Dawn gave birth to a day that for Trent and Dana Charteris was surcharged with expectancy and apprehension. Ridges broke up the horizon, hiding the country beyond, as though fate and nature had conspired to preclude until the last moment a view of Shingtse-lunpo. Before another night they should be within the walls of the city.
Just before noon they rode over a crest and saw a hightchorten, or rock pyramid. Yak-hair tents were pitched at its base, and a band of men, mounted on white ponies and carrying yellow-pennoned lances, clattered across the valley to meet them.
"They are soldiers of the Golden Army," Kee Meng announced.
As the horsemen drew nearer, Trent could see that they wore neutral-colored tunics and black leather caps, the latter having a strap under the chin and a golden, flame-shaped ornament attached to the top. Gold-hilted swords glittered in black belts, and several of the men carried queer, ancient-looking guns embossed with turquoise and coral. They came up in a cloud of dust, like figures riding out of history, and the leader stuck out his tongue by way of greeting. He examined their passports and assigned two soldiers—"to accompany us to Amber Bridge," Kee Meng explained.
With their escort they rode on toward the heat-twisted, quivering horizon that, in its very illusiveness, symbolized the uncertainty that filled both Trent and the girl. Neither spoke, but sat erect on their mounts, staring steadily, until their eyes ached, into the white sunlight.
The hot midday was waning when they reached the top of a shoulder of ground and looked upon the city. At first it was a long white blur upon the distant ranges, separated from the plain that surrounded it by a belt of green; then it assumed shape and form, and they saw it, walls and golden roofs, floating like a fabulous Atlantis in the liquid sunlight. A white bulk, seeming the extravagant creation of a mirage, towered above the walls. Gradually it emerged from the deceptive heat-waves and stood out, defined, a massive building, dominating the crenellated heap of masonry at its feet. The city's ramparts were high, yielding only a glimpse of roof-tops and the buttressed structure that was silhouetted in blinding white upon the aquamarine sky.
"The great building," said Kee Meng, "is Lhakang-gompa, of which I told you—the palace and temple of the Grand Lama."
As they rode nearer, passing barley fields and isolated groups of houses, it became evident that the belt of green encircling Shingtse-lunpo was a marsh. Apparently an outer fortification at one time stood in the swamp, for piles of broken stone reared themselves at intervals from the rush-encumbered quagmires, like the bones of a half-buried and bleaching skeleton. On the edge of the morass, flung across a stream, was a bridge; a stone causeway, perhaps a mile in length, linked it with what Trent imagined was the main gate of the city proper. The bridge itself—"Amber Bridge," Kee Meng had called it—was of mellowed stone, its enclosing walls supporting a roof glazed with tiles and inset with great lumps of raw amber. Prayer-flags drooped from the top.
Thus Shingtse-lunpo, the City of the Falcon, revealed herself to them for the first time, like an orient dream-city in the golden noonday.
As they approached Amber Bridge, two familiar lines sprang into Trent's mind and repeated themselves over and over:
With gilded gates and sunny spires ablaze,And burnished domes half seen through luminous haze.
With gilded gates and sunny spires ablaze,And burnished domes half seen through luminous haze.
In the silence, sovereign but for the footfalls of the animals and the creak of sweaty saddles, he heard the swift breathing of the girl who rode at his side—saw the wonderment, the expression of fascination, of awe, that reflected in her face. Brown eyes were deep with mystery.
At the bridge they were halted by more leather-helmeted guards who, after glancing at their passports, held a short conversation with the two soldiers from the outpost, then explained, through the usual channel of translation, that Trent's caravan would have to remain at Amber Bridge until the news of their arrival was communicated to "certain authorities" in the city.
A soldier dashed off along the causeway, while Trent, vaguely troubled, allowed his pony to be led into a mud-walled compound at one side of the road. There he and the other members of the caravan dismounted, and there they waited, somewhat apprehensive, for over an hour.
When the messenger returned he was accompanied by a small cortège, all soldiers but one, who, from his dress, was a dignitary of the city. He rode a white horse and wore a robe of orange-yellow brocaded silk, its wide sleeves faced with peacock-blue. A mushroom-shaped hat surmounted copper-hued Tibetan features. He greeted Trent very graciously in English and informed him that he was Na-chung, a member of the Higher Council, that meaning, he explained, those who assisted the Governor. He said that no doubt it was surprising to hear him speak English, but that he had learned it from a British officer at Gyangtse, at the time of the expedition to Lhassa.... His Transparency the Governor, he stated, had been expecting him for several days and his delay had caused his Transparency no small concern. Then he looked over Trent's men—and when his eyes reached Dana Charteris they halted. It was, for Trent, a breathless moment. But Na-chung smiled amiably and said:
"I understood there were to be onlyfourcaravaneers. You havefive."
Trent replied that none of the four assigned to him at Tali-fang spoke Tibetan—and how could he travel in Tibet without an interpreter? Therefore, he had presumed to add another to his caravan....
Na-chung continued to smile. "I see," he commented. "And this is the one you added?"—with a gesture toward the girl.
"No," returned Trent. "This one"—indicating Kee Meng.
"I see," repeated Na-chung. "We shall go into the city now, to the house which the Governor has provided for you."
The incident at Amber Bridge had a depressing effect upon Trent and he scarcely heard the inconsequential talk of Na-chung as they moved slowly over the causeway toward the ramparts of Shingtse-lunpo. But when they passed the gates—formidable, iron-studded affairs, with turrets at either side—his fears were temporarily thrust into the background. For the walls of Shingtse-lunpo only hinted at what they enclosed.
Beyond the main town, which sloped down into a depression and was a wilderness of narrow streets and dazzling whitewashed houses (some roofed with blue tiles, others with burnished gold), the ground rose to the one dominating structure—the Lamasery that stood, sheer-walled, upon sharply truncated rocks. Its massive bulk—longer than two city blocks, Trent hazarded—was pierced by row upon row of windows that seemed no larger than loopholes, and naked walls fell away from torn roofs and terrace-like additions. There were other large buildings and tiers of houses, the doors of the upper rows opening upon the roofs of those below, but they cowered beneath the regal mass of Lhakang-gompa, an architectural masterpiece that rose at least two hundred feet from its natural foundations and which Trent could compare only with the descriptions he had heard of the Potala at Lhassa.
From the main gate the road cleaved between brick-walled enclosures and hedges of bamboo. Beggars, ragged, repulsive-looking creatures, whined at the roadside, and dogs and swine nosed in the black, bubbling mud of the gutters. Blenching human bones lay beside discolored slabs of stone, and mailed dragonflies, drawn by the smell of carrion flesh, hovered near.[1]
From this filthy quarter they passed over another bridge and into a highway that lay in the shadows of fortress-like buildings. It was crowded with tonsured, magenta-robed priests. Mounted soldiers, the majority in neutral-tinted tunics, but some few wearing royal-blue and apricot-hued uniforms, threaded across the crimson swarm in a human shuttle, while men and women in less gaudy apparel moved inconspicuously through the throng. Yak-hair curtains and prayer-flags drooped from the windows of houses.
"You arrived at a time of celebration," said Na-chung. "The Feast of the Sacred Dance began yesterday. To-day the races were held on the Field of Ceremonies, and to-morrow will be celebrated by the Dance of the Gods, wrestling-bouts and the archery contest."
Na-chung proved most voluble. He talked on as they forsook the crowded street for a quarter close to the lamasery. The soldiers, who were leading, opened a gate in a high white wall, and the caravan moved into a flagged court.
The dwelling was typical of the better Tibetan residences, low and flat-roofed, and in the shape of a quadrangle. To the left, beyond a huddle of out-houses, was a garden. Willow-thorn, clematis and—hollyhocks! The scarlet flowers, pure flame in the sunlight, gave something of warming welcome to Trent.
Na-chung led the way into the house. The main hall was dank, like an empty cistern, and lighted by an opening in the ceiling, which served a twofold purpose in that it was also a means of reaching the upper floor. There were little or no furnishings, and narrow passages, black with gloom, led off from it.
"It would be advisable," said Na-chung as he prepared to leave, "that you do not leave your courtyard; that is, until you have been provided with proper garments. I shall acquaint his Transparency with your presence, and in the morning one will be sent to"—the councillor smiled—"to remove your beard and clothe you as befits a member of the Higher Council. To-morrow I shall return and accompany you to the Court of Ceremonies, after which his Transparency will no doubt receive you." Then, following a pause, "It has been deemed advisable to elevate you to membership in the Higher Council—for appearances only, as your duties will be quite different from those of a councillor."
He took his leave then, and Trent accompanied him into the court. He observed that Na-chung left two leather-helmeted soldiers at the gate, whether to act as bodyguards, or to see that he did not leave the grounds, he could only surmise.
Trent and Dana Charteris made a thorough inspection of the house. The rooms were clean, as clean as Tibetan rooms ever are; but the lack of proper ventilation and the ever-present stale-sweet odors did little to invite occupancy. From the roof the monastery and a portion of the town could be seen, and there, in a space protected by the high masonry that enclosed the housetop, the girl decided to quarter herself, while Trent chose the room directly beneath.
Before sundown, while Dana Charteris was overseeing the transportation of her packs to her elevated abode, Trent sought Kee Meng and found him in the quadrangle.
"I am going to place my brother in your charge," he announced. "I will probably be away from him much of the time, and if anything happens to him—" He chose to leave the sentence unfinished. (Trent always spoke of the girl as his "brother," although it was tacitly understood that Kee Meng knew she was not a man.)
"Cheulo!" responded the Mussulman. "Henceforth, instead ofmakotou, I am Protector-of-the-Brother!"
"And furthermore," Trent added, "I forbid you, or any of the men, to leave the grounds without my permission."
Later (dusk had swooned on Shingtse-lunpo), as Trent entered the main hall, which was unlighted except for a brass butter-lamp, he beheld a naked brown ankle and the bottom of a red robe as they vanished into one of the several black cavities opening upon the chamber. He stopped—then quickly backing to one side, against the wall, he drew his revolver and edged toward the passageway. When he was yet a few feet away a round, blue muzzle leaped out to meet him. As he recoiled, the owner of the ankle and robe, a lama with a very modern automatic gripped in one slim hand, stepped out. They stood motionless for a space of seconds, each with weapon lifted. Then a familiar satanic smile traced itself upon the yellow countenance—a smile that made the lama look Mephistophelian, despite his shorn head and hairless features.
"Kerth"—as Trent lowered his revolver, smiling. "Always at pistol-point...."
"I was beginning to feel uneasy about you," said Euan Kerth, as their hands met. "It was a relief when I saw your pack-train ride in to-day. Where can we go to talk—the garden? I came that way."
They left the house by a black-dark corridor, making their way into the grove of willow-thorn. Bright stars peered down through the branches, and the moon, floating above the white wall, reflected a faint, hazy light among the shadowy trees.
"I'd almost given you up," Kerth began, halting in the gloom beside the wall. "You were due over a week ago."
Trent had been debating with himself since the meeting in the house. Now he spoke; told Kerth of Dana Charteris; of the meeting in Calcutta and the subsequent happenings. Kerth saw a story within a story and surmised certain things that Trent omitted. He was silent for a while after the latter finished.
"It complicates matters, of course," he ventured discreetly, at length, "yet ... hmm ... no, you had no alternative. She had nerve, all right; how many women would have dared to do that? Damn these meddling police agents! If it hadn't been for her brother.... Hmm—and he had the Pearl Scarf!" A pause. "D'ye think Sarojini knows of her presence?"
"Miss Charteris? How could she?" Then Trent explained how he had exchanged muleteers at Tali-fang.
"Good!" exclaimed Kerth. "Good! That's a score against Sarojini. She'll raise thundering hell when she learns of it, but I think you can tame her—yes, you can do it."
"But tell me what happened at Myitkyina"—this from Trent.
The other shrugged. "Oh, nothing much. I had suspected we were headed for Tibet since I learned the character of the god on the symbol of the Order—yet this"—he made a gesture intended to include the city—"well, this is a bit beyond my imagination."
Briefly he then sketched his activities at Myitkyina.
"I followed you and Da-yak to the river that night, then downstream in another boat. After you had landed, and your servant, Tambusami, in another boat, I swam ashore. There was one fellow waiting with the boats, so I slipped up behind him.... After that it wasn't difficult. I exchanged clothing with him and waited. Sarojini Nanjee, dressed as a Kachin, returned in a few minutes, and with her, Da-yak, Tambusami and the boatmen. She and the Kachins took one of the craft downstream, I suppose to her camp, and Da-yak and your bearer got into the other boat—the boat where I was waiting. I'd sent a note to Warburton, the C. O. at Myitkyina, and he was waiting at the landing with several Gurkhas. We didn't have any trouble arresting them; the trouble came when we tried to force them to speak. All summed up, what they said was surprisingly little. Tambusami declared he was simply a servant and knew nothing about the Order, except that it existed. But Da-yak told where you had gone, and said there were three men in Myitkyina who knew the trail to Tali-fang. One of them I later hired. Da-yak said that up until a year ago he had a shop in the bazaar at Shingtse-lunpo, which he described as 'a great city where many lamas live'; that he was commanded by a Grand Lama to go to Myitkyina and establish a business. He was instructed to obey all who came to him with a certain symbol—the symbol of the Order. He swore he knew nothing of the Falcon or the jewels."
Kerth paused; peered into Trent's face; smiled.
"You're thinking just as I wish you to think," he observed; then went on: "Meanwhile, I'd reported the place in Calcutta and it had been raided. What happened I don't know. I was ready to start for Shingtse-lunpo the day after you left, but of course Delhi waited a couple of days to telegraph permission—and I was glad enough to get it then, for I was half afraid the Viceroy would refuse to let me go into Tibet. At Tali-fang I learned you hadn't passed and I left a message—you received it?... Eighteen days later I was inside the walls of Shingtse-lunpo—and paying homage to his Holiness Sâkya-mûni, the Buddha reincarnated."
"You mean," Trent interrogated, "there's a lama here who's supposed to be a reincarnation of Buddha?"
Kerth nodded. "That's his palace"—indicating Lhakang-gompa. "Oh, we've stumbled into a jolly little nest! It'll take your breath when I tell you everything. This—Shingtse-lunpo—is everything that Lhassa was, and a hundred things that Lhassa never could be, with Lhassa's secretiveness and holiness intensified to the nth degree. It's the—well, I suppose one might call it the secret capital of the Lamaist hierarchy. From all I can learn, it hasn't always had the great significance and power that it has now; until a few years ago it was simply the home of a Grand Lama who ranked with the Tarnath Lama. Nobody knew of it, because explorers haven't covered this part of Tibet; the nearest anybody ever came to this particular strip of territory was some time ago when a naturalist made his way into Kham, and again, later, when an American doctor went to a place called Chiamdo.... They say the Dalai Lama actually hid here, in Lhakang-gompa (which, incidentally, is a facsimile of the Potala at Lhassa, which I saw with the Mission) before he went to Urga. But that's monkish gossip.... At any rate, here's how I interpret affairs from all I've heard:
"After the Mission was sent to Lhassa the Dalai Lama lost a certain amount of prestige. The authority of the Tashi Lama, as you probably know, is more spiritual than temporal. Englishmen had been to Lhassa and to Tashi-lunpo; therefore, both of their holy-of-holies had been profaned. The lamas—that is, the hierarchy—were losing their hold on the people. All that was before nineteen-twelve. Then the President of China restored Tubdan Gyatso, the Dalai Lama, to Lhassa. But even that failed to revive the old zeal. So acoup d'étatwas planned. A Grand Lama had a made-to-order vision in which he saw the soul of Gaudama Siddartha descend into the body of one of the abbots. From that moment the abbot was Sâkya-mûni, Buddha reincarnated, and they installed him in Lhakang-gompa, here in Shingtse-lunpo, the secret citypar excellenceof Tibet. Lhassa and the Dalai Lama became figureheads—'to fool the British,' as one priest put it to me. The monasteries of Sera, Debung and Gaden, hotbeds of political intrigue in the time of the Dalai Lama and the Buriat, Dorjieff, were no longer powerful, but subservient to Lhakang-gompa. I understand the Tashi Lama objected to all this, but the Yellow Caps over-ruled him.... So now Sâkya-mûni, with the Lamaist hierarchy behind him, is supreme pontiff of the Church—and Lhakang-gompa is the Vatican, as it were, from which he rules Tibet and practically all of Mongolia, with certainsub rosawires that give him power in Nepal, Sikkhim, Bhutan and parts of China."
Trent was staring up through the branches at the stars, but as Kerth stopped he looked down and asked:
"Didn't you say you had an audience with him?"
Kerth's shaven skull nodded. "Yes. The Living Buddha wears a veil at all ceremonies—too holy for mortal eyes, I fancy. Of course the Grand Lamas have seen his face, but in the presence of the laity he is always veiled. I attended what might be called pontifical mass. In company with a number of pilgrim priests—at Shingtse-lunpo for the Feast of the Sacred Dance—I was conducted through a veritable labyrinth in the monastery and to a huge cathedral-like place. Sâkya-mûni, in yellow robes and with a golden veil over his face, sat on a throne at one end. Many cardinals and high officials were there, including the Great Magician of Shingtse-lunpo. After the ceremony the Living Buddha murmured something about 'Om, Ah, Hum' and blessed a lot of red scarves, orkatagsas they're called, and distributed them among the pilgrim priests. Then we left."
In the pause that followed Trent inserted:
"What of the jewels?"
Another shrug from Kerth. "If they're in Shingtse-lunpo, they are well hidden and their presence isn't widely known."
"Yet—" But Trent checked himself.
"Yet Sarojini Nanjee said they were here," Kerth finished up. "I know it. The fact that I haven't learned anything about them doesn't mean they aren't here."
"And you haven't seen Sarojini?"
"If I did, it was without my knowledge."
"Or—Chavigny?"
Kerth laughed quietly. "If I didn'tknowhe existed, I'd believe him a myth. No, I haven't seen Chavigny, nor heard of him, for that matter, since I entered the city. But that's not queer, for if he were here he wouldn't advertise the fact."
Trent motioned toward the lamasery. "Do you suppose he had a hand in the jewel affair?"
"Who? Sâkya-mûni? If not, why were the gems brought to Shingtse-lunpo? And remember: aGrand Lamasent Da-yak to Myitkyina."
"But—"
"I agree with you," Kerth cut in, anticipating him. "Itispreposterous. It's evident that Chavigny has the alliance of the lamas, but how did he get it? I haven't told you the strongest link in that chain yet. You'll recall that a Grand Lama from a Tibetan monastery emulated the example of the Tashi Lama and made a pilgrimage to the Sacred Bo-tree at Gaya just about the time the gems were stolen?"
Trent's jaw tightened, but he said nothing.
"Precisely," continued Kerth, reading the other's thoughts. "I believe the lamas who pilgrimaged to Buddh-Gaya carried the jewels out of India. I have foundation for this theory, too. Since my arrival here I've learned that a number of the monks who went on that pilgrimage were from Shingtse-lunpo—and they haven't returned yet!"
Trent was subconsciously following a detached idea. He remembered that the priests were at Gaya on the night Manlove was murdered, and if their purpose was that suggested by Kerth, it furnished a reason for Chavigny being there....
"Nor is that all I know," Kerth resumed. "Caravan-loads of rifles have been brought here from Mongolia—Russianrifles—also gunpowder and dynamite. They're stored in the armory under the monastery. Has that any significance to you?... Trent, we may yet bring down a brace of birds when we only expected to pot one.... I'm more than a little concerned with Sarojini Nanjee; I can't adjust her with this business. What are her secret strings that give her so much power? What can she expect to do alone? She has a trump card up her sleeve, mark my words. She's no fool, and I'd feel deucedly better if I were certain she was going to play that card for us."
"She promised," Trent reminded.
Kerth smiled wryly, but the smile passed quickly.
"Captain Manlove?" he queried. "You've learned nothing?"
Trent shook his head. The silence after that was heavy. Kerth ended it.
"I can't stay any longer now. I'm cultivating the abbot of one of the lesser monasteries, with the view of eventually being assigned to a cell in Lhakang-gompa. I've a suspicion I'll find something of interest there, if I ever get in. I daresay you're scheduled to witness the ceremonies to-morrow, so I won't have an opportunity to see you until to-morrow night, but I'll return then, about this hour." He extended his lean hand. "Here's luck to you!"
"The same," Trent responded with a smile, gripping his hand. "How'd you get in?"
Kerth indicated the wall. "Give me a lift, will you?"
Trent clasped his hands, and, by stepping into the foothold thus formed, Kerth was able to grasp the top of the wall and draw himself up. There he sat for a moment, looking below on the other side; then, with a wave of farewell, he dropped from sight.
Trent returned to the house, passing the muleteers who were gathered about a fire in the quadrangle, and climbed to the roof. Dana Charteris was there—but asleep. For a space of seconds he stood looking down at the slim form. Her head was pillowed upon one arm and utter weariness lined the features that were revealed in the moonlight—pale, starry features. He felt a warm rush of sympathy, a moment when he loathed himself for having brought her into danger.... He turned away, moving quietly to the shaft.
At the top of the ladder he paused. The city lay before him, patches of gloom and shadow, beneath the dark bulk of the lamasery. To think that there, among those huddled buildings, was a key to the riddle—a solution that would dispel the nebulous clouds, perhaps clear the mystery of Manlove's death!
A wave of the old bitterness swept up through him; swept up and cast his features into a mold of grim resolution.
The next morning Trent told Dana Charteris of his talk with Euan Kerth; also, that Kee Meng was to be her bodyguard.
"But surely I can leave the compound?" she objected. "I would like to see the festival to-day—and, oh, it would be frightful here, waiting, with nothing to do! I'd worry about you every moment, yet with something to distract me ... don't you see?"
He considered a long time before he decided.
"I'm afraid it wouldn't be wise. There's no accounting for what might happen, and then...." He made a movement as though to furrow his hair, but instead passed his hand over his turban. "I'm sorry, but the risk is too great. You won't go, will you?"
She promised.
Shortly before noon Na-chung, accompanied by his escort, arrived. The Tibetan superintended the transformation of Trent from a Hindu merchant to a lamaist dignitary. It was after one o'clock when the Englishman, shaved and dressed like Na-chung—orange-yellow robe, mushroom hat and all—mounted a pony in the quadrangle, and, with the councillor at his side and a file of helmeted soldiers behind, clattered away from the house. As he passed out of the gate he looked back for a glimpse of Dana Charteris, but did not see her. A vague sense of unrest enclosed him.
Toward Lhakang-gompa they rode, through swarms that pressed eagerly in the direction of the monastery. Prayer-flags were festooned from house to house, and women sat by the roadside selling dried fruit and sweetmeats.
In the very shadow of the monster building, where the rocks fell away from its base, they dismounted. The serrated façade piled itself above them in a series of inward-sloping ledges, reaching a shuddersome height before it met the helium-like blaze of golden roofs. The soldiers remained with the horses, while Na-chung led Trent through a gate and a courtyard—the latter a veritable abyss between the main building and outer walls—and into a dark corridor that reeked with rancid odors.
Thus began a journey that carried them through dim chambers and black halls; through cloisters heavy with incense and faintly lighted rooms where lamas, sitting before prayer-wheels, murmured passages from Buddhist scriptures; through courts that were cool and sunk deep in the shadow of lofty walls; until, at length, they came out into bright sunlight.
At first the intense glare stung Trent's eyes, but gradually he became accustomed to it and saw that they had emerged on the other side of the lamasery and were upon a gallery overlooking a huge amphitheater. He hazarded a guess that it measured about half a mile around. An incline led down from the gallery, between rows of seats and stalls, and along this slanting aisle and into a box close to the immense center court Na-chung conducted him. There, seated on cushions beside the councillor, he had an opportunity fully to absorb the bewildering spectacle.
Tier after tier of stalls and terraced seats were packed against the retaining walls. Marquees of striped silk, flying maroon and flame-colored flags, had been erected around the edge of the arena. In the far end stood a gilded, silk-draped proscenium, and raised upon it, under a gold-fringed canopy, was a daïs. On either side of the platform, herded together and kept within their boundaries by guards armed with halberds, were hundreds of lamas—patches of cinnabar-red. At the left of the arena, starkly silhouetted upon the walls, was a line of stakes; their purpose puzzled Trent. Every available space, except the vast center-court and the proscenium, was crowded with richly dressed onlookers. There were Tibetan dukes and duchesses, the turquoise-studded aureoles of the latter gleaming like blue fire; soldiers and government dignitaries; high lamas wearing saffron vestments, and novices in red togas; pilgrims from Ladak, Nepal, Sikkhim, Bhutan, Kham and Mongolia; men and women garbed in silks and satins and decked with jewels. The many-hued robes and the colored banners and standards—gold, cerise, ocher, lavender-blue and neutral-tint predominating—were like vivid splashes on a giant palette.
The box where Trent and Na-chung sat was one of a row that was occupied by men in the orange-yellow robes and mushroom hats of the Higher Council. Many of these bronze-faced dignitaries were accompanied by women in maroon garments and silver coral-adorned aureoles. Inquisitive eyes were turned toward Trent and Na-chung, and the latter bowed and smiled.
"Yonder," explained the Tibetan, indicating a long carpet of imperial yellow that dazzled from a flight of stone steps at one side of the arena to the proscenium in the remote end, "is where His Holiness will walk. And that"—inclining his head toward a nearby stall where a prelate in claret-colored garments sat in the midst of shaven-pated satellites—"is the Great Magician. It is rumored that he and His Holiness have—er—had some misunderstanding."
Thus he gossiped while Trent, searching the ranks of the laity below for a familiar face and aware of something imminent and compelling in the subdued buzzing of many voices, listened only half attentively.
Without warning a trumpet gave voice to a blast. It seemed to inject a sudden thrill into the atmosphere. Trent felt his muscles grow tense, and involuntarily his eyes sought the broad stone stairway.
At the top yak-hair curtains parted for a moment and a group of heralds bearing long copper horns filed out. Came another blast, monstrously loud. A shout rose from the multitude; died. Trent heard a faint, minor chant—coming from behind the yak-hair curtains, he imagined. When this intoning ceased, trumpets blared again; the curtains at the stairhead parted.
Hushed expectancy shut down like a tangible weight. The rapid play of sunlight on lances and bare blades, on burnished helmets and golden accoutrements, seemed a visible manifestation of the feverish intensity that charged the throng. The majority were standing with bowed heads; some had prostrated themselves. Anticipation transfigured every face.
Then the head of the pontifical procession came into view.
Leading were the lictors, with lamaic emblems; then acolytes with golden censers and chalices. They moved slowly down the steps and along the yellow carpet. Following them strode the secular lords and cardinals—bronze-faced prelates in rich, deep-yellow robes and yellow mitres. Laymen marched at their heels, carrying silken cushions.
And toward the rear, beneath a golden state-umbrella, attended by Grand Lamas of the Gelugpa, walked the reincarnation of Gaudama Siddartha, His Holiness Lobsang Yshe Naksang Sâkya-mûni, the Yellow Pope of Tibet. He bore the insignia of his pontifical rank in one hand, in the other a rosary. A mitre was set upon his head. From beneath this peaked hat fell a golden veil that shimmered in the sunlight and blended with the yellow-gold pallium and wide stole that hung from his shoulders.
The living deity moved slowly over the yellow carpet; mounted the proscenium; sank cross-legged, hands folded, like a Buddha, upon the daïs.
Banners and standards were lifted in salute above the countless faces that blurred against the terraced seats. A detachment of soldiers in lavender-blue uniforms and brazen helmets clattered out of a door in the arena and formed a line in front of the gilded proscenium. Flash of sunlight on helmets and lifted lances; gleam of wrought gold and brazen accoutrements; a rippling play of gold. Then horses were wheeled, and the Tibetan cavalry trotted out of the arena.
Sâkya-mûni removed his mitre. Which proved a signal for the ceremonies to begin.
A clarion blare announced a new group of lamas—priests wearing white robes and hideous masks, representing mythological demons. They paid obeisance to the supreme pontiff and gathered at one side of the proscenium. After them came other lamas, in golden harness and mantles the flame hue of nasturtiums.
"They are the ancient warriors," explained Na-chung to Trent. "And those"—waving his hand toward another group that was debouching from a gateway below the tiered seats—"are the contestants in the wrestling matches."
The sinewy Tibetan gladiators saluted Sâkya-mûni. They wore only pelts of snow-leopards girded about their hips. Their skin, between knees and throat, was surprisingly fair. The wrestling tourney lasted for over two hours. Na-chung explained every detail to Trent who, toward the end of the lengthy show of physical skill, was growing weary of it. Too, his eyes ached from looking so long and steadily at the sunlit expanse.
When the wrestlers left the arena, hidden drums rumbled—throbbed out a tuneless miserere. Cymbals clashed metallically. A discordant blast of the trumpets whipped the air and a lama wearing a frightful mask with yak-horns upon it and tiger-skins flapping over his yellow robes moved toward the proscenium. He held a skull-bowl above him. Suddenly he paused and dashed its contents to the flagging, where it spread in an ugly crimson pool. Another burst of trumpets accompanied this.
"It is the Dance of the Gods," Na-chung told Trent.
A faint light showed itself in the councillor's eyes. Trent saw the same glow in the eyes of those around him—a glimmer of fanatical zeal.
The white-robed lamas danced into the center of the arena; whirled about, making strange signs; swayed to the monotonousboom-boomingof the drums. The priests garbed as ancient warriors joined in, their nasturtium-hued mantles and golden harness aquiver like sinuous flames. As the dance continued, pilgrims frequently leaped up and prostrated themselves, intoxicated with a mystical vintage. Even Trent was not immune to infection. The drums throbbed against his heart and temples; throbbed and throbbed, until they seemed the pulse of a dull delirium.
The Dance of the Gods was interminably long and, after a while, lost its hypnotic power over Trent. The sun, a globe of angry red, was rapidly spinning into the west and a blood-shot sky flamed above the arena when the evil spirits were exorcized—for that, Na-chung explained, was the story told by the performance—and the dancers melted into the throngs of priests on either side of the proscenium.
"Now comes the Archery Contest," announced the councillor, a repressed gleam in his eyes. "It is the great event of the celebration—a demonstration of justice."
Even as he spoke, trumpets were blown. From behind the yak-hair curtains emerged a small body of men in golden chain-mail and helmets. (The armor and headgear interested Trent. Here were relics of the ancients—of Srong-tsan-gambo and the early Tibetan kings.) The rays of the sun reflected a dull radiance in the meshes of their armor; sent needles of fire weaving along the contours of gilded bows and quivers; glittered in blood-red and gold upon polished helmets.
"They belong to the guard of his Transparency the Governor," said Na-chung.
The archers lifted their bows in salute to the Living God. A visible ripple of admiration passed around the amphitheater. Heads were strained forward, eyes focussed upon the mailed bowmen, who aligned themselves on the right side of the arena—facing the black stakes. There was something pregnant and potent in their movements....
From a gateway opposite the archers rode a double file of soldiers. Between them walked a line of men in dun-colored garments. As Trent saw that they were manacled a frightful suspicion fastened upon him. With dreadful suddenness the purpose of the stakes became apparent....
The bowmen stood motionless; only their chain-mail seemed possessed of life. It glittered and crawled with scaly scintillations, like the corrugated armor of a dragon.
At the stakes the soldiers drew up; dismounted. One of the manacled men screamed and gibbered as he was being bound—sounds that were like nothing human. Trent turned to Na-chung. The Englishman's face showed no emotion, but his jaw was thrust forward at an ugly angle.
The councillor smiled grimly.
"Their tongues are slit," he informed Trent; then, with a wave of his hand, he added: "Political offenders."
Trent, his features cast in a mold that for sheer inscrutability would have rivalled that of the stoniest idol, turned away—and an instant later he felt a warm breath upon his ear and heard Na-chung's suave voice.
"Thus the Governor punishes treason. Look! There is his Transparency now."
A vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair, borne on the shoulders of four guards, moved through a gateway close to the archers; was placed on the ground at the end of their stances. The official, visible only as a crimson blot in the interior, did not rise, but watched the proceedings from his seat.
Trent's eyes were drawn back irresistibly to the stakes where the prisoners were being bound, manacled wrists above their heads. Silence wrapped the amphitheater about, like tight swathing. To the Englishman, there was a terrible significance in the undernote of red that the late afternoon introduced into the scene: the five bars of the blood-red sunset quivering above the arena and reflecting upon the gilded proscenium, the deep magenta of the lamas' robes, and the red-gold glint on harness and naked metal.
At a signal the archers advanced several paces. Bow-strings were tested; arrows drawn from quivers.
A shudder, half of awful ecstasy, half of horror, swept the amphitheater, like wind rippling the surface of the sea.
Trent, a nausea spreading from the pit of his stomach to his throat, saw Sâkya-mûni lift one hand. His lips pressed into a line; otherwise, his immobility was unbroken.
Another shiver swept the amphitheater.
Sâkya-mûni's hand dropped.
The archers flexed their bows; clapped their heels together; stood erect. Gutstrings snapped rigid between their nocks.... Thewhizz-zz-zzof the arrows seemed to unleash the tension. A hysterical cheer wavered up from the multitude. The manacled figures sagged, hung, drenched in the flaming red of the sunset.
Trent relaxed—but the nausea remained, a dull horror that he could almost taste.
Sâkya-mûni rose, as did the multitude. A low chant began, a weird, droning incantation. The mailed executioners marched out of the arena, followed by the Governor's vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair. The masked lamas and those in harness and flame-colored mantles filed toward the stairway. Lictors and acolytes descended from the proscenium; the secular lords and cardinals; the Living Buddha and his attendant Grand Lamas.... Slowly they traversed the yellow carpet, slowly they mounted the steps and vanished behind the yak-hair curtains. The red monks herded together on either side of the platform formed human rivulets that surged into the arena. The onlookers left their seats.
The Festival of the Gods was over.
Trent and Na-chung moved up the incline, sifting through the swarm. On the gallery, at the portal of the monastery, Trent looked back. Dusk was creeping into the inflamed sky and gray motes subdued the crimson reflection. Over the heads of the people he saw the arena—saw the sagging figures starkly outlined upon the white wall.
Then he plunged into the doorway, behind Na-chung.
As they re-traveled the labyrinth of corridors and courts, there hung before Trent a picture of the arena as he last looked upon it—a grim etching. He had seen men slaughtered in recognized warfare, had seen prisoners executed, but this—There was something monstrous, something inexplicably hideous, about it. His failure to understand the uncanny impression only sharpened the horror. "Their tongues are slit—" Na-chung's words were written as with steel upon his brain. When men's tongues are slit it is obviously for the purpose of preventing speech. What did those wretches know? "Political offenders," the councillor had said ... yet....
So ran his thoughts as they emerged at length on the other side of Lhakang-gompa. Night was swiftly gathering, and a familiar vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair swam in the dusk of the courtyard near the gate. As Trent drew nearer, a figure in long robes stepped out. He saw the pale blot of the Governor's face.
"Ah! It is his Transparency!" exclaimed Na-chung. "He is waiting for us."
The Governor stood motionless by his sedan-chair. Not until they were within three yards of him did he stir—and as he took a step, Trent experienced a shock that was not unlike a physical blow. But his poise did not desert him; he only drew a swift breath, which he doubted if the Governor heard, and a slight smile settled over his features—as though he had known from the very first that it was Hsien Sgam who rode in the vermilion-lacquered sedan-chair and this meeting was no more than expected, even anticipated.
"Hsien Sgam," he said, still smiling.
The Mongol—he, too, was smiling—bowed. His slender, almost feminine hands gleamed sharply-cut in the twilight.
"By that name you first knew me," he replied in the quiet, reserved voice that Trent remembered so well—a voice that chose each word with extreme care. "So, my friend, continue to know me as that."
He wore a dark silk-brocade garment; it looked crimson in the dusk. The facings were goldcloth, shining dully, and a hat with upcurling brim surmounted his pale bronze features. One of those curious, vagrant questions came to Trent as he looked at the Mongol. Was this the flannel-clad fellow-passenger of theManchester, he who had talked of revolutions, of Western vices and morals?... Queer.... There was little of incongruity about him now, here in his native setting; only the eyes and face—eyes of Lucifer and face of Buddha. Anomalous, unexplainable, almost—Trent hesitated at using the term, even in thought; yet why not?—almost monstrous.
"I am pleased to welcome you to Shingtse-lunpo," Hsein Sgam announced. "I regretted very much"—here the sensitive lips quivered in a quick smile—"that you became impatient and left the joss-house, that night in Rangoon. It was unpardonable of me to have kept you waiting, yet unavoidable. I hope to do here what I intended to do there—discuss certain matters with which you are only partly acquainted." Then, after a pause, "I trust you find your quarters comfortable?"
Trent answered with a single word.
"I am delighted to have you accept my hospitality," resumed the Mongol. "There are many—er—things we must discuss, but I would indeed be rude if I suggested that we take up those matters so soon after your fatiguing journey. Perhaps you will do me the honor of calling at my residence to-morrow night?... I shall send my estimable chief councillor, Na-chung, to—er—fetch you, as they say in your country."
And he did a most Western thing; he extended his hand. Trent accepted it, because he had no choice. For some inexplicable reason he felt a sudden loathing. In that instant the Mongol seemed, mentally, as misshapen as his limb. It was like a swift glimpse behind the serene Buddha-like face, and his touch was a tangible reminder that Hsien Sgam—Hsien Sgam of the slender hands and sensitive lips—was responsible for the slaughter that Trent only a short while before had witnessed. "Thus the Governor punishes treason," Na-chung had said.
The Mongol spoke, almost with clairvoyance.
"Doubtless you found in the ceremonies this afternoon a—er—slight unpleasantness; that is, it would be unpleasant to an Anglo-Saxon." He smiled. "Public executions, we of Shingtse-lunpo find, are necessary to bring forcibly to the people the supremacy of the State, and"—the baffling eyes were more inscrutable than ever—"as an example to those who contemplate—shall I say,indiscretions?"
Still smiling, Hsien Sgam limped to the sedan-chair. He entered, without another glance at Trent, and was borne away on the shoulders of the guards.
"Come," said Na-chung. "My men are waiting outside the gate."
Back through the narrow, crowded streets they rode—streets that were as chaotic as Trent's brain. The discovery that Hsien Sgam was Governor of Shingtse-lunpo (and, quite evidently, one of the Order of the Falcon) swung his main danger from Sarojini Nanjee to the Mongol—or rather, left him between the two perils. Of the pair, he imagined he could expect more mercy from the woman. If she and the Mongol were in league, that doubly jeopardized his position; but if they were opposing forces.... Well, frequently the third party profits by the rivalry of the other two. What puzzled him most was why Hsien Sgam had tried to kill him in Rangoon, if he believed him Tavernake, the jeweler. And Trent did not doubt for an instant, now, that the Mongol was the instigator of the bullet that Kerth had intercepted. A warm thrill of assurance ran through him at thought of Kerth. He had one ally. More, of course, counting the muleteers and Dana Charteris; but the girl was more of a liability than an asset, a thorn in his fragile security. If she were only somewhere else.... But she was not. And her presence troubled him.
Hsien Sgam, the Governor of Shingtse-lunpo. He smiled inwardly. What was the Mongol's part in the jewel mystery? He suspected that Hsien Sgam's talk of a Mongol revolution was a sheath in which his true motive in luring him to the joss-house in Rangoon lay hidden. Was—?
"By George!" he muttered, aloud.
Glancing toward Na-chung, he saw the councillor's questioning look and made an inconsequential remark, while he asked himself:
"Is Hsien Sgam ... but no ... yet ... well, why not!... But what of Chavigny, if he isn't the Falcon!"
They reached Trent's dwelling-place then. Na-chung halted at the gate, informing the Englishman that he would leave a guard.
"As your guide," he explained suavely. "You will wish to go beyond your quadrangle, and whereas your garments are a passport anywhere in the city, it is not wise for you to venture out alone—yet." He smiled. "You see, the fact that you do not speak our language, and that my people are unfortunately suspicious, might prove ... you understand? Therefore, I have instructed the guard to accompany you when you leave the house, as a purely precautionary measure. His Transparency the Governor also wishes me to present to you the pony which you are riding, as a slight token of his esteem."
Trent thanked him and Na-chung clattered away, followed by his retinue of soldiers.
As one of the muleteers took Trent's mount, he looked about the quadrangle for Dana Charteris.
"Where is my brother?" he asked.
The muleteer muttered a few unintelligible words.
"Where?" Trent repeated.
The Oriental looked as though he expected Trent to strike him, as he answered:
"He left the house—this morning—soon after you did,Tajen."
"Alone?" He snapped out the question.
"No,Tajen; Kee Meng went, too."
"Where? Do you know?"—this with a frown.
"To the festival,Tajen."
Trent stood motionless. The frown disappeared as he remembered that he had ridden from the amphitheatre; they, being on foot, would be later in coming.
"Send Kee Meng to me as soon as he returns," he rapped, and entered the dwelling.
When a half-hour had gone by and Dana Charteris and Kee Meng had not come, the frown returned to Trent's forehead; returned and stayed; and deepened into furrows when another thirty minutes did not bring them. He went up on the roof to smoke and to be alone; and he paced the stones, drawing nervously upon the amber stem and confessing to himself that he was alarmed.
His heart beat a swift symphony of anticipation when he heard the gate open. Without looking over the roof-wall, he hurried below. As he stepped into the quadrangle and beheld the limp figure that was being supported by two muleteers, fear sank its talons into him.
The sound of his footsteps brought the limp figure up with a visible effort. He thrust back the two men; took a step; dropped on his knees before Trent.
"Tajen!" whispered Kee Meng. "Tajen, I swear by Allah that—"
Trent gripped his shoulders. His right hand encountered moisture; he saw a stain.
"What is it?" he demanded, his muscles bound in a rigor of dreadful apprehension.
"Tajen, as we were coming from that—that devil dance, the brother and I.... We were in a street no wider than this"—painfully he lifted his hands in illustration—"and they jumped on us from behind—"
"Who did?"
"I do not know,Tajen; but I think they were lamas. They struck me from behind—and as I lay there I heard the brother scream—and I.... They stabbed me,Tajen. I saw black for a long while, oh, a very long while! When I woke up I was lying in the gutter. The brother—he was gone! I was hurt; but I knew you would kill me if I returned without looking—so I hunted—until I spilled my blood over the city and had none left to keep me alive. Then I came—came back!"
He sank in a huddle at Trent's feet.
"Kill me,Tajen," he moaned. "The brother—how could I refuse when he told me to go with him to...? But kill me—I am not worth the—" His voice broke; he was still.
Trent bent swiftly. After a moment he stood erect.
"Carry him inside," he directed the muleteers. "It isn't a bad wound; he's weak from loss of blood."
The two yellow men stooped and picked up the unconscious Kee Meng. As Trent entered the house behind them the putrid odor of butter-lamps assaulted him, sickened him. The blow had come with a maiming force. He felt suddenly crippled.
When Trent had dressed Kee Meng's wound he returned to the roof, to his pipe and the stars. The spot seemed a lone haven of cleanliness, raised above the malefic atmosphere of the city.... To think—to decide what to do. He told himself that over and over as he paced the stones. His hands, figuratively, were tied. There was no one to whom he dared appeal—none save Kerth, and the two of them might search for days in the labyrinth of the city without even finding a clue. Meanwhile, Dana Charteris was in danger—a danger that was more frightful because of the indefiniteness of its character. There was but one explanation for her disappearance: either Sarojini Nanjee or Hsien Sgam had discovered her sex and had taken steps to place her where she was likely to cause the least trouble ... and where she might prove a weapon.
He smoked on, pipe clamped between his teeth, striding the length of the housetop. The stars saw what few men had ever seen—Arnold Trent stripped of his mask, his citadel of impassivity beaten down. A great hollow infinity seemed to press upon him and quench the very breath from his lips. He came to understand a new emotion—the agony of separation. The scales of unreason weighed values, and an alien recklessness urged him to forsake the sovereign motive for his presence in Shingtse-lunpo and with one mighty effort break the bonds that held him to a discreet course. Did not duty toward flesh transcend duty toward the inanimate?... Thus the lover's litany—a beautiful heresy.
But all this ache, longing, and unreason only carried him about in a circle; and from these purposeless revolutions the memory of her, a continuous glow in the dimness, led him into patience, to a mastery of himself. There were lines in his face—the mellow writing of anguish. It was as though he had partaken of the eucharist of suffering and from the bitter sacrament had come quiescence.
With the first easing of the tension came a plan. It broke upon him suddenly. If Sarojini Nanjee had abducted Dana Charteris, he could only rely upon his wits to free her; but if it was Hsien Sgam—His plan was a counter-blow at the Mongol in the event he was responsible for the girl's disappearance. It was a bold play, and if he failed....
As he heard a soft footfall, he swung about toward the shaft. A figure emerged—one of the muleteers.
"Tajen, a lama is below," he announced. "He came over the garden wall. He says he would speak with you."
"Send him up here," directed Trent.
Several minutes later a shaven skull projected itself above the black opening in the roof, and Kerth, in his lama robes, stepped out. There was something reassuring in the sight of him. A white man! That alone was a moral fire in which to forge his resolution.
Kerth listened in silence while Trent recounted what had happened and told of his plan.
"I know of a place to conceal him," Kerth announced, when Trent had concluded. "It's an old ruin at the other end of the city; and there's a vault, with a door that will lock. I stayed there the first few days I was in Shingtse-lunpo. We'll have to strike now—to-night. To-morrow morning I enter Lhakang-gompa, to serve in one of the cells." He smiled his satanic smile. "It's my one chance to get at the source of things in the monastery."
They descended from the roof—and a few minutes afterward, when Kerth climbed over the garden wall, he was accompanied by two of Trent's muleteers. Trent stood in the shadow of the willow-thorn until their footsteps ceased, then returned to the house to wait.
He kept vigil in the quadrangle for more than an hour, restless, impatient. At the first sounds in the willow-grove, he hurried to the garden and met the two caravan-men.
"All is well,Tajen," reported one of the Orientals. "The lama bade me tell you everything happened as planned and that the councillor Na-chung is hidden in the vault."
"The lama sent no other message?"
"He said he wishes you the peace of Gaudama Siddartha."
Good old Kerth, Trent thought warmly. That was his message of comfort.
"You have done well," he commended the muleteers. "To-morrow you will each receive a gift."
It was near midnight, and the stars had fled before black clouds and a drizzling rain, when Trent forced himself to lie down. Almost the instant he relaxed unconsciousness carried him into its dim cathedral, and he drank of the sleep that deadens even the pains of the dying.
From the very midst of slumber Trent was shot into consciousness. He opened his eyes to find himself submerged in darkness, and to feel another presence in the black flood. His hand went involuntarily to the revolver that he kept always within reach, and as he lifted himself upon his elbow, one hand gripping the weapon, he saw a body silhouetted upon the grayish rectangle of a window.
"Tajen!" whispered a voice that he recognized as that of one of the muleteers. "It is Hsiao. There is a man below.... He told me to be quiet and not arouse the guard.... He brought this for you."
A folded sheet of paper was thrust into Trent's hand. The scent of sandalwood caressed his nostrils and cleared his brain of the last tangle of drowsiness. He rose and sought his electric torch, which was in his kit-bag. Snapping on the light, he read the note.... It was brief; merely instructed him to follow the bearer and was signed by Sarojini Nanjee.... A glance at his watch showed him it was after two o'clock.
"Where is he? In the quadrangle?" Trent queried.
"Yes,Tajen."
"I'll be there directly."
Trent strapped his revolver to his thigh; procured a certain object from his pack; went below.
A thin, misting rain was falling, and the wind swept down in cold legions from the snows of the North. It was a night to kindle icy flame in the marrow. Gray gloom lay like a ghoulish lacquer upon the world, and dogs were howling somewhere in the city.
Sarojini's messenger was a thin-featured Tibetan with long hair. He extended a dark bundle to Trent and muttered something in his own tongue.
"He says for you to put those on,Tajen," translated the muleteer.
Unrolling the bundle, Trent saw a long toga and a pair of heavy Tibetan boots. The latter he pulled on with some difficulty, then threw the toga about his shoulders.
The long-haired messenger touched his arm, motioning toward the garden. Hsiao, the muleteer, accompanied them to the wall, where he lent Trent his aid in reaching the top. Outside, the Englishman found himself in a narrow lane that opened upon the street.
Through ghostly highways they moved. Now and then a dog snarled viciously and slunk away as the Tibetan kicked at him. They traveled along constricted streets, some graduated into steps, and past silent, whitewashed houses that loomed spectral in the night. These ramifications led them to a stone bridge and a roadway between tall bamboo and the black blur of trees. Trent could see the city's walls now, beyond rounded clumps of bushes. From this clustered vegetation rose a large temple-like edifice whose dome shone dully through the drizzle.
A lane branched off from the main road and took them to the gates of the temple-like building. First, a courtyard, then an imposing doorway. Within, it was damp and cold. Butter-lamps made a feeble attempt to disperse rebellious shadows. Monster shapes, which Trent perceived to be idols, glowed sullenly in the semi-dark.
A hall with red-lacquered pillars led to a massive portal that was opened by a brass ring. It swung back, to release the odor of incense and rancid butter and to admit Trent and the Tibetan into a vast space that evidently was a temple. Butter-lamps hiccoughed and threw their reflections upon brazen images and old armor. In the remote end a dull mass of gold kindled in the temple-dusk, a form that took on the shape of a huge idol—and from beneath the shining god came a figure of familiar proportions.
"Greetings, man of many faces!" said Sarojini Nanjee in her sweet voice, a voice that rang like the notes of a gong in the ponderous silence of the temple.
Trent glimpsed behind her a man in claret-colored vestments. The face was strongly reminiscent of one he had recently seen, and after a few seconds recognition flashed into him. He was the one whom Na-chung had pointed out in the amphitheater as the Great Magician of Shingtse-lunpo. The woman, seeing Trent's look and misunderstanding it, announced:
"He knows only Tibetan and Hindustani; that is why I speak English." Then she added, "He is the third most powerful man in Shingtse-lunpo."
Trent casually took in Sarojini Nanjee's manner of dress—casually, because he did not wish to appear particularly interested. She wore a long maroon garment such as Tibetan women wear; only the lines were not bulky, but adapted themselves to the purpose of revealing the contours of her figure. Her skin was darkened by a stain—skin that was quite unlike that of the women of Shingtse-lunpo in that it was smooth and without a coat of dust and grease. A silver aureole rose behind her black hair, which was parted after the Tibetan fashion. A flame, as of black opals, danced and flashed in her eyes as she smiled at him.
"I have not sent for you before," she told him, "because it would have been indiscreet. Too, we could have done nothing until now. I did not know of your arrival until many hours after you reached the city. I—"
"You expected my muleteers to report my presence," he put in, smiling.
She smiled, too, although he could see she was not pleased.
"Yes. Where are they?"
"I didn't fancy being spied upon night and day," he replied, "so I left them at Tali-fang."
"Do you realize that was disobeying me?"
"You didn't forbid changing servants." After a pause he went on, "Yet my precautions were useless, for I daresay by now you know everything that happened since I left Tali-fang."
She looked at him quizzically. (And he did not know whether the expression was genuine or not.)
"What do you mean?"
"One of my men failed to put in his appearance last night. I naturally surmised"—this rather drily—"that you detained him to find out what he knew."
He was watching her closely, and again that quizzical expression clouded her eyes. After a moment she smiled queerly.
"You accuse me of crude tactics," she said; then switched off with: "But tell me, what have you learned since your arrival?"
He answered discreetly. "I attended the festival to-day."
She nodded. "I saw you. I was in the Governor's stall. Because of his vigilance I dared not communicate with you before this. He watches me as a hawk watches its prey." (Trent wondered if the word "hawk" had any significance.) "But while the bird sleeps, the cobra goes about its business.... You have not yet told me what you learned."
After some deliberation he said:
"I know of Sâkya-mûni; and I know that monks from Shingtse-lunpo accompanied the abbot who pilgrimaged to Gaya."
A second time she nodded. "Do you know what occurred at Gaya?"
Trent's heart was beating swiftly as he countered:
"You should know; you were there at the time."
And his heart beat swifter as she whipped back:
"Who told you that?"
Trent was thrusting boldly. He meant to beat down all guards, to win or lose. The suspense, the groping in the dark, was consuming his nerve-tissues.
"Hsien Sgam," he lied.
A typhoon of rage flashed across her beautiful face. It spent itself quickly. She opened her lips; closed them; and after a space said quite calmly:
"Why did Hsien Sgam tell you that?"
Trent shrugged. "How do I know?"
She gestured impatiently. "What question did you ask that caused him to tell that?"
Having gone so far, Trent ventured a step further.
"Captain Manlove, who shared my bungalow at Gaya, was murdered the night the monks were there. I asked him if he could explain it."
A queer, cold expression settled upon Sarojini Nanjee's face. Only her eyes were warm: they burned like melted opals. She smiled—a rather terrible smile.
"I had not heard that before, that your friend was murdered," she announced. "Why did not you tell me?"
"Why should I?"
Her eyes searched his face; encountered that barrier of impassivity.
"You say you suspected the monks?"
"Not until I reached Shingtse-lunpo."
A pause before she pursued:
"But why, even then, did you suspect them? What motive—"
"I'm at loss for a motive," he cut in quietly. "I don't know what to think, for, you see, I found this"—he drew from under his robe a glittering object—"in his, in Captain Manlove's, hand."
He opened the silver-chased pendant and extended it to her. She glanced at the name graven within; looked up at him. The lids sank over her eyes—to cover surprise, he imagined.
"But why," she queried, "did not you tell me of this before?"
"Because if you lied to me once, I thought it likely you'd lie a second time. You swore that Chavigny had nothing to do with the Order—yet—" He motioned toward the piece of coral.
Her eyes burned with a steady flame.
"I spoke the truth!" she declared. "Chavigny has nothing to do with the Order, has had nothing to do with it since several days before your Captain Manlove was murdered. Oh, I know what you think—that I am lying now! But, even as I spoke the truth then, I speak it now! Chavigny is dead—was dead before your friend was killed!"
Trent took the pendant, avoiding her eyes. It was one of his idiosyncrasies not to look at a person whom he believed lying to him.
"Chavigny was intrusted with certain work at Indore," she continued, "but he ran amuck; tried to steal the Pearl Scarf for himself and substituted an imitation. A blundering Secret Service agent, who had followed Chavigny from Calcutta, interfered. I am not aware of the exact circumstances, but this Secret Service agent came into possession of the real Pearl Scarf. The Order allowed Chavigny to go to Delhi. There the substitute was discovered—and Chavigny put out of the way. The Secret Service agent who had the real jewels was in Delhi, where he had tracked Chavigny. I was instructed to recover the Pearl Scarf, and I sent my servant, Chandra Lal, to the hotel where the Government agent was staying. He got the pearls and—"
"And you took them to Gaya, to the lamas?" Trent interposed.
"Did I say that?" she retorted. "What I did with them is no concern of yours—at present."
"But you were at Gaya?"
"I refuse to answer that."
"But if Chavigny was put out of the way, as you say, how do you account for this?" he pressed on, extending the pendant.
"How does one account for the sun, the moon, the stars?" she returned. "No, I do not know now—but Iwillknow! And you shall avenge the slaying of your friend! You shall have blood for blood! I, Sarojini Nanjee, promise that! I will learn the truth—even if I must go to the Falcon!"
Trent took that as his cue and asked:
"Whoisthe Falcon?"
She stared at him. "Then you have not seen him?"
Trent wanted to smile. Without herself realizing it, she had told him the one thing he wished to know. He had said that he had talked with Hsien Sgam—and now she asked if he had seen the Falcon....
"No," he replied, "I have not seen him."
"You will see him, then," she said quickly, "at the proper time. Minutes are too precious to spend on explanations now. To-night I shall show you one of the secrets of Shingtse-lunpo.... Come! You must meet the Great Magician."
The high priest of sorcery (whose presence they had for the while forgotten) greeted Trent cordially in Hindustani, but it was evident that he was troubled—though the fact that his lips trembled slightly may have been due to the dampness of the temple.
Sarojini Nanjee threw a robe about her shoulders and, motioning to Trent, guided him to one side of the large golden image, to a door that the Great Magician had opened. Beyond was a courtyard. It was still drizzling and low black clouds impended. A gate was pushed open by the high priest and they emerged upon a path that ended at a gate in the nearby city-walls. If there was a guard, he was discreetly out of sight.
Outside was a low embankment, then the dark waste of the morass that girded Shingtse-lunpo. To the west, in the thin veil of rain, was a shapeless blur that Trent imagined was Amber Bridge. The Great Magician shut the gate and led the way down the embankment. The ground was not soggy, as Trent expected, and, straining his eyes, he saw the reason. They were following a barely visible road through the rushes.
Toward the shapeless blur they moved. As they drew nearer it became apparent that it was not Amber Bridge, but a pile of broken stone—a remnant of the old outer-fortifications—in the middle of the swamp-belt. When they reached the mass of masonry Trent saw that it was a portion of a broken wall, rising above nearly obliterated flagstones that formed the floor of what had once been a room, or a tunnel, under a mighty rampart—a wall that was hollowed and whose roof had fallen in. The passage thus formed was not more than three feet in width and ran for several yards before it ended in acul-de-sac.
Into the narrow space between the walls Trent and Sarojini Nanjee followed the Great Magician. It was damp and smelled of freshly-turned earth. A few feet from the entrance the Tibetan paused and grunted a word to Sarojini. Instantly a saber of light smote the darkness, a ray from a very modern electric torch in the woman's hand. The Great Magician took the light from her, flashing it into thecul-de-sacand upon a small stone stairway that plunged into grim depths.
Down into the bowels of the earth it carried them, into a rectangular crypt. Blocks of masonry had been torn away from one side of the wall and an irregular aperture gaped blackly. Trent observed that the stones had not been removed recently, for they were wedged in mud and grown with fungi.
Through the rent in the crypt they passed, entering a tunnel that bored downward at a gradual incline. The torchlight wavered upon damp, ancient walls; upon several inches of water in the bottom of the passage. Cold, earthy odors fouled the air. Before they had proceeded far, loose rocks rattled underfoot, and Trent, glancing down, saw that he was treading upon chips and small particles of stone. White dust streaked the muddy water. This prepared him for the pile of shattered rock that appeared suddenly ahead, heaped at one side of a crude doorway. All of which attested to the fact that the passage had at one time been sealed, but very recently opened—and by men who were not masons.