Chapter VII: Malay House (2)

A long proa was waiting at the landing, and she was assisted into the stern. When Conquest was seated, the boatmen shoved off.

A vast silence lay on the river, intruded upon only by the regular splash of the paddles and the _chik-chak_ of lizards on the bank. A warm wind drifted seaward from the mangrove swamps, laden with an odor half aromatic and half sickly. To her, it was the breath of the jungle, savage and voluptuous: and it challenged her. A restlessness seized her, a desire to follow the river through forests and over mountains to its hidden source.

The canoe glided toward a row of pile-raised houses that, in the darkness, seemed to float on the water. On the bank a torch wavered. Beyond it were other lights: flecks among blackly-etched shacks and foliage. The boat scraped a wharf, and Lhassa was helped out in the midst of a group of natives. Conquest took her arm and guided her forward between huts built on poles, to a large wattled and thatched building. A notched ladder leaned against a platform of split bamboo lashed together with ratan, and she climbed up awkwardly with the aid of two Malays.

Within, primitive lamps--bowls of cocoanut-oil in which floated flaming wicks--revealed a motley of color. The great hall was festooned with palm fronds and with yellow and crimson cloths. Around the walls, squatting on mats, were numberless natives. Lhassa, swiftly absorbing the scene, perceived a mixture of races: brown-eyed Malays, the men turbaned, and gaudy with beads and bright braid, the women dressed in silks, stiff brocades and embroidered garments; a few Arabs, picturesque in flowing robes; somberly garbed Chinamen; Dyaks naked but for waist-cloths and plumed with hornbill-feathers; Tanjong girls in blue cotton skirts and jackets of gold brocade, with wire rings about their legs; and strange, wild-looking warriors, carrying shields and spears, and bristling with pheasants' wings and egrets.

Conscious of the many stares that were upon her, she followed Conquest to the far end, where, in a corner, yellow-skinned Malay women were gathered about an improvised divan of draperies and cushions. She was confused, disconcerted, but she sank upon the silks with the air of a Roman empress. At a word from Conquest several of the women approached shyly. That was the beginning of a hand-touching ceremony that lasted two or three minutes. When it was over, Lhassa noticed that Conquest had taken a seat on a raised portion of the floor in the opposite corner. On one side of him, the side nearest her, sat Tuan Muda, and on the other, in shadow, another man, presumably the manager from the plantation. The latter's face was hidden behind Conquest's head, but she could see his hands, resting on the arms of his chair--hands warped with great knuckles.

There was a long silence, during which the three white men sat motionless and the natives stirred and shifted uneasily. Suddenly a gorgeously panoplied Malay--Lhassa knew by his dress that he was of high rank--sprang up from the pile of mats upon which he had been sitting and strode proudly, insolently toward Conquest. He halted in front of the white man and thrust out his hands. One of the women whispered to Lhassa that he was the sultan. After he had touched hands with Conquest, his chiefs and warriors followed the example. This Bornean etiquette, though impressive, was rather lengthy. In its wake came another silence.

Presently Conquest lifted his hand: that was a cue for the feasting to begin.

Long-robed Malays approached a corner where numerous brass bowls and bamboo platters rested on a cloth on the floor. Lhassa shuddered at thought of what they contained. However, the food, when served, proved more savory than she imagined. There were yellow rice, maize cakes, sago biscuits, mangosteens, custard apples, bananas, mangos, pomelos, wild oranges, sweetmeats, and bowls of cocoanut-milk. She ate the fruit and drank the milk with relish, but doubt as to how the other food had been prepared made it less palatable.

Several times she caught a glimpse of the man who sat on Conquest's right, only a dim impression of blistered skin and dark eyes; eyes that she felt upon her frequently. She did not see Tuan Muda glance in her direction once; often Conquest's hungering gaze sought her.

The feasting over, a larger space was cleared in the center of the hall. Again a hush swathed the assembly. Lhassa wondered whether it was customary or due to embarrassment on the part of the natives. A moment passed; then a Malay squatting at Conquest's feet rose and made a hasty exit, returning almost immediately, followed by a number of young men who carried musical instruments--bamboo guitars, gongs, and drums. The musicians seated themselves; struck a few notes; looked about inquisitively; began to play.

A song of the jungle, wistful and melancholy. From the gongs came a sound as of running water, from the guitars whining, wind-like notes, this strain given a certain rhythm by the drums. Lhassa had often heard the "jazz" of her country called jungle-music, had, herself, believed it an echo of savagery; but now as she listened to this cadenced plaint she realized that syncopation was not the voice of the wild nor even of its human inhabitants, whose music, though barbaric and at times frenzied, was never sophisticated.

From the musicians her attention was drawn to a file of young girls who were entering, walking slowly, sedately, their eyelids half lowered. Arms and cheeks were smeared with turmeric. Their skirts were short and beaded, their jackets hung with cowry shells. Brass anklets _cling-clonged_ as they walked.

They formed rows in the center of the hall. The tempo of the music changed; became even slower; and the girls bent their wrists and arms in quaint little gestures, keeping in perfect time. This pantomime continued for a few minutes; then the dancers swayed right and left, languidly, and began a slow, undulating motion--a dance that in its dignity, its utter lack of sex appeal, reminded Lhassa of a temple dance she had seen in Siam.

Suddenly, almost abruptly, the music stopped. The girls remained in graceful postures for a moment; then with a whisper of silken draperies, with the clash of anklets and the patter of naked feet, they glided out.

Immediately following their departure, the Malay who acted as master of ceremonies rose and uttered what sounded to Lhassa like a volume of unintelligible words. As he resumed his seat she looked askance at one of the women, who leaned nearer and explained:

"He tell warriors to dance, Rajah Ranee. Dyak war-dance. Sea Dyaks make war on Kayan tribe; cut off heads; take them home to decorate kampong."

Twelve Dyaks, resplendent in fringe, beads, silver bangles, ivory armlets, and plumes, paraded out into the center of the floor. Some were armed with spears, others with parangs; all carried painted shields. The men, dividing into two groups, crouched. One of the musicians began to play on a gourd-like instrument that produced an eery, wailing sound. Drums throbbed. And the dance began.

To Lhassa, the first part was rather wearisome. The warriors leaped and jumped about, gesturing and grimacing at one another. But toward the end their movements seemed suddenly accelerated. Now (so ran the story) the rival tribes met in battle. Parangs drew arcs of fire; spears darted back and forth in luminous play. Now and then the dancers uttered war-cries: shuddering falsetto screams that scaled to a high pitch and broke. Something of their intensity was transmitted to the onlookers; fierce yells augmented with the cries of the whirling, gyrating warriors. The drums were beating with doubled rhythm, and through their _throom-throoming_ wove the eery wailing, needle-sharp.

_Throom-throom! Throom-throom!_

Monotonously, maddeningly the drums continued. Lhassa found herself fascinated. As she stared at the sweat-glazed figures she felt vaguely frightened. She knew the savage mind was tinder for the spark of frenzy; and already there was a glow in many eyes. Particularly, in the eyes of a tattooed warrior who sat opposite her. Whose body was tense. Who gripped his parang so tightly that the veins were rigid on his hands. A sudden dread ran through her. There could be but one end if this went on. She glanced toward Conquest, hoping to catch his attention and signal him to stop the dance. But he was staring ahead.

_Throom-throom! Throom-throom._

The drums seemed in her body, beating wildly; beating, beating as though to break their frail prison. She wanted to scream. Not because of the drums, but because of the tattooed warrior who sat opposite her. She had the mad illusion that she saw a spark in his eyes, that, as she saw it, the spark exploded----

The warrior shot up as though from a catapult. Flame-like his parang flickered before him. Coincident with his spring came the cough of a revolver. Lhassa saw Conquest on his feet; beside him was Tuan Muda, a gleaming cylinder in the Frenchman's hand. It was all swift, like the lightning print of a camera. In the center of the confusion--the chaos of naked arms and legs, of plumes and shields--flashed a figure in white. The man made a quick movement, and she glimpsed something yellow in his hands. She did not understand, knew only that the next instant the crazed warrior was jerked backward and fell against the white man's legs.

As suddenly as the disturbance broke, it ceased. The hall was quiet but for the tinkle of beads, but for the sharp crescendo of the sultan's voice. The dancers seemed to melt into the humanity packed against the walls, leaving the floor occupied by a grim tableau.

Standing near the dais where a moment before he had been sitting was he of the swarthy skin and dark eyes--a linen-clad figure towering above the warrior who, maddened by the dance, had sought to quench his passion by slaying. Around the native's neck was a roll of yellow cloth, the ends of which were gripped in the white man's fists. The latter--he was dark as a half-caste, with amazingly broad shoulders--stood there for a second, no more, gazing dispassionately at the body; then he released the improvised garrote and strode back to his seat. Instantly two Malays ran out and picked up the body, carrying it from the hall....

To Lhassa, the rest of the celebration was clouded. She remembered it afterward as a puppet show enacted behind a gauze drop. The master of ceremonies, at a word from Conquest, herded several bashful girls into the middle of the hall, and they went through the motions of an ineffectual pantomime. She scarcely noticed them, for her attention was focused upon the swarthy man, who, having resumed his seat, was invisible but for his black hair and his hands. At the conclusion of the girls' dance the affair ended--to her relief. The tiresome ceremony of touching hands was repeated; then Conquest approached her, and they were out in the cool darkness. Faintly, she heard him saying something about being sorry that the disturbance had occurred; faintly, she heard the rhythm of the paddles.

When they reached Malay House she hurried to her room, locked the door, and lay against the panels, aflame with excitement. Black eyes seemed to gaze into hers, dispassionately, as they had gazed upon the Dyak's body. She shuddered as she remembered the warped hands--hands that had garroted the warrior ... snapped his neck.... It was not plausible, she told herself, yet ... yet he might have been in Bangkok ... might have.... What had Conquest called him--Salazar? What swiftness, what brutal strength! He was no novice at garroting.

Her fingers trembled as she unhooked her dress. She did not go to bed immediately--the fever of conjecture was too hot--but, clad in night-dress and kimono, sat on the veranda, absorbed in thought. Sight of the sloping roof brought to mind the Barbary simitar and its purpose. To-morrow night she would make use of it, she decided; to-night she was too tired. She remained there until the excitement burned to ash; remained for nearly an hour.

As she crept into bed, yielding to its luxury, the thin wail of an owl rippled the stillness. It sounded like a Dyak war-cry. In the following quiet she thought she heard drums, drums that rumbled, crashed to a climax. She fell asleep wondering if they would haunt her, if in years to come she would hear them, rumbling, crashing.

6

Lhassa considered it wise to remain in her room throughout the next day. However, in the cooler hours she ventured forth, and, followed by Ahmad and Pangku, went out on the promontory to watch the sunset.

The _Narcissus_, riding at anchor, gleamed on the purple bay. It stirred in her a desire to be aboard, to order the canvas hoisted and sail away--anywhere. She did not wish to leave Sadok--not at this juncture, just when the doors of mystery were beginning to swing back--but she felt that a brief excursion at sea, with the wind whipping the canvas and the water singing under the hull, would buoy her spirits. For a reason she could not understand she was depressed. This puzzled and annoyed her, and she tried to account for it by saying to herself that the affair of the previous night had left a shadow upon her, but that explanation did not satisfy.

Darkness shut down, and she returned to the house. When she made a light in her room a gleaming object on the table winked at her. She stared; picked it up; examined it. Her first thought was that it was her automatic which for some inexplicable reason Conquest had returned, but she perceived it was not: it was a man's weapon, a forty-five-caliber nickel-plated revolver. She snapped it open. Cartridges in the breech. She wondered who had placed it there; wondered why. Strangely, the finding of it gave her an unwelcome sense of insecurity. It seemed significant: she was in danger, and some one was trying to warn and prepare her. Who? Conquest? Tuan Muda? Undoubtedly the latter. And, again, why? Intuitively she felt that Salazar was the reason. The elusiveness of this sudden danger, if indeed it existed outside her fancy, invited investigation. She resolved to speak with Tuan Muda.

Accordingly, when the dinner-gong sounded, she responded. She could not deny that she experienced relief when she found only Tuan Muda and Conquest below, and she voiced the query that sprang to her lips:

"Where is your pretty gorilla from the plantation?"

An instant after she spoke, a linen-clad figure appeared in the doorway of the library. It was the first time she had seen him at close range, and she observed thick, heavy lips and a broad neck, corded under the chin. His skin was pachydermal, his hair and mustache blue-black. The sheer physical strength of him was almost obscene. Fearlessly she returned his gaze, realizing that he must have heard. It was a tense moment, but she did not lose her poise. She chose what she considered the best means of escape from a difficult situation: she swept out on the veranda in majestic silence. On the top step she paused, a rush of blood mounting to her cheeks; then she hurried down and along the path to the promontory.

Her cheeks were still hot when she reached the cliff. She was chagrined, and somewhat alarmed, that Salazar had heard her call him a gorilla. She judged him, from the brief glimpses, to be saturnine, utterly without the essential quality of humor. That was a type she--well, not feared, but distrusted. Oppressed by a sense of something imminent and hidden in the atmosphere, she sat down, gazing at the sea. In the moonless night it had no allure; it was vast and terrifying; it separated her from civilization, from aid if she needed it. Aid. The word revolved in her mind. If there should come a time when she was in jeopardy, what would she do? To whom would she appeal? Coincident with the thought she saw, in fancy, the face of Tuan Muda, immobile features and scar that gave a touch of insolence. Why trust him more than Conquest? She wondered; and continued to wonder as she stared into plum-black darkness.

The sound of some one approaching sent a cold tremor over her. She got up quickly. As the steps crunched nearer a white blot among the trees took form. The man was not recognizable until he was within a few yards of her; then she laughed--involuntarily.

"How did you know where to find me?"

Tuan Muda made one of his expressive gestures. That was his reply.

"Is it wise for you to come here? Won't----"

"They have gone down to the river," he interposed. "I am to follow." A pause. "Perhaps I am a fool, but----To the devil with explanations! If I arrange for you to leave Sadok to-night, will you go?"

His abruptness, the suddenness of his offer, bewildered her. She stared at him searchingly.

"Will you?" he persisted.

To cover her confusion she assumed a cynical pose.

"I don't understand you," she said. "First you ignore me; then, out of a clear sky, you make an absurd offer. Of course you put the revolver in my room this afternoon; why?"

"You did not answer my question."

"Nor did you answer mine."

He gestured again. "Name of a pig! What does it matter why I put it there? Sufficient that I did!" But he added, "I am going on a mission up the river to-morrow."

A faint dread touched her.

"For how long?"

He shrugged.

She hesitated, then asked, "Who is this Salazar?"

Another shrug.

"What is he?" she pressed.

"Part French and part Spanish; perhaps a touch of the tar-brush."

"You knew him at Cayenne?"

"Questions! Questions!"

She shifted her gaze to the sea, reflecting upon what he had told her. He was going up the river to-morrow. What for? And she would be alone with Conquest--and Salazar. But he had said something else....

"What did you mean," she prompted, "when you spoke of arranging for me to leave to-night? How could I?"

He waved seaward. "Kuching, Sarawak, is up the coast; it is under an English rajah. I could have some Malay boatmen take you or----"

"I would be afraid of them," she cut in.

"Not if you really wished to go."

She smiled. "That's it."

A long silence followed. She was the first to speak.

"It would be running from something I have set out to do."

An exclamation of impatience from him. "It would be getting out of the way!"

She baited him deliberately. "Getting out of the way of what? What is going to happen? You mystify me more and more. If I accepted your offer it would mean ... you know what it would mean. There must be a trick in it. Men don't sacrifice themselves without some personal reason. What is your object? I confess I am at loss to understand."

He compressed his mouth; there was a glitter in his eye.

"Then you refuse?"

"Of course."

"I shall not make the offer again."

"I realize that."

Before she could say more he whirled and strode off. That was unexpected. Her impulse was to call him back, to tell him she had not meant to seem ungrateful, but a foolish pride restrained her. She knew, intuitively, that his desire for her to leave Sadok sprang from a sincere motive. Now he would go on his journey believing his generous impulse unappreciated. She had only tried to exasperate him, hoping that in anger he would disclose the reason for his offer. She realized, too late, that his indifference was not real but a cloak for an interest he dared not, or would not, display. Pity for him sent a sharp charge into her throat. Cayenne had not been kind: it had left the grooves of suffering. To him had been given the gift of pain that he might see a hideous injustice; and in his way, a way warped by circumstance, he had sought to remedy it. Undoubtedly Tuan Muda was the Black Parrot, that mysterious being who freed convicts. All was quite evident to her now: out of his bitterness had grown a desire to aid his fellow-sufferers. Whatever his sins against society, he had compassion; and compassion, in a world of ancient hatreds, was a god's mission.

She sat down by the edge of the cliff, her mind an arena where rival thoughts charioted. Below, waves broke gently on the sand, weaving a coruscant pattern; a warm, briny wind came in from the sea. There was, in the night, a tranquillity which a growing depression within herself denied. Out in the darkness hung a red star, seemingly on a level with her gaze. It was Medusa's eye--no longer green and coldly hypnotic, but suffused with blood, and definitely portentous. It affirmed her mood. The colors of the design--the fabulous tapestry of Romance that had been started by the blue slendong--were rapidly deepening to ominous shades. A shadow had dyed them ... Salazar's?

Fully half an hour passed before she stirred. Suddenly, in the midst of her brooding, she remembered that Tuan Muda had said Conquest and Salazar were down at the river. Of that recollection was generated a plan. She rose, brushed the limestone dust from her dress, and returned to the house. After looking in the library, the Chinese room, and the Damascus room, she went up-stairs.

In the darkness she removed the Barbary simitar from her trunk. A spirit of enterprise lightened her depression as she moved out on the veranda and thrust the sword into a corner of the screen. The sharp blade made an incision at a point where the wire was tacked to the woodwork, and, by cutting upward, she succeeded in ripping one side from its fastenings. She then slashed the wire beneath a cross-segment of wood and bent the screen back, thus creating a triangular opening. This done, she crawled through to the sloping roof, leaving the simitar on the veranda, and crept over the shingles to the northwest corner. There the main roof slanted past a veranda identical with her own, ending above a lower roof--that of the forbidden room. The drop was short, and she lowered herself noiselessly.

The skylight was open, its glassed frame propped above a black rectangle. As she peered down into darkness as dense as that of a tar-vat, she was challenged to a more venturesome effort. If she dropped into that well of night----But that would be trapping herself. There was a wiser, though probably not so interesting, course. In her room were matches; with their aid she could at least glimpse the Djinnee's Cave.

So she made her way back cautiously. In possession of the matches, she again crawled across the shingles. At the edge of the main roof she halted, startled.

An oblong yellowish patch outlined the skylight.

Conquest! Who but he would be in the room? She crouched there for a moment, uncertain, then, slowly, lowered herself upon the other roof. Her very breathing repressed, she crept to the skylight; looked down.

The rectangle was screened, and through the fine wire she saw a room whose floor was patterned with rich rugs. The corners were beyond range, but she imagined they were filled with bronzes, with vases and heavy brocades. Near the center of the room, almost under the skylight, was a painting on an easel, and, beside it, a table littered with tubes, cups, and several paint-daubed palettes. In front of the canvas stood Conquest.

She strained her eyes in effort to make out the subject of the picture, but, placed as it was, the light glossed it. The man stood motionless, gazing at the painting, enrapt, as a seer gazes into a crystal. She fancied she could hear his slow, even breathing. What was on the canvas that so fascinated him? Even as she wondered, she resolved to know. It would be a daring experiment, but she felt capable of carrying it through.

She crawled to the metal drain bordering the roof and measured the distance to the ground. Fifteen feet at the most. Her heart beat a swift tattoo as she crept back to the skylight. Conquest was still gazing at the painting.

After a moment of hesitation, she deliberately struck the glass of the skylight.

At the sharp crack, Conquest jerked out of his absorption. He looked up, dazedly. She knew that her face was dimly visible in the opening, that he could not help but recognize her. Without giving him time to speak, she got up and ran to the break of the main roof; there she halted, listening. From the room below, muffled, came the sounds of hurrying footsteps, of an opening door. She waited for a few seconds, then moved past the skylight to the drain. Seating herself, she swung her feet over the side, and, turning obliquely, dropped. Her arms seemed wrenched from her body. Followed a moment of exquisite suspense; then she was on the ground, her limbs burning as though clamped in a steel trap.

Swiftly recovering, she hurried to the front of the house. On the portico she paused to glance through the doorway into the empty hall, then entered. Her ankles ached, and she was almost breathless when she reached the darkened Damascus room; but a thrilling realization that her ruse was succeeding atoned for the pain. In the gloom she found the Ispahan carpet; swept it aside; gripped the knob. But the door did not yield. Cold disappointment formed in her breast, only to melt instantly as her hand encountered a key in the lock. A metallic snap ... and she stood in the Djinnee's Cave.

The light was dim, the somber tapestries and hangings, the luxury of silks, of deep rugs and mellow paintings, blending as though shaded by a brush. As she moved toward the canvas on the easel, over which a curtain had been dropped, a glow of green in one corner diverted her, and she came to a standstill, a tremor of excitement traveling the length of her body.

Green fire. The little figure seemed a magnet for the light: clear flames were caught and imprisoned in its translucent body. Instantly it dominated her, as it had done that day in Bangkok. It was Asia in symbolism, source of light and serenity, of darkness and chaos; and it conjured scenes sharp with contrast: the quiet of a bamboo garden, a temple court at dusk; the heaving turmoil of empires unrooted and trampled; the ignorance and omniscience of ages. It carried her, unresisting, into a new dimension of imagination, a dimension she had sensed but not explored, and from which she was recalled abruptly by the harshness of a voice. She knew before she turned that Conquest had entered.

He stood, back to the wall, smiling. It was not the familiar smile of mingled whimsy and melancholy, but a smile of anger and--and something else, something she could not define. His intense pallor seemed to strike at her and wound her.

"That was clever," he declared. "But you remember what happened to Pandora; you know the story, of course. She freed little devils, hundreds of little evil spirits."

The blood was throbbing in her throat. But she was not afraid. Not of Conquest. She framed a cool reply.

"But in the end they were returned to the box," she said.

"Yes--after they'd taught her a lesson."

His eyes were brilliant, glazed, as with fever. A red spot stained either cheek. She remembered the simile he had suggested in Saigon: a silken sheath for emotions too violent to be restrained by a frail fabric. Her calm was shot through with sudden dread.

He spoke again. "I told you this room was forbidden, that not even the servants were admitted. You recall that, don't you? But you tricked your way in, pried into affairs that do not concern you. Very well. Now I'll show you what you'll never--never, do you hear?--never be able to forget!"

He strode quickly to one end of the room, to a shrouded picture on the wall, and flung back its covering. In the frame, upon a dark background, was a woman, gyved wrist and limb. Her white body stood out from the shadows, seemed almost to leap out. The face was immobile, superb in its apparent indifference to pain. But its very impassivity was eloquent of agony.

"That," he declared passionately, "that is my past. From that I sprung, marked from the very first!" He jerked back his cuffs, exposing the scars. "Marked!" he repeated. "I painted her face from a photograph, putting into it the torture, the humiliation, that she must have endured. What fortitude! Look! I've inherited none of it; only the bitterness, only----"

He broke off, shuddering. With that shudder his passion seemed to exhaust itself. When he spoke again it was calmly.

"You, with your pride, your heritage of aristocratic blood, can never understand what it means to have been born in a shadow, to have had a father and mother sentenced to penal servitude!" Once more he shuddered "Such colossal cruelty! Such injustice! In these days, when Tasmania is no longer an evil word, the horrors of the old convict settlements seem like weird tales, awful tales. There's a book that tells the truth--'For the Term of His Natural Life.'... For the term of his natural life! My father heard that pronounced upon him at the circuit court; my mother, too. He was a bush-ranger, a king of bush-rangers; in common words, a horse and cattle thief.... My mother used to ride with him. She was with him when he shot a man.... For the term of his natural life! He got that and she, too. He was sent to Port Arthur, and she to the woman's prison at Inverness. And they did that to her"--flinging one arm toward the painting--"that. I don't know why. But they did. And when I was born these were on my wrists--these badges of the prisons!"

He paused, wrists extended. The livid marks hurt her, hurt her more than his pallor. She wanted to stop this outpouring of bitterness, to tell him to hide his scars, but she was helpless in the spell of the grim recital.

"My mother's sister took me away when I was still a baby," he went on. "There was money, a great deal; bush-rangers were often rich. I went to school in Sydney until my aunt died. Then I took the money and started out to conquer the world. I was fifteen--alone--with several thousand pounds, with these marks on my wrists and gall in my heart. I won--that is, I added to the pounds, I doubled them, tripled them. I gratified the love of luxury that I'd inherited from my mother, the craving for the adventure that filled my father's life. Money! Famous art treasures! Power! But there was something else"--his voice rising to an emotional pitch--"something that I couldn't find. I had come so far--I had risen from that"--indicating the picture--"but I couldn't make the pinnacle, I couldn't reach this!"

As he spoke he approached the easel and drew back the cover from the canvas. The painting, like the other, was of a woman. Beyond that there was no similarity. A pillar of light, done with a hazy aureate tone, slanted down upon a bronze girl clad only in an elaborate girdle and a barbaric head-dress. Many bracelets were on her arms, many necklaces about her throat. There was no lure of sex in the smooth, burnished body: its perfection, its beauty of form, lifted it above mere desire. And the face----

"Pi-noi, the bayadere," she heard the man saying. "The woman of stone, the ideal, magnificent, inaccessible! Do you see anything strange in the face, anything striking? It looks as though she had come to life, here in this room...."

As Lhassa stared at the face, she felt that she was looking into a mirror, that the flawless features, the proud lips and the fine sweep of the brow were her own. She had the wild illusion that that was she on the canvas and the body standing a few feet away was only a copy, an imperfect replica.

"Here in this room!" Conquest repeated. "The ideal, no longer stone, no longer inaccessible. Do you understand? Do you?"

She did not. Nor did she understand why he suddenly crushed her in his arms. Nor why he pressed his mouth to hers. Nor why he released her as abruptly as he had seized her. She knew only that the touch of his lips seemed to turn her into stone. She was not angry; her sensibilities were frozen. The very absence of visible resentment, she realized, was more deadly than voiced reproof.

Without a word she turned and left the room; left him standing, dazed, between the gyved woman and the creature in the pillar of light.

7

She was in her room.

She stood in the center of the floor, as motionless as the picture of Pi-noi, the bayadere. She was thinking of Pi-noi. Of the flawless bronze features, the proud lips, and the fine sweep of the brow.

It was unbelievable, what was in her mind, yet she could not deny the conviction with which it possessed her. After years of groping in a labyrinth, with only the smile of a canvas woman to guide her, she had found a door. A door that opened upon bewildering possibilities. Possibilities that startled her; that made her gasp; that seemed the mist from which dreams were distilled, a vapor too impalpable to be touched:

Pi-noi, the sacred courtesan, beneath whose statue women sat and prayed. Women in travail. Prayers for the unborn. One woman had been granted her prayer: her child--the child of a white father, an adventurer from beyond her small horizon--had the features of Indra's consort....

Conquest's story unfolded. And woven into it were the threads of another story. The story which Dr. Garth had not finished. The story of her grandfather. Slowly, like grains of sand sifting in an hour-glass, the facts passed through her mind. Her grandfather ... an adventurer ... who had traveled in Upper Siam.... But he had never told her.... He had tried to prevent her from going to Asia.... Why? Because he was afraid? Because she looked like the woman in the peacock shawl? Because the woman in the peacock shawl resembled Pi-noi, the bayadere?... Was that his secret?...

She drew a deep breath and gazed at her hands. The royal blood of the Khmers? The blood of conquerors? of the ultimately conquered? She wondered; wondered if Conquest knew more than he had told. For instance, the name of the man whose child was born with Pi-noi's features?

But she could not go to him to-night. Not in that room where the white body seemed to leap out from the shadows. No. But in the morning, when the sun would be shining, when the earth would be real, and not mist from which dreams were distilled....

8

It was late when Lhassa awakened. The early morning coolness had gone, and the trees shivered in the white glare. Like a memory of delirium was the recollection of the happenings in the forbidden room. It was as though she had drunk of strong wine; and the taste of it, lingering on her tongue, was the only proof that it was real. As she dressed she dwelt on each detail with growing wonder, almost unbelief.

She did not wait for her breakfast, but went down-stairs immediately. In the dining-room she found one of the house-boys. The Tuan Rajah had eaten early and left the house, was his answer to her query. Was the Rajah Ranee ready for her breakfast? She decided to eat and then go down to the warehouses. Undoubtedly he would be there or in the village.

She swallowed the food quickly and set out for the godowns. On the way she met Ahmad and Pangku. They informed her that the Tuan Rajah was not at the warehouses. Nor Tuan Muda. Nor the Tuan from the plantation.

Did they know where the Tuan Rajah was? she asked.

Yes. Early, before dawn, the sultan had left, and the Tuan Rajah had accompanied him.

This information vaguely alarmed her. Left? she echoed. How long would he be away?

Perhaps a day, perhaps a week, perhaps a month. But before he went he instructed them to watch over the Rajah Ranee.

Lhassa then inquired if Tuan Muda had gone with him; and the Tuan from the plantation.

They did not know; neither of the white lords was at the godowns.

Surprised and disappointed, scarcely knowing what to think, she retraced her steps. It did not seem consistent that Conquest would stay away long, she thought. Surely he was not bound for the plantation! She remembered he had told her the journey required five days; remembered also that Tuan Muda had departed on a mission up the river. Were they together? A dread seized her. Suppose Salazar had not accompanied the sultan----She wished, suddenly, that she had accepted Tuan Muda's offer.

The encounter in the Djinnee's Cave--the finding of the Emerald Buddha and Conquest's revelations--had left her with a sense of sordidness. It proved that she had not been mistaken in her suspicions. If Conquest himself had not stolen the Buddha--and she did not think he committed the actual theft--it was removed from the Wat Phra Keo by some one in his pay, presumably Garon. Perhaps, after all, he, Conquest, was the Black Parrot, and had helped the convicts to escape from Cayenne for the obvious motive of employing them to obtain such treasures as filled his house. She felt that she was daily getting nearer the truth. And it frightened her. She realized that, without being aware of it, she had trusted Tuan Muda, and she was afraid the truth might incriminate him.

But the pivot of her thoughts was Conquest. She did not understand his sudden departure. How could he be sure she would not get away in his absence? However, escape, when considered, was practically impossible. Even if she succeeded in evading Ahmad and Pangku, what could she do? Go into the jungle or put to sea in a canoe--either of which would be folly. She only wished she was as certain of him as he was of her! He held, she believed, a secret--a secret that Fate seemed intent upon keeping--and she was impatient with the forces that prevented her from seeing and questioning him immediately.

By the time she reached the house she had come to a decision: she would not suffer the strain of uncertainty. Therefore, she instructed Ahmad and Pangku:

"Find out if Monsieur Salazar went with the sultan this morning. If not, tell him I wish to see him. I'll be in the library."

She would have liked to believe that Salazar had gone, but she could not. The thought that he was the only other white in Sadok was not a pleasant one. Yet, if he was, she wanted to know.

As she sat in the library, waiting, a cerement of fear formed about her; she grew restless, nervous. Close by, on a table, were cigarettes, and she took one. The tobacco, black and bitter, burned her tongue. But it occupied her, and, after finishing the cigarette, she lighted another. It was reduced almost to the cork tip before she heard some one cross the portico. Her heart doubled its count; she pressed the cigarette into a bowl. It might be one of the "boys."

A linen-clad form appeared in the doorway.

"I met your boys on the way here," he informed her. "They said you wanted to see me. Yes?"

There was a husky note in his voice. The thought came to her that he might relieve it if he cleared his throat.

"Yes," she verified rather sharply, for it displeased her that he had found her gauzed in smoke. It seemed to weaken her prestige.

He stood in the doorway, his shoulders sagging with lazy strength. He did not remove his helmet, and his dark eyes gazed at her questioningly from under its brim. She wondered, involuntarily, if at that moment he was remembering that she had called him a gorilla....

"Yes," she repeated. "Do you know where Mr. Conquest has gone?"

He made a sucking sound as he cleared his teeth; it was rather obscene.

"To the plantation," he replied shortly.

She tried to appear unaffected by the announcement.

"How long will he be away?"

He shrugged and stepped out of the doorway, placing his hands on his hips. At the movement she imagined that great muscles rippled and flexed. There was a persistent brutishness about him that shocked her.

"Why?" he quizzed. "You want to see him?"

"Yes"--reluctantly. She resented a certain indefinite menace in his manner. "I asked how long he'd be gone."

"Oh, a month perhaps--maybe two months." Another shrug; he frowned. "Belly of St. Gray! How am I to tell?" Then, after a moment, he pursued: "Is it important that you see him?"

His conduct was in keeping with his thick, plethoric neck and pachydermal skin. Her resentment was increasing. She remembered Tuan Muda's allusion to black blood. At thought of the Frenchman she queried:

"How long will Tuan Muda be away?"

"Tuan Muda? Oh, yes, Tuan Muda! I can't say how long; I don't know. But you want to see Monsieur the Rajah--and it's important, eh?" He appeared to be contemplating a prospect that rather pleased him. Again he sucked through his teeth. "No"--after a pause--"I can't tell how long he will be away. Is that all you wish to know?"

"What's to become of me?" she demanded.

He did not answer immediately; he seemed to put her every question through some mental process before deciding upon a reply. He was either very dull or an excellent actor.

"I have had instructions," he said at length; and she did not like the tone in which he said it.

"Well?" she prompted.

"After two weeks, if you give your word to forget everything you know--you understand what I mean--I am to put you aboard the yacht and send you anywhere you care to go. If not, then"--a shrug--"then you stay here--indefinitely."

"You mean, until he returns," she corrected, speaking more to herself than to him. "Which may be a month or may be longer." She drew a sharp breath. "And you have no idea when Tuan Muda will be back?"

"No; I told you no before. However, I can assure you it won't be soon. Is that all?"

She made no reply, but walked to the window and looked out thoughtfully. She heard Salazar leave. "I can assure you it won't be soon." Those words lodged in her mind. He, Tuan Muda, had gone up the river, knowing she would be alone with Salazar. But, she realized, she was being inconsistent: he had offered to send her to Sarawak. And she had refused--foolishly.

She shuddered. The taste of stale tobacco was sickening.

9

Day fled; night locked the world in a grim prison. To Lhassa, the chill of evening was like the chill of stone flagging and iron bars. Darkness made real the fears that through the day had seemed too fantastic to be other than imaginary. From her window she saw the red star that she had watched from the cliff on the previous night. It was darker, almost a garnet hue: to her, a bloodshot eye. It conjured a picture of Salazar. He had been in her mind all afternoon, but now he assumed a more definite shape. He was a being that she associated with dark colors, a personality sultry and saturnine; and the star seemed in some mysterious way related to him, a part of his individuality--an eye that watched her inexorably. She had intended to stay in her room, but as the dinner-hour drew near she questioned this policy. Salazar might interpret her absence to mean that she was afraid of him. And he must not know the truth.... She confessed to herself that his presence caused her alarm. He was not a type with whom a woman could match wits: his only weapons, thews and biceps, were too powerful for the subtlety of fencing.

Shortly after seven o'clock she descended to the lower hall with an unconcern that was not genuine. As she reached the bottom step she glimpsed a white suit on the portico. A quiver of dread shook her. But she did not pause: she would prove to herself that she was not afraid.

Casually she strolled out to where he stood leaning against a post. She pretended not to notice him and gazed up at the sky. Instead of stars, she saw his eyes, black as the spaces into which she looked. He stirred.

"I have been thinking," he announced abruptly.

She did not speak; kept her gaze on the sky.

"I've been thinking of what you said. How important is it that you see Monsieur the Rajah?"

She wondered what motive was behind his words. But she did not look at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, nothing"--she imagined he shrugged--"except that I might arrange it--if it's important."

Suddenly she understood and lowered her gaze. His face was a mottle on the darkness, his eyes black hollows.

"You mean--send me after him?"

His reply was preceded by that usual moment of silence. "I mean--take you after him."

She smiled to herself, without humor. Bovine ... even in the preliminaries.

"We could leave to-night," he went on. "We might overtake him; if not, we could get there ... mmm ... about Saturday--perhaps. He might not be pleased, but"--a shrug--"you said it was important." A pause; then he added, "If you're afraid of the trip----"

"I assure you I am not afraid,"--quickly.

"If you're afraid," he repeated, "I can relieve that. You'll be well protected. Nothing to harm you; the Dyaks aren't wild any more; no beasts; only a few pythons and crocodiles. No discomfort. There's a shelter in the canoe--and at night you'll be under a lanko on the bank. Of course, if you don't----"

"You forget Ahmad and Pangku," she interrupted.

"Ahmad? Pangku?"

"Yes, my boys--whom Mr. Conquest told to watch me."

He snapped his fingers. "Malays! Cattle! I can attend to them." He laughed. "Belly of St. Gray! If only they stand in the way----" His sentence ended in another laugh. "There's a path back of the house," he continued, "that leads to a landing below the warehouses. I could be waiting there with the boatmen and the proa, and you could slip out unseen by this Ahmad or this Pangku. It is simple--quite--if you wish to do it."

Silence followed. Lhassa imagined she could hear the irregular measure of her heart. Five days in the jungle with.... No. And yet was it a greater hazard than remaining in Sadok with him for a month or longer? Of course, Tuan Muda might return----

The sound of the dinner-gong came throbbing from within. It had a ring of security that decided her.

"No," she announced; "I don't care to go."

She went inside, followed by Salazar.

Throughout the meal she felt that every atom within her had turned into a living coal. She burned, whether with excitement, strain, or what, she could not decide; nor did she try to analyze. Her mind was a smoky forest. There formed before her pictures of dark rivers, of swamps, of damp jungles; and always Salazar was included. The man himself was silent. He ate quickly and left the table without a word. A few minutes later the smell of tobacco drifted to her.

She sat motionless, her eyes directed upon an insect that was crawling up one of the candlesticks toward the flame. Although she saw it, it occupied no place in her thoughts. She was thinking of the stillness of the house, of the quiet outside; thinking that every night for a month or more she would have to endure that solitude with him.

The insect neared the top of the candle; paused just below the flame.

Could she tolerate his boorishness or, worse than that, the uncertainty that tensioned the atmosphere? A thousand things might happen in thirty days, but in five.... She shut her eyes.

When she opened them the insect was trembling on the lip of the candle. She perceived it, consciously, for the first time; expected to see it consumed. But suddenly it turned and crawled down the candle unsinged.

Her eyes narrowed. She gazed steadily at the candle-flame for a moment, then smiled, fearlessly.

She rose and followed the scent of tobacco.