With blanched face, she recoiled in terror; and her husband, hurrying forward, passed his stalwart arm around her for protection, while she hid her face on his breast.
The Burman, meantime, was pouring out a flood of explanations, and the history of his having watched the robber, seen him possessed of English things, followed, tracked him from place to place, and, finally, set upon him in a lonely spot, killed him, searched him, and found upon him—this!—holding up a silver watch.
It was Ralph Denham's watch, Mr. Gilchrist knew it well. Moreover, it had R. D. engraved upon it on the back. It had been a present to him from his mother before he sailed, he valued it extremely, and had it upon him when the Pelican was abandoned, being almost the only thing of value which he had saved. Indeed, it was nearly the only trinket which he had ever possessed.
How it had fallen into the robber's hands could not now be ever known, for the man was dead. Had poor Denham escaped the tiger, been spared from the fire, to fall a prey at last to a fellow-man? Had he been the victim of other perils, and had the dacoit only found the watch in the jungle and appropriated it? Was the fellow even venturing to bring it in for the reward, and could he have told more of the gallant lad's fate? Who could say now?
Mr. Brudenel questioned the Burman closely, seeking confirmation of the story in its every detail of place and time. The man knew nothing of Denham, nor as to how the watch had fallen into the hands of the dacoit, who was one of a band of robbers that was harrying the mountain villages at a little distance. The watch was useless to him evidently. It had run down, and was silent. Either he had not possessed the key, or did not understand how to use it; and he had worn it round his neck as an ornament in a conspicuous manner, which had attracted the Burman's notice.
Mr. Gilchrist paid the offered reward in silence, carried the watch into the house, and, laying it down, broke into a passion of grief which, for a time, admitted of no consolation.
Ralph, upon flying from the infuriated elephant, had followed the defile before described, rushing up its tortuous windings with little heed beyond that of his own safety. If he thought at all, he believed that the others were following him at no great distance; attracted, as he had been, by the rough stones lying in the bed of the stream; where, after the rains, it tumbled headlong down the pass, a mountain torrent of double its present width. The loose boulders, and jagged fragments of rock, would, he considered, cut the pads in the elephant's feet and deter the animal's pursuit. In this he was mistaken, but the idea guided his flight at the time.
He did not pause for reflection; it was instinct more than deliberation which impelled his flight. On he ran; his active, well-trained young limbs covering the ground rapidly; leaping from rock to boulder, springing over pool and marshy hollow, and instinctively taking advantage of every soft grassy slope.
All at once his heedless progress was arrested by summary disaster. He stepped upon something soft, which turned beneath his foot instead of proving to be a rounded hard stone. A fearful screech was heard, curdling the very marrow in his bones, and bringing his heart to his mouth as he fell, measuring his length prone upon the sward. An unearthly spitting and growling assailed him, which, as he quickly came to himself after the shock of his fall, he first thought emanated from an enraged cat; but the next moment, was, he perceived, the token of something far worse.
He had tumbled over two young tiger cubs, and their dam was hurrying up to their rescue, from the pool where she had been drinking.
He saw the rich colour of her soft fur; he marked the beautiful dark waving lines crossing the yellow body; the graceful power of her strong limbs was impressed upon his mind in the moment's view which he had of her, lifting her head from the water at the cry of her offspring, and bounding back to their lair.
Then she crouched for her spring upon him, the sun lighting up her splendid eyes, contracted as they were from the intentness with which they glared at him, her tail lashing itself to and fro, as she warily crept two steps nearer, with fell purpose apparent in her every curve.
That pause for her spring saved him. How he took his aim he never knew; he could not have done it had he stayed to consider, it was an accuracy born of desperation. He seized his gun, as he rose to his feet, pointed it, fired, and saw her drop. The shot had entered the creature's neck, near the shoulders, and pierced directly to its heart. She rolled over with a faint struggle, and was still for evermore.
Oblivious of the death of their dam, the two cubs, replete with food, were already curling themselves around to resume their disturbed sleep.
Ralph could not believe in his own deliverance. He dropped his arms, and stood for a moment dumbfounded, expecting to see that agile sinuous mass of beautiful peril move again.
He gazed at it in silent, fixed horror, till, gradually realising that he was saved from it as by a miracle, he drew a long breath.
At the very same moment he became aware of two brilliant points of topaz-hued light fixed upon him from the jungle.
They were the eyes of the male tiger, stealthily advancing upon him from another side.
It was too much for the boy. Terror seized upon him, and he fled precipitately in the reverse direction; tearing his way through creeper and jungle-grass, breaking through bush and bramble, panting, gasping and sick with fear, till, perceiving a gnarled tree easy to climb, he flung down his gun and swung himself upwards, from branch to branch, till he could seat himself upon a point of safety.
The tiger leapt, and leapt short of his prey. With a roar of baffled rage it bounded up to the tree where the boy sat with blanched cheeks and horror-distended eyes, and, rearing itself upon its hind legs, stretched a strong paw upwards in endeavour to reach its enemy and pull him from his refuge. Up went Ralph's legs with an instinctive spasm. He crouched closer to the branch where he sat, and clung faster to the boughs and cord-like creepers around him.
The tiger, with ferocious growls, snuffed at the gun, prowled round the tree, and cast baleful glances upwards to the place where the boy was plainly visible; but it made no attempt to climb the trunk, which Ralph feared it would do. He did not know enough about the habits or power of these creatures to be sure what it would attempt; and was alternately divided between this dread and that of being no longer able to maintain his hold, but of falling headlong from his perch into the grasp of those cruel fangs and terrible paws.
But though every minute seemed to be an hour, the time was not really very long before the creature gave up its pursuit, and made off with head drooping and a long stealthy stride of its supple limbs.
Ralph could not at first believe himself to be safe. He thought that the tiger might return; he thought that it was watching him from some secret lair; he was not certain that his shot had proved fatal to the female tiger; and the more he thought about it, the less probable did he consider it that she was dead. He glanced this way and that, expecting to see a gleam of golden colour creeping among the undergrowth of deep green scrub; he strained his ears to hear soft footsteps crash among the brushwood, or low-muttered growls uttered beneath him.
He was cramped and stiff from his attitude and the rigidity of his hold; he grew very cold as the sun went down; he was hungry and very, very thirsty; his lips were parched, his mouth fevered,—yet he dared not descend the tree.
After a long time, he ventured to change his position to one of greater ease. He shifted his place to a mighty branch, upon which he might recline at full length, or sit with his back against the bole. Then he began to wonder what had become of his companions. He could see none of them, nor hear a sound which could proceed from human lips.
Where were they? What were they doing? Why did they not come to seek him? Had any of them been trampled under foot by that mad elephant, or devoured by the tigers? Surely some dreadful thing must have befallen them, or they would have come to his assistance.
Mr. Gilchrist—Wills—Osborn—why did none of them come?
By degrees his thoughts concentrated themselves upon his gun. It must not be there in the long grass, dark and wet with heavy dew. He must go down and take it up, but dreaded the descent. Still, his gun must not become rusted and useless, or what would become of him. Slowly, silently, he crept down, swinging himself from bough to bough, pausing and listening every moment for the tiger's low growl. Now he thought that he heard it; then he believed that it was but his imagination. Under one idea, he hung poised in air; under the other, he ventured a little farther. All at once a treacherous branch, to which he had trusted his weight, gave way beneath him; and, with a sudden jerk, he fell crashing down to the ground.
His fall was broken by the thick tangle of the undergrowth, so that he fractured no bones, but he was terribly shaken, cut and scratched, and one foot sprained.
For a few moments he lay stunned; then pulled himself together, reached out for the gun, and having possessed himself of it, tried to mount the tree again. But he could not succeed. His arms felt as if they had been all but pulled out of their sockets; blood trickled into his eyes from a deep scratch on his brow, and blinded him.
But he dared not remain upon the ground, so he moved on a little to seek a tree which might be easier to climb. The moon had risen in radiant beauty, and there was plenty of light, but no tree suitable to his purpose grew about that spot, and he moved deeper into the jungle, as he thought that now here, now there, he had found one.
He did discover one at last, made his painful ascent of it, and, when he thought that he had mounted sufficiently high, he found a tolerably easy seat, and determined to await the dawn there.
He was extremely tired, but was afraid to sleep lest some snake or noxious insect should coil around him or sting him. He had enough to do to ward off the attacks of myriads of creatures as it was. Mosquitoes hummed gaily over their feast upon him; huge beetles flopped in his face, smaller ones ran up his trousers and sleeves, and tried to penetrate down his back.
Ants got into his boots, and slimy things crawled over his hands and endeavoured to fix themselves on his face or neck, or cling to his hair. Would the tardy day never begin to break?
What was that red glow upon the sky to the eastward? It was not like the dawn, it was not in the right place,—but what could it be? It was like the reflection, upon the sky, of a mighty fire,—but where was the fire? He could see none.
Ralph was not aware how far he had run up the defile, or noticed the direction which he had taken in escaping from the tiger. In reality he had skirted round the farther base of the hill upon which the police-station was situated, and was wandering in the jungle at its base.
The tardy sun rose at last; much of the terror of the night was swept away under its beneficent influence. Ralph pulled himself together, determined to walk off his stiffness and soreness; shouldered his gun, and set off—down quite a new gulley, under the idea that he was returning down the same through which he had come on the previous afternoon; and limped resolutely forward, away from his friends, away from the station, away from all help and succour.
He walked for a long time before he found that he was not going rightly, for the defile came to an end. Its close was completed by a wide shallow pool, fringed with bamboo canes, and upon which many water-fowl were disporting themselves, while more were preening their plumage upon its banks.
The sight made him feel how hungry he was, and he argued to himself that the sound of his gun would betray his whereabouts to his friends, who would answer the signal by another to let him know in which direction to turn. He fired, therefore, upon the covey nearest to him, and two plump birds fell.
Forgetting his fatigue and his lame foot in the excitement, he splashed through the muddy shallows and pools, picked up his game, and brought it back to terra firma.
"Well," said he to himself, "there is nothing to be gained by rambling farther away. I may as well stay here and cook my breakfast, for I don't know which way to go, and it is as likely that I should go wrongly as in the right way. If they don't hear my gun, they will perhaps see the smoke of a fire, which will guide them."
He therefore gathered some dry fuel in a heap, and, having the good fortune to discover some cutchwood trees, collected the withered branches lying scattered around, and soon had a splendid fire. The flames emitted from the cutchwood were, however, too fierce for his cookery, so he piled on some greener wood, and sat down to pluck his birds, while the blaze was dying down to a nice glowing bed of red ashes.
We say "pluck his birds," but Ralph was no gourmand; nor was he cook to a first-class gentleman's club. Plucking was too lengthy an operation for him; he cut the skin of his game down the back, and pulled it off, inside out, like a stocking from a foot, having first chopped off the heads and legs.
This operation was completed before his fire was ready; so he took a plunge into a clear pool, reclothed himself, and then broiled his breakfast, having split his birds open like spatch-cocks.
"They are not bad," thought he, as he devoured them, tearing their limbs apart by help of fingers and knife, like a young ogre. "They are not bad, though they would have been more savoury if I had had some pepper and salt, with a dab of butter. How Agnes would have jeered at me as man-cook. I wonder what the dear old girl is doing now. She little thinks where I am. Lost in a Burmese jungle! What a pretty kettle of fish it is. I know no more than the man in the moon which way to go, or what to do. Well, no predicament is so bad that it can't be mended. If I walk straight on, I must come somewhere, sooner or later. Those fellows don't mean to join me here, that's plain. So Ralph Denham, Esq., marching orders are yours. Forward!"
He knew that he must regain the main stream of the Salween River, up the eastern bank of which his party had come; but where was the Salween? He must climb one of these mountain-spurs,—one sufficiently lofty to command a bird's-eye view of the country, so that he could take its bearings. He therefore set himself to the ascent of the most lofty hill which he could perceive.
The ascent was, however, no joke. His foot was very painful. He had dipped his handkerchief in water, and bound it tightly round the ankle, but the heat rapidly dried it, nor could he constantly find means of rewetting it to keep it cool.
The jungle grew thicker and thicker, more and more impenetrable, with every step. He had to cut his way with his knife through the tangle of creepers, linked and bound together in impenetrable masses, and his knife soon became wholly inadequate to the task.
To proceed straight forward was utterly impossible, for the thickness of the interlacing stems quite baffled his strength. He found an easier place to the right, and essayed that; but after a few steps he was pulled up again. He discovered a slighter barrier to the left, again to be baffled wholly.
After hours of work, he had advanced but a dozen yards, and made up his mind that to penetrate such a jungle as this, with no better appliances than he possessed, and with no help, was a completely hopeless task.
He sat down to rest, and consider what would be his next best plan.
It was easy to sit down, and easy to ponder the question, but any decision at all was another matter. All the thinking in the world would not tell him either where he was or which way he ought to go; and the more he deliberated, the more puzzled he became.
To mount the hills was impossible, from the impenetrability of the jungle; to follow a stream was to expose himself to the attacks of wild beasts coming to the water to drink. How then could he proceed? But to remain still was quite as unsafe, for he had but a small quantity of powder and shot; and when this was expended, would be wholly at the mercy of savage animals.
To follow the windings of a stream must lead him, in process of time, to some large river; and the danger of this course was no greater than that of any other. He determined to adopt this plan, and prepared for a start; first recommending his safety, by prayer, to Divine mercy, and imploring for help and guidance from on high.
Forlorn enough did he feel as he resumed his gun and other accoutrements, preparatory for so hopeless a task, but he tried to be brave, and once more set himself, as a preliminary, to "hang his harp on a willow tree."
It would not do, his voice sounded thin and poor, there was no volume in it; the silence around him seemed yet more awful in contrast to it; the words struck him as most intensely foolish in face of the majesty of nature which surrounded him.
He gave it up, and tried the Old Hundredth Psalm. This brought up, to his mental vision, the picture of his home, and the dreary old hand-organ man who droned out that psalm tune in the street regularly every Friday morning.
He could see Agnes in the shabby little parlour, and his mother's sweet, sad face, in her widow's cap, with the crippled baby in her arms. A great lump rose in his throat, and he dashed his hand across his eyes.
But it would never do to become sentimental, as he termed it, so he set himself vigorously to finding a suitable stream to follow. Now, the difficulty became that of finding any at all.
The jungle surrounded him on every side, he could not free himself from it. Every now and then he found what he thought a free glade or opening pathway, which he would pursue for a short distance, only to be again brought up in front of a tangle of creepers, glorious in colour, rich in purple or yellow festoons of exquisite flowers; snowed over with pure white blossoms, long wreaths of beauty pendant from the branches of the trees, and wholly preventing any progress.
Exquisite as the orchids and other plants were, he became weary of them and their sameness. Their perfume sickened him, their glory palled upon his sight. They were the same kinds—now common to him—over and over again. Oh, for a clump of English primroses nestled among moss and last year's brown leaves! Oh, for a bush of pink wild-roses, with golden hearts and delicate faint fragrance wafted upon a light breeze! Here everything was heavy and oppressive; too brilliant, too much, too unfamiliar, too unlike home.
Insect and reptile life troubled him greatly. The weather was growing very hot, and the density of the trees impeded every current of cool air. This was doubtless the cause of the difficulty in finding water, it was drying up so fast everywhere. Leeches got upon his legs, fixing themselves upon him with far too affectionate a tenacity; ants ran up his trousers, got into his boots; a thousand and one flying and crawling plagues assailed him.
Snakes and serpents wound their tails round trees, dropped coils in his path, and lifted flat heads from their meditations, to gaze on him with malevolent eyes. He did not know which were harmless and which were deadly, so suffered the same qualms alike from all.
He had a vague idea that a dark-coloured snake was more perilous than a yellow or green one, and never suffered more terror than when, sitting down to rest, and having fallen asleep, he perceived, upon waking, a long black thing reared on end, with pendant head bent over him.
For one moment he felt sick with horror, then perceived that it was the stem of a flower which he had never seen before, and which he had either overlooked from his fatigue when he sat down, or which had shot up its bloom with the most marvellous celerity while he was unconscious.
He had, indeed, slept for hours, having been quite worn out; and a special Providence must have guarded him during this long somnolence, or some noxious insect would certainly have attacked him the while.
It was late in the day, the dews were falling thickly after the heat of the noontide; and a quantity of hares were hopping about, feeding upon the grass around him. They did not seem to be afraid of him, and he shot one without difficulty, and looked forward to making a good supper upon him, for he was hungry.
He laid it at the foot of the tree beneath which he had reposed, and began to collect wood with which to make a fire. Whilst doing this, he lost sight of the hare for a few minutes; and, on returning to the spot where he had laid it, he found a couple of huge crows tugging away at it to make it their own; and the burying beetles already digging a grave beneath it. An army of ants was swarming over it, and so persistent in their attentions that they would not leave it even when Ralph tore the skin off its back, and set it down to cook by his fire, wrapped thickly up in leaves.
However, he was too hungry to be very particular, although nothing had ever yet brought him to eat fried caterpillars or maggots, as a Burman will. He scraped off the ants to the best of his ability, and sought, while his meal was preparing, for some fruits, of which to make an agreeable conclusion to it.
He had the good fortune to discover some, of which he immediately partook, being parched and feverish. They refreshed him; and it was perhaps partly from this cause, and partly from his long sleep, that, his senses being perfectly alert, he chanced to notice a small orchid blooming upon a tree which he was convinced was one quite new to Mr. Gilchrist's collection. It differed in several material points from all which he had yet seen, but was certainly an orchid.
He carefully cut away the piece of bark upon which it grew, and looked about for more of it. He found another very small plant, which he secured, but the evening was becoming too dark for him to seek farther. He therefore returned to his fire, and made himself as comfortable beside it as circumstances permitted.
He did not sleep much that night, but dozed and woke again many times,—piling green wood upon the embers every time, so that the smoke thus engendered should keep off the mosquitoes from him.
At a little distance, beneath the trees, the fireflies swarmed, flashing about hither and thither, and making light in shady places. This light was caught and returned by the shining backs of a thousand beetles,—green, blue, crimson, and copper-hued. Flying foxes flitted by in search of guavas and other fruits; and bats of every size and description swarmed around, hawking on the wing for their suppers.
Ralph watched all these creatures dreamily, seeing, but too drowsy to think about them actively. The heavy scent of night-perfumed flowers overpowered his faculties, and confused his powers of mind, almost as much as if he had partaken of a narcotic.
Was it only a dream, or a dream-like fancy then, or did he really hear the faint ripple of flowing water? His senses became all at once preternaturally acute. He sprang up from his reclining position, and listened intently. No, it was not a mistake,—it was not a trick of the imagination; a little rill of water was running over stones hard by. In the comparative silence of the night the gentle sound made itself plainly audible.
He did not dare to leave the friendly protection of his fire in the dark, the jungle was too full of danger for that, but he laid a long branch, torn from a bush, in the direction from which the sound proceeded, and anxiously awaited the dawn.
It came at last,—dank and chilly even in that tropical climate; he rose, and perceived not far from him a slender thread of water slipping gaily along beneath ferns and grass and reeds; now breaking into a laugh over a few scattered stones and branches, then spreading into a tiny pool looking deep from brown shadows cast by overhanging growth.
Ralph laved his brow in it, cast its refreshing coolness over head and neck, drank of it, bathed his orchids in it, and knelt down to thank God for having at last found the clue by which he might possibly escape from the horrors of death in this lonely jungle. If die he must, he might now, at anyrate, die in the open country, with the sun of heaven above him.
Not even Arethusa herself, "shepherding her bright fountains," slipping down the rocks "with her golden locks, streaming among the streams," in the land of poesy, on the other side of the world, could have been so lovely in his eyes as this little unheard of, unnamed, unknown streamlet, in the heart of a Burmese forest.
The wild cat lapped it, and slunk away; a magnificent, many-hued dragon-fly, just burst from the sheath of its chrysalis upon the stem of a reed, was drying its gauzy wings in the level beams of the rising sun, as they shot through the trees just above the flower-enamelled grass, that sparkled with dew as if besprinkled with gems of every colour. A thousand little birds, awakened by the recurring daylight, chirped and sang and preened their feathers in the freshness of those early hours. Ralph's spirits also arose from the depression which had overcome them, and he sang once more as he arranged his dress, and reloaded himself with his accoutrements.
He now found more of the new orchid; and, still further impressed by a conviction of its rarity, he possessed himself of all that he could carry safely. This did not overburden him, for it was not plentiful; and, having packed it up, carefully swathed in damp grass, bound over that with liana stems, and protected by bark, he set himself to follow the course of the stream.
The water bubbled along in a very tortuous course, marking its way everywhere by a line of brighter, more tender emerald; and doubtless fed by hidden springs, for it grew wider in process of time, spreading out into a large pool whereon water-lilies reposed.
The blossoms had mostly gone to seed, which stood up from the stems like acorns, but a few late ones still floated on the bosom of the lake,—blue, pink, and white.
The edges of the water were fringed with flowering reeds; passion-flowers tossed clinging tendrils from tree to tree on its margin, and long wreaths of bud and blossom hung pendant from them.
Myriads of new-born butterflies flitted sportively among them, and bright birds skimmed over the quiet water. It was a most lovely sight,—one which Ralph never afterwards forgot. He rested upon the shore of this lake through the hottest part of the day; breakfasting upon some plantains which he had found, and upon the lily seeds and sprouts.
When a little air sprang up towards evening, he resumed his course.
The jungle closed around him again; but he now held the thread of the maze, and lost heart no more. He passed the night in a tree, and his evening orisons were heartfelt.
Day by day he plodded on. The stream grew wider, but wound so much that his progress through the country was very slow. When it grew sufficiently broad to admit of the navigation of any kind of craft, Ralph made up his mind to try whether he could not proceed faster upon a raft; and pondered much upon the means of constructing one which, though rudely fashioned, might serve his purpose.
His thoughts reverted at first to the coracles of ancient Britain, which he had heard were of basket-work covered with skins. Canes for basket-work abounded, but he did not see how to procure skins of a sufficiently large size, or how to cut them into shape or join them together.
He then thought of the North-American Indian's birch-bark canoe. But he had no means of felling a suitable tree, or of peeling the bark off in large sheets.
His mind reverted again to the wicker-work. He could cut down bamboos, and they grew plentifully everywhere. Could he tie them together by means of the cord-like lianas which bound the jungle so closely together into impenetrable masses? If not, he might weave them together with split cane or supple reeds.
Another consideration puzzled him. The stream was narrow; his raft must be no wider than necessary,—but what ought its length to be? It would not be manageable if very long; but how much surface should there be to support his weight on the water. He had no data upon which to go that could enable him to decide this point; experiment alone could do so. He would try making it as long as his own height; and, if that did not suffice, he could then enlarge it.
He cleared a space upon the borders of the stream, laid down upon it, and marked out his own proportions. Then he narrowed each end to a point beyond these limits, so that he might work the raft either way; drove short stakes into the ground all around the enclosure, laid stout bamboos athwart the centre of it, and bound them to the stakes. He tied together a bundle of long bamboos at each end, laid them lengthways upon those firmly affixed to the points, and spreading them out in the middle, began to weave all together with split canes, which had been steeping in water, to make them pliant, while everything else was being prepared.
When this was made as firm as lay in his power, he perceived that, though it might float and bear his weight, that burden would sink it a little below the surface of the water, so that he would always be wet. The stakes with which he had begun his contrivance were about two feet long—perhaps nearer three feet; and though not very regular in height, were all driven into the ground about equally far. It was above the ground that they were uneven.
He therefore began again, weaving a second floor about six inches above the first one. This had also the effect of making all steadier; and upon noticing this, he once more set to work, and wove a narrow bulwark above what he called his upper deck.
He cut a couple of bundles of long bamboos, which he tied along the bulwarks, to use in case of need; fashioned rude rowlocks in the centre; cut a quantity of grass, which he spread as a carpet for his feet; bound up a sheaf of the same to serve for a pillow at night; provided a store of liana twigs and split cane for repairs, if necessary; made his packet of orchids secure to stakes; and, finally, began to lay in a small store of fruit for food.
The stream was drying up so fast upon its shallow borders that fish were left flapping about in holes, or on the mud, every day; and, not sharing in the Burman's superstition as to taking life, he had made many a meal upon them,—for the construction of his raft had occupied several days. So few charges of powder and shot had he left, that he would not use his gun, thinking that he might want it for self-preservation before he could reach civilised regions.
When fish was not to be got, he had eaten fruit when he could find it; he had knocked down a bird or two by throwing sticks at them, for they were very tame at first, but were now becoming more afraid of him; and once he had been fortunate enough to come across some jungle-fowl's eggs.
Such a piece of luck had not befallen him again, however; and he had cleared his immediate neighbourhood of plantains, so he must go farther afield for stores.
The weather was very hot, and he had worked about his boat building, all these days, in his shirt and linen drawers. His other garments, with his gun and other small possessions, were neatly laid together on the low-growing branch of a shrub, in a place where he could easily see them; and now, taking up his knife, which he carried with a lanyard about his neck, and with a coil of grass-rope in his hand, he pulled on his boots, and set off into the jungle.
He was tolerably successful in his quest, but had to roam about for some time first. As the sun was preparing to set, he returned to the place that had begun to feel almost like a home to him,—that natural clearance among the trees; the clump of bushes on the little promontory jutting out into the stream; the huge Amherstia crowning the many-tinted scrub, with the white Dendrobium Formosum hanging down from it in such rich masses.
What were those parti-coloured figures at the foot of the tree where his garments hung? Men? Burmese? Not dacoits? But what else could they be? The ragged gaudy "putsoes," the white fillets around the heads, the gaunt frames, the fierce yet sly faces, all told their own tale. Ralph had heard of these robbers, and slipt stealthily back into the jungle, where, himself concealed, he could watch their proceedings.
They were examining his clothes with grins of delight. One had his beloved watch hung round his neck, and dangling about with every movement. One was cutting buttons off with great glee; and one was investigating the gun.
Now this gun was not a very good one; it had been purchased in the bazaar of Moulmein, in preparation for Ralph's first expedition with Mr. Gilchrist, when money was short with them both, while awaiting their better equipments from home.
But it was lighter than the fine new ones sent out from England, and was a favourite one with its young owner, though Wills often told him that he would meet with some accident with it one of these days, the weapon being so worn.
The Burman who held it was ramming in powder and shot most liberally; driving in more and more with the greatest delight, laughing and joking the while with more merriment than discretion.
Suddenly, in the middle of the fun, the old thing exploded—burst!—with a mighty report, and all the Burmese thieves were prostrate immediately.
Ralph thought at first that they were all killed, and was on the point of rushing forward to see the extent of the injuries received, when one raised himself, and then another. With the most rueful faces they wagged their heads to each other, each looking solemnly at his neighbour for a moment.
The third was hurt and bleeding, but whether seriously injured Ralph could not tell. His companions rose, seized him by the feet, and drew him, on his back, by that means to some distance from the scene of the disaster; and, passing near enough to Ralph's hiding-place, he heard them jabbering together about the "beloo" which had thus revenged itself upon them. They seemed shy of approaching the place where the shattered gun lay, and Denham thought that it would do them good to hear a little more of the "beloo."
Accordingly, he began to moan, upon which the fellows gave a great start, and gazed around with terrified faces. Seeing this, and being himself concealed behind a large tree, the boy increased his moan to a howl,—a yell,—the most unearthly screeches which he could raise. It was too much for the dacoits, they sprang to their feet and ran off as fast as their legs could take them, becoming quickly lost in the shadows of night.
Rightly judging that their dwellings could not be very far off, and that they might return by daylight, Ralph hastened to loose his raft, and push it off from its moorings down the stream, determining to pursue his way as far as possible before morning.
The raft floated well, to his joyful surprise; he punted it along successfully, and was far away before the day star rose.
Had Ralph known it, he was now not so very far from his friends. The stream, down which he was floating, was a tributary of that on the banks of which he had become separated from them, flowing down the next valley between the hills, and becoming merged in the larger one some five or six miles below the police-station.
The range of hills between them was higher and more abrupt than that upon which the police-station was situated, concealing it from view; but the density of the forest and jungle made its inhabitants widely dispersed. They were wholly composed of small scattered remnants of wild Karens, constantly fighting with each other, split up into small numbers, of which half a dozen families would suffice to stock a village, and incessantly changing their abode.
They would come to a jungle-covered hill, and set it on fire. When a sufficient space for their wants was burnt out, they planted rice upon the ground manured by the ashes, ran up a few hovels with bamboos and palm leaves, and awaited their harvest. This gathered, the same land would not bear a second crop; and, space being unlimited, the remedy was simple. They only moved to another hillside, and repeated the fire and farming manoeuvres.
When their own rice failed them, they helped themselves to that belonging to other villages or tribes, provided these were weaker than themselves. Sometimes they made a mistake on this point, and became wiped off the face of the land. If this did not happen, they generally wiped out the others; for, if anyone escaped, he was bound to slay as many of his enemies as he had lost of friends. This species of vendetta was a religion to them all, and a curious comment upon the idea that, to take life of any description, was to shut the gates of the highest heaven upon the slayer.
The Burman will not destroy the principle of life even in noxious animals, but murder is his commonest crime, and his murders are often accompanied with great atrocity.
The dacoits who plundered Ralph fell into the power of an enemy's tribe, and the chief's head was carried to the police-station for sake of the reward paid for all such tribute; and while Mr. Gilchrist was sadly mourning over what he considered the certain proof of his young friend's death, in the discovery of his watch, Denham had passed the junction of the two rivulets, and was prosperously pursuing his voyage towards the Salween River.
We say "prosperously," though, in good sooth, the voyage was carried on with many vicissitudes. The stream narrowed day by day, as the extreme heat dried up its margins. Now the frail barque stuck helplessly in the mud, which was yet too soft to bear walking upon.
Ralph would sink up to his knees as he pulled and hauled his little craft out of the shallows, and set it once more afloat.
Then he would become entangled in débris of the forest,—sticks, rotten stumps, masses of leaves, etc., all stuck together in one jumble, and caught by a little promontory, wafted into some tiny bay, or even detained by the drooping boughs of some tree or shrub dipping into the water, to coagulate and solidify into a floating island.
Poor Ralph's garments were of the slightest description, for he had left all which he had possessed at first—little enough at the best—when he fled from the dacoits. It was well for him that he had retained his knife; but at least his clothes, such as they were, dried easily in the sun, which was a good thing, as they were wetted through and through every day.
"I wish I were an Israelite in the desert," thought he, as his only button came off, and he cut a hole in his waistband and tied a loop of twisted grass into it. "How I am ever to get into a suit of broadcloth again passes me to imagine. But it is well for me that folks are not very particular hereabouts."
On the fifth day of his voyage he saw the vista open before him, and a wide expanse of water appeared to his sight. This must be, he thought, the Salween River; and he hoped that his troubles were now approaching their end.
"I shall soon come to an English settlement, or a missionary station, or at least to some Burmese village," he thought; "and some good Christian will help me on my way. What a pretty place this is!"
The river upon which he had now emerged wound very much, and almost took the appearance of a succession of lakes. Hills clothed with jungle shut it in, and stretches of rocky land jutted out from either side at irregular distances.
Protected from the force of the deeper current by one of these little promontories, the rapidity of the stream down which he had come shot him well out into the wider river with a velocity which surprised him; though, in his ignorance of what it meant, he considered it "very jolly" at first to be cleared of all the impedimenta which had hitherto encumbered him so sadly.
But this was only a momentary joy, as his frail barque was caught in a power beyond his control, and whirled about in a manner which even he saw meant mischief. He had but one thing to save—his orchids. He had prepared for a catastrophe of some sort previously, and had them merely slung by a long cord to a cane. He caught this off, throwing the loop around his neck, and in five minutes more was battling with rapids for his life, his raft beaten into a thousand pieces.
He had clutched, with the energy of despair, the stout bamboo which he had used to punt his raft; and, clinging instinctively to this, was tossed down some two or three feet; plunged overhead in a pool, floated up again; washed violently against rough stones; felt his feet, lost them again, was rolled over; dashed down another little cascade; and brought up, finally, breathless, bruised, battered and bleeding, upon a tiny ait in the centre of the stream, where his bamboo had become entangled between some small bushes.
He had but strength enough to catch at a firmer support, and draw himself up upon the islet, where he lay, utterly spent, for a long time.
Everything darkened before his eyes, the earth seemed to reel beneath him, all the heavens to be unsteady above him, and he became unconscious.
He must have remained so for long; as, when he slowly came to himself again, the stars were jewelling the purple vault above him, and the full moon casting a long silvery highway over the rippling water around.
Where was he? What had happened to him? He tried to sit up, and felt very sick, stiff, and sore, utterly confused and helpless. He did not seem to care for his condition, or even to wonder at it. Existence alone was enough for him. Enough?—too much, for hysteria overcame him; he hid his face and cried like a child.
Baffled on every side, everything lost but life—even that imperilled in the most desperate manner; surely God must be against him, it was of no use to fight longer against the pricks; better to lie there and die, rather than struggle any more. Despair made of him its puppet at last. Was it any good to pray?—did God hear him? Would God answer his supplications? Was there a God of love and mercy at all, when he was beaten back at every point like this, however bravely he tried to bear up against misfortune?
He was ashamed of weeping, even though there was no one to observe him; and it did but exhaust him further, yet it was a relief too. His tears were soon spent, and he sat, forlorn and dejected, gazing in a purposeless way before him, taking no heed to what he saw.
But gradually the extreme beauty of the scene forced itself upon his mental vision. The hills, covered with rich masses of woods, were black against the clear opal sky, where the moon reigned in her pure loveliness. The shadows of these hills lay deep on the translucent waters, except where the broken rocks stood picturesquely above them, and changed their duskiness to pearly foam. The stars were reflected on the bosom of the river wherever it was sufficiently still; and a herd of hog-deer issued from a clearing of the jungle, and stooped their graceful heads to drink just where the moonlight fell on them.
The clear whistle of some night-bird was heard and answered from a neighbouring thicket, "Did you do it? Did you do it?" they cried in turn, and the rippling water made a gentle accompaniment to their song.
"I will lift up mine eyes to the hills, whence cometh my help," was borne in upon Ralph's heart, and his longdrawn sobs ceased.
Up sprang the sun, and touched the tops of the hills with golden glory. Colour and warmth flashed over the landscape, and brought comfort to his chilled frame. What was that something glittering brightly between the trees? It was no natural object—the outline was too regular, too hard; it was the work of man's hand, for it was gilt,—it was, yes, it was a pagoda! Man had erected that building,—his fellow-men must be near at hand. Thank God! thank God!
He rose, and sought to unstiffen his cramped limbs with exercise, and the sun warmed him.
On the narrow strip of shingle where he had been cast up, a human waif and stray, lay a small bundle. Ralph looked at it, stooped over it, and lifted it from the wet stones. It was his little package of orchids, safely bound up as he had arranged it; which, slight thing as it was, had safely stood the wreck of all else, and lay stranded at his feet none the worse for its immersion.
Ralph almost laughed to see it. "You foolish things," thought he, "could nothing of greater value to me have been spared for me. Can you feed me, clothe me, save me, take me to my friends, do anything for me?"
He spurned them with his foot in irritation. Even his knife, his one precious possession, was gone; his garments hung in shreds upon him; there was nothing to eat upon the islet; and this ridiculous bundle of plants, good for nothing but to gratify the whimsical taste of a rich man, was intact.
Then his mood changed, and he took it up in his hands again. Between the crevices of the bark and moss he saw one tiny delicate floweret pushing its fragile head out, and seeming to smile at him.
"Good Lord," he said, "just to think of this! Come, then, if God so made the grass of the field, shall He not much more care for you, oh ye of little faith?" He readjusted the loop of string, and passed it again round his neck.
Then he tried to think how he might reach the mainland, where that pagoda glimmered like a hand beckoning to him, but he could not devise any plan.
He was too weary and spent to attempt swimming in that powerful current; he had no means of making a second raft, or helping himself in any way; there were neither bamboos nor lianas on this scrap of land.
He sat down close to the edge of the water, and rested his chin in his hands, gazing straight before him. He must sit there till he died; what else remained for him to do? He thought of his mother, of Agnes, of his brothers and little sisters. How grieved they all would be when the news went home to them. But would it ever go home? No, not one of his friends would know how he had struggled, how he had failed, where he had died. No one would visit his grave, or weep over his remains. The crows and the vultures would fight over his carcase, and leave his bones to blanch there, unburied. For him no funeral service, no hallowed ground, no holy hymn.
"Oh, my God!" he cried aloud, "have I deserved this? If this is the end of my short life, am I fit to go before Thee on Thy judgment throne, and confidently crave for mercy? What have I done so wicked as to merit this? Tell me, oh my Father, and let me repent."
So he sat, until, his eyes gazing mournfully straight before him, he became aware of some objects moving through the jungle on the mainland. They came in single file, carrying some large burden. Then one ran from the rear, past the others, and gave directions, waving a long lean arm and gesticulating.
No animals would conduct themselves so, they must be men! Gracious Providence grant that they be men!
They moved steadily forward among the thinning trees to the very margin of the river, and were plainly to be perceived. Native Burmese! Fishermen, bearing a large net, which they were preparing to cast into the water, and draw up stream.
Ralph's voice failed him from revulse of feeling, he thought that he should choke. He sprang to his feet, tore off the last rags upon him, twisted them round a stick, and waved them in the air.
They were not perceived,—no notice was taken. He stooped to the water, drank from the hollow of his hand, his tongue was unloosed, he cast water precipitately over head and face, stood erect once more, clear from the undergrowth, in the plashy shallows, waved his flag with the energy of despair, and shouted with all his might—"Ahoy! Ahoy! Ahoy!"
Ralph forgot every language but his native English in the desperate excitement of the moment.
"Halloa! Ahoy!" he vociferated, without knowing what he called; but, to his great astonishment, the reply was no Burmese "Ameh!" (mother) the universal exclamation among the natives of that country upon every occasion.
No, one figure started violently, turned sharply round, lifted a hand to shade its eyes, with a gesture strangely familiar, and an English voice, equally strange and equally familiar, responded, "Halloa! Ahoy!" to his cry.
A great bustle was apparent, immediately, among the little party of fishermen. Some ran off by the path which had brought them there, evidently under direction from the leader of the party; some busied themselves in launching a little canoe, which Ralph had not previously discerned, being hid by overhanging bushes; and two men, putting off in it, prepared to ferry it across to the island.
Well was it that Ralph had not attempted to swim across that stream. These were lusty fellows, but all their strength was needed to row against it. The man who had answered Denham's call in English words, was one of the two; and Ralph stared hard at him as the canoe drew near.
There was something familiar in the attitude and movements, but the head was covered with a mass of curly black hair, while a forest of dark whisker, beard, and moustache concealed the lower part of the face, and flowed over the hairy breast. The dress was made of the same material as that of the natives,—a dark blue cloth, patterned with wavy black lines; but it differed in shape, consisting of a pair of loose trousers gathered into a waistband, and confined there with a coloured handkerchief, just such as young men in England tie over their cricketing flannels. A loose cotton jacket, open at the chest, and leaving the arms bare, was worn above this,—an outlandish costume, yet manly, and not unbecoming. It was also of European fashion, clearly betraying that its wearer was no native of that country.
"I never saw that fellow before," thought Ralph, "yet somehow I seem to know him."
The canoe drew nearer, the rower looked back over his shoulder, uttered a loud cry, and, flinging down his oar, sprang to his feet with the exclamation—
"Good God! Denham! Is it possible?"
Recognition came in the same instant.
"Kirke!" cried Ralph.
Nearly a year had elapsed since the two had met, but Ralph, being two or three years younger than Kirke, and of fairer complexion, had not altered so much, neither had he been living so long in the wilds out of reach of barber and other civilised influences.
Overjoyed on each side to meet with an Englishman, an accustomed face, they clasped each other's hands with eager greeting at the first impulse, forgetful of all ill-will, but Kirke drew back the next minute and hung his head.
"It is good of you to take my hand, Denham," said he. "Can you forgive me all I did and tried to do to you."
"I do not properly know what that was," said Ralph joyously. "I have never understood why you did not like me, nor believed half the others wanted to make out; but I am ever so glad to see you now."
"And you can forgive me?"
"Anything, everything, if you will only help me to get out of this place."
"Are you alone?"
"Yes, quite alone. I missed my party, and am lost. I have been wandering in the jungle for many days, and was starving."
"And in that state? A literal Baresarker costume."
"Even so."
"Come along, I can do something to remedy that, at anyrate."
He hurried Ralph into the canoe, spoke a few words to his companion, and began to pull back to the mainland with great energy.
Arrived upon the shore, he despatched one of the Burmans for assistance, and the man scuttled off, grinning with immense goodwill; while the rest jabbered around the two strangers as they proceeded towards the village, where half the inhabitants were bustling about in eager hospitality.
Rice and fish were brought, plantains, pickled tea, cocoanuts and green ginger. Kirke mounted into his dwelling, and produced a garb similar to his own; and offered cheroots, which however Ralph did not accept.
He devoured the food with the appetite of a growing boy who had not tasted food for twenty-four hours; and Kirke piled up the bowl from which he ate whenever its contents shrank beneath the rim.
"Hold hard!" cried Ralph at last, "even I am gorged and can eat no more."
"Then tell me how you came here, and all that you have done since I saw you," said Kirke.
"As to all that I have been doing, that would be a long tale to tell," replied Ralph; "but, shortly put, I have been going about the country with Mr. Gilchrist, getting plants for Mr. Herford—orchids chiefly. We have not only got the things bodily to send home, but made drawings, whenever we could, of anything rare or special. About a fortnight ago we fell in with some wild elephants in a lonely place, and, in escaping from an old bull that had been turned out of the herd, as we fancied, I got separated from the rest of them, and met with a family party of tigers—papa, mamma, and offspring. I had to cut my lucky again; and, somehow, between the two adventures, lost my way, and could not find any of the fellows I was with. After roaming about, up hill and down dale, till I found that I was really befogged in the wilderness, it seemed the best thing I could do was to follow down the first water-course I could find, in hopes of coming somewhere in time. So I managed to knock up a gimcrack sort of a kind of raft, that served my turn as well as a better, till the rapids here broke it all to smithereens, and landed me yonder; where I must have died if you had not picked me off."
"I should think you had about enough of rafts by this time," said Kirke sadly.
"I have not had enough of friends in need," replied Ralph.
"You are a real good fellow, Denham," said the other, reaching out his hand to him. "I have wanted this long time to tell you how sorry I am for all that took place in the poor old Pelican, and to ask your forgiveness for my conduct to you. I was a bad messmate, a bad man in every way; but I see things differently now, and would do anything I knew of to redeem the past, if only I could see how. I did cut that rope, in a fit of mad jealousy, and repented of it as soon as it was done. I have suffered much from remorse since."
"That you repented as soon as you had done it, showed that you were not wholly bad at heart," said Ralph. "Don't say any more to me about it, Kirke. If you have made your peace with God, there is no need for me to preach, you know. Let us be friends in the future."
The two young men shook hands heartily, and Kirke felt happier than he had hoped ever to be again. He took Denham into the hut where he lived, and found him a mat to lie upon, the most luxurious bed upon which Ralph had stretched himself for many days. He was soon wrapped in the sweetest of slumbers thereon.
Sleep lasted till far into the next day, for he was quite worn out, and his quarters were fairly comfortable. When he awoke, he found Kirke watching him with grave earnest eyes, which brightened into a smile in response to Ralph's joyous greeting.
A good wash was Denham's first demand that morning; and when he had thus refreshed himself, he was indued into a suit of light garments such as Kirke wore, of European fashion, though constructed from native cloth; and then attacked the cold breakfast awaiting him.
"It is ever so good of you to provide me like this, Kirke," said he. "A fellow must have been reduced as low as I was to appreciate properly the comfort of being 'clothed and in one's right mind.' But how you come to be living here like this, is a mystery to me."
"You need have no scruples," replied Kirke. "My people at home are well-to-do folks, and I always had plenty of money. I had it in a belt that I always wore, and this helped me to get off from Moulmein, for it was chiefly in gold, and the Burmese understand English gold. I have some shots in the locker yet, for living is cheap in these wilds, and I have been ill, so have not wanted a great deal. I made up my mind to stay here till the rice harvest is gathered, for it might then be possible to get a passage to Rangoon, when they take it to market there. Once in Rangoon, I can always get supplies from home again; and, indeed, have a couple of English banknotes that will take me along for a time. Don't have any scruples as to having a little from me. You are safe to fall in with your people again in Rangoon, or the Herford's branch there would advance to you, even if you do not believe that I owe to you a debt that money will never replace."
"You are very generous," said Ralph, "and I am thankful to meet with anyone who both can and will help me. I know that I should be able to repay you in Rangoon, if we ever reach that place; so, meantime, thank you kindly. How long do you reckon it will be before the harvest will be ready?"
"Well, the rice is growing ripe. Look there, they have stuck up those beautiful erections all about lately."
In effect, there were three or four stages, fixed about fifteen feet above the ground, in different places. Each of these erections was of a size to accommodate a squatting Burman, smoking happily, with a bowl of rice and a jar of water by his side. Every now and then he gave a tug at a string, which communicated with a machinery of simple nature, consisting of bamboos, feathers and twine in endless ramifications, all set fluttering by the pull. This, and an unearthly screech uttered at the same moment, aroused a cloud of little green parrots that were feeding upon the rice. They fluttered and squalled in unison with the fluttering and squalling of the native, and all creation was lively. Then the Burman sank again into meditation upon the life of Guadama, or into slumber, or whatever he pleased to call it; the parrots went back to their feast, and all proceeded quietly until the watchman's sense of duty once more impelled him to exertion.
"We shall cut all that the birds condescend to leave us soon now," said Kirke. "In the meantime the fishery is going on, and the preparation of 'ngapé'! Can't you smell the stinking stuff on the breeze? Faugh!"
"I hope we may get a passage in a boat which carries rice alone," said Ralph, with a face of disgust. "How can the Burmese eat that disgusting stuff!"
The preparation of this favourite dainty in the Burmese commissariat, which is manufactured chiefly from rotten fish pounded up into a paste with various condiments, poisoned the air. Prawns are the favourite fish used, but there were none in this place.
Such secluded valleys as that into which Kirke had strayed, are great homes of this industry, for the fish come up into them in huge swarms to spawn, and are left behind, in the lakes and pools, when the hot season dries up much of the super-abundant water. To catch them is then easy, and the trade a profitable one.
"Oh," cried Kirke, "we won't go in one of those boats! Trust Jamie Kirke for that. Sooner than be stunk out of life like that, we will imitate the Welsh young lady's forefathers in the Flood, and have a boat of our own. We could sell it again in Rangoon. I don't know whether, now that you are here to help me, it would not be as well to cross these plains, and get a boat for ourselves on the Sittoung River. We could navigate it easily between us if we were careful about the bore."
"That would be very jolly," said Ralph. "I and my cargo," pointing to his precious bundle of orchids. "My cargo will not overburden you, I should be loath to part with it now, having brought it through so much peril that I almost have a superstitious feeling that it consists of my 'luck.' We should be more help than hindrance to you."
"You talk of superstitious feelings, Denham, but there is only a slight boundary between faith and superstition. I should not call it superstition on my own part to believe that you had been sent by Providence to me, in answer to prayer for forgiveness and help."
"I know what you mean," replied Ralph gravely. "God does lead us in mysterious ways, and it is among these wonderful places that one learns to believe in what He can perform. We have seen strange things, both of us, since we left the humdrum Liverpool streets."
"Perhaps He was as plainly to be met with there, if we had but opened our eyes to note His footprints. Here we are shaken out of our own common jogtrot ways,—waked up,—have had our everyday husks peeled off, and are brought face to face with nature in its marvellous sublimity and simplicity."
The two young men sat silently after this, watching the movements of a couple of girls, whose occupation had suggested Kirke's simile.
They crouched upon their heels, one on either side of a handmill, in which they were husking "paddy," or rice in the original state, for the next family meal.
The handmill consisted of two hollow wooden receptacles, the upper one furnished with two handles, by which the girls worked it half round to the right and back to the left. This threw the grain through the grooved sides into the lower vessel, grinding the chaff off on its way. From the lower bowl it escaped to the floor through a hole in the bottom.
From the heap thus accumulated, a child emptied the rice into baskets, pouring it from one into another until the husk was fairly well winnowed from it; and then threw it into a mortar, sunk into the ground, and in which a heavy pestle worked by means of a long lever affixed to it, upon the end of which a graceful maiden was balancing herself, thus working it up and down to the time of a monotonous song which she chanted to herself—