and pointed mouth swayed before his vision in a sinister, rhythmic measure. It was Vahana—yet not Vahana. It was not Vahana who was slowly dragging his life from him. It was that cold tightening band—and yet Vahana was there—close to him.

He screamed. Again and again. The jungle—the whole world, his world, shrinking about him till it was no bigger than his own brain, echoed with his screams.

CHAPTER XVI

TOWARDS MORNING

The rain had ceased. A soft wind blowing from the north swept the low-hanging clouds into the fantastic, tattered fragments, between which a thin moonlight poured down on to the desolation of waters. All that had been had been washed out as though a child's sponge had passed over a slate covered with the laborious work of a life. Fields and villages, rich pastures, homesteads, bridges, each of them some man's dream and ambition, lay under that smooth, glittering surface awaiting their resurrection at the hands of a patient humanity.

It was by this first break of light that Tristram saw the way over which they had still to travel. He sat motionless and upright, scanning the seeming limitless expanse, and perhaps in that moment some dim, unformed appeal went up from him to the Unknown which steels the hearts of men to supreme effort.

And, swift on the heels of that brief intercession, there followed an aching pity for the faithful comrade whose share in the coming struggle was so much greater than his own, whose purpose in it was no more than to serve him with the last breath of her life. He stroked her ungainly neck, striving to break down the barrier between living things which made his remorse and pity powerless. She answered gallantly with the grand courage of her kind, and the water rose about them.

It was a nightmare redreamed, save that now the first violence of the storm had spent itself. The wreckage had gone its way, and the flood's polished bosom shone bare and empty under the wane and glow of light. There was no landmark left by which they could guide their course. The jungle-clad mountains were mingled with the clouds. The temple shrouded itself in the shadow of the jungle. They could but drift with the currents, fighting their way across, hoping—Tristram himself scarcely knew for what. For who could have lived in that deluge, what escape was possible? Yet he carried with him a belief born of despair, a serenity such as men feel for whom there is no choice, no second possibility.

Something black drifted past him. He could not recognize it, and in a moment it was gone. They were now in midstream, where the rush of the water swept over Arabella's desperately uplifted head. It was then, the moon sailing out unveiled into the open sky, that he saw other black shapes and knew them for what they were. They were the bodies of men—not of isolated victims, of villagers and field labourers trapped separately or even in small communities by the swift disaster. They were many hundreds. They had died together, and death had not separated them. Like driftwood, they had been swept into entangled, shapeless piles of floating horror.

"Sahib! Sahib!"

The cry came faintly across the racing waters. Tristram, waking from the lethargy of abandoned hope, turned Arabella's head sharply upstream. She responded. It was as though in those years of comradeship she had become a part of himself, obeying the same law, acknowledging the same creed. It was as though she recognized a familiar message in that appeal to her last strength, as though her blinded eyes had seen what Tristram saw. It was little enough to accomplish—and yet so much. Ten feet to go before that agonized, appealing figure, a hurrying blot on the silver pathway, would be swept irrevocably past and beyond hope. It could be done. Arabella lifted herself breast high out of the water. She was young again. All the fire of her mixed ancestry blazed up for the supreme effort. Five feet—three——. It was done. Tristram stretched out his hand. It was gripped and held with the tenacity of despair. Arabella went down under the double burden—rose again superbly.

"Ayeshi——!"

"Sahib—I knew that you—would come—she—is—safe—the jungle—-path—behind—the Temple——"

"Hold on, Ayeshi——"

"No—Sahib——"

For an instant their faces were almost on a level. The brightening moonlight was in Ayeshi's eyes—full of a passionate worship. "Humuyan came—too—late—not you, Sahib——"

He tried to wrench his hand free. Tristram cursed bitterly at him.

"You try to let go—you dare try it—damn you, boy, do you think I'm going to let you go—now—don't play the Rajah with me here——"

They were being swept faster and faster downstream. Arabella was dying under him. He did not know it. He could not have unclasped his hand. No reason could have mastered the love in him, or denied the love which illuminated the face lifted to his out of the black waters.

"Sahib—forgive——"

"Fool's talk—I don't know the word—hold on, d'you hear? I'll get you out of it. You shall go scot free—only hold on—Ayeshi——"

They fought each other, hand clasped in hand, eye to eye. No two enemies, spurred on by the bitterest hatred, could have fought more grimly.

Tristram laughed.

"I'm stronger than you—always was——" Something flashed up in the light. "Ayeshi——!" he gasped.

A faint smile dawned on the native's face.

"Greater love hath no man——"

The knife fell with maniacal strength. Tristram closed his eyes. No fear, but a sheer incredulous horror lamed all power of self-defence. The second of suspense passed. Nothing—only now there was no weight on the hand still clasped in his, only Arabella again breasted the torrent with the energy of release from a killing burden.

"Ayeshi——!"

No answer—only that mute, blood-stained hand—grown powerless—and one more figure floating to join its brothers on the great, silver-flooded field.

Two boatmen, guiding their flat-bottomed craft between the ruined hovels of Heerut, saw him as he waded waist-deep through the receding flood. The brightening dawn was on his face, but they did not recognize him till he called them by name. Then silently they paddled towards him and dragged him to safety.

They were old men, palsied with the horrors of that night. There was no thought of rebellion left in them. They could only whisper incoherently, like frightened children, looking up into his face as at something at once loved and terrible.

"Dakktar Sahib—Dakktar Sahib!"

He became slowly conscious of them and of their piteousness.

"There's nothing to fear," he said compassionately. "I'm not a spirit—my horse brought me across—just got me into my depth, poor girl—I've been wading about—till morning." He composed himself with a stern effort.

"Row me to my place—will you?"

But they shook their heads.

"Gone, Dakktar Sahib, gone."

His face was grey—stiff-looking.

"Still, row me—to where it was."

They obeyed him. Here and there a wall remained, or a half roof balanced on a few battered, shapeless heaps of mud. A carcase of a sacred bull floated backwards and forwards between two ruins, with a grotesque semblance of life. At the cross-roads the council-tree trailed its leaves sadly in the still water.

But where the Dakktar Sahib's hut had been there was nothing.

He bowed his face upon his hands.

The men stared at him blankly, themselves too stupefied by loss for either pity or understanding. The minutes flowed past in mournful, stately silence. At last Tristram drew himself up. His eyes were calm—warm with a hardly won knowledge—and the awfulness had gone from him.

"Row me to the path behind the Temple.

"Dakktar Sahib——" they muttered.

"I shall not ask you to follow me," he said, gently.

They rowed out of Heerut towards the rising ground of the jungle mountains. The fiery wheel of the sun rose behind Gaya and the temple shone like a black opal in the morning glow. As they drew nearer Tristram's eyes sought out the great window of the sikhara. His thoughts were vague, unformed, still and serene as the water flowing peacefully over the plain. Through that window Vishnu watched for his beloved rising amidst her golden-haired dawn-maidens.

"It is here, Sahib."

They looked at him and now it was with awe—a kind of dumb protest, but he smiled at them, shaking his head.

"There is nothing to fear. Wait for me."

"Sahib—the curse."

"There is no curse," he said, with the same gentleness.

He waded through the water to the place they indicated and pushed aside the tangled bashes. The hidden path lay before him, leading steeply upwards. He went on. He was climbing from gloom and shadow into light. He knew now neither doubt nor fear. A great serenity possessed him. There could be no curse. Strange flowers clustered at the roots of the stark, straight-standing trees—but they were not evil. There was sound—a rustling and crackling among the branches-a frightened scurrying of some wild creature startled from its lair—familiar loved sounds of living things. A warm, consoling radiance sank down between the stems of the trees as light pours down through a cathedral window upon the stately pillars.

Up—steadily upwards, up into a higher, purer air, with a strange heart-beating of foreknowledge. And then at last the end—a wide clearing on the mountain-summit, and on a high altar, not Siva, but a golden Lakshmi, her face, beatific in its serene sweetness, turned towards the rising sun.

Vahana squatted in her shadow, his half-naked body bowed over something so still, so huddled that Tristram faltered for an instant. Then he went forward and Vahana, seeing him unrecognizingly, pointed down with a shaking finger of derision.

It was Barclay. His piteous face, lifted to the peace of the clear sky, was swollen and bloated almost out of recognition. But he bore no trace of violence.

Vahana shook with a senile laughter. A fangless adder unwound itself from about his wrist, and he held it to the dead man's staring eyes, gibing at him.

"There are no snakes—there are no snakes."

But Tristram had gone on.

He had seen her. Like a pale lotus-flower cast up by the waters, she lay stretched in the short grass which grew about the foot of the altar, her fair, dishevelled head pillowed on her arm in an attitude of happy weariness. He knelt down beside her. The moment's dread was gone. He saw the faint colour in her cheeks. Her breath came gently, smoothly as a child's.

He dared not touch her. Her peace was holy to him. But as though his nearness pierced like sunlight into the calm depths of her dreams, she stirred, her lips moved, shaping the shadow of his name.

He drew her into the warmth and comfort of his arms. So it had been once before; but now there was no fear, no pain, or conflict.

"Tristram—I waited for you. I was so tired. I fell asleep. But I was not afraid. There was nothing to fear—nothing. I knew that you would come." She smiled wistfully—tenderly. "Bracelet-brother!"

He found no answer. He pointed out eastwards. Above the desolate plain the sun climbed up in majesty towards a splendid promise of atonement. One day the fields would bear their harvest, men would build their houses upon the ruins—there would be a new bridge across the river, wiser and stronger. The shadow of a curse was lifted.

They knelt together, hand in hand, watching, awestruck, at peace.

Vahana, too, was still. He, too, watched and waited, his mad, hate-filled eyes growing dim in the clearer light of reconciliation.

THE END

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