When they rose the next morning Peter Gross inquired for his host, but was met with evasive replies. A premonition that something had gone wrong came upon him. He asked for Koyala.
"The Bintang Burung has flown to the jungle," one of the servant lads informed him after several of the older natives had shrugged their shoulders, professing ignorance.
"When did she go?" he asked.
"The stars were still shining, Datu, when she spread her wings," the lad replied. The feeling that something was wrong grew upon the resident.
An hour passed, with no sign of Lkath. Attempting to leave the house, Peter Gross and Paddy were politely but firmly informed that they must await the summons to thebalais, or assembly-hall, from the chieftain.
"This is a rum go," Paddy grumbled.
"I am very much afraid that something has happened to turn Lkath against us," Peter Gross remarked. "I wish Koyala had stayed."
The summons to attend thebalaiscame a little later. When they entered the hall they saw a largecrowd of natives assembled. Lkath was seated in the judge's seat. Peter Gross approached him to make the customary salutation, but Lkath rose and folded his hands over his chest.
"Mynheer Resident," the chief said with dignity, "your mission in Sadong is accomplished. You have saved us from a needless war with the hill people. But I and the elders of my tribe have talked over this thing, and we have decided that it is best you should go. The Sadong Dyaks owe nothing to theorang blanda. They ask nothing of theorang blanda. You came in peace. Go in peace."
A tumult of emotions rose in Peter Gross's breast. To see the fruits of his victory snatched from him in this way was unbearable. A wild desire to plead with Lkath, to force him to reason, came upon him, but he fought it down. It would only hurt his standing among the natives, he knew; he must command, not beg.
"It shall be as you say, Lkath," he said. "Give me a pilot and let me go."
"He awaits you on the beach," Lkath replied. With this curt dismissal, Peter Gross was forced to go.
The failure of his mission weighed heavily upon Peter Gross, and he said little all that day. Paddy could see that his chief was wholly unable to account for Lkath's change of sentiment. Several times he heard the resident murmur: "If only Koyala had stayed."
Shortly before sundown, while their proa wasmaking slow headway against an unfavorable breeze Paddy noticed his chief standing on the raised afterdeck, watching another proa that had sailed out of a jungle-hid creek-mouth shortly before and was now following in their wake. He cocked an eye at the vessel himself and remarked:
"Is that soap-dish faster than ours, or are we gaining?"
"That is precisely what I am trying to decide," Peter Gross answered gravely.
Paddy observed the note of concern in the resident's voice.
"She isn't a pirate, is she?" he asked quickly.
"I am very much afraid she is." Peter Gross spoke calmly, but Paddy noticed a tremor in his voice.
"Then we'll have to fight for it?" he exclaimed.
Peter Gross avoided a direct reply. "I'm wondering why she can stay so close inshore and outsail us," he said. "The wind is offshore, those high hills should cut her off from what little breeze we're getting, yet she neither gains nor loses an inch on us."
"Why doesn't she come out where she can get the breeze?"
"Ay, why doesn't she?" Peter Gross echoed. "If she were an honest trader she would. But keeping that course enables her to intercept us in case we should try to make shore."
Paddy did not appear greatly disturbed at the prospect of a brush with pirates. In fact, there was something like a sparkle of anticipation in his eyes.But seeing his chief so concerned, he suggested soberly:
"Can't we beat out to sea and lose them during the night?"
"Not if this is the ship I fear it is," the resident answered gravely.
"What ship?" The question was frankly curious.
"Did you hear something like a muffled motor exhaust a little while ago?"
Paddy looked up in surprise. "That's just what I thought it was, only I thought I must be crazy, imagining such a thing here."
Peter Gross sighed. "I thought so," he said with gentle resignation. "It must be her."
"Who? What?" There was no escaping the lad's eager curiosity.
"The ghost proa. She's a pirate—Ah Sing's own ship, if reports be true. I've never seen her; few white men have; but there are stories enough about her, God knows. She's equipped with a big marine engine imported from New York, I've heard; and built like a launch, though she's got the trimmings of a proa. She can outrun any ship, steam or sail, this side of Hong Kong, and she's manned by a crew of fiends that never left a man, woman or child alive yet on any ship they've taken."
Paddy's face whitened a little, and he looked earnestly at the ship. Presently he started and caught Peter Gross's arm.
"There," he exclaimed. "The motor again! Did you hear it?"
"Ay," Peter Gross replied. "We had gained a few hundred yards on them, and they've made it up."
Paddy noted the furtive glances cast at them by the crew of their own proa, mostly Bugis and Bajaus, the sea-rovers and the sea-wash, with a slight sprinkling of Dyaks. He called Peter Gross's attention to it.
"They know the proa," the resident said. "They'll neither fight nor run. The fight is ours, Paddy. You'd better get some rifles on deck."
"We're going to fight?" Rouse asked eagerly.
"Ay," Peter Gross answered soberly. "We'll fight to the end." He placed a hand on his protégé's shoulder.
"I shouldn't have brought you here, my lad," he said. There was anguish in his voice. "I should have thought of this—"
"I'll take my chances," Paddy interrupted gruffly, turning away. He dove into their tiny cubicle, a boxlike contrivance between decks, to secure rifles and cartridges. They carried revolvers. When he came up the sun was almost touching the rim of the horizon. The pursuing proa, he noticed had approached much nearer, almost within hailing distance.
"They don't intend to lose us in the dark," he remarked cheerfully.
"The moon rises early to-night," Peter Gross replied.
A few minutes later, as the sun was beginning to make its thunderclap tropic descent, thejuragan, or captain of the proa issued a sharp order. The crew leaped to the ropes and began hauling in sail. Peter Gross swung his rifle to his shoulder and covered the navigator.
"Tell your crew to keep away from those sails," he said with deadly intentness.
Thejuraganhesitated a moment, glanced over his shoulder at the pursuing proa, and then reversed his orders. As the crew scrambled down they found themselves under Paddy's rifle.
"Get below, every man of you," Peter Gross barked in thelingua francaof the islands. "Repeat that order,juragan!"
The latter did so sullenly, and the crew dropped hastily below, apparently well content at keeping out of the impending hostilities.
These happenings were plainly visible from the deck of the pursuing proa. The sharp chug-chug of a motor suddenly sounded, and the disguised launch darted forward like a hawk swooping down on a chicken. Casting aside all pretense, her crew showed themselves above the rail. There were at least fifty of them, mostly Chinese and Malays, fierce, wicked-looking men, big and powerful, some of them nearly as large, physically, as the resident himself. They were armed with magazine rifles and revolvers and long-bladed krisses. A rapid-firer was mounted on the forward deck.
Paddy turned to his chief with a whimsical smile. "Pretty big contract," he remarked with unimpaired cheerfulness.
Peter Gross's face was white. He knew what Paddy did not know, the fiendish tortures the pirates inflicted on their hapless victims. He was debating whether it were more merciful to shoot the lad and then himself or to make a vain stand and take the chance of being rendered helpless by a wound.
The launch was only a hundred yards away now—twenty yards. A cabin door on her aft deck opened and Peter Gross saw the face of Ah Sing, aglow in the dying rays of the sun with a fiendish malignancy and satisfaction. Lifting his rifle, he took quick aim.
Four things happened almost simultaneously as his rifle cracked. One was Ah Sing staggering forward, another was a light footfall on the deck behind him and a terrific crash on his head that filled the western heavens from horizon to zenith with a blaze of glory, the third was the roaring of a revolver in his ear and Paddy's voice trailing into the dim distance:
"I got you, damn you."
When he awoke he found himself in a vile, evil-smelling hole, in utter darkness. He had a peculiar sensation in the pit of his stomach, and his lips and tongue were dry and brittle as cork. His head felt the size of a barrel. He groaned unconsciously.
"Waking up, governor?" a cheerful voice asked. It was Paddy.
By this time Peter Gross was aware, from therolling motion, that they were at sea. After a confused moment he picked up the thread of memory where it had been broken off.
"They got us, did they?" he asked.
"They sure did," Paddy chirruped, as though it was quite a lark.
"We haven't landed yet?"
"We made one stop. Just a few hours, I guess, to get some grub aboard. I can't make out much of their lingo, but from what I've heard I believe we're headed for one of the coast towns where we can get a doctor. That shot of yours hit the old bird in the shoulder; he's scared half to death he's going to croak."
"If he only does," Peter Gross prayed fervently under his breath. He asked Paddy: "How long have we been here?"
"About fourteen hours, I'd say on a guess. We turned back a ways, made a stop, and then headed this way. I'm not much of a sailor, but I believe we've kept a straight course since. At least the roll of the launch hasn't changed any."
"Fourteen hours," Peter Gross mused. "It might be toward Coti, or it might be the other way. Have they fed you?"
"Not a blankety-blanked thing. Not even sea-water. I'm so dry I could swallow the Mississippi."
Peter Gross made no comment. "Tell me what happened," he directed.
Paddy, who was sitting cross-legged, tried to shuffle into a more comfortable position. In doingso he bumped his head against the top of their prison. "Ouch!" he exclaimed feelingly.
"You're not hurt?" Peter Gross asked quickly.
"A plug in the arm and a tunk on the head," Paddy acknowledged. "The one in my arm made me drop my rifle, but I got two of the snakes before they got me. Then I got three more with the gat before somebody landed me a lallapaloosa on the beano and I took the count. One of the steersmen—jurumuddisyou call 'em, don't you?—got you. We forgot about those chaps in the steersmen's box when we ordered the crew below. But I finished him. He's decorating a nice flat in a shark's belly by now."
Peter Gross was silent.
"Wonder why they didn't chuck us overboard," Paddy remarked after a time. "I thought that was the polite piratical stunt. Seeing they were so darned considerate, giving us this private apartment, they might rustle us some grub."
"How shall I tell this light-hearted lad what is before us?" Peter Gross groaned in silent agony.
A voluble chatter broke out overhead. Through the thin flooring they heard the sound of naked feet pattering toward the rail. A moment later the ship's course was altered and it began pitching heavily in the big rollers. Peter Gross sat bolt upright, listening intently.
"What's stirring now?" Paddy asked.
"Hist! I don't know," Peter Gross warned sharply.
There was a harsh command to draw in sail, intelligible only to Peter Gross, for it was in the island patois. Paddy waited in breathless anticipation while Peter Gross, every muscle strained and tense, listened to the dissonancy above, creaking cordage, the flapping of bamboo sails, and the jargon of two-score excited men jabbering in their various tongues.
There was a series of light explosions, and then a steady vibration shook the ship. It leaped ahead instantly in response to its powerful motor. It was hardly under way when they heard a whistling sound overhead. There was a moment's pause, then the dull boom of an explosion reached their ear.
"We're under shell-fire!" Paddy gasped.
"That must be thePrins," Peter Gross exclaimed. "I hope to Heaven Enckel doesn't know we're aboard."
Another whistle of a passing shell and the thunder of an explosion. The two were almost simultaneous, the shell could not have fallen far from the launch's bow, both knew.
"They may sink us!" Paddy cried in a half-breath.
"Better drowning than torture." The curt reply was cut short by another shell. The explosion was more distant.
"They're losing the range." Paddy exclaimed in a low voice. In a flash it came to him why Peter Gross had said: "I hope Enckel doesn't know we're here."
Peter Gross stared, white, and silent into the blackness, waiting for the next shell. It was long in coming, and fell astern. A derisive shout rose from the pirates.
"ThePrinsis falling behind," Paddy cried despairingly.
"Ay, the proa is too fast for her," the resident assented in a scarcely audible voice. Tears were coursing down his cheeks, tears for the lad that he had brought here to suffer unnameable tortures, for Peter Gross did not underestimate the fiendish ingenuity of Ah Sing and his crew. He felt grateful for the wall of darkness between them.
"Well, there's more than one way to crawl out of a rain-barrel," Paddy observed with unimpaired cheerfulness.
Peter Gross felt that he should speak and tell Rouse what they had to expect, but the words choked in his throat. Blissful ignorance and a natural buoyant optimism sustained the lad, it would be cruel to take them away, the resident thought. He groaned again.
"Cheer up," Paddy cried, "we'll get another chance."
The grotesqueness of the situation—his youthful protégé striving to raise his flagging spirits—came home to Peter Gross even in that moment of suffering and brought a rueful smile to his lips.
"I'm afraid, my lad, that thePrinswas our last hope," he said. There was an almost fatherly sympathy in his voice, responsibility seemed to haveadded a decade to the slight disparity of years between them.
"Rats!" Paddy grunted. "We're not going to turn in our checks just yet, governor. This bird's got to go ashore somewhere, and it'll be deuced funny if Cap Carver and the little lady don't figure out some way between 'em to get us out of this."
The hatch above them opened. A bestial Chinese face, grinning cruelly, appeared in it.
"You b'g-um fellow gettee outtee here plenty damn' quick!" the Chinaman barked. He thrust a piece of bamboo into the hole and prodded the helpless captives below with a savage energy. The third thrust of the cane found Peter Gross's ribs. With a hoarse cry of anger Paddy sprang to his feet and shot his fist into the Chinaman's face before the resident could cry a warning.
The blow caught the pirate between the eyes and hurled him back on the deck. He gazed at Paddy a dazed moment and then sprang to his feet. Lifting the cane in both his hands above his head, he uttered a shriek of fury and would have driven the weapon through Rouse's body had not a giant Bugi, standing near by, jumped forward and caught his arm.
Wrestling with the maddened Chinaman, the Bugi shouted some words wholly unintelligible to Paddy in the pirate's ear. Peter Gross scrambled to his feet.
"Jump on deck, my lad," he shouted. "Quick, let them see you. It may save us."
Paddy obeyed. The morning sun, about four hours high, played through his rumpled hair, the auburn gleaming like flame. Malays, Dyaks, and Bugis, attracted by the noise of the struggle, crowded round and pointed at him, muttering superstitiously.
"Act like a madman," Peter Gross whispered hoarsely to his aide.
Paddy broke into a shriek of foolish laughter. He shook as though overcome with mirth, and folded his arms over his stomach as he rocked back and forth. Suddenly straightening, he yelled a shrill "Whoopee!" The next moment he executed a handspring into the midst of the natives, almost upsetting one of them. The circle widened. A Chinese mate tried to interfere, but the indignant islanders thrust him violently aside. He shouted to thejuragan, who ran forward, waving a pistol.
Every one of the crew was similarly armed, and every one wore a kris. They formed in a crescent between their officer and the captives. In a twinkling Peter Gross and Rouse found themselves encircled by a wall of steel.
Thejuragan'sautomatic dropped to a dead level with the eyes of the Bugi who had saved Paddy. He bellowed an angry command, but the Bugi closed his eyes and lowered his head resignedly, nodding in negation. The other islanders stood firm. The Chinese of the crew ranged themselves behind their captain and a bloody fight seemed imminent.
A Dyak left the ranks and began talking volubly to thejuragan, gesticulating wildly and pointing at Paddy Rouse and then at the sun. A crooning murmur of assent arose from the native portion of the crew. Thejuraganretorted sharply. The Dyak broke into another volley of protestations. Paddy looked on with a glaringly stupid smile. Thejuraganwatched him suspiciously while the Dyak talked, but gradually his scowl faded. At last he gave a peremptory command and stalked away. The crew returned to their duties.
"We're to be allowed to stay on deck as long as we behave ourselves until we near shore, or unless some trader passes us," Peter Gross said in a low voice to Rouse. Paddy blinked to show that he understood, and burst into shouts of foolish laughter, hopping around on all fours. The natives respectfully made room for him. He kept up these antics at intervals during the day, while Peter Gross, remaining in the shade of the cabin, watched the pirates. After prying into every part of the vessel with a childish curiosity that none of the crew sought to restrain, Paddy returned to his chief and reported in a low whisper:
"The old bird isn't aboard, governor."
"I rather suspected he wasn't," Peter Gross answered. "He must have been put ashore at the stop you spoke of."
It was late that day when the proa, after running coastwise all day, turned a quarter circle into one of the numerous bays indenting the coast. PeterGross recognized the familiar headlands crowning Bulungan Bay. Paddy also recognized them, for he cried:
"They're bringing us back home."
At that moment the tall Bugi who had been their sponsor approached them and made signs to indicate that they must return to the box between decks from which he had rescued them. He tried to show by signs and gestures his profound regret at the necessity of locking them up again, his anxiety to convince the "son of the Gunong Agong" was almost ludicrous. Realizing the futility of objecting, Peter Gross and Paddy permitted themselves to be locked in the place once more.
It was quite dark and the stars were shining brightly when the hatch was lifted again. As they rose from their cramped positions and tried to make out the circle of faces about them, unceremonious hands yanked them to the deck, thrust foul-smelling cloths into their mouths, blindfolded them, and trussed their hands and feet with stout cords. They were lowered into a boat, and after a brief row were tossed on the beach like so many sacks of wool, placed in boxlike receptacles, and hurried inland. Two hours' steady jogging followed, in which they were thrown about until every inch of skin on their bodies was raw with bruises. They were then taken out of the boxes and the cloths and cords were removed.
Looking about, Peter Gross and Paddy found themselves in the enclosed court of what was evidently the ruins of an ancient Hindoo temple. The massive columns, silvery in the bright moonlight, were covered with inscriptions and outline drawings, crudely made in hieroglyphic art. In the center of one wall was the chipped and weather-scarred pedestal of a Buddha. The idol itself, headless, lay broken in two on the floor beside it. Peter Gross's brow puckered—the very existence of such a temple two hours' journey distant from Bulungan Bay had been unknown to him.
Thejuraganand his Chinese left after giving sharp instructions to their jailers, two Chinese, to guard them well. Peter Gross and Paddy looked about in vain for a single friendly face or even the face of a brown-skinned man—every member of the party was Chinese. The jailers demonstrated their capacity by promptly thrusting their prisoners into a dark room off the main court. It was built of stone, like the rest of the temple.
"Not much chance for digging out of here," Rouse observed, after examining the huge stones, literally mortised together, and the narrow window aperture with its iron gratings. Peter Gross also made as careful an examination of their prison as the darkness permitted.
"We may as well make ourselves comfortable," was his only observation at the close of his investigation.
They chatted a short time, and at last Paddy, worn out by his exertions, fell asleep. Peter Gross listened for a while to the lad's rhythmic breathing,then tip-toed to the gratings and pulled himself up to them. A cackle of derisive laughter arose outside. Realizing that the place was carefully watched, he dropped back to the floor and began pacing the chamber, his head lowered in thought. Presently he stopped beside Rouse and gazed into the lad's upturned face, blissfully serene in the innocent confidence of youth. Tears gathered in his eyes.
"I shouldn't have brought him here; I shouldn't have brought him here," he muttered brokenly.
The scraping of the ponderous bar that bolted the door interrupted his meditations shortly after daybreak. The door creaked rustily on its hinges, and an ugly, leering Chinese face peered inside. Satisfying himself that his prisoners were not planning mischief, the Chinaman thrust two bowls of soggy rice and a pannikin of water inside and gestured to Peter Gross that he must eat. The indignant protest of the door as it closed awoke Paddy, who sat bolt upright and blinked sleepily until he saw the food.
"What? Time for breakfast?" he exclaimed with an amiable grin. "I must have overslept."
He picked up a bowl of rice, stirred it critically with one of the chopsticks their jailers had provided, and snuffed at the mixture. He put it down with a wry face.
"Whew!" he whistled. "It's stale."
"You had better try to eat something," Peter Gross advised.
"I'm that hungry I could eat toasted sole leather," Paddy confessed. "But this stuff smells to heaven."
Peter Gross took the other bowl and began eating, wielding the chopsticks expertly.
"It isn't half bad—I've had worse rations on board your uncle's ship," he encouraged.
"Then my dear old avunculus ought to be hung," Paddy declared with conviction. Hunger and his superior's example finally overcame his scruples, however, and presently he was eating with gusto.
"Faith," he exclaimed, "I've got more appetite than I imagined."
Peter Gross did not answer. He was wondering whether the rice was poisoned, and half hoped it was. It would be an easier death than by torture, he thought. But he forebore mentioning this to Paddy.
Two days, whose monotony was varied only by occasional visits from one or another of their jailers, passed in this way. Peter Gross's faint hope that they might be able to escape by overpowering the Chinamen, while the latter brought them their meals, faded; the jailers had evidently been particularly cautioned against such an attempt and were on their guard.
On the afternoon of the second day a commotion in the fore-court of the temple, distinctly audible through the gratings, raised their curiosity to fever heat. They listened intently and tried to distinguish voices and words in the hubbub, but were unsuccessful. It was apparent, however, that a large party had arrived. There were fully a hundred men in it, Peter Gross guessed, possibly twice that number.
"What's this?" Paddy asked.
Peter Gross's face was set in hard, firm lines, and there was an imperious note in his voice as he said:
"Come here, Paddy. I have a few words to say to you."
Paddy's face lost its familiar smile as he followedhis chief to the corner of their prison farthest from the door.
"I don't know what this means, but I rather suspect that Ah Sing has arrived," Peter Gross said. He strove to speak calmly, but his voice broke. "If that is the case, we will probably part. You will not see me again. You may escape, but it is doubtful. If you see the slightest chance to get away, take it. Being shot or krissed is a quicker death than by torture."
In spite of his effort at self-control, Paddy's face blanched.
"By torture?" he asked in a low voice of amazement.
"That is what we may expect," Peter Gross declared curtly.
Paddy breathed hard a moment. Then he laid an impulsive hand on his leader's arm.
"Let's rush 'em the minute the door opens, Mr. Gross."
Peter Gross shook his head in negation. "While there is life there is hope," he said, smiling.
Paddy did not perceive that his chief was offering himself in the hope that his death might appease the pirate's craving for vengeance.
They strolled about, their hearts too full for speech. Presently Paddy lifted his head alertly and signaled for silence. He was standing near the window and raised himself on tiptoe to catch the sounds coming through. Peter Gross walked softly toward him.
"What is it?" he asked.
"I thought I heard a white man speaking just now," Paddy whispered. "It sounded like Van Slyck's voice—Hist!"
A low murmur of ironic laughter came through the gratings. Peter Gross's face became black with anger. There was no doubting who it was that had laughed.
A few minutes later they heard the scraping of the heavy bar as it was lifted out of its socket, then the door opened. Several armed Chinamen, giants of their race, sprang inside. Ah Sing entered behind them, pointed at Peter Gross, and issued a harsh, guttural command.
The resident walked forward and passively submitted to the rough hands placed upon him. Paddy tried to follow, but two of the guards thrust him back so roughly that he fell. Furious with anger, he leaped to his feet and sprang at one of them, but the Chinaman caught him, doubled his arm with a jiu-jitsu trick, and then threw him down again. The other prodded him with a spear. Inwardly raging, Paddy lay motionless until the guards tired of their sport and left him.
In the meantime Peter Gross was half led, half dragged through the fore-court of the temple into another chamber. Those behind him prodded him with spear-points, those in front spit in his face. He stumbled, and as he regained his balance four barbs entered his back and legs, but his teeth were grimly set and he made no sound. Althoughhe gazed about for Van Slyck, he saw no signs of him; the captain had unquestionably deemed it best to keep out of sight.
In the chamber, at Ah Sing's command, they bound him securely hand and foot, with thongs of crocodile hide. Then the guards filed out and left the pirate chief alone with his prisoner.
As the doors closed on them Ah Sing walked slowly toward the resident, who was lying on his back on the tessellated pavement. Peter Gross looked back calmly into the eyes that were fixed so gloatingly upon him. In them he read no sign of mercy. They shone with a savage exultation and fiendish cruelty. Ah Sing sighed a sigh of satisfaction.
"Why you don't speak, Mynheer Gross?" he asked, mimicking Van Schouten's raspy voice.
Peter Gross made no reply, but continued staring tranquilly into the face of his arch-enemy.
"Mebbe you comee Ah Sing's house for two-three men?" the pirate chief suggested with a wicked grin.
"Mebbe you show Ah Sing one damn' fine ring Mauritius?" the pirate chief mocked.
Peter Gross did not flick an eyelash. A spasm of passion flashed over Ah Sing's face, and he kicked the resident violently.
"Speakee, Chlistian dog," he snarled.
Peter Gross's lips twitched with pain, but he did not utter a sound.
"I teachum you speakee Ah Sing," the piratedeclared grimly. Whipping a dagger from his girdle, he thrust it between Peter Gross's fourth and fifth ribs next to his heart. The point entered the skin, but Peter Gross made no sound. It penetrated a quarter-inch.
Ah Sing, smiling evilly, searched the face of his victim for an expression of fear or pain. Three-eighths of an inch, half an inch—Peter Gross suddenly lunged forward. An involuntary contraction of his facial muscles betrayed him, and the Chinaman pulled the dagger away before the resident could impale himself upon it. He stepped back, and a look of admiration came upon his face—it was the tribute of one strong man to another.
"Peter him muchee likee gosangjang(hades)," he observed. "Ah Sing sendee him to-mollow, piecee, piecee, plenty much talkee then." The pirate indicated with strokes of his dagger that he would cut off Peter Gross's toes, fingers, ears, nose, arms, and legs piecemeal at the torture. Giving his victim another violent kick, he turned and passed through the door. A few minutes later a native physician came in with two armed guards and staunched the flow of blood, applying bandages with dressings of herbs to subdue inflammation.
Night settled soon after. The darkness in the chamber was abysmal. Peter Gross lay on one side and stared into the blackness, waiting for the morning, the morning Ah Sing promised to make his last. Rats scurried about the floor and stopped to sniff suspiciously at him. At times he wished theywere numerous enough to attack him. He knew full well the savage ingenuity of the wretches into whose hands he had fallen for devising tortures unspeakable, unendurable.
Dawn came at last. The first rays of the sun peeping through the gratings found him asleep. Exhausted nature had demanded her toll, and even the horror of his situation had failed to banish slumber from his heavy lids. As the sun rose and gained strength the temperature sensibly increased, but Peter Gross slept on.
He awoke naturally. Stretching himself to ease his stiffened limbs, he felt a sharp twitch of pain that brought instant remembrance. He struggled to a sitting posture. The position of the sun's rays on the wall indicated that the morning was well advanced.
He listened for the camp sounds, wondering why his captors had not appeared for him before now. There was no sound outside except the soughing of the wind through the jungle and the lackadaisical chatter of the pargams and lories.
"Strange!" he muttered to himself. "It can't be that they've left."
His shoulders were aching frightfully, and he tugged at his bonds to get his hands free, but they were too firmly bound to be released by his unaided efforts. His clothing, he noticed, was almost drenched, the heavy night dew had clustered thickly upon it. So does man cling to the minor comforts even in his extremity that he labored to bring himself within the narrow park of the sun's rays to dry his clothing.
He was still enjoying his sun-bath when he heard the bar that fastened the door of his chamber lifted from its sockets. His lips closed firmly. A half-uttered prayer, "God give me strength," floated upward, then the door opened. An armed guard, one of his jailers for the past two days, peered inside.
Seeing his prisoner firmly bound, he ventured within with the customary bowl of rice and pannikin of water. A slash of his kris cut the thongs binding Peter Gross's hands, then the jailer backed to the door while the resident slowly and dazedly unwound the thongs that had bound him.
Expecting nothing else than that he would be led to the torture, persuaded that the door would be opened for no other purpose, Peter Gross could not comprehend for a few moments what had happened. Then he realized that a few hours of additional grace had been vouchsafed him, and that Ah Sing and his crew must have left.
He wondered why food was offered him. In the imminent expectancy of death, the very thought of eating had nauseated him the moment before. Yet to have this shadow removed, if only for a few hours, brought him an appetite. He ate with relish, the guard watching him in the meantime with cat-like intentness and holding his spear in instant readiness. As soon as the resident had finished he bore the dishes away, barring the door carefully again.
Released from his bonds, for the jailer had not replaced these, Peter Gross spent the hours in comparative comfort. He amused himself in examining every inch of the cell in the faint hope that he might find a weak spot, and in meditating other plans of escape. Although missing Paddy's ready smile and readier chaff greatly, he did not worry about the lad, for since he was safe himself he reasoned that his subordinate must be.
Late in the afternoon, while he was pacing his cell, the sharp crack of a rifle suddenly broke the forest stillness. Holding himself tense and rigid with every fiber thrilling at the thought of rescue, he listened for the repetition of the shot. It came quickly, mingled with a blood-curdling yell from a hundred or more savage throats. There were other scattered shots.
His finger-nails bit into his palms, and his heart seemed to stand still. Had Carver found him? Were these Dyaks friends or enemies? The next few moments seemed that many eternities; then he heard a ringing American shout:
"We've got 'em all, boys; come on!"
Peter Gross leaped to the grating. "Here, Carver, here!" he shouted at the top of his voice.
"Coming!" twenty or more voices shouted in a scattered chorus. There was a rush of feet, leather-shod feet, across the fore-court pavement. The heavy bar was lifted. Striving to remain calm, although his heart beat tumultuously, Peter Gross waited in the center of the chamber until the door opened and Carver sprang within.
The captain blinked to accustom himself to the light. Peter Gross stepped forward and their hands clasped.
"In time, Mr. Gross, thank God!" Carver exclaimed. "Where's Paddy?"
"In the other chamber; I'll show you," Peter Gross answered. He sprang out of his cell like a colt from the barrier and led the way on the double-quick to the cell that had housed him and Paddy for two days. Carver and he lifted the bar together and forced the door. The cell was empty.
It took a full minute for the resident to comprehend this fact. He stared dazedly at every inch of the floor and wall, exploring bare corners with an eager eye, as though Paddy might be hiding in some nook or cranny. But the tenantless condition of the chamber was indisputable.
A half-sob broke in Peter Gross's throat. It was the first emotion he had given way to.
"They've taken him away," he said in a low, strained voice.
"Search the temple!" Carver shouted in a stentorian voice to several of his command. "Get Jahi to help; he probably knows this place."
"Jahi's here?" Peter Gross exclaimed incredulously.
"He and a hundred hillmen," Carver replied crisply. "Now to comb this pile."
The tribesmen scattered to search the ruin. It was not extensive. In the meantime Peter Gross briefly sketched the happenings of the past few days to Carver. At the mention of Van Slyck the captain's face became livid.
"The damn' skunk said he was going to Padang," he exclaimed. "He left Banning in charge. I hope to God he stays away."
One of Jahi's hillmen reported that no trace of Rouse could be found. "Him no here; him in bush," he said.
"The Chinks have gone back to their proas; the trail heads that way," Carver said. "Some of Jahi's boys picked it up before we found you. But what the deuce do they want with Rouse, if they haven't killed him?"
"He's alive," Peter Gross declared confidently, although his own heart was heavy with misgiving. "We've got to rescue him."
"They've got at least five hours the start of us," Carver remarked. "How far are we from the seacoast?"
Peter Gross's reply was as militarily curt as the captain's question.
"About two hours' march."
"They're probably at sea. We'll take a chance, though." He glanced upward at the sound of a footfall. "Ah, here's Jahi."
Peter Gross turned to the chieftain who had so promptly lived up to his oath of brotherhood. Warm with gratitude, he longed to crush the Dyak's hand within his own, but restrained himself, knowing how the Borneans despised display of emotion. Instead he greeted the chief formally, rubbing noses according to the custom of the country.
No word of thanks crossed his lips, for he realized that Jahi would be offended if he spoke. Such a service was due from brother to brother, according to the Dyak code.
"Rajah, can we catch those China boys before they reach their proas?" Carver asked.
"No can catch," Jahi replied.
"Can we catch them before they sail?"
"No can say."
"How far is it?"
They were standing near a lone column of stone that threw a short shadow toward them. Jahi touched the pavement with his spear at a point about six inches beyond the end of the shadow.
"When there shall have reached by so far the finger of the sun," he declared.
Both Carver and Peter Gross understood that he was designating how much longer the shadow must grow.
"About two hours, as you said," Carver remarked to his chief. "We'd better start at once."
Jahi bowed to indicate that he had understood. He took some soiled sheets of China rice paper from his chawat.
"Here are skins that talk,mynheer kapitein," he said respectfully. "Dyak boy find him in China boy kampong."
Carver thrust them into his pocket without looking at them and blew his whistle. A few minutes later they began the march to the sea.
While they were speeding through a leafy tunnel with Jahi's Dyaks covering the front and rear to guard against surprise, Carver found opportunity to explain to Peter Gross how he had been able to make the rescue. Koyala had learned Ah Sing's plans from a native source and had hastened to Jahi, who was watching the borders of his range to guard against a surprise attack by Lkath. Jahi, on Koyala's advice, had made a forced march to within ten miles of Bulungan, where Carver, summoned by Koyala, had joined him. Starting at midnight, they had made an eight-hour march to the temple.
"Koyala again," Peter Gross remarked. "She has been our good angel all the way."
Carver was silent. The resident looked at him curiously.
"I am surprised that you believed her so readily," he said. They jogged along some distance before the captain replied.
"I believed her. But I don't believe in her," he said.
"Something's happened since to cause you to lose confidence in her?" Peter Gross asked quickly.
"No, nothing specific. Only Muller and hiscontrolleursare having the devil's own time getting the census. Many of the chiefs won't even let them enter their villages. Somebody has been stirring them up. And there have been raids—"
"So you assume it's Koyala?" Peter Gross demanded harshly.
Carver evaded a reply. "I got a report that the priests are preaching a holy war among the Malay and Dyak Mohammedans."
"That is bad, bad," Peter Gross observed, frowning thoughtfully. "We must find out who is at the bottom of this."
"The Argus Pheasant isn't flying around the country for nothing," Carver suggested, but stopped abruptly as he saw the flash of anger that crossed his superior's face.
"Every success we have had is due to her," Peter Gross asserted sharply. "She saved my life three times."
Carver hazarded one more effort.
"Granted. For some reason we don't know she thinks it's to her interest to keep you alive—for the present. But she has an object. I can't make it out yet, but I'm going to—" The captain's lips closed resolutely.
"You condemned her before you saw her because she has Dyak blood," Peter Gross accused. "It isn't fair."
"I'd like her a lot more if she wasn't so confounded friendly," Carver replied dryly.
Peter Gross did not answer, and by tacit consent the subject was dropped.
Captain Carver was looking at his watch—the two hours were more than up—when Jahi, who had been in the van, stole back and lifted his hand in signal for silence.
"Orang blandahere stay, Dyak boy smell kampong," he said.
Carver gave a low-voiced command to halt, and enjoined his men to see to their weapons. As he ran his eyes over his company and saw their dogged jaws and alert, watchful faces, devoid of any trace of nervousness and excitability, his face lit with a quiet satisfaction. These men would fight—they were veterans who knew how to fight, and they had a motive; Paddy was a universal favorite.
A Dyak plunged through the bush toward Jahi and jabbered excitedly. Jahi cried:
"China boy, him go proa, three-four sampan."
"Lead the way," Carver cried. Peter Gross translated.
"Double time," the captain shouted, as Jahi and his tribesmen plunged through the bush at a pace too swift for even Peter Gross.
In less than three minutes they reached the edge of the jungle, back about fifty yards from the coral beach. Four hundred yards from shore a proa was being loaded from several large sampans. Some distance out to sea, near the horizon, was another proa.
A sharp command from Carver kept his menfrom rushing out on the beach in their ardor. In a moment or two every rifle in the company was covering the sampans. But there were sharp eyes and ears on board the proa as well as on shore, and a cry of alarm was given from the deck. The Chinese in the sampans leaped upward. At the same moment Carver gave the command to fire.
Fully twenty Chinamen on the two sampans floating on the leeward side of the proa made the leap to her deck, and of these eleven fell back, so deadly was the fire. Only two of them dropped into the boats, the others falling into the sea. Equipped with the latest type of magazine rifle, Carver's irregulars continued pumping lead into the proa. Several Chinamen thrust rifles over the rail and attempted a reply, but when one dropped back with a bullet through his forehead and another with a creased skull, they desisted and took refuge behind the ship's steel-jacketed rail. Perceiving that the proa was armored against rifle-fire, Carver ordered all but six of his command to cease firing, the six making things sufficiently hot to keep the pirates from replying.
The sampans were sinking. Built of skins placed around a bamboo frame, they had been badly cut by the first discharge. As one of them lowered to the gunwale, those on shore could see a wounded Chinaman, scarce able to crawl, beg his companions to throw him a rope. A coil of hemp shot over the deck of the vessel. The pirate reached for it, but at that moment the sampan went down and lefthim swirling in the water. A dorsal fin cut the surface close by, there was a little flurry, and the pirate disappeared.
Peter Gross made his way through the bush toward Carver. The latter was watching the proa with an anxious frown.
"They've got a steel jacket on her," he declared in answer to the resident's question. "So long as they don't show themselves we can't touch them. We couldn't go out to them in sampans if we had them; they'd sink us."
"Concentrate your fire on the water-line," Peter Gross suggested. "The armor doesn't probably reach very low, and some of these proas are poorly built."
"A good idea!" Carver bellowed the order.
The fire was concentrated at the stern, where the ship rode highest. That those on board became instantly aware of the maneuver was evident from the fact that a pirate, hideously attired with a belt of human hands, leaned over the bow to slash at the hempen cable with his kris. He gave two cuts when he straightened spasmodically and tumbled headlong into the sea. He did not appear above the surface again.
"Een," John Vander Esse, a member of the crew, murmured happily, refilling his magazine. "Now fornummer twee." (Number two.)
But the kris had been whetted to a keen edge. A gust of wind filled the proa's cumbersome triangular sail and drove her forward. The weakened cablesnapped. The ship lunged and half rolled into the trough of the waves; then the steersmen, sheltered in their box, gained control and swung it about.
"Gif heem all you got," Anderson, a big Scandinavian and particularly fond of Rouse, yelled. The concentrated fire of the twenty-five rifles, emptied, refilled, and emptied as fast as human hands could perform these operations, centered on the stern of the ship. Even sturdy teak could not resist that battering. The proa had not gone a hundred yards before it was seen that the stern was settling. Suddenly it came about and headed for the shore.
There was a shrill yell from Jahi's Dyaks. Carver shouted a hoarse order to Jahi, who dashed away with his hillmen to the point where the ship was about to ground. The rifle-fire kept on undiminished while Carver led his men in short dashes along the edge of the bush to the same spot. The proa was nearing the beach when a white flag was hoisted on her deck. Carver instantly gave the order to cease firing, but kept his men hidden. The proa lunged on. A hundred feet from the shore it struck on a shelf of coral. The sound of tearing planking was distinctly audible above the roar of the waves. The water about the ship seemed to be fairly alive with fins.
"We will accept their surrender," Peter Gross said to Carver. "I shall tell them to send a boat ashore." He stepped forward.
"Don't expose yourself, Mr. Gross," Carver cried anxiously. Peter Gross stepped into the shelter ofa cocoanut-palm and shouted the Malay for "Ahoy."
A Chinaman appeared at the bow. His dress and trappings showed that he was ajuragan.
"Lower a boat and come ashore. But leave your guns behind," Peter Gross ordered.
Thejuragancried that there was no boat aboard. Peter Gross conferred with Jahi who had hastened toward them to find out what the conference meant. When the resident told him that there was to be no more killing, his disappointment was evident.
"They have killed my people without mercy," he objected. "They will cut my brother's throat to-morrow and hang his skull in their lodges."
It was necessary to use diplomacy to avoid mortally offending his ally, the resident saw.
"It was not the white man's way to kill when the fight is over," he said. "Moreover, we will hold them as hostages for our son, whom Djath has blessed."
Jahi nodded dubiously. "My brother's word is good," he said. "There is a creek near by. Maybe my boys find him sampan."
"Go, my brother," Peter Gross directed. "Come back as soon as possible."
Jahi vanished into the bush. A half-hour later Peter Gross made out a small sampan, paddled by two Dyaks, approaching from the south. That the Dyaks were none too confident was apparent from the anxious glances that they shot at the proa, which was already beginning to show signs of breaking up.
Peter Gross shouted again to thejuragan, and instructed him that every man leaving the proa must stand on the rail, in full sight of those on shore, and show that he was weaponless before descending into the sampan. Thejuraganconsented.
It required five trips to the doomed ship before all on board were taken off. There were thirty-seven in all—eleven sailors and the rest off-scourings of the Java and Celebes seas, whose only vocation was cutting throats. They glared at their captors like tigers; it was more than evident that practically all of them except thejuraganfully expected to meet the same fate that they meted out to every one who fell into their hands, and were prepared to sell their lives as dearly as possible.
"A nasty crew," Carver remarked to Peter Gross as the pirates were herded on the beach under the rifles of his company. "Every man's expecting to be handed the same dose as he's handed some poor devil. I wonder why they didn't sink with their ship?"
Peter Gross did not stop to explain, although he knew the reason why—the Mohammedan's horror of having his corpse pass into the belly of a shark.
"We've got to tie them up and make a chain-gang of them," Carver said thoughtfully. "I wouldn't dare go through the jungle with that crew any other way."
Peter Gross was looking at Jahi, in earnest conversation with several of his tribesmen. He perceived that the hill chief had all he could do torestrain his people from falling on the pirates, long their oppressors.
"I will speak to them," he announced quietly. He stepped forward.
"Servants of Ah Sing," he shouted in an authoritative tone. All eyes were instantly focused on him.
"Servants of Ah Sing," he repeated, "the fortunes of war have this day made you my captives. You must go with me to Bulungan. If you will not go, you shall die here."
A simultaneous movement affected the pirates. They clustered more closely together, fiercely defiant, and stared with the fatalistic indifference of Oriental peoples into the barrels of the rifles aimed at them.
"You've all heard of me," Peter Gross resumed. "You know that the voice of Peter Gross speaks truth, that lies do not come from his mouth." He glanced at a Chinaman on the outskirts of the crowd. "Speak, Wong Ling Lo, you sailed with me on theDaisy Deane, is it not so?"
Wong Ling Lo was now the center of attention. Each of the pirates awaited his reply with breathless expectancy. Peter Gross's calm assurance, his candor and simplicity, were already stirring in them a hope that in other moments they would have deemed utterly fantastic, contrary to all nature—a hope that this white man might be different from other men, might possess that attribute so utterly incomprehensible to their dark minds—mercy.
"Peter Gross, him no lie," was Wong Ling Lo's unemotional admission.
"You have heard what Wong Ling Lo says," Peter Gross cried. "Now, listen to what I say. You shall go back with me to Bulungan; alive, if you are willing; dead, if you are not. At Bulungan each one of you shall have a fair trial. Every man who can prove that his hand has not taken life shall be sentenced to three years on the coffee-plantations for his robberies, then he shall be set free and provided with a farm of his own to till so that he may redeem himself. Every man who has taken human life in the service of Ah Sing shall die."
He paused to see the effect of his announcement. The owlish faces turned toward him were wholly enigmatic, but the intensity of each man's gaze revealed to Peter Gross the measure of their interest.
"I cannot take you along the trail without binding you," he said. "Your oaths are worthless; I must use the power I have over you. Therefore you will now remember the promise I have made you, and submit yourselves to be bound.Juragan, you are the first."
As one of Carver's force came forward with cords salvaged from the proa, thejuraganmet him, placed his hands behind his back, and suffered them to be tied together. The next man hesitated, then submitted also, casting anxious glances at his companions. The third submitted promptly. The fourth folded his hands across his chest.
"I remain here," he announced.
"Very well," Peter Gross said impassively. He forced several Chinamen who were near to move back. They gave ground sullenly. At Carver's orders a firing-squad of three men stood in front of the Chinaman, whose back was toward the bay.
"Will you go with us?" Peter Gross asked again.
The Chinaman's face was a ghostly gray, but very firm.
"Allah wills I stay here," he replied. His lips curled with a calm contemptuousness at the white man's inability to rob him of the place in heaven that he believed his murders had made for him. With that smile on his lips he died.
A sudden silence came upon the crowd. Even Jahi's Dyaks, scarcely restrained by their powerful chief before this, ceased their mutterings and looked with new respect on the bigorang blandaresident. There were no more refusals among the Chinese. On instructions from Peter Gross four of them were left unbound to carry the body of their dead comrade to Bulungan. "Alive or dead," he had said. So it would be all understood.
Captain Carver selected a cigar from Peter Gross's humidor and reclined in the most comfortable chair in the room.
"A beastly hot day," he announced, wiping the perspiration from his forehead. "Regular Manila weather."
"The monsoon failed us again to-day," Peter Gross observed.
Carver dropped the topic abruptly. "I dropped over," he announced, "to see if thejuragantalked any."
Peter Gross glanced out of the window toward the jungle-crowned hills. The lines of his mouth were very firm.
"He told me a great deal," he admitted.
"About Paddy?" There was an anxious ring in Carver's voice.
"About Paddy—and other things."
"The lad's come to no harm?"
"He is aboard Ah Sing's proa, the proa we saw standing out to sea when we reached the beach. He is safe—for the present at least. He will be useful to Ah Sing, the natives reverence him so highly."
"Thank God!" Carver ejaculated in a relievedvoice. "We'll get him back. It may take time, but we'll get him."
Peter Gross made no reply. He was staring steadfastly at the hills again.
"Odd he didn't take you, too," Carver remarked.
"Thejuragantold me that he intended to come back with a portion of his crew for me later," Peter Gross said. "They ran short of provisions, so they had to go back to the proas, and they took Paddy with them. Some one warned them you were on the march with Jahi, so they fled. Tsang Che, thejuragan, says his crew was slow in taking on fresh water; that is how we were able to surprise him."
"That explains it," Carver remarked. "I couldn't account for their leaving you behind."
Peter Gross lapsed into silence again.
"Did you get anything else from him, any real evidence?" Carver suggested presently.
The resident roused himself with an effort.
"A great deal. Even more than I like to believe."
"He turned state's evidence?"
"You might call it that."
"You got enough to clear up this mess?"
"No," Peter Gross replied slowly. "I would not say that. What he told me deals largely with past events, things that happened before I came here. It is the present with which we have to deal."
"I'm a little curious," Carver confessed.
Peter Gross passed his hand over his eyes and leaned back.
"He told me what I have always believed. Of the confederation of pirates with Ah Sing at their head; of the agreements they have formed with those in authority; of where the ships have gone that have been reported missing from time to time and what became of their cargoes; of how my predecessor died. He made a very full and complete statement. I have it here, written in Dutch, and signed by him." Peter Gross tapped a drawer in his desk.
"It compromises Van Slyck?"
"He is a murderer."
"Of de Jonge—your predecessor?"
"It was his brain that planned."
"Muller?"
"A slaver and embezzler."
"You're going to arrest them?" Carver scanned his superior's face eagerly.
"Not yet," Peter Gross dissented quietly. "We have only the word of a pirate so far. And it covers many things that happened before we came here."
"We're waiting too long," Carver asserted dubiously. "We've been lucky so far; but luck will turn."
"We are getting the situation in hand better every day. They will strike soon, their patience is ebbing fast; and we will have thePrinswith us in a week."
"The blow may fall before then."
"We must be prepared. It would be folly for us to strike now. We have no proof except this confession, and Van Slyck has powerful friends at home."
"That reminds me," Carver exclaimed. "Maybe these documents will interest you. They are the papers Jahi found on your jailers. They seem to be a set of accounts, but they're Dutch to me." He offered the papers to Peter Gross, who unfolded them and began to read.
"Are they worth anything?" Carver asked presently, as the resident carefully filed them in the same drawer in which he had placed Tsang Che's statement.
"They are Ah Sing's memoranda. They tell of the disposition of several cargoes of ships that have been reported lost recently. There are no names but symbols. It may prove valuable some day."
"What are your plans?"
"I don't know. I must talk with Koyala before I decide. She is coming this afternoon."
Peter Gross glanced out of doors at that moment and his face brightened. "Here she comes now," he said.
Carver rose. "I think I'll be going," he declared gruffly.
"Stay, captain, by all means."
Carver shook his head. He was frowning and he cast an anxious glance at the resident.
"No; I don't trust her. I'd be in the way, anyway." He glanced swiftly at the resident to see the effect of his words. Peter Gross was looking down the lane along which Koyala was approaching. Anecklace of flowers encircled her throat and bracelets of blossoms hung on her arms—gardenia, tuberose, hill daisies, and the scarlet bloom of the flame-of-the-forest tree. Her hat was of woven nipa palm-leaves, intricately fashioned together. Altogether she was a most alluring picture.
When Peter Gross looked up Carver was gone. Koyala entered with the familiarity of an intimate friend.
"What is this I hear?" Peter Gross asked with mock severity. "You have been saving me from my enemies again."
Koyala's smile was neither assent nor denial.
"This is getting to be a really serious situation for me," he chaffed. "I am finding myself more hopelessly in your debt every day."
Koyala glanced at him swiftly, searchingly. His frankly ingenuous, almost boyish smile evoked a whimsical response from her.
"What are you going to do when I present my claim?" she demanded.
Peter Gross spread out his palms in mock dismay. "Go into bankruptcy," he replied. "It's the only thing left for me to do."
"My bill will stagger you," she warned.
"You know the Persian's answer, 'All that I have to the half of my kingdom,'" he jested.
"I might ask more," Koyala ventured daringly.
Peter Gross's face sobered. Koyala saw that, for some reason, her reply did not please him. A strange light glowed momentarily in her eyes.Instantly controlling herself, she said in carefully modulated tones:
"You sent for me,mynheer?"
"I did," Peter Gross admitted. "I must ask another favor of you, Koyala." The mirth was gone from his voice also.
"What is it?" she asked quietly.
"You know whom we have lost," Peter Gross said, plunging directly into the subject. "Ah Sing carried him away. His uncle, the boy's only living relative, is an old sea captain under whom I served for some time and a very dear friend. I promised him I would care for the lad. I must bring the boy back. You alone can help me."
The burning intensity of Koyala's eyes moved even Peter Gross, unskilled as he was in the art of reading a woman's heart through her eyes. He felt vaguely uncomfortable, vaguely felt a peril he could not see or understand.
"What will be my reward if I bring him back to you?" Koyala asked. Her tone was almost flippant.
"You shall have whatever lies in my power as resident to give," Peter Gross promised gravely.
Koyala laughed. There was a strange, jarring note in her voice.
"I accept your offer, Mynheer Resident," she said. "But you should not have added those two words, 'as resident.'"
Rising like a startled pheasant, she glided out of the door and across the plain. Peter Gross stared after her until she had disappeared.