A Forest Officer

Being Episodes in the Life of Jim Burns

Chapter I

The Forest Fire

It was in the Madras Presidency, far away in the south of the peninsula, and a very hot night at the end of April. Vegetation was burnt to a colourless grey, and the landscape shone white and ghostly in the Indian moonlight. All nature was parched and athirst.

Jim Burns, the forest officer, tossed and tumbled on his bed, courting sleep in vain. It was impossible to win even the proverbial forty winks on such a broiling night. Moreover his mind was disturbed. It was the season of forest fires, an anxious time with the forest officer on some of the lesser ranges of the Western Ghats in the South. Jim had had a great deal of trouble already in that respect; and to tell the truth he was anticipating more. He heard the cry of the distant jackal, and the harsh, discordant voice of the night owl. A large bat fluttered into his tent with a whirring noise, stirring the still air with its skinny wings: it departed as suddenly as it came, and the silence was more oppressive than ever. A light, fitful wind rose and died away, and rose again. He listened for the roll of grumbling thunder, heralding the thrice welcome rain, but there was no sign of it. A light tread outside put him on the alert.

‘Sir! the hillmen are at work.’

It was the voice of his forest peon, Nulla. Jim was out of bed in a second.

‘Wait a minute; I will be with you directly,’ he replied, wasting no time in idle questions; he knew too well what the hillmen were at. He slipped on a khaki suit, and in three minutes from the summons was by Nulla’s side.

‘Where are they this time?’ he asked as he strode along. He spoke the language of the country, preferring it to the broken English used by so many of the Government servants.

‘On the opposite hills, I believe. Perumal, the watcher, brought the message and I called you at once.’

‘Confound them! we have our young plantations on that range. Is the forest already alight, or can we by any possible means stop them before the mischief is done?’

Nulla looked up through the network of bare branches at the sky. It was flooded with silvery moonlight, and there was no sign of the warning glare.

‘Perhaps, if we hurry.’

The forest officer wasted no more breath in words, but quickened his pace as he climbed the hill above the glade in which he had pitched his tent. The hill itself was conical, and rose somewhat higher than the rest into a forest-covered peak, commanding the whole surrounding landscape. Half way down there was a small, flat, grassy shelf, which formed a perfect little glade, and which was frequently used by Burns as a camping ground. At the foot of the hill there was a river bed, where the water in the rainy season roared in muddy torrents. Just now it was nothing but an expanse of pale yellow sand, quite in harmony with the grey, leafless trees, the sun-baked fern, and the dried bamboo grass. Here and there a stagnant pool of shallow water gleamed in the moonlight, and the thirsty deer lapped it greedily, keeping a watchful eye for the stalking panther and cruel tiger.

Jim’s companion was a Canarese by birth. He began life on the Mysore Plateau as a tiller of the ground; but being of a restless disposition, he forsook the plough, and sought a more varied sphere as tent-lascar in the service of Burns. He would have been content to have wandered over the district from one camping-ground to another, pitching tents and driving home tent-pegs; but his master was a man of discernment, and he soon discovered in Nulla something more than a useful tent-lascar. Good forest peons were scarce. A man must be half a policeman and half a huntsman, as well as possess an iron, fever-proof constitution, to be an efficient forester. Nulla was all this; and had tact and reticence as well. So he was promoted to Government employment to his intense satisfaction; he was attached to Jim’s staff, travelling with him on his rounds of inspection, and proving himself invaluable in detecting irregularities and thefts. The hillmen stood in wholesome awe of him; yet for all this the incendiarisms continued.

The wild animals of the forest are troublesome in trampling the plants down and eating the young foliage; but they are not half so difficult to deal with as the more crafty animal, man. The hillmen care nothing for the forest, with its teak and sandalwood trees, nor for the preservation of the less valuable woods which supply the country with fuel in place of coal. They only think of the young grass which feeds their half-wild cattle; and of the spaces to be stolen from the forest for one season’s planting of rice or corn. During the hot months, they fire the parched jungle without the slightest compunction, to clear the undergrowth. Government has made it a punishable offence, as it endangers life and property, but this has little effect upon them. It is extremely difficult to detect the incendiary in the act and prove it. The older men are the worst offenders. With them it is a custom which they inherit from their fathers from the time before the preservation of the forests was thought of, and they look upon it as a right. It is useless to attempt to teach them the short-sightedness of the policy of destroying valuable wood, and possibly cattle and buildings. And for what? Only a little fresh grass for one season, and a few acres here and there in the forest for one crop of corn. When the crop has been gathered, the land is abandoned to its overpowering growth of weeds, which the hillmen are far too lazy to eradicate.

There was one man who was the prime mover in all the incendiary work. His name was Lingariah. Jim and the peon were morally certain that it was his hand that fired the jungle over and over again; yet they could never catch him. Many a night of watching had Nulla spent, determined to bring it home to the man, but he always evaded him. More than once Nulla had seen a smile of triumph on Lingariah’s face as he passed him on the hillsides, pasturing his worthless cattle on the fresh young grass, which sprang up amongst the charred remains of the forest. This was almost too much for the endurance of the peon, and he longed to close with him on the spot, and fight it out in true savage fashion, as his forebears would have done a hundred years ago, when there was no British Raj in that far southern territory.

Jim and his companion reached the top of the hill, fully expecting to see the opposite side of the mountain range scored with a long, thin red line of fire, spreading to right and left as it swept upwards. He had already regretted in anticipation the destruction of his promising young teak and sandal trees; and was making up his mind to bear the loss philosophically, when his thoughts were diverted in a new and unexpected direction. A volume of smoke was rolling up from the valley directly below. The hillmen had not only dared once more to set a light to the jungle, but this time they had chosen the very hill on which the Forest Officer had pitched his camp, and their intention was evident: they could have but one object in so doing—that of burning him out. Jim took in the situation at a glance.

‘The camp, Nulla, the camp!’ he cried, plunging down the hill faster than he had come up.

Both knew how the fire would spread to right and left in its progress upwards. Fortunately there was very little wind. What there was blew from the west in fitful gusts, assisting the western arm of the fire, and retarding the progress of the line on the east. With the jungle like tinder, there was small doubt in Jim’s mind but that the fire would encircle the hill before it reached the top, and that in less than fifteen minutes his tents would be destroyed.

A shout aroused the sleeping servants, and they blundered stupidly to their work of packing their own and their master’s property into loose bundles, and hurrying down to the river bed. Jim and Nulla were busy inside the tent. There were documents and papers to be saved at all risks; contracts, registers of salaries, receipts for timber, and such like. These should properly have been lodged in the head-office; but though Jim was an excellent forest officer, he was not so methodical as he might have been, and he had neglected to place his papers in safety. A severe reproof, if nothing else, would assuredly follow the loss of the documents.

‘Nulla, find some trustworthy servant to carry this tin box. Tell him to go to the bridge, and wait there till I come.’

The peon went out and returned immediately with Mootoo, the syce. He lifted the strong box and placed it on the man’s head.

‘Take this safely to the river, and the master will reward you. Lose it, and I will kill you,’ said Nulla in the man’s language,

‘But what will become of the horse? It is tied up in the stable,’ said the man, who was bewildered with the sudden confusion.

‘I will look after it, and bring it safely down the hill.’

‘Now, Nulla, let us save what we can. I am afraid it cannot be much. Are there any coolies here who can carry anything?’ asked Jim, as the syce left the tent.

He turned to his rifles and other valuable personal properties, to put together what he hoped to save, whilst the peon went to the door of the tent to see if any carriers could be found. But just at that moment the head servant entered with terror written on his face.

‘Sir! Come! the fire is advancing and spreading below us; if we do not go, we shall be caught in a trap.’

A shrieking neigh from Jim’s horse enforced the truth of the man’s words, and the three men rushed out. The air was filled with smoke, and there was a lurid glare above the trees with distant showers of sparks. The servant did not wait for his master’s orders, but ran off as fast as he could go, stumbling over dead stumps, and tearing himself with the dried thorns and brambles. The horse neighed again. Jim was about to go to its assistance when Nulla caught him by the arm, and thrust two rifles into his hands.

‘Go, sir, I will see to the horse,’ he said.

‘Why should I leave you to do that?’ replied Jim, loath to desert his faithful peon at such a moment. ‘Let us both go and save the horse.’

But Nulla almost pushed him down the hill.

‘No, sir, I can do that better without you; some one must go after Mootoo; the man is beside himself with fear, and the office box with all those papers may be lost in the jungle.’

This was enough for Jim; the papers were of more importance than the horse, which might after all be replaced. The servants had disappeared, and the camp was deserted. To the west he could dimly hear the roaring of the fire below him. The night breeze was pushing it on from that direction. Nulla, he thought, would just have time to lead away the horse, but that would be all. The camp must go, and with it his books, his clothes, his furniture, and a hundred little odds and ends that were household gods, and not to be replaced by money. He walked rapidly down the forest track that led to the bridge, sounding his whistle now and then, to let the servants and lascars know where their master was.

Nulla lost no time after Jim left him. Passing behind the tents, he went a little way up the glade to a palm-leaf hut with a stockaded yard. It was here that the master’s good beast was securely stabled for the night. No tiger could break into the shed, and the high fence was not likely to be mounted by any animal except a monkey. The peon hastily flung open the stable door. Ben was tied by a long head-rope which Nulla loosened, and he led the animal out into the glade. The beautiful creature sniffed the smoke-laden air uneasily; but knowing his leader, he followed docilely enough till a herd of sambur deer suddenly came rushing up the hill from the west, flying before the fire. Quite unconscious of the danger on the other side, the terrified animals were going headlong to their own destruction. As they raced by, Ben reared, and jerked wildly at his rope. The peon held it fast, but somehow the horse managed to slip off his head-stall, and in another second he was dashing in the rear of the deer. Nulla muttered curses in his own tongue.

The horse was irretrievably lost, and he knew how his master would regret it.

‘It is old Lingariah who has done this, curse him! May I have the repaying of the debt!’ he said, as he returned towards the tent.

The dull roar of the fire now rising, now falling, as the flames found fresh food on their way, by no means alarmed him. The light was sufficient to illuminate the glade, yet he was in no hurry to leave it. His past experience enabled him to calculate to a nicety how soon the flames would lick up the camp. There was escape to the east for a few minutes yet. He turned to his master’s tent to secure other properties, which he knew Jim valued, and which had been left behind for want of carriers. As he entered the open fly of the tent, he ran against a man laden with some of the very things he wished to save. The red glare lit up the thief’s face.

‘Lingariah!’ shouted Nulla, hurling himself upon the old hillman with the fury of a suddenly aroused half-savage nature. Here was the prime mover of all the mischief, the man who, he was morally sure, was at the bottom of all the incendiarism, yet whom he could never catch. It seemed to the peon that the outraged spirits of the forest had themselves delivered the enemy into his hands.

‘You thief! You fired the forest that you might loot my master’s camp!’

‘I fired the forest, it is true; but what loot is there to be found on such swine as you and your master?’ replied the other, with a contempt which only maddened the peon the more.

Without further parleying the two men closed with each other. Lingariah was not a little impeded by the spoil he was carrying. Nulla’s hands were free, except for Ben’s head-rope, which up to that moment he still held. The hillman, finding himself no match for the peon, threw himself down after the manner of his kind, and attempted to elude the grasp of the other by rolling out of his way, and springing up again for flight. He wore no clothes but a small loin-cloth, and his oily skin was not easy to grip. His device would have proved successful had it not been for Ben’s headrope, which entangled his limbs, and caught him in its coils as he rolled.

Nulla was quick to seize his opportunity. In a moment he drew the rope tighter, coiling it again and again, and binding Lingariah’s arms to his side. Dragging the disabled man to the centre of the tent, he lashed him to the tent-pole, winding the rope with the dexterity of an experienced forester, who was constantly netting and trapping wild animals of the woods.

A louder roar of the conflagration warned him not to linger. With one final tug at the knotted rope, Nulla dashed out of the tent. A glance sufficed to show him that he had no time to lose. The flames were licking the skirts of the glade, and were stretching out long tongues of fire towards the tent he had just left. A smaller tent at a little distance was already blazing, as well as Ben’s stable. Showers of sparks flew upwards on the breath of the flames; and above the roar of the fire could be heard the snapping and crashing of branches as they fell to the ground, and the report of the dried bamboo stems as they exploded in the heat. Bird and beast had fled. Nothing living remained but a swarm of reptiles, harmless in their terror, and writhing in mortal dread of their fate—nothing but them and the two men.

Whether Nulla realised the fact that he had condemned his old enemy to an awful death is doubtful; he was not capable of reflection; he was acting on the irresistible instincts of his untutored nature, a nature full of magnificent savagery. He was maddened with rage, and scarcely knew what he was about; but he was conscious of the overwhelming facts, that his master had been deliberately and of set purpose burnt out, and his tents and his horse destroyed; and that the gods of the forest had delivered over the enemy into his hands to deal with him as he chose. If he had reflected at all, he would probably have adopted a somewhat similar course of action, taking the responsibility into his hands of meting out punishment where it was so richly deserved. And if he had overstepped the bounds of justice, his old world creed taught him that somehow or other the dead man would sooner or later be revenged. But he had no fear of this; had he not caught him red-handed on the spot? To have let him escape would have been to let loose a fiend in the forest, who would only have accepted his liberty as a mark of weakness on the part of the enemy.

So Nulla, bounding over the wriggling body of a snake that was too intent on escaping to turn its deadly fangs upon him, fled down the jungle path leading from the glade to the river.

Jim had gathered his men at the bridge, and had restored their presence of mind. He had also found the syce with the box of papers, and his mind was easy on that score. His men were safe all but Nulla, and he was watching for his appearance with some anxiety. They could see the progress of the flames from where they stood. The fire was now half-way up the hill, and the red line had so far extended round it that both points were visible.

‘The camp must go if it has not gone already,’ muttered Jim to himself. ‘Nulla! Nulla!’ he cried.

‘Not here, sir, not come yet,’ replied a peon who had run up from one of the huts lower down the valley.

‘He went to fetch the horse; he should be here by now,’ said Jim uneasily.

As he spoke, a scream, a shriek of fear, fell on their ears. The men looked at each other. Was it a human cry, or was it the shriek of a dog or a horse?

It is difficult to tell which it is when the agony of fear is supreme, unless, indeed, there is human articulation from human lips to proclaim the terror.

‘It must have been Ben, poor old Ben!’ said Jim, reassuring himself that it was not Nulla, yet moved at the thought that his faithful beast should so suffer.

Again it rose on the night air above the roar of the fire, and in spite of himself, Jim felt his blood run cold at this evidence of agony on the part of some sentient being. In that second cry he fancied that he could detect the articulation of words, a despairing entreaty for help.

‘It is the horse, sir,’ said a peon at his side; but the man was yellow with fear and horror; he, too, had heard something more than the voice of an animal in that cry. Yet neither dared to say what was in their minds, nor breathe the name of Nulla. Suddenly there was an explosion, and a larger flame than usual shot up into the air.

‘The tent! my case of cartridges!’ exclaimed Jim. ‘It must have been the horse!’

‘There is Nulla,’ cried a lascar.

They saw a figure come out of the unburnt jungle by the river bank, and cross the bridge, and Nulla stood before them, panting but silent.

‘Thank Heaven! it was not you,’ said Jim. ‘It must have been my poor old Ben.’

There was a ring of uncertainty in his tone as he uttered the words. He turned to Nulla, who was looking to various scratches and skin wounds.

‘You could not save the horse?’

‘No, sir; I got him out of the stable all right, but a herd of sambur dashed past as I was leading him down the glade, and he broke away from me, slipping his headstall. He followed the sambur up the hill.’

Jim led the way; and in silence the party marched in single file to a spot two miles off, where they could find shelter for the night without fear of being burnt out of house and home.

‘Then it must have been his shriek we heard. Did you hear it?’ said the forest officer, as he headed the procession.

Nulla turned and looked towards the fire. The light played upon his face, and there was a curious smile upon his lips as he replied:

‘I heard it; but it did not sound like the neigh of a horse. It sounded more like the scream of a forest devil caught napping.’

Chapter II

The Mysterious Hyaena

The forest fire preyed on Jim Burns’s mind more than he cared to admit, and he determined to shake it off by taking a holiday. He got his three months’ privilege leave, with permission to take Nulla, the forest peon. His fancy led him north of the Deccan into the Berars, where he hoped to get some shooting. Striking out into the depths of the country, well away from the railway and the usual beat of Europeans, he pitched his camp near a native village, and sent Nulla to find out what sport the neighbourhood afforded. It proved to be fairly good, but nothing out of the way. However, the holiday and freedom from work made it enjoyable.

His tent stood under a large banyan-tree, about a quarter of a mile from the village, on slightly higher ground. On his left rose the small temple belonging to the Hindu community, and in front the minarets of the Mohammedan mosque gleamed white in the Indian sun. The two communities were separated by a tank, but broad as the lake was, it was bridged by the national hate of the two peoples. Near the temple there was a large peepul-tree.

The day after Jim’s arrival, there appeared under this tree one of those strange fanatics so dreaded by the Hindus. Fortunately they are not common, but those who have seen them never forget them. They are undoubtedly insane. They are filthy and dishevelled in appearance, and they take a delight in exhibiting a depraved taste for carrion, which adds not a little to the horror with which they are regarded. But for all this, they are considered to be very holy. If they will consent to stay near a village and accept the offerings of the people, they are believed to relieve them of the burden of their sins, and to be scapegoats of the people’s iniquity. They are undoubtedly responsible for the Arabian Nights’ tales of ghouls.

The ascetic sat daily beneath the tree near the temple. He took no notice of anybody except when the European passed by. Then a strange passion seized him: he cursed and muttered and filled his mouth with mud. Jim was accustomed to the natives, and had come across many strange creatures and still stranger beliefs in the depths of his forests. Finding his presence irritate the man, he avoided him; and being fully occupied with his daily shooting expeditions he forgot his very existence.

One evening, as Jim rested in his camp-chair after a hard day’s tramp, a Mohammedan approached him. The man kept a shop in the bazaar of the village and sold medicines, dried roots and powders. He spoke Hindustani, which Jim understood, though the accent was different from the pronunciation of the South. After the usual preamble of greeting, which included a laudatory tribute to Jim’s powers as a mighty hunter, the man explained his mission. He had come with a request. It appeared that he had lost a son lately; and according to Mohammedan custom he had laid the body in a grave in the little burying-ground belonging to his religionists beyond the Mussulman portion of the village. The grave had been disturbed by a hyaena. The mischief was so far not very great, and each day he had been able to fill in the great excavations made by the creature’s scratchings. But he was getting alarmed at its persistency. As surely as he filled in the hole, stamping and beating the earth down until it was quite hard and firm, so surely was it reopened at night unless he kept watch with a light: and each time the excavations were deeper than the last. As no coffin had been used, there was little doubt what the horrible beast meant by its actions. The distressed father came to beg the sahib to bring his gun and shoot the animal, otherwise the death sleep of his dear son would be disturbed, and he would be doomed to wander abroad as an unhappy spirit.

Jim was not at all averse to adding the skin of a hyaena to his trophies. He made some further inquiries, and promised to sit up for it that very night. Armed with a couple of rifles, he was conducted to the burial-ground, and having taken up his position under cover of one of the dilapidated tombs, he sent the Mohammedan away with his lantern and waited for the hyaena. There was a young moon, which soon sank below the horizon, but the clear starlight night offered Jim ample light for his purpose. All night he patiently watched, but without seeing a sign of the animal. At length, when day was breaking, he stretched out his cramped limbs, and returned to his tent weary and disgusted. The next night he took up his position again, this time accompanied by Nulla. The peon had been very reticent concerning the hyaena, and was inclined to dissuade his master from shooting it.

‘You don’t seem to believe in it,’ said Jim, a little impatiently.

‘I should like to see its tracks,’ replied the man as they settled down to their midnight vigil.

The weary hours passed slowly one by one. Half an hour before dawn the crows began to stir in the branches of the banyan-trees, and the cocks crowed lustily in the village. Nulla, who had been listening intently, got up from his hiding-place.

‘It is of no use waiting any longer, sir. There is no hyaena within ten miles of us or I should have heard it. Jackals there are and plenty, but no hyaena.’

The man spoke so confidently that Jim believed him, and without waiting longer he hurried back to his camp to snatch some sleep before breakfast. At seven o’clock he was roused by the Mohammedan.

‘Did you watch last night, sahib?’ he asked.

‘To be sure I did, and only left the ground half an hour before daybreak.’

‘The hyaena has been since you were there, but it has not had time to dig deep. I am now going to fill in the hole.’

Jim listened in astonishment; he could scarcely believe him.

‘Don’t do that until my shikari has examined the marks at the hole. He may be able to track the beast.’

He called Nulla, and gave him some directions, and the two went off at once to the burial-ground. On the return of the peon, Jim questioned him eagerly, for he was puzzled.

It is hard to say, replied the man, with reluctance. But his master pressed him, and he continued unwillingly. ‘It is not like a hyaena and there are no footmarks. The work is not the work of a hyaena.’

Jim was surprised; his peon was experienced and he had never known him to fail before.

‘What can it be if it is not a hyaena? Jackals couldn’t do it.’

Nulla, however, would express no opinion.

‘The Mohammedan says that it is the devil.’

‘Devil or hyaena, I should like to put a stop to it for the sake of the man. He is evidently troubled about the disturbance of the grave. I will go alone to-night, Nulla. There is no danger, and therefore no necessity for you to come.’

The peon showed no anxiety to accompany his master; on the contrary, he seemed relieved to know that his presence would not be required.

Jim went to bed that night as usual. The lights were extinguished; and the servants, including the shikari, were soon in a deep sleep, all the sounder for the disturbed nights they had lately had.

An hour later Jim was stealing along by himself, with his rifle in his hand and his dark lantern in his coat pocket. He crept round to the burial-ground by a new route. Hitherto he had taken up a position on the village side of the cemetery, under the impression that the animal came from the jungle. To-night he decided to lie up on the opposite side. It was quite possible that it might come from the direction of the village, where, like a jackal, it would visit the refuse heaps. At any rate, it was worth while giving the plan a trial.

One hour, two hours passed—and there was no sound. The stars twinkled and a night-owl screeched. Jim was getting very sleepy, when suddenly his practised ear caught the sound of feet. In an instant he was on the alert. Here was the hyaena and no mistake. He crouched breathless and motionless to listen for further evidence of its presence. It came, for he could distinctly hear the scratching and the thud of the earth as it fell behind its feet. It must be a large and powerful beast by the way in which it threw the soil about. He gave it time to dig deep. How keenly it worked! He could hear the short, deep breathing induced by its exertions, with now and then a kind of grunt as it overcame an additionally hard portion of the beaten earth. Jim raised his head above the masonry that hid him. He could not distinguish the beast, but he could hear the soil flying. As far as he could judge, it had already burrowed well below the surface. If he did not shoot soon it would be out of his reach. He levelled his rifle on the blackness of the hole where the grit flew thickest, and advanced towards it. The animal must have heard his approaching footsteps, for it seemed to turn to come out. This was just what Jim wanted, as it made his shot so much more sure. He fired and the crack of his rifle was followed by a death cry as the creature rolled over. Whatever it was, he had effectually destroyed the disturber of the dead.

Jim waited for a few seconds, with his rifle ready in case his shot had not been fatal. Then he lighted his lantern, and turned the bull’s-eye on to the motionless body at his feet.

A stifled exclamation of horror and dismay escaped his lips as he gazed at his victim. He mopped the perspiration from his brow, and glanced apprehensively towards the village. Not a sound was to be heard. His shot had caused a pariah dog to howl, but nothing more. Jim was not long in deciding what his course should be; indeed, there seemed to be only one before him, if he wished to escape the fanaticism of the Hindus, and to save the Mohammedans from another of those deadly feuds with their neighbours which always ended in murder and bloodshed. He shuddered as he thought of them.

He returned to the camp for an implement that would serve as a spade, and for two hours he worked like a navvy at the grave, burying his victim deep in the loosened earth just above the other occupant, the little child of the Mohammedan. He stamped the earth down and reconstructed the mound as he had seen the father make it. At daybreak he returned to his tent, thoroughly exhausted with his unwonted task, and called for a stiff whisky peg, a most unusual thing for him to ask for at that early hour of the day.

As Nulla took the rifle from his hands, he asked:

‘Did you see the hyaena, sir?’

‘No,’ returned Jim shortly.

‘There is no hyaena to be seen, even if a man watched the whole night through. The village people say that it is the devil; and to-night they are going to do poojah, the Hindus on their side with a sheep, and the Mohammedans in their mosque at sunset.’

‘That will be the best plan. Pack up our things and we will move camp before sunset. Their tom-toming will scare the whole countryside; there won’t be so much as a snipe left in this cursed place.’

So the village people made poojah, and Jim departed. The devil was propitiated, and the grave was never again desecrated. The terrible ascetic beneath the peepul-tree vanished as suddenly as he had appeared; no one knew whither. Perhaps Jim Burns might have thrown a little light on the subject; but he rarely spoke of his holiday trip into the Berars; and when he did so, was always very reticent as to the sport he had had there.

Chapter III

The Jin

On Jim’s return from leave, he found himself gazetted to another district. He was not sorry on the whole, for he had been disappointed at his want of success with the hillmen. Hitherto he had flattered himself that he had got on fairly well with the tribes; for though they committed theft and arson, they warred against the law in so doing, and not against the law’s officer. But now there was evidence to the contrary, as an attempt had undoubtedly been made on his life and property.

Nulla followed his master, and had no difficulty in getting himself transferred to the new district.

Jim was succeeded by a man named Silver. His handsome, dark eyes betrayed the Eastern strain in his blood; and to those who were familiar with India and its various peoples, there were other traits which marked his origin. Silver hated jungle life except when he wanted a little shooting. He infinitely preferred being in the head-office; desk work for the Chief of the Department being much more to his taste. It was not long, therefore, before he applied for a transfer, and Burns found himself reverting to his old appointment.

There was nothing haphazard about it. The authorities were not satisfied with Silver’s results. The fires had almost ceased, but the forests had never been so unprofitable. Something must be wrong in the management, and a change was necessary.

Jim had no objection to the move, provided he was allowed to take his righthand man—as he called Nulla—to help in the work of setting things straight. No difficulties were raised; and so at the beginning of October, after a very heavy monsoon, Jim and his faithful forest peon were once more at the old bungalow which had sheltered them the night they were burnt out.

The forest had recovered from its fiery death, and was clothed in a glorious dress of luxuriant foliage. The scorched trees had once more sent up their sap; young shoots pushed their way out of the grisly bark, strengthening into sturdy limbs, and covering the old trunks with masses of glistening green leaves. The tender grass, which sprang up with the first rains, fattened the hillmen’s miserable cattle; and then gave place to the stronger undergrowth of strobilanthes, palms, bamboos, gigantic ferns and grasses, the whole being bound and garlanded with flowering creepers. In four years the jungle seemed as dense as ever, and there was no sign of fire except here and there, where the charred dead limb of a tree stood out against the sky, a resting place for the hawk and the eagle.

Jim found his fellow officer, from whom he was about to take over charge, at the forest bungalow.

‘You are in a great hurry to be off, Silver,’ said Jim as he was taking over the office papers.

‘I have never liked the place as you did,’ replied the other.

‘Yet you have had some splendid shooting; killed every tiger and leopard in the district, I hear.’

The outgoing man smiled.

‘Yes, that part of the forest officer’s life is very pleasant. But I confess that I do not know how to manage these hill tribes. I am equally at sea over the forest plantations. My plants die and my harvest of wood gets less every year. I shall try and get back into the head-office.’

‘Have you had any fires of late? There is nothing more destructive than forest fires. They were very bad on this range in my time,’ said Jim.

‘No, the fires ceased when you left. An old hillman, a perfect fiend at incendiarism, disappeared in the last fire which burnt out your camp, and since then there has been no trouble. The people believe that his ghost wanders down the glade at night. It makes the best peon that I ever had, for no human thief dare venture on the hill after sundown. I have never been able to camp on that spot, nor, indeed, on any part of the hill, on account of the jin. Not a servant will stay with me at night, and the peons are just as bad. What fools these natives are!’ he concluded contemptuously.

Jim would not assent to such sentiments. ‘They learn a great many strange things, passing their lives in this forest world.’

‘But they do not learn to distinguish between a jackal and a jin. I have been out on that hill many a night myself after game, and if there was a ghost to be seen I should have seen it.’

‘I suppose you would,’ said Burns.

Like most Englishmen of his class, with sporting and agricultural instincts strongly developed, he was too matter-of-fact to let belief in the supernatural take hold of his imagination. But he was careful to make no rash assertions. More than once during his intimacy with the forest people, strange things had happened, verging on the mysterious, for which he could not account; although he had no doubt that if they had been properly investigated a rational solution would have been found.

Silver had just that drop of Oriental blood in his veins, which at times worked upon his imagination, and played tricks with his reason. Perhaps it was the consciousness of this weakness which had made him brave the jin, when the owl’s scream and the jackal’s howling had been worse than usual. He scarcely cared to own to himself that his heart had beaten a little quicker when he saw the grey owl flit across his path, and the shadowy jackal sneak away from the glade. Yet he was no coward; he would have faced any physical danger with a courage that was thoroughly British.

‘I hate these people,’ burst forth Silver for no apparent reason. ‘They are shifty, idle dogs. The peons are all in league with the hillmen; one and all they are detestable scoundrels.’

‘Strong words, my boy; and I think you are a little hard upon them,’ replied Jim. ‘I like them; and if we could only catch and tame the hillman, we should find in him the best forester that ever stepped; not that I think any man could beat Nulla, the Canarese.’

‘That’s the very fellow, they say, who gave the fire demon his quietus. I dare say that he is just as big a scoundrel as the rest of them, only you don’t happen to have found him out. I have had more difficulty with my peons than with the tribes even, and a change amongst them has always been for the worse.’

Grumbling and saying unpleasant things of all his subordinates, and yet dealing generously with them in the matter of parting presents, John Silver departed, and Jim settled down to his work.

Old Lingariah had disappeared, and none of the hillmen knew what had become of him; nor were the staff of forest peons any wiser. He had vanished from their sight; and with his disappearance the forest fires ceased almost entirely. The very mystery of his disappearance was sufficient to spread a wholesome awe through the community. They knew that he was the culprit in all the more serious incendiarisms; and that he fully deserved punishment of some sort, if the authorities could catch him. A rumour went forth amongst them that the forest officer had himself meted out the punishment, through the hands of one of the forest peons. It was known that Lingariah had gone to the camp ahead of the fire, for he had boasted that he would not only burn out the officer, but that he would also loot his tent. Whilst they waited expectant for his return, they heard the terrible explosion in that direction. No forest fire could ever have caught the old hillman; he was far too experienced to be entrapped like a deer or a wild boar. A few of his tribesmen had been watching near the bridge, and they saw Nulla come from the direction of the camp soon after the explosion. Putting things together they came to the conclusion that Nulla himself had been the instrument of revenge; and that the means of destroying the enemy had been some fearful infernal machine, belonging to the Englishman; an instrument of death which blew the culprit into a thousand pieces, so that his body was dispersed into the air, and no funeral rites could ever be performed over it.

And because no funeral rites were ever performed over the dead body of Lingariah, they said that he could not rest in death. His sleep was taken from him, and he would be condemned to wander, till he should meet his slayer face to face. In short, he became a jin, an evil ghostlike spirit, moving restlessly through the forest at night in the form of a wild dog, a jackal, or a night owl, making night hideous with his cries. The people made oblations and offerings to the jin, lest he should overlook their cattle, or bring sickness and misfortune to their houses.

The young plantations were certainly in a deplorable condition. Silver possessed no professional enthusiasm whatever. The maturer forest, which should have been ready for harvesting, was in no better plight, and was almost ruined from neglect and theft. Jim set to work at once to put matters straight, a business which kept him and his staff fully occupied.

A few weeks later everything was brought to a standstill by another burst of bad weather. The clouds, which had rolled over the hills from the south-west, and had poured their contents over wood and valley, were blown back by the northeast wind, and in November the land seemed threatened with a second deluge. Burns was driven in from camp, and he made use of the opportunity to work up arrears in the office.

One evening at about six o’clock, a message was brought by a hillman, that a herd of elephants had made their way into a young plantation of sandalwood, probably on account of the forest being flooded in the lower valleys. It was one of the most valuable portions of the whole district, and was situated on the other side of the river, beyond the old camping-ground.

Burns was much disturbed by the news. A herd of elephants in a young plantation would prove even more destructive than cattle in a cornfield. He called Nulla.

‘We must go off at once and frighten them away with rifles and tom-toms,’ he said as Nulla appeared. ‘What is the travelling like? Bad, I fear.’

‘Very bad, sir, the forest is full of water-holes, and every ravine is a river.’

‘Then we must keep on the ridges, for I am determined to go. Can we cross the river anywhere?’

‘Only by the bridge that leads over Camp Hill.’

‘That will be our best way, without doubt; we will go by the glade. If we leave those brutes in the sandalwood another twenty-four hours, we shall not have a single tree left standing. Tell the men to get ready with lights and tom-toms.’

Nulla hesitated, and his master could see that he was not satisfied.

‘The sun has already set, and our men will not take that path after dusk, sir.’

Jim remembered Silver’s story of the wandering spirit. He went to the door and looked out. The rain had ceased, and there was a temporary break in the clouds. The red light of the setting sun, which had burst through the storm, was fast dying out of the sky; and a pale, watery half-moon floated in a sea of mist. The wind had dropped, and everything was sodden and drenched.

‘It is certainly a most unpleasant evening to turn out, but it must be done; and if the men do not wish to go over the hill, let them pass round by the back of it to the teak plantations, so as to head off the herd. I want to drive the beasts back by the way they came. You and I can scare them from our side; they are easily frightened; and if we can get up to them with the rifle, we shall probably send them off on a forty mile run. Is the man here who brought the news?’

‘No, sir, he left directly he had given the message.’

The Canarese was about to depart, when Jim called him back.

‘You have no objection, I suppose, to go over the hill with me?’

The man smiled.

‘I follow, master,’ he replied simply and directly.

‘That’s right!’ exclaimed Burns heartily. ‘Get your lantern and the rifle ready, and let us start at once.’

In less than ten minutes they were off. They had a long and disagreeable tramp before them, but they did not mind so long as success attended their efforts.

The river, which had shown a dry bed of yellow sand in the hot weather, was now a raging torrent of muddy water, black and seething. The bridge stood firm, though masses of driftwood swung against its stone piers. It was but a narrow bridge, carrying the bridle path from bank to bank. Jim and his companion passed over it. It brought the memory of a certain night back upon them with force and vividness.

‘It is some time since we were here,’ said Jim, stopping to light his cheroot before they plunged into the dark tunnel of vegetation that covered the track up the hill. ’We had to fight another enemy then. Who would ever imagine that this sodden forest could blaze as it did then?’

Nulla made no answer beyond the customary grunt, by which he politely intimated that he was attending to his superior’s words. He was occupied in rolling a betel leaf to chew. Jim continued:

‘We must pass near our old camping-ground. No fear of our being burnt out to-night; it is more likely that we shall be drowned this time. Poor old Ben! He met with an awful death, judging by his screams; they still ring in my ears. Come along, Nulla, we shall have enough to do to push through this jungle. Here is the identical old game-track still marking the path.’

Thus chatting as he walked, Jim followed the peon as he led the way with the lantern into the depths of the forest. The misty moon was lost to sight, and nothing was visible but the walls of dripping foliage on each side, and the blackness of the unilluminated path beyond. There was no fear of tiger or panther; Silver had destroyed them all. And had there been one prowling round, it would have slunk away before the light. The roar of the waters, thundering down the river bed, became deadened as the travellers left it, till the rushing was scarcely audible; and the silence of the forest grew upon them. They missed the usual nocturnal sounds. The chirping insects and noisy cicalas had taken refuge under the bark of the trees or in hollow trunks, and were voiceless. The night birds were too drenched to scream and fight over their prey. Even the irrepressible jackal was dispirited and quiet.

Jim and his companion wasted no more breath in words as they climbed the hill. Both were probably thinking of the welfare of the forest plantations, their one desire being to reach them in time to save the young trees. But their train of thought was suddenly disturbed by a slight incident, which was nothing more than a faint rustling in the foliage. It was so faint that it would have escaped their notice on any other night, when the stillness was not so oppressive.

Nulla glanced back at Jim to see if he had thrown away his cheroot, and were stopping to light another. But his cigar was still between his teeth. They continued their steady tramp for five minutes, when the rustling was renewed. It was on a level with Jim, a little behind the peon, and it moved with them.

Burns stopped short, and the movement in the jungle ceased. He walked on, and it was renewed. It dogged his steps and began to be annoying.

‘Stop, Nulla. It is a monkey or a jackal, and I mean to frighten the beast away; it fidgets me.’

He raised the staff he carried, and struck the wet foliage sharply, listening for signs of retreating steps. There were none.

‘The brute is skulking; I wish I had a stone.’

‘Fire at it, sir,’ said Nulla.

‘I am afraid of disturbing the elephants. I want to get close up to them before they hear us, or they will not be sufficiently scared.’

He struck the jungle, making as much noise as he dared, and for answer there was the same breathless silence, broken only by the drip from the leaves. The two men started off again along the sodden path, their footsteps muffled by the spongy moss and grass. The trees formed a perfect archway of foliage above them, excluding the faint light from the cloudy sky; travelling without the lantern would have been impossible.

They had not gone more than a hundred yards when the creature manifested its presence again. This time the mysterious movement was overhead. Whatever it was, it was leaping among the branches, keeping pace with their footsteps. Nulla raised his light and looked upwards, but he could see nothing.

‘I am certain that it is a monkey, a wanderoo,’said Jim. ‘It is attracted by the light, I suppose. I hope the brute is not going to drop upon us. I should be obliged to fire then as it would mean biting.’

‘It will get tired of following us, if we hurry on,’ suggested Nulla, as Jim again beat the leafy walls of the pathway.

But though they quickened their steps they were unable to out-distance it.

‘I have a great mind to fire,’ exclaimed Jim, stopping and taking the rifle from the peon.

He raised it and pointed the muzzle at the spot where he heard the noise; but as he did so the sound ceased. After a few seconds he lowered his weapon, and the creature gave no further sign of its presence. Jim handed back the rifle to the peon, and continued his walk.

The path widened as they climbed up the shoulder of the hill, and the branches of the trees no longer met overhead. The moon was hidden behind dense masses of vapour, so that they had very little light from the sky. They reached the highest point they had to traverse, and began to descend into the valley, on the opposite slopes of which were the sandalwood plantations. They took a track to the right, leaving their old camping-ground to the left. By this means they would head off the elephants and prevent them from getting into the teak plantations. The path ran down a ridge of the hill, and it was broad enough for the two men to walk side by side. The thickening clouds began to drop with rain, which fell with a steady patter.

Jim and Nulla were thinking solely of the elephants. They scarcely heeded the rain, and had forgotten the offensive creature that had been dogging their steps. They spoke in whispers and discussed the advisability of extinguishing the light.

‘But it is so dark, we could not get along this forest track without it, sir,’ said Nulla.

‘I’m afraid the elephants will see it, and if they become only slightly alarmed our walk will have been for nothing. We must give them a good scare whilst we are about it,’ replied Jim.

‘They cannot see the light through the forest. When we get to the bottom of the hill near the open ground of the plantations, we may have to put it out. But it is best to carry it to the end of this path,’ replied Nulla.

Jim glanced at the man, and wondered for one fleeting moment if he were frightened, or if he felt any dread of the mysterious creature that had followed them. He did not look like it. His face was calm, and there was no sign of fear in the firm figure that strode across the swampy grass, nor in the keen eye fixed upon the distance.

‘Hullo, what’s that? I see something moving,’ cried Jim, pointing in front of him. ‘It is not an elephant surely?’

Nulla peered into the darkness, but said nothing.

‘Whatever it is, it is coming this way. Give me my rifle, and keep well out of its path,’ whispered Jim excitedly, and taking the rifle from the peon’s hands.

Both men gazed intently at the moving form faintly discernible through the thick night air. All at once it was upon them, large and grey, resembling no animal Jim had ever seen in the forest; though he afterwards used to declare that it was nothing but an unusually big wanderoo monkey.

‘Get out of the way, Nulla, quick! or it will be upon you,’ cried Jim, forgetting the elephants and levelling his rifle.

But his faithful follower did not move. He seemed spell-bound. He stood motionless in the direct path of the creature with a strange expression of horror upon his face, which Jim had never seen there before. At the same moment a shriek rent the air, just such a scream as the forest officer had heard when he watched the burning jungle. It did not proceed from the peon; of that he was quite certain. It startled him, and his finger closed involuntarily on the trigger; there was a report; the same instant the light was extinguished, and they were plunged in darkness. Then all was silent, and Jim could hear the patter of the rain on the leaves. The shot was responded to by distant shouts and tom-toming from the men, who had been sent round by the teak plantations. This was in accordance with previous arrangements.

Jim, who had leaped into the jungle when the light went out, picked himself up from the wet vegetation.

‘Nulla! Nulla!’ he called.

Receiving no answer he groped his way along the path, stopping to listen. Not a sound could he hear, and the blackness of the forest was so great that he felt blinded with it. A horrible dread seized his mind. Could he have shot the peon in his agitation? Yet, when he came to think it over, it seemed impossible, as the man had been by his side, whilst the rifle was pointed at the unknown object in front. He took another cautious step along the track, gazing up at the sky, which his dazzled eyes were just beginning to discern, and his foot struck against something. He started: it might be the animal lying wounded or dead at his feet from his bullet. He had heard no retreating steps after he fired. He stooped down, and his hand touched his faithful peon.

‘Nulla! Nulla!’ he cried. ‘Get up; are you hurt?’

He felt over his body for a wound from the rifle or from an animal, but could find nothing.

‘Good Heavens! the man has fainted from sheer fright,’ he continued. ‘What an extraordinary thing. I suppose it was the beast’s scream. I certainly was startled myself. I never heard such a fiendish noise except when poor Ben got caught in the fire.’

All the time he was busy hunting for his matches. It was no easy matter to strike a light, on account of the rain which was again falling. When at last he succeeded, the flickering, spluttering match showed him Nulla, lying in a heap as he had fallen, with the lantern close by. He picked up the latter and lighted it.

‘Surely the poor fellow cannot be dead!’ he exclaimed in consternation.

He raised the lantern and looked into his face. The eyes were opened but sightless; and there was the same unmistakable look of horror upon them that they had worn when he stood motionless in the path of the advancing beast. The mouth was drawn into a grin of terror, and the whole face seemed convulsed with fright. There was no sign of wound by bullet or by anything else.

Jim Burns was not wanting in courage, but he owned afterwards that the sight of the man gave him a nasty jar which he did not forget. He pulled his flask out, and poured some whisky down the peon’s throat. He raised his head and chafed his hands, but he did not succeed in obtaining any sign of animation. He placed his finger on his pulse, but could not detect the faintest throb.

‘Dead, I am afraid! Yet it seems incredible,’ he murmured, as he rose to his feet. Silver’s story of the jin flashed across his mind with uncomfortable insistence. ‘There is no reason for his death. It must be a faint, and I must get assistance as soon as possible.’

He could hear the occasional shouts of the men in the valley. They had come from the teak to the edge of the sandalwood plantations, and were waiting for Jim and Nulla to join them. Burns responded to their shouts by a call which awoke the whole jungle around him. He did not like to leave Nulla lying there alone and unprotected in the dark, but it seemed the only thing to be done. He could not go without the lantern; and it was necessary to proceed to get help. He anticipated some difficulty, too, in making the men enter the jungle on Camp hill on account of their superstitions.

He found the gang at the bottom of the valley anxiously waiting his coming. They told him that they had seen no elephants. They had heard his shot and the scream, which they supposed Nulla had raised to alarm the animals. Jim did not think it necessary to enlighten them concerning the author of the scream, nor did he tell them that the shot had not been fired to scare the elephants. He briefly informed them that Nulla had had a fall and had hurt himself. He ordered them to return at once with him along the path he had come.

There was some hesitation as he led the way towards the dreaded hill, but as it was not over the spot where the camp had been pitched they followed; not, however, without casting many fearful glances around them.

Nulla was lying exactly as he had been left. There was the same look of terror on his unconscious face; and the forest officer hastily threw his handkerchief over the dead man’s features. They bore the body back to the forest bungalow by the longer way round through the teak plantation. The men were absolutely silent as they walked. When they first saw Nulla lying on the wet grass, there had been some exclamations of surprise and consternation followed by whispers.

Jim noticed that they asked no questions. It was evident that they had arrived at certain conclusions, and he did not inquire what they were. No marks of violence were found upon the body, and the apothecary said that death was due to failure of the heart’s action, the failure being caused by shock.

Jim visited the spot the next morning. He could find no trace of any animal, nor could he discover any tracks of elephants. The alarm of their presence amongst the sandalwood was false. He tried to trace the author of the report, but was unable to find him. The message had been brought by Nulla himself, who stated that the messenger had departed directly he had given the information. The mystery of his death was never solved.

When Jim Burns spoke of the incident afterwards in the brightly lighted billiard-room, he said that his faithful peon’s death was due to the sudden appearance of the wanderoo, which, after the stories of the jin, must have given him a shock.

But there were times when he was alone in the jungle—where most of his hours had to be spent—when other thoughts crowded into his brain; and he used to wonder whether these children of the forest might not possess gifts of sight unknown to the educated man of the town; whether, like the dog and the horse and the ass, they might not see the beings of another world, to which our eyes, like the eyes of Balaam, were blind.

Chapter IV

The Brown Dog

John Silver did not get the berth he desired at headquarters; he was sent to a district which bordered on the one in Burns’s charge. It was not so important a place, nor were there so many difficulties in connection with it as he had encountered in his previous appointment. He had less to do with hill-tribes, the people being mostly of the class of cultivators of the plains, and a more law-abiding set. Nevertheless he did not succeed in inspiring the villagers with confidence. He made no attempt to hide his suspicions of their dishonesty with regard to the forest reserves scattered here and there between the areas under cultivation. Experience of the native of India is not conducive to faith in his integrity; but there are degrees of that virtue; and it is a mistake to make sweeping assertions that the whole race are inveterate liars and thieves. Their minds work subtly, and their ways are often unfathomable to the European intelligence; but they are better intentioned than they seem. Silver’s openly expressed suspicions disheartened them, and roused their suspicions as to the rectitude of his own conduct; for he had certain little ways which they regarded with distrust. They were always unfeignedly glad when he struck his tents and departed from their neighbourhood. There was never any difficulty in providing him with carts and coolies from their villages to pass him on to his next camping-ground or forest bungalow.

Shortly after the death of Nulla, Jim received intimation through his peons that his brother officer was lying ill in a certain valley about fifteen miles distant, just on the border of his own district. Without a moment’s hesitation Burns, who could not pass a sick dog without trying to help it, ordered his horse, and started for Silver’s camp. He found him in his tent in bed.

‘Hullo, Silver, what’s the matter? exclaimed Jim in his cheery manner.

Silver’s dark eyes shone with what his friend took to be fever, and his sallow cheeks were drawn and sunken as if malaria had sapped his strength.

‘I’m seedy, old man. I’ve been down with fever for a week, and I don’t seem able to shake it off. Mind that dog.’

Silver’s eyes turned on a pale brown dog of the ordinary country-bred type, which lay curled up on a mat near the bed.

‘Short-tempered, is it? I’m not afraid of it. I say, you must get out of this. You’ve pitched your camp in about the most feverish hole you could find in the district, you should get higher up on the hillside. These low valleys play the very deuce with one’s constitution. What made you choose such a place, eh?’

Silver moved uneasily on his cot as though he chafed at the other’s questions.

‘Oh, I don’t know; it was convenient. I wanted to be near the people in this valley.’

‘Confound it all! Let them come up the hill to you. Or if you must go down to them, go in the day-time. It’s sleeping the night here that does the harm. Let me tell your lascars to move camp at once, and I’ll see you safe on to higher ground. I’ll rig up a dooly and carry you as comfortably as possible.’

‘No, no, Burns. Leave me alone; I can’t move, I’m too sick. It’s just time for the fever to come on. Give me a drink of something and let me be, there’s a good fellow.’

Jim laid his hand on the patient’s forehead; to his astonishment the skin was cool and moist, and his hands were the same.

‘You have no fever, Silver, I assure you. You are as cool as I am.’

The sick man made no reply, and in another quarter of an hour he was in a kind of delirium. His talk was about the dog, sometimes addressed to the animal itself. At another moment he was speaking words of endearment to some unknown person. Jim went outside to find the servants.

‘How long has your master been like this?’

‘Ever since he came here, sir. This is a bad place to camp in and——’ the man hesitated.

‘Well? go on,’ said Burns impatiently.

‘——and the villagers are very bad people.’

This was all he could elicit. He gave orders that broth should be made for Silver, and told the cook to prepare food for himself, both lunch and dinner.

At sunset the patient was better. The delirium had been followed by a stupor, from which he awoke conscious, and in his right mind again. Burns, who had taken the nursing upon himself, went to the servants’ tent for the broth.

‘Where’s the dog?’ asked Silver, as he returned with the cup in his hand.

‘Here it is at my heels. We have been making friends over the chicken-bones.’

The brown dog walked up to its master’s bed, wagged its long, thin tail, and showed every sign of friendliness. It had intelligent eyes, which it lifted with canine affection to its master’s face. Silver, however, shrank from the creature with something like genuine fear, and when it tried to lick his hand, he drew it back as though he expected to be bitten.

‘Get out! you brute! go and lie down!’

‘Don’t be afraid of it; it’s as harmless and inoffensive as it can be,’ said Jim, surprised at Silver’s irritation.

He patted it in friendly fashion as it took up its old position on the mat by the bed. When Silver had finished the broth, Jim carried the cup back, and gave further orders for the night. He returned to the tent, and met an old villager coming out of it.

‘What do you want?’ asked Burns, annoyed at the man’s intrusion. ‘The master is ill; you must wait if you have any business.’

The intruder made no reply; he was in no way disconcerted by the Englishman’s anger, and he moved off in the direction of the village with slow deliberate steps, which were exasperating to the forest officer and suggestive of impertinence. Silver was in a curious dreamy state. His restless eyes were wide open, and were fixed first on one point and then on another; but they constantly returned to the dog as though fascinated, yet dreading all the time the sight which might meet their gaze.

‘Where did you get that pariah beast?’ asked Jim, following his glance.

‘I had it as a pup two years ago from this village.’

‘By the by, I saw an old villager come out of your tent just now. What did he want? You shouldn’t let these men come in and out in that casual way. It doesn’t do to allow them to be too familiar.’

‘Was he here? Perhaps he was; but he said nothing. He probably came to see if I had any orders for him.’

Silver closed his eyes with a gesture of utter weariness, and his companion relapsed into silence.

Much as Jim disliked the notion of spending a night in that pestilential valley, he made up his mind to stick by his friend till he could get him away. But he would have to pass the time in a long-armed chair as there was no second cot amongst the camp kit. He dined in the office tent, which was pitched some thirty yards from the sleeping tent. After dinner he did what he could to make the patient comfortable, and gave him a dose of quinine. At the same time he fortified himself with the drug; and helping himself from Silver’s cheroot-box he returned to his chair, which he had placed under the open fly of the office tent.

The night was very still, and before long Jim fell asleep over his half-smoked weed. He awoke to find the cheroot out and a feeble light in the sky from the belated rising of a waning moon. He got up to have a look at Silver, and as he went towards the tent he caught a glimpse of a figure hovering near it. It was that of a woman with her cloth drawn over her head. She heard his footsteps, and turned in startled surprise to see who was approaching. In that momentary glance Jim discovered that she was young, and it was easy to imagine good-looking as well. He followed her quickly, his thoughts upon a possible thief; but she eluded him, and knowing the country better than he did, she was soon hidden in the jungle. He retraced his steps through the lumpy grass with some difficulty. At the door of the tent another surprise awaited him; he ran against the same old villager whom he had encountered in the day.

‘Confound it all!’ exclaimed Burns in the man’s tongue. ‘First one and then another! What are you doing here? Get out of this; get back to your village. If anything is stolen I shall know where to look for it. It will be with you or that woman that I saw.’

The old man, who had hitherto listened to Jim’s angry words in utter indifference, started. Bending a pair of evil eyes upon the forest officer, he said:

‘Woman! What woman? There has been no woman here.’

‘Oh! hasn’t there? That’s all you know about it, old man. I tell you a girl has been prowling round the tent, for I saw her myself, and followed her towards the village not five minutes ago. By George! I’ll put the police on you if anything is missing.’

Taking no notice of the angry eyes that glowered at him from under a pair of shaggy, grey eyebrows, he entered the tent. Silver was lying motionless, apparently asleep, and as he seemed to need nothing Burns did not disturb him. The servants were sound asleep in the cook-room tent under the soothing influence of opium, their salvation against the real fiend of the forest, malaria. Uneasy from his encounter with Silver’s nocturnal visitors, Burns brought his chair to the entrance of the sleeping tent. He would lie there on guard and see that none of these prowling villagers entered the place again. He did not like the look of the old man with the queer eyes, nor the thought of the woman. What mischief was brewing? If she was not thieving, what was she doing lurking about outside the sick man’s tent? Thus musing, sleep once more overcame him, and he dropped off in his chair.

He was aroused into wakefulness by a sharp cry of alarm which came from inside the tent. He rushed in, to find Silver sitting up in his bed, his gaunt hands clutching; the bed-clothes in nervous terror.

‘What’s the matter? It’s all right; I’m here,’ cried Jim soothingly.

‘It’s the dog, that confounded dog.’

‘Where is the dog? It was asleep on its mat the last time I looked in,’ said Jim, searching round for a sight of the animal.

‘It’s under the bed; at least there’s something under the bed,’replied Silver, his voice dropping to a mysterious whisper.

Burns stooped and looked under the camp cot. The green eyes of the frightened animal gleamed at him from beneath the head of the bed.

‘What do you see?’ asked Silver as he sank back on his pillow.

‘I see the dog of course, and I’ll turn it out if you like. Poor brute! it is harmless enough,’ added Jim reassuringly.

He took up a walking-stick and struck at the animal, just grazing its nose. It howled with the sudden pain, but did not stir.

‘There!’ cried Silver, cowering down. ‘Don’t you hear it? It’s not the cry of a dog; it’s the shriek of a woman!’

‘Nonsense!’ exclaimed the other, with just a touch of impatience in his tone. There was something uncanny in hearing the sick man talk in this fashion. ‘All pariah dogs shriek like women. Or put it the other way about, native women shriek like dogs.’

As if in illustration of his words a distant cry came in on the night air. Silver shuddered, and mutely turned his terror-stricken eyes upon his companion.

‘There’s no doubt about that being a woman,’ said Jim, as he put the lamp on the floor that he might see the dog. ‘Some unfortunate creature has burnt her husband’s curry, and is having her punishment meted out with no light hand.’

‘Burns, come here! I want to tell you something. That dog was given to me by the daughter of that old man you saw. I believe the devil is in the brute; sometimes it looks so queer, so human. Just before you came in, my hand was hanging over the side of the bed, and the dog came to lick it; but instead of feeling the dog’s tongue, what do you think happened? I swear my hand was clasped by fingers—yes, human fingers. I’m not mad; I tell you that I have felt it before, and when I look at the dog sometimes it seems quite different, like—like——’ He did not finish the sentence, and Jim did not press him to do so.

Silver intuitively guessed that his tale was not altogether credited. He caught at Jim’s hand, imploring belief in his strange story. To allay the excitement which could not be good for him, Jim replied with words calculated to soothe rather than irritate. The touch of his firm hand also had a beneficial effect on the nerves of the patient. Still retaining his friendly grip, he took up the stick in his other hand and stooped to make a second attempt to drive the animal away. The light penetrated dimly under the cot, and as his eye fell on the dog, he uttered an involuntary exclamation, and jumped quickly to his feet. Was he going off his head too? What was it that he saw? Was it the face of the girl he had followed from the tent, or was it the form of the dog? The impression was momentary, and Burns recovered himself immediately; but Silver had heard his startled exclamation of surprise and noted his agitation, fleeting though it had been.

‘Oh! you saw it too!’ he cried. ‘You saw the girl! Now you know how I am tormented. What does it mean? Is my brain going? Am I going mad?’

Burns made no reply, but freeing himself from the clinging grasp of the other, he flung the stick under the bed with unerring aim. The dog ran yelping from the tent in the direction of the village, the place of its birth, and Silver, relieved of the strain of its presence, fell back once more on his pillows, this time half fainting from the sudden reaction. Jim busied himself among the bottles preparing a restorative; and when he had made Silver swallow it, he mixed a whisky peg for himself. As he did so, he heard the receding yelp of the dog, and there came again that answering cry from the village.

Then silence reigned, and Silver sank into a restless sleep. Jim kept watch and ward in his chair, lest any returning thing, in human or canine shape, should again disturb the night. At daybreak he roused the camp, and under his directions Silver was carried back to civilisation and convalescence.

As the cavalcade left the valley, the old villager, holding the brown dog by a string, salaamed low, and asked, if the master wished to take the animal with him. Silver caught sight of the man, and hastily drew the blanket that formed the curtain of his extemporised dooly to shut out the sight of him. His movement did not escape the notice of the old man, in whose eye there lurked a gleam of triumph. It was Jim who replied to his question.

‘No, we don’t want the dog. Keep it till the master is well again.’

His eyes swept the little group of sightseers in search of the girl. She was not there, nor was she ever seen again by the forest officer of the district. What became of her was a mystery, one of those unsolved village mysteries which are impossible to fathom, since the whole community combines to preserve its secrets, and there is no dissentient voice to demand an inquiry. Each householder is a law unto himself within his domestic circle, and no one questions his decrees. Jim knew enough of the people to have his suspicions, so that when he bade farewell to Silver he could not help saying:

‘I say, old chap, I wish you would keep clear of the villagers. It is a mistake to see too much of them. If their suspicions are once roused, rightly or wrongly, they have the devil’s own way of ridding themselves of any one who is obnoxious to them.’

His words were not altogether unheeded. For some months after Silver’s curious craze about the brown dog, that gentleman took care to keep his eyes on his work, and not let them wander further afield than the forests under his charge.

Chapter V

The Temple Tower

The work of the forest officer does not lie entirely on hillsides. There are large reserves of forest in the plains, stretching away from the foot of the hills on slightly undulating ground into the immense level tracts towards the east. Formerly the low country possessed a great deal more forest than at the present time. One of the hardest tasks the British undertook at the end of the eighteenth century was the subjugation of the people who lived in these forests. It was not unlike the warfare at the present day in Burmah, a constant attacking of an enemy that was lying in ambush and refused to be drawn out into the open. It was difficult to estimate the numbers of the enemy, or to know the real result of the constant skirmishing. The jungles were trackless and impenetrable, except for narrow game paths, where it was possible to move in single file; and it was only by cutting roadways foot by foot through the dense growth of vegetation that guns were brought into action. The people of the woods had never been used to cannon. They retired to their primitive forts, which fell one by one before the superior military skill of the English. The forts were chiefly earthworks cased in sun-baked bricks. There was a small low citadel or keep where the chief man lived; the rest of the fighting men were housed in casemates under the walls, the floors being sunk several feet to give greater safety. There was always a good well of water within the fort. When peace was proclaimed, the forts were dismantled and levelled to the ground, and a great deal of the forest was cut down. The descendant of the freebooting man of the woods became a peaceful cultivator.

There is very little of the original forest left standing. It has mostly been cleared; and those portions reserved by Government have been replanted with young trees suitable for fuel or for mercantile purposes. Vegetation grows more quickly in the tropics than in temperate climates; a few years only suffice for the growth of the trees to the necessary size for harvesting. The forest officer visits the plantations, estimates their worth, disposes of the wood to the contractor, and the routine of planting begins again.

Deep in the old jungles there stand a number of temples scattered throughout the district. Some of them are partially fortified. When the men of the woods were brought under the discipline of a wise and just rule, these temples were left intact. It has ever been the care of the British Government to preserve the religious liberties of the people of India, so that the temple and the mosque have always been respected. As the forest disappeared a great many of these temples were opened out. Mud huts sprang up around them, and the villager, who had changed his vocation from a life of brigandage to one of agriculture, retained his religion, and worshipped the bhoot or pishasha of the jungle like his forefathers in undisturbed peace.

Some of the old jungle temples still remain embosomed in the forest. Very weird they look in their lonely grandeur standing in the depths of the woodland, their tapering towers lifted above the foliage in the face of the rising sun. The poojari’s collery horn and temple bell do not sound so often from these forest-temples as from the village buildings; but once a year at least the people of the surrounding neighbourhood make pilgrimages, and do poojah to the jungle demon, lest he should turn and rend them in jealous anger at their neglect. The feast is looked forward to with the same excitement as a fair or summer fête in England. It is a season of amusement, of eating and drinking: and there is a great deal of pleasure combined with the business of propitiation. For the time being the quiet old forest trees are awakened with the chatter of women and children, the baa-ing of the sacrificial goats, the beating of the tom-toms, and the loud laugh of the idle, pleasure-seeking men. The poojari in charge is joined by others of his calling, whose greedy eyes are already cast upon the offerings, appraising the value of jewels, cloths, fruit, camphor, sugar, rice, ghee, and animals which have been set aside by the worshippers for the use of the swami. The poojaris are low-caste men, the worship of demons requiring blood-sacrifices, in which the Brahmin takes no part. The people fear them and have no love for them; their greediness and cupidity are so apparent.

Having seen Silver placed under medical care, Jim had occasion to turn his steps towards one of these jungle temples. He fully expected to have the place to himself as usual except for the poojari in charge. He sent on his tents ahead the day before, and left the forest bungalow, where he was staying, at daybreak next morning. He arrived about nine o’clock with a good appetite for breakfast, and was surprised to see a great concourse of people gathered round the walls of the temple. There had sprung up quite a village of temporary huts of coarse grass, thatched with the boughs of trees.

‘What is all this? What are the people doing there? Is it one of the big feast days?’ he asked of his tent lascars.

‘There is a big tamasha,’ was the reply. ‘The landlord who owns the rice-fields on the other side of the forest land is going to restore the temple. His crops have been good, and he has given a large sum to the poojaris to make a big poojah before the bricklayers and masons begin to work. In that way the temple will stand many years without decay, and good luck will stay with the zemindar.’

‘The building certainly wants a little repair,’ said Jim, as he looked at the crumbling tower with its thick ornamentation.

But he wished his visit had been timed more opportunely. He hated a promiscuous crowd of natives: there was always the danger of an epidemic which might attack his own followers as well as the company; besides, there was no possibility of preventing his own men from taking part in the orgies. They were only too delighted to have the opportunity of joining, being mostly of the same caste, but they emerged from those said orgies heavy and stupid with drink and fatigue. He was half inclined to beat a retreat; but his time would thus have been wasted, and he was uncertain how soon he would be able to come again. So he made up his mind to stay, and get his business over as quickly as possible.

He bathed and made his morning meal. He was just moving from the table when he was told that the zemindar desired an interview. It was readily granted, and the visitor was shown in by the obsequious peons, who respected caste and wealth if nothing else. The visitor was resplendent in a crimson satin coat and a gold-laced turban. Prosperity was written large all over his portly body. The usual ceremonial greetings were exchanged, first in Oriental fashion and afterwards according to the English custom. These were followed by polite speeches and a little inane conversation on general matters. Then the zemindar came to the point.

‘I have come to ask you, sir, if you will go with me to see the goparam. Perhaps your honour has heard of the tamasha and of the poojah I am having performed by the poojaris. This morning I fed five hundred poor of all castes, vellalas, shanars, maravars, pariahs, and Christians before the temple. This afternoon, at sunset, the goparam is to be garlanded as a preliminary to the poojah which will take place to-morrow inside the temple walls.’

‘The goparam!’ exclaimed Jim. ‘I never heard of the tower of a gateway being so honoured before. I thought you reserved that ceremony for the image of the swami inside the temple.’

‘It is peculiar to this place. There is a figure of the swami at the top of the tower. It was formerly the custom to offer this particular poojah, but it is a very long time since it was performed. I am anxious that it shall be done to-day, and done well. I am sparing no expense, as perhaps you have heard.’

Jim listened politely, and signified his willingness to do what his visitor asked. He had a shrewd suspicion that the zemindar would have infinitely preferred his absence to his presence, but the Janus-headed Hindu is the very last person to declare his sentiments on such an occasion. Burns said:

‘I have plenty of work in the forest. If you let me know how long your poojah will last I will take care to keep away. I know that the presence of a European at such ceremonies is not looked upon with favour.’

His visitor lifted his hands in deprecation of such sentiments.

‘There is no occasion to put you to any such inconvenience. This is an affair for the people, and all castes will be welcome. Your presence will make no difference whatever. If the poojah were being performed inside the temple walls it would be different; the poojaris would make objections to your crossing the temple threshold at such a time; but they will have nothing to say in this case. However, I dare say your honour will not care to be present; a crowd is always disagreeable; they are only poor cultivators who have no education and no manners.’

‘And you wish me to go with you now instead?’

‘If you will be so kind. I want you to see, as you are here, the arrangements I have made. In former days a man especially chosen for the office used to climb the tower outside with the garlands hung about him. The masonry, as you may know, is out of repair, and it would not be safe to allow any one to make the attempt without some other support. I have raised a scaffolding with bamboo ladders, which I should like to show you. The collector, Mr. Power, will be pleased, I am sure, at the precautions I have taken.’

They proceeded at once to the gateway. The coolies were still at work lashing poles and roughly made bamboo ladders to the goparam. To the delight of the zemindar, Jim climbed up one stage himself, and he was satisfied that, so far as he could see, everything had been done which the most enthusiastic humanitarian could desire for the preservation of the life of the climber. The tower rose fully a hundred and thirty feet high, and on its crest Jim could distinguish the grinning head of the monstrosity which represented the demon of the temple. It had been freshly painted, and was adorned with tinsel, which glittered like jewels in the sunlight.

‘You will be able to assure Mr. Power that I have taken every precaution,’ said the zemindar, as Jim returned to his side.

‘You have indeed!’ replied the forest officer heartily.

A group of agriculturists stood near; one of them was an old man with white hair; it spread over his chest and touched him with the hoar frost of age. He had been earnestly haranguing the little crowd gathered round him. He stopped when he saw who had approached, and, salaaming low, he came towards the zemindar and the Englishman.

‘You are having a fine tamasha,’ said Jim good-naturedly.

He was always ready with a kindly word, and the mere fact of his addressing them in their own tongue usually gave the people pleasure. The old native did not respond very heartily; he had a grievance.

‘Ah! things are very different in these days. My grandfather used to tell me of the poojah done in this temple in his time. There was nothing of this kind then.’ He pointed contemptuously to the scaffolding. ‘Then a man climbed up by the corner, there, where those figures are. Slowly he moved from image to image till he reached the ledge which runs under the swami. It was difficult, but it could be done by a man who had the courage. He passed along the ledge till he came beneath the figure. There are bricks all along placed in the tower on purpose. By the help of the bricks under the swami he lifted himself till he stood upright. Just under the swami midway there used to be a stone. He placed his foot upon that stone, and threw the garlands over the head of the idol. If his offering was accepted, the swami took his life, and threw him back to the people.’

‘He means, I suppose, that the unfortunate man usually lost his head and fell,’ said Jim in English to his companion, who was proud of his knowledge of the language.

‘Exactly so; and knowing how easily an accident might occur, you see what precautions I have taken to avoid such a thing.’

The old native continued his story.

‘If the climber came down unhurt it was a sign that the swami would refuse our poojah and withhold the rain. What is the use of all this? Of course he will come down safely with all those ladders. Why, a woman could garland the swami with such things to help her, and return to the ground without a scratch or a bruise. Of what avail will be all the poojah in the temple afterwards, if the lord of the goparam refuses the first offering? The clouds will not conceive and be fruitful, and there will be no rain. And will the zemindar be the only one to suffer if the crops fail? Will not his people suffer still more? He has a store of silver to buy grain for his household from the towns, but we have none. We shall die of hunger, whilst he will only get thin. Shuh! This is foolishness; we had better have remained in our villages.’

The zemindar listened placidly to this tirade, and when the old man had finished he merely told him that he might go. As the peasant rejoined the group of natives, who had listened attentively to his speech, their faces wore the same look of discontent.

‘Come,’ they said, ‘let us go to the poojaris; perhaps they will have more sense.’ And they moved away towards the temple door.

The zemindar smiled indulgently.

‘It is sad how ignorant our masses remain after all we do for them,’ he said in his most superior manner. ‘These people actually desire to go back to the unenlightened past. They would like the barbarism of a human sacrifice, as in the old days. But we cannot allow it, we cannot allow it.’

He beamed with pleasure at thus identifying himself with his companion, and took a delight in coupling himself with the rulers of the country. It was a harmless vanity which did not deceive Jim, though it might easily have taken in the chance visitor who was ‘doing’ India from the Himalayas to Cape Comorin in a single cool season.

‘Shall you be present this afternoon? Jim asked as the zemindar took his leave.

‘I think not. This is a tamasha for the people. Of course I shall have to be present at the poojah in the temple to-morrow. It will be expected of me by the poojaris. That will be quite sufficient. And you?’

His small eyes shone with an unusual glitter of curiosity as he waited for Jim’s reply.

‘I must go to the forest reserves, and I doubt if I shall be back in time.’

‘Ah! indeed, it is not worth seeing, I assure you.’

Soon afterwards Jim started on his rounds, transacted his business without hurry, and found himself back again in time for the garland ceremony. The temple faced the east like most structures of the kind. Its gateway was built of stone to the top of the first story. It was not unlike the gateway of a fort, but instead of a castellated bastion, a brick tower rose above it. This was rectangular in shape, and tapered to the top. The ornamentations were made of sun-baked clay moulded into the figures of men and animals. Many of them would have been considered indecent by a European community.

A great crowd had assembled in front of the doorway, which they were watching intently. The doors were large and heavy, armoured with iron spikes nine inches long, a precaution of days gone by when a force of savage jungle people bent on loot, and armed with pikes and spears, occasionally clamoured for admission. The doors did not reach to the top of the doorway, and the space above them was guarded by a thick row of spikes set along the top of the doors.

There was a murmur of excitement as a young man came out accompanied by the poojaris. Garlands of oleander and jasmine flowers hung round his neck, and sacred ashes had been daubed upon his forehead and chest. A buzz of excitement moved the crowd, and there was a pressure forwards. Each man and woman carried a small brass vessel, in which was some uncooked rice. The youth turned to the poojaris, and with folded hands received their commendations. When this was ended he looked up at the grinning monster with its large wolfish teeth, and prostrated himself before it.

In another moment he was upon his feet, running up the ladder with the agility of an experienced toddy-drawer. The ascent looked easy and, comparatively speaking, safe for any one whose head was steady. When he reached the part where the tower narrowed, Jim saw him deliberately leave the scaffolding and take the old way of his predecessors by the cornice figures. But with all his apparent rashness he was not really acting in a foolhardy manner. On the ladders he had shown no care whatever, but now Jim noticed with a sense of relief that he tested each brick before taking a step. There had been a murmur of applause from the crowd when they saw the climber leave the scaffolding, and the brass chatties were lifted towards the hideous idol. The murmur subsided into a breathless silence as they watched his progress. Occasionally a piece of masonry crumbled away at his touch, and fell with a rolling crash down the sloping sides of the tower to the ground.

The sun was sinking fast and there was less glare in the sky. The dazzling golds had softened to crimson, and the landscape was illumined in rosy light. The building stood in sharp outline against the gorgeous colouring of the west, and the figure of the devotee showed clearly as he made his way slowly up by the corner of the square tower. Even the forest officer was moved by the spectacle of a man voluntarily risking his life in obedience to the desire of the people. It is true he thought the man a fool; but his judgment was not altogether contemptuous nor condemnatory. He felt something akin to admiration for the loyalty and devotion thus shown to countrymen and creed. As he watched him Jim instinctively did honour to the hero; at the same time he devoutly hoped that the man might not become a martyr as well as a hero.

He reached the ledge, and again there was a breathing of applause from the crowd as he prepared to creep along the narrow way. The danger, however, was considerably lessened by the scaffolding which came close to the ledge. At any moment, if his brain failed him or his hold loosened, he could drop from one to the other. The stone by which the image was reached in the old days had disappeared, and a bamboo ladder had been lashed from the platform to the idol. There was no other means of garlanding the swami except by going up the ladder. It was placed a little to the left to give a freer use of the right hand. The climber might go above the idol and drop his flowers into position, or he might stop on a level with the image and cast them with a strong arm round its neck. Tim wondered, as he watched, which course he would pursue; and he came to the conclusion that it would be better to attempt the feat from the level than go above and have to gaze down into the fearful depth below.

The climber traversed the ledge in safety, and dropped easily on to the scaffold platform. He removed the wreaths from about his neck and slung them over his arm. As he grasped the foot of the ladder he turned towards the people and waved a hand. Again he salaamed to the grinning image above him. Putting his foot on the lowest rung, he went quickly up towards it.

‘Ah! wise man! he chooses the safer course and stops on a level with the swami,’ said Jim to himself.

Swaying the flowers backwards and forwards, he flung them with some force over the head of the image.

At that moment something happened.

It seemed to Jim’s horrified gaze that the ladder bent beneath the jerk of the throw and crumpled under the weight of the climber. Something had given way; either a rung had gone or the ladder itself had broken; of this Jim felt certain. In another second the man was rolling down the side of the tower, not with the headlong rapidity of a body falling through the air, yet with an impetus which nothing short of a miracle could stop. There flashed through Jim’s mind a wild, frantic hope that possibly the unfortunate man might be caught and held by some friendly projection. Rolling and bounding over the steeply sloping masonry, he reached the stone ledge above the first story. From there the drop was sheer. Balancing for one horrible moment, he fell forward with a crash—not upon the hard ground below, which would have been equally fatal though less horrible—but upon the iron spikes on the top of the great wooden doors, which had been left standing half opened; and there he was held aloft, impaled.

There was a roar from the surging crowd and a rush forward. They trampled upon each other in their eagerness to reach the doomed victim of their fanaticism. They fought and struggled with each other, screaming with madness like wild beasts after their prey. Especially eager were those who bore the brass cups of rice.

Spell-bound, Jim watched the struggle with a stupid wonder: he did not yet understand what it all meant. Then he saw the cups raised towards the bleeding body, and the dripping life blood that poured down the old doors reddened the rice lying within the chatties. The meaning of it all flashed across his brain; he turned from the sight with a sickening sense of horror, and ran to the zemindar’s tent. He found that gentleman, still resplendent in his scarlet satin coat, sitting at the tent door, calm, complacent, and inscrutable.

‘There’s been an awful accident,’ panted Jim.

‘Really! after all the precautions I took. This is indeed sad!’

‘The man reached the swami and put the garlands in position——’

‘Then missed his footing and fell,’ concluded the other in an even voice.

‘Or the ladder gave way. It looked to me as if it broke under him as he threw the flowers upon the idol.’

‘That could hardly be the case,’ replied the zemindar in tones of decision, as though he was not to be gainsaid. ‘Excuse me, such a thing was impossible. I looked at all the ladders myself before they were put up, and this, the highest of all, was if anything the strongest. It was capable of bearing a dozen men, and here was only one. No, he lost his head and fell, which is a pity. But now the people will be satisfied, and they will agree to the performance of the rest of the poojah. The sircar will also be satisfied that I did all in my power to prevent an accident, as you yourself saw this morning.’

Burns was silent; he did not know what to say; to give words to his thoughts would not have been wise, and to have used words to hide his thoughts would have savoured of lying. He strode off to his tent, and wrote a letter to Henry Power, the collector, whom he knew well. Briefly describing the scene, he suggested that an inquiry should be held as soon as possible, and he signified his willingness to remain on the spot until it was over, provided there was no delay, in case he was wanted as a witness.

The summons was answered promptly in person by Power. Government looks to its civil servants to see that the Hindu and Mohammedan feasts of their districts are carried out without disturbance and bloodshed, and without any undue risk to life. Power was therefore only doing his duty. He held a searching inquiry, but could discover nothing irregular or criminally careless. On the contrary, exceptional precautions seemed to have been taken by the promoters of the poojah in the erection of the scaffolding. The ladders, which had been unlashed and brought down, were subjected to a close scrutiny. There were six of them, and they were all sound and strong. The one pointed out as that from which the climber fell was especially stout, and would easily have borne a dozen men at a time, as the zemindar had said. There was nothing to be done but to accept the testimony. In vain Jim searched for signs of a cunning flaw in the staves by which a fall might be caused; in vain he looked for the mark of the saw on the sides of the ladders.

‘I suppose we must accept the zemindar’s theory that the man became giddy and lost his footing,’ said Power at last.

‘I could swear that I saw the ladder give way under him,’ persisted Jim.

Power looked thoughtful and sighed. He was used to finding matters overwhelmingly proven by a superabundance of witnesses, whatever his inner convictions might have been.

‘Of course I cannot say for certain if those ladders are the identical ones which were used. They were all taken down before I arrived. There are none others to be seen anywhere, for I have kept my eyes open. I am bound to accept the united testimony of the poojaris, and the zemindar, to say nothing of the coolies employed. They all swear to the same thing.’

‘How do you account for the presence of those chatties of rice?’ asked Jim presently. Both the men knew all about the ways of the forefathers of the people, who sprinkled rice with human blood and buried it in the ground to make land and trees and women fruitful.

‘My dear fellow, we shall never get to the bottom of the mystery. That rice, they told me, was intended for an offering to the swami the moment it was garlanded; and their rush forward, they swear, was made solely for the purpose of presenting their offerings. It was mere accident, they declare, that some of the rice was bespattered with blood.’

‘They seem to have their story complete; and I suppose we must accept it.’

‘The snake knows its own feet, the Hindu saying declares. The Hindu knows his own ways, and like the feet of the snake they are hidden from view, nor will any effort on our part bring them to light.’

‘I wonder if the zemindar could tell more if he chose.’

‘I don’t suspect him of taking any active part in the mischief, if mischief there was. When there is trickery, it is the poojaris who are at the bottom of it in these feasts: they are always open to a bribe. But the zemindar may have had his suspicions; and provided he did not get into trouble himself, he would be pleased rather than otherwise that the people should have their way. The wary old dog knows very well how to run with the hare and hunt with the hounds; how to pose before Government as a philanthropist and how to please his people at the same time.’

When Power left he pressed the forest officer to come back with him to the cantonment.

‘A change will do you good, Burns, and do away with the memory of that ghastly affair.’

But Jim refused the invitation.

‘I am going to apply for privilege leave next hot weather and run over to Ceylon. I have an old school friend there who is tea-planting; and he offers me some shooting.’

‘Then meet me in the district at Christmas and we will spend Christmas Day together. I have to be at Swamipettah about that time. You have work there occasionally I know, so we can both combine business with pleasure.’

And with a promise to meet at the coming festive season the two friends parted, Power returning to the civilisation of an English station, and Jim to his jungles.

Chapter VI

The Tom-Tom Beater

It was not easy to replace Nulla, the forest peon, who had met with so sudden and strange a death in the jungle whilst with his master. Jim missed him at every turn. When there was important work to be done, he could always rely on Nulla to carry out his instructions, without omitting or exceeding any part of the order. Amongst his staff there was a man named Perumal who had attracted his attention. This man had worked under Nulla, and it was he who gave the timely alarm of the forest fire the night Jim’s camp was burnt out. On more than one occasion he had shown a smartness in his work, which had not escaped the observant eye of the forest officer. He belonged to a hill tribe, and Jim was anxious to try an experiment.

As a poacher turned outside-in makes a good gamekeeper, he thought a hillman might under the same circumstances make a good forest servant. He therefore brought the man forward as an experiment, and promoted him amongst the peons.

Perumal’s home was in a little hill village which nestled on the saddleback of a spur of the South-Western Ghauts. The spur was sheltered by the larger hills which rose above it and formed the boundary between Travancore and the British territory in which Jim’s district lay. The inhabitants of the village made their living by honey-gathering, cattle-keeping, and by cultivating the few small patches of ground which were available on the hillside. They were also one and all intrepid shikaris, cunning in their dealings with the beasts of the jungle, persevering and patient in their pursuit of them. The flesh of the deer which they took was dried and sold for food. It found a ready market amongst the neighbouring villagers, to whom mutton was almost unknown. The honey was sometimes taken to the same market; but it sold for a better price on the plains, where it was used with butter and flour for the manufacture of sweetmeats. Perumal with his knowledge of the jungle, his immunity from fever, due to his being an inhabitant of the place, his dexterity as a trapper, and above all his courage and endurance, gave promise of being a most useful man.

In one respect, however, he differed from Nulla: his devotion to Jim never quite equalled that of the dead man. Perumal would never have followed his master’s fortunes into other parts of the country. His fidelity was more like that of the cat than the dog; he attached himself to the place rather than to the person; he loved the forest with its trees, its birds and beasts; and was content to spend his life there, no matter how other men came and went.

His wages were comparative riches in the eyes of a hillman, who seldom handled any money but copper coins; and he felt no temptation to fire the forest, or steal the wood, or to injure the young trees, which he regarded as the property of the sircar. In the absence of temptation, Perumal’s good qualities had every opportunity of bearing fruit.

There was another reason why he clung to the locality and did not wish to leave the district, though he had no objection to living at the permanent encampment some five-and-twenty miles from his old home. As with all Hindus, family ties lay strongly upon him; and the strongest of these was a younger brother who was deficient in intellect. His mother had been hurt by a leopard before Muniah was born, and she only lived a short time after his birth. Perumal took charge of the little one, fed it on cow’s milk, carried it abroad with him when he went to tend the cattle, sheltered it from the rain and cold mists with his own scanty clothing, and brought the child through a delicate babyhood to robust boyhood.

But though he cherished the child’s body, he could not minister to its mind, and Muniah was undoubtedly deficient. Perumal refused to believe it at first, but conviction was forced in upon him, and he could no longer shut his eyes to what had been apparent to the whole village for some time past. It was Muniah’s teachableness which helped to keep up the delusion. There were certain things he was so quick at learning. His powers of herding the half-wild cattle and keeping them within bounds surpassed those of all the other village lads. Another accomplishment which he picked up with facility was beating the tom-tom. The instrument seemed to have a peculiar fascination for the poor idiot; and he drew from it strange, weird sounds, which defied the art of the professional tom-tom player. More than one wandering musician, passing over the hills by way of the village, stayed his footsteps at the sound of that drum; and Muniah’s father was strongly tempted to accept the offers made by the musicians for his son. The boy would have been worth much to them in their temples. But Perumal protested against the selling of his little brother. He wept and entreated, and promised to support the boy himself if he might remain. The step-mother, who ruled the house, sided with the youth. He had always behaved like a good son to her; if he wished to keep Muniah, let the child stay; the little one did no harm, though he was too stupid to be of any use. So the musicians passed on their way, and Muniah’s drum continued to echo on the hillside.

But if Perumal treated the little family Benjamin well, there were others in the village who were less kind, and Muniah came in for a considerable amount of teasing. As a rule the teasing was good-natured and did no harm. There was a youth, however, whose teasing merged into cruelty. If Suri, the honey-gatherer’s son, caught the idiot boy alone, he made him suffer. Perumal did his best to protect him, and beat Suri more than once; but he was not always there; and sometimes, when he was, he found that Suri was supported by his own brothers, when discretion was the better part of valour, and Perumal dared not retaliate. This systematic bullying on the part of Suri caused a breach between the two families, and raised a demon of hate in the breast of Muniah.

When the lad grew older, all his animal instincts developed in proportion as his mental powers failed. He could not count the fingers upon his hand, nor be trusted to carry a pot of butter to the next village; yet if he and Perumal were belated in the jungle, it was Muniah who found the roots and fruits to stay their hunger; it was Muniah who pointed out the shortest way home. He knew where the deer had fed in the early dawn; and where the honey from the brimming combs dripped down the rocks from the wild bees’ nests. He was not like the idiot of civilisation, whose mental faculties are warped and distorted; he was a human being without mental faculties at all, yet whose powers of speech and superior birth lifted him above the ordinary animal. He was more like a clever dog than a reasoning man, though he knew more than any dog living. Perumal, with all his love for his charge, did not spoil him. In his own way he took infinite pains to teach him all he could; and when patience failed, he used his stick, as he might have used it upon some hound. When, too, the lad’s impish nature peeped out, the stick was brought into requisition again; so that sometimes Muniah’s bones ached all over. On one occasion Perumal caught him in the act of mutilating a small cow. In herding the cattle the animal had knocked him down; this had so enraged him, that he entangled the unfortunate creature in a mesh of creepers, and proceeded to cut off its ears and tail. Perumal tied his brother to a tree in the jungle and thrashed him severely, which Muniah took like a dog, with prolonged howls of pain, but with no resentment.

‘Mind the cow! mind the cow! mind the cow!’ shouted the big brother as the stick descended each time.

‘Ay yoh! yes I will! I will!’ shrieked the writhing Muniah; and he never again attempted to hurt any of the village cattle.

When Perumal was taken into the forest service permanently, he was given a room in the lines at the nearest forest station, which was about twenty-five miles distant. There was a small bungalow for the officer, and a row of mud huts for the peons and those employed regularly on the staff. When coolies were hired to plant or fell, they made temporary huts on the spot where they were working, if their villages were too far off to allow of returning each night.

Muniah was about nineteen, and to his great delight he was allowed to accompany his brother. Perumal knew how to make him useful in household work, and he had no need of any other servant to assist him in his simple housekeeping. The two brothers were very happy together, and were able to pay frequent visits to their family.

Now that Perumal had a fixed income, and drew his pay monthly in solid silver rupees, and wore the uniform of Government, he was an important man in the eyes of his fellow villagers. It was not long before advances were made to his father, after the custom of the country, regarding his marriage. He himself was not consulted; nor was the young woman asked if she approved and consented. The parents managed the affair entirely, and the prospective bride and bridegroom were well content to have it so. The father of the girl possessed several head of cattle, and cultivated a small patch of land on the side of the hill. As he was in a position to dower his daughter, he felt himself entitled to make demands from the bridegroom’s family. The course of marriage in India, like the course of love in Europe, does not always run smooth. The young people themselves made no difficulties; and Perumal would gladly have fetched his wife away as soon as a propitious day could have been found for the feast, which constituted the chief part of the marriage ceremony. But the parents quarrelled over the value of the cattle; the bride’s father demanded more jewels and money than was considered by the other side to be a fair equivalent, and there was a sudden rupture of negotiations.

This thing occurs in nine cases out of ten; it adds to the dignity of the contracting parties, and it is sometimes the means of squeezing a few more rupees out of the bridegroom. The girl’s people were really anxious to secure Perumal; but as his father showed no sign of reopening negotiations they resorted to craft. In an ostentatious way they began to seek a bridegroom elsewhere; and they chose Suri, knowing that there was already a coolness between the two families. They rightly concluded that nothing would be more mortifying to the young man than to hear that Suri was his successful rival; and it might spur him on to urge his father to conclude the contract without further demur.

The honey-gatherers possessed no wealth except a few pots of honey, which would not bring in enough to pay for their share of the marriage feast; yet such was Suri’s vanity, he fully believed that he was to be the favoured one. He strutted through the village with his nose in the air, openly boasting of his good fortune. He even took the trouble to walk over to the lines, and taunt Perumal with his rejection. The latter ground his teeth, and slung back a choice selection of abuse; whilst Muniah showed his teeth like an angry dog. The half-witted lad could not understand what the row was about; but he knew that Perumal was being vexed, and that his wedding was put off through Suri’s means.

‘You foul son of a pig! No wonder the girl’s father kicked you out! Why, a jungle ape would refuse such an ill-conditioned bridegroom for its daughter,’ shouted Suri.

Thereupon Perumal closed with his tormentor, and the two wrestled and struggled in a frenzy of rage like a couple of black bears in the forest. Muniah fled howling, remembering his past experience at the hands of the honey-gatherer.

Suri’s sinews were hardened with his rock-climbing after honey, and before long the peon was worsted. Not content with having thrown his adversary to the ground, the conqueror picked up his stick, and beat Perumal till his arms ached, and the unfortunate peon was a mass of bruises. It was a cruel thrashing, but there was this to be said, Perumal would undoubtedly have given his enemy every bit as much as he got, had victory been on his side. The use of the stick is infinitely preferable to the use of the knife. The mild Hindu rarely resorts to steel, consequently there is much less murder amongst them than amongst the Burmese. Occasionally death succeeds an exceptionally severe beating; but this is when three or four men set upon one, and when some internal injury is given. In the case of an ordinary fight between an irate couple, the victor is too much blown with his wrestling to have strength enough to do any real damage. He bruises and causes pain; but he breaks no bones. The smart of the beating does not lie in the stick; it is in the humiliation, which cuts deeply into the vanquished, and leaves a sharper sting than any blow.

When Suri had no more strength left to wield his staff, he spat on his enemy and departed. As he passed through the jungle he encountered Muniah, who had screwed up his courage to return.

‘Hob! idiot! I have given your brother a fine beating, and if I were not so tired I would give you a like thrashing, you senseless devil of a drum-beater. But I want my supper, so your beating shall wait till my wedding-day, when I will make a tom-tom of your carcase.’

Muniah understood all that was said, and he quivered with rage.

‘Beat me? you will beat me? Arrrh! It is you who shall be beaten. I will play the tom-tom on your skull when Perumal is married. Yes, you shall hear the drum on Perumal’s wedding-day, and it shall be beaten on your own head!’

‘You pariah dog! you dare to talk to me. Take that!’ and Suri brought his stick down over the loins of the lad with a stinging blow. ‘You don’t like it? Perumal didn’t like it; but he has had a hundred such blows. Go and look at him, son of a jungle pig; he howls even louder than you.’

Muniah looked as though he would have sprung at Suri’s throat, had not his thoughts been diverted by the mention of his brother’s grief. With a cry of distress he ran off towards the spot where the fight had taken place. He found the young peon rolling on the grass where Suri had left him, pounding the ground with his fists in impotent rage. Tears streamed down his face as he wept aloud; and he varied the monotony of weeping with the very best he could do in the way of abuse. Muniah threw himself on the ground by his side, and added his lamentations to his brother’s. When their grief and rage had abated through sheer exhaustion, Perumal sat up and showed his bruises to his sympathetic companion. Muniah knew by experience what they felt like; for he had not forgotten the well-intentioned drubbings which he had received at Perumal’s hands. He rose to his feet and began to search for a certain plant that grew wild in the jungle. Chewing the leaves to a pulp, he laid the healing plaster on Perumal’s wounds; and later in the day, after the sun had gone down, the two brothers crept sadly to their little room in the lines.

Jim was away when this little incident happened; but on his return, Perumal, sure of sympathy, poured the whole tale of his misfortunes into the master’s ears.

‘I am still suffering from his wicked blows; I cannot eat my food, and I am covered with shame before the other peons. I ask master’s leave to give up the service and go back to my home.’

‘Nonsense,’ cried Jim, who knew that only mischief would come of such a course, Perumal having plenty of friends to help him if he intended returning the thrashing with interest. ‘I will not give you leave. The sircar wants your services and you will stay. But it is time you got married and stopped this bachelor rioting. A wife won’t allow you to fight, and a wife you must have.’

‘But the girl’s father wants more than we can give. My father has offered the utmost he can spare; what more can we do?’

‘And you believe the man prefers a poor honey-gatherer, who may fall from the cliffs any day, and leave his wife a widow, to a Government peon drawing his monthly pay regularly and serving for a pension! It is child’s talk, Perumal. Go and ask him yourself; tell him you stand well with the master, and are worth ten honey-gatherers. He will take you gladly, and then we shall see who will laugh, Perumal or Suri.’

The peon’s face lightened; perhaps the master spoke the truth.

‘Her father clamours for fifty rupees more than I and my father can put down. It is to be spent in jewels for the bride; but even though it comes back to the family I see no way of raising it.’

Jim considered a minute and then went to his office box.

‘Here are the fifty rupees. Now go to the girl’s father, and don’t come back till you have secured the girl. You will be of no use for your work until your domestic affairs are settled and you have got your wife.’ And herein the man of the jungle in no way differs from the man of the city; his affaires du coeur turn his head. Jim knew it, and tried to persuade himself that he had acted on purely business principles for the good of Government, though he made no attempt to explain why he did it out of his own private purse.

Perumal forgot all about his bruised bones, and once more held up his head with the rest of his fellows. The cash had a magical effect in changing the face of affairs; it was his turn to strut through the village and boast of having secured a well-dowered bride. Muniah followed at his heels, grinning with delight at his brother’s happiness; and whilst the bridegroom strutted and bragged of his success, the parents sought out the village soothsayer and fixed the happy day.

When Suri’s family heard of the turn affairs had taken, their wrath knew no bounds. Their anger was directed against the bride’s people quite as much as against Perumal’s. But it was of little use to scold and threaten. They were powerless in their impecuniosity, and they would have been wise to let the matter drop. It only served to inflame the younger members of the family to prolong the useless feud. Suri himself said little, but he and his brothers vowed vengeance in the future. He contented himself with sulking in the jungle for the present, pretending to be busy with his honey-gathering, or in hunting down the wild jungle sheep. He took to absenting himself from home, and at last disappeared altogether. His people said that the sight of the coming festivities was too much for him.

The day drew near, and the whole village was occupied with preparations. Those who were not called upon to take an active part spent all their spare time watching those who were at work. There is no reserve in the Hindu, though there is a superabundance of secrecy when it is thought necessary; the lookers-on commented freely upon the workers, offering their advice upon every detail. It was all taken in good part, being the custom of the country. The idiot lad was made supremely happy by being told that he was to be one of the drum-beaters at his brother’s wedding. There were to be professional tom-tomers as well, but that did not matter to Muniah. At this time he was left very much to his own devices. Having no household duties to perform as at the lines, no one noticed how he spent his hours; sometimes he was sent to help in herding the cattle, but more frequently he was roaming over the hillsides; occasionally he brought in some deer’s meat, or a small pot of honey; but as a rule no one troubled him with questions. Once when he was late for the evening meal Perumal said:

‘Where have you been, Muniah?’

And the answer came simply and promptly:

‘In the jungle, making the tom-tom for my brother’s wedding.’

Perumal laughed good-naturedly.

‘The old one is good enough; we don’t want a new one.’

Nevertheless he was pleased at the thought of Muniah’s attention.

The day arrived; the early part of it was spent in decorating the houses with green leaves and bunches of plantains, in dressing and adorning the happy pair, and in paying complimentary visits. The hours passed, and it was time for the ceremony of garlanding, at which the poojari assisted. Then came the feasting, which took a long time, and was not over till sunset. Last of all the musicians and dancers appeared; they were to beguile the dark hours of the evening. Lights made of burning wicks in cressets of oil were placed outside the pandal (a temporary erection of bamboo poles supporting a palm-leaf roof), where the wedding party was assembled. Torch-bearers hovered about, throwing the light of flickering flames on the performers; and the sound of the tom-tom re-echoed on all sides. Muniah, who had feasted with the rest, had joined the musicians. He was a strange object, very different in appearance from the quiet idiot lad who had eaten his supper with the rest of the young men. He had thrown aside his wedding clothes and his cap; his hair floated wildly over his shoulders, and he had twined in it some of the creeper used by the honey-gatherers to make ladders to scale the cliffs when searching for the wild bees’ nests. He was looking wilder than usual; and when Perumal caught sight of him he feared for the moment that the lad had been drinking too freely from the jar of arrack. But Muniah was not drunk except with excitement. Besides his clothes he had also discarded his old tom-tom, and a new instrument of a different shape hung over his shoulders. It was like a bowl, the top of which was covered with skin stretched tightly across. Muniah beat his tattoo furiously, keeping step to its rhythmic sounds; every now and then he gave way to antics expressive of triumph and delight. The company paid very little attention to him, being attracted by the professionals, who, on their part, ignored the presence of the idiot entirely.

The bride sat amongst the women, and seemed to be the only one who was not enjoying the festivities. But this was only right and proper. A Hindu bride, no matter of what caste, is not supposed to speak or be spoken to. She hides her face in her saree, and is overwhelmed with modesty. Up to this time Perumal’s wife had been exemplary in her conduct; but now her eye fell upon her brother-in-law, and she followed his movements with curiosity. He was to be one of the household in her new home, where he was to draw water, cut firewood, and help her to grind the curry stuff. She would be alone with him for the greater part of the day, whilst Perumal was away at his work. The prospect was not a pleasant one. From his figure her eyes wandered to his instrument. In the intervals between drumming he patted it and talked to it, as though it were alive: the action was uncanny and made her shudder. The bowl of the drum was ivory white, and she wondered what it was made of. It could not be a dried gourd, nor could it be made of wood. Suddenly he lifted it to the level of his eyes, stared at it with a hideous leer, and spat at it. She gave an involuntary cry of alarm, and drew her cloth over her face to shut out the sight. Such conduct was not at all in accordance with good manners, and it brought her father to her side.

‘What ails you, child, that you raise your voice in this manner?’ he asked.

‘It is Muniah, father; he makes my blood turn to water.’

‘Shuh! child! you are a fool. The boy only shows his pleasure that you have joined the family.’

‘But, my father, it is not pleasure; it is hate that I see on his face, and I fear him.’

‘Shuh! shuh! be silent! You are bringing disgrace on the family by this talking, and bad luck upon your husband. The bride’s voice should only be heard when she weeps as she is torn from her parents.’

He would have left her, but she caught hold of his arm.

‘My father, do not be angry. See what sort of a drum Muniah has, and send him away. Or if he must beat the tom-tom, let it be the old one which we all of us know.’

Annoyed at her persistence, he looked towards the idiot as he drummed and danced in the flickering light outside the wedding pandal, and his curiosity was raised. He went to him, and laid a detaining hand upon his shoulder.

‘Show me your tom-tom.’

With a grin Muniah turned it over and laid it with its parchment surface downwards on his extended palm. It was a shining skull, the skull of a human being.

‘Where did you get this?’

‘Arrrh!’ exclaimed Muniah with his guttural, animal-like tones. ‘This is how Suri, the honey-gatherer, comes to Perumal’s wedding. I promised him that I would beat the tom-tom on his head, and am I not doing so? Arrrh! Suri! Suri I how do you like it, Suri? You said you would beat the tom-tom on my back at your wedding, but I said differently,’ and he recommenced his drumming and dancing with increased fury.

The man hurried back to the wedding-party and exchanged a few words with Perumal’s father. In a short time the proceedings were brought to a close. The bride was carried to the hut lent to the young couple until their departure to the encampment. She was deposited there amidst much laughing and joking on the part of the women and tears on her own part. Perumal followed, surrounded by his bachelor friends; and thus the greatest moment in the life of a Hindu ended.

A few days later when Perumal and his bride and Muniah had departed, the wedding festivities were all forgotten, and the whole village was convulsed with a new excitement. Suri’s body was found lying at the foot of a cliff which he had often climbed before in search of honey. The broken bones left no doubt about the fall; but it was not the fall, nor its fatal ending, which struck horror to the hearts of the villagers; it was the fact that the dead man’s head had been hacked off the trunk and no trace of it could be found.

Chapter VII

The Tree-Devil

‘Inflaming themselves with idols under every green tree,’ may indeed be said of the Hindus of South India. There is scarcely a compound or a field without its devil-tree; whilst the numbers by the sides of the roads are countless. They are marked by a small black stone elevated upon a low platform of mud, and they bear traces of frequent anointings of oil. The poojah of a tree-devil is performed by a low caste man. It is a cheap ceremony, except in the case of certain old trees in or near villages, where the offerings have become so valuable as to be worthy of the attention of the village temple poojari. He discovers that the demon of the tree is some near relation to the demon of the temple, and he straightway affiliates him, appropriating his offerings to the temple.

A tree-devil owes his origin to some defunct individual whose funeral obsequies have not been properly performed; or to some especially evil person, who, for his many wickednesses in life, is doomed to become a mischievous devil after death. He delights to manifest his power by throwing stones, setting houses on fire, and by causing sickness and hurt to men and cattle. He appears on rare occasions in the form of some animal, such as a jackal or a leopard; now and then he takes the figure of some terrible monster whose chief feature is a set of long canine teeth of huge proportions. His appearance always forebodes misfortune to the person who has been so unlucky as to meet him. To keep him quiet and harmless the Hindus propitiate him with offerings, chiefly of blood, a half-grown cock or a kid being the most frequent victim. Tree-devils have uncertain tempers, and there are times when nothing in the shape of offerings seems to have any effect on their mischievous spirits. Then the people of the neighbourhood assemble together to discuss what shall be done next. If times are bad and the exchequer low, it is decided to try threats, and to frighten him into taking his departure to another neighbourhood. But this is an extreme course and it is necessary to use great caution. A slight mistake or omission in the ceremony will only serve to redouble the wrath of the devil, and involve the people in fresh trouble.

Jim was always careful to leave the devil-trees intact. He never gave offence by ordering them to be cut down, as Silver had done on more than one occasion. But Silver received a lesson and learned wisdom. After felling a fine old banyan that had long been the favourite haunt of a demon, his two Arab ponies sickened and died. He was very proud of his ponies, and had given a long price for them. The syces said that it was the revenge of the devil; but Silver declared that the men had poisoned the horses, and he did his best to bring it home to them. The police were employed; and his whole staff was disorganised with worry between the police on one hand, who had their own peculiar little ways of obtaining information, and the devil on the other, whose manifestations were frequent and annoying. But nothing was discovered; and after he had provided himself with two fresh horses he let the matter drop, only too thankful that it was at an end.

It was about six months after Perumal had brought his young wife to the lines, and within a few weeks of Christmas, when Jim had his attention drawn to one of these devil-trees.

It stood in a clearing near the top of a hill that lay in the direction of Perumal’s village. It was between five and six miles distant from the forest bungalow. The tree was a fine, spreading ‘monarch of the woods,’ past its prime, and only spared on account of its demon. There was a platform beneath it, built of sun-dried bricks, and raised a foot and a half from the ground. On the platform and leaning against the trunk in the usual position was a conical black stone, in which the demon was supposed at times to reside.

The various people of the district made their small offerings as occasion demanded: the honey-gatherer, before he climbed the rocks near by; the herdsman, when his cows should drop their calves; the shikari, when he scoured the neighbouring jungles; and the cultivator, as he set his small patch of grain just before the monsoon. Hitherto the demon had accepted the poojah and been satisfied; but of late a new spirit of mischief seemed to have seized him. The bees were disturbed and angry when the honey-gatherer attempted to take the comb, and he was severely stung; the calves were born dead; the deer were scared away from their feeding-grounds and water-holes; and the sprouting grain was pulled up and thrown into the jungle. Nor did he confine his unwelcome attentions to the inhabitants of the district. Several of the forest staff received injury of one kind or another at his hands, and Jim was not long in discovering that something was wrong with his people. Their heads were turned with excitement and superstitious awe; work was neglected, and mistakes were constantly made in carrying out his orders. He sent for Perumal.

‘What is all this bobbery about, Perumal?’ he asked with annoyance. ‘How is the work to be properly done if our people are up all night, tom-toming and doing poojah to the devil? This morning the men seemed unable to comprehend the simplest order. They looked exhausted for want of sleep, and were as stupid as dhoby donkeys.’

‘It is the devil, sir; the one in the tree on the Droog hill. He is giving plenty of trouble.’

‘What sort of trouble?’

‘A week ago he stoned the mother and wife of Rama, one of the peons. They were carrying earthen pots home, and they let them fall in their fright. Every pot was broken, two rupees worth in one minute. Rama beat them both; but will that bring back the pots, or save other foolish women from being frightened? They said that the devil threw stones; and they spoke a true word, for there were the stones lying with the broken pots when we went to look. The head lascar’s cow lost an ear ten days ago. It was torn off by the devil, and the cow refuses to give any more milk, although she should yield for three months longer. Two days ago I was returning from my visit to the plantations beyond the bee cliffs, when the bees attacked me, and I had five stings on my face and hands. Never before have the bees touched the passers-by on the path below, so long as no gun was fired to anger them. It must have been the devil who told them to sting. Yet we have done plenty of poojah. Only last week I spent three rupees in offerings, and I will do no more. He is a very bad devil, and nothing will satisfy him.’

‘Shall I cut his tree down?’

The peon gave a startled glance at his superior.

‘As master pleases; but it will be best to tell him first that the tree shall be destroyed if he does not leave it and go away.’

‘Very well; do as you like, but let there be an end of it. You may tell him that I will not only cut his tree down, but that I will shoot him if he gives any more trouble.’

Jim spoke with admirable dignity and seriousness, just as a kindly natured man would lend himself in sober earnestness to children’s play, entering into their games of pretence with every show of reality.

‘This afternoon, if master will give us leave, we will do poojah for the last time and kill a goat. If he does mischief after this, we will threaten.’

Perumal left the office and called together the little colony of forest retainers to report what the master had said, and to arrange the poojah.

The peon and his wife were the only occupants of the hut in the lines. Muniah was no longer there. After returning with the young couple the idiot’s conduct grew more strange. It was due either to the excitement of the wedding, or to the irritation he had received from Suri, together with the manufacture of the ghastly tom-tom he had made from the dead man’s skull. It was impossible to keep the story of the skull secret. When it was discovered that the honey-gatherer’s head was missing, the tale leaked out in the village, though Muniah’s father vowed with frequent reiteration that the tom-tom his son used at Perumal’s wedding was made of a white gourd, and not of a human skull. Suri’s people were maddened with anger at the thought of the indignity of the mutilation. Had the youth remained in the village he would undoubtedly have been beaten to death by the brothers. Fortunately, however, he was out of their way, and they were not irritated by the daily sight of him. Perumal hoped that by keeping him close in the lines his evil deeds would be forgotten, and the wrath against him would die down, especially as the poor idiot had not caused Suri’s death; he had merely taken advantage of an accident. Oddly enough it was the dead man himself who had suggested the deed, when he threatened to beat Muniah and make a tom-tom of his carcase.

Another cause of alteration in his conduct was the passion of jealousy, which was raised in his mind for the first time by seeing some one preferred before him by his brother. Perumal after the manner of his kind showed no great affection for his bride; nor did she expect it; it would have made her ridiculous in the eyes of the other women. But it was she who prepared and served his food, and it was to her that he looked when he needed any little domestic service. He did not mean to neglect his brother nor to raise his jealousy. He was quite unaware that he was doing so, until he had evidence of it in an outburst of wild, unreasoning passion on the part of Muniah. About a fortnight after they had been settled, the girl bade Muniah fetch firewood as usual. The lad, instead of obeying, sulked outside the door. She followed him and told him to be off at once, or there would be no dinner for any of them. Muniah seized a stick and turned upon her with a sudden savageness which was terrifying. She fled into the hut, and he pursued her. For one awful minute he stood over her whilst she cowered on the floor, expecting each moment to have her brains dashed out. Some faint ray of intelligence, perhaps the instinctive thought that in hurting her he would hurt his brother, held his hand, and instead of bringing his staff down upon her head, he lashed out with a wild, insane fury at her pots and pans, smashing them to atoms, till not a chatty remained. The large water-pot was broken, and the water swamped the hut. The snowy contents of the rice boiler were scattered broadcast, and the rich, garlic-flavoured curry was spilt upon the fire.

In the middle of this desolation and destruction Perumal came in for his midday meal. He had been out since dawn, and had had nothing but his early mug of coffee and a rice cake. He was hungry, and had been thinking with pleasant anticipation of the savoury curry which was his wife’s pride. Small wonder was it when he saw the wreckage that he lost his temper. Wresting the stick from the idiot, who stood paralysed at the sight of his brother, he laid it across his back with no light hand. The beating ended, he turned to help his frightened, weeping bride to clear the floor of potsherds, and prepare a fresh meal as speedily as possible.

As for Muniah, he ran shrieking into the woods, and neither Perumal nor his wife attempted to call him back. At night his supper portion was set aside for him, but he did not return. The dark passion of jealousy and anger still dominated his clouded brain. Hitherto he had accepted his beatings from Perumal without a murmur. Now it was different. He connected the beating with the new intruder into the family, and a dull, mad rage burnt in his heart against the girl. Yet for Perumal’s sake he thought no more of revenge. Once during the evening he looked into the hut; even his small intellect grasped the fact that he was not wanted by his brother. With a low cry of grief he turned and fled to the hills, and the encampment saw him no more. Perumal was troubled by his prolonged absence; and by and by he made a journey over to his village, hoping to learn that Muniah had taken refuge in his father’s house. But he was not there.

‘A fool in the family is like flower in the sugar-cane; it spoils the savour of it in the eyes of the world. Do not trouble about him,’ said his father; ‘he knows how to take care of himself in the forest, and perhaps he will learn wisdom from the beasts. By and by he will come back, and then we must find work for him outside the house. He is too big for your wife to manage; he must be with men, and not with women and children. I want to speak to you of your brother, my wife’s eldest son. Can you get him a place in the forest service?’

Thus the talk went off into another channel.

Poojah was accordingly done as Perumal said it should be. A goat without a single white hair was procured; it was decapitated with the accustomed ritual before the stone. Rice, butter, honey, and camphor were also offered and left on the platform. But it was of no avail, for the trouble continued. Jim was beginning to lose patience; he felt sure that some trickery was going on, though he could not see any reason for it. Usually such things were done through spite. But whatever its cause he was determined to put an end to it.

‘So your poojah was of no use,’ he said to Perumal as the peon came with fresh tales of mischief.

‘No use at all; the devil seems to be more angry than ever. Last night my own hut was stoned; and Mootoo, who returned to camp late with the corn for the horses, saw him with his own eyes standing amongst some grain, which this morning is trampled as flat as though a herd of elephants had been through it.’

‘What was he like?’ asked Jim, watching the man closely, and wondering for the moment if he had any hand in it; yet he could not imagine what object Perumal would have in thus helping to terrorise the camp.

‘The devil was taller than a man, and he carried a long stick. He had fiery eyes and a terrible row of teeth, which he gnashed and ground in fury. Mootoo nearly died of fright, and this morning he has fever.’

‘I suppose I must give you all leave to go to the tree this evening; but you must make every body, including the devil, understand that this can’t go on. The sircar won’t have it. If it is not put a stop to at once, I shall break up this encampment and take you all over to the other side of the river, which, mind you, will give a lot of trouble to everybody. There are very poor lines over there, not half so comfortable as these, and the place is cold and wet. I advise you all to settle the devil to-night. To-morrow I shall cut the tree down.’

After the peon left the bungalow the forest officer sat for a while in deep thought. It was all very well for him to threaten, but he was not at all sure of effecting his purpose. He could make the move, to be sure, but it meant discomfort for all concerned, himself included. And there was the uneasy thought that perhaps this was the very thing which was intended by the persistent annoyance. He had not forgotten Nulla, and the mysterious creature they had encountered on the night of his faithful follower’s death. What was it that they had met in the depths of that dark jungle? This was a question which he could never solve. If a bullet could revenge Nulla’s death and give the tree-devil his quietus it would be a good night’s work.

With this uppermost in his mind he looked to his rifles, and chose one that he used for deer shooting. He made two or three other preparations without attracting the notice of his people; and when later on, dinner being over, the whole establishment, private and official, was free to make the expedition to the tree, Jim quietly slipped out into the darkness of the coming night.

It was a clear evening overhead. To the north there were some magnificent thunder clouds, over which the pale lightning streamed intermittently in a meshwork of silver threads. He reached the foot of the Droog hill, and worked his way up with leisurely steps. He walked straight to the tree, rifle in hand, ready for any emergency. All was perfectly quiet, except for the familiar sounds of a tropical jungle. The cicalas whirred in the grass; here and there a tree frog chink-chinked; and large beetles boomed with swift flight overhead. The moon had struggled through a bank of cloud low on the horizon, and was bathing the hillside in its white light. In the distance he could hear the sound of the tom-tom which heralded the approach of Perumal’s party. Not wishing to be seen, Jim fell back on a bit of jungle where he would be completely hidden by the foliage. But though he could not be seen, he had an excellent view of the devil-tree and its platform; and he waited with some curiosity to witness their strange ceremonial. The ordinary poojah of making offerings was familiar to him, but this threatening of the tree was something quite new. He was satisfied that there was no living creature in the tree itself, and he was quite sure that the tom-tom would clear the jungle temporarily of every animal, from a chance tiger to a jackal.

The party emerged from the jungle and crossed the open space to the tree. Perumal had constituted himself master of the ceremonies and accuser of the tree. He marshalled his little party in a semicircle before the platform, and commenced the ritual by stepping forward and addressing the tree as though it were a living being. With rapid and flowing speech, which might almost be taken for eloquence, he set forward the fact, that whilst the rest of the jungle had fallen before the axe of the woodman in times past, the tree had been spared. And for what? Only to bring trouble upon them all by harbouring a mischievous devil in its branches. Then he broke forth into curses. He cursed the tree and its progenitors, its trunk and roots, its branches and leaves, its flowers and seeds, and called down every evil under the sun upon its head. Finally he delivered the awful threat of laying the axe to its root, and putting a bullet through the evil thing it had so treacherously nourished in its bosom. The night wind swept through the foliage; and as the leaves rustled, the people whispered that it trembled.

When he had finished he signed to one of his companions to take his place. The second performer expressed himself in a similar manner, reproaching the tree for its faithlessness, railing at it and threatening it with the axe. Each took his turn and used the foulest abuse, vying with his neighbour in strength of expression. Jim, who prided himself on his knowledge of the vernaculars, found that he still had a good deal to learn if he wished to consider himself master in the art of vituperation.

At length their powers of speech were exhausted, and they relapsed into silence. Perumal brought forward a man who had hitherto been kept in the background.

To Jim’s surprise he recognised the sweeper of his bungalow, a man of so low a caste that even the pariahs refused to eat with him. He was a quiet, inoffensive servant, content to serve his master and follow him wherever he went. He was dressed in rags, not his usual costume, and his grass broom was stuck in his waistband to show his office; the devil was to make no mistake as to the man’s caste. He carried an axe of the kind used for felling trees. Standing close to the trunk, he raised the axe above his head as though he were going to strike at its roots, and began to curse the tree. At this point Perumal changed his rôle from that of accuser to that of advocate and sponsor for the tree. He stepped forward with uplifted hand to stay the blow, and caught the sweeper by the arm.

‘Stay? Why should I stay my hand? Let me strike. It is the only way to rid ourselves of the evil spirit which you have harboured so long in your branches,’ cried the man, addressing the tree and trying to shake off Perumal.

‘I promise to harbour him no longer. To-night he shall fly a hundred miles hence to my brother who stands on the Kalimullay hill,’ replied Perumal.

The sweeper dropped his axe as though he relented. Presently he raised it again above his shoulder, and made as though he would begin the work of felling. Once more Perumal interposed.

‘Stop? Why should I stop? Who knows how soon the devil may return to be again welcomed by this wicked tree?’

‘I promise that my brother on Kalimullay shall keep the devil with him always,’ said the sponsor.

A third time the ceremony was performed with the same ritual, and as the blow was arrested, the sweeper cried in well-simulated anger:

‘How do we know that you will not invite some other devil in the place of the one you have lost?’

‘I promise no other devil shall ever be sheltered in my foliage,’ again replied Perumal.

‘Not only will we lay you low with the axe, but the master will shoot the evil thing you cherish as he shoots the tiger and the leopard.’

After this extraordinary ceremony, pathetically childish in its simplicity and absurdity, the party turned their steps homewards. They were satisfied that the extreme measures to which they had resorted would have the desired effect. They left no offerings before the stone; this was not an occasion for propitiation. As the sound of the tom-tom died away in the distance, the jungle sank into the silence of the night.¹

Now it was the Englishman’s turn to deal with the devil; his method of propitiation was not the same as theirs. He stepped forward, placed a bunch of plantains (bananas) on the platform, and then retired a little distance, rifle in hand, to watch for the disturber of the peace of the neighbourhood. He had not long to wait. There was a rustling in the foliage near the path Perumal had taken, and a figure came cautiously forward towards the devil-tree. It moved on four legs like a monkey, and Jim covered it with his rifle. He hesitated to pull the trigger.

Ever since his adventure in the Berars he had made a mental vow never to fire at any creature without knowing its nature. He waited now to be sure that it was a monkey; Presently it rose on its hind legs and stood upright in the full light of the moon. With an exclamation of horror the forest officer lowered his rifle; and the creature, startled by the sound, bounded back into the forest.

In a little more than an hour, Jim was back again at his bungalow. As he replaced his rifle on the rack he murmured the words:

‘Oh! the brutes! the fiendish brutes!’

On the following night at moonrise, Jim started again for the devil-tree, this time taking Perumal with him. A Hindu never shows surprise; he may be startled, and very easily terrified; he has also his due share of curiosity; but surprise is not one of his emotions. When Jim announced at starting that he was going to do poojah to the tree-devil himself, Perumal said nothing, though he had never in his life heard of an Englishman worshipping any of the gods of his country. He lifted the basket of offerings which Jim bade him carry, and slung the tom-tom over his shoulders as if he were going forth to do his own poojah.

The forest officer arranged his offerings on the platform with the simple ritual usually employed by an Englishman in spreading a picnic feast. Some tempting-looking curry and rice was placed on a green leaf-platter, and a bowl of milk put by its side. Perumal, in accordance with his master’s orders, beat the tom-tom whilst preparations were being made. When the arrangement was completed, Jim took the drum from the peon and laid it before the stone. This was something quite new in the way of offerings, and it met with the peon’s approbation. Who would have thought of giving the devil a tom-tom of his own, and yet what could please him more? It was a grand thought, and he began to hope that the evil spirit had not departed to Kalimullay. Surely he would be pleased with the Englishman’s poojah, and for his sake leave off some of his mischievous tricks.

The two men retired to the jungle to watch. They had not long to wait. There was a rustling amongst the foliage as on the evening before, and a dark form crept from the jungle on the opposite side. Every two or three steps it stopped to listen for the distant sounds of the tom-tom; the sudden cessation of the drum had raised its suspicions. Perumal took it to be a large bear or a monkey. When it had traversed half the distance between the jungle and the tree, it rose to its feet and leaped with bounding steps to the platform. It was difficult to distinguish its face, as the moon was behind it; but in the dim light Perumal thought he could detect the awful face of the demon described by Mootoo. That it was a demon, and not a bear, or a monkey, or animal of any kind, he was quite certain. Only gods and men run in an upright position. A bear or a monkey might walk for a short distance on its hind legs, but would drop upon four feet for rapid locomotion. He shuddered when he heard the demon give a little inarticulate cry of pleasure as it discovered the food. At the risk of being detected he took a step behind his master. It was difficult to see what the demon was doing in the deep shadow of the tree, but he thought that he made the rice into balls, and threw them into his mouth, just like a human being. When the rice was finished, the creature turned to the bowl of milk, but instead of lifting the bowl and drinking from it like a man, he dipped his face into the liquid and drew it up with a gurgling, sloppy sound, such as a wild boar might have made. Demons, thought Perumal, have strange ways; but how clever of the master to have guessed what would please it so much.

And now a curious thing happened. The devil having finished the food and drink, glanced round, and his eyes fell on the tom-tom. Again that cry of pleasure was repeated as he lifted the instrument with a quick, snatching movement. Seating himself on the platform, he began to beat the drum with a soft, rhythmic touch.

Only those who have heard the Indian tom-tom know what a pathos can lie in its weird beat. It is struck with the base of the palm and the tips of the finger alternately, by which means different notes are produced; or a stick is employed in the right hand and the palm and fingers are used in the left. It depends on the player’s skill as to what impression those notes convey to the listener’s ear, Jim had often been impatient when the monotonous sound had penetrated into his office and disturbed his work with its dreary iteration. But this evening as he listened his heart filled with a great pity; the drum told a sad story of physical anguish and wrong. He watched his companion, wondering what effect it would have upon him.

Perumal had been a motionless spectator of the coming of the demon, except for that one step by which he had placed himself under his master’s protection. His eyes had followed the movements of the creature with a fascinated but uncomprehending gaze. He had watched him seize the drum, and had heard the low cry of pleasure. As the rhythmical beat fell on his ears he started, and a flash of recognition illumined his soul.

‘Muniah, my brother! Muniah, my brother!’ he cried, stretching his hands towards the unconscious player.

The tom-tom ceased, and there came forth from the shadow of the tree one of the most ghastly sights it was ever Jim’s fate to see—a poor mutilated human being, its face shorn of its nose and lips, its red gums exposed with their double rows of white teeth, which were set in the terrible, mirthless grin seen on the face of a skull. Nothing but the eyes remained, and they had grown fierce and wild with the cruelty that had been practised upon him.

‘Muniah! O my brother! my brother!’ again cried Perumal in his agony of grief.

The poor lad came bounding towards him with extravagant gestures of joy, and falling at his feet, he rolled in an uncontrollable ecstasy of delight before the peon.

Perumal knelt down and caressed him with his hands; touching the maimed face, the eyes, and the neck, whilst the tears flowed fast from his eyes.

‘Muniah! Muniah!’ he moaned. ‘Who has done this?’

But there was no reply; only that ecstatic grovelling with inarticulate, animal sounds, such as a dog might make in a movement of supreme pleasure. Speech had left him when he was deprived of his lips, and the shock had driven away the little sense there was to assist the tongue. When the excitement had abated, and the brothers had become calm again, Jim touched Perumal on the shoulder.

‘We must be going,’ he said.

In obedience to his order Perumal ceased fondling the lad and rose to his feet, Muniah following his example.

‘What are you going to do with him?’ asked Jim.

‘He must come back with me to his old place in my hut.’

Jim glanced at the awful face. What would his little colony of people say to the introduction of this unsightly being into their midst? They were curiously like the lower creatures in having an instinctive dislike to anything that was deformed. However he said nothing of his doubts. Matters would arrange themselves, he thought, as so many men have thought before him when they have pondered over the problems of the country.

‘Then let us start. Give Muniah the basket to carry; it may make him understand that he is to follow us home.’

Perumal placed it on the idiot’s head; he seemed tractable enough, and followed docilely at his brother’s heels. When they had settled into the swing of their walk, the peon began to talk to Muniah, just as he used to chatter years ago as they wended their way home to the village after a day of herding the cows in the jungle. He asked no questions, or if his talk took the form of a query, he did not wait for an answer. He had a reason for letting his tongue wag: he hoped by so doing to resume his former power and regain the control which he feared to find weakened. By and by he began to scold the lad in a kindly fashion as he had done in the old days. He reproached him for having hurt the cow, for having thrown stones at the houses and for destroying the grain. He said he would have to punish him if he played such tricks.

Muniah listened quietly enough, wagging his head from side to side with an occasional grunt of acquiescence, until the peon spoke of the bees.

‘And why, O my brother, did you make the bees angry? It is understood that no one hurts the bees; they are like the cattle and serve those who have no cows.’

The idiot stopped short with a harsh, guttural cry in his throat. He placed the basket on the ground, and began to tear at the branches of the bushes close at hand. He bit the wood with his exposed teeth and broke it up in a rage. Jim watched the growing, ungovernable fury, and again his mind was assailed with doubts.

‘We shall never be able to keep him in the lines. To-morrow you must take him to his father.’

‘It is the mention of the bees that has put him into this state; if it were not for that he would be quiet enough. I know now well enough who has done this evil thing; watch him, sir, as I speak his name. Little brother, have you seen the honey-gatherer? Have you met Suri’s people?’

His words added fuel to a fire which was already terrible. Muniah gave a leap into the air and fell to the ground again, clutching and clawing the vegetation, biting, snatching, and tearing like an infuriated leopard.

‘You must stop this at once,’ said Jim.

Perumal raised his stick, and struck Muniah across the shoulders, but not so severely as to hurt him.

‘Get up! get up, lazy one! Where is your load? Is this the way to work, idle fellow?’

The force of the old habit was still strong upon him. Muniah shivered under the blow and grew quiet; presently he sprang to his feet; he resumed his load, and the trio proceeded on their way.

‘Beat the tom-tom, Muniah,’ said the peon, who was falling into gloomy thought; his brother’s action had been more eloquent than words. But whilst he brooded over the evil deeds of the honey-gatherers, Jim was thinking of the flash he had seen in the eye, and of the setting of those teeth when Perumal’s stick touched the youth. He was convinced that they had a dangerous lunatic to deal with, where formerly there had only been a harmless idiot.

They emerged from the jungle and reached a bare rock from which they had a view of the distant encampment. A light burned in the bungalow and shone through the open door. On catching sight of it Muniah stopped short in sudden alarm.

‘Get on, get on!’ cried Perumal in his customary manner.

But Muniah stood firm and immovable. The peon raised his stick in his old authoritative manner, and seized his brother by the arm. Muniah put his hands up to the basket which was balanced on his head, and lifting it, he hurled it with all his strength at the peon. The action disconcerted Perumal, and nearly threw him off his feet. With a fiendish shriek of triumph the idiot bounded back into the jungle, whilst Perumal, with an expression of vexation and anger, hit wildly behind his retreating form. Jim watched Muniah disappear with something like a sigh of relief.

‘Ah! he has solved the question himself. It is impossible to bring him back to civilisation,’ he said to Perumal, who seemed inclined to pursue his brother into the forest. ‘He is best in the jungle; let him be. All you can do is to supply him with food every day. He will come to the beat of the tom-tom when he is hungry, you may be sure, and we shall hear his tom-tom calling us if at any time he wants to see his big brother again.’

So Jim returned to his well-earned night’s rest, after doing poojah in his own way to the tree-devil; and Perumal went to his hut to weep over his brother, and to tell the awful tale of his fate to his wife with many breathings of vengeance.

Chapter VIII

The Bewitched Bridegroom

It was Christmas time. Jim Burns remembering his promise to meet his friend, Henry Power, started to join him in camp. The collector was at Swamipettah, a large, native village situated some twenty miles or so from the South Indian Railway. He was a bachelor, a fine strong young fellow of Burns’s build and figure. Indeed, the two men might have been brothers, so like they were in appearance. But in character they were very different, Power being somewhat of a society man and fond of the company of the fair sex, whilst Jim was shy and awkward in the presence of ladies. This was probably due to the secluded life he led as a forest officer.

Burns took nothing but his horses and servants and his personal kit with him. Power had arranged to provide a tent, and to be host for the ten days holiday.

On Christmas Eve Jim duly turned up at Swamipettah just as the sun was setting. The weather was perfect. There had been rain, but the clouds had rolled on towards the Western Ghauts; and a bright sun, tempered by the cool breezes of December, left nothing to be desired in the way of climate.

Swamipettah was one of a type of villages very common in the south of India. It was thickly populated, chiefly with Hindus. There was a sprinkling of Mohammedans and Christians, but they were in a fractional minority, and did not affect the place. Devil-worship was the prevailing religion, and Swamipettah possessed several small temples dedicated to demons. The poojah offered to these demons required the usual blood sacrifices, which were made by the low-caste poojari in charge. One of the peculiar features of the buildings was the number of strange figures which were placed in rows outside each temple. Travellers by the South Indian line cannot fail to notice them, as they occur frequently all through the Madura and Tinnevelly districts. The figures are hollow and made of pottery earth; they represent horses, bulls, elephants, and mythical monsters, all alike being furnished with terrible teeth and large, prominent staring eyes. They are not worshipped nor regarded with any veneration. The natives believe that the gods in the temples use them as steeds in the night, and ride forth upon them across the cotton fields. The belated wayfarer gives the temple a wide berth, lest he should meet the dreaded demon careering along on his wild ride to the rendezvous of the rest of the local devils. On feast days the animals are used for displaying fireworks, and it is not unusual for an explosion to occur, and for a pottery head to be blown off here and there, in which condition the dilapidated image is left till it crumbles to pieces. At different periods the figures receive a rough coating of paint, pea-green being a favourite colour, with trappings of red and yellow. Nothing seems to strike the Hindu as being incongruous or ludicrous, and he is quite willing to believe in all seriousness that his god delights in a pea-green steed made of sun-baked clay.

Jim had a very good time with his friend. They rode together in the early morning, when Power combined business with pleasure by paying visits where his presence was needed. They went snipe-shooting round the large tanks in the neighbourhood, and sometimes had a good day with the teal and the wild duck. In the hot hours of the noontide Power wrote letters and was busy in his office, for he could not be idle a single day, even though it was holiday time. But Jim, being away from his work, indulged in cheroots and novels whilst his companion worked. Stretched at full length in the long-armed chair, he gave himself up to complete laziness. They dined at half-past seven, and dined well, for the collector kept a good cook. After dinner they smoked and yarned till bedtime.

A few days after his arrival, the syce, Mootoo, asked for twenty-four hours leave, which was willingly granted. Jim inquired what he was going to do with his leave, and was rather surprised to hear that the man was going to get married. He questioned him further, and learnt that it was an old contract which he was about to fulfil. Four years ago his bride had been promised to him as soon as she should be old enough. Since then her parents had been carried off by cholera. Her brothers had shared the same fate, as is so often the case in India, where whole families are swept away by fell disease. The girl alone had survived, and become the heiress of the family hut, the family jewels, and the much prized family pots and pans. Their value was not great, but it was important in a community where no one’s wealth consisted of much more than similar possessions.

In the absence of any nearer relative she was taken charge of by her father’s brother. He was a married man, and his wife was quite ready to act as guardian to such a well-dowered young woman as Anamah. Narrain was prosperous, though he was not popular in the village. He was an attendant at one of the temples, a man of forbidding countenance and rough manner, and he was feared on account of the mysterious powers he was supposed to possess through the medium of the devil he served. He was well aware of the arrangement made by Anamah’s father for her marriage with Mootoo, as he had been one of the witnesses; but he had no intention of carrying it out. He intended to marry her himself when the propitious month of May came round. Two wives were permissible amongst people of his caste; and there was no prohibition against uncles wedding their nieces. His first wife was quite agreeable to the arrangement; indeed, she was as eager as he was to accomplish it, as she wanted a household drudge.

But Anamah was old enough to have an opinion of her own. Had her father been alive she would have bowed implicitly to his will without a word; with her uncle it was different. She had a vivid recollection of the good-looking young syce who had been chosen for her by her parents; and though she was not so immodest as to fall in love, she had the temerity to prefer him to this ill-favoured man, who was her uncle and old enough to be her father. She sulked and pouted and refused her food; she wept and ‘went sick’ when she should have been cleaning rice or grinding curry stuff. In short, she did everything a humble little Hindu maiden could do to show her repugnance to the proposed marriage.

Narrain’s wife petted and coaxed and scolded by turns, inwardly vowing that she would make the impertinent girl suffer for it by and by, when she was safely secured within the family circle. Her conduct could not have been worse had she been a stranger; but a niece! a brother’s child! it was high time she learnt her place and her duty towards her relations. When prospects looked their darkest, help came most unexpectedly in the opportune arrival of Mootoo himself, the only man on earth who could rescue the girl from the designing couple.

Mootoo lost no time in making his claim. He called his witnesses, and established his right to his bride before the whole village. Narrain attempted to raise objections; Mootoo was a syce and of lower caste; he lived in the jungles, and his wife would be a grass-cutter. The people, however, knew the niceties of caste distinctions as well as Narrain himself. His pretensions to superiority, because he happened to be employed in the temple, had irritated them for some time past, and they gladly seized on the opportunity of proving that he was no better than the rest of them. They warmly espoused Mootoo’s cause, with the result that he was soon begging for a holiday, with a grin of delight at the prospect of the speedy possession of his bride.

When Narrain found that public opinion was so strong against him, he put the best face he could on the matter, and his wife prepared the wedding feast. There was much tom-toming and banging of fireworks during the ceremony, for the wedding of such a well-dowered bride was an important event.

The next morning Mootoo brought his young wife to make salaam to his master. Jim was garlanded with jasmine flowers, a ceremony he submitted to with admirable grace; and he was presented with some fruit. The young couple fell at his feet, touching the ground with their foreheads, as they called him their father and mother. The rest of the camp establishment, from the collector’s stately butler to the grass-cutters, looked on approvingly. Jim wished the bridegroom good luck, and the bride a long family, that being the one desideratum of every newly married Hindu couple. He placed a liberal little pile of rupees in the bride’s hands, and then gave them leave to depart. Anamah went back to her own house, where she was to remain under the care of Narrain’s wife till the forest officer departed; and Mootoo resumed his duties in the camp.

‘I cannot think what has come to that syce of mine,’ said Jim, as he got off his horse to alter the curb. It was the morning before the holiday ended, and he was taking his last ride with Power.

‘He’s the fellow who got married the other day, isn’t he? That would be sufficient to account for anything,’ said Power, with a laugh.

‘I suppose marriage is a distracting thing in any man’s life, whether he be white or black. All the same I don’t see why it should make him forget how to put on a curb, a thing he has done for the last six years without a mistake.’

‘He is probably sodden with arrack.’

‘If so, it is a new thing for Mootoo. He has always been very steady in the matter of drink. If he has a weakness at all, it is for opium; but as he takes it in his food, it usually has no effect on him except to make him sleep soundly at night.’

‘Where is he? There’s my fellow following, but not yours.’

‘That’s the odd part about it. He is too utterly done with fatigue to follow; there is no humbug; the man is so tired he can scarcely stand. There’s something’ wrong, and I must find out what it is, for I should be sorry to lose such a good servant.’

‘Perhaps his wife’s people are drugging him.’

‘Very probably; they are not best pleased with the marriage, I understand.’

They returned to camp after their ride. Mootoo did not appear, and the other syce took the horse. Jim walked off to his tent, and left his friend to transact business with a little group of villagers who were waiting for an interview, each with his petition or complaint. At the entrance to the tent Jim found one of his grass-cutters; she was the wife of his second syce.

‘Well, what is it?’ asked Jim, as the woman made a low salaam and begged for leave to speak.

‘Has the master noticed the strange behaviour of Mootoo?’

‘Yes, and I should like to know what humbug is going on; who is making humbug with the man?’ said Burns, falling into the native idiom.

‘It is Narrain, his wife’s uncle. He has put his devil into Mootoo, and the man is possessed.’

‘How do you know he is possessed? What does he do?’

She told the story with many words and much gesticulation. Ever since Mootoo’s marriage his conduct had been most strange and most unlike that of a bridegroom. As has been mentioned he was to return to his duty with his master, and as there was no accommodation for the bride in camp, she was to stay in her own house under the care of her aunt. The syce was to take his food according to his usual custom with the other syce, and join his wife afterwards at the hut. But after the first night he had never once appeared before her door; nor had he visited her during the day to explain his strange conduct. The girl was fretting her heart out at his neglect, and she was becoming the laughing-stock of the village. The one who laughed was Narrain’s wife; she did not cease to vilify the bridegroom, and imputed the worst motives for his absence.

‘Where does he go if he doesn’t go to his wife? ‘ asked Jim.

The woman glanced round to see if any one were listening. Lowering her voice, she replied:

‘The devil calls him. He goes to Narrain’s temple and serves the swami all night. Then in the morning he returns to do his work here, and he is too much ashamed to go to his wife, for she would scold him and drive him away. Besides he is too tired, as master can see for himself. Every one knows that serving the devil will kill the strongest man that ever walked. If a man gets into the power of the devil, is he ever seen again? He is like a dog in a garden of castor oil plants. It is all Narrain’s doing; he is angry at losing the girl. But, pah! who wants to be a second wife; she has done well to take Mootoo. A second wife is only a slave in the house of the first wife; a nice time she would have had with that old woman. Ah, she is a bad old woman, as wicked as her husband.’

‘So the old woman wished her husband to take a second wife?’

‘Surely, sir; it would have saved a servant; and then there is the house and the pots and pans. They are very good pots of brass and copper; Narrain’s wife cast her greedy eyes upon them as soon as the child’s people died.’

‘And how does Mootoo serve the devil?’

‘He marlishes (grooms) the horses in the temple compound, and runs across the country all night long, following the swami as he rides. We have seen him cleaning the horses, and afterwards have watched him running. The devil always takes a difficult path across fields; that is his way.’

‘Have you seen the devil?’

‘Ah! bah! who wishes to see the devil ride when it means bad luck and sickness? We never look to see the devil; but he is there all the same, or why should Mootoo run as he does? He is bewitched, and there is only one way of driving the devil out of him. We must do it at once, or else he will stay behind, and then he will die; and the girl will be a widow in Narrain’s house, which will be a thousand times worse than being a second wife.’

‘What do you want to do?’ inquired Jim, beginning to have an inkling that the woman was asking in a roundabout way for his consent to something.

‘We want to tie Mootoo down; and beat the devil out of him. My husband will get help, and we will all beat till the evil spirit will be glad to go back to Narrain. Then, and then only, will good sense come again to the syce.’

Jim knew all about the terrible process of casting out devils, and curing the be witched. After various incantations and ceremonies the patient is subjected to a cruel beating, which sometimes ends in the death or permanent injury of the unfortunate individual. The devil-drivers never blame themselves for what happens; it is always the work of the demon, who to spite them for thus turning him out revenges himself by killing his medium. The ceremony requires much tom-toming and blowing of horns, which cannot be done in camp without the permission of the master. For Mootoo’s sake Jim had no intention of allowing such brutality, however well-intentioned it might be.

‘The collector’s camp must not be disturbed by my people. I will see what I can do myself. Tell your husband to come and speak to me.’

The woman departed perfectly satisfied to leave the matter in the master’s hands. It was wonderful what confidence Jim inspired in his dependants. It was due in a great measure to his knowledge of their language. Very few Englishmen are aware to what extent this knowledge helps them. The manner of a Hindu will change entirely as soon as he is addressed in his own tongue. He loses his look of indifference and resignation, he becomes eager and animated, he can speak for himself and tell his own tale, and the Englishman will give him justice. Another virtue Jim possessed in dealing with the natives was patience combined with dignity. He heard them out to the end of their story, and never smiled at their childishness. So serious was he that he seemed sometimes to share their beliefs. It was the tenderness of the man that made him so patient; and his kindness of heart moved him now to rescue his horsekeeper from the designing Narrain, and save him from the ignorant treatment of his fellows.

The syce came obedient to his order. Before dismissing him Jim asked about the jewels.

‘The jewels are safe. We secured them for Mootoo’s wife on the night of the wedding. The pots we take with us to-morrow when your honour leaves.’

‘And the house, what has been arranged about the house?’

‘My people hire it as soon as Anamah starts with her husband. Narrain’s wife, however, declares that though we take the jewels and the brass pots we shall not take the girl. She says the girl shall remain in the house.’

‘Look here; we must have the girl or we shall not get Mootoo to come,’ said Jim with decision. He was fully prepared to try to release the man from the spell of enchantment or demon-possession; but abducting young women was not in his line; and he did not feel equal to the task of securing the person of Anamah. Nor did the syce appear eager to undertake the affair. ‘Go and talk to your wife. Tell her I will give her twenty-five rupees if she brings Anamah to the forest bungalow to-morrow.’

The horses were fed as usual at eight at night; after making them safe for the night by their heel-ropes, and spreading their bed-straw, the syces went to their curry and rice. Mootoo ate his portion in the listless fashion of a man who was worn out with fatigue and exhaustion. The women took theirs after the men had finished; and when supper had ended they brought out the blankets and sleeping mats. No other shelter was needed in that warm climate than the spreading trees which served as the stabling also for the horses. No blanket or mat was given to Mootoo. The grass-cutter who had spoken to Jim looked at him awhile, and then laid her hand upon his shoulder.

‘Go, your wife calls. See yonder is the light still burning in her hut as she waits for you.’

The young man raised his head and gazed at her in an uncomprehending way. She gave him a light shake.

‘I tell you, foolish man, that your wife is calling; go, go to her before she grows angry.’

But it was useless; his head sank on his knees and he sat as syces sit who wait for their masters. It is a position which enables a man to doze without falling into a deep sleep. She retired with an exclamation of impatience to her husband, and together they watched for the strange sight which they had witnessed of late every night.

Presently there came a faint note of a collery horn blown in a distant temple. Mootoo started to his feet as though he had been called by name. His listlessness disappeared and he listened intently for the sound again. It was repeated more loudly. With a cry of, ‘Swami, I come!’ Mootoo started off in its direction with the steady, enduring trot of the Indian syce on duty. He pursued his way like a man in a dream, and with the sleep-walker’s security. Leaping over all obstacles and swerving neither to the right nor to the left he went straight to the temple where Narrain served. The images of the strange animals grouped in the star-light looked weird and ghostlike, but Mootoo seemed to have no fear of them. As he approached the door of the temple a harsh voice cried:

‘Do your work; the swami waits; he is ready to ride.’

Without a word of remonstrance, the unfortunate syce fell to grooming one of the smaller figures which represented a horse, life-size, of about fifteen hands. The process of grooming or marlishing in the Indian fashion is hard work. It is a species of massage, and the experienced eye can detect in a moment whether the syce has been lazy. Mootoo was a good syce, but what he did for his master was nothing compared with his midnight labours now. He worked on as in a dream, exhausting himself over his fruitless task. By and by the voice spoke again.

‘The lord is ready to mount; he rides to Trivalore.’

This was a place ten miles away. When the man heard the voice he ceased marlishing and stood at the head of the horse.

‘He comes,’ said the voice.

He seized an imaginary stirrup to assist the rider to mount and then stood aside. In another moment he would have started on that long, weary run to the place mentioned, whilst his child-wife was weeping her heart out in her loneliness. But a restraining hand was laid upon his shoulder, and the familiar tones of his master’s voice penetrated his dazed brain.

‘What are you doing here, Mootoo? Your place is at the camp. It is time I was on my way to the forest. Where is my horse? Why isn’t it ready? Go to the stable at once and saddle it; go quickly.’

He spoke slowly and distinctly, each sentence penetrating the dulled brain till all thought of the swami was obliterated. After a moment of hesitation and bewilderment the syce replied:

‘Yes, sir.’ And turning in the direction of the camp he hurried off with mechanical obedience to do his master’s bidding.

Jim gazed after him with a smile of satisfaction, and was about to follow when he was startled by receiving a severe blow from behind. He turned to face his assailant, and found himself confronted by two or three men, who were armed with long sticks or lathies, the weapon usually employed by the people of the south in their free fights. Jim carried a short, clubbed blackthorn, a very old friend, which often accompanied him in the jungles when a rifle was not necessary. It was no match, however, for three long lathies, each probably loaded at the end with lead. Discretion was the better part of valour, and he turned to fly. But it was not easy to get clear away in such a labyrinth of monsters and without a second thought Jim found himself clambering on to the broad back of a huge elephant which offered a means of escape. Down came the lathies, hitting wildly in the dark. There was a crash of broken pottery, and Jim tumbled on all fours into the dusty depths of the earthenware monster. He clutched wildly at anything, to save himself as he fell, and his hand caught a small compact substance. When he had time to collect his scattered senses he looked round him. His prison was dark and musty, and suggestive of scorpions; but it served as an effectual refuge from his enemies; their lathies could not touch him there so long as he kept close within.

He remained quiet and listened. There was shouting, and a sound of sticks clashing. Then the scrimmage ceased, and he heard the voice of his second syce calling. Jim used his blackthorn as a battering-ram, and broke a hole in the side of his pottery prison. He still held the thing he had grasped in falling. It seemed to be a small package wrapped in a piece of calico, and it was fastened to a bit of string which was attached to the animal’s mouth. With a sharp jerk he loosened it, and hastily thrusting it into his pocket he clambered out. His unknown assailants had disappeared, and he was met by the friendly faces of his own and Power’s syces.

‘The budmashes [bad fellows] have run away. There were three of them, and they would have killed your honour if we had not come. This is all Narrain’s doing, but we will be even with him yet.’

‘Did you see Mootoo?’

‘He passed us on our way to camp. He said that the master had ordered his horse. The devil has left him; but we must take care that he does not return. It will be all right if we can get him away to-morrow.’

‘Have everything ready at sunrise. See that the grass-cutters and luggage-coolies are ready also. I shall go with you in case there is any trouble. I hope that Mootoo’s wife will be with you.’

‘My wife and sister—your honour’s two grass-cutters—-have promised to bring the girl without fail.’

‘I don’t see how it is to be managed, but if they can do it I shall be pleased.’

Jim dismissed his rescuers at the door of his tent after a liberal reward. Having brushed the dust off his clothes he took out the little packet and opened it. As he unrolled several folds of cotton cloth there tumbled out into the lamp-light three large, uncut diamonds and two sapphires of considerable value. Burns gave a long, low whistle of surprise.

‘All’s fair in love and war,’ he said to himself. ‘This is the loot of war.’

He unlocked his cash-box and deposited the stones in safety. Then seeing a light in Power’s tent he went to tell him the story of his adventures, omitting the incident of the package.

‘You’ve had a nasty time of it, my boy,’ said Power when he had finished. ‘I have no doubt that it was Narrain. What are you going to do? Prosecute for assault?’

Jim laughed as he replied:

‘No, indeed. I couldn’t swear to his identity; and if I could he would swear to an alibi and bring a dozen witnesses to prove it. No; I shall be quite satisfied if I can get my syce and his wife safely away to-morrow.’

‘You are a queer fellow, Burns. You don’t mind mixing yourself up with these people, and interfering with their private affairs. It is not very safe, and one day you may find yourself in a tighter corner than you were this evening. I should let them settle their own business amongst themselves. If you lose one good servant you can get another. It is better to lose a syce than to get your head broken.’

‘That isn’t my way. I hate parting with any of my people who serve me well. I’ve had Mootoo six years, and should like to keep him.’

‘Has the girl got her jewels in her own possession, or has Narrain laid hands upon them?’

‘They have been secured by Mootoo’s friends.’

‘Then look out for a row to-morrow. If the girl turns up she will be accused of robbing her uncle. She and her husband will be detained whilst an inquiry is made; after which you may whistle for them, as you know what it will be with all the swearing and counter-swearing.’

‘And if I get the girl away to my forest bungalow at the other end of the district?’

‘You will probably be safe from further trouble. The man won’t dare to follow her into the wilds of your jungles.’

‘By the by,’ said Jim presently, ‘do you ever look at the jewels belonging to these temples?’

‘Yes I am often asked to look at them, not officially of course; but it is convenient to have me as a witness if any jewels are subsequently missing.’

‘When did you last see those belonging to Narrain’s temple?’

‘Only this morning; they were laid out for my inspection at his own request. There are one or two good stones amongst them, of which Narrain is very proud. But after all it is not much use my seeing them; I am not an expert in gems, and for all I know the whole lot may be glass. Glass would serve the purpose of the idol just as well. Shall we turn in, as you have to be up betimes to-morrow morning?’

The sun was just rising over a perfectly level horizon when Jim and his cavalcade of followers prepared to start. He was to ride the horse which was under Mootoo’s charge; the other was led by its syce. The two grass-cutters were ready, one carrying a large and very heavy bundle of grass for the horses, the other the cooking apparatus for their own and the animals’ food (the grain used in the stable instead of oats is always boiled); there were also two or three baggage coolies under the charge of Jim’s personal servant. The forest officer looked round the little group for the bride, and he was concerned to find that she was not there. Mootoo, however, was at his post with the horsecloth over his shoulder. He moved stiffly as though he were sore all over; but he was in his senses, and there was no mistake to complain of to-day in the saddling and bridling of the horse. Jim asked no questions, but he had a strong suspicion that there had been some attempt at driving the devil out by the other syces.

‘We haven’t caught the bird, I’m sorry to say,’ said Jim to Power as he shook hands with him.

‘Just as well you haven’t, for here comes Narrain himself, and by the look of him he means mischief. I am very glad the girl is not here,’ he repeated with manifest relief. Turning to the man he said, ‘Well, what do you want? If you have any business with me, go to the office and wait.’

Narrain’s evil face glowered with the rage which he could ill restrain. He was obliged to preserve a deferential demeanour in the presence of the Government official. Controlling himself he said:

‘I want my niece; she is a child and is under my care. She has been stolen from me by that thief, Mootoo.’

‘I understood that he had married her.’

‘He is her husband; but your honour knows the custom of the country. The bride and bridegroom remain with her father’s people for a time after the marriage. She cannot leave without my consent.’

‘You see for yourself that she is not here,’ said Power, turning his back on him.

Narrain walked threateningly towards Mootoo.

‘Where is the girl? She escaped last night from the hut. It is your doing; you have taken her away. You can leave the place if you like, but I tell you she shall not.’

‘She is not here; see for yourself, as the master says. Do you think she is in my pockets?’

The syce, who seemed his merry self again, turned the pockets of his jacket inside out to show that she was not concealed there. A laugh went round the little party. Narrain turned suddenly on Jim with the suppressed rage of a chained beast.

‘You have robbed me,’ he said.

‘Of what?’ replied Burns with a bland smile of wonder at the accusation. ‘The girl is not in my pocket either. Ill-gotten goods must be closely guarded. You and your wife know how to get but not how to keep.’

The man looked as though he could spring at his throat like an angry tiger. He was obliged, however, to fall back, as Jim began to move off.

‘Good-bye, Power. Now, come along, all of you, and step out, as we have a long march before us.’

They started, walking briskly, Jim going on ahead, but keeping within easy reach of the rest of the party. He distrusted Narrain, who was steadily following, with constantly repeated demands for his missing niece. If he expected her to meet them on the road he was disappointed. When the party arrived at a bridge which crossed a river, Narrain was joined by some companions. It was evident that an attempt at abduction would have been made there had the girl succeeded in getting away from the camp. The party halted to rest for a few minutes on the bridge, and Narrain took the opportunity of pouring abuse upon Mootoo and all his family. Jim was at a little distance, so his presence did not act as a restraint. The abuse was received by the company with contemptuous laughter and chaff on the part of the men, and with reviling by the grass-cutters. The stalwart young woman who bore the bundle of grass upon her head added a merciless raillery against the would-be old bridegroom who had been disappointed of his bride. Her words, which were not remarkable for refinement, evoked peals of laughter from the rest of the party, including Narrain’s companions. This was too much for him, so with a final volley of curses he turned his back on them to make for home. He was satisfied that Anamah could not have crossed the river, and he could see for himself that she was not of the party.

On his departure with his companions the travellers resumed their journey, relapsing into silence as they quickened their pace. At the end of the seventh mile they arrived at a tope of trees, where there was welcome shade with grass and water close at hand. Here Jim stopped to give his horses and men a couple of hours rest. To his surprise, Mootoo, who seemed in the best of spirits, did not take his horse, but left it to the other syce, whilst he ran forward to lend a friendly hand to the grass-cutter in lowering her heavy load of grass from her head. The bundle was placed on the ground; the rope which tied the grass was unwound; the withering fodder fell away; and to Jim’s astonishment and satisfaction little Anamah stepped forth beaming into her delighted husband’s arms, whilst a buzz of triumph and pleasure went through the company. The horses went short of their food, but Jim was well pleased that his syce had gained his bride.

## Chapter IX

The Talisman

One bright morning in January two men, mounted on a couple of showy Arabs, rode up to the forest bungalow. Jim, by a fortunate chance, happened to be in. Hearing the unusual sound of hoofs he came out, followed by his dogs, to see who had thus honoured him with a visit.

‘Hullo! Silver! what brings you up here? Whatever may be your object, I’m very glad to see you. Visitors don’t often look me up in this out-of-the-way place.’

‘I’m on short leave. This is Dick Sullivan; he has been stopping with me for shooting, but we’ve had wretched luck. I got casual leave, and have brought him up here to see if I couldn’t show him something better in the way of sport. I hear there’s a rogue elephant twenty miles from here. We should like to have a shot at it, eh, Sullivan?’

The eyes of the young officer glistened. He was an ardent sportsman; but he had never yet faced an Indian elephant in its native jungles. Jim gave the men a warm welcome as he led the way into the bungalow and offered them drinks.

‘I’ve already had news of the brute,’ said Jim, as he poured out whisky and opened a bottle of soda water. ‘It seems inclined to work up this way. By all accounts it has been turned out of the herd recently, and is one of the most mischievous rogues we’ve had on these hills for years.’

‘You’re thinking of your plantations,’ said Silver, with a laugh.

‘Elephants are a confounded nuisance amongst the young trees at all times,’ admitted the forest officer, offering Sullivan a cheroot.

‘We’ll soon settle him for you, you need not fear for your young plants,’ rejoined Silver confidently.

‘We must have better luck than we had with the tigers if we are to do any good,’ observed Sullivan.

‘The luck is all right now. Haven’t I got a talisman to make me master of fortune?’

Silver took from his pocket a curiously shaped crystal, which was set in a silver mounting, not unlike the royal crown which encircles the velvet cap. He handed it to Jim.

‘Where did you get it?’ asked Jim as he examined the quaint jewel.

‘I should say, if you asked me, that he stole it,’ said Sullivan laughing.

‘I looted it. It was all fair and square. I met a hawker on the road. Heaven only knows where those sort of men come from; they have all kinds of things for sale. I made this man turn out his box as we rested under a tree. This was the only thing I took a fancy to, and the fellow had the impudence to say that it wasn’t for sale. “Why have you got it in your box if it isn’t for sale? “ I asked; and as he could give me no answer I just collared it and put it in my pocket. I offered him twenty rupees but the beggar wouldn’t take them. It’s of no real value; it’s only glass or a bit of rock crystal. You never heard such a row as he made. But I hung on to it. Then he said it was a charm which brought him good luck, and he begged me to put it back in his box. But the more he begged and prayed, the more determined I was to keep it. And there it is. Let’s hope that it will bring us good luck, Sullivan, when we are on the heels of the rogue.’

‘I was rather sorry for the chap, all the same,’ observed Sullivan. ‘Do you know, Burns, he actually wept—shed tears like a girl—as we rode off. I wouldn’t have believed a fellow could have taken it so much to heart. I should have thought that he would have made capital out of Silver’s fancy; but he refused the money quite angrily.’

‘It’s a pity to have taken it if the man set such store by it. They are so odd in their superstitions, you never know where you tread on their corns.’

‘And I don’t care either,’ said Silver hotly. ‘If you want a thing in this country, take care that you get it by hook or by crook, or life is not worth living. I don’t want to cheat the man; if he likes to be reasonable and have a deal, I’ll give him more than I offered this morning, though I know the bauble is not worth more than two and a half rupees at the most.’

Jim turned the conversation, and they talked of their intended trip. They lunched,and afterwards sat in the verandah smoking cheroots.

‘I say, Silver,’ exclaimed Dick, as he gazed down the valley, ‘here’s your hawker coming after that charm. You’ll find yourself in quod for highway robbery if you can’t come to terms.’

‘Give it him back if he kicks up another row. The thing is not worth the inconvenience of five minutes’ haggling,’ advised Jim.

‘We’ll see,’ replied Silver, who had looked mulish at Sullivan’s words.

He got up and waited restlessly for the man to approach. Jim watched him as he strode up and down the verandah; he knew his brother officer to be a man of moods as well as the possessor of an uncertain temper; and his own peace-loving nature shrank from anything in the shape of altercation. It was most unusual to see a hawker in those remote parts, and Jim had no doubt whatever that his coming had to do with the recovery of the charm.

The man approached the verandah in the most businesslike manner, with his familiar cry of ‘Hawker, please!’

Two coolies followed, one bearing a bundle tied in a sheet; the other carried a bamboo basket, which was securely fastened with string. At a sign from the master of the house the hawker took the bundle from the coolie. Squatting in front of the gentlemen, he exposed his wares. There were carved ivories from China; rubies from Burmah; moonstones and catseyes from Ceylon; gold and silver work from the South of India, and rare old enamel from the North. All this time he gave no token that he had met any of the party before. His black eyes rested frequently upon Silver, who grew uneasy under their steady gaze; at last Silver said with an awkward abruptness:

‘Well, have you decided to take twenty rupees for your charm?’

‘Charm, your honour? What charm?’

‘Oh, you know well enough. Here it is,’ and Silver pulled it out of his pocket. ‘What will you take? Look here, the thing isn’t worth three rupees, but I’ll give you thirty. That’s handsome, isn’t it?’ he concluded, turning to Jim.

‘What is master talking about? I know nothing of any charm.’

His stolid look and heavy gaze irritated Silver.

‘Not know what this is!’ he shouted in amazement at the unnecessary lie. ‘Didn’t I take this out of your box yesterday on the road? I offered you twenty rupees for it, but you refused it like a fool. And now, like a bigger fool than yourself, I am offering you thirty.’

‘Master has made some mistake; I have never met master’s honour before,’ said the hawker deliberately and slowly, with his eyes fixed upon Silver.

‘Oh, you are a liar. Here, take your bauble. I won’t have it at any price.’

Silver threw the charm into the tray of the jewel box. The man lowered his eyes and looked at the talisman for some seconds. Then he slowly smiled; it was a mirthless, evil smile which boded no good, and he picked up the jewel. In another moment by a sleight-of-hand movement on the part of the hawker it was lying in Silver’s palm again.

‘Now it is master’s again; and with it goes the luck, good or bad.’

‘I’ll take the luck, good or bad,’ said Silver, recovering from his momentary confusion.

At which the dealer in precious stones smiled again. After some bargaining Sullivan bought a sapphire ring, and Silver a ruby pin. Jim was not to be tempted. He sat and smoked and looked on. He had been attracted by the talisman incident. With his love of fathoming the motives of the native, he caught himself wondering why the man had disowned it and refused to receive it back, or its equivalent in money. He felt sure that it had something to do with his superstition concerning the luck of the charm. When the buying and selling had come to an end, the hawker turned to him and asked for permission to stay a couple of days in the lines. It was a strange request, and he hesitated before granting it. But thinking that the man was anxious to do a little business amongst the forest employees, Jim consented, leaving him to make his own arrangements for being housed and fed. The hawker closed his box, salaamed low to the gentlemen, and departed, followed by his two coolies.

‘By the by, we didn’t look at his other bundle,’ said Silver, as he watched them moving away.

‘It probably contains sandalwood articles. We have no room for such things,’ replied Sullivan indifferently. Turning to Burns he asked if he knew the nationality of the man.

‘He hails from Bombay I should say; but these kind of men spend the whole of their lives wandering through the length and breadth of India and Ceylon with their goods. He probably knows a dozen languages; and I would give a good deal for his knowledge of the countries he has passed through.’

‘What religion is he?’

‘A Hindu. Didn’t you see him tap his box with the first bit of money he received from you? That was a tribute to the particular swami who watches over his mercantile interests.’

Later in the day Jim inquired where the man was lodged, and found that he was occupying an outhouse in which cattle usually stood. He preferred to lodge in a building that sometimes sheltered the sacred cow to sharing the more comfortable room of a man of low caste. Perumal looked after the two coolies. They were not of his caste, but belonged to a wandering tribe, whose chief business was the performance of poojah or worship at domestic ceremonies amongst the hillmen. They were hired to propitiate deities for rain, for fine weather, for protection against wild beasts and devils, for sick people, and for childless women. Jim knew the tribe, and had often seen parties of them passing through the district in their wandering from one hill village to another. They sometimes served as carriers, but they preferred to prey on the credulity of the hillman to doing an honest day’s labour; and Jim caught himself wondering again why the hawker had come so far out of the usual beat for men of his class, and why he had especially chosen these two coolies as porters. Living so much amongst the natives, Burns had learnt that nothing in India is ever done without a motive. There may be as many as half a dozen apparent motives, all plausible enough for the action; but they only serve to hide the seventh and last, which is the real motive for the deed. It may be a perfectly harmless and legitimate motive, but the native would sooner die than divulge it. Burns felt morally certain that the hawker intended to recover his treasure, but in his own way.

The next morning the party was up before sunrise, as an early start was to be made by the hunters. There was a long march through the hills before the vicinity of the rogue could be reached, and the stalk would take place on the following day. Jim had seen that Sullivan and Silver had all they wanted before them on the breakfast table; and he went out to look after the horses, so that there might be no delay in starting. Perumal joined him with a salaam which intimated that he wished to say something.

‘The gentlemen are going to hunt the rogue elephant. It will be better not to go; but if one must go, let it be the young soldier officer.’

‘Why?’ asked Jim, stopping short.

‘Nothing but evil can come to Mr. Silver.’

‘Ah!’ said Burns attentively.

The peon lowered his voice.

‘Master knows very well that Mr. Silver has the Bombay man’s talisman. It is dangerous to meddle with such things.’ He hesitated, but an ‘oh’ from Jim encouraged him to continue a confidence which experience had taught him would not be abused. He went on. ‘Who can tell when rain will come or life will go, and who can tell how fortune may spring? Yet by a charm fortune may sometimes be controlled. The talisman brought luck to the hawker; he is a very rich man. But he did not get the treasure by violence. As such things are taken so will the luck be. If through gold, then the charm will bring gold; if through feasting, then will rich dishes and sweetmeats always surround the possessor, and his land will be fruitful; but if it is taken through violence, then will violence follow the footsteps of the owner. Master knows how Mr. Silver took the charm. Let him leave it here, and depart before evil catches him. Then the hawker will come by his own again in his own way, and will have happiness.’

‘Tell the syces to bring the horses,’ said Jim, and Perumal hurried off to do his master’s bidding. The beautiful Arabs were ready; the stable requisites were carried by a coolie, and Jim’s keen eye recognised in him one of the hawker’s porters. There was no reason why the man should not utilise his spare time by earning two days’ wages thus, so he said nothing. When he went back to the verandah, Silver and his companion had finished breakfast and were ready to mount.

‘By the by, Silver, shall I take that bone of contention between you and the hawker and give it him back? You don’t want the man dogging your footsteps, and the thing is of no earthly use to you.’

‘No, I am not going to give it up again, after having had it chucked back at me by that cheeky beggar. And I won’t pay for it either. I’ve got it safe in my pocket; and to-morrow it will make me master of my lord, the elephant. Come along, Sullivan. You’ll see us back again, Burns, in three or four days.’

Jim had no belief whatever in the power of the charm, but he knew how natives will compass heaven and earth to obtain their ends. Well, if the hawker’s coolie could manage to steal the charm during the next two days so much the better. He did not think after what Perumal had said that violence would be used. Besides, Sullivan was there as well as two personal servants, who with other bearers had gone on ahead to the little forest hut, where they were to spend the night: Silver was well protected.

‘It is a pity that he should have carried the charm with him,’ said the peon’s voice at his elbow.

‘Mr. Silver can take care of himself; he is a good shot and an experienced hunter; he can force the luck on his side.’

‘The English are strong and they can do many things; but even the foot of the elephant may slip. The Englishman knows little of the power of the magic of our country,’ replied the peon.

Jim busied himself all day with the various duties connected with his work. He dined by himself, and after dinner strolled down the road leading from the bungalow. It was a frequent custom of his to wander forth after dinner whilst he was smoking, and have a look round the little colony over which he ruled, before turning in for the night. In the hot season when the forest was dry and sere, never a night passed but the careful forest officer swept the hills with his glasses for signs of forest fires. Since the burning of his tents in camp he had been more careful than ever to look for the glare, and for the thin red thread of flame that lined the hills when the destructive element was at work. The path from the bungalow was only a bridle track of soft soil. Grass grew on each side, and here and there it was shaded by an orange-tree or guava-bush. About two hundred feet below was the burial ground. It contained only half a dozen graves where natives were buried. It was surrounded by a trench, and at its further end there was a group of trees. The ground was visible from the path, and as Jim strolled along he caught a glimpse of the glimmer of a light among the nameless graves. He threw away his half-finished cheroot, and directed his steps cautiously towards the light, keeping outside the trench amongst the scrub that grew on the hill.

To his astonishment he recognised the second coolie belonging to the hawker. The man was dressed for some ceremony, and seemed to be doing poojah over one of the graves. He had made the usual blood sacrifice, and laid out his offerings; and he was busily engaged repeating incantations. In the distance near the entrance stood a white-robed figure, which Jim guessed was the hawker. He was in no way joining in, or taking any part in, the ceremony; he was merely an interested spectator. Burns divined in a moment what was going on; it was the black art. The man was reciting tantras or invocations to the queen of demons, supplicating her aid in casting spells for the recovery of this treasure. The forest officer smiled at the childishness of it all, and yet there was a fascinating solemnity and seriousness about it which impressed him. He watched the magician at work. Magic is very widely practised in India; there is no law against it, and it has a peculiar fascination for all castes from the highest to the lowest, Hindu, Mussulman, and native Christian.

Jim was just going to turn back, when he heard a weird scream in the small tope of trees which bordered the end of the burial ground. The wizard as well as his white-robed spectator started. Although the aid of the Satanic Majesty was invoked, the demon was not expected to manifest itself. In another second the poor, mutilated Muniah, Perumal’s idiot brother, bounded forth in all his hideousness, and stood jibbering before the worker of spells. He had been attracted by the light and the offerings, and was anticipating a feast of good things. Thinking him none other than the devil himself, raised by the power of his own spells, the magician incontinently fled, with his employer at his heels; and the idiot was left master of the situation. Jim, convulsed with silent laughter, left Muniah to enjoy the feast at his leisure, and returned to the bungalow.

There was no news of the hunters during the next day. Jim, indeed, did not expect to hear any until they returned in triumph with the rogue’s head. After his solitary dinner he again adjourned to the verandah to smoke his cheroot. The breeze from the north-east had died away, and the heavy scent of the orange-trees growing near the bungalow filled the air. Now and then a tree frog chinked, and the howl of the jackal echoed from the side of the opposite hill. A faint sound, which was neither frog nor jackal, fell on Jim’s ear. It was the distant, monotonous chant of bearers as they carried some heavy burden.

‘By Jingo, they’ve made quick work of the beast,’ exclaimed Jim, as he started up out of his chair.

Calling for a lantern he went swiftly down the path to meet the cavalcade. He had not gone far before he encountered Sullivan, pale, haggard, and worn out with fatigue. He leaped from his horse, and flung the reins to the syce who was close at his heels.

‘Burns, there’s been an awful accident. I’ve brought him back; I couldn’t leave him there in a lonely grave.’

‘Him! What do you mean?’

‘Silver has been killed—accidentally,’ added Sullivan, seeing the look in Jim’s face. ‘It happened whilst we were out shooting.’

‘Is he wounded, or is he really gone?’ asked Jim, who found it hard to believe that the man who was so lately full of life and hope could be no more.

‘Dead, the life bashed out of him, poor chap! Give me a whisky and soda. I’ve had nothing to eat for hours.’

Whilst Jim supplied the famished man with food and drink, the body was brought in and laid on the cot, where Silver had so lately slept the sleep of health and strength. Sullivan told what he knew of the catastrophe, but there were several details which Jim could only guess at. The story in its entirety was this:

The two men arrived in due course at the spot where the elephant was reported to be. It was a long march and tiring, but they were up by starlight the next morning, and away on the tracks of the beast. It was said to be in some jungle which clothed the sides of a hill. The hill ended in a deep precipice of sheer rock. Silver was delighted at the prospect; the animal was cornered and could not escape them.

‘Here’s the beginning of my good luck,’ he said gleefully. ‘We can’t help getting a shot. Even if he breaks back, one of us ought to have a chance of putting in a bullet.’

The air was crisp and cold to frostiness; there was a heavy dew glistening on the vegetation like white frost. They crept noiselessly up the hill through the jungle, the hawker’s coolie at their heels carrying spare rifles. After half an hour’s arduous climb, which took them nearly to the top, they heard the flapping of its ears and the peculiar purring noise which elephants make when they have fed and are at ease in the depths of the jungle. The wind was right, and so far the beast had no suspicion of their presence. They crept forward, planting each step with the utmost care. At last they sighted its huge, mouse-coloured body, which looked like a great boulder of dark, weather-worn granite. It was standing under a tree where the forest ended abruptly; its feet were buried in ferns and terrestrial orchids and it lazily brushed away the flies with its restless trunk.

Neither of the men spoke, but Silver signed to Sullivan that he might have the first shot. The young man made no demur. Lifting his rifle to his shoulder he took steady aim and fired through the trees. Whether the bullet struck the stem of an intervening tree or penetrated the beast’s thick hide he could not tell. In any case the wound, if there was one, was not fatal. The elephant was not even alarmed; but the surprise of the attack most effectually roused its anger. With a loud trumpeting it swerved round, and charged in the direction of the smoke. Sullivan gave it another bullet, but with no better success. He then slipped aside; and using the trunks of trees as a cover, got out of its way, leaving Silver to deal with it.

Silver’s object was to get a shot clear of the jungle. He ran out into the open space towards the peak above the forest, and with a shout drew the attention of the beast to himself. No sooner did it catch a glimpse of its new assailant than it rolled up its trunk and charged up the hill towards him. Silver fired with a deliberate aim, which he thought could not fail to give it its coup de grace. But the creature seemed to bear a charmed life. To his dismay he found that his shot had taken no more effect than Sullivan’s; it did not even check its furious charge. It was necessary to seek the shelter of the jungle; for though he had managed to slip in another cartridge, there was no time to have a second shot. All in a moment he recognised the seriousness of the situation. His retreat to the forest was cut off, and in front of him was the cliff with its cruel depths, He could not stop to consider, for the infuriated beast was close upon him.

He ran to the edge of the precipice, and seeing vegetation just below him growing on a narrow shelf of rock, he trusted to the uncertainty of a refuge there rather than to the certainty of being crushed to death if he remained in the open. The bushes held firmly, and he crouched amongst them under the edge of the cliff. He had need of good nerves, for he was on the very verge of a sheer precipice some six or seven hundred feet deep. He could hear the elephant snorting above him: he looked up and saw the end of its trunk just above his head. The cunning beast was feeling for him along the edge, but fortunately it could not reach him.

A thought shot through Silver’s mind that possibly the animal’s attention might be diverted by Sullivan, and he listened eagerly for the sound of his rifle. But Sullivan was still in the forest, quite ignorant of the turn affairs had taken. No, the creature was still there; it had no intention of letting him escape so easily. After some seconds of suspense he was conscious of another movement on the part of the elephant. With fiendish ingenuity it was kneeling down.

Lower and lower came that dreadful proboscis. In a few moments more it would seize him and hurl him back upon the top of the cliff to meet certain death among the sweet purple and white orchids. He flung up his right hand, in which he still held his rifle, to strike its trunk. But the blow was a mere flea-bite on its thick hide. The rifle was grasped angrily and dragged from his hand. As it was torn through his unwilling fingers, the trigger caught, and the elephant received the heavy charge full in its forehead. It staggered, swayed, and then pitched forward, head first, over the cliff. A human cry rang out on the air, and then all was still.

Sullivan had struggled back to the edge of the forest to watch the progress of events, never doubting but that Silver, with all his experience as a sportsman, would have everything his own way. He was in time to see the elephant fall over the edge, and he heard the cry which told the fate of his friend. The stillness and loneliness of the mountain top was maddening. He was filled with an insane desire to throw himself over the precipice after the two beings who had disappeared from his terror-stricken gaze. He went to the edge of the cliff and called, although he was conscious that no answer could come. And when his shouts met with no response, he flung himself down upon the soft, sweet vegetation, feeling, for all his manhood, horribly sick and faint.

A voice at his side recalled him to his senses. It was the gun coolie. The man was looking at a speck in the sky, and he said something in his own tongue. Sullivan did not understand his words, but he recognised the speck: it was a large bird of prey, one of the kite species. The man laid his hand on the Englishman’s arm, and pointed down the hill to the way by which they had come; then he touched his own breast and waved his hand over the precipice. Dick understood what he meant; and it seemed the best thing to be done. In obedience to the suggestion he started to get help from the hut where they had passed the night, whilst the coolie, with keen eyes and a catlike tread, made his way round to the spot where Silver lay at the foot of the precipice.

‘It is a most extraordinary accident. I suppose there was no sign of life when you reached him?’ said Jim, as Sullivan finished his description of the part he had played in it.

‘None. He was lying at the foot of the precipice; the rock was splashed with his blood; half the bones in his body must be broken.’

Burns persuaded Sullivan to have a cheroot whilst he went to see the apothecary who had been sent for from the lines. The man had finished his examination and was standing by the cot. He said in precise English:

‘Death has resulted from the fall. There is a wound on the skull sufficient in itself to have caused death. The left leg and arm and three of the ribs are broken and the whole body is bruised.’

Jim gazed down at the maimed form. Suddenly he stooped forward and examined the neck from which the shirt had been torn away.

‘What is this?’ he asked, pointing to a mark in the throat.

‘It is a wound from a piece of rock.’

Jim fixed his eyes on the man and knew that he lied.

‘It is a stab from a knife,’ he said angrily.

‘Who could have stabbed a dead man? See, no blood has flowed, though the stone cut into the jugular vein. It was done as the body touched the ground. The wound to the head happened as the elephant fell on him. I can swear to the cause of death. It was not from the throat; it was from the head wound.’

Burns knew that it was useless to say more. The fall was in itself sufficient to cause death, and the apothecary’s evidence was enough in a land where the law is not so stringent as in England, and where there was no coroner within reach. He turned from the room, and found the peon waiting for orders outside. After making the necessary arrangements, he said:

‘Where is the hawker who was here yesterday?’

‘He is gone.’

‘And his coolies?’

‘They too have gone. The hawker left this morning with one man. The other, who served as bearer, has not come back, and they will not return again. They have got what they came for.’

‘The talisman?’

‘The talisman has also disappeared.’

Jim caught his peon by the arm.

‘What is the meaning of all this?’ he asked in the compelling tone which his followers knew well and rarely resisted. ‘What was that wound in the throat? Was it murder?’

‘No, no, sir; there has been no murder done.’

Jim gave a sigh of relief, and the man continued:

‘When the luck of the charm took Mr. Silver over the cliff, the coolie was there ready to take back the jewel. He is a magic worker; he knew that an accident must happen, and that he would be able to secure the charm. But the luck was bad; he said that more evil accidents must befall the owner unless the luck were changed. This could only be done by dipping the jewel in the blood of the late possessor; a few drops were enough, but they must come from the throat.’

It is of no use to rave against such follies and superstitions as result in the desecration of a dead body. Jim maintained a moody silence; he relaxed his grip and freed the peon.

‘It is fate,’ said the man, willing to console his master. ‘There has been no wrong done. Surely it is unwise to meddle with these things without knowledge. One may escape the cast of a stone, since it is thrown by the hand of man; but who may escape the power of fate when it is the doing of the gods?’

Chapter X

A Death Struggle

The pleasant months of January and February passed too quickly for Jim. March arrived, and with it the weather grew hotter. In April a great deal of the green vegetation died down, turning yellow and crisp, as though stricken with frost; and many of the trees shed their leaves or flagged limply under the heat. The woodmen were busy felling, and the forest peons had their time fully occupied in watching the jungles lest the hillmen should fire them. The village cattle grew thin, as their grazing grounds dried up and withered. Every season has its occupation in India as elsewhere. The business of the hot weather with the mountain tribes is honey-gathering. The strobilanthes,² a shrub which forms a thick undergrowth in the forests of Ceylon and South India, had blossomed recently, and there was a splendid harvest of honey awaiting the gatherers. This beautiful plant blooms in cycles of eleven and twelve years. After flowering, it seeds and dies down, only to spring up again before the dry sticks of its last growth have rotted away. The blossom is a pale mauve or lavender, and its profusion gives the jungle the appearance of being hung with curtains of lavender gauze. Bees swarm to take advantage of the wealth of nectar awaiting them, in company with myriads of butterflies, gorgeous with metallic tints of every hue. Later on, when seed replaces blossom, every variety of seed-eating bird may be found at the feast. The honey made from the strobilanthes is considered to be of especially good quality; it possesses medicinal virtues, and it is readily bought by the natives in the plains.

In Purumal’s village those men whose trade it was to gather honey were busy preparing to start on their quest. Some of them worked in parties of three or four. Others preferred working by themselves. They each had a traditional beat, and no man poached on ground that belonged by the unwritten law of the village to another. Those who went in parties usually worked where it was not possible to gather alone. A rope of creeper was woven, and by it the gatherer was lowered till he was level with the comb. Armed with a stick and a basket he broke off the comb as he swung in mid-air, and at a signal he was hauled up again. There was a curious rule that no brother should ever assist with the rope. Perhaps it had its origin in the fact that it was permissible amongst the tribe to marry a deceased brother’s widow. The time of day chosen for honey-gathering was when the majority of the bees were away. Sometimes the men smeared themselves with a mixture which was supposed to prevent the bees from stinging them; but this was not often done. They owed their immunity from stings to the absence of the bees, the suddenness of their operations, and the quiet rapidity with which they did their work.

Suri had been an expert at honey-gathering; but he always worked alone, and alone he lost his life. Muniah, the idiot, whom he had so often ill-treated had found him, and had wreaked an insane vengeance on his dead body. Terrible, indeed, had been the retribution on the part of Suri’s brothers, when they mutilated the living body of the poor lunatic, and deprived him of nose and lips. It was the elder of the two who had been the chief actor, although the fact could never be brought home to him by Perumal, and hitherto he had escaped punishment. The idiot, having lost the power of speech with his lips, was unable to tell his own story, and his intellect was too clouded by the shock of the mutilation to enable him to make himself intelligent on the subject. Any reference to it only produced a paroxysm of rage. As time passed he grew more shy of human beings, and led a solitary life in the jungles, taking his food at his own time after it was left in a secluded spot by his brother.

Suri’s two brothers started with the rest of the honey-gatherers, each taking his old beat. No matter how often the comb is taken and the bees’ nests destroyed, they return year after year to the same spot. With the same trustful confidence they build their hanging slabs of honey-comb in the same place, and store the precious syrup without a thought of the thief of last year. The elder brother followed a mountain path that led to some cliffs which were not far from the forest bungalow. The hills were clothed with vegetation, for the most part crisp and sere under the torrid sun. At the crest the mountain fell away in a sudden escarpment, and formed a precipice. Such cliffs may be seen on all the mountains of Southern India. The traveller pushes on through flowering jungle and grassy upland, never suspecting the depths that are so near. Suddenly his steps are arrested by the cessation of the hill. Woods and plains lie in miniature at his feet, perhaps as much as two thousand feet below. The large tanks look like pools, and the vast trackless forest at the base of the hills might be a few acres of cabbages, to such an extent does the distance dwarf the landscape.

But it was not to one of these stupendous precipices that the honey-gatherer picked his way. The cliffs he sought were only about three hundred feet high. On their face there was a shelf a few feet wide which seemed placed there by nature on purpose to help the robber in depriving the bees of their treasure. Above this shelf and within an arm’s length hung the combs. The honey-gatherer’s eyes sparkled in pleasant anticipation as he caught sight of the brown, irregular masses, looking not unlike huge fungi growing on the grey rock. It was early in the day, but he had his work cut out for him. As he passed through the forest he supplied himself with the necessary creepers, and emerged on the crown of the hill dragging the long trails after him. They were thin, woody stems, not unlike rattan. It took him till midday to weave the pliant lengths into a rough ladder with loops for the climber’s bare toes instead of rungs. When it was finished he pegged it firmly to the ground and hitched the ample ends over a boulder that was half buried in the soil. Taking a short staff and his basket with its earthen dish, he passed over the edge of the rock and climbed down towards the bees.

No sooner had he disappeared than a figure crept forth from the thick shelter of a tangle of bush and long grass. The sunlight fell on the hideous face of the idiot, his double row of exposed-teeth gleaming white upon the red gums, and his lipless mouth framed in a pale, scarred line that scored the brown cheeks from beneath the eyes to the very chin. His face was one inexorable, diabolical grin like the grin of a fleshless skull. Muniah wriggled his way out of his thorny hiding-place with the dexterity of a wild cat without scratching his bare skin. He was perfectly naked. His hair was long and matted, and his limbs were abnormally developed, like those of a gorilla, from his out-door life. He jibbered to himself with low, inarticulate sounds, and was much excited. His worst passions had been roused by the sight of the man who had done him so much evil. Fear, anger, hatred, and revenge, all four conflicting emotions raged within his breast. Though little better than an animal in intelligence, he possessed all the cunning of the lunatic, and he showed it now by his actions, which were a curious mixture of the mischievous ape and the vengeful man. He crept to the ladder and waited till its tension was relaxed and it lay perfectly still. With a mad fury he endeavoured to unhitch the long trails from the boulder and unloose the pegs; but finding they resisted, another thought flashed across his clouded brain. Leaving his half-performed task he slipped over the edge of the cliff and followed the honey-gatherer.

The latter, after reaching the shelf, had travelled some way along it, so that he might work towards his retreat. At any moment he might have to fly, as he could not tell how strong the bees might be. If they attacked him in numbers, he would have to leave his work, and return to it when they had quieted down. Lifting his stick he was about to break off the laden comb when he was startled by a slight crash behind him. He turned sharply and his horrified gaze fell on the grinning countenance of the idiot, who leaped to his feet with the nimble bound of a tree cat. The ladder, loosened by the idiot’s insane attack upon it, had barely supported him to the end of his climb, and it had given way just before his feet touched the rock. As Muniah sprang up, he cast the life-saving trails over the edge of the precipice, his dulled brain in no way realising what he was throwing away.

The honey-gatherer on the contrary was fully aware of the folly of the deed, and a little cry of horror escaped from his lips as he saw the precious ladder disappear; then he stood perfectly still. In the first moment of his surprise he had taken his victim, whom he had not seen for some months, for the fiend incarnate of the hill; but a minute later he recognised Perumal’s brother. With the recognition came the knowledge, flashing swiftly through his brain, that either he or his enemy must perish. There could be only one reason why Muniah dogged his footsteps in this fashion: it meant revenge.

‘You cursed fiend!’ he cried. ‘Why didn’t I kill you like a dog when I had you in my power, fool that I was? Do you hear, you son of a jibbering ape? I will cut you to pieces, bit by bit, and feed my dog on your flesh, a little bit every day, so that you may live to see how he will relish your swine’s flesh.’

At the sound of the honey-gatherer’s voice a tremor passed over the idiot. It brought back the memory of his horrible tortures. But the momentary fear passed; it was swallowed up in the deadly hatred that burned within him, and which he could no more control than the tiger can control its fury when it is face to face with the destroying hunter. Muniah drew himself up, and his enemy noticed for the first time how he had grown since he had escaped from his hands. He had become broader and stronger, and was a man in every sense of the word except in intellect. It was no slim youth that Suri’s brother had to deal with now; it was a powerful human animal, whose physical strength had proportionately increased as his mental powers had failed.

Muniah leaned against the wall of rock behind him, and glanced up at the bees which had not yet been disturbed. The length of the shelf was about a hundred feet. At each end it narrowed till it was finally lost in the face of the cliff. On the idiot’s right a small cleft in the rock gave entrance to a cave; to his left stood the honey-gatherer, watchful and undecided. Could he by any chance seize the idiot and throw him over the precipice? He would thus be freed from one danger. But even if he delivered himself from his enemy, how was he to reach the top of the cliff without a ladder? He knew the wall of rock to be pathless; not even a monkey could clamber over its face. Nor were there any means of getting safely to the foot of the precipice. For some time the two men stood there. If the honey-gatherer made any movement, Muniah stirred too, showing that he was every whit as alert and watchful.

By and by the bees began to return, and at once became uneasy at the presence of the two strangers. One of them suddenly swooped upon the honey-gatherer; he heard the angry ping and felt a sharp stab in his neck. He cursed the bee, whilst the idiot gave vent to wild sounds which might have been meant for laughter. The honey-gatherer stooped, and picking up one of the small pieces of rock which strewed the shelf, he threw it at Muniah. It was a foolish action, for the other lost no time in retaliating. Not only did he hurl stones at his companion, but, what was far worse, he began to pelt the bees and their honey-combs.

‘Stop!’ cried the man, glancing up at the buzzing insects as they swarmed angrily round the damaged comb. ‘Do you want to be stung to death. Can’t you understand, you son of a dog, that you yourself will be killed? Stop it, I tell you.’ He took up a large piece of rock and threw it viciously at the idiot, who screamed again with fiendish laughter as he renewed his pelting of the bees. The buzzing and humming increased, and the sky was blackened by the crowd that came forth to do battle for their treasure. Down they poured upon their assailants, sparing neither one nor the other. As Muniah felt the first stab he uttered a yell, and fled into the cave to escape. The honey-gatherer hesitated to follow; it was not until his bare back was spotted with the orange-barred insects that he elected to share his retreat with his victim. The cave was about ten feet in depth, and three or four in breadth. It was merely a fissure in the rock, and it was dimly lighted by the narrow opening. Muniah had taken up his position at the end, and the honey-gatherer stood near the entrance. The bees did not pursue their enemies into its depths; they continued to hum in angry clamour over their damaged combs. Each minute brought fresh wanderers back from their honey-gathering; the story of robbery and assault was told again and again, and each minute a fresh voice was added to the hubbub. Whenever the honey-gatherer attempted to emerge from his prison, the little people flew to the attack and drove him back, bringing a shower of curses from him on their unconscious selves.

It is doubtful if the idiot lad had formulated any plan in his brain when he followed his enemy down to the shelf, and cut off his means of retreat. The action was instinctive, almost senseless, as it was self-destructive. But he was incapable of reasoning. Like the leopard, he waited for an opportunity to spring upon his adversary and tear him in pieces. Hitherto that opportunity had not offered itself, nor was it likely to do so as long as the honey-gatherer kept his wits about him. By sheer force of intellect the one man dominated the other; thus he waited till the bees had had time to grow quiet. Then he began to think of a possible means of escape.

He left the cave, and passing slowly along the length of the shelf, he searched for the trail of a creeper, or for the stout branches of a friendly bush in the faint hope that he might yet find some means of climbing up or down the face of the rock. Some forty feet above him was the edge of the precipice. Two hundred feet below lay a bed of rock where grass and fern grew in patches. A fall on to this bed would, he knew, break every bone in his body. Thrice in his futile search he passed the entrance of the cave. Each time he stooped and peered into its depths, two eyes gleamed at him with the living light which scintillates in the eyes of an angry animal; and a growl, half human, half bestial, greeted his ears.

But his search was fruitless, and despair seized his heart. He raised his voice into the tribal call for help. It was the time when the men of his village were wending their various ways home over the mountains. Possibly his shout might be heard; as he thought of a rescue, hope rose tumultuously in his heart, and lent strength to his lungs. The sound brought out the idiot, who was strangely stirred and excited. Again the honey-gatherer raised his voice in the long monotone that was like a horn, and which had a peculiar power of penetrating to an amazing distance through the clear mountain air. He called on the name of his father and his brother; but there was no response. The only effect of his shouting was to excite his companion and rouse the bees. Though comparative peace and quiet reigned in the hives, the memory of the attack remained, and they clung to the combs or buzzed in agitated flight round the spot. Suri’s brother again gave his prolonged call. As Muniah heard it, he was seized with a maniacal rage. He flung his arms about, and with his strong, muscular fingers he grasped at the loose bits of rock as though he would tear the very earth in pieces. He advanced threateningly towards the honey-gatherer, who planted himself firmly against the rocky wall, prepared to grapple with the maniac should he approach too near. The bees were once more swarming out in myriads, their angry hum filling the air, and their thick flight blackening the sky.

Between hunger and rage the honey-gatherer’s caution was fast forsaking him. He cursed wildly and brandished the staff he had brought with him. Now and then he made as though he would enter the cave and close with Muniah. There was no shrinking on the part of the idiot. As the enemy approached, his burning eyes glittered and sparkled watchfully; and the long, sinewy arms, strong as an ourang-outang’s, were stretched out to receive the other in a death-dealing embrace. The honey-gatherer had no chance against the physical strength of the lunatic, and he knew it. He shrank back each time with railings at his own impotence, and he renewed his revilings of his companion. His increasing excitement and loss of self-control had a disastrous effect on Muniah, whose madness was fast approaching a paroxysm.

Presently he came out and began to throw stones at the bees again. Immediately the buzzing increased and a cloud of angry insects hung over the two men. At first Muniah did not seem to feel their stings, his excitement was too great. He danced wildly before the cave with strange yells, and would not allow the honey-gatherer to approach. But when the bees attacked his face and eyes, instinct made him plunge once more into the shelter of the cave. The honey-gatherer followed, maddened with the agony of the stings. His body and face were already swelling to disfigurement, and there was no healing leaf or herb at hand to soothe and cure the wounds.

The pain of the stings racked his body. His flesh burned with the poison of the bees, and his whole soul cried aloud for water. Occasionally he went to the entrance, but before he could finish his long tribal call, the bees drove him back. Then he tried to shout, running up to the cleft and retreating immediately; but the bees were too sharp for him; as he gave his quick, short call they hurled themselves at him, even following him into the gloom of the cave.

The afternoon, hot and sultry, passed and the honey-gatherer’s brain began to fail him. Strange fancies assailed him: he thought that the lunatic was a devil. It did not require much imagination to produce the illusion. Muniah’s paroxysms, which were growing fiercer and more convulsive each time they seized him, were fearful to behold. The honey-gatherer ceased cursing, and began to mumble muntras, propitiatory formulas which are supposed to have a softening influence upon Hindu deities of all kinds. By and by he flung himself to the ground, and pressed his forehead to the earth, humbling himself as if he were before his swami. Weeping and wailing, he lifted his hands in entreaty, and prayed to Muniah to give him water, calling him by the name of his swami. It was a moment of fatal weakness. The sane had become insane; the restraining power of a superior intellect was gone, and the two men stood on the same level. It was merely a matter of a physical struggle now and the end could not be far off.

The bloodshot eyes of the lunatic turned upon the figure of the honey-gatherer. He became quiet and stood motionless, watching the other. The sun was setting and darkness was creeping on. The humming of the bees was dying away; the idiot had ceased his convulsive jibberings, and silence reigned. The silence had a sobering effect upon the honey-gatherer.

The lunatic took a step forward and his adversary moved towards the cleft. There was a pause during which the two men glared motionless at each other. If the honey-gatherer had been himself, he might easily have kept the idiot at bay or even subdued him by force of will. But will and brain were weakened by pain; and each moment the weakness increased. The fear he had displayed when he took Muniah for the devil was the first retrograde step; the fear he was beginning to feel of the man Muniah was the last; as the lunatic recognised it, he flung himself upon his enemy with the fury of a wounded tiger, and the two men fell upon the shelf just outside the cave in a deathly struggle.

⁎  ⁎  ⁎

That afternoon Jim Burns was riding back to the forest bungalow from camp.

He had been away five days on a tour in his district. The path led him near the honey cliffs; in fact it passed close beneath them. But Jim had a great dislike to bees, and whenever he had to go that way he turned aside and made a detour, so as not to come too near the rocks. He was moving away from the beaten track, when he was arrested by one of his own men.

‘What’s the matter? Anything wrong at the bungalow?’ he asked, his thoughts instantly flying to fire.

‘No, sir; everything is right there. But all day long we have heard cries coming from the bee-cliffs, and the bees themselves are very angry.’

‘What has disturbed them?’

‘That is what we would ask your honour to find out. We have tried to get near the rocks, but the bees will not allow any one to approach. It is scarcely safe to stand here. See, there is one. Ride on, sir, quickly into the jungle, or you will be stung.’

The man took to his heels and dived without further ado into the forest close by. Jim followed as fast as he could get his horse to cover the ground. As soon as he reached home, he sent for Perumal. The peon gave the same account. All the afternoon at intervals they had heard calls coming from the direction of the bee-cliffs. Several men had attempted to get near the rocks, but they had been attacked and driven off by the bees. Something unusual had occurred to aggravate them, and the little people were in a dangerous state of irritation.

‘Is it the honey-gathering that has done the mischief?’

‘No, sir. The bees are never irritated to such an extent by the honey-gatherers. The men are quick in their work, and a few hours after the honey has been taken the bees are quiet again, and busy making fresh comb. They have been like this for the whole day. Something is on the rock, a bear, perhaps. Or perhaps a honey-gatherer has met with an accident and cannot get away. The calls sounded as though help were needed. I went myself to see if there were any sign of a man on the cliff, but I couldn’t make out anything that looked like a human being. The bees were swarming angrily over the combs, and I had to come away.’

‘We must wait till it is dark; then I will go myself. You must cover yourselves with blankets, and carry something to beat down the bees. They can’t do much harm after sunset, but they may be restless and troublesome even in the dark.’

Jim and Perumal started for the foot of the cliffs, carrying ropes and a basket strong enough to hold a man. As they neared the spot a fierce scream came from the rocks. The men were startled; they paused, and whispered amongst themselves.

‘Come on, come on!’ said Jim impatiently. ‘Devil up there? nonsense; that’s no devil; that’s the voice of a man in trouble, unless I’m very much mistaken.’

They hurried forward close at the heels of their master. Again the shriek rang out; this time it was a maniacal laugh, which, in spite of the presence of the Englishman, curdled the blood of his followers.

‘Perumal,’ said Jim in a low voice, ‘I fear this is Muniah. Have you seen anything of him lately?’

‘Not for a week, sir.’

‘Has he taken his food to-day?’

‘No, sir; neither to-day nor yesterday. We placed it in the jungle on the usual spot, but it has not been touched. He has never failed to take it before.’

They emerged from the jungle, and were soon on the bed of rock at the base of the precipice. There was a sound above them; they could faintly discern a moving, struggling mass, as of some large creature writhing in mortal agony, or of two smaller bodies interlocked in a deadly embrace. Wild curses fell on their ears, whilst the unearthly screams of mad laughter echoed again and again. Above all was heard the booming of the bees, which were swarming in blind, angry flight round the wrestlers.

‘Stand clear!’ called Jim to his men, as he grasped the situation. They had crowded immediately below the cliff, and they stood in imminent danger of being crushed by any falling body. He pushed them aside, knowing that there could be but one ending to that deadly struggle.

Scarcely had they moved, when a shower of small stones fell; the writhing mass balanced on the edge of the rocky shelf; the laughter ceased and the cursing ended in a wild shriek of pain. There was a heavy thud as they touched the ground; and then all was still.

Jim and his followers pressed forward and recognised the figure of Muniah clasping in his death-grip the man who had disfigured him. The idiot’s lipless fangs were buried in his enemy’s flesh; the sharp, uncut finger-nails were dug deep in his back, like the claws of a leopard; and the strong arms were closed round the honey-gatherer’s lifeless body in an embrace which no efforts of the rescuing party could unlock. Both bodies were studded with bees—held there by the stings which had been so sharply applied on the disturbers of their peace.

The bodies were carried to the forest bungalow. The following day they were interred in one grave, still locked in that last terrible embrace. When the necessary obsequies were over and the little colony had resumed the usual regular routine of work, Jim said a few words of sympathy to his faithful follower, as was his wont on such occasions. The man was quiet in his grief, and resigned. In brighter days he had been deeply attached to the little motherless lad; but of late Perumal had learned to see how completely the old bonds had been broken.

‘I am sorry you have lost your brother,’ said Jim. ‘Yet perhaps it is as well. He would have become more dangerous as he grew older, and we shouldn’t have known how to control him.’

‘He died to some purpose. My hand was withheld by the gods. How often it has been lifted against the honey-gatherer, but was prevented from falling! The tiger and the snake may pursue, but the evil which a man makes with his own hand follows closer; as closely as his own shadow till he is swallowed up in it. Yes, he died well, and I am glad.’ Such was the reply of Perumal; but the peon was, of course, a heathen.

Chapter XI

Narrain’s Fate

The morning sky was flecked with golden clouds, and dawn was fast growing into day. Anamah, the syce’s wife, had already given her husband his mug of hot coffee and taken her own, and now, wrapped in her blanket, she issued from her hut near the stables to go on her daily round of work. For a monthly wage she provided the horse of which Mootoo had charge with its bundle of fresh grass. She was earlier than usual, for the master was starting that morning on one of his camping tours, and Anamah had to travel some twelve miles in addition to cutting the grass. She had packed up her pots and pans and the few trifles of household property required for the expedition. These her husband would carry, together with the stable requisites. Mootoo had quite recovered from the mesmeric spells of enchantment which Narrain had cast about him; he was once more the same merry, light-hearted groom as before.

Anamah, with her cloth tucked up and her grass-knife at her waist, stepped forth like a young fawn amongst the long, dewy grass. She had no fear of man nor beast in her heart; nothing had come to mar the happy life which had been her lot since the day she made her escape hidden in the bundle of hay. As she walked she rolled a betel leaf, and filled her round cheek with the juicy morsel. She passed by the stable to strike into the forest behind it, and in turning a corner of the building she ran against a man, who was in the act of stooping to lift a basket of fruit from the ground. He had a short, grey beard, and his head was covered with a red turban. She knew in an instant that he was not a hill-man. With a smothered exclamation of fear she bounded past him, and scudded like a frightened rabbit into the forest.

The man glanced after her with an evil scowl. He seemed inclined to follow her; but on second thoughts he pursued his way, which took him to the front of the bungalow.

The house was alive with the bustle of the early departure, and servants were busy packing plates and glasses. Jim Burns had just finished his tea and toast; he was dressed in his riding costume, and in the capacious pockets of his loose coat he carried some sandwiches. He intended making a long round of inspection, and would not be in camp until four o’clock in the afternoon. He came from the breakfast room to the verandah.

‘Shall I send a coolie with your rifle, sir,’ asked Perumal, who was awaiting final orders.

‘No, I shall have no time to look for game to-day. What does that fellow want over there?’

The red-turbaned man with the short, grey beard hastened forward.

‘Sir, I have come to ask your honour to allow me to cut a pole for my hut.’

He launched out into a tale of housebuilding, a common story enough, and one that was often told to Jim with a similar request.

‘I don’t know your face, and you don’t look like a hill-man; but you may have the pole, and welcome,’ said Jim, cutting him short, as he was anxious not to lose any time. ‘Do you know the man?’ he asked, turning to the peon who had been gazing at the stranger with the curiosity of his race.

‘No, sir, he is not one of the villagers.’

‘Oh, well, never mind; tell the clerk to let him have a pole; he wouldn’t come all this way to ask for one if he didn’t want it.’

The man made a low salaam of thanks, and offered the forest officer a small bunch of plantains from his fruit basket. Perumal would have taken the bananas, but the stranger seemed desirous of placing them in the hands of the master himself.

‘The fruit is from the hills near Madura, the best in the south of India,’ he said.

‘Sirumullee plantains, I see. I’ll take them with me for lunch.’

There is no fruit so refreshing and sustaining on a journey as the Indian banana. The man had selected his little gift with judgment; the Sirumullee banana is choice and uncommon; it is difficult to obtain by reason of its being grown only in private gardens. Jim put the fruit in his pocket, and the man moved away.

‘Get the kit and the tents off as soon as possible, and have some tea ready for me when I come in. I shall be hungry and tired.’

He mounted his horse and cantered along the narrow hill-path with as light a heart as man could desire. He had a sound constitution and had never been troubled with fever; he also had a clear conscience and a keen sense of the loveliness of life. The crisp morning air invigorated him with a buoyancy that might be the gift of some rare wine. His eye took in the various beauties of the hills: the gorgeous butterflies, the shy, fluttering birds that glanced in the sunlight amongst the foliage, like living autumnal leaves. He listened to their strange warblings, and he marked the fresh tracks of the deer, where they had brushed through the dewy grass at dawn from their feeding-ground in the open to the shelter of the jungle. He reached the patch of forest reserve a little later than he expected.

His horse, which had never been sick or sorry in its life, had shown an unwillingness to go which was altogether foreign to its nature. Jim put it down to a touch of rheumatism.

He went through the young wood, noting its condition in view of future operations. The shade afforded by the trees was pleasant, and he lingered a little longer than was necessary before remounting. He had fully fifteen miles to ride, and his way was by unfrequented paths that were mere cattle tracks. But the animal that he bestrode was a good one and well able to do the journey.

He had not gone more than a mile when the lameness returned. He dismounted, and looked at the foot to see if there was a stone or thorn in the hoof. He could find nothing to cause it. There was neither stone nor thorn. The hock was a little swollen, which might have been caused by a sprain, as the animal had galloped along the rough path. Jim remounted, and urging the horse into a canter, pressed on towards his new camping-ground. But the pace was distressing; from an uncomfortable canter it dropped into a halting trot, and finally the animal refused to proceed except at a walk.

‘This is a nuisance,’ said Jim to himself. ‘I don’t want to have to walk myself in this scorching sun, and I hoped to cover this bit of the ground at a better pace than this. I may as well eat my lunch and let the poor beast take its own pace.’

He pulled out his sandwiches and soon disposed of them. The plantains followed, and proved delicious—cool, juicy, and of a fine flavour, with a strong taste of the jargonelle pear. Each minute that passed seemed to increase the lameness of the horse: it limped painfully, and Jim knew that in common humanity he ought to relieve the poor beast of his weight. He felt strangely lazy, and unwilling to leave his saddle. It was doubtless the sun which was making him so sleepy. He jumped heavily to the ground as the animal came to a standstill, and he looked stupidly at its leg. The off-hind leg was considerably swollen, and manifestly painful.

‘Been stung by something,’ murmured Jim sleepily. He passed his hand down the leg, scarcely knowing what he did, and then he looked vaguely round for water. There was no sound of any stream on that bare hillside. He tried to urge the horse on in front of him, but it could no longer put its foot to the ground. It hobbled a few steps, and then stopped again.

‘Poor beast! We must wait till some one comes by,’ said Jim dreamily, as he leaned his arms on the saddle. His limbs were unaccountably heavy. ‘May as well sit down as stand,’ he said, a few moments later, dropping upon the grass.

Pitilessly the tropical sun shone upon him, each burning ray stabbing him with relentless cruelty—ay, and stabbing him to his death if no timely help were at hand. A little mountain lark finished its song, and fluttered into the shelter of the long, coarse grass. The sneaking jackal crept under the broad leaves of the wild ginger, and the deer pressed deeper still into the thick forest. All living creatures except the butterfly and the lizard sought refuge from those relentless rays. Only the unconscious forest officer remained on that sunburnt hillside, and his faithful steed, crippled and suffering, stood over him, and whinnied for help, which was not likely to be forthcoming.

⁎  ⁎  ⁎

The tents were pitched; the servants, peons, and lascars had had their dinner, and the cook had had time to make some hot scones for the master for the afternoon tea he had ordered. Mootoo, Perumal, and the butler sat chatting at the tent door as they waited and watched for Jim’s coming. Mootoo had arranged a comfortable stabling for his charge under a spreading tree. The bucket was full of sparkling water, and a liberal feed of bran and boiled gram was placed near it. The rice for the syce’s evening meal had also been washed, and put in the pot ready for its boiling, as soon as his wife should come in. As he listened respectfully to the butler’s talk he heard Anamah’s voice calling him. He rose and went towards the tree; she had just arrived.

‘Where is our master?’

‘Not returned yet.’

‘And you my husband, you are safe?’

‘I? Of course I am safe!’ he said, laughing at her fears.

He laughed as he helped to bring her load of grass to the ground. She stretched her aching back and rearranged her cloth so that it reached below her knees.

‘You may talk, but that devil is abroad who so nearly had the undoing of you.’

‘What devil?’

‘Narrain, my uncle, from whom you delivered me last Christmas. The villain! He still hopes to get my jewels, and he will take my husband from me if the gods do not protect us.’

‘Where did you see him? Quick, woman! tell me!’

‘Behind our stables over there. He thought that I should not know him with his newly-grown beard and red turban, instead of the smooth face and shaven head of the temple-man. He carried a basket of fruit, too; but for all that, I knew that he was no fruit seller. It was Narrain, Narrain himself, the wicked devil.’

Mootoo went back to the peon and the butler.

‘Our master is late in coming,’ said Perumal.

Then Mootoo told his tale, and Perumal heard once more the story of the enchantment of the syce, and the attempt on the life of the forest officer in the temple enclosure.

Suddenly the peon started up. A terrible thought crossed his brain. Was it Mootoo that Narrain sought? What about the master? The men whispered amongst themselves, and presently a band of forest servants set out in the direction of the reserves, which they knew their master was to visit. With flying feet they sped over the hillsides, their eagle glance covering the landscape and their ears open to every sound. With a muffled cry Mootoo stopped short and bent forward, every nerve strained at attention. He stood motionless, listening intently. Far away in the distance there sounded on the breeze a whinnying neigh. It was answered by a prolonged note from the syce, and again the neighing was repeated with a new ring of gladness, as the poor beast recognised the voice of the man who tended and fed him. Then with a shout to his fellows, Mootoo bounded forward towards the spot whence the sound had come.

Jim was lying still unconscious on the earth. The skin on his face and hands was blistered, and the sun had almost completed its deadly work. The horse, with its swollen leg hanging painfully, was standing by its master’s side. As Perumal sprang to his beloved master, so Mootoo bounded to the side of his charge. Passing his hand over the limb he felt for thorn or insect-sting with a puzzled expression. The swollen hock was unaccountable. He could find no wound of any sort. The animal seemed to know that help had arrived at last; it whinnied and snorted over the syce as he knelt down fearlessly underneath it and sought more closely for the cause of mischief. That mischief had been wrought he had no sort of doubt; and as he sought, suspicion strengthened.

Perumal, who had no eyes nor ears for any living thing but his master, was kneeling by his side. Lifting the heavy eyelids he looked into the pupils of the unconscious man. Then he laid his hand on his heart. There was life, but how long would it last? There are many things known to the native of India which do not come within the province of the ordinary Englishman; amongst other things he is well versed in the poisons of his country, and does not need the medical man to help him to their antidotes.

A stretcher was hastily formed from some branches cut in the nearest jungle; and Jim was carried to his tent, whilst a messenger was sent to the forest bungalow for the apothecary.

‘This is Narrain’s doing,’ whispered the peon to the butler.

‘The fruit!’

‘Yes. May the pishasha take him! Only let me lay my hands upon him, and I will see that the debt is paid!’

‘See to it now before it is too late then.’

A look of intelligence passed between the two men and Perumal slipped round to the place where the stabling arrangements had been made. Anamah in her husband’s absence was keeping close under the wing of the other grass-cutters, with whom she was whispering tearfully. Mootoo had not appeared; the women awaited his coming with some anxiety; for the power of the temple man was still feared, the more so now that he had dared to try his strength with their master.

On the hillside the horse-keeper still bent over his disabled charge. He had brought water and bathed the limb; but still remained puzzled and at fault over the cause. As he once more passed his hand over the swollen hock with the tender touch of a woman, he was startled by the sound of a low laugh behind him. He sprang to his feet and found himself confronted by Narrain. The light shone full on the face of his enemy, and the syce shrank back in fear and trembling at the evil smile of triumph which spread over the countenance of the temple man.

‘Oho! so you thought to escape me and live in peace with your wife and your ill-gotten gains! But you cannot escape the power of the swami. Look! Look at this! This is the eye of the swami of the temple! See how it burns with anger because you forsook his service!’

He held aloft a stone that shone red in the light of the sun. Mootoo gazed with stupid fascination, a dull anger at the same time burning within him. He made an effort to shake off the baleful influence, and returned to his work of rubbing the horse’s foot.

‘You think to cure your master’s horse by rubbing! You may save yourself the trouble. Would you like to know the secret of the beast’s lameness? Ask Narrain, him who has the ear of the swami.’

The man spoke slowly and with a purpose; he wanted to hold the fascinated gaze of the syce till he had effected his subjugation.

‘In the night the swami spoke. “Call Mootoo,” he said. “Tell him I have need of him. Why did he leave me? Was it to serve a cursed foreigner?” Then he told me to destroy your master and his horse; and if you will not come when you are called, he will destroy you too.’

Mootoo shivered, but he made another effort to shake off his enemy, and instinctively turned once more to his charge.

‘Look for the hurt! seek it closely! But stop! Listen and I will tell you the secret. Watch this burning eye whilst I speak.’

He made some passes with the left hand whilst he held aloft the charm with his right. His end was near its accomplishment. In another minute the syce would once more have been his oblivious slave.

‘Round the hock is twisted a fine wire; it is closely hidden under the hair. Leave it there, for the master’s horse shall die like himself, and you——’

There was a sound behind him, and he turned with swift apprehension. In another second he had dropped his basket; with a clever, elusive movement he slipped from the closing grasp of the peon’s strong hand. He had not forgotten the rescue by the syces in the temple compound, when he had felt the weight of their sticks across his back. Then he had companions by his side, but now he was alone. He knew that it would be vain to attempt to brazen it out and deny his identity. The only chance of saving his skin was by fleeing to the plains where he had friends, and where it was not likely that the forest servants would pursue him. He therefore sprang along the hill path with a rapidity that surprised Perumal, and put some distance between them before the chase had fairly begun. The scent was taken up without further delay, and the peon and his followers settled down to a steady, relentless pursuit. Small mercy would he have at their hands if he allowed them to come up with him.

Narrain was strong and wiry; he could travel as fast as most men provided he knew his ground. But though he had a fairly accurate notion of the direction of the plains, the mountain path that led to them was strange to him. Here and there game and cattle tracks crossed the way. More than once he hesitated, halting for a few seconds in his doubt. Each time he did so his pursuers gained slightly upon him.

The sun sank behind the higher hills on the west, and the country was lit up by the fleeting after-glow, that glory of the tropics, when for a magical ten minutes the earth is transformed into a fairyland of colour and light. Narrain, heedless of all else but the salvation of his unworthy skin, plunged down the hillside, soon reaching a warmer atmosphere, where the valleys were growing dark and grey in the depths of their shadows. The transient light passed from the earth to the sky, and the hills took the hues of the pansy as they reared their crests against the light. The deepest purple to the richest brown walled him in behind. In front the plains lay some three thousand feet below him. There were seven or eight miles still to cover; not much of a journey for a man of his race.

Down, down he leaped, the peon and his companions following with the persistency of bloodhounds. It was getting too dark to distinguish the path. He found himself at a belt of jungle and dashed into it by a deer track, flinging himself against obstructing branches and fronds of palm-scrub and fern. His skin was scratched and torn, but he did not heed the drops of red blood that trickled over his sinewy body. Once he stopped to listen; a snapping of a branch behind him told all that he wanted to know.

He reached the further edge of the jungle and again paused. The path divided, one branch running along the side of the hill, the other descending sharply in what looked like a bee-line for his village. The warm reek of the plains came as a breath of encouragement to the hunted man. He filled his nostrils and his lungs, and setting his face eastwards, he took the unknown path down the steep incline.

Scarcely had he disappeared below the declivity when Perumal, closely followed by the others, pushed his way out of the wood. He glanced sharply along the path that went parallel with the belt of jungle. Then he stooped and looked at the track which led below; and his keen eye did not fail to notice where the elastic grass was rising from its late crushing under the flat foot of a human being. He listened intently, and his quick ear caught the sound of footsteps in retreat. He was satisfied.

‘To-morrow we shall find him in the valley below the elephant’s head. He is safe till then.’

‘Safe!’ and they all laughed.

Then they turned their faces to the hill, and with bending knees and long springing steps they set themselves to cover the long distance that lay between them and the camp, where their meal of curry and rice was being kept hot for them by the patient women who called them lords and masters.

And Narrain? Crashing onwards, his imagination picturing his enemies in full pursuit, he blundered down the narrow path with headlong speed, the ground growing steeper beneath his feet each moment, now amongst rocks and tussocks of grass and fern, then over a bit of slab rock embedded in the swampy ground. It was too dark to see where the slimy moss grew, and where the water oozed and flowed in a thin almost imperceptible sheet over the smooth stone. His feet slipped, and he fell forward on the steeply sloping rock, his right leg crumpling beneath him with an ominous snap. He then rolled over the edge of the slab into one of those swampy streams so often found in the small lower valleys of the Western Ghats. In appearance it was a bed of moss, grass, and marsh fern, with scarce a gleam of the silvery spring to be seen; and his fall was a mere nothing.

A mere nothing except for the slippery rock twenty feet above, on which he had snapped the bone of his leg. As he tried to raise himself, he fell back on his soft, mossy couch with a sickening sense of pain and helplessness. Fortunately the night was warm; and though his bed was damp and feverish, he had nothing to fear from the elements. He must lie there till the morning, when he might possibly be able to attract the attention of a passing hillman. The thought of a prowling tiger crossed his brain. But no, there had been no rumour of tigers lately in the neighbourhood; and if by chance one came wandering by, it would seek the pools in the wider valleys and its track would not pass him there. Ah! how the pain of his broken limb racked him, as he moved into a more comfortable position! He rested his head on his arm, and with a curse upon his enemies who had frustrated his schemes, he settled himself to a patient endurance of the evil of the hour.

Once or twice he peered round for a dry shelf of rock to which he might crawl perhaps. There was no such rock to be seen, except the one from which he had fallen, towering like a wall on three sides of him. On the fourth side there was a thick, dense growth of water plants impenetrable except with the help of the hillman’s knife.

Yet, though Narrain had set himself to await the coming of dawn without fear of the marauding tiger, and though he bore the pain of his broken leg with marvellous fortitude, he was far from feeling easy. He was an inhabitant of the plains, it is true; but he lived near enough to the hills to know that the tiger is not the only enemy that man has to fear in the warm, moist valleys of the Western Ghats. Now and then he raised his head, and glanced apprehensively around him; and as he did so, he passed his hand anxiously over his wrists and ankles.

The last flicker of daylight died out of the sky as the legions of the swamp arose. Small, brown, shining creatures, smaller than the finger of a new-born babe, they awoke from the ooze, and with long, looping strides they approached their prey, intent on their deadly feast. Hungry and relentless they bore down upon him, with a horrid and unerring instinct, in greedy, sightless haste. On his neck and wrists, on his ankles, under his arms and knees they fastened; they crept along his back and within the folds of his loin cloth, even his nostrils and his ears did not escape the voraciousness of the deadly leech of the forest swamp. In myriads they came, and in myriads they fell, surfeited with their unholy feast, whilst fresh myriads took their places.

With the first prick, so slight as to be scarcely perceptible, Narrain started up into a sitting posture. There was agony upon his face, but it was not the agony of a broken bone. The hunted deer will scream with terror, whilst he will bear the pain of the sharp blade in silence. He suffers far more from fear than he does from physical pain. The half-civilised savage is akin to the wild animal of the jungle; he too shrieks in an agony of terror, when a broken bone or an open wound will not do more than draw a groan from his lips.

Narrain shrieked now as Lingariah had once screamed when the flames licked the flies of the forest officer’s tent. But there was no one to hear, and there was no one at hand to help. Covering his head with his hands, he rolled over in his utter helplessness upon the warm, oozy swamp to meet his awful fate. Occasionally he reared himself up again and tried to fight his insidious enemies. In vain he tore them off in mad frenzy. As each was removed it made room for two more, both insatiably thirsty, both relentless and eager for the last drop. Towards morning his struggles ceased. Even now, if help had been at hand, his worthless life might have been saved. But his strength was gone, and he could not call for help. The flies buzzed in the midday sun and the vultures circled in the sky above. Deep in the jungle the jackals waited impatiently for night, when they might quarrel and fight with their fellows over what remained when the birds of prey had gone to roost.

Chapter XII

Petticoat-Shy

Jim Burns had a strong constitution; but the exposure to the sun, whilst he was under the influence of the narcotic introduced by Narrain into the bananas, was a severe strain upon it. Fever shook him to pieces, and threatened to make an end of him. It necessitated sick leave, and as soon as he could be moved he went to Madras for sea air. In a month’s time he was almost himself again, and might have returned to his work. But the medical men recommended a run up to Coonoor on the Nilgiris, by way of completing what the sea had done in restoring his health and strength. Jim fought against the proposition, as he was anxious to get back to his work. But he was at last prevailed upon to go, especially as his friend, Henry Power, was also on his way to the hills.

From living so long in the jungle, Jim, who was never much of a lady’s man, had become incorrigibly shy in the presence of his own countrywomen. He had no objection to Coonoor itself, but he shrank from facing the bevy of pretty women that gathered on the hills every hot weather. However, there was no need to associate with any of them if he did not wish, so Henry Power assured him. At the same time Power chaffed him unmercifully about his shyness. The collector felt very differently towards the fair sex; for he had lately become engaged and was soon to be married. In the blush of his new-found happiness he could not understand how any man in his senses could forswear the delightful society of women.

So Jim went to Coonoor and buried himself in the bachelor quarters of the hotel, or hid himself in the whist room of the club. He was always ready for cricket, and had no objection to a game of tennis provided there were no petticoats.

Amongst the numerous throng of ladies who had lately come up from the plains was Peggy Mahon, a warm-hearted, impulsive Irish girl. She was an excellent specimen of the modern maiden, with an independent, straightforward manner which made her slightly masculine at times without being mannish. She cycled and played tennis, cricket and hockey. She rode and walked, and could handle rod and gun if opportunity offered. She had splendid health, was a warm friend, and a generous, outspoken enemy.

Peggy and an acquaintance were walking one afternoon to the Race Course to see the finish of a cricket match between Coonoor and Wellington, the military station close by, where the troops were quartered. The girls were talking of Power and his lady-love, between whom there had been a lovers’ quarrel. It was of no importance, but the girls were taking up the cudgels on behalf of their sex, and were championing the lady in the usual manner.

‘It is outrageous! abominable! Some one ought to interfere,’ said Peggy as she heard the story of the quarrel. The colour mounted to her face, and her eyes flashed with anger.

‘It cannot be helped,’ returned her companion. ‘When people become engaged, it is impossible to interfere in their quarrels.’

‘Quarrels! This is not a case of quarrelling. This is bullying, unmitigated bullying.’

The other laughed.

‘Poor little Amy would not allow such a thing. You know she just worships that man, and she is crying her eyes out because he is angry with her.’

Peggy made a movement of impatience.

‘What right has he to be angry with her. What did she do? Merely danced three times with one of the best boys in the world. The brute is jealous. She should let him understand at once that she is not going to put up with such nonsense. If she allows this sort of thing before they are married, she will never be anything but that contemptible creature, a bullied wife. Oh, how I should like to fight her battle for her, and show her how to face the music! Crying is of no use. Tears are too strong a seasoning for a man’s everyday life. Like cayenne-pepper, they should be sparingly and cunningly used. It is the tongue that is wanted, not tears, and I have a great mind to try it myself.’

Her companion gazed at her in astonishment.

‘You! Why, Peggy, you don’t know Mr. Power; you don’t even know him by sight! You wouldn’t dare to cut into a lovers’ quarrel, especially when one of them is a perfect stranger to you!’

‘It is no quarrel, I tell you; it is an aggravated case of bullying,’ the girl replied hotly.

Peggy Mahon was not a shrew; she was merely championing her friend—the more warmly perhaps because she knew that Amy had been foolish in allowing a flirtation to spring up with mushroom growth between herself and a good-looking boy at Wellington, in the interval between her arrival on the hills and her lover’s advent. It was a feeble and harmless flirtation, but it had resulted in tears and repentance. The thought of those tears had enlisted all Peggy’s warm, impulsive soul on the side of her friend. As they came in sight of the cricket-ground, Peggy said:

‘Now point out Mr. Power. You know him well, and I should like to know him by sight.’

The other glanced at her in momentary suspicion.

‘You won’t attack him, you really must not. There he is, fielding, a tall, thick-set man. He has a slow manner which they say is due to shyness; but I have not found him shy.’

Peggy looked hard at the supposed villain. She had good eyes, and was sure that she would know him again. She searched for Amy amongst the crowd, but was told that she was not there. Amy had gone to a rehearsal at the club where Mr. Power was to join her as soon as the match was over.

Just before the stumps were drawn, Peggy, with determination on her face and war in her heart, quietly withdrew from the company of on-lookers, and walked away towards the bridge over the stream, which runs through the race-course valley. Crossing the bridge, she stationed herself under the feathery wattles, and kept watch and ward over the path leading from the cricket-ground to Coonoor. She had not long to wait. A thick-set, active figure in flannel, with a crop of curly hair under his cricketing cap, and a clean-shaven face, came swinging along by a narrow path towards the short cut that led up the hill to Coonoor. Swiftly Peggy moved in front of him, and the astonished man found his road barred by the erect form of a woman, who stood resolutely in the way.

‘Stay! I have a few words to say to you,’ said the girl imperiously. ‘I am sorry to find that you are causing great pain and grief to one who is very dear to me. I have stopped you now to ask you to be more reasonable, more just. You are angry without a cause. I assure you that she has no thought for any one but yourself. Believe me, it is a mistake to inspire fear instead of love; you will teach her to be afraid of you instead of loving you.’

Peggy spoke earnestly and quickly, putting her whole heart into what she said. The man in flannels tried to get in a word; but his astonishment and confusion were so great, that speech at first failed him. He shuffled awkwardly, and looked from side to side: seeing no escape, his eyes sought his cricket-shoes and the ground at his feet. Peggy read these signs as signs of guilt, and she felt emboldened to go on. But whilst she took up the cudgels for her friend, she tried to keep her tongue within bounds; and the Irish side of her nature peeped out in an inclination to blarney rather than to vituperate. She instinctively fell back on that powerful feminine weapon, cajolery.

‘Sure, now, you would rather be loved than feared?’ she went on. ‘I don’t wonder at a girl falling in love with you, for you’re as handsome a man as woman could desire.’ The hot blood mounted to his face, and his chin fell lower still in his earnest study of his toes. ‘I could fall in love with you myself if you were kind. But you have not been kind; you have been most unkind, not to say cruel. If I were you I should be ashamed to make a woman cry. Wouldn’t I rather kiss the tears away and go on my bended knees, till my love was all smiles again. You must go at once and make it all straight.’

‘I assure you,’ stammered the unfortunate man, finding tongue at last, ‘I have done nothing——’

‘Oh, yes, you have. Don’t try to get out of it in that way.’

‘Indeed, you are mistaken.’

He made a sudden dash to the right to pass her and escape; but she was too quick for him. She caught him with a firm grasp on each arm, and held him at arms’ length; whilst he, paralysed at her touch, became limp and nerveless under her hands.

‘Don’t be a coward. Just hear me to the end, and then you shall go.’

The word coward roused him, and for the first time he lifted his eyes to those of his assailant; soft, grey eyes they were, he discovered, flashing like a summer’s storm with the fire of indignation and the warmth of cajolery. He noticed how the deep grey of the eyes was set off by the rich tint of the cheek, flushed with her own temerity. The brown hair curled round her ears, and her white teeth gleamed between the full, red lips of an emotional mouth. He forgot his shyness, he forgot his unknown offence, he could only gaze in undisguised admiration at the face in front of him.

‘Now, not another word of excuse! You go straight to the point, and tell her what a nasty, cruel wretch you have been, and ask her to forgive you and love you; and whilst she is forgiving you—she is fool enough for anything, dear little woman—you fill in the gap with kisses, with kisses, mind; and be sure you put your heart into it. There! now you may go.’

She shook him free with a little push, and scurried off in the direction of the cricket field. He was inclined to follow her, as he evidently had something to say; but he changed his mind, and as soon as she was out of sight he pursued his way to the club. There was a smile on his lips, and a strange light in his eyes, as he sought his quarters that evening at the hotel. ‘To-morrow I’ll have an explanation with her; it will be my turn then. But I must find out first who she is.’

As Peggy walked back to the field, her heart beat fast, for she knew that she had done a very bold thing. But she felt that victory was on her side. After all, he did not look such a brute as she had fancied he was; nor did he appear to be a bully. He was distinctly good-looking; no wonder Amy was in love with him. There was no doubt about his being shy, he was painfully shy. A shy man, as every one is aware, makes a bold lover; and she felt that there were great possibilities for Amy’s happiness in spite of his anger and jealousy. Yes, she knew that she had done right in thus bearding the lion, even though she might have incurred his dislike, perhaps his enmity, for life. She returned to her mother’s house just below the hotel, where the roses and the heliotrope throw their blossoms over the hedge; and she awoke the next morning with as light a heart as the pretty little bulbul that was singing its sweet song in the blossom-laden fence.

After breakfast she took out her cycle, and went for a run on the only piece of level road in Coonoor, known as the Figure of Eight. As she rounded the foot of the Eight, she came upon Amy and a strange man. They had dismounted from their cycles and were bending their heads most amicably over Amy’s machine. The tire of it wanted pumping up. Now this was too bad of Amy, thought Peggy. Here she was beginning another of these feeble flirtations. It wasn’t fair on Mr. Power. She stopped as she came up with the couple. Amy looked up, radiant and blushing.

‘Peggy, let me introduce Mr. Power. Henry, this is my friend, Peggy Mahon.’ The stranger shook hands with her warmly whilst she could only gaze at him in blank amazement. If this was Mr. Power, who in the wide world was the man she had assailed and assaulted—yes, it was nothing short of an assault—at the corner by the short cut yesterday?

‘Were you playing cricket yesterday?’ she gasped.

‘No, I got my old friend, Burns, to take my place. I went with Amy to the rehearsal instead.’

So, then, the lovers’ quarrel had been made up before she had put her finger into the pie! What a meddling fool she had been!

‘I thought I saw you on the field,’ she said.

‘That was Jim Burns. He is often taken for me. You didn’t get a word with him, I’ll be bound! He is petticoat-shy. The best fellow in the world, but from living so long in the jungles, he is terrified of the fair sex. He probably made a bolt the moment the match was over, and headed straight for the club, his refuge from all storms. He hasn’t been known to speak to a woman for years, which is a pity, as that sort of thing grows on a man.’

Peggy kept her counsel, and presently went on her way, cursing her folly, vowing that she would never again interfere in other folk’s affairs, not even to save her best friend from hanging. An apology would be necessary; and as she thought of it the hot blood mounted again to her cheeks.

She was so upset by the discovery of her mistake that she scarcely knew what she was about. Without noticing where she was going, she followed the lower road running down to the race-course valley, the scene of her foolish encounter. The road sloped steeply, and was bad for bicycles. Peggy’s machine took advantage of the situation and ran away with her. She turned on her brake, which acted only in a half-hearted way; but she kept her head. Down she raced till she reached the sharp turning towards the bridge. This she failed to negotiate properly; she wobbled on a little further; the machine left the road, kicked up its heels, and deposited her in the middle of a thick bit of jungle, composed of wild laurel, bramble and wattle, below the road. Fortunate indeed it was for her that she escaped stone wall or rock. As it was, she was scratched and breathless, and thoroughly disorganised as to dress. Only those who have been thrown into a bit of colonial jungle can realise the utter helplessness which overwhelms the unfortunate individual in the struggle to be free of it. The hands press yielding substance, the feet thrust themselves deeper with each endeavour to obtain freedom, and the body is imprisoned in a dense labyrinth of twigs and branches.

Peggy was feeling the humiliation of her position and the undignified helplessness of the situation. As she was vainly trying to extricate herself she heard steps on the road above her. It was probably a soldier from the barracks at Wellington. She shouted, and the footsteps stopped.

‘Help me! I’ve had an accident,’ she cried.

A man’s face peered down into the jungle from the roadside. To her utter confusion, it was the face of him she had assaulted the day before. Fate seemed determined to turn the tables upon her.

‘Oh! it’s you, the wrong man!’ she exclaimed. ‘I mean, you’re the right man in this instance. Do you think you can pull me out?’

‘I’ll try,’ said Jim. The heartiness of his tone reassured her, and she watched him as he began to make his way down the hillside towards her.

‘Stop; don’t come that way; you’ll fall on the top of me in a minute. Don’t you see that the ground slopes too much for any one to come that way, unless he takes a header as I did. You must go further down and work your way up to me along the hill.’

Jim obediently followed her directions, and presently found himself by her side,—that is to say as near as he could get to her as she stood in the centre of her bed of bramble. He took out his knife and began to cut away the branches; but it was slow work, and his hands were badly scratched in the process.

‘I’m afraid you must be hurt,’ he said, as he stopped a moment to wipe his bleeding fingers and extract a thorn or two. ‘How did you manage to get here?’

‘You may well ask! My bicycle ran away with me and sent me head foremost over the khud.’

‘Better than the wall a little further on. Now, perhaps, you might make a move.’

Peggy tried, but her serge dress was gripped by a thousand curved thorns, and all she could do was to put forward an ankle, which showed a torn stocking and a patch of white skin streaked with crimson. The sight of it sent the blood to Jim’s face with a curious sensation which was unfamiliar to the forest officer. He threw himself forward, and forced his way into the bushes till he was by her side. Cutting, disentangling, pulling this way and that, now leaning over her on one side, now on the other; then disentangling himself, and letting her reach for detaining thorn and branch where he could not, the two fought their way till they were freed and were able to creep, like a pair of disorganised rabbits, into the road.

Peggy lifted her eyes to Jim’s, and burst into a merry laugh.

‘You look as if you had been dragged through a bush backwards,’ she cried.

‘I’m afraid I can only return the compliment,’ he rejoined, enjoying the situation immensely.

‘Isn’t my hair full of sticks and dead leaves? It must be like a bulbul’s nest. Oh, do take some of the rubbish out.’

And Jim Burns, who scarcely dared to lift his eyes to a woman’s, found himself helping a pretty girl with her toilette, with the ease of a man who had served his apprenticeship with a hairdresser. He made quite a little collection of natural history specimens, including two or three strange live things, which kicked feebly as he took them out of her brown curls, She straightened her jacket and collar with a pull here and twitch there. Then they walked to the stream at the bottom of the valley, and washed away the traces of their excursion into the jungle. By this time the two were on a footing of easy friendship, and the last trace of Jim’s shyness had vanished.

‘Now for your machine. I fear we shall find it a wreck; you must have your brake looked to.’

They found it lying in much the same sort of bramble-bed as its mistress had chosen, but lower down; and except for a few scratches it was uninjured. It took some time to extricate it, and Jim did not hurry himself. He had to wash his hands again in the stream, to shake the dust from Peggy’s skirt, to brush her jacket, and to remove a few remaining bits of bark and leaf from her hair.

Then the machine had to be led home, as Jim discovered that the tires were punctured; and he was introduced to Peggy’s family. But at this point his shyness suddenly returned; he became restive and showed signs of wanting to escape.

‘Can I do anything more for you?’ he asked as he took a hasty leave. ‘Shall I come up this afternoon and mend the tires? I can easily do it, as I have my apparatus with me. I am staying at the hotel just above.’

‘Yes, I heard from Mr. Power that you are his friend Mr. Burns; and I’m so sorry——’ said Peggy, screwing up her courage to make the necessary apology.

But Jim did not wait to hear. He was off and away into the road under the rose hedge before she could finish; and she went to her room to change her dress and salve her wounds.

After lunch Jim turned up with his apparatus. At the same time he left his card for Mrs. Mahon; but his ordeal in the drawing-room was shortened by the merciful Peggy, who carried him off to the carriage-house where she kept her bicycle. It took some time to mend the tires, and the young people did not run any risk of spoiling the work by undue haste. Moreover they found time to arrange for a picnic to Lady Canning’s seat, which Jim had never seen, and for a set at tennis at the club.

Jim’s month flew quickly by, and the time was approaching when he should return to his work in the south.

He was leaving the whist-room at the club one evening after sunset to walk to his hotel, when he caught sight of a well-known figure coming from the reading-room. It was not difficult to effect a meeting at the gate of the grounds. Peggy greeted him with just a trace of embarrassment in the heightened colour of her cheek, which, however, Jim could not see, as the short twilight of the tropics was already merging into starlight.

‘May I walk home with you?’ he asked: their respective homes lay in the same direction. ‘My holiday is nearly over. Next week I must be going south to my work again, as my leave will be up.’

‘Oh, so soon!’ cried Peggy. Then she paused.

The time had come when she felt that she must make the dreaded apology. She had put it off day by day with fatal procrastination, till it required almost a superhuman effort to allude to the terrible mistake. Under cover of the darkness she came to a sudden determination to get it over now, and have done with it. Jim was a little distrait, and his silence gave her time to gather courage.

‘I have been wanting so much to apologise for my impertinent behaviour to you the first day we met. I took you for somebody else. I hope you will forgive me; and also that you will forget all the dreadful things I said.’

‘Forgive I most certainly will, if there is anything to forgive; but I’m afraid I can’t forget.’

‘Oh, please do!’

‘Impossible! The fact is I have been thinking of some of the things you said ever since!’

He might have added that the memory of her touch upon his arm, of her grey eyes and pretty lips, was as fresh as the recollection of her words.

‘I’m so sorry; how could I have been such an idiot!’ said Peggy penitently. He was making it rather hard for her, and she hung her head in very shame. Jim came close to her side and laid a detaining hand upon her shoulder.

‘Do you know that I shall never forget all the excellent advice you gave me that day? it was admirable. Don’t you recollect? You said it was much better to be loved than feared. I quite agree with you; and what is more, I have discovered that it is much better to love than to fear.’

‘Did I inspire fear? I’m so glad,’ said Peggy, with a twinkle of mischief in her eye.

‘You did, but there’s no fear now; it’s all love, and it’s ever so much nicer, Peggy.’

He murmured her name softly, and down went her head again. She glanced to right and left in contemplated flight. He detected the intention, and dropped his hand from her shoulder to her waist.

‘No; you don’t run away till you have heard me out, as I once had to hear you out. You bade me go straight to the point and declare my love. I’ve been wanting to do so every day of my life since then, but have not had the courage until now.’

‘But the advice wasn’t meant for you at all!’ protested Peggy.

‘Nevertheless it was so excellent, that I have been glad to take it. And you said at the time that you could fall in love with me yourself if——’

‘Oh, stop! This is too dreadful; you were the wrong man,’ she cried, covered with confusion, but unable to help laughing at the way in which he was turning the tables upon her.

‘Was I indeed! I think not!’ he retorted, drawing her closer to him. There was not much shyness about the forest officer at this moment. ‘You said that I must ask forgiveness—for this I suppose.’ There was a little pause. ‘And you explained how the gaps should be filled in, I remember.’ Another pause. ‘And I was to be sure to put my heart into it.’

They were beneath the deep shadow of the gum-trees, which overhung the road leading from the club to the bungalow, hedged in with roses. Under cover of the darkness Jim certainly did his best to fill in the gaps, nor did he in any way fail to put his heart into it. The distance between the club and Mrs. Mahon’s house was short, but it took some time to traverse that evening, and Jim and Peggy were both late for dinner.

‘You’re just the girl for a forest officer’s wife. You will delight in the jungles, and be perfectly happy camping about the forests,’ said Amy, when she congratulated her friend on her engagement.

‘Our acquaintance began in the jungle, but I hope the one I shall live in will be less thorny than that in which Jim found me,’ replied Peggy. She was discreetly silent on the subject of their first encounter.

‘And if you find it dull at any time you can come and stay with us.’

‘Dull! Jim has been telling me all about his people—Perumal, and Mootoo, and poor Nulla. I am sure that I shall not find it dull. It is a new world, and I shall see some strange things before I have done with it. Some day I will tell you all about them.’

The warm-hearted Irish girl was already taking the wild hill-men to her heart, and making them her own people.

The End