Chapter IX: Barabbas Town (2)

There came to her, faintly, the irregular beat of footsteps. Apprehensively, she watched, her vision dancing with strain. Nearer. The footfalls seemed to pound upon the quiet. Then, suddenly, the night gave up a white form that staggered rather than walked along the path. Without warning, Garon shot up. The white form halted, swinging about to face him across the intervening space.

"Don't fire!" Garon called. "It is Tuan Muda!"

A short, hysterical laugh answered him. Lhassa knew. That laugh! She had not heard it since the night she tricked her way into the room of the two portraits.

Garon had reached the trail, and she hurried after him, her heart throbbing as though it would burst. Conquest was coatless; his unbuttoned cuffs dangled ridiculously. A swelling on his forehead marred his flawless face. His collar was torn open, and a great rent gaped from shoulder to waist, revealing skin that, in the moonlight, was dark, and splotched with even darker stains. As she came up, taking in these details at a glance, he toppled over. But he had not fainted, for he raised himself on one arm and regarded her with wide eyes.

"Done up," he muttered. "Miss Camber ... God knows ... glad you're safe." He paused; swallowed. His breathing was jerky. "Devil of a mess. Salazar, he...." Again he was forced to stop, to swallow painfully.

"Don't try to explain," Garon advised. "Where are you hurt?"

"Nothing serious," deprecated the other. "Must tell you--what's happened. The cowardly Malays! They ran away, deserted! I tried to stop them, and this--this is what I got"--touching his bare side. "When I woke up I started for the village to----"

"Why did they desert?" the Frenchman broke in. "What happened?"

Conquest shuddered, closing his eyes as though to exclude some terrible sight. Lhassa's attention was momentarily drawn from his face to a glitter in his hand. A dagger. In the moonlight she could see the perforated blade, and she recognized the misericorde he had shown her at Malay House.

"Ghastly!" he murmured. "Ghastly! All--every one!" His eyes opened. "We reached the fort about four hours ago; it may have been five; at any rate, it was after dark. Still as a tomb; not a light. I suspected treachery. The gate was open. So I went in, taking only half of the force." Another shudder. "God! We found them all ... twenty-seven ... scattered over the place ... some in the house, others outside.... Beastly! Awful!"

His words spread their poisonous meaning through her. She was not shocked; she could not so quickly accept a statement of tremendous tragedy. Had she witnessed it she could have felt the most exquisite horror, instantly, but only hearing made it seem too unreal to affect her immediately beyond a sense of something imminently disastrous.

Conquest went on:

"Must have surprised them. Early this morning, perhaps. Time the Dyaks attack, you know; no doubt about them being Dyaks. You understand.... Monstrous. My Malays were terrified. They refused to stay. I argued with the beggars, threatened. But no; white feather. Too few, they said, all be killed. I tried to interfere. Foolish, of course. But I did. A miracle I wasn't killed. Soon as I came out of it I started for the village. I knew Abu Hassan--damned murderer!--had sent those Dyaks. I.... But how do you happen to be here?"

Garon briefly recounted his adventures, from the arrival at the village to the escape. Lhassa heard his recital fragmentarily. What Conquest had told was revolving in her mind, increasing in ghastliness with each turn. Her own paltry pains and anxieties were ground to dust under the sheer brutality of the realization. That there was no protection at the fort, that they were trapped, left her strangely unafraid; fear for her personal safety was lost in a rapidly augmenting horror of the unspeakableness of what had occurred at Barabbas Town.

"Don't you see!" exclaimed Conquest. "Salazar! He intends that there shall be no one to share the spoils; he knows the sultan will be satisfied with the return of his former power. The damned renegade!" He turned his eyes upon Lhassa. "You said that some day one of my pack would turn and bite me; you remember? But I'm not finished--not yet!"

He struggled to his feet, thrusting aside Garon's restraining hand. To Lhassa, there was splendid defiance in that gesture. By it he dominated his soiled, rent clothing and the sordid reality of his wound. She saw, in a flash of comprehension, the colossal failure that his life had been. A relentless Fate had snatched from him, even before birth, the love that is human heritage, leaving him to discover the injustice as he grew, and, embittered, to replace the real with counterfeit. She understood the desperation that had driven him to a career of lawlessness. Now he was facing the supreme tragedy of losing even the substitutes with which he had deceived himself into happiness; and yet, with a gesture, he mocked the destiny that sought to crush him.

"I have a plan," he said. "You, Tuan Muda, must help me by taking Miss Camber to the fort. That's the safest place for her."

"And yourself?" queried Garon.

"A chance, a single chance if I go to Abu Hassan!"

"Death!" was the Frenchman's opinion.

"No time to explain now. But I will succeed."

"You will be slain before you reach him."

Lhassa shivered. Slain. She must ask him quickly, before he escaped her again; ask the question that had haunted her for days. Only a minute; it would require no longer.

"No," Conquest declared. "I'll go alone to the village; they'll take me prisoner. Then I'll demand an interview. I won't be refused--I'm still rajah of Kawaras. They won't dare kill me without orders from the sultan, and when I've seen him----"

"I will accompany you," broke in Garon.

"And leave Miss Camber alone?"

Lhassa spoke. "I am not afraid."

"It's not a question of courage," Conquest told her; one hand was pressed to his side, and he swayed unsteadily. "It's part of my plan that you two go to the fort. I.... What's that?" The question was evoked by a rustle in the swamp. "Only my native," explained Garon. Conquest continued: "You, Tuan Muda, can do nothing with the sultan. But I--well, my position gives me prestige."

"You are too weak," Lhassa said, then, "Before you go I must ask----"

"That you even think of my welfare," he interrupted, with his twisted smile, "will give me the strength I need. It's the one chance. Unless I take it--well, wherever we fly, Abu Hassan's warriors will follow. Our forces can't reach here before day after to-morrow. So go to the fort; wait." He paused, breathing heavily. "You will go, won't you?"

He directed a pleading gaze at her; a gaze that was eloquent, that seemed to entreat: "This is the splendid opportunity I have dreamed. Will you deny me that?" Yet what could he do? A pygmy in the path of overshadowing events!

Said Garon decisively, "Take this"--extending his revolver.

Conquest flashed the misericorde in answer. "I shall have to dispose of this before I reach the village." He grimaced with pain. "Go! If you delay, if.... Listen!"

In the quiet following his injunction, Lhassa heard swift, squelching steps in the march. The native was no longer waiting by the fringe of grass: a black, rapidly diminishing shadow marked his retreat through the rushes. Garon raised his pistol; dropped it.

"Treacherous pig!" he muttered. "Now he will probably go to the sultan. I should have----"

"No time to waste," Conquest cut in. "Hurry!" As he made a move to go, he smiled at Lhassa, that smile of mingled whimsy and melancholy. "Do you remember," he said, "how _Lord Jim_ went up the river, at Patusan, with an unloaded revolver?"

He laughed a rattling laugh and stumbled off. Paler became his receding figure, paler still; then it was absorbed, a white shadow blotted out by somber darkness.

"Come."

Garon's voice. She followed, thinking of that rattling laugh; a laugh that, a few minutes later, she echoed bitterly. She did not answer the Frenchman's inquisitive glance. For the story of Pi-noi, the bayadere, was locked in her mind, to remain until she learned the truth--if, indeed, she ever did! Again Fate had interfered, this time in the form of the fleeing native. The door had closed--for ever? In fancy, she saw the woman of the peacock shawl, a figure inscrutable in the mauve shadows of her frame, her eyelids drooping lower over her eyes, as if mocking the possibility of ever divulging the secret behind her enigmatic smile.

7

From the moment Conquest left Lhassa and Garon he had been rehearsing, in his mind, the details of his plan; now, as he neared the village, he went over them again, doggedly, persistently. Fever was burning in his brain, threatening to consume his thoughts; an icy flame seared his side. His puttees cramped his swollen legs, but he would not remove them; no; he needed them.... His plan....

He skirted the Dyak houses surrounding the stockade and approached the gate from the river. Through the trees that separated him from the stream he saw lights, wavering torches. They moved, were evidently on some craft. Dully he realized that the boat was going up-stream. Up-stream! Toward the plantation--the fort! Had the escape been discovered so soon? he wondered. Hurry. Boat; going to fort. That throbbed in his inflamed brain. Fort. She was there, she----At thought of her the entire force of his being was swept into an agonizing desire. So sheer and draining was his passion that his limbs seemed to melt under him. He stumbled; clutched at a tree-trunk; lay against it weakly. Put her from his mind; put her away--for ever. She belonged to a sphere immeasurably higher than this. Pi-noi; out of reach. His throat filled. He sensed malignant powers, forces that were gathering, typhoon-black, and riding him down bent on destroying his individual entity. Impotent rage shook him. He went on.

He had an unobstructed view of the front of the stockade now. From the angle at which he approached, the long wall seemed to taper into darkness. There were figures at the gate, warriors carrying torches. Above the palisade waved a ruddy fan, sequined with sparks. For an instant it startled him, but he swiftly perceived that it was reflected from a bonfire in the inclosure. Undoubtedly, he told himself, their escape was known. Abu Hassan's men would be combing the jungle soon. He must hasten. He paused; loosened his puttees; resumed.

Like a specter, a wraith from the black forest, he must have appeared to the warriors as he stumbled into the radius of their torches. They stared; made no movement to touch him. He had halted and was standing with both hands at his side. The flame was biting deeper; it seemed to devour the last reserve of strength. The world became a sable band and struck at his eyes. In the midst of the blackness he saw, as one looking through a telescope, a swarm of figures beyond the gateway, figures about a fire; to him, coal-hued demons dancing against a back drop of flame. With a desperate effort, he sought to crawl back from the border of unconsciousness. Suddenly the telescope expanded, including in its range the stockade and the bronze-skinned men who were lifting him. As he gained his feet he strained away from them.

"Do you not know me?" he cried in Malayan. "I am the Tuan Rajah! Release me!" Then, lapsing into English, "Let go, I say--let...."

With a jerk he broke free and staggered through the gateway. The natives had multiplied; surrounded him. The dizziness had not dissolved entirely, and, as he slewed drunkenly, hands seized him. He did not protest nor struggle this time.

"Take me to the sultan," he demanded faintly.

He was half carried, half dragged forward between rows of men and women. Ahead, the black demons still trembled against the flames. He saw the clearing, the palace; saw shaggy, feathered shields and the nimbuses of spears and swords. Faces--faces dark and hostile, faces curious, faces tattooed and made hideous by disfiguring designs--seemed welded together, bound him in like a chain of coins. An innate dignity, rising to the surface though purgatorial pain, made him shake off the hands that held him and reel on alone. In the clearing--a sphere of smoke and flame and coal-hued figures--he found himself confronted by a huge-muscled individual whom he recognized as Nakoda Mubin, the Datu Tumanggong.

"... expect you so soon, Tuan Rajah," he heard the Malay saying. He laughed; an ugly, mirthless sound. Control of his mind and body was returning, and he stood without aid, swaying only slightly.

"Your people will regret this night, O Datu," he told Nakoda Mubin, his eyes narrowed and burning in the white oval of his face. "Do you remember the great gray ship that came to Sadok, with guns mightier than the sultan's paltry six-pounders?"

The commander-in-chief's huge shoulders heaved expressively.

"What have I done? Am I sultan?" And he added, "There are wrongs, O Tuan Rajah, wrongs that must be settled with the parang."

"No, not with blood! And you do not believe that, Nakoda Mubin!"

Another heave of the biceped shoulders. "Am I sultan?" he repeated.

"Take me to Abu Hassan," the white man ordered.

"I must first see if my cousin can receive you, Tuan Rajah. He had retired, but when it was reported----"

"Yes, I know," Conquest interposed. "About them I have come to talk, O Datu." He drew wide the gap in his shirt. "I am wounded, Nakoda Mubin, and if I delay, my strength will be gone; then I shall be unable to speak. And I know where Tuan Muda and the woman of the Orang Putih are. Tell your cousin that! Tell him quickly!"

He stood there, a lone white figure in the midst of brown humanity, while a warrior hurried into the palace with his message. Again the faces welded into an encircling chain. In his febrile mind they took on a savage significance. They were the faces of dark races, of yellow and brown and black, merged into a barrier of flesh and bone; a threatening wall that surrounded him, imprisoned him. All the arrogant pride of blood answered the challenge of that swarthy menace. He seemed suddenly touched with an accolade, invested with the responsibility of his race. Mail and chain, a crimson cross at his breast! And about him, a rising flood of color! Armageddon!

Breaking through the wall of faces came the messenger. The Datu Tumanggong nodded; raised his arm. The human flood parted, and Conquest passed through the rift thus cleared, followed by the commander-in-chief. At the notched poles leading up to the palace he made an attempt to climb; collapsed. A warmth was spreading over his left hip. Two warriors lifted him to the gallery and stood him on his feet. Hands slipped swiftly over his body; feeling for a weapon, he knew. He smiled grimly. Between the guards he walked into the palace.

The hall of state was dusky. Damar-torches sent out a resinous fragrance that mingled unpleasantly with human reek and the odor of swill rising from under the floor. Attendants lined the walls; guards armed with muskets, and Malay chieftains and nobles. In the far end, seated upon silks and cushions, was the sultan. On either side of him, swung from the ceiling on rotang-thongs, were two huge _tawaks_ or gongs. Silence filled the room like a perceptible presence. Conquest moved slowly, painfully past the hostile ranks, his gaze fixed on Abu Hassan. He must pretend to be even weaker, he warned himself. Accordingly, as he reached the middle of the hall, his knees crumpled. He did not try to rise unassisted, but lay there until he was raised, sagging, by two warriors.

"Salaamat pagi!" he muttered to the sultan.

Abu Hassan sat like a bronze idol on his dais, a cruel smile animating his otherwise expressionless face. One hand played with a gold ornament hung on a chain about his neck; the other fingered a sword, wood-sheathed, suspended from his plaited waist-belt. The gongs on either side of him caught the torch-light and glared like monster eyes. A sudden release of hatred poisoned Conquest; hatred, not for Abu Hassan as an individual, but for what he symbolized. He seemed the vital link holding together that chain of faces; the festering core from which their cause drew the virus of rebellion. Sever the chain; paralyze the source. These thoughts, flame-hot, quivered in his brain.

The sultan did not return his greeting; instead he asked:

"Why have you come, O Rajah of the Orang Putih?" Without waiting for a reply he proceeded: "If it is mercy you seek----"

"Not mercy," broke in Conquest, "but a compromise."

"There can be none."

"Not even if I tell you where Tuan Muda and the white woman have fled?"

The cruel smile remained graven on Abu Hassan's countenance.

"Not even if you betray them--for I know where they are. My men have followed along the trail, and the Tuan-besar, with many warriors, has gone by the river. They are surrounded--caught like pheasants in a trap."

Conquest remembered, with growing despair, the torches he had seen on the river. The walls were closing in! Desperately he tried to whip out the fire from his brain, to think clearly; but his thoughts seemed hazed in smoke. He pushed back the men who supported him, standing alone.

"Why do you do this, O Abu Hassan?"--peremptorily. "What is it you want?"

The sultan was still fingering his sword. "Blood," came the grim reply.

Conquest's glance swept the hall, the many faces. "Do your nobles desire to wash these alleged wrongs in blood?"--with a gesture that cost him a wrench of pain. Involuntarily he touched his side; it was warm and moist, and he wiped his hand on his shirt-front. A second later he gasped at the significance of the stain: a crimson cross on his breast! "Do they?" he repeated, with a rising inflexion. "Or is it selfish gain you seek?"

"I am sultan of Kawaras," Abu Hassan answered, the smile gone from his face. "My word is absolute. Your rule must be destroyed, ground like paddy-meal."

"But," countered Conquest, "you have murdered my men at the plantation. Does not that satisfy you?"

"Your rule must be destroyed--totally," reiterated the Sultan.

Impatience seized Conquest. This parleying was too slow. Salazar moving to the fort on the river; the warriors on land. Relentless Destiny was riding at his very heels, threatening to stamp out, not only himself, but her! He plunged ahead:

"Despite what you say," he commenced, "there is a compromise. Will you hear it?"

Abu Hassan gestured intolerantly. "Fire consumes air, words time. But speak."

Conquest was almost trembling. A new expectancy augmented the excitement that surcharged his every nerve. This was the test!

"Is it fitting, O Sultan," he asked, "that we talk before your court? Send them out and I will speak." After a pause he added: "Have you forgotten the gold which you once saw in my safe at Sadok? However"--significantly--"it is no longer in that safe.... Will you talk with me alone?"

An inscrutable expression crept into the sultan's eyes. But he did not speak immediately.

"Are you afraid, O Mighty Ruler?" taunted the white man. "I am wounded and unarmed. However, as a means of precaution you might instruct the Datu Tumanggong and his men to wait outside the door."

The inscrutable expression in Abu Hassan's narrowed eyes contracted to a gleam. Abstractedly he gripped the haft of his sword; then, as though suddenly aware of the weapon, he glanced at the sheathed blade. When he raised his eyes the cruel smile had returned.

"I will speak with you alone, O Rajah of the Orang Putih," he announced decisively.

Fear trickled insidiously down Conquest's spine; passed. He knew why Abu Hassan had granted him an interview alone; he understood that smile....

The sultan spoke to his nobles, then to the Datu Tumanggong. The rigid ranks lining the walls broke. Conquest, watching them, felt a fierce exultation. The first point won! Now the fight was against time more than any other element. His gaze wandered after the departing nobles. Why were they so slow? he wondered. They seemed to crawl! And she was on the way to the fort, if not there already, unaware that.... A clawing pain plucked at his side. It was tearing down the tissues that separated it from his heart. Soon it would reach the vital spot and----He was rocked by a sudden revolt against the total blotting out of his person. Not the end! Humanity ... not an incredible growth of fungi on a sordid and rotten planet.... No. There was, there must be, he assured himself desperately, a force behind the physical manifestation. That force, that sublime impulse, had brought him here--for her.... Pull up; no more introspection. The door had closed, and he was alone with Abu Hassan.

"Speak!" the sultan commanded.

His face was so impassive that Conquest had the absurd illusion that it would shatter, like a plaster idol's, if he struck it. Arrogant devil! he thought. No time to lose; start the mummery.

"Abu Hassan," he began, breathing spasmodically, "have you considered well? Have you forgotten the great warship that once came to Sadok? There are a hundred others"--swaying unsteadily--"and if necessary every one will be sent to put down your rebellion. You are a wise man; you should realize that."

Impatience came into the sultan's face.

"Do you threaten, O Rajah of the Orang Putih?"

Conquest took a step; paused, his features convulsed. "My leg," he muttered. "I think ... ligaments torn." Then he added, "Not threats, Abu Hassan, but facts."

"Facts!" the Malay echoed. "I know facts, too! There are other sultans, other rajahs and nobles who have suffered the same indignities that I have suffered. Do you not suppose they would sympathize with my cause? They might even do more than sympathize. Haï-ya! I know facts--many facts! The men who were killed were criminals; you gave them refuge. Yes. And there are things in your palace which do not belong. The Tuan-besar has told me. If white rajahs greater than you come with their war-canoes and their mighty guns I shall tell them all this. Will they punish me for slaying criminals? I am not a fool, O Rajah of the Orang Putih. I have considered well."

Insolent nigger! thought Conquest. Clever, too. And thorough. Well, he was equally clever, equally thorough. He took another step; clutched his knee; dropped. He closed his eyes, as though from intense suffering. But he watched the sultan from under lowered lids. The latter did not stir. Only his hands moved: one closed over the haft of his sword, while the other continued to play with the gold pendant.

"I did not grant this interview to have it spent in threats," he declared. "There was mention of gold--gold which you have hidden."

Conquest opened wide his eyes. "Gold?"--affecting puzzlement. "Oh, the gold.... My leg.... God!... Yes, the gold. I remember. My--my brain seems fogged. Perhaps the pain...." He did not rise, but huddled there, gripping his leg. "Yes, the gold," he went on. "You want it." A laugh. "I will tell you where it is--for--for a consideration...." The sentence ended in a groan.

"What consideration?" interrogated Abu Hassan, his brow darkening.

Conquest pressed back a smile. The fool! He had looked into the trap and seen the bait!

"If you will agree not to molest the white woman," he led on, "I will tell you ... ah, the pain! ... tell you where the money is. If not...."

The sultan ceased fingering the gold ornament, and it settled, gleaming, over the hollow of his chest. Conquest watched it, fascinated by what it suggested.

"I have nothing to do with the woman," Abu Hassan returned. "She belongs to the Tuan-besar."

"But surely----" Conquest started to rise but dropped back. "I--I'm growing weaker," he gasped, crawling toward Abu Hassan. "Give me your promise to--to send her back to Sadok, and I will reveal where--where it is."

He dragged himself to the edge of the dais and fell in a heap at the sultan's feet. Breathing painfully, he slipped his right hand under his puttee. Abu Hassan looked down upon him with savage pleasure. Ape! thought Conquest. But he pleaded:

"You see how I am suffering. Your promise ... free her...."

The sultan's sword flashed from its scabbard. He did not rise, but sat there, the blade poised.

"I will cleave you as I would a mango if you do not tell me now!"

Conquest rose to his knees, facing the lifted blade. His hand was still under his puttee, agony still stamped upon his face. Hot waves pounded against his temples. He focused upon Abu Hassan's gold pendant.

"If you promise to free her!" he persisted in a whisper.

"No!"

Blood seemed to burst before Conquest's eyes. In the garnet haze flickered a blade. He realized, vaguely, that he had jerked the misericorde from inside his puttee, that he had struck with the whole force of his being. A fleshy thud; a sobbing breath. The Malay's sword, held aloft, fell noiselessly upon the pillows--but no more soundlessly than did the sultan himself. Conquest, spent by the blow, toppled forward upon him. It was all done with cataclysmic rapidity, measured by seconds. As he raised himself he laughed hysterically, his gaze upon the hilt of the dagger; the dagger that jetted above the ornament on Abu Hassan's breast.

"What?" he gasped loudly, between strangled breaths. "You will free her? And Tuan Muda, too?"--rising to his feet, his vision blurred--"You swear before Allah? Very well"--glancing at the door--"The gold is in a secret safe in my house"--gripping the body under the arms and dragging it toward the rear of the dais--"in the room I call the Damascus room. You will know it by the weapons on the walls"--covering the sultan with pillows and silks--"many parangs and krisses. The safe is behind a Kayan shield hung above the fireplace. The key is in my desk, a yellowish one; the others are gray. Now"--sinking upon the dais, temporarily exhausted--"now send for her--quickly--before the Tuan-besar reaches the fort. You will?... What? The Datu Tumanggong? I will call him."

Marshaling his strength, he staggered from the dais. A sudden fear nauseated him. Would he fail now--after that? The horror of what he had done writhed in his brain. He reached the door and opened it half-way, placing himself in a position that effectually obstructed a view of the room. As he expected, the Datu Tumanggong was standing just beyond the threshold, his warriors grouped behind him. The commander-in-chief entered without a word from Conquest. The latter closed the door and leaned against it. Nakoda Mubin paused a few yards away, gazing about.

Conquest moved to join him, and at his first step the Malay turned, drawing his parang.

The white man spoke softly, his expression pregnant with meaning----

"I greet you, Nakoda Mubin--_Sultan of Kawaras_!"

The Datu Tumanggong stared stupidly. "Where----" Words ceased as a faint light of comprehension came into his eyes. He took in the room with another glance, his gaze halting a moment on the dais, then returning to Conquest. "You have----" Again words failed. He made a threatening move forward, but instead swung about ponderously and hurried toward the mound of silks and pillows. Conquest reeled past him, flinging himself upon the dais.

"Wait!" he whispered. "Take care what you----"

The commander-in-chief was panting, his muscled sides heaving with excitement.

"You have...."

"Yes...." He stopped, incoherent. A treacherous limpness flowed through him. But he must not relax--not yet. "His death is your opportunity," he took up, sorting his words out of confusion. "You have the army behind you. You did not kill him. You...." He dropped back upon the cushions, staring up helplessly. "You can slay me," he continued, sucking in air, for his lungs seemed parched and hot as sand. "But if you do you will never be sultan. Will you listen? Will you hear my plan?"

Nakoda Mubin ran his fingers slowly over the edge of his sword. A gleam had sprung into his eyes, a covetous gleam. His asthmatic breathing rattled in the silence.

"I have not the power to save you after this, O Tuan Rajah," he said at length.

"Speak lower!" Conquest commanded. "It is not myself whom I wish to save, but the white woman--and Tuan Muda. My men are coming up the river now. They will reach here day after to-morrow at the latest. If they fail, there are others, you know that; thousands, not of my army, but of the army of my Government, who will come--like that"--with a weak gesture--"and wipe you out. What are your swords, your spears, your few ancient muskets, against their guns?" He raised himself on his elbow, his eyes feverishly brilliant. "Show your people the futility of resistance against a power as great as the British Raj! Recall your warriors from ambush! Protect the white woman--Tuan Muda! Send----"

His voice broke. He sank upon the pillows--but not to stay. He raised himself instantly, his white face pleading. Nakoda Mubin was still running his fingers speculatively over the blade of his parang; the gleam in his eyes had become a glow, and his breathing quickened with the mounting intensity of his emotion.

"Do as I say, Nakoda Mubin," resumed Conquest. "Send your warriors to the fort immediately--to save the white woman--to prevent the murder of Tuan Muda! Salazar--the Tuan-besar.... I am afraid...." His mouth was heavy with saliva; at least, he thought it was saliva until it bubbled from his lips. "To-morrow," he pressed on, in a frenzy, "or whenever my men arrive, let them enter the village unmolested. Then, if there is any trouble, they will.... Your people will not be punished; only the Dyaks who took--the heads--at the fort. I promise that none of the immediate line of Abu Hassan Abdulla Boru shall succeed him as ... oh, like hot needles!... as sultan. For what he has done--he shall be--outlawed.... Quickly! Say you agree! If we wait ... Salazar...."

He sank upon the pillows again, his pulse throbbing tumultuously. Damn the roar! A thousand hoofs. The horsemen of Fate, riding down upon him! Clatter! Clatter! Swifter the beat of iron-shod hoofs----But Nakoda Mubin. For a moment he had forgot the Malay's presence. He started up.

"You will?" he asked, his voice falling like a shadow from his lips. "You will send?..."

The Datu Tumanggong had ceased feeling the edge of his sword. Abruptly, he thrust the blade into its sheath.

"The people will demand justice for Abu Hassan's death, O Tuan Rajah," he announced.

Somehow Conquest managed to sit up. The hoofs were still beating in his ears. Riders ... iron-shod ... horsemen of Fate!

"You mean...?" he demanded, his voice lost in the clamor that filled his ears.

He could not hear the Datu Tumanggong's reply, but he read the word that formed on his lips. He laughed crazily.

"I agree!" he whispered. "But first--recall your men--send...."

Dimly, as though reflected upon a dusty mirror, he saw the Datu Tumanggong draw his sword and approach one of the gongs.

_Bong! Bong!_

For a brief interval the thunder of the oncoming horsemen was drowned in the liquid ring. Again Conquest laughed--or perhaps he sobbed. He did not know. He crawled toward the silken mound. The misericorde was there. He would pay--pay. But he must hurry. The horsemen were behind, gaining.

_Bong! Bong!_ Again steel smote brass.

He had promised justice, an eye for an eye. But he would do it in his own manner. Perforated; got it in Smyrna. His groping hand touched the hilt of the misericorde; closed about it; tugged. He would beat them all, even Fate! He had it now; raised it.... The next instant the horsemen rode over him, over the crimson cross on his breast, over his brain, trampling out the last sparks of sentiency.

8

When Lhassa and Garon came within view of the fort the moon was poised above the serrated stockade, and one of the watch-towers rose in somber outline upon it. Below this, black against the sky, were the jagged blades of palms. It was like a picture out of a book of silhouettes.

As they drew nearer, the man spoke; spoke for the first time since they had parted with Stephen Conquest in the swamp.

"You must wait at the gate while I look inside."

She understood and shuddered.

"I would rather go with you. Nothing could be more terrible than waiting alone."

They continued in silence to the gate.

The fort, a square stockaded affair with watch-towers at each corner, overlooked the river. The underbrush had been cut down for a distance of twenty yards or more about it, but beyond that were thick groves of sago-palms that shut it in, with the exception of the river side, like an outer stronghold. The atmosphere was ponderous with that muffled stillness that broods in deep ocean caverns; not a quiet that portended evil, but the hush following tragedy; and, while it inspired fear, the result was not dread of anything living but awe of the dead.

The gate hung open, and as they entered Lhassa voluntarily grasped Garon's arm; felt the muscles stiffen. The stockade seemed vast beyond belief and inclosed many log houses, some small, evidently dwellings, others large enough to be warehouses. Doorways were black as the mouths of tombs. Over all hung the smell of sago. Barabbas Town, village of thieves. Automatically she changed it: Barabbas Town, village of the dead.... Incredible that such horror could exist in the warm, breathless night! She stopped, her limbs turned to lead.

"Why not go up there?" she asked, indicating the nearest watch-tower. "We can see the river." Her voice, a mere whisper, sounded as though it came from anywhere but her own throat.

Garon nodded. At the doorway he thrust her back.

"Wait. I will go up alone first."

This time she consented, and, a moment later, heard him climbing a stair, then moving about in the watch-tower. Her imagination refused to be disciplined; she closed her eyes, trying to shut out the grim engravings that cut into her mind, but darkness only heightened their vividness. Conquering an impulse to search the shadows, she raised her eyes toward the moon--a disk of steel, riven pitilessly into the sky. It depressed her with a sense of her impotence and of its inexorable calm. She was glad when she heard Garon descending.

"You may go up now."

Pressing back innumerable questions, she followed him inside. The room was windowless. She knew he had a flash-light and wondered, vaguely, why he did not use it: instead of making a light, he took her arm and guided her through the dark. They ascended into a space dimly lighted by countless diamond-shaped spots of moonlight entering through a trellis-work window. She made out a chair, a smudge against the wall, and sat down. With the easing of her taut nerves, a great reservoir of weariness was released. She felt, suddenly, very old. Garon, standing in the checkering moonlight, looked like a harlequin in black and white. Without reason she laughed; sounds that seemed to profane the hush.

"I feel as if we were two ghosts hovering at the very edge of the earth," she said. A pause during which she glanced through the lattice at the wharf and the river. "We will be" she resumed after a moment, "if he fails; won't we?"

Garon nodded; then, "I shall close the gate," he announced.

"No," she intervened. "If they come, will a wall stop them? A few minutes, perhaps, but--well, I shall be glad to have it finished quickly. Another reason, a foolish reason, is that I can't endure to be shut in here"--a gesture that included the entire fort--"with--with _them_. Stupid, isn't it? But I think it would stifle me. Death seems to--but I can't explain what it does to me. I felt it that night in Dr. Garth's study...."

She stopped, realizing what she had said.

"There's no good in hiding things," she took up quickly. "I've contained myself until now. I can't any longer. Questions! I hate them! You'll answer me now, won't you, Garon?" It was the first time she had called him that, and the name, coming from her, sounded strange. "You will answer, won't you?" she pleaded. "Won't you?"

Garon jerked his hand in that impatient, expressive manner of his.

"Questions!"--bitterly. "Questions! I hate them, too! Your first words to me were questions! Name of God! They follow me like hounds!"

He whirled and strode to the end of the room; returned. She regarded him almost apathetically. Her sensibilities had been played upon so incessantly, and with such brutal force, that now they refused to respond. Fear, pity, condemnation, all were stilled by the profound quiet that bore down. That very silence, potent as walls of mortar, seemed to imprison her and stifle her already tired emotions.

"Why are you afraid of questions?" she queried. "Questions! Yes, they've haunted me, too. Dr. Garth. Barthélemy. The Black Parrot. The native who came to my veranda." She sighed, once more gazing at the river. "What became of him, the East Indian? Why was he there that night? Why did he scratch on the screen?"

"Why?" he echoed, almost savagely. "Why? He came to tell you something I did not wish you to know then. I happened----"

"Where did you send him?" she broke in, her eyes returning to him.

His hands were locked together in front of him; she could see the veins standing out like black seams.

"To Sarawak--to Kuching"--in that fierce tone.

Intuitively she knew the truth. But she pressed on.

"Why?"

She was not watching his face but his hands, and she wondered, vaguely, why the veins did not snap....

"I sent to--well, to the rajah of Sarawak."

The breath caught in her throat. She was trembling.

"For--for help?" He did not answer. Her breath escaped in a sob. "For help?" she repeated. "For me--yes, for me. You were going to sacrifice your chance of escape, your freedom, for--me."

He laughed in a strained manner. The veins on his hands rippled ceaselessly as he worked his fingers back and forth.

"Perhaps I planned to leave before the rajah's men arrived."

"No," she denied. "No." She added no words of praise; her tone was an accolade. She lifted her eyes to his face. It was blurred, but not too indistinct for her to see his expression. How worn he looked, there in the checkering moonlight!

"Sympathy!" he muttered. "You spend it prodigally"--a characteristic gesture--"I lied to you--lied because I was afraid you would not come away with me if you knew the truth. I ... God of Gods! I am still afraid!"

A vibration of dread swept her.

"You lied? About...."

"Yes. Barthélemy and the doctor."

A pause; to her, an excruciatingly long pause. All the dead chords of emotion came to life and crashed with frightful dissonance. She waited, waited until she could suffer the silence no longer.

"Go on!" she begged. "Go on; won't you?"

"Lied," he murmured, as though speaking to himself, pleading before an inner tribunal. "The Buddha--a green devil. I agreed to get it for Conquest. That was why I was in Bangkok."

Another pause, brief this time. She said:

"Then Stephen Conquest is the Black Parrot?"

He laughed; a hard, brutal laugh.

"The Black Parrot! Hah! The Black Parrot! He who was called that is dead; died under the guillotine; but the society, the Black Parrot that----"

"The society?"--too impatient to keep silent. "You mean, the Black Parrot is a band instead of an individual?"

"Yes! Yes! Of course! An organization," he went on, "started by Salazar after the execution of Le Perroquet Noir; a society to aid convicts. Perhaps you know Salazar's name, that is, the name under which he was convicted?... Letourneau; a garroter; sentenced from Senegal. Conquest came to Cayenne; was there before Le Perroquet's execution; and he agreed to employ and shelter any criminal who evaded--also to have a boat there periodically. He----"

"But the notorious thief," she interrupted again, "the one who is supposed to have stolen the jewels and the art treasures?"

"A fabulous creation! Conquest circulated the stories and hired men to steal for him. I went to Bangkok to get the Buddha. I----"

He clipped off abruptly, listening.

"What is it?"--from her.

As if in answer, there came a ringing beat, faint as the echo of chimes in a padded hall.

"A gong," he pronounced.

"Where?"

"In the village."

Again the metallic pulsation.

"What could it mean?"

He shrugged.

"Do you suppose he has reached there--and that means.... Perhaps"--starting to rise--"perhaps it would be wise to close the gate and----Wait! First, finish what you were telling me! I must know the truth before--before anything happens!"

He moved to the trellised window and looked out, then turned back.

"I had to get the Buddha," he repeated. "That was the price of my shelter at Sadok. Conquest and I planned the theft at Singapore; he met me in Surabaya on my way from--from Guiana. When I reached Bangkok I visited the temple; made observations. The next day I sent my servant disguised as a Buddhist monk. He was to place himself inconspicuously and remain until after dark, then steal out with the Buddha under his robes."

At intervals the gong sounded, ominously punctuating his story.

"Evidently," he continued, pacing the floor, "some one else had made similar plans. My servant was in the court, by one of the doors. As he entered to get the idol, a priest--that is, a native dressed as a priest--struck down the guardian of the Buddha. This priest took the god. My man followed. To be brief, it was some one in the pay of your friend, the doctor. His boy, a Eurasian, came to the priest's house for the image. My servant tracked him. When he found out where he went he returned for me."

The gong persisted, seeming to rise in intensity until its beats sounded like the far-off blows of a hammer on a forge. With an exclamation of annoyance, Garon swung about, facing the window; stood there, an amorphous blot against the lattice. Sensing a sudden tenseness in his attitude, she joined him. At first she saw only the wharf and the ashen expanse of the river, but presently the flicker of a white garment gave her a clue to the shape that was merged with the landing. Her breathing quickened.

"I didn't hear them," she whispered.

"Muffled paddles"--laconically.

There were other flickers now. The occupants of the canoe had disembarked, and several were approaching the fort, moving so silently that she doubted their reality. She could make out pale jackets. Malays, not Dyaks.

"What can we do?" she breathed.

Garon's shoulders rose and fell. He had plucked out his revolver. As she noticed it, she had an insane impulse to laugh. How could that ridiculously small thing protect them? Fantastic to believe it would! Desperation numbed her. But she was not too stupefied to sort out a coherent idea and give voice to it.

"Tell me"--recklessly--"tell me what happened that night at the doctor's house! This may be the last----"

His hand closed over her mouth, and he drew her into a corner. Resentment smoldered, but she did not resist, for, suddenly, her body felt dead, her spirit seeming to exist outside its sheath but with the power to see and hear.

From below came indistinguishable sounds.

Garon pulled off his white jacket and flung it into the opposite corner, then pushed her behind him. His touch awakened veins of cold fire. Over his shoulder, she could see the stair-head and the moon-stains on the floor. The latter she likened, fantastically, to a chess-board; pictured hands moving pawns upon the black and gray squares.

Below, now, was absolute quiet, a premonitory quiet.

The Malays were searching the inclosure, she told herself. It was inevitable that they would come to the watch-tower eventually. And then.... If she only knew what had happened that night in Bangkok! His ear was close to her lips; she might whisper----But his stolid shoulder, pressed against her, commanded silence.

The chess-board of moonlight stood out in ultra-clarity. She wished, desperately, that those unseen pawns were visible. Anything to distract, to put down the inquisition of suspense! She could feel Garon's heart beating; could hear it. But was it his heart she heard? A prickly sensation played over her spine.

Footsteps; below; now on the stair.

She felt the muscles in Garon's back harden. Something of his courage flowed into her and gave her the strength to watch the stairway.

Nearer drew the footsteps.

A grayish blot appeared in the darkness, growing magically into a head and a pair of shoulders that rose into the light falling through the lattice. At sight of the man's face, splotched with moonlight, and the glittering barrel in his hand, a strangling surge filled her throat. She gasped.

Instantly Salazar wheeled out of the moonlight; and instantly the crashing detonation of two revolvers ruptured the silence.

Garon seemed hurled back upon her, the force of his body expelling the breath from her lungs. For a moment she was lost in heaving darkness. When her vision returned she saw a face lying in the checkering moonlight: Garon's. Something snapped in her brain. She felt that a whip had curled about her, lashing the blood into her very eyes; that it was jerking her forward; swinging her toward Salazar.

Her attack was so unexpected, so furious, that she had struck him twice, had sunk her fingers into his face, before he made any move other than a recoil. Then one of his great arms fell upon her shoulders, encircling her neck; the other sought to protect his eyes. She heard him cursing. His breath was hot upon her face.

They staggered into the middle of the room. She clung, gripping his hair, while he crushed her wrists in an attempt to break her hold. The sudden chill of metal, an icy shock that electrified her, recalled the fact that he was armed, and, releasing his hair, she snatched at the weapon. Her fingers closed over it; twisted. In desperation she buried her teeth in his hand. A blow sent her backward, gasping. Hazily, she saw Salazar stooping to recover his revolver, and she flung herself upon him, clutching his arm in both hands. As he sprang erect the violence of the movement, together with his strength, swung her behind him. Thus locked, they swayed and tottered.

She realized, despairingly, that he must conquer eventually. Already a flame played before her. Back of the smoke in her mind, a spark glowed: if she knew a sharp thrust or some other means of paralyzing a vital nerve there would be a chance for victory. Jiu-jitsu; wrestling. Vulgar sports ... prize-rings ... men with pachydermal skin.... An inner consciousness groped.

Salazar was clawing at her wrist now. She sensed his purpose and tried to wrench away. The silk over one shoulder parted like taut paper. Following that, she felt fingers creep about her wrist and fasten. The man laughed. For a second of blinding agony she thought her arm had snapped. Her hand slipped from his grasp; encountered his neck. The contact ignited the spark. Jiu-jitsu; wrestling.... It came, a flash out of smoky obscurity.

With a jerk she tore her other hand free and seized him about the neck, sinking her thumbs into the hollows under his ears; clung while, cursing, he dragged her across the room. They thudded against a wall. But her grip did not loosen. She held--held. Time and feeling did not exist; she was no longer conscious of the pain in her hands, where his nails dug cruelly into the flesh. All the power of her being was drawn into one purpose. It ceased to be a struggle between herself and Salazar: she was fighting against something old and lustful, an evil that had menaced earth-creatures since the beginning of life. And she held--held. Numbness tugged at her muscles. She felt it crawling over them, deadly as paralysis. Suddenly she knew she was slipping. Salazar's face seemed to be floating away, sinking; then, it was staring at her from below the lattice.

Sobbing with exhaustion, she fell to her knees; dropped upon the floor. The blood, leaping into her brain, threatened to burst it. She did not faint, but there followed an interval during which she seemed suspended from life. She could hear her tumultuous breathing amidst awful silence. It was a clue to her body, and she found it and raised herself, gazing, not at the face below the window, but at Garon.

After a moment she crawled to him. The beating of his heart awakened a responsive tremor in her fingers. She shook him; spoke his name. He stirred. Bending closer, she whispered what she had done, adding:

"We must go below. The others are there; no use to resist. And I can't stay in this room. You remember ... stifles me."

She helped him to his feet, slipping one of his arms over her shoulder and gripping him about the waist. He almost bore her to the floor, but she managed to stagger to the stair with him. As they passed the window she glimpsed the wharf and the river, and thought she saw another canoe. But it did not matter; let a hundred more come. She had temporarily drifted out of the realm of feeling.

Somehow they descended; emerged into moonlight. As she expected, the Malays were waiting, grouped near the gate. Garon straightened and spoke feebly in Malayan. Several natives stepped forward, thrusting their swords into the earth. Followed a brief exchange of words; then the Frenchman laughed weakly.

"He says"--his body sagged and she gripped him tighter--"he says we are safe. The village ... they...."

She clung to one arm as he slipped to the ground; his weight almost pulled her down beside him. Two Malays approached, and she heard herself asking what to do; heard one of the natives reply that a canoe was waiting to take them to the village. Garon was lifted.

Dazedly, she followed to the wharf; allowed the Malays to help her into the proa; sank beside Garon. As one not fully awake, she realized that a miracle had been wrought, that, somehow, Stephen Conquest had succeeded. Her impulse was to relax, but she fought the weakness. Not yet, not until she had definite assurance of their safety.

The moon hung just above the trees; to her, a lamp in a gray basilica. In a moment it would be gone.

She shivered in anticipation of the darkness.

9

They had reached the village.

Massed figures on the bank; and torches. As the proa touched shore, the throng parted before a huge-muscled Malay who came down to the water's edge. Lhassa dimly remembered having seen him before. The sultan? He spoke to the boatmen, several of whom bent over Garon. She understood that they had been instructed to carry him inside the stockade. Hands assisted her out of the boat.

A wider lane opened in the mass, and up this she moved, scarcely conscious of the many stares. The apathy following suspense had settled upon her. In her world, her world of throbbing pain, there was but one other.

At the gate she paused automatically. Behind were the men bearing Garon; also the large Malay who had ordered his removal. In response to her inquisitive look the latter told her that she and Tuan Muda were safe; told her that Abu Hassan was dead and that he, Nakoda Mubin, was sultan now. She said:

"Where can we take him?"

Nakoda Mubin led the way to a house not far from the gate. Within, by the light of a torch, she saw Garon's wound; asked:

"Will he die?"--raising a blurred gaze to the new ruler of Kawaras.

He said something about a clean wound; a poultice of wood-ash; cleansing; a bandage. She heard him giving orders to the other Malays, and she remained seated, one hand on Garon's hot forehead. Not until the Malays returned did the memory of Conquest pierce her fogged consciousness.

"Where is he?" she demanded abruptly, then explained, "Mr. Conquest, the Tuan Rajah."

He had requested to see her when she arrived, the Malay replied, but she was probably too late: the Tuan Rajah had lapsed into that unconsciousness that precedes death.

His words had a maiming effect: she felt severed from some vital member. For a moment she wavered between the man at her side and him who had sacrificed himself for her. She knew intuitively that Stephen Conquest had made his last gesture, undoubtedly a romantic gesture, to preserve the beauty which he loved, her beauty. That love, she realized, was a strange thing, a love of her physical perfection without the desire to possess; a worship of some mysterious essence of beauty, elusive as Art.

"Take me to him," she said decisively.

Nakoda Mubin guided her past groups of staring natives to a house near the palace. He waited on the gallery while she entered.