*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 61028 ***

                           THE PERFECT WORLD
             A ROMANCE OF STRANGE PEOPLE AND STRANGE PLACES

                                   BY
                             ELLA SCRYMSOUR


                                 LONDON
                      EVELEIGH NASH & GRAYSON LTD.
                               148 STRAND




                      PRINTED IN GREAT BRITAIN BY
  THE NORTHUMBERLAND PRESS LTD., THORNTON STREET, NEWCASTLE-UPON-TYNE




                                   To
                            MY TWO DEAR ONES

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                                CONTENTS


                                 BOOK I

                             THE OLD WORLD

                           (_Before the War_)

              CHAPTER                                 PAGE
                   I. STRANGERS COME TO MARSHFIELDEN    11

                  II. THE CURSE                         20

                 III. THE LIGHT                         33

                  IV. THE OUTLET                        42


                                BOOK II

                             THE UNDERWORLD

                   I. A STRANGE MEETING                 53

                  II. THE ORIGIN OF THE PEOPLE          65

                 III. RELATING TO HISTORY               79

                  IV. OUT INTO THE GREAT BEYOND         88

                   V. A FRIEND FROM THE ENEMY           95

                  VI. THE LAIR OF THE SERPENT          102

                 VII. ON THE WAY TO THE TOMB OF KORAH  109

                VIII. THE TOMB OF KORAH                115

                  IX. THE PAPYRUS                      122

                   X. THE ESCAPE                       129


                                BOOK III

                             EXIT THE WORLD

                           (_After the War_)

                   I. AT WALLA BALLA                   139

                  II. HOME AGAIN                       154

                 III. THE AIRSHIP                      166

                  IV. THE END OF THE WORLD             173


                                BOOK IV

                           THE PERFECT WORLD

                   I. IN SPACE                         187

                  II. ADRIFT IN THE SOLAR REGIONS      194

                 III. THE VISION OF A NEW WORLD        204

                  IV. JUPITER AND THE JOVIANS          211

                   V. DEATH IN JUPITER                 223

                  VI. THE SACRAMENT OF SCHLERIK-ITATA  232

                 VII. HATRED ON KEEMAR                 244

                VIII. THE UNFORGIVEABLE KISS           256

                  IX. ALAN—THE KNIGHT ERRANT           265

                   X. THE CAVE OF WHISPERING MADNESS   270

                  XI. THE WRAITHS OF THE RORKAS        282

                 XII. THE FATE OF KULMERVAN            292

                XIII. THE SENTENCE UPON ARRACK         296

                 XIV. THE HALL OF SORROWS              302

                  XV. THE TRIUMPH OF AK-ALAN           307

                 XVI. THE PERFECT WORLD                316

                      ENVOI                            320




                                 BOOK I
                             THE OLD WORLD
                           (_Before the War_)




                           THE PERFECT WORLD




                               CHAPTER I
                     STRANGERS COME TO MARSHFIELDEN


An English summer! The birds sang merrily, and the trees bowed their
heads, keeping time with the melody. The breeze whispered its
accompaniment, and all the glades and woods were happy.

Marshfielden was, perhaps, one of the prettiest villages in Derbyshire.
Nestling among the peaks of that lovely county, its surroundings were
most picturesque. Its straggling street, for it had but one, was
unspoiled by tripper or tourist, for its charms were unknown to the
outside world. The road was cobbled, and boasted of no pavement, and
long gardens, shining with marigolds and nasturtiums, reached down to
each side of it, forming frames to the pretty, irregular little cottages
with their gables and latticed windows.

The little church at the top of the street finished the picture. It was
very tiny, holding only about one hundred and fifty people; but with its
ivy-covered towers, and picturesque little graveyard, the vicar was a
lucky man to have charge of such a place. Unmarried and friendless he
had come to Marshfielden forty years before, and had lodged with Mrs.
Skeet, the cobbler’s wife. Still he remained, having grown old in the
service of his people.

It was a well-known fact, that “our vicar” as Mr. Winthrop was called,
had during all that time never left the precincts of the parish.
Children had grown up and gone away married; old people had died; but
still Mr. Winthrop went on in his kind, fatherly manner, advising those
who sought the benefit of his wisdom, helping those who needed his aid,
and still living in the little rooms he had rented when first he came to
Marshfielden, a stranger.

Marshfielden was about seven miles off the main road. As they would have
to reach it by narrow lanes and rutted roads, motorists never came its
way, and it retained its old-world simplicity.

Two miles to the south was a coal mine, in which most of the villagers
toiled. It was quite an unimportant one, and not very deep, but it gave
employment to all the natives who needed work. Strange as it seems,
however, by an unwritten law, not one of the villagers entered
Marshfielden in his collier dirt or collier garb. Every one of the men
changed his clothes at “Grimland” as the mine district was called, and
washed away the coal dust and dirt; so in the evening, when they made
their way in a body to their homes, they returned as fresh and clean as
they had left them in the morning.

It was, therefore, an ideal place to live in and as old Mr. Winthrop
walked down the uneven street, his eyes dimmed and his thoughts were
tender as he acknowledged first one, then another of his flock.

He stopped at the gate of a pretty, white cottage with a well kept
garden full of sweet-smelling flowers, and greeted the woman who stood
at the gate.

She was quite young and pretty, and maternal love and pride glowed in
her face as she gently crooned over the sleeping babe at her breast.

“And how’s Jimmy, Mrs. Slater?” he asked.

“Very well indeed, sir, thank you.”

“And you—how are you feeling?”

“Quite all right again, now, sir.”

“That’s right. And your husband?”

“Yes, sir, he’s had a rise at the mine.”

Mr. Winthrop smiled and was about to pass on, when he noticed an
underlying current of excitement in the woman’s manner. He looked at her
curiously.

“What is the matter, Mrs. Slater?” he asked.

“Have you heard the news, sir?”

“No. What news?”

“I be agoin’ to have lodgers.”

“Really?”

“Well I heard only last night, sir. Bill—he came home and said as ’ow
Mr. Dickson, the manager at the mine, had heard from Sir John Forsyth—”

“The new owner of Grimland?” queried Mr. Winthrop.

“Yes, sir. Well, he said as ’ow Sir John wanted both his nephews to go
to the mine and learn the practical working of it—and Mr. Dickson was to
find them rooms near by.”

“Well?”

“Well, Mr. Dickson knows as ’ow my ’ome is clean—” and Mrs. Slater
looked around her little cottage with an air of pride.

“And ’e asks Bill if I would take them.”

“And so you are going to?”

The woman looked round her fearfully. “I’ve a spare bedroom, sir, which
I’ve cleaned up, and they can have my parlour. But fancy, sir, two
strangers in Marshfielden!”

“It will liven things up,” remarked the vicar “we’ve never had strangers
to live here since I came—now over forty years ago.”

“No, sir, nor before that,” went on the woman in a low tone. “My
grandmother used to speak of two ladies who came to Marshfielden when
she was a little girl. Artists they were, and strangers. The clergyman’s
wife put them up—and—and—”

“Yes?” urged Mr. Winthrop gently.

“Well, sir, they were both found dead one day, stiff and cold, sir,
outside the ruins of the Priory. They had been painting, and their
easels were left standing—but they were dead.”

“What has that to do with the case?” asked the vicar with a little
smile.

“Don’t you see, sir,” she went on quickly, the same half-scared look
coming into her eyes, “that was the ‘Curse’ that caused those mishaps,
and I am afraid the ‘Curse’ will be on the two young gentlemen, too.”

“Nonsense,” laughed Mr. Winthrop, “You don’t really believe that the
‘Marshfielden Curse’ as you people call it, had anything to do with the
deaths of those two lady artists that occurred over fifty years ago?”

“Indeed I do, sir,” averred the woman. “Why ever since the Priory was
dismantled by Henry the Eighth, the ‘Curse’ has been on this place. That
wasn’t the only case, sir. There are records of many others—but that was
the last.”

“Let me see,” began the vicar, “It’s so long since I even heard it
mentioned, that I’ve forgotten what it was.”

The woman’s face contracted as if she was afraid of something, she knew
not what, but of something mystic, intangible, uncanny—and she repeated
slowly:

      _When the eighth Henry fair Marshfielden’s monastery took,
      Its priory as a palace, its vast income to his privy purse,—
      The outcast prior solemnly, by candle, bell and book
      Upon this place for ever laid this interdict and curse_:

              _From now until the end of time,
              Whene’er a stranger come
              Unto Marshfielden’s pleasaunces,
              To make therein his home,
              Troubles—disease—misfortunes—death—
              Upon the spot shall fall.
              So—an’ Marshfielden folks ye’d swell
              With fair prosperity, and safely dwell,
              All strangers from your gates expel,
              And live cut off from all._

The vicar laughed. “Yes, it’s a pretty legend, Mrs. Slater, but remember
this is the twentieth century, and nothing is likely to happen to
Marshfielden, its inhabitants or its visitors, because of that. Why, I
was a stranger when I came, yet nothing very terrible has happened to me
during these last forty years.”

“Ah, sir, you don’t count. I mean, sir, you belong to the Priory; you
are our priest. You wouldn’t come under the ‘Curse’ sir.”

“And neither will any one else, Mrs. Slater. It’s a stupid legend.—Have
no fear.”

“But,” began Mrs. Slater. “How do you account for the case of—” But Mr.
Winthrop lifted up a deprecatory hand.

“I cannot listen to any more, Mrs. Slater.” And a note of authority came
into his voice. “Why, all this is against the religion I preach to
you—never listen to tales of superstition. Have no fear, do the best you
can for the two young gentlemen, and I think I can promise you that no
harm will come to them or you.”

The woman shook her head, and disbelief shone in her eyes. The vicar saw
it, and smiled again.

“Well, well! It remains to be proved that I am right,” said he.

“It remains to be proved, _which_ of us is right, sir.”

“Very well, we’ll leave it at that. When do they arrive?”

“About six this evening, sir; the usual time when the men come home.”

“I will call in this evening then, and welcome them. Good-bye, Mrs.
Slater, and don’t go listening to or spreading idle gossip!” And the
kindly old man went away down the street.

That evening, when the bell rang to denote the return of the men-folk,
every door was occupied by an eager face, anxious not only to catch
sight of the two strangers, but also to take another look at the woman
who had dared to defy the “Marshfielden Curse.”

For in this little village the “Curse” was a real, poignant fact, and
was spoken of in the twilight with hushed tones and furtive glances.
Children were quieted and terrified by it, and the fear imbibed by them
in their childhood grew with them till their death. Not one of them but
Mary Slater would have risked its anger by allowing a stranger to sleep
beneath her roof; and even Mary, although outwardly calm, was inwardly
terrified lest her action might be the means of bringing disaster and
misery, not only on her two lodgers, but on the whole little community.

Dan Murlock, the husband of the little woman at the corner house, was
the first to arrive. He came along at a swinging pace, and waved his cap
jauntily as he saw his wife’s trim little figure at the doorway.

“Hullo, Moll,” he cried, when he was within speaking distance “an’ how’s
yersel’?”

“I’m all right,” she replied, while their three year old, curly haired
boy and only child peeped from behind his mother’s skirts and cried
“Boo” to his dad. The man looked at them both, with awe as well as pride
in his glance. Even now he was often heard to remark, that he could not
make out why a clumsy brute like him should be allowed to own such an
angelic wife and child.

“Where’s the strangers?” asked Moll eagerly.

“Comin’ along, lass. Why?”

“Oh, the ‘Curse,’ Dan!”

“Never mind the ‘Curse,’ lass; that’s done with long ago! Is supper
ready yet?”

“Yes, Dan. It’s ready.” But his wife made no effort to re-enter their
little home, and serve the meal her husband wanted.

“Woman, what are you staring at?” he cried. “Why do’ant ’ee come in? I’m
hungry.”

“In a moment, Dan. I—I—”

“What’s thee lookin’ at, lass?”

“The strangers, Dan. Think the ‘Curse’—” But Dan only laughed
good-humouredly. “Thou’rt a fule, lass. Come in and do’ant bother yer
head about it,” and he good-naturedly put his arm through hers, and
dragged the unwilling woman into the house.

Most of the women outside, however, were still waiting, waiting for the
strangers. Then suddenly came a buzz of excitement as the news was
passed from mouth to mouth. “They’re coming! They’re coming!”

The two young men, Alan and Desmond Forsyth, were entirely unconscious
of all the attention and interest showered on them. Of the “Curse” they
knew nothing, and had they done so, would have cared less.

They were cousins, and on very affectionate and intimate terms, and one
day would share equally in the Grimland Colliery, of which their uncle
was now owner. Alan, moreover, would succeed to his uncle’s title. The
future looked very rosy for these two young men.

Sir John was determined that when they left Cambridge, they should
thoroughly learn the workings of the mine. The instructions he gave
Dickson, his manager, were that he was to “make them work like ordinary
colliers until they were competent to take charge.”

They had travelled on the Continent for six months after coming down
from the ’Varsity, and this was their first day of real, hard work. It
had left them both eager to begin another day, for they were anxious to
learn more of the wonderful workings of the mine below the surface of
the earth. They had walked cheerily toward Marshfielden, eager to reach
their apartments and have a good meal. They liked Slater, and felt that
they would be comfortable and happy in his home.

“How do you feel, young gentlemen?” he asked them.

“I’m dead tired,” answered Alan, the elder, a man of some twenty-five
years, while his cousin, Desmond, a year younger, yawned lustily, as he
asked, “How much further is that adorable little home of yours, Slater?”

“We’re nigh there, sir. There’s my Mary at the gate.”

“What, the little cottage at the bend?” asked Alan.

“Yes, sir. She’s a good lass, is my missus. She’ll treat you well, and
make you comfortable and happy.”

The rest of the short way was trodden in silence, and at length the two
young men stepped across the threshold of Sweet William Cottage, as the
Slaters’ home was called.

The room they were ushered into was old-world and sweet. The lattice
windows were open wide, letting in the soft, fresh air of summer. The
ceiling was low and beamed, and the furniture was of old dark oak; while
the bright chintz hangings took away all hint of sombreness. The table
was laid, and within a few minutes of their arrival they were sitting
down to an appetizing repast.

Neither of them spoke for some time, and then Desmond laid down his
knife and fork with a sigh.

“I’m done” said he.

“I should just think you were” laughed his cousin “You’ve been stuffing
incessantly for over half an hour” Alan rang the bell for the table to
be cleared and then they lit their pipes.

“How do you feel?” asked Desmond.

“Very tired—very sore—and very bruised”

“So am I. I think I shall like the life of a miner, though”

“Rather! What a ripping set of chaps they are!”

So they chattered on until it was time for them to retire. At peace with
each other, at peace with the world, they slept until a knock at their
bedroom door awakened them.

“Yes” sleepily answered Desmond.

“It’s four o’clock, young gentlemen, you’d better get up”

Alan woke up lazily to hear Desmond cry out in amazement.

“Surely not yet, Slater?”

“Yes, sir. You must be at the mine by five fifteen. Early shift to-day,
you know”

“All right, Slater” cried Alan, who was now wide awake “we’ll be down in
twenty minutes”

In a very short space of time they had had their breakfast, and were
walking across the Grimland fields to the mine, to begin once more a
day’s arduous duty.

It passed quickly enough, but they were thankful when the bell sounded
for them to knock off work, and they were taken up to daylight again by
the cage.

When they reached Sweet William Cottage, they found Mr. Winthrop
awaiting them, with profuse apologies for his absence the night before.

“I’m afraid Mrs. Slater omitted to give us any message from you” said
Alan “In fact we didn’t even know you had called”

“I am the vicar of Marshfielden” said the kindly old man “and I should
have liked to give you a personal welcome. You see the ‘Curse’ has made
your position here somewhat strained”

The two boys stared at each other in perplexity. The vicar laughed.
“None of the women have been frightening you with their child’s stories
yet?”

“No!” said both boys together, “what is it?”

“Oh, there’s a legend connected with this place, that any strangers in
Marshfielden will bring disaster on themselves and perhaps on the place,
if they take up their abode here”

“Why?”

“A curse was laid on the place by a monk in Henry the Eighth’s time,
when the Priory here was dismantled”

“Oh, is that all?” said Alan lightly “We are not afraid of old wives’
tales like that!”

But Molly Murlock, who was in the kitchen with Mary Slater, heard the
words, and her brow clouded. Drawing her child closer, she muttered as
she said good night to Mary—

“‘Curse’ or no ‘Curse,’ I’d rather be dead, than live to see strangers
come here”




                               CHAPTER II
                               THE CURSE


The two men had now been working for three months at the mine, and the
villagers had become used to the sight of strangers in Marshfielden.
Indeed, as the weeks sped by, and nothing uncanny happened, they began
gradually to forget the “Curse” in connection with the two young
Forsyths.

Summer was now waning. Leaves were beginning to fall and folks were
making preparations for a hard winter. Mr. Winthrop was still going
round on his kindly errands and had become sincerely attached to the two
youths who had taken up their residence so near him.

Indeed, there was no one else in the village to whom they could go for
social intercourse, and nearly every evening Mrs. Skeet’s little parlour
was full of the smoke and chatter of the vicar and his two young
friends. It was now the first Tuesday in October, and the evenings were
growing chilly. Mrs. Skeet had lighted a nice fire, and they all sat
round it enjoying the warmth of its glow.

People outside, passing by, heard the sound of merry laughter, and Mr.
Winthrop’s characteristic chuckle, and smiled with him. But Moll Murlock
passed the cottage hurriedly and drew her shawl closer round her
shoulders, while a slight moan came from between her tightly compressed
lips.

Of all the inhabitants of Marshfielden, there was one still who had
_not_ forgotten the “Curse.”

“Well, boys,” said Mr. Winthrop, “I suppose you feel used to your life
among us now?”

“Yes,” answered Alan. “It seems almost like home to us.”

“We’ve never had a proper home,” broke in Desmond.

“Ours is rather a romantic story,” said Alan. “Our mothers were twin
sisters—they married on the same day and went to the same place for
their honeymoon. A year later my mother died in giving me birth, and
Desmond’s mother died when he was only a few months old, so we were both
left babies to get on the best way we could without a woman’s care.”

“Poor lads! Poor lads!” sighed the vicar.

“When I was five my father died,” said Desmond, “and four years later
Alan’s father was drowned. Uncle John then took us to live with him—but
as he was a bachelor we were brought up in the care of nurses and
tutors, and had no real home life.”

“You are fond of your uncle?” queried the vicar.

“Rather!” answered Alan. “Uncle John is the dearest old boy imaginable.
He’s a bit of a crank though. He has been working for years on what he
calls his ‘Petradtheolin’ airship.”

“His what?” laughed Mr. Winthrop.

“His ‘Petradtheolin’ airship. It’s his own invention, you know, but up
to now he has been unsuccessful. He has built a wonderful aluminium
airship—most beautifully fitted and upholstered—in fact it is absolutely
ready to fly, but up to now it won’t budge an inch.”

“What?”

“He is under the impression,” went on Alan “that in the near future
flying will be an every day occurrence, and it is his greatest ambition
to own the most comfortable, most speedy, and lightest airship of the
day.”

Mr. Winthrop smiled. “There is a great deal of talk about flying now,”
said he, “but do you honestly think it will ever come to anything?”

“I don’t know,” said Alan thoughtfully, “we have conquered the sea—‘Iron
on the water shall float, like any wooden boat’,” he quoted. “We have
built ships that can submerge and remain under water and navigate for
certain periods of time. I see no reason why the modern man should not
also conquer the air.”

Mr. Winthrop shook his head. “I may be old-fashioned, but it seems
impossible to believe that navigable ships could be built for flying,
that were _safe_. I don’t doubt that airships will be built that up to a
certain point will be successful—say for a few hours’ flight, but it
seems inconceivable to me that man could so conquer the air, that
commerce and travel would benefit.”

“Well, Uncle John thinks he will conquer it with his ‘Argenta’,” went on
Alan.

“Surely that was not what you called it just now?” asked the vicar.

Alan laughed. “The ‘Argenta’ is the name of the ship itself, but
‘Petradtheolin’ is the name of the power he is experimenting on, that he
is desirous of using to propel it.”

“The machine itself is complete,” went on Desmond enthusiastically, “the
balance is perfect, and its engines are supposed to be of wonderful
velocity, but no known power will raise it even an inch from the ground.
So he is still experimenting on this spirit. It is a formula which
embraces petrol, radium and theolin; these chemicals are blended in some
way or other—concentrated and solidified. The engines are made so as to
generate electricity in the bonnet part. The current acts on the
solidified cubes, which as they melt are sent through metal retorts drop
by drop, and then being conveyed to the engines should make the machine
fly.”

“Well?”

“I know it all sounds very fantastic, but my uncle firmly believes in
the ultimate success of his experiments. His ambition is to be able to
fly for about one hundred hours with about a cupful of this powerful
matter. He expects each drop of the vaporized spirit, as it issues from
the retort, to keep the engines going about fifty minutes.”

“It all sounds very interesting,” said Mr. Winthrop “but is extremely
puzzling. I am afraid I would rather trust myself to Mother Earth than
to your uncle’s very ingenious ‘Argenta’.”

“So would I,” laughed Desmond. “But the dear old boy is so keen on his
work, we don’t like to discourage him”

“And” finished Alan “there in a most wonderful shed, rests the
‘Argenta’; its body of glistening aluminium—its interior richly
upholstered and wonderfully arranged from engine room to kitchen, but
absolutely lifeless. And there I expect it will remain, for he will
never destroy it. It is his biggest hobby after us—sometimes I think it
even comes before us. He has the money, he has the brains, he may
perfect this power, and if he does, he will have conferred a great
benefit upon humanity”

“You stayed with him until you came here, I suppose?”

“Yes” answered Alan “We went to Eton—Cambridge—”

“Cambridge?” Mr. Winthrop’s face lighted up “Dear me! Dear me! What
College, may I ask?”

“Queens” said Desmond.

“Queens? That was my College”

“Indeed” cried the two boys together.

“Yes, I’ve not been there for over forty-five years. I expect the dear
old place has changed a great deal?”

“Yes. We had rooms opposite each other on the same staircase in the New
Buildings” said Desmond.

“That was since my time” said Mr. Winthrop rather sadly “I’ve never even
seen the New Buildings. I was in the Walnut-Tree Court” Then he stopped,
and gazed into the fire, his eyes sparkling and a colour coming into his
old, worn cheeks, as he thought of the days of his youth. Reminiscences
came quickly. “Do you remember this?” “I remember when so-and-so
happened” So the conversation went on until they were rudely interrupted
by a sharp knock on the door, startling in its unexpectedness. All three
rose hurriedly.

“Come in” cried the vicar and Mrs. Skeet appeared breathing heavily,
with a look of horror in her eyes.

“Whatever is the matter?” asked Mr. Winthrop in dismay, startled out of
his usual placidity by her frightened mien.

“Dan—Dan Murlock’s baby—it’s gone, sir”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“No one knows, sir. He was playing in the garden, safe and sound, only
five minutes before, and when Moll went to call him in to put him to
bed, he had vanished.”

“It’s impossible for the child to have gone far,” said the vicar. “Why,
he is only a baby!”

“Three last month, sir.”

“Has any one looked for him? What have they done?”

“The child can’t be spirited away,” said Alan. “Why, there’s no traffic
in the village that could possibly hurt him.”

Mrs. Skeet looked scared. “If you please, sir,” she half whispered, “the
people do say, as ’ow it’s the ‘Curse’ and that he has been spirited
away.”

The vicar blinked his eyes. “Nonsense, Mrs. Skeet! I’m ashamed of you.
Never let me hear such words from you again. Spirited away indeed! I
expect he has strayed away into the woods at the back of the Murlocks’
cottage. Come, lads, we’ll go down and see Dan and his wife, and do our
best to help them.” Taking up their hats the three made their way down
the street, usually so quiet and still, but now buzzing with excitement.

As they reached the Murlocks’ cottage, they saw the front door was open
wide, leaving the kitchen and garden beyond exposed to view. Curious
neighbours, sympathetic friends, open-mouthed children were surrounding
the stricken mother, who was rocking herself to and fro in her
abandonment and grief.

“Let us go through,” said the vicar, and the two boys followed him.

The woman heard the approaching footsteps, and lifted up her
tear-stained face to the intruders. She held out her hands pathetically
to the vicar, and the tears rolled down her cheeks unchecked. He took
hold of the toil-worn hands, and was about to speak when she caught
sight of the two boys behind him. Her eyes dilated and her body
stiffened. Suddenly she uttered a piercing scream, and pointing a
shaking hand at them, “Go, go!” she cried. “You came to Marshfielden
unbidden—you defied the ‘Curse’—now you have taken my baby—my darling,
darling baby!”

Dan put his arm about her tenderly. “Do’ant ’ee tak’ on so, lass,” said
he gently. “Sure, we’ll find the babby. Already John Skinner and Matt
Harding have gone with search parties to find the wee lad. We’ll get him
back, wife mine.” But she only looked fiercely at the strangers.
“Go—go—the ‘Curse’ is on us all!”

Mr. Winthrop silently motioned to the two lads and they quickly left the
stricken house, and made their way back to their rooms in silence.

The next morning on their way to work, they missed Dan Murlock. Some of
the miners eyed them suspiciously as they asked where he was, and
Slater, their landlord, was the only one to satisfy their curiosity.
“With his wife,” said he curtly. “The wee laddie has not been found.”

“Wherever can he be?” said Desmond in bewilderment. Slater shook his
head.

“Search parties were out all night, but could find no trace or tidings
of him.”

“Have you any idea what has happened?” asked Alan. Slater gave a quick
look at each in turn, and then muttered something unintelligible under
his breath, and the boys had to be content with that.

It was a terrible day at the mine for the two boys; they had to partake
of their midday meal in silence, for not one of the colliers addressed a
word to them if he could possibly avoid it. They were regarded with
suspicion mingled with fear, and the “Curse” seemed to be on every one’s
lips.

Two days passed—a week, a fortnight; still Dan Murlock’s baby was not
found, and at last the broken-hearted parents appeared at church in
mourning, thus acknowledging to the world that they had given up all
hope of ever seeing their little one again.

Murlock was silent about it all, but every one who knew him realized
that he was a changed man. He had idolized his wife and child, and at
one blow had lost both, for his baby was without doubt dead; and his
wife had turned from him in the throes of her grief.

The weeks passed on, Christmas was nigh upon them, and the child was
spoken of in hushed tones as one speaks of the dead. The two boys were
treated as aliens by the men, and they were beginning to chafe under
their treatment. Although nothing had been said openly, they knew
instinctively that they were blamed by the superstitious inhabitants for
the disappearance of the baby.

“Alan,” said Desmond one day, as they were sitting apart from the rest
eating their dinner, “I can’t stand this. I am going to speak to the
men.”

“Stand what?” asked Alan wearily.

“Why the whispers and sneers that are showered on us whenever we are
near them. They all shrink away from us—treat us as if we were lepers;
even Slater avoids us, and the ‘Curse’ is whispered from lip to lip as
we pass.”

“You’ll do no good, Desmond.”

“We had nothing to do with the child’s going away, yet they treat us as
if we had murdered him.”

“Leave it alone,” said Alan, “I don’t know what it is, but this place
seems uncanny. I think I am almost beginning to believe in the ‘Curse’
myself.”

Desmond made no reply, but squaring his shoulders, began to walk toward
the miners.

“Look here, you fellows,” he began. “What’s wrong with you all? Why are
you treating my cousin and me as if we were murderers? We aren’t
responsible for Murlock’s little child vanishing away.”

The miners moved restlessly and muttered together, each waiting for a
spokesman to assert himself, who would teach them the line of action
they should take. Desmond continued, “You talk about the ‘Curse’! We
knew nothing about it when we came here, and to us it seems ridiculous
to imagine there is anything supernatural about the whole affair. The
river is only a quarter of a mile from their garden gate; I know it has
been dragged, but after all it is full of whirlpools and weeds, and if
the little chap did fall into it, ten to one his little body will never
be found.”

Suddenly a leader was found among the men, and Matt Harding stood up.

“Look ’ere mates,” said he. “We do’ant suppose these young gentlemen
actually hurt Dan Murlock’s baby, or that they know where he went to,
but after all, the ‘Curse’ tells us _not_ to have strangers in
Marshfielden, or evil will befall. It may befall _them_, it may befall
_us_, but some one will reap ill. Now it’s really Slater’s fault for
giving them lodgings. Let Slater turn them out, and that may break the
‘Curse.’”

“Aye, aye!” cried the men in unison.

“Where is Slater?” asked one burly fellow.

“With the shift above,” came the reply in another voice. Then came
groans from the rest. “Turn them out! Turn them out!”

“There is no need to turn us out,” said Alan with quiet dignity. “We
will find rooms outside Marshfielden, and leave at the end of the week.”

“Leave now! Leave now!” cried a hoarse voice, which they recognized as
belonging to Toby Skinner.

That was the one word needed to make the miners obstreperous. “Yes, go
now, go now,” they cried. “By the end of the week all our babes may be
gone.”

In vain the signal was given for the men to resume work; but they were
free of their pent up feelings, and refused to listen to the strident
tones of the bell that called them back to their duties.

Suddenly the manager’s voice was heard above the din and babel.

“Get to your work at once,” he thundered, “or take my word for it, there
will be a general lockout to-morrow.”

Gradually the men quieted, relieved of the strain of the past few weeks,
and slunk back to work.

“What’s the trouble?” asked Mr. Dickson, coming to the boys.

“They think we are the cause of the disappearance of Dan Murlock’s
baby,” explained Alan to the manager with some bitterness.

“Yes,” continued Desmond, “and now they demand that we leave
Marshfielden. That damned ‘Curse’ is driving us mad. These people are
like a set of uncivilized savages, who believe in witchcraft and omens
of the twelfth century.”

Mr. Dickson smiled as he answered them. “Our Marshfielden folk are
unique. They are almost a race in themselves. As Cornishmen consider
themselves ‘Cornish’ and not ‘English’ so Marshfielden men call
themselves ‘Marshfieldens.’ It is true they are very superstitious for
they believe implicitly in the folk lore that has been handed down to
them from all time.”

“What would you advise us to do?” asked Alan somewhat impatiently.

Mr. Dickson thought a moment, and then said quickly, “The widow of one
of our men lives in a little cottage not a quarter of a mile from here;
it stands on Corlot ground—not Marshfielden. She has a hard struggle to
make both ends meet. I will send round at once and see if she is willing
to take you two as lodgers. If she will—then go to her, for she is
clean, respectable, and will look after you well. Meanwhile, neither of
you has had a day off yet, so go and arrange about your luggage, and
I’ll see you are fixed up somewhere with rooms.”

“Thanks,” said Alan. “I shall be very sorry to leave Marshfielden
though. It is such a quaint, old-world place.”

“Far too old-world for strangers,” said Mr. Dickson significantly. The
little village street was buzzing with excitement when they reached
Marshfielden. Women were rushing to and fro across the cobbled stones,
and the whole place showed signs of some great disturbance.

As the boys approached, a sudden hush seemed to pervade the place, and
the women huddled together and whispered “The ‘Curse’! The ‘Curse’!”

Alan shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll see to the things,” said he. “You go
along to Mr. Winthrop, and tell him of the change in our plans.”

“Right, old boy,” and Desmond went towards Mr. Winthrop’s rooms,
whistling and doing his best to ignore the hostile looks that were
directed at him.

Alan went into the little room that had become so dear to them both. The
cottage was deserted, Mrs. Slater was absent, and as he made his way up
to the little bedroom, he sighed as he thought of leaving the dear
little place.

In a very short space of time the drawers were emptied and the trunks
packed; everything was done except the putting together of the hundred
and one odds and ends that invariably remain about.

“That’s good!” said he to himself, as he rose from his knees, having
finished strapping up the trunks, and he surveyed his handiwork with
pride, as he realized the short time it had taken him to complete it
all.

“Alan!”—He turned round suddenly—it was Desmond’s voice.

“Coming, old chap,” but Desmond was in the room, with a white, set face,
trembling limbs and a look of horror in his eyes.

“Good God! Whatever is the matter?” he asked.

“John Meal—Matt Harding—” gasped Desmond.

“Have found Dan’s boy?” eagerly.

“No. Their children have disappeared too!”

“_What?_”

“It’s true! Mr. Winthrop told me. That’s what caused the commotion when
we arrived here this morning. This news had only just become known.”

Alan seemed struck dumb. He looked at Desmond with unseeing eyes; his
tongue swelled, and his mouth grew parched, but his lips would not form
words. Then suddenly sounds came. “I wonder—is it the ‘Curse’ after
all?”

“I wondered that too.”

“When were they missed?”

“The children were all in school safe and sound. Lunch time came and
they were seen to enter the playground with the other little ones. Ten
minutes later the bell was rung for them all to reassemble.

“When the children did so, it was found that there were five children
missing. Harding’s three little girls and Meal’s two had disappeared.

“The Head Mistress was furious, thinking they had all gone off together,
and were playing truant. She sent a message round to the parents, so
John Meal left his work in the fields, and insisted on a search being
made. He swore it was the ‘Curse’ and that if he found his children he
would find them in company with Harding’s, and Dan’s boy.”

“Do you think it is a band of gypsies at work?” suggested Alan.

“There have been no gypsies near Marshfielden for over five years, they
say. Besides that, the extraordinary thing is, the children disappeared
from the playground.”

“Well?”

“There is a ten foot wall all round it, so it is impossible for them to
have climbed over. The only way out is past the Head Mistress’ desk. She
was sitting there the whole of the break, and declares that for the
whole ten minutes of the luncheon time, the hall was entirely deserted
and no one passed her. It seems impossible for them to have left the
playground that way, and equally impossible by the front entrance.”

“Why it sounds like witchcraft,” said Alan.

A voice startled them. It was Mrs. Slater; her eyes red from weeping. “I
beg of you two young gentlemen to go,” she sobbed. “The ‘Curse’ is upon
us.”

“We are going,” said Alan gently, “but we will do our utmost to discover
the children. Now let us have our account.” But the woman threw out her
hands before her with a cry.

“No-No-Not a penny, sir.”

“Oh, come, Mrs. Slater, don’t be foolish. Let us have our bill,” urged
Alan.

But Mrs. Slater was obdurate. “It’s only two days you owe me, sir, and I
wouldn’t touch a penny. You are quite welcome to what you’ve had, only
go—go!” It was useless to argue and they left the house with heavy
hearts, and went toward the blacksmith’s in order to ask some one to
take their luggage away for them.

“Good morning, Jim,” said Alan pleasantly as they reached the forge. The
man looked up and greeted them carefully, and as he saw Alan about to
step across the threshold he gave a cry.

“Do’ant ’ee put your foot inside, gentlemen, do’ant ’ee please! Oh, the
‘Curse’ be upon us all!”

The boys shrugged their shoulders helplessly, and Alan spoke quickly.

“Send your boy up to Mrs. Slater’s, will you, Jim? We want our luggage
taken from there to Mrs. Warren’s cottage at Corlot.”

“You be agoin’ away?” asked the man eagerly.

“Yes.”

“I be mighty glad, sirs. I do’ant mean to be rude, sirs, of course we
shall miss you sorely, but the ‘Curse’ has hit us sore hard since you
came.”

“Then you’ll send your boy, Jim?”

Jim scratched his head. “Couldn’t you manage it yourselves?”

“Surely it won’t harm you to help us out of Marshfielden?” said Alan
bitterly.

“I do’ant rightly know, sir, but—”

“Well?”

“I’d rather lend you my trolley, sir, than my boy. I do be mighty feared
of the ‘Curse’.”

“All right, Jim, give us the trolley. We’ll do it ourselves.” The
blacksmith wheeled it out, and gave it with half an apology to Alan.

“Don’t apologize, Jim. I understand.”

But the blacksmith had one more thing to say. “Do’ant ’ee trouble to
bring it back to Marshfielden, sirs, leave it with Ezra Meakin. He’ll
bring it back for ’ee.”

“Oh, don’t fear, Jim, we won’t return to Marshfielden once we’ve left.
Ezra shall return it safely. We’ll pay you now.”

Jim was not too frightened to refuse payment, and the liberal amount of
silver they showered on him touched him.

“I do’ant mean to be rude, sir,” he began—but the boys had started on
their way and were already wheeling the lumbering trolley down the
uneven street.

Jim went back into his forge with a shaking hand. Had he helped the
“Curse” by lending his trolley—doubly so, indeed, by accepting payment?
And as he beat the hammer on the anvil, sparks flew out all around him
like little red devils thirsting for prey!

When the miners came home that night they were unaware of the double
tragedy that had come into their midst. The strangers were gone! They
rejoiced, and Matt Harding was among the merriest. Mr. Winthrop and John
Meal were away still searching for the missing ones, and no one had
dared go to the mine to tell Matt of his loss.

He received the news with a set face, and strong self control. No word
of comfort was given him by his comrades; he needed none. Blindly he
staggered home, his loving, grief-stricken wife comforting and consoling
him, bearing up herself in order to help the man she loved.

Silently the miners prepared for another fruitless search.

“The two young gentlemen are going to help,” volunteered a woman in the
crowd.

“We do’ant want no help,” cried a man baring his brawny arm. “We’ll find
the chillun ourselves.” But the search proved futile, as they almost
expected, for as Murlock’s boy had vanished completely, so had these
other five children. But still stranger things were happening!

Mrs. Skeet possessed a dun cow of which she was very proud. Two days
after the disappearance of the children, she tied it up in its stall in
the byre, as it was suffering from an inflamed heel. Next morning when
she entered the byre the cow had gone, and the whole of the thatched
roof had been burnt away. Rushing into the cottage she called Mr.
Winthrop, but there was no reply. She knocked at his bedroom door. The
room sounded empty. Again she knocked, and fear made her open it. In a
second she was out, and shrieking in her terror, for the window was open
wide, and the vicar too had disappeared.




                              CHAPTER III
                               THE LIGHT


The London papers were burning with excitement. Marshfielden had at last
become known to the vast, outside world, for the disappearance of so
many of its inhabitants could no longer be hidden under a veil. After
the vicar was found to be missing, Mr. Dickson at the mine made Slater
promise to report the matter to the Kiltown police—the nearest
constabulary to Marshfielden.

The detective officer and his men came over and pompously took notes and
asked voluminous questions, but after a fortnight’s search came no
nearer solving the mystery. Then one of the constables disappeared too,
and Sergeant Alken thought it was high time to report the matter to
Scotland Yard.

Detective Inspector Vardon, the shrewdest, cleverest man at the Yard,
came down immediately, and at once sent for Alan and Desmond Forsyth. He
had been working out a theory coming down in the train and these two
young men were very closely connected with it.

But after his first interview with them, he realized that his suspicions
were entirely wrong, and knew he must look elsewhere for a clue. Alan
told the full story without any hesitation whatsoever and explained how
they themselves had suffered over the “Curse.”

“Pooh Pooh!” laughed Vardon “We will leave the ‘Curse’ out of the
question. These mysteries are caused by no witchcraft, but by a clever,
cunning brain.”

“Do you really think so?” asked Desmond.

“Of course,” and Alan gave a sigh of relief as he murmured, “you don’t
know how that has relieved me. I was beginning to get quite a horror of
the unknown.”

“Of course it’s an uncanny case,” went on the Inspector, “but we’ll
solve the problem yet.” Then he added laughingly, “I came down here
prepared to suspect you two young gentlemen.”

“Us? Why?”

“Well, all these mysteries occurred after you arrived here, and I found
you were none too popular with the natives.”

Desmond was indignant, but Vardon soon cooled him down. “See here, my
dear sir. It’s my business to suspect everybody until I convince myself
of his innocence. I know now I was mistaken—therefore I have been candid
with you.”

The inquiries lasted some time, and every day brought some fresh
disaster in its wake, filling the little village with misery and
consternation, and the London editors’ pockets with gold. Sightseers and
tourists came galore to the stricken place, and the carrier between
Marshfielden and Kiltown reaped a small fortune from the curious. Every
day the papers recounted some fresh loss—perhaps a cow or a pig, but
often a human life. Women kept inside their homes, and even the men folk
walked about in pairs, so that they could help each other should the
“unknown” fall upon them.

The two boys still worked in the mine, and the men, realizing at last
that they were not the instigators of all the trouble, admitted them,
charily enough at first, into their lives again.

Alan and Desmond were quite happy with Mrs. Warren, but missed Mr.
Winthrop’s kindly advice and friendship greatly. No trace of him had
ever been found, and a younger man now took his parochial duties.
Amateur detectives swarmed about the place, but the villagers in a body
refused shelter to every one. Even the police officials themselves had
to pitch tents in fields near by for their own use, as no bribe was high
enough to obtain accommodation for them. Inspector Vardon was beginning
to get disheartened; he had formed many theories during his stay, but
upon minute investigation they all fell to pieces.

Walking away from the village one day, his hands behind his back and his
head sunk upon his breast, deep in thought, he was suddenly awakened
from his reverie by the sound of groans. Hedges were on either side of
him, but he vaulted over the one from whence the sounds came.

There lay a sheep, its wool burnt away and its body scorched. He
examined the helpless creature in pity, and the poor beast breathed his
last. He was distinctly puzzled. There was no sign of fire anywhere at
all—the poor animal alone had been hurt.

He pondered for a moment, and the thought came into his mind that
perhaps this was a sequel to the strange disappearances and mysteries he
had been trying to unravel—but after a moment, he cast the thought aside
as being impossible, and decided that the accident must have been caused
by a passer-by throwing away a match or a lighted cigarette, so he
hurried across the fields to tell the farmer of his loss. That night,
however, he had cause to think more deeply over the mishap to the sheep.

About six in the evening Ezra Meakin and a companion set out for
Kiltown. They intended to stay the night there and come back by the
carrier in the morning. At eight a shrieking, demented man came flying
into Marshfielden, and fell in a heap across the steps that led up to
the church.

Matt Harding was near and ran to his aid.

“Good God, it’s Ezra!” he cried.

It was indeed, but a very different Ezra from the one who had left
Marshfielden only two hours before. His clothes were scorched and his
hair singed, while great blisters, that could have been caused only by
excessive heat, marred his face.

“What has come over ye, lad?” asked Matt in concern.

“The fire! The fire!” cried Ezra hysterically. “It’s taken Luke—he’s
gone,” and with the words he lapsed into unconsciousness.

Matt lifted him up in his strong arms, and bore him to the nearest
cottage. “Fetch the Inspector,” said he curtly as he busied himself in
trying to restore life to the inanimate form on the bed. At length he
succeeded—a tremor passed through the body; the hands unclasped; the
eyelids fluttered slightly. Then the lids slowly moved, and Matt stared
down in horror at the wide open eyes. Blindly he stumbled out of the
room, and fell into the arms of the Inspector.

“What’s the matter?” asked Vardon.

Matt looked at him stupidly for a moment, and then gave a harsh,
mirthless laugh. “Ezra—he’s—he’s—”

“Yes?”

“He’s blind.”

“Blind?”

Matt Harding could say no more, but sank down on to a chair and buried
his head in his hands.

For a week Ezra lay delirious, and it was even longer than that before
any one could get his story from him. When it came, it was disjointed
and almost incoherent. After he and Luke Wilden had walked about a mile,
he told them, they suddenly saw in the distance something that looked
like a red hot wire on the horizon. Dancing and swaying it drew nearer
to them, and fascinated they watched to see what it could possibly be.

Then suddenly, before they realized, it was upon them. It swooped down
and coiled around Luke’s body, and carried him off into mid-air. As he
tried to drag Luke from its clutches, the end of it, in curling around
Luke still more firmly, struck him, and burnt and blinded him. He
remembered no more; everything grew dim, and he fled down the long,
straight road towards the village, instinct guiding him in place of his
sight.

Every one heard the story incredulously, and it duly appeared in the
London newspapers, and tended to make the “Marshfielden Mystery” as it
was called, still more complicated and unfathomable.

Ezra recovered from the shock, but his eyesight was gone forever.

“Destroyed by fire,” was the verdict of the eminent specialist who was
called in to diagnose his case.

The story of the “Light” grew daily more terrifying. School children
declared they saw it from the windows of their class-rooms, and when
closely questioned about it, declared it was “a golden streak of fire,
as thin as wire, that came rushing through the sky like lightning.”

Then men began to watch for it, but somehow it seemed to evade most of
them, and for some time, solitary statements were all that could be
obtained with reference to it.

“What do you make of it, Alan?” asked Desmond one day, after it had been
seen by three different witnesses at the same time and in the same
direction.

“I don’t know. Every one is not a liar, and at the same time every one
cannot suffer from a like optical delusion. Every one who has seen this
phenomenon agrees in every detail about its appearance.”

“Yes, even the children,” supplemented Desmond.

“Let’s go for a walk,” yawned his cousin. “I feel very tired to-day.”

Mrs. Warren watched them going toward the gate with apprehension in her
eyes, and just as they were about to pass through, she rushed to the
door. “Be you agoin’ out? Oh, do’ant ’ee go—do’ant ’ee—not to-night! I
be afeared—mortal afeared.”

“Oh, we’ll take care of ourselves,” laughed Desmond. “Don’t you worry.”

“But I’m afeared.” She shivered as she spoke—but the boys laughed as
they walked toward the Corlot Woods, a favourite spot of theirs.

As they crossed the stile leading to the path across the fields, they
heard a dog crying pitifully. Alan, always tender-hearted towards dumb
animals, stopped and looked round. Again came the mournful cry. “I think
it must be across the way,” said Desmond. Alan crossed the road, and
then called out to his cousin.

“It’s Slater’s pup”—he bent over it closely—“Why its leg is broken and
its fur is singed,” he added in an awe-struck tone.

A rustling sounded behind him—an intense heat that nearly stifled him;
he heard a sudden shriek—a groan.

Once more the “Light” had found its prey. Alan was alone!

                  *       *       *       *       *

  “_Come at once. Something terrible has happened to Dez. Don’t delay.
  Alan._”

Such was the telegram that Sir John Forsyth received upon arriving at
his office the day after Desmond’s disappearance. The two boys had kept
him fully posted with all the news at Marshfielden. But as he always
prided himself upon his strong common sense, he laughed with the boys at
the suggestion that the “Curse” was responsible for the strange
happenings in the little Derbyshire village.

His face blanched as he read the message, and instinctively he thought
of the “Curse,” yet put the thought aside as quickly as it came.

Masters, his confidential secretary, almost friend, looked at him
pityingly.

“I am going to Marshfielden,” announced Sir John.

“Shall I come with you?” asked Masters.

“Yes, Masters, I shall need you.”

“An express leaves for Derby in half an hour,” went on Masters. “If we
book there, I can ’phone through for a car to meet us and motor us
direct to Grimland.”

“Yes! Yes! You arrange,” and Sir John, who had grown as many years old
as minutes had passed since he had had the news, sat with his teeth
chattering and his limbs trembling.

“A motor car will be waiting for us at Derby,” announced Masters as they
took their seats in the train.

At last the whistle sounded, the flag waved, and the great engine
snorted violently as it left the station.

Sir John, in his anguish of mind, was unable to sit still; up and down
the corridor he walked until the passengers began to pity his white,
strained face, and wondered what his trouble could be. Derby at last!
Then followed a mad ride to Grimland. Alan was awaiting his Uncle at the
pit head; he had not attempted to go to bed since the “Light” had taken
Desmond from his side. Silently they gripped hands, and Sir John entered
the little office and heard the whole story.

Alan wound up by saying, “Even as I tell the story, it seems almost
incredible. As I turned round I saw Desmond in mid-air, with, it seemed,
a fiery wire about him—and as I looked he vanished from sight.”

Sir John was determined not to look upon it as witchcraft.

“It’s man’s devilry, I’ll be bound,” said he. “I’ll swear it’s not
supernatural. Get all the scientists down—let them make investigations.
I’ll pay handsomely, but discover the secret I will.”

The men, when they realized that Desmond had disappeared, were
shamefaced, and came to Mrs. Warren’s cottage to offer their sympathy.
They tried to atone for their past conduct, by inviting both Alan and
his Uncle to stay in Marshfielden. But Alan refused. “No, we’ll stay
here,” said he. “Mrs. Warren has made me very comfortable. But perhaps
we’ll come and visit Marshfielden, if we may, and do our utmost to
discover the perpetrator of this diabolical plot.”

“Aye, do ’ee sur, do ’ee,” said the men, and Alan felt strangely cheered
by their friendship.

Sir John stayed with Alan for a fortnight, but as others had
disappeared, so had Desmond, and no trace of him could be found. It was
necessary for Sir John to return to town, in order that he might keep
his business appointments and he asked Alan to accompany him.

“I curse the day I ever sent you to Grimland,” said he over and over
again.

“Don’t upset yourself so, Uncle John! How could anyone have foreseen
such a calamity. No, I’ll stay here, and perhaps I may be the means of
unravelling the mystery.”

Police from the Continent, detectives from America, Asiatic wizards and
sorcerers all came to Marshfielden—but none solved the mystery. For days
no one stirred out of doors, and when at length they did so, it was with
faltering steps and bated breath. No one knew who would be the next
victim of the strange power that pervaded the place. Summer came again!
A year had passed and left its mark on the once peaceful English
village. Many white crosses adorned the little churchyard, but of all
the new ones, few really marked the last resting place of those whose
names they bore. A tiny tombstone in the far corner, under a weeping
ash, named the spot consecrated to the memory of little Jimmie Murlock,
the first victim of the “Light”.

Moll Murlock had gone out of her mind. The shock had turned her
brain,—and when, one after another, she learned of the tragedies that
were daily coming on the little village, her senses left her entirely,
and she was taken to the Kiltown asylum. Dan lived alone, in the little
cottage, his hair snow white, and his features old and wrinkled; and
none of his comrades dared recall the past to his mind. The new vicar
who had taken Mr. Winthrop’s place was very unpopular, and on Sundays
the church was nearly half empty. Fear had turned their thoughts from
Heaven, and while men openly cursed their God, the women whispered their
curses in their hearts.

Inspector Vardon was still investigating, but his reports to the Yard
were all the same. “Nothing further to hand” and then came the day when
he added “Fear this is beyond me” and the chiefs looked at each other in
dismay, as they feared it would remain one of the unsolved mysteries of
the day. They had no shrewder or cleverer man in their employ than
Marcus Vardon.

Then the “Light” suddenly disappeared. No more losses were reported,
things went on more calmly, and women began to go out of doors more
freely. Children returned to school, and Marshfielden had become almost
normal again. For two months there were no casualties, and people hoped
that the evil influence had departed for good, or burnt itself out.

And the next Sunday the new clergyman addressed from his pulpit a full
church. The people had once more come to the house of God for comfort
and to return Him thanks for the cessation of the past horrors. And his
voice shook as he gave out his text, from the one hundred and
twenty-first psalm:—

  “The Lord shall preserve thee from all evil; the Lord shall preserve
    thy going out and thy coming in, from this time forth for ever
    more.”




                               CHAPTER IV
                               THE OUTLET


For over six months Marshfielden was unvisited by the “Light”. The
inhabitants were settling down and work had begun again in earnest. Alan
had been promoted second overseer at the mine, and as he had a firm way
with the men, those under him worked diligently and well. Traces of
sorrow were left on every one’s face. It was impossible to eradicate
them in a few months; years would not wipe away the affliction that had
come into their lives.

The little village was opened up now. Motors traversed its cobbled
streets, and the inhabitants so far allowed themselves to become
“modernized” that the sign “Teas provided here” could be seen in nearly
every cottage window down the street.

The influx of so many strangers made them forget the “Curse” and as once
they believed in it, now they believed just as firmly that the disasters
that had come upon them were wrought by some human agency. These six
months of peace and quiet they hoped were precursors of the future.
Inspector Vardon left the place, and nothing remained outwardly to
remind them of the terrible past.

Then suddenly they woke up once more to sorrow. Two horses were found to
be missing, and with them the little stable boy who tended them. The
“Light” had returned!

Once more voices were hushed and heads were shaken gravely, as every one
talked of the tragedy. A week passed, then Mrs. Skeet disappeared, and a
few days later Mary Slater. The place swarmed again with detectives; the
papers were again alive with the renewal of the tragedies.

The men in the mine worked silently; the only thing to break the
stillness was the sound of the picks on the coal seams, or the running
of the trolleys up and down the roads. Each feared to think of the
horror that might await him when he reached his home at the end of his
day’s work.

The dinner hour came round, and each man sat silent and glum, eating his
bread and meat, and uttering only a monosyllable now and again to his
particular chum.

Suddenly there came a dull roar; the men rose to their feet in haste.
They knew only too well that ominous sound—it was familiar to them all.

Mr. Dickson appeared, his face ashen. “An explosion in the South Road,”
said he. “Rescue parties to work at once.”

In an instant everything was forgotten but the one desire to help their
brothers in distress. With picks and ropes and lanterns they hurried
down the main road, just at the bend of which a sheet of flame flared
out suddenly, entirely enveloping the first man, and setting his
clothing on fire.

In vain they played on the flames—it was useless. The fire had gained
too much power. The rescuers were forced back to the cage at the bottom
of the shaft, and all had to seek refuge above. Another sorrow had come
upon the people of Marshfielden—their cup was full to overflowing as it
was, yet Tragedy, the Humourist, was not yet content with his handiwork.

For two days the fire raged, and the willing rescuers were helpless in
the face of such odds; on the third it quieted sufficiently to enable a
rescue party to descend. Gradually they fought the flames, but not a
trace remained of the men who had been caught like rats in a trap when
the first explosion came. So Marshfielden was again in mourning, and
broken-hearted widows and fatherless children went to the touching
little memorial service that was arranged for the lost ones.

Alan was horror-stricken at the calamity that had befallen the mine. The
thought of the men who had been burnt to death preyed on his mind; it
was his first experience of such an accident, and it left upon him an
indelible mark.

The mine was once more in working order, and he was doing some accounts
in the office below, when a voice startled him. It was the voice of Mr.
Dickson, and very grave.

“Go at once to the third shaft, Forsyth,” said he. “The telephone has
failed, and Daniels has reported that there is something wrong with the
air pumps there.”

“What? In the lower engine house?”

“Yes. We can get no further information. Make a careful examination, and
if you suspect any danger, order the shift off and close the gates.”

“Very good,” and Alan, glad to have something to do that would occupy
his mind, left the office, and jumped on to one of the empty trolleys
that was being run by the cable to the second shaft, and would take him
very near his destination. At the second shaft there were anxious faces.

“Something wrong at number three shaft, sir,” said one of the men.
“Daniels ’phoned us, but before he could tell us anything definite, the
connections broke down.”

“Thanks,” said Alan shortly. “How many men are working there?”

“None, sir. They’ve not been working it to-day. Daniels and two other
men have been inspecting a bulge that has appeared in the roof, and were
arranging to have it fixed up with supports.” Mechanically Alan walked
down the low road that led to the third shaft. He pushed aside the heavy
tarpaulins that hung across the roadways, and kept the current of air
from flowing in the wrong direction, and as he passed through each one,
he sniffed the air eagerly.

At last! The sickly, choking smell came up from the distance. It was one
he knew and feared—a noxious gas. The roof became very low, and Alan had
almost to crawl on his hands and knees, for there was no room for him to
stand upright. Cramped, aching, he made his way along the narrow
roadway. Suddenly he gave a sigh of relief; the roof rose to perhaps ten
feet, and the road widened out into a vault-like chamber, perhaps twenty
feet square. He heard a cry in the distance. “Help! Help!” It was
Daniels—Daniels who came stumbling in and fell on the ground before him.

“Mr. Forsyth,” he muttered, “run—save yourself—Rutter is dead—The gas is
terrible. There’s danger,” and even as he spoke there came a dull roar
and a flash, a terrible sound of falling—and Alan realized that the
little chamber had indeed become a vault, for the force of the explosion
had made the walls on either side cave in, and the entrance at each end
was blocked up completely.

“Too late,” murmured Daniels weakly. “I couldn’t get here before.” He
fumbled at his belt, and Alan bent over him gently. “Water—water,” he
cried, and Alan unfastened the basket that was slung across his
shoulders, and took from it a bottle of cold tea.

But even as he put it to the lips of the sick man, there came another
roar in the distance, and Daniels fell back—dead.

Once more the dreaded sound was heard—once more an explosion had
occurred in the mine. This time there was little fire—only water—water
everywhere.

“Where is Mr. Alan?” asked the manager hoarsely. “Has he returned from
the third shaft?”

“No, sir.”

“Then he is in the midst of the danger. Rescue parties at once.” But all
these efforts were in vain. It was water this time—water that drove the
men back to the mouth of the pit.

Pumps were put in order, and for hours the men worked to clear the mine,
but when at last they were able to get near the spot where the accident
took place—they, as they feared, found no trace of Alan.

From the second shaft the mine was in such a complete state of wreckage
and ruin, that it would take weeks before it was even possible to get
near the third shaft and the original scene of the disaster. So once
more a casualty list was sent out, and this time was headed by the name

                           “_Alan Forsyth_”.

Sir John heard the news with a set face. First Desmond, now Alan had
been taken from him.

“Don’t take it so to heart, Mr. Dickson,” said he kindly. “The boy was
doing his duty when death overtook him.”

“I am broken-hearted, Sir John,” said Mr. Dickson. “I feel that it was I
who drove him to his doom. If I hadn’t sent him to the third shaft that
day, he would be with us still.”

“It is fate,” said Sir John simply.

But when he reached his office next day, he told Masters to get him his
will from the safe. With trembling fingers he tore it across, threw the
pieces in the fire and watched it burn. Then he said quietly, “I must
make a new will, Masters. But to whom shall I leave my money? There is
no one to follow me now.” Suddenly he took up pen and paper and wrote
hurriedly. “Fetch a clerk, Masters,” said he, and when a clerk appeared
he added quietly, “I want you both to witness my signature to my will,”
and with firm fingers wrote his name, and passed the paper over to
Masters, making no effort to hide what he had written.

And Masters’ eyes grew dim as he read—

  “Everything I possess to the ‘Miners’ Fund’ for widows and orphans,
  rendered such by accidents in the mine.”

                  *       *       *       *       *

When Alan recovered from the shock of the explosion, he found his lamp
was still burning dimly, and felt that he had a dull ache in his legs.
He was covered with débris from head to foot and stifling from the dust
and powdered coal that was all about. With difficulty he extricated
himself, and realized that Daniels was completely buried.

Alone in the little chamber, a feeling akin to superstition came over
him, and he moved away from the silent form, now shrouded in coal.
Scarcely realizing the hopeless position he was in, he leant back, and
closing his eyes, his worn out nerves gave way, and he fell asleep. He
woke up with a start some hours later; his watch had stopped and he had
no idea of the time. Madness seemed to be coming over him; his face was
flushed, his head throbbed. He was ravenously hungry, and crossed to the
dead man’s side and searched about until he found the basket that
contained Daniel’s untouched dinner, and the bottle of cold tea. There
was not a great deal of food—half a loaf, several thick slices of beef,
a piece of cheese and some homemade apple tart.

Alan ate sparingly, for although his stomach clamoured for more, he
realized that not yet was his greatest hour of need, and that later on
he would need the food still more.

When he had finished, he took up a pick and wildly struck at the blocked
exit, but only the echoes replied, laughing at his impotence. Flinging
his tool down he buried his head in his hands and sobbed in bitter
despair. His convulsive outburst left him calmer, and he began for the
first time to think out a plan of escape. He knew that rescue parties
would be working hard for his release—but could they reach him in time?

There was around him a death-like stillness, and he realized that the
buried cavern was far from the bottom of the shaft. Then he suddenly
wondered where the air came from. There must be an inlet somewhere, he
thought, for the air he was breathing, although stuffy, was quite pure.
He walked round the walled up chamber—round and round—but there was
nowhere a weak spot. He sat down and tried to think coherently, and
laughed aloud in his agony, as he wondered whether he would go mad. He
looked up suddenly, and in his weakness imagined that the roof was
trying to dance with the floor. He tottered round the place, hardly able
to keep his feet in his wild fancy that the floor was moving, and
laughed hysterically as he knocked against a jutting piece of coal, and
thought the roof had got him at last. Then he quieted a little, and in
the semi-darkness the dead figure of Daniels seemed to rise from the
place where it lay, and point at him a menacing finger.

In terror, Alan backed to the further side of the little chamber, his
eyes distorted, his limbs trembling. He watched the figure come
nearer—nearer—its long claw-like fingers were almost on his flesh—“Ah!”
he shrieked—the fingers were touching him with a cold, slimy touch. He
felt impelled to move forward—with the forefinger of the dead man
pressed to his forehead. He walked fearfully onward—then his overwrought
brain gave way entirely, and with another wild shriek, he fell to the
floor in merciful unconsciousness.

When he recovered, his dimmed senses hid from him much of the past. His
fever had abated, but he longed for water. His mouth was parched. He
crawled feebly to the basket where the dead Daniels had kept his food,
and drew out the bottle of tea. There was very little left, but enough
to take away the first keen edge of his thirst. A torn newspaper that
had been used to wrap up some of the food rustled slightly. It startled
him and he looked round nervously. Again it moved, and seemed to be
lifted up by some unseen hand.

He watched it fascinated, then suddenly his face lighted up. “A
draught,” he cried triumphantly. “Then it is from that direction I must
try and secure my release!” With renewed energy he began to pick at the
coal, in the fast dimming light of his lantern. Tirelessly he worked,
until success met his efforts and he had made a hole big enough to crawl
through, whence came the sound of rushing waters.

He lifted his lantern above his head in his endeavour to discover where
he was, and its feeble rays shone upon a swiftly flowing, subterranean
river that disappeared through a tunnel on either side. The place he was
in was very small and had no outlet except by way of the water.

The river was narrow, perhaps four feet wide at the most, but with a
current so strong that Alan, good swimmer though he was, would not have
dared trust himself to its cruel-looking depths. Mechanically he dropped
into the water a lump of coal. There was a slight splash—but no sound
came to tell him that it had reached the bottom. He felt in his pockets,
and found half a ball of string. Tying a piece of coal to one end he
dropped it into the rapids, but his arm was up to his shoulder in the
river, and yet the coal had not touched the bottom.

He looked at the water curiously, and dabbled his fingers in the
brackish fluid. Suddenly a pain in his hand made him draw it out
quickly, and by the light of the lantern he saw it was covered with
blood. As he wiped it clean he saw the impression of two teeth on his
first and third fingers. Slowly his lips moved and he murmured—“There is
animal life in this river then—I wonder whither it leads—can there be
humanity near too?”

His lantern was nearly out, and by its dying rays he tried frantically
to fashion himself a raft, upon which he could trust himself to the
waters. A trolley, smashed by the force of the explosion, lay near him.
The wheels had been wrenched off and it was all in pieces. He looked at
it carefully. The bottom piece was intact with half of one end still in
position. He examined it critically. Would it float? Well he must risk
that. He thought it would, and the end piece would serve as a hold to
keep him on safely.

He was feeling faint—he ate the remains of his food, and with a reverent
glance at the place where Daniels lay, he pushed the plank out on to the
seething waters. Lightly he jumped on it himself, and, with a tight grip
on the projecting pieces of wood, gave himself up to the mercy of the
torrent.

His lantern went out; the darkness was intense; there was no sound but
the lashing of the waters and the drumming of the raft against the sides
of the tunnel. The current was swifter than anything he had ever known.
The water just tore along at a breakneck speed, lashed over the frail
raft and drenched Alan to the skin. He was faint. In a dim way he
thought of his life—how empty it had been. Where was Desmond—and Uncle
John? Cambridge came before his eyes, and he could almost see the serene
picture of the “backs” with their quaint bridges and fields beyond.

He felt stiff. Mechanically he held on to the raft, even when his senses
left him; and the frail wood with its worn burden of humanity, rushed
on, down into the depths, carried by the river that was descending lower
and lower through the earth.

Suddenly the raft gave a still more violent jerk, and Alan awoke to life
once more. The rapids were over at last, and he was drifting along in
waters that were as sluggish now as before they had been fast.

The tunnel widened, and he was aware that the intense blackness had
gone, and in its place there was a purplish light that was soothing to
his aching eyes. As the tunnel began to widen out, a path branched off
at either side of the water.

The raft drifted on and at last found a harbour in a little, natural bay
hollowed out in the bank. Alan stepped on land at last, his senses
reeling. He had no idea of the time that had passed since he first
started on that strange journey, and he felt hungry, weak and tired.

Slowly he walked along the river bank, and the purple lights grew
stronger—then voices came upon his ear, and as he eagerly bent forward
toward the unknown that faced him, above in Marshfielden, the clergyman
was saying—

            “And for the soul of Alan Forsyth—lately dead.”




                                BOOK II
                             THE UNDERWORLD




                               CHAPTER I
                           A STRANGE MEETING


The ever present sense of “self-preservation” beats within the breasts
of men most strongly at some period or other of their lives. It showed
itself to Alan now. A fear of the supernatural came over him, and very
quietly he stepped into the shelter of a jutting piece of rock, from
which, all unseen, he could take a view of his surroundings.

He realized at once that it was to no mine that he had come, for
strange, fantastic figures flitted about in the distance, figures that
did not belong to the upper world.

Suddenly several of these figures leapt into the water and with a
peculiar roll came swimming towards him at a terrific pace, and with a
graceful movement vaulted out of the water and sat on the edge of the
bank. He counted five of them, and saw that they were quite naked, and
their skins were of a most peculiar purple shade, an almost exact match
to the purple that lighted the place. They were talking volubly in an
unknown tongue, and Alan leant forward from his hiding place to catch a
better view of these strange, underworld people he had come among in
such an extraordinary way. Short—he would judge them to be no more than
three feet six, at the most, but with muscles that stood out like iron
bands across their bodies. Their hair, in contrast to their skins, was
of an almost flaxen hue, and in the females hung perfectly straight to
their waists. The men wore theirs cropped close, except on the very top
of their heads, where it was allowed to grow long, and was plaited and
braided, and fixed with ornaments.

Their features were extremely pointed, and their eyes were small, but of
a piercing brilliance. From the middle of the forehead, grew a tusk or
horn, about ten inches long. For some time Alan puzzled over the strange
horn, but its use was demonstrated to him only too soon. It was a weapon
of offence. One of the women suddenly rose, and began an unintelligible
tirade against her companion. The man did his best to pacify her, but it
was useless, and suddenly she bent down, and with a viciousness Alan
could hardly realize, thrust her tusk into the man’s face, and with a
wild shriek dived into the water and swam away. The man was left with a
gaping wound on his cheek, from which flowed a sickly, purply-white
fluid. With hoarse chuckles, the remaining three swam off, leaving the
man alone. Alan watched him intently. Diving to the bottom of the river,
the creature stayed there an incredibly long time, and then reappeared
with a bunch of purple water weeds in his hand. He laid a handful of
these weeds on his wound, to which they adhered by a secretion of their
own, and the man swam away also, leaving Alan more alone than before.

His faintness grew still more unbearable and he came out of his hiding
place, caring for nothing but to get food; but his limbs were weak, and
he fell, and found that he could hardly drag himself along. As he lay on
the ground, a sweet smell assailed his nostrils, and looking round he
realized that on little low bushes all about him, hung a
luscious-looking, purple fruit.

He picked one and examined it. It was like a grape in size and
appearance, but was velvet to the touch, like a peach. He tasted it—it
was sweet and wonderfully refreshing, so he ate his fill, with his last
ounce of strength pulled himself once more into the friendly arms of the
overhanging rocks, and fell asleep. When he awoke he made another meal
off the fruit that grew everywhere in such abundance—it was filling and
seemed nutritious, and the juice appeased his thirst. He looked
carefully around him. There was no one about, and keeping within the
shadow of the walls, he made his way down the path. It was not an easy
road, for the stones were sharp and the way rough, and the constant
effort to keep himself hidden tired him. At last he came to the end of
the passage, and saw that the river widened out into a large lake, about
two hundred yards across. Peculiar craft lay moored at either side, and
in the centre was an island on which grew purple vegetation—short,
stunted, purple trees, and a peculiar, purple moss, that covered the
ground like grass.

It was a weirdly picturesque scene. Purple light shone from purple trees
that were planted at regular intervals everywhere. The light seemed to
evolve from nothing, as it showed under the large purple leaves that
acted as shades—yet Alan believed it was partly natural, and partly
controlled by the power of the purple people he had seen.

A wide passage went to the right, and in front of him Alan saw a large
chamber, bounded on one side by the lake. Branching off in all
directions were other passages which seemed to open out into other
chambers and roadways, in fact the whole place seemed like a veritable
warren.

Suddenly an awful crash sounded, followed by the beating of drums and
the clashing of cymbals and away in the distance he saw a procession of
purple folk passing rapidly, all in the same direction. Cloaks of the
same purple hue fell from their shoulders, and the women wore veils on
their heads. He watched them with interest. The figures passed in quick
succession, then they became less and less frequent, until only one or
two stragglers came hurrying up. The sound of singing rose on the air,
and Alan conjectured that it must be some religious service to which
they all were bent. After the last one had disappeared Alan waited some
minutes to see if any more would pass, but as no one else came he walked
slowly in the direction from which the multitude had appeared.

In a very short space of time he found himself in a street. Peculiar
huts lined either side of it, huts with their doors open wide and no
sign of life. He looked about him carefully, and ventured inside one. He
found it was divided into three rooms—all on the ground floor. There was
a sleeping room, for mattresses of that same purple moss, dried, were on
the floor; there was also a living room and a kitchen. Warily he looked
about him, and then went out into the street. The main street merged
into smaller ones and at last, at the very end, a large building rose
upon the scene—larger and more impressive than any of the others he had
passed on his way. All this time he had seen no sign of life—the
inhabitants were content to rest secure in their belief of
inviolability.

Cautiously Alan crept toward the building and as he came close to it, he
saw that a sentry had been left on guard—a sentry with an evil-looking
knife slung across his shoulders, and a scimitar-like instrument in his
hand. The man was looking away into the distance and did not hear Alan’s
approach. “Hullo,” said Alan pleasantly. The effect was magical. The
undersized creature swung round and faced the strange, white man. For an
instant he remained quite still, and then, with a sudden movement that
Alan was unprepared for, sprang at him, and commenced to beat his horn
in Alan’s face. In vain the white man tried to free himself from the
savage grip; he was no match for this strange creature of the
underworld. His adversary made no sound as he gradually weakened Alan,
and at length he swung him over his shoulder as if he had been a child,
and marched with him at a quick pace down the street.

The shock, the strenuous time Alan had been through, took his senses
away, and when he came to, he found he was lying on a soft mattress and
there was a stabbing pain in his arm. A fantastic figure was bending
over him, a figure that licked its lips cruelly as it surveyed its
victim, and Alan realized at once that he was in an enemy’s hand.

The figure spoke to him, but Alan was unable to understand the jargon it
uttered. Suddenly it issued a command, and four men, clad in a kind of
armour, came up to Alan, and lifting him up carried him once more out of
the place into the street. Outside they placed him on a litter, drawn by
four men, and at a fast trot dragged him through the streets. The air
grew hotter and hotter, until Alan felt choked; at last, however, they
came to their journey’s end, and Alan was rudely hauled out of the
litter, and found himself standing outside high gates. They were very
massive, of a gold colour, and heavily barred on the inner side. One of
his captors struck a gong affixed to the wall, and in answer to its
strident tones, two women, heavily veiled, came running toward them and
unfastened the locks. Alan was almost too weak to walk, but was pushed
along a passage until he found himself in a place so vast, so wonderful,
so awful, that it left him breathless and trembling.

It was a huge temple into which he had been brought—so vast that he was
unable to see the further end of it. An enormous high altar stood near
him, and at intervals were smaller ones all round the walls. Statues and
images, both grotesque and beautiful, ornamented the place, and the
atmosphere reeked with a pungent incense that was sickly and
overpowering. But it was not only the vastness and weirdness that left
Alan breathless—it was a wonder more terrible, more awe-inspiring than
his mind had ever conceived.

The whole of the centre of the temple was composed of a fire—a fire that
ran down the length of the elliptically shaped building, and disappeared
in the distance in a red glow. A glass-like wall rose to perhaps three
feet above the level of the flames, and through it Alan could see into
the heart of a bottomless pit of fire, whose flames of all hues danced
and swerved and shimmered in a wild ecstasy. The substance of the fire
he could not guess—but the fire possessed a terrifying appearance that
alone was enough to break the spirit of any mortal man.

The heat was intense, yet the natives did not seem to notice it, and
they led Alan to a pillar that rose near the high altar, bound him to it
by a heavy chain, and then left him there, alone. He watched his captors
disappear one by one. His brain was reeling. He wondered whether all he
had seen was but the result of fever, and he would wake up presently to
find himself in Mrs. Slater’s pretty little cottage at Marshfielden. But
no, he knew he was awake and not dreaming,—and looked about him in
bewilderment. That there were people living in the centre of the earth
he would never have believed—yet here was the proof—for was he not a
captive in their clutches?

He looked at the fire. Never before had he seen anything like it. It
seemed to go deep into fathomless depths, and its flames danced and sang
and crackled maliciously. He wondered whether he would be thrown into
its fiery bosom by the purple folk, and shivered to think of it, but
then a feeling of relief came over him. After all it would be a quick
death, for nothing could live long in those hungry flames.

Immediately opposite him was the high altar. Six steps led up to it, and
he looked with interest at them and at the red stains they bore; and
with an uncanny laugh, asked himself whether these were blood. If so,
whose? Round the walls on pedestals were huge, grotesque figures; and
interposed here and there, an image of almost seraphic beauty, that
contrasted strangely with the insidious cruelty and hideousness of the
place.

To the right of Alan was a still more grotesque figure. About twenty
feet high it stood, with cruel eyes looking out across the fire. Its
jaws were open wide, and attached to the under jaw was a peculiar slide
made of the same transparent glass-like substance that encircled the
flames. This slide reached from the idol’s mouth to the edge of the
furnace, and suddenly drops of perspiration stood out thick on Alan’s
brow. The meaning of the slide was only too clear. The victims of these
underground savages were forced inside the idol, disgorged by it on to
the slide, and thrown into the fire—a living sacrifice. Time passed, and
Alan wondered dimly whether he would ever be able to reckon it again.

Suddenly upon his ear came wild yells and fanatical shrieks, the banging
of drums, the clashing of cymbals followed by discordant singing. Then
the din quieted a little, only to reassert itself once more as the
natives reached the door of their temple. Alan gasped in horror as a
horde of grinning purple men swarmed into the place, two of whom left
their places in the procession, and coming to him caught hold of him
roughly.

Priests and acolytes took their place in the procession, which was
brought to an end by a high priest, who wore the most wonderful purple
robes and purple gems; slowly he walked to the high altar, his richly
embroidered vestments hanging to the ground, and two acolytes carried
the ends of his cloak, which they kissed reverently as they ascended the
bloody steps. When he reached the top step he turned his back on the
altar itself, and prostrated himself before the fire, the whole company
of worshippers following his example. Boys arrayed in vestments almost
the facsimile of the ones worn by the high priest, swung censers aloft,
which exuded their sickly perfume, and sent the faint, blue smoke
mingling with the smokeless flames of the big fire.

Then they rose and the ceremony began, priests intoned; an invisible
choir sang; and the congregation chanted, while live pigs, oxen, horses
and goats were thrown alive into the flames. There was a wild shriek
from each animal as it felt the heat, a crackling—and it was reduced to
ashes. Alan wondered when his turn would come, and longed vainly for the
blessed relief of unconsciousness.

Suddenly his captors lifted him high above their heads, and strapped him
to the altar. And then in front of him was placed a goat, and two
priests, disengaging themselves from the crowd, disembowelled the animal
alive, flung the still living and tortured creature to the flames, and
stood over Alan with their ugly knives, still dripping with blood,
suspended above him. Then the steel came flashing down and he wondered
that he felt no pain, but he realized that his clothes had been deftly
cut away from him, and he was left on the altar slab, naked. Incense was
wafted over him, and he was bathed from head to foot in sweet smelling
oils. Then he was released from the altar and had to submit to being
robed from head to foot in purple garments. Sandals were placed upon his
feet, and for a moment he wondered whether these people really meant him
well—but even as the thought passed through his mind, the back of the
great idol swung open on hinges, revealing a flight of steps within; and
Alan knew the hour of his torture had come.

With incense rising to his nostrils and the noisy clangour of bells in
his ears, Alan was led, powerless, although resisting, to the open
doorway. The steps inside were heated until they blistered his feet, and
the pain caused him to mount higher where he hoped to get relief. When
he reached the topmost step, and stood in comfort, realizing that it was
cool, the door below swung to. He was alone, and saw that he was
standing in the head of the idol, looking through its gaping jaws into
the heart of the fire. Then suddenly he felt a jolt beneath him, and
realized that his ankles were encased in iron bands. Again the idol’s
body shook, and he was thrown on his belly. Slowly the slide was coming
into position; another convulsive move of the idol, and he was half way
down it, and smiled as he saw in imagination a tank of water below him
in place of the fire, and himself in a bathing suit, ready to descend
the water chute!

Slowly, slowly he began to slip, and wondered why he did not go faster.
He tried to kick his feet and so enable himself to get over with
death—but the iron anklets were holding him fast, and he knew he would
reach the flames only when his torturers desired it. The heat was now
unbearable; the flames were leaping up toward him; he already felt upon
his cheek their fiery breath. His arms were stretched out before him,
and he was at too great an angle to draw them up. Then came a feeling of
excruciating agony, an agony almost unbearable. His fingers had reached
the fire! powerless to take them out, he writhed round and round in a
vain endeavour to obtain relief. No sound came from between his clenched
teeth to express the pain he was enduring.

Suddenly above the uproar he heard a woman’s voice, commanding and
imperious. There was a sudden silence, and then, with a terrible jolting
of the idol, Alan once again found the slide rising and he was safe
inside the belly of the image. Tears trickled down his face, tears of
pain. Of course the mechanism had gone wrong. All that excruciating
torture would have to be borne again. He held his mutilated hands out in
front of him. Numbness had set in and intense cold.

The door in the idol opened and a beautiful girl mounted the steps and
came toward him. She was small, like her companions around her, and of
the same colour, and the horn in her forehead, painted gold and hung
with gems, seemed in some weird way to enhance her beauty. Almost of
English mould, her features were small and pretty, and her wonderful
hair hung like a mantle of gold far past her knees. Upon her head she
wore a crown of gold, and Alan thought she must be queen of the
underworld people, for evidently her power was paramount. She placed her
cool, firm hands on Alan’s shoulder, and led him down the now cool
stairs; and once more he found himself in the temple. He was dazed, and
could hardly realize that this woman had saved him. From a basket an
attendant carried she took ointments and healing lotions, and bathed and
bound up his poor, maimed hands. The effect was almost magical. The
burning ceased, and a feeling of relief came over him. She then offered
him her arm, and led him to the outer gates of the temple. There a small
chariot was awaiting her, pulled by a hideous beast that was the beast
of burden in the underworld. Small, with an ungainly body and short
legs—its head small in proportion, it had immense tusks and a beard
covered the lower portions of its face. Indeed, the “Schloun” was a
mixture of rhinoceros and goat, and had the bulldog’s squareness of
build. It was a hideous animal, and Alan shuddered as he took his place
in the chariot. The equipage was extremely comfortable, the floor, upon
which they sat was laden with rugs and cushions, and side by side, the
man and his protector rode through the strange streets of this
underground world.

At last they stopped in front of an imposing building, even larger than
the one where Alan had originally been captured. The woman led Alan into
it, and took him into an apartment that was evidently reserved for her
private use. A soft, purple carpet lined the floor, while purple
curtains hung across the door. The woman pointed to a cushion and sat
down, and Alan, understanding her meaning, sat down near her. She spoke
to him slowly and repeatedly, but he was unable to understand her
tongue.

“Kaweeka” she repeated over and over again, and at last he understood.
It was her name!

Then he rose and went to the door and called “Kaweeka” and the woman
smiled and nodded and tapped her heel on the ground to signify her
delight.

Suddenly she rose and stood beside him, and putting her arms about him,
planted a very English kiss full upon his mouth. Alan who had never
flirted, never cared for any girl, when he was in England, felt his
pulses leap and a wild thrill pass through him at the touch of her lips.
Then a sense of shame came over him. What was she? Why, hardly human. If
he succeeded in getting to the upper world again, and took her with him,
scientists would want to cage her as a newly discovered animal! Could he
wed her?—marriage?—love?—passion?—he knew too well which sense she had
aroused when her lips touched his.

He drew away from her in loathing, and a hard light came into her eyes
as she imperiously put her lips up to his. Her fascination was
undeniable, but there was something unholy, almost unclean, about her;
and although passion shook him from head to foot, he turned away and
walked to the other side of the apartment.

But Kaweeka followed him. She twined her arms about his neck and drew
his head against her breast, and he felt the wild throbbing of a heart
next to his. “Kaweeka,” he cried, “Kaweeka.” And he drew her to him
still closer, forgetting all else but that a warm living thing was lying
in his arms, and that thing a woman.

Suddenly Kaweeka disengaged herself, and with a low laugh intimated to
Alan that she wished him to follow her. She led the way through a long
corridor, up a flight of wide and softly carpeted stairs to a room on
the second floor. It was a wonderful apartment, unlike anything he had
ever seen, and even as he looked about him, he heard a low chuckle, and
Kaweeka disappeared through the door, fastening it behind her.

Alan drew a breath of relief. The air seemed purer for her absence, and
he looked round him curiously. Low divans furnished the room, and on a
wonderful table of crystal was food and wine. He was hungry and faint
from his experience in the temple, and he fell to on the repast that had
been provided and felt the better for it.

In one corner of the room stood a large jar of bright yellow porcelain,
and it was filled with blue, green, yellow and purple fungi—flowers they
could not be called—but as fungi they were almost beautiful. Their stems
were long and bare of leaf, and the flower bloomed at the very top. Some
of the “flowers” were almost like poppy heads, others like variegated
mushrooms—while one or two blooms at least reminded Alan most forcibly
of the pretty pink seaweed he had admired when on a holiday at Rozel in
Jersey. The vividness of colouring made a wonderful effect against the
purple background and if his position had not been so hopeless, he would
have thoroughly enjoyed his strange adventure.

There were no windows in the room—at least not what the world above
would understand by the word—but there was an opening overlooking the
narrow causeway that served to let in light and air. There was no
shutter to it, only heavy purple draperies hung at either side, which
could be drawn across if privacy was desired.

In two corners of the room were tall braziers, and Alan touched the
large switch that protruded from them. Instantly the room was flooded
with the soft, purple light that seemed to exude from the trees; and
Alan felt that his first conjecture was right—the trees possessed some
natural light which the natives had learnt to control, and which they
ran along the branches much in the same way that we run electricity
along cables. At any rate the result was very pleasing, and the light
possessed none of the glare that is characteristic of electricity.

His investigations being finished he inspected a heavy curtain that was
draped across the wall nearest the “window” opening. He pulled it aside,
and behind it was revealed a door. It was made on the sliding principle,
and as it moved slightly he saw revealed before him a room that seemed
almost an exact replica of the apartment he was in. Carefully he stepped
inside—and there in the further corner, he saw a low mattress, and in
the semi darkness he thought he saw it move ever so slightly. He drew
back startled, but on his ears came the sound of deep breathing: some
one or something was sleeping there. He moved cautiously toward it, and
saw the figure of a man lying on the couch. Suddenly the sleeper turned
over, leaving his face exposed to view. Alan uttered an exclamation that
awoke the sleeping man. For a moment there was silence and then a great
cry rang on the air—“My God—it’s Alan.”

“Dez, old boy!” cried his cousin, his sobs coming thick and fast. “Dez!
Thank God I’ve found you. Steady, boy, steady—it’s two against those
purple devils now,” and the strong man bent low and sobbed as if his
heart would break.




                               CHAPTER II
                        THE ORIGIN OF THE PEOPLE


For some time after the cousins met again so strangely, they could only
grasp each other’s hands—their hearts were too full for words.

“I’m like a silly woman,” said Desmond at last “but oh! Alan, I seem to
have been in this Hell a lifetime.”

“Poor old boy.”

“No one to speak to but Kaweeka—no one to look at but Kaweeka—always
Kaweeka—until I felt I should go mad.”

“How did you get here?” asked Alan at last. “We were never able to
discover the origin of the Light. Oh,” he shuddered, “I shall never
forget seeing you carried off—whirling through space—it was terrible.”

Then Desmond began his story in a quick jerky way, as if eager to get it
done. “The Light came upon me so suddenly, I didn’t realize what had
happened. All I knew was—that I had a fearful burning sensation round my
waist—and that I was being carried through space. Then came a descent
through darkness which seemed to last a lifetime. I seemed to be going
on and on—and then suddenly I found myself in the presence of the high
priest in the temple here. I have no recollection of how I reached it—I
think I must have lost consciousness and then—”

“Well?”

“Well I felt so ill after the journey that the rest seems all hazy. I
know I participated in some of their vile religious ceremonies. I was
forced into the belly of Mzata—”

“Is that the idol?”

“Yes. I remember the heat was overpowering. Then before I realized
anything else, Kaweeka came and rescued me. She carried me here,
and—well, old chap, the rest isn’t pleasant. The woman is a fiend. Down
here there is no one for her to allure, and as I believe I was the first
white man to get here alive, she gave me the benefit of her powerful
wiles. She admitted me into a kind of harem, in which I am”—he laughed
bitterly—“her chief husband.”

“My God,” said Alan hoarsely, “You have married her, Desmond?”

Desmond nodded. “I suppose that’s what it is—but I don’t understand much
of what she says. At any rate I was taken to the temple and after a long
ceremony, she came forward and acknowledged me before the congregation.
Time after time I’ve been within an ace of killing myself, for the
situation is unbearable. But she has spies everywhere and every chance
has been taken from me.”

“Can you understand her tongue?”

“No, up to now I have only managed a very few words. I know her name. I
know that Mzata is the god of their temple,—but I cannot get further
than that.”

“What do you do all day?”

“Nothing! What is there to do? I go out and Kaweeka accompanies me,
caressing me the whole time. Should she not come—then I am followed by
her spies. The natives watch me with suspicion; they seem to lick their,
lips as I pass, and long to fall upon me and throw me to the flames.
I’ve seen sights since I’ve been here, and heard sounds that would make
the strongest man tremble. Alan,” solemnly, “I’ve seen human
beings—human beings that we knew in Marshfielden—people we respected and
loved—thrown to the fire through the medium of Mzata. I saw Mrs. Skeet
brought here—shrieking—sobbing—crying—and I saw her thrown into the
belly of the idol. I was in the temple and rushed forward to save her,
even if death had been my reward—but Kaweeka gave a signal and I was
seized and bound and forced to witness her tortures. She saw me and
recognized me, and as she was sent nearer and nearer the flames she
cried to me to aid her. ‘Mr. Desmond! Save me! Save me!’ she shrieked,
and do you know, Alan, as the flames closed over her body, I heard ‘Mr.
Desmond! Save me!’ come wailing up through the fire.”

“Then that is the grave of all the lost ones from Marshfielden?”

“I am afraid so.”

“What exactly is the ‘Light’?”

“I don’t know—I’ve tried to find out—but it is some power of their own
that they have learnt to control. I think it is some force—something to
do with the natural light that pervades this place. It is sent through
the earth itself by the aid of some infernal mechanism, and when it
reaches the world above, it attracts a victim which it strikes and
brings back—a living, sacrifice to this hell down here.”

“It is a very terrible menace to our world.”

“Indeed it is! Some of the victims arrive mutilated and burnt, and
welcome the fire to deliver them from their pains. In some miraculous
way I was unhurt by it—at least I was burnt very slightly, and soon
recovered. But, Alan! How did you get here? Did the Light bring you
too?”

“No, Desmond!” And Alan told the story of the coal mine disaster and how
he found the river that brought him to his cousin.

Suddenly their eyes met, and a quick flash passed through their brains
simultaneously. Alan was the first to dispel it.

“It’s no good, Desmond, we couldn’t possibly escape the way I came. We
could not battle with the current that brought me here. The water is too
deep to attempt to wade, and there isn’t so much as a ledge on either
side to which we could cling.”

“What are we going to do then?”

“Of course we must try and escape—but how? As far as I can judge we must
be somewhere near the centre of the earth. How can we get implements to
cut our way back again—and even if we did, how long would it take us to
do it? No, we are in a tough position, and there isn’t even a telegraph
pole or telephone wire to aid us.”

Their conversation was broken by the entrance of Kaweeka. Unannounced
and without deigning to knock she entered the room, and both men rose to
their feet hurriedly.

Alan stood with folded arms and a stern expression upon his face. The
moment’s madness of the yesterday had passed. He knew the woman, siren,
devil, call her what you will, to be sensuous and foul—and his passion
had passed, leaving him firm in his strength and with power to resist
her.

Like a serpent she glided up to them, and touched them playfully on
their cheeks, and then, ignoring Desmond entirely, she held out her arms
invitingly to Alan. Sickened he turned away, but she came up behind him,
and put her arms about his neck. Brutally he pulled them apart and flung
her from him with a very British “damn”—which, though the word might be
unintelligible to her, left the meaning clear and plain. A look of fury,
followed by one of malicious hatred, passed over her features, and she
turned abruptly from Alan to Desmond, and in a low monotonous tone
crooned in her own language to him.

Desmond fought against her powerful wiles for some time, but he was
frail, and her all pervading power drew him nearer and nearer. Once more
her arms were open, and Desmond was drawn into them as a fish is drawn
into a net.

Kaweeka gave a low chuckle, and turned in triumph to Alan. With a half
step forward he raised his hand as though he would strike her, then drew
back in time, turned quickly and left them alone. Up and down the outer
room he paced and watched from the opening the stream of purple people
walking up and down the street—men, women and children, all bent on work
or pleasure. In a way they seemed to be civilized, yet it was a
civilization unknown to the upper world. An oppression came over him and
he rushed to the door and tried it. It was unlocked. That was more than
he had hoped for, and he hurried down the stairs to the outer door. But
there his progress was impeded, for a sentry on guard drew a peculiar
kind of spear and prevented his passing.

Alan cursed and swore at him, and then tried more pacific measures to
get his way; but the man was impervious to everything, and Alan retraced
his steps and took refuge in a little alcove not far from the main
entrance. Suddenly a hand on his shoulder startled him, and turning he
saw Desmond looking at him in a shamefaced manner.

“We can go out, Kaweeka says,—at least that is what I understand her to
mean. Will you come now, Lanny?”

As he used the old boyish name, Alan felt a sob rise in his throat and
he grasped Desmond’s hand.

“Come on! old boy,” said he, “I want to talk to you.”

Kaweeka was standing near the door as they reached it, and she waved to
them to intimate they were free to go out—but as they passed her they
heard her issue a command to the guard at the door who followed them,
and although they realized that he was for them a protection among the
wild people of the underworld, yet it stripped them of all hope of
ultimate escape.

“Dez,” said Alan at last, “Do you love Kaweeka?”

“No,” in a low voice.

“Old chap, cut loose from her. When we get to the world again—don’t let
our stay down here have coarsened us. The life is sordid enough, God
knows, but don’t let _us_ be sordid.”

“She has such power, Lanny.”

“I know, Dez, but fight it down, boy, I’ll help you.”

“Thanks, old chap.” Then suddenly, “Do you think we shall ever get away
from here?”

“I mean to have a try, how, when, or where I don’t know yet, but there
are two of us now and we must fight hard for our freedom.”

“I suppose we really ought to try and gain the confidence and trust of
some of the natives?”

“That won’t be easy, but we must make the most of any opportunity that
may come our way.”

Then they lapsed into silence as they looked about them in interest at
the quaint places they passed. The streets twisted and turned like a
veritable maze, and the boys wondered how the natives could ever
remember their way about. There were no shops to be seen—the whole
community seemed to live on roots that grew abundantly everywhere,
variegated fungi that grew in clusters on low bushes by the water’s
side, and fruits. Fish too was eaten at times, but it seemed as if it
was only allowed to be consumed during certain periods when religious
festivals were being kept.

Every home seemed to possess all the necessaries for weaving the moss
into garments for wear. There was little difference in the men’s and
women’s dress—a tunic that was worn wide open at the breast and a
slightly shorter skirt on the male was all that distinguished them,
except of course, the training of the hair.

The families seemed to live in intense domestic happiness, but jealousy
made them suspicious of their neighbours, and members of the bodyguard
of the high priest and Kaweeka were continually called in to check the
bickerings and quarrels that were always taking place.

Alan and Desmond walked on heedless of time; suddenly their guard came
up behind them, and in no gentle manner intimated to them that it was
time they returned.

Their life grew very monotonous, but they were together—that was their
only comfort. Kaweeka had grown sullen and silent. She seemed to realize
that her uncanny power was useless now that Alan had appeared on the
scene, and she brooded over the slight he had put upon her when he
scorned her.

They still lived in her house, but seldom saw her. Food was brought them
at regular intervals. Sometimes days passed and they were not allowed to
go out. At other times Kaweeka would grow soft and gentle and would send
them out in her chariot, and they would take their food and be away all
day, wandering by the underground rivers and lakes, or gathering fruits
in the quaint dwarf copses, where the tallest tree was not more than
four feet high.

Time hung very heavily on their hands, and there seemed no hope of their
ever being able to extricate themselves from their terrible position.

They learnt to weave the moss into tunics for themselves, and they made
mats and rugs for their apartments. Grasses they plaited into belts—and
that constituted the whole of their amusement and work.

Their personal guard, Wolta, was a particularly fierce individual, who
had never recovered from his violent dislike of the white strangers.
What services he did for them he did grudgingly, and their food was
often ill-served and spoiled through his spite.

Then came the day when a new man appeared to wait on them. They could
not understand what he said, but Okwa intimated to them that they were
to follow him. He led them down to the lower floor and out into a
courtyard behind the house.

There in a rude coffin, fashioned of cloth stretched on poles, lay
Wolta—dead. The boys watched in interest, for this was the first death
they had seen since they had been in the underworld.

No cover was placed over the dead man, no religious ceremony was held
over the inanimate form. The coffin and its burden was carried down the
dark street by two bearers. On they went until they came to a dark lake
whose waters were black and evil-looking. Without any ceremony the body
was pitched out into the water. It floated eerily for a few minutes, the
eyes open wide and the mouth contorted into a grin. Then there was the
sound of a splash and a large head appeared, followed by another and
another. There was the snapping of teeth and the sound of closing
jaws—and an ominous purple stain floated on the top of the lake.

The boys turned away sick at heart from the horrible sight—and when they
did look again—all trace of Wolta had vanished—there remained only the
same stain on the bosom of the water. The two bearers calmly folded up
the collapsible coffin and slung it across their shoulders;—it was quite
ready for the next victim that death might claim.

“It’s horrible,” said Desmond with a shudder. “I wonder whether they
give all their dead to those filthy man-eating fish?”

“I should think so,” answered Alan. “Their idea of burial seems worse
than some of the rites of the South Sea Islanders.”

Their days passed in sickening monotony, and their lungs ached for fresh
air and salt breezes. They spoke to no one, saw no one but Okwa, and
they were getting into such a state of nerves, they could hardly
converse sanely one with the other. Okwa came in one day and intimated
that they could go out. Moodily they walked down the streets and made
their way to a river near by—a guard, as usual, following close behind.
They sat down on the steep mossy banks that led to the water’s edge;
depressed and wretched they remained moody and silent. Suddenly there
came the sound of a scuffle behind them—a startled cry and a splash. A
little girl had stumbled, and rolling down the slippery bank was
struggling in the water. The current was very strong, and the little
maid, swimmer though she was, was unable to battle with the rapids.
Twice her head had disappeared from sight.

In a second Alan was in the river after her, and diving down, brought
her to the surface; but the whirlpools were strong and treacherous and
the water deep, and it was only with the greatest difficulty that he
succeeded in reaching the bank, where Desmond was waiting, in whose arms
he placed the now unconscious child. But the strain he had undergone
proved almost too much for him, and even as he saw the child into
safety, he slipped back into the river and the boiling waters closed
over his head. He rose again to the surface and with an almost
superhuman effort clung to the bank, and Desmond and their guard pulled
him ashore.

His first thought was for the child who was lying seemingly lifeless on
the ground. He knew the elements of first aid, and vigorously moved her
little arms above her head, and then pressed them well against her ribs.
Gradually the air was pumped into her lungs, she opened her eyes,
smiled, and in a very few moments afterwards was able to stand.

“There, run along, little one,” said Alan, kindly—but the child put her
lips to his and clung to him, and he had perforce to hoist her to his
shoulder and march home with her, ensconced there happily like a little
queen. The guard prostrated himself before them, and bowed and kissed
the ground.

“You’ve made a conquest,” laughed Desmond. “I wonder who she is.” As
they neared the precincts of the city they heard the clashing of cymbals
and the beating of drums. A religious procession was in progress. Alan
and Desmond stepped aside to allow it to pass. A long column of veiled
temple virgins led the way, followed by priests and acolytes and tiny
children, consecrated at birth to the temple, who scattered leaves on
the ground. Then an aged patriarch hove in sight, borne on a litter with
a canopy of gold.

The little girl became excited. “Abbi! Abbi!” she shrieked, and wriggled
to get free from her throne on Alan’s shoulder. The priest’s face grew
livid. He uttered a cry of rage and gave a swift command to two
attendants by his side. Instantly the symmetry of the procession was
broken, and Alan and Desmond were bound with rope and dragged away. It
was all done so quickly that they had no time to resist.

The little girl had watched the scene with wondering eyes, and when she
realized the whole purport, flung herself into Alan’s arms. The priest
issued another quick command, and with the little one holding fast to
her rescuer’s hand, she obviously told the story of her escape.

When she had finished the priest kissed her tenderly, and then knelt low
before the two boys and kissed their feet. Then they were given places
in a litter behind the high priests and were taken to the temple—this
time as honoured guests.

They were led to the altar, and very suspiciously and timidly seated
themselves on the steps, one on either side, which the high priest
indicated to them. The ceremonial service was very long and tedious, but
was unaccompanied by any sacrificial rites, much to the satisfaction of
the two boys.

Then the priest stood facing the people, and held out a hand to each of
the boys who stood shamefaced and awkwardly beside him. There followed
an address, and the boys knew it was the story being told to the people
of the rescue by Alan.

When the priest had finished speaking, he bent down and kissed their
hands, and wildly the congregation flocked to the altar rail to follow
his example. They were accepted by the whole community as friends. Their
lives were no longer in jeopardy. Then the boys resumed their seats and
the ceremony of the temple was concluded.

During the service Alan’s eyes were riveted on some peculiar characters
that were inscribed on the walls, at intervals, as far as eye could
reach. It was a group of hieroglyphics repeated over and over again, and
there was something oddly familiar about them—yet he was unable to guess
exactly what it was. Then the people’s voice rose in song—he listened
intently. Again and again were the words repeated like a chorus and
almost unconsciously he committed the sounds to memory.

Soon the service was ended and in triumph they were led back to
Kaweeka’s house. She met them with renewed wiles and charm, but the boys
were strong and she left them alone with rage in her heart. They ate the
food that was placed before them in silence, a silence which Alan broke
by saying abruptly, “Could you make out anything of the last hymn the
people kept singing over and over again in the temple, Dez?”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, could you understand it?”

Desmond looked surprised. “Of course not,” he laughed. “Could you?”

Alan did not answer the question, but asked another.

“Well, they sung it over a good many times—didn’t you memorize the
sounds?”

Desmond thought a minute, “I think I did,” he replied. “It sounded
something like:

                 “_Har-Ju-Jar! Har-Ju-Jar! Kar-Tharn._”
                 “_Har-Ju-Jar! Har-Ju-Jar! Kar-Tharn._”

Alan pulled a scrap of paper triumphantly out of his pocket and showed
it to his cousin. He had written down the exact phonetic spelling of the
words Desmond had said.

“All the same, I don’t see what you are driving at,” he demurred, “you
look confoundedly pleased over something.”

“I’ve been working out a theory, and I don’t think I am far wrong in the
decision I have arrived at. Now look at that,” and he handed him another
piece of paper on which were written the following signs:

[Illustration]

Desmond looked at it quizzically for a moment, and then said, “Why,
you’ve copied down the signs that are painted all around the walls of
the temple—in the great Fire Hall.”

“Right. Now can you translate it?”

Desmond laughed. “Of course not. Can you?”

“I think so,” said Alan confidently.

“What?” almost shouted Desmond in amazement.

“Now,” went on Alan. “You got your first in Theology at
Cambridge—translate this”—and he passed Desmond a third slip of paper
with other signs on it:

‏אבירם‏‎. דתן‏‎.

Desmond looked at it carefully. “I’ve almost forgotten,” he commenced.
Then—“why it’s Hebrew—Hebrew for Abiram and Dathan!”

“Now I want you to think carefully, Dez,” and Alan placed the two slips
of paper on which were written the characters, before him. “Now would
you not swear that _this_,” pointing to the characters copied from the
temple, “is a corruption of _that_?”—pointing to the Hebrew.

“Well it certainly looks as if it might easily be so,” admitted Desmond.

“Now think of the few words we picked up of that hymn to-day. Isn’t it
within the bounds of possibility that Har-ju-jar is a corruption of
Hallelujah, or Alleluia?”

“Ye-e-es.”

“And Har-Barim and Kar-Tharn a corruption of Abiram and Dathan?”

“Ye-es.”

“Well,” concluded Alan triumphantly, “this is the conclusion I have come
to. The language of these people is a corruption of Hebrew.”

“What?”

“I’m certain of it, and I am surprised we never thought of it before. Of
course it was our first visit to the temple to-day since I came here,
and I never noticed those signs before—but to-day as I looked at them
they seemed oddly familiar, and it suddenly dawned on me in a flash. Now
we ought to find it very easy to pick up the patois they speak—we both
used to know something of Hebrew in the old days at college.”

They were almost too excited to say much more, when suddenly Alan
brought his hand down on the table with a bang that made Desmond start.

“I’ve got it, Dez old boy,” said he.

“Got what?”

“Why think of your Bible. In the—let me see—oh never mind—somewhere in
Numbers, I think, we get the story of Korah, Abiram and Dathan.”

“Oh my dear Alan, I am afraid I have forgotten it long ago.”

“Never mind,” went on Alan excitedly. “It’s the sixteenth chapter, if I
remember rightly. I’ll remind you of it—Don’t you remember the Chosen
People rose up against Moses—”

“Well?”

“I can’t remember the exact verses but somewhere in the chapter it tells
you that the ‘earth was torn asunder, and swallowed up the three men
with their houses and everything that appertained unto them, and they
went down _alive_ into the pit, and the earth closed over them.’”

Desmond looked bewildered and remained silent.

“Don’t you see the connection, Dez?”

“No! I do not.”

“Well, here are people living in the bowels of the earth, and in their
temple they have inscribed in bad Hebrew, if I may so put it, the names
of Abiram and Dathan. What more likely than that these people are the
descendants of those poor unfortunates of the Old Testament who perished
some fourteen hundred and ninety years before Christ?”

“Is it possible?” asked Desmond breathlessly.

“Why not?” answered his cousin. “The Bible story ends there. We’re
simply told that they went into the pit _alive_—we are never told that
they died! Now we are convinced that they speak a corrupt Hebrew, we
ought to find it very easy to learn to speak to them, and then we will
bid for freedom.”

“Alan,” said Desmond suddenly. “I wonder whether your theory is correct.
We’ve got Abiram and Dathan right enough, but what about Korah? He was
the chief offender and yet there is no trace of his name.”

“I expect his name has been lost during the transit of time,” said Alan.
“At any rate I am tired now, and I shan’t bother any more about it for
the present. Let’s go to sleep,” and the two boys went into their inner
chamber and were soon fast asleep.

There was no night in this terrible underworld; the purple lights never
went out; morning and evening were unknown. The place was never plunged
into entire darkness—true, the inhabitants went to sleep, but they
pleased themselves as to when they slept and for how long. The whole
world was never at rest at the same time—truly, indeed, it was an unholy
place of unrest!

The two men were fast asleep, the purple light shining across their,
faces, and Alan moved restlessly, for his dreams were troubled ones.

Suddenly the door opened gently and a figure appeared—it was Kaweeka.
Softly she crept across their room, and halted by the side of their
couches. A fierce light came into her eyes as she watched the rhythmic
rise and fall of Alan’s chest as he breathed heavily. She bent over him,
kissed his lips, and murmured savagely as she did so—

“So desired—so desirable—yet I so undesired!”




                              CHAPTER III
                          RELATING TO HISTORY


“How long have we been down here, Lanny?”

“Together do you mean?”

“Yes.”

“Oh months and months—I can’t count time.”

“Neither can I. Days pass—we grow tired and we sleep, only to wake to
another day like the last, like every day here.”

“How far have you got with the translation, Dez?”

“Nearly to the end.”

“Splendid. What do you make of it?”

“Just what we expected—It is a very corrupted version of part of the
Pentateuch.”

“How much of it?”

“Nearly all Genesis—a minute portion of Exodus—and Leviticus.”

Alan gave a satisfied sigh. “That’s splendid,” he remarked. Many months
had passed since they had made the discovery that the language of the
underworld was a patois Hebrew, and quickly and diligently they set to
work to learn it. They first spelt the sounds and wrote them down, and
then tried to translate them into Hebrew where it was at all possible.

Very shortly after the rescue of the high priest’s daughter and only
child, as the maid proved to be, a house was placed at the boys’
disposal, and they gladly left the protection of Kaweeka, and lived
together with a couple of servants, who looked after them. They were
free to go out among the people, and they began to feel almost happy.
With the aid of a few words they picked up they asked the high priest
for “reading” and he had given them copies of the “Kadetha” which proved
to be the Bible of these strange people.

It was very difficult to read as it was written on parchment in a purple
ink that had faded considerably through time. The characters, too,
besides being different from the Hebrew they knew, were written from top
to bottom of the page instead of from right to left, as are most Asiatic
languages.

From what they could gather the “Kadetha” was divided into two parts—the
Moiltee—which proved to be part of the first three books of Moses—and
“Jarcobbi,” five books written by one of the first priests of the people
after their descent into the bowels of the earth. That these strange
people were really descendants of the rebels against Moses, the boys had
not the slightest shadow of doubt—the proof in the “Kadetha” was only
too conclusive. They were now able to converse fairly freely with the
people, and were able to understand many of their strange beliefs.

The true meaning of the Light they were so far unable to fathom, but
“Har-Barim” the high priest, told them there would be no more offerings
to the Fire from “Above” as he called the world. The people began to
take more kindly to them, but Kaweeka remained watchful and brooding,
and they realized that she was indeed a bitter enemy, and the person
most greatly to be feared in the underworld. Little Myruum, the high
priest’s daughter, spent many hours with them, and they learnt much of
the language from her baby prattle.

They were admitted to all the services and religious rites in the
temple, and the boys noted with surprise that the fire seemed to be
daily losing its power. Its flames grew smaller and smaller, and they
noticed the difference in it when they had not seen it for several days.

“Jovah,” they said to Har-Barim one day. “Tell us your history, now we
understand your language.”

The old man smiled at them. “There is little to tell,” he said. “It is
true we were once of the earth above—once white people like yourselves;
but for over three thousand, three hundred and three years we have lived
in the darkness of the earth. Our skins are changed—they have taken the
hue of the land we are forced to dwell in. Our forefathers burrowed in
the earth to make streets and houses and shelter for their families, and
they left us the heritage of their labour.” He pointed as he spoke to
the short horn that protruded from his forehead.

“What became of Korah?” they asked him.

“Coorer?” he pronounced the word differently. “Korah,” he told them, was
their bad angel. It was Korah, with the devil in his soul who urged them
to stand up against Moses, and it was Korah they shut away from their
lives when the pit had closed in upon them, revealing to them no more
the light of the sun.

“How do you mean?” asked Alan. “How did you shut him out of your lives,
my Jovah?”

Jovah signified “Father” and was the term by which all the people
addressed Har-Barim.

“Why, my sons, when the pit closed down upon our forefathers, all turned
upon Korah as the father of all their woes. He was stoned and left half
dead—then a wall was built up in front of him and all his family,
together with all his possessions, and there he was left to perish. One
of his daughters escaped, however, and her descendants have been
Princesses of Kalvar, as we call our country, ever since.”

“Then Kaweeka—” began Alan.

“Yes, my son. In Kaweeka you see the Princess of Kalvar, and direct
descendant in the female line of the unfortunate Korah himself.”

“Where is Korah’s burial place?” asked Desmond.

Har-Barim shook his head. “No one knows—in the generations of time that
have passed the secret has been lost, and the exact position forgotten.
No one knows—no one ever will know, until—but there, read from the
fourteenth line of the sixth part of our prophet, Zurishadeel,” and
taking a small parchment from his voluminous pocket he handed it to Alan
and left them to translate it for themselves.

Laboriously they copied out the translation—

    “For the body of Korah the devil is hidden with those of his
    household. Their flesh shall rot and their bones become powder,
    and in a generation their last resting place shall be forgotten.
    But on the day the secret is no more—for behold a virgin shall
    in a dream learn the way—the fire shall consume quickly, strange
    people shall enter the land of Kalvar, and desolation and
    destruction shall come to all those that inhabit the earth. Yea,
    the people that are in the belly of it, and they that have been
    disgorged from it—when the Fire grows less—when the Tomb of
    Korah is found then shall all in due time perish.”

“Cheery old chap, isn’t he?” laughed Desmond.

But Alan was thoughtful. “I wonder what the secret of the fire is. They
seem to worship it, although they pray to the ‘Lord of their Fathers.’
It certainly is getting less—I can’t help feeling that something
terrible will happen if it does ever go out entirely.”

For some time they gazed meditatively at the translations they had made
when a shadow crossing Desmond’s paper made him look up. It was
Kaweeka—Kaweeka who had not visited them for months it seemed, and whose
presence now seemed to denote some evil. Quietly she watched them for a
few minutes, and a curious light came into her eyes. They glittered and
shone with an almost fanatical glow—and in fact her whole being was one
of suppressed excitement and almost maniacal fervour.

“Come,” said she at last, and held out a hand to each. They felt
impelled to obey her, and she led them straight to the temple which was
curiously deserted. The great fire was burning in fits and starts.
Suddenly a flaming tongue would leap out, blazing brightly as if
refusing to be killed, and a moment later it would lie dead and dormant
among the embers. Then suddenly the fire would emit a passion of sparks
which flew upward in a fury, only to fall back within its folds, dull
and lifeless.

It was still enormous of course, but the boys realized that its life was
nearing the end, and that its power was nearly gone.

Kaweeka suddenly turned on Desmond and in a whirl of passion addressed
him.

“Desmond,” she cried, “I loved you—I would have made you happy, but
he”—pointing to Alan—“he came between us. He tore my heart from its
resting place within my breast—he made me love him also, and then
stamped on my love and spurned me.”

“That is hardly fair, Kaweeka. I never made overtures to you—”

“No,” said Desmond, doing his best to conciliate her.

“Enough,” she cried and then began a frenzied tirade to which the boys
listened in horror, as they realized that almost a madness had come upon
Kaweeka—the seed of Korah.

Falling to her knees she clung to Alan and begged him to marry her
according to the custom of his world and hers. She offered to make him
Prince of the land of Kalvar and possessor of a thousand fortunes if he
would but love her—be it ever so little. And when he gently lifted her
up and put her away from him, she looked him fully in the eyes, and for
a full minute there was silence. Then with a queer gesture of finality,
she outspread her hands and accepted the inevitable. Then in a
monotonous voice and with carefully chosen words she began to speak
again—

“In the world you came from, O Men of the Sun, you saw strange sights
and heard strange things. A light appeared in the sky—a light that was
the forerunner of tragedy. I propose to show you the Light, O Strangers.
I will unfold the secret of its being before your wondering eyes. Know
you now, that this Fire is next in honour to the God of our Fathers. It
is the Fire that gives us air to breathe, and light by which we can see.
From the Fire we obtain our strength, and when it dies out our power
will be gone. But know you also, that when our Fire dies and we perish,
so will your world die also. You above are dependent for your very
existence on the Fire in the Earth’s belly—with our extinction will come
also the consummation of all mankind. See”—and she pointed to a coil of
metal that looked like a silver rope—“See—this is the Light—the Light
that brought sacrifices we could offer to our God of all, and that fed
our Fire.”

Then she began a weird dance. Grovelling on the floor in apparent
worship of the Fire, she drew nearer and nearer to the shimmering metal,
and taking up one end of it, undid it until it lay in shimmering folds
outspread upon the floor. Still, with rhythmic grace, she continued, now
advancing, now retreating, until she had coiled part of the writhing
mass about her body, and the boys realized that one end was firmly
embedded in the heart of the Fire itself. And as they watched they
realized that Kaweeka was dancing away from the Fire—away down the
length of the great Fire Hall, to where a little door was half hidden
behind cherubim of gold.

The boys felt impelled to follow the strange witch woman. Through the
little door, they went, down a dark passage which ended suddenly in a
small chamber that was bright with light. But the whole of the cave-like
place vibrated and shook with a force that was terrifying in its
magnitude. They looked around curiously and saw in one corner a large
clock-like instrument from which the sound came.

With almost loving care Kaweeka freed herself from the shimmering metal
and placed the end of it in the machine. Instantly they saw it gain in
strength and brightness—it seemed to quicken and show signs of life.

The two boys gave a cry—“The Light! The Light!” they cried, for this
indeed was the mysterious Light that had stricken Marshfielden, and now
they were seeing its wondrous power from below.

Kaweeka leaned over the burning metal, and touched a lever on the
clock-like instrument’s face. Suddenly with a roar and a
flash, the Light soared upwards. Through the roof of the
cave—onwards—onwards—forcing an outlet for itself by its own power,
through rock and earth it tore,—until the watching eyes of the boys were
rewarded by a speck of blue. “The sky!” cried Desmond in amazement. The
Light had once more visited the outer world! This then was the horror of
Marshfielden!

The boys watched the quivering metal in silence. In its deadly folds it
had embraced Dan Murlock’s baby. Mr. Winthrop had suffered from its
caress. Mrs. Skeet—Mrs. Slater—it was impossible to name all the victims
of its diabolical power. Some element, mightier even than electricity,
had been discovered by these purple savages, to be used by them only for
the purpose of destruction.

Long the boys watched until their eyes ached from the intense
brightness. Their hearts were heavy within them as they thought of the
victim it might bring back. Kaweeka sat in one corner mumbling and
muttering to herself, and the boys seemed powerless to leave the place.

Voices rose in song—cymbals clashed—drums rolled—the evening service was
being held in the temple. Still they waited! The sounds died away and
the temple emptied, yet the Light had not returned.

They were growing cramped, their limbs ached, and then the Light
trembled more violently than before. The vision of the sky grew clearer
for an instant; they knew the Light was returning—but it was not
returning alone! Rigid in every muscle the boys waited as it travelled
through the bowels of the Earth.

The heap of metal grew larger on the floor as it made its descent—then
the end appeared in sight—a sheep, burnt and dead, was within its grasp.
Silently Kaweeka came forward and touched a lever on the vibrating clock
in the corner.

The noise ceased. The Light grew shadowed. The aperture leading to the
world above closed, leaving only a scar to mark where it had been!

Kaweeka bent over the stricken sheep and unwound the Light from its
body, leaving exposed the singed wool and burnt flesh, and as if it had
been a child gathered it up in her arms and still holding to the end of
the Light danced back into the empty temple.

Without an effort she tossed the dead sheep into the Fire, and the
flames devoured it savagely. Then she began again her wild dance and
gradually wound the Light up into its original coils until it lay in a
heap by the side of the Fire. “According to the prophecy of Zurishadele
I speak. Behold, he writes ‘Whosoever shall cause the seed of Korah to
die shall be hunted by the people of Kalvar—yea until their blood gushes
forth through their eyes and they are blind—until their limbs crumple up
beneath them and they fall—so shall they be hunted that the people of
Kalvar may deliver them up to the Fire.’”

“Well?” asked Alan.

Kaweeka smiled evilly. “It is true I am of the seed of Korah, and you,
my Alan, have scorned me. I have given you my love—I would give you
all—but you have laughed at me and mocked me. I would have given you my
body—but now I give you more—I will give you my life. The Fire is
burning low—more fuel is needed to keep it alive. I will give myself for
fuel—but in giving my life, I offer two more to the God of our Fathers.
For as you are the instrument of my destruction—so will the people fall
upon you, and through the mouth of Mzata the Great, will you be offered
a sacrifice to the Fire.”

Lightly, gracefully, she stepped onto the transparent wall that
surrounded the Fire, and then with a piercing cry tore off her jewels
and her raiment and flung them into the flames, that were waiting
eagerly for the food that was offered them.

Then, naked, her hair falling about her, her dark skin shimmering in the
light, she flung herself into the centre of the Fire.

Alan rushed forward, but it was too late—the cruel tongues of fire had
wrapped round her, and all that was left of the seed of Korah was a
skull, stripped of its flesh, grinning at them for an instant through
the flames, before it disappeared.

It was all so unexpected, so sudden, that the boys had not realized what
she purposed doing, and now, speechless and bewildered, they stared at
each other in horror.

Suddenly a hoarse whisper broke through the silence. “Flee, flee,” it
said, and they recognized the voice of Har-Barim. “I cannot save you,”
he continued. “My people will fall upon you and slay you—for although
they loved not Kaweeka, yet the prophecy will have to be fulfilled.
To-day is the vigil of the feast of Meherut—to-morrow the great feast
itself. Till then and then only can I hide the manner of Kaweeka’s
death. As you saved my Myruum, so will I try to save you. This much can
I tell you. Make for the waters that are turbulent and wild, where they
narrow to the space of a foot and dash against a rocky wall. Look for
the stones that are red.—Now—go.”

“But where shall we go?” cried Alan.

“Take always the centre path, my son, and avoid the waters that are
tranquil and smooth. The way is rough—thy path must of a surety be rough
also, but with courage victory will come to you. Farewell!”

And Har-Barim left them alone in the temple.

Quickly they made their way to their house, there was no time to be
lost. Plans had to be made and made quickly. Once more they were in a
strange land, where through no fault of their own, hostility and enmity
would meet them once more.




                               CHAPTER IV
                       OUT INTO THE GREAT BEYOND


The boys had no packing to do. They possessed nothing but the clothes
they stood in, and a sailor’s clasp knife that belonged to Alan; but
they put together a store of dried elers, a fruit that was sustaining,
and that, down below, took the place of the bread of the upper world.

There were very few of the purple people about; it was the vigil of
Meherut,—the most solemn feast day of their strange religion, and all
were shut up in their houses with their curtains drawn spending their
time in fasting and prayer.

On, on the boys went, always choosing the middle path if a choice was
offered them, if not, then taking the path to the right. Gradually they
left all sign of habitation and entered a most desolate region where the
purple moss grew only in patches, and the purple lights were only few
and far between. They stumbled on blindly; they dared not wait for food;
every moment was precious to them. Suddenly Desmond stumbled and fell.
“I can’t go a step further,” he cried. “How long have we been walking,
Lanny?”

“About ten hours I should think.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake let us rest! We have a fair start of them—let us
rest and have some food.” The elers refreshed them, and they drank of
the water that rolled treacherously at their feet. It was not very wide,
perhaps three feet at the most, but the current was strong and the
whirlpools more torrential than ever.

Stretching themselves out on the ground the boys slept, and woke some
five or six hours later feeling greatly refreshed. Then they continued
their march, now leaving the river behind them, now coming upon it again
and walking by its banks.

They had no idea of where they were going. They had only one goal in
view—to put as big a distance as they could between themselves and the
purple people whom they knew would already be following them. Suddenly
the road ended. They had turned a sharp corner and the way had opened
out into a small cave, which was bounded on one side by a narrow strip
of bubbling, foaming water, that disappeared at either end in a dark
tunnel. “What shall we do?” asked Desmond. “Shall we go back?”

“We can’t,” said Alan decisively. “The road that brought us here was at
least five miles long, without a turn in it. By the time we retraced our
steps, the purple devils would have caught up to us. No, old boy, I
think this is a tight fix we are in, and at the moment I can’t quite see
how we are to get out of it.”

They walked round the little cave examining it carefully. It had only
the one exit—the path up which they had come. The tunnels at either end
through which flowed the waters were too low to admit the passage of a
body, and the walls on the other side of the little river rose sheer
from the water itself. “It looks pretty hopeless,” said Alan at last,
“but at all costs we must not go back.”

“How red the walls are,” said Desmond suddenly. Alan started, for in his
mind he could hear a voice saying, “Look for the stones that are red.”
It had been Har-Barim’s advice to them, and he had said—“make for the
waters that are turbulent and wild—where in the space of a foot—” A
foot! why the water couldn’t be wider than that here. He looked round
hurriedly—was it his fancy or were the stones on the opposite side even
redder than those about him?

To Alan’s strained nerves it seemed as if just opposite him a stone had
been worn away by the constant passage of feet. Slowly a thought came
into his mind—if that was a footprint then surely it must lead
somewhere. His eyes travelled up the rock eagerly—again his quickened
senses discovered another foothold a little higher up, and still another
and another. Four in all, at perhaps a stretch of a little over two
feet. Upward his glance wandered, and in the rugged rock he saw a flat
piece of red stone that looked as if it had been inserted there at some
time or other, for some specific purpose. He stretched across the raging
torrent and with a mighty effort clung to the jagged rock. “Don’t touch
me, Dez,” he commanded, “I think I can manage best alone.”

With an almost superhuman effort he placed his foot in the first little
cleft, and gradually worked up to the little red stone that had so
aroused his curiosity. Desmond watched him in breathless horror.
Although the water was so narrow, Alan would stand little chance of
saving himself if he fell in, for it was dashing wildly against the
sides and sending its spray even higher than where Alan was clinging. He
touched the stone—it moved ever so slightly. “God! A secret way!” he
cried, and worked feverishly to open it. But although it trembled and
shook, it would not disclose its secret.

Then, away in the distance, came the sound of fierce shouting and the
beating of drums.

“The people know,” cried Desmond. “They are coming up the long passage.”
Already they could hear the name of Kaweeka used as a battle cry, and
they realized that they could expect little mercy if they were caught by
the purple savages.

With beads of perspiration on his brow, Alan worked. His fingers were
torn and bleeding from his exertions. Still nearer came the cries of the
infuriated people, and Alan had not yet succeeded in moving the stone,
which he was convinced hid a secret way of escape. Desmond ran down the
passage a little way—in a second he was back. “I can see them,” he
cried. “There are hundreds of them! Oh, what shall we do?”

“Ah!” Alan gave a cry of relief, for suddenly the stone had rolled back,
revealing a small cavity beyond, just big enough for the passage of a
man’s body.

“Follow me in, Dez,” he cried, “no matter where it leads—it can’t be
worse than if we remain here.”

Their pursuers were now in full view, and if seemed that only a few
yards separated them. Quickly Desmond climbed the steps and reached the
hole, and Alan drew him in, and even as he turned to make fast the
opening, a head with an evil-looking horn appeared. Alan doubled his
fist and gave a mighty blow, and like a log the man dropped into the
water, was sucked under and carried out of sight.

They rolled the stone back into its place, and panting, leant against
it. The execrations and cries of the natives came faintly on their ears;
the great stone trembled, and they knew it was being forced from
without. One hurried glance round revealed to them great boulders of
rock lying on the ground. Feverishly they piled them up in front of the
stone, and they were strong enough to resist the furious onslaught that
the purple people kept up. After a time, the cries of the people grew
fainter, gradually they died away altogether, and the underworld folk
made their way back to the temple to pray that the white men might be
handed over to them, and that they might be allowed to punish the
slayers of the seed of Korah.

Spent and tired the two boys sank to the ground, for many hours had
passed while they were defending their retreat from the underworld
people. A faint, natural, ground light shone around. It was like the
same purple light that lit the whole of the underworld, but here it was
in its natural condition, and was so faint that it scarcely showed them
each other’s face.

“Go to sleep, Dez,” said Alan. “I will keep watch.”

“But you are tired too,” demurred his cousin.

Alan smiled. “Sleep first, old man,” said he, and even as he spoke,
Desmond dropped his head upon his breast, and his eyes closed in
slumber.

It was a great strain for Alan to sit there in the darkness—in a weird
and unknown place—soundless except for Desmond’s heavy, regular
breathing. His own breath seemed to his quickened senses like the blast
of heavy artillery, and the slightest sound was magnified a hundredfold.
Nobly he fought against sleep—but he was worn out, and at last his eyes
closed—and he too, slept.

Time meant nothing to these imprisoned men. Science they could laugh at,
for, from a scientific point of view, their very life was impossible.
How in the centre of the earth could mankind live? Yet it was true they
had lived, fed, and breathed for months and months in the very belly of
the earth. Science said the centre of the earth was impenetrable—that
the intense heat of its inner fire would prevent man even seeing that
fire. Yet they could prove that they had seen and they could tell the
scientists that the fire was waning.

Still they slept.

Fantastic dreams came into their minds, yet there was not so much as the
scuffling of a rat or the squeaking of a mouse to awaken them. All was
silent and still, with a stillness that cannot be expressed by words.

Desmond woke first—the light did not seem so dim—or had they become used
to it? His eyes rested on Alan sleeping soundly by his side, and a tear
dropped on his cousin’s brow as he leant over him. It was a tear not to
be laughed at, nor to be ashamed of, but the tear of a strong man shed
in the bitterness of his oppression.

He rose to his feet, stretched his limbs, and wandered round the place
where he found himself. It was a cavern, very similar to the numberless
others he had passed through on the further side of the rapid river. Its
floor was rugged, but was covered with the purple moss, and a few bushes
which bore fruit were growing there. Round and round he walked, but the
cave seemed to have no outlet at all. Alan woke and watched Desmond in
silence for a short while, and then said, “Don’t worry, Dez, I’m sure we
shall find a way out. This must lead somewhere.” But although he too,
examined the cave very carefully, there seemed to be no outlet.

How long they stayed there they did not know—fortunately they found some
roots which were edible, and whose long bulb-like ends were filled with
a pleasant fluid which quenched their thirst. They played games with
each other, did everything in fact to prevent the madness they were
afraid would come over them.

Nearer and nearer it crept like a beast of prey waiting to spring and
devour his victims. With their forced inactivity their limbs became
cramped and although the air was pure, their lips were dry and their
throats parched. They began to give up speaking aloud; they would sit
for hours in silence, only uttering occasionally a croaking whisper, one
to the other, as if they were afraid of being overheard. Then the
day—but no, it cannot be called that—the time came when Desmond lay
quiet and still, and Alan awoke to the consciousness that something was
radically wrong with his cousin. He bent over the inanimate figure, and
touched him gently with his hand. The eyes were closed and the fists
clenched and had he been able to see clearly, he would have noticed the
purple lines round the cold mouth, and a pinched look upon the face,
that boded nought but ill.

“I must do something,” he muttered wearily, and then he burst out into a
paroxysm of weeping. That saved his life, for when he came to himself it
was as a fresh man.

Plucking some of the purple foliage, he squeezed the stalks and let the
cool liquid pour gently on Desmond’s brow, then tenderly chiding and
imploring him, he managed to bring back a sign of life to his cousin’s
face. Nor did he stop then, but continued, until Desmond woke to reason
and called him by his name.

When Desmond had fallen into a refreshed and tranquil sleep, Alan
wandered round and round the little cave, looking still for some weak
spot.

Suddenly there came a sound in the distance—a thud that shook the very
ground upon which he was standing. With every nerve wound up to concert
pitch he waited—listening intently to see if he could hear again the
sudden sound that had broken the stillness.

“It’s my fancy,” said he aloud, but even as he spoke the noise began
again with greater fury. The cavern shook—pieces of rock came hurtling
down, broken off from their parent wall by the vibrations. Then suddenly
came a sound almost like an explosion, and a piece of rock, larger than
the rest came tumbling down, and revealed behind it a small passage.

“Dez.” cried Alan. “Dez, a way of escape has come.”

Desmond opened his eyes and looked round vacantly, and indeed it was
some time before he realized the wonderful thing that had happened.

The underworld folk had made one last mighty effort to reach them, and
the boys could have gone down on their knees to thank the purple people,
for their machinations had given them hope once more.




                               CHAPTER V
                        A FRIEND FROM THE ENEMY


Desmond, still weak, raised himself up, and looked about him; and even
as he did so, a huge boulder fell from the blocked secret entrance that
led to the city of the underworld.

“They are bombarding the place,” said Alan looking startled, “let us go
through there,” and he pointed to the little passage that had been
revealed to them so strangely.

“We can blockade it from the other side,” said Desmond, “and at least it
will give us more time.”

A close examination revealed to them a hinged slab of stone that swung
easily to and fro, and the spring that fastened it in place was plain to
see on the inner side. They crept into the passage, closed the stone
after them, and piled rocks and stones in front of it as an extra
protection. Again came a weary time of waiting—a time when the cave was
filled with wild laughter and hideous ravings—when the furies of Hell
itself seemed let loose on the other side. The purple fiends had forced
an entrance, but too late. Their prey had escaped them.

Alan and Desmond lay and listened to the babel of their voices, for
strangely enough the slightest sound from the other cave was magnified
in this inner one. Then a silence fell, and they realized that the
purple savages had once more gone. Hungrily they gathered roots and ate
them greedily—when a woman’s cry, clear and distinct, startled them.
Again and again it came—“Ar-lane! Jez-mun!”

Their names were called in the quaint pronunciation of the underworld
folk.

“Who is it?” asked Desmond.

“I’ll see.”—

“No don’t go—don’t go—it’s some trick—” but Alan had already pulled down
the stones in front of the hinged stone.

“Ar-lane. Jez-mun.” Again the cry came. “Open—open I beg. I come to aid
you.”

“I am going to speak to her,” said Alan grimly, and he put his lips
close against the stone.

“Who are you and what do you want of us?”

A glad cry was his answer, and then followed quickly—“Let me through, O
Ar-lane—I have come to seek thee.”

“What do you want of us?”

“Listen, O Ar-lane, I have fled from my home in the temple of Fire, and
have come to thee. Years ago when a tiny child, I found the cavern and
knew it well. But Am-rab the Wise, my tutor and priest, forbade me with
threats of torture to wander there again. Since then I have not set eyes
upon the place. Let me in, O Ar-lane, for the spring is broken on this
side, and I cannot find it.”

Desmond was listening suspiciously. “What are you going to do?” he
asked.

And again came the pleading voice. “Let me in, O Ar-lane. Oh, let me
in.”

Alan looked questioningly at Desmond and he gave his cousin a quick nod.
“If it’s treachery we’re done,” he remarked, as he touched the spring
and the stone moved.

As soon as it was wide open the woman entered. They did not know her,
but her eyes were swollen from weeping and her face drawn with emotion,
and they realized that she had suffered.

“Waste no time,” she commanded imperiously. “My flight is already spoken
of in the temple. Should they seek me, it will need all our strength,
all our cunning to hide from them. Close the door, O Ar-lane, and build
up a wall of stones in front, that is strong, and then let us hasten
on.” So once more the place was barricaded, and only when the barrier
was complete did she deign to explain her presence.

“You know me not, O Men of the Upper World, for you have never set eyes
upon me before; but I have seen you often. Behold, I am Jez-Riah, seed
of the house of Bin-Nab, and hereditary Keeper of the Hall of Fire. It
is the custom, know ye, in this land of ours, for the female seed of
Bin-Nab to keep veiled after they have reached the age of ten. I cast
aside my veil yester-eve, and immediately came to seek thee.”

“Why?” asked Alan curtly.

The woman was fair to look upon—her eyes were deep and luminous, and her
tear-stained cheeks filled them with pity. Yet to be hampered with a
woman seemed to take from them every chance of their ultimate escape.

Jez-Riah seemed to read their thoughts. “No, harden not your hearts
against me, for I can help you,” said she earnestly.

“Why have you sought us?” asked Alan, this time less curtly.

“I know a road in here—a secret road, said to be a thousand and ten
miles long; a stream of unknown depths, races along by the side of it—a
stream that is swifter by far than the fastest of waters—there,” and she
pointed in the direction from which she had come. “It leads to the tomb
of Korah, so they say, but torture was threatened to all who would have
ventured in search of it. O Ar-lane, you know not what our tortures
are.”

“I have seen some,” said Alan grimly.

Jez-Riah laughed. “Nay, Ar-lane—you have never seen what I have seen.
You have never witnessed the Curse of Fire.” As she spoke her eyes grew
big and her expression distorted as she lived again the scenes she had
so often witnessed. “I have seen men roasted alive. I have seen acid
juices poured on the sufferers’ wounds. I have seen—” but Alan stopped
her. “Enough!” he cried. “It’s horrible.”

She continued. “But tortures even worse were threatened for those who
would seek the tomb of Korah. So none tried. I knew you would be safe
for a while in these caves—but I knew too, that with some one to guide
you, you might go farther even than you dared hope. I am weary of my
life, I am an eighth child of a priestess of the direct line of Bin-Nab;
but I have the blood of the living in my veins. I want to live the life
of the People of the Sun—your people. That is the reason I cast my veil
from me, O Men of the Outer World, and sought you. Oh cast not Jez-Riah
from thee, but keep her as thy slave, for she will by of much use to
thee.”

Jez-Riah had cast herself at the boys’ feet, and her tears and sobs were
coming fast. Desmond and Alan felt strangely moved at the sight of this
woman, so different from the women they were used to in the world above.

“I don’t think it’s trickery, Alan, do you?” said Desmond. In his heart
Alan believed in the truth of the strange woman’s story, yet he knew
from past experience that it was impossible to believe the inhabitants
of the underworld.

He looked Jez-Riah up and down. “Any weapons?” he asked suddenly.

Jez-Riah held up her head proudly and her eyes flashed fire and she
stamped her foot. “I come ‘feula-ri!’ Is it likely I am traitor, O Men
who Doubt?”

Now the boys knew enough of the customs of the strange world in which
they found themselves, that if the sacred word “feula-ri—” was spoken,
no treachery was contemplated; for that word meant more to them than
does the white man’s flag of truce. For in times of war, has not even
the white flag been violated?

“I believe you, Jez-Riah,” said Alan suddenly. “Show us Korah’s tomb and
perhaps we in turn may find a way to show you the sun and moon and
stars. And green trees—and grass—and the sea—” He drew his breath
sharply. His imagination had run away with him, and for the moment he
could almost believe he heard the thunder of the waves as they came
dashing in on some rocky shore; he saw the foam and the sun-decked
beach. The birds seemed to be singing—and above it all came the
unmusical cry of the gulls. He sighed.

“Don’t Lannie,” said Desmond affectionately. “I feel it too; shall we
ever see those things again—shall we ever feel the breeze on our faces
and the burning sun—”

Jez-Riah stood looking at them hungrily. “You speak your own tongue,”
said she, “not mine. What say you each to the other that makes the lines
of sadness on your faces grow so deep?”

“It’s nothing, Jez-Riah,” answered Alan.

“You are sorry I am here?”

“No, we are glad—and you must help us with your knowledge of the secret
ways.”

“See, I will show you at once,” and she rose and crossed the cavern. She
pressed a stone in the wall in front of them, and a boulder revolved on
a hidden spring and showed a yawning cavity beyond. The noise of
troubled waters came upon their ears—loud and thunderous.

“It is true,” she cried in triumph, “behold all I have said is true. The
waters are calling—come,” and she went through into the blackness
without a tremor of fear. And Alan and Desmond followed their strange
companion without any misgivings for the future.

Providence had sent them an unlooked for guide. Hope, the star they had
almost lost in the clouds of darkness that had overshadowed them, came
back, shining in all the glory and radiance of renewed fervour. With a
muttered “Thank God” the two boys stepped forward, lighter of step and
gladder at heart than they had been for some time.

“Ar-lane—Jez-mun,” came a voice from the darkness. “I am Jez-Riah—Child
of the future—Gate of Hope—Guide of Strangers. Fear nothing—the
blackness will pass and we shall find the way easy to tread.”

And it was even as she had spoken. In a very little time they found
themselves in a maze of natural lighted pathways similar to the ones
from which they had come. The sound of the water grew louder. It
thundered in their ears; it shrieked and roared as if some evil spirit
was shaking the very earth itself. Jez-Riah was radiant.

“The stream of Korah is not far. I have heard it told that whoever
braves that stream and finds the tomb of Korah, will live to see the
sun. The sun that our prophet Zurishadeel sings of, the sun that the God
of our forefathers created. The thought puts new life into me—Come.”

On, on they went, the noise getting louder and louder every moment,
until, upon turning a corner, a wondrous sight met their eyes. Belching
forth from the rocks themselves, forcing itself out from regions unseen,
falling like a waterfall from some high precipice, the torrent rushed,
making a lake of considerable dimensions, which was overflowing its
banks—a wild, mad, boiling liquid. The spray rose a hundred feet in
height, and splashed all round and the whole place was fearsome and
ghostly.

At one end of the turbulent lake was a tiny outlet, perhaps two feet
wide, through which the waters ran at breakneck speed. The fearsome
noise, the sight of the rushing waters, the intense weirdness of the
scene, kept both boys speechless with awe at their surroundings, but
Jez-Riah was on her knees, bathing her face in the water, letting it
trickle over her hair, drinking it from cups made of her two hands. And
above the din and clamour they heard her singing a weird hymn of praise
to the accompaniment of the music of the waters. The boys listened
eagerly, and again and again they heard the refrain—

 “Korah—Korah—father of our people—the waters will lead us to where thy
    bones lie,
 “Korah—Korah—thou hast not forsaken us—I am bathing in the waters of
    faith and purity.”

Then Jez-Riah flung off her draperies and plunged into the boiling
waters. The boys watched in breathless amazement as she battled with the
whirlpools, but she proved stronger than they, and swam on until she
reached the mighty waterfall. Round and round she was carried and
whirled but she reached her goal at last—a tiny slab of rock protruding
out of the waters and under the shadow of the mighty cascade itself.
Standing upon it she began a weird dance—a fanatical dance of joy. The
foaming waters almost hid her from their gaze, the spray rose in front
of her like a filmy gauze. At moments, however, her lithe body was
exposed to view, and the boys marvelled at her agility. She did not seem
to tire, but danced on, her voice raised in a strange hymn of praise.
Praise of the waters, praise of the light, praise to the God of the Sun.
Then came a mighty prayer that the secret ways might be opened to
her—and that she might lead the strangers to safety. And even as she
sang and prayed, her limbs were moving fast in dance and the waters were
dashing over her and chilling her.

When she had finished her prayer she sank to her knees in an abandonment
of grief and asked pardon for her one great sin—the sin she committed in
leaving the temple, where she was Watcher to the Fire.

There was a long silence—only broken by the voices of the torrent raised
in its ceaseless dirge.

Alan moved. “Is she safe?” he asked “What will happen to her?”—but even
as he spoke the lithe body had dived once more into the waters and was
swimming almost with ease to the shore. Jez-Riah stood proudly before
them, her dripping hair a mantle that covered her. “Go—rest,” she
commanded. “I commune with Korah,” and fleet of foot, strong in purpose,
she darted down one of the passages near by, and was soon lost to sight.




                               CHAPTER VI
                        THE LAIR OF THE SERPENT


“Korah! Korah!” the words grew fainter and fainter, until at length,
worn out with religious fervour, Jez-Riah flung herself on the ground
and fell asleep. Alan and Desmond gazed after her for some time and then
Alan said “Let’s lie down, Dez. We are both worn out, and it is useless
to follow her. She will return to us only when the spirit moves her.”

“Then for Heaven’s sake let us get away from this infernal din.”

They walked down one of the widest passages until they came to a place
where the moss was thick and soft and the noise of the water rose faint
upon their ears.

“Ar-lane—Jez-mun.” The cry came low and clear and Alan rose quickly to
his feet. He had been asleep and his limbs felt rested and his head was
clearer.

“It is I, Jez-Riah,” came the soft tones again, and silhouetted against
the wall he saw the shadowy figure of the strange woman.

“We must go on,” she urged “We have far to go and much to do.”

“Where have you been?” he asked her.

“I have been in communication with the Spirit of the Waters, O Ar-lane;
soon the mysteries of Korah will be unfolded before thine eyes. Come!
Come! Tarry not too long.” In a second Desmond was awake, and Jez-Riah
showed all impatience to start.

“Have you been here before?” asked Desmond curiously of Jez-Riah.

“No, O Jez-mun, but the water of Korah has given me the gift of sight.
Before I was blind—now I can see. Come bind up my eyes, O Ar-lane, that
clearness of vision may be mine.”

“What do you mean?”

“Bind up my eyes,” she commanded again.

Alan tore a strip from his purple mantle, and tied it across her eyes.

She gave an exclamation of joy. “O Ar-lane,” she cried. “Before I trod
in darkness; now my path is lighted brightly, and I can lead you to many
strange sights, and strange things.” As she spoke, she stretched out her
hands before her and started off at a quick pace. In silence the cousins
followed her. In their position as prisoners in the earth, buried so far
down that they had little hope of ever seeing the sun again, they had no
choice but to follow the strange, half mad creature who had constituted
herself their leader.

The aspect of the road they were now traversing changed. The sides of
the passage were no longer smooth and earthy, but consisted of a hard,
rocky substance—the floor, too, was jagged and rough. The passage
narrowed until it left only room for them to walk in single file, and
the air was musty and stifling; indeed there was a pressure in the
atmosphere that made the boys from the upper, world stumble as they felt
the noxious gases going to their heads.

They made brave efforts, however, and staggered blindly on, one after
the other, following Jez-Riah who never hesitated a moment in the course
she was taking. For perhaps five miles they walked until they entered a
large cavern, the replica of the many others they had been through. They
noticed the change in the air immediately. It was purer, fresher, even
cooler and the boys revived under its effect.

Jez-Riah tore the bandage from her eyes. “The place of my dreams,” she
cried.

“I feel faint,” said Desmond in a low tone, but not so low that Jez-Riah
could not hear. “He needs food?” she questioned “Here is plenty,” and
going to the furthermost corner of the cave she pulled up roots by the
handful—roots like the ones they had had in the lower world itself.

All the time they had been walking they had been continually
ascending—at times the passages were almost like mountain passes, they
rose at such a gradient—at other times the ascent was not so noticeable,
but all the same they realized that they were mounting upward, and the
thought cheered the two white men.

They sat and ate the roots and felt refreshed, when suddenly Desmond
rose with a cry. “My God—what’s that?” There on the opposite wall, high
above their heads, a light shone down upon them, a light that gleamed
baleful in the semi-darkness.

“It is the sacred serpent of the Tomb,” cried Jez-Riah. “I have heard of
it often when I was a child. It has existed throughout the ages—it will
always exist.”

“Nonsense,” said Alan.

“You cannot kill it,” she wailed “It is the Guardian of the Tomb.”

“What, are we there, at the Tomb of Korah, already?” asked Alan in
amazement.

“No! No! But we must cross its path if we would reach the Tomb. In my
conceit I thought I was all powerful. I was over-confident, O Ar-lane! I
heeded not the snake that is large enough to slay an enormous army and
yet retain its power.”

The gleaming eyes grew nearer, and already they could see the writhing
body as it moved along a rocky ledge.

“How big is it?” asked Desmond.

“I cannot see its length,” whispered Alan “but it seems as thick round
as a man’s body. Let us get out of this cursed place. Which is the way,
Jez-Riah?”

“Through that narrow opening yonder,” said she.

Flattening themselves against the wall they crept the way she directed,
and were but a few steps from it when there came the sound of a terrible
hissing, and a long evil-looking shape dropped in front of them, and
hung pendulum-wise blocking up the opening.

“We can’t go that way now,” said Alan “I am afraid it’s too large to
tackle. Why it must be thirty feet long at least. We shall have to go
back.” Then came the most horrible experience the cousins had ever had.
The most awful. The most terrifying.

“Run,” cried Alan. “If we can get into the passage beyond we may be able
to block up the way and prevent it coming through after us.”

They reached the narrow opening, and all around were huge blocks of rock
and stone which they piled up one on top of the other.

“Only one more is needed,” cried Alan triumphantly. But he spoke too
soon—a large, flat head, perhaps a foot and a half in length, with ugly
eyes glowing like live fire, shot through the opening, and watched them.
The mouth was open wide and the forked tongue shot rapidly in and out in
venomous fury. The smell was terrible, whether from its breath or
permeating through its skin from its body, they could not tell, but it
made them feel giddy, sick and ill. For perhaps ten minutes (if time
could be measured in that awful place) it remained there motionless, and
then gradually the stones came tumbling down as it forced its way
through the barricade.

The boys watched their horrible foe. They were powerless. Escape was
impossible, for behind them was a narrow passage, perhaps a mile in
length, that offered no shelter.

Would it never attack them? Why keep them in this awful suspense?

“Knife,” came suddenly from between Alan’s tightly compressed lips. Then
after a moment, during which time he opened the well worn blade—“There
are plenty of stones behind?”

“Plenty.”

Swiftly followed the instructions. “Pick up the largest you can
handle—both of you—when I give the word dash them at the brute’s head.
It is our only chance—then rush past the head.”

“But—” commenced Desmond.

“Don’t argue—it’s our only hope. The thing is too big to turn round in
this small space. It _must_ go on. Once we get past it we may stand a
chance.”

Alan never relaxed his watchful gaze. Suddenly the reptile lowered its
head and an ugly hiss came from its mouth.

“Now,” cried Alan, and as he hurled the knife, harpoon-like into the
open mouth two heavy stones came crashing down on its skull.

The sudden onslaught dazed the creature, and its head dropped to the
ground. Quickly they rushed past it, but they all realized that they
were not yet out of danger. The passage they were in was very narrow and
the serpent was so immense that it was impossible for them to stand
without feeling the clammy skin next to them.

Jez-Riah shuddered. “What will become of us?” she moaned “It is too big
to kill.” And indeed, it seemed to be, for Alan had not exaggerated. The
length was quite thirty feet, and the girth of its middle was perhaps
ten feet, narrowing to two at the tail.

“You can’t kill it,” cried Desmond. “Why we haven’t even the old clasp
knife now.” A sudden convulsive movement passed along the serpent’s
body, and it made them retch to see the tremor coming from its head in
undulating movements to its tail. Then it raised itself up, and Alan was
right—it was impossible for it to turn—it was far too big and
cumbersome. For some time, with its head raised perhaps six feet from
the ground, it writhed to and fro in growing anger that its prey should
so elude it. As its anger grew greater, its body rolled and moved in
convulsive heaps, and the trio sickened as the malodorous mass pressed
itself against them and pinioned them to the wall.

“Lannie, what can we do?” asked Desmond. Jez-Riah was almost unconscious
with the awful pressure, and the strain was telling on the two boys. The
strength of the beast was enormous, and they realized that it had the
power, even when at a disadvantage itself, to press the very life out of
them against the wall.

Then came a sudden sense of relief, as the serpent contracted itself,
but gave way to horror as they realized that it was backing through the
opening, and its filthy head would soon be on a line with them.

“Stones,” urged Alan hoarsely. “Hurl them at the head. Jez-Riah, you
must help too.”

Feverishly they worked throwing rocks and stones with force at the
monster’s head. It withstood the onslaught valiantly for a time—its
strength was enormous—but at last a well directed shot of Desmond’s
caught it full between the eyes, and the head dropped like a stone.

“The serpent—it is dead?” asked Jez-Riah. “But alas, no. The body is
twitching all over—it has life still.”

A sharp piece of stone jutted out above Alan’s head. “Help me,” he said
feverishly to his cousin. “This is our last hope—this is as sharp as a
knife. If we can but loosen it you must help me to imbed it in the
brute’s head. It is stunned now—we must try and overpower it while it is
in that condition.” All the time they were talking they were working
hard to loosen the stone and at last it fell into Alan’s hands. It was
not very large, but it had an edge like a bayonet, and was of intense
hardness.

Cautiously they forced their way on either side of the twisting mass,
until they were on a level with its head. “There,” whispered Desmond.
“Just between the eyes.”

The stone was raised; the huge beast was motionless—then, with almost
superhuman power, Alan brought the stone down and embedded it deeply in
the flesh, while as Alan let go, Desmond hurled a heavy piece of stone
hammer-wise on the top of the stone, and buried the sharp edge still
deeper in the gaping wound. The great snake woke to consciousness, and
the boys had only just time to get out of the way of its gaping jaws.
“Press yourself close to the wall, Dez,” commanded Alan, and they
reached Jez-Riah’s side in safety. Their eyes dilated with horror as
they watched the great reptile die, for the boys between them had given
it its death blow.

How long the death struggle lasted they never knew. Alan thought an
hour, Desmond said two. Blood poured from the wound in its head and a
sickly smell rose from the liquid. For some time the stone remained
fixed in the flesh of the serpent, but its writhings at last loosened
it, and it fell to the ground with a horrible thud, while the blood
rushed out of the open wound like a miniature fountain.

Fascinated the three watched its last movements. The body rolled from
side to side, dashing first against one then against the other of the
unlucky prisoners, but by flattening themselves against the walls, they
escaped any big injury—only bruises left their mark to show what they
had been through.

The movements became more irregular. For a long time the mighty snake
remained quite still, only to wake up again after a rest with renewed
energy. At last its spasms became less frequent and less powerful. It
was dying. Its breath came like huge sobs that travelled down its body.
The stench was almost unendurable. “I think it’s safe now,” said Alan at
last. Slowly they moved from their cramped positions. Their hearts
throbbed and their limbs ached. Fearsomely they gave a last look at the
head of the dying, if not already dead, monster. A shudder ran through
them all. The strain through which they had passed had been terrible,
but for Alan, who had engineered the defeat, it had been terrific. His
limbs ached, his head swam, and he reeled as he walked on the free
ground, unpolluted by the serpent. He laughed a wild unnatural laugh; it
sounded strange even in his own ears, and he repeated it, as he wondered
whether he was indeed going mad. He felt suddenly unaccountably
frightened. Everything faded from him but the memory of the serpent
behind. With another peal of almost senseless laughter, he ran madly
away into the distance, until the darkness swallowed him up, and only
the sound of his wild laughter broke the stillness. Jez-Riah clutched at
her throat and spoke to Desmond. “Ar-lane—he is ill—come,” said she, and
the two followed Alan away into the blackness as he sped on,
laughing—laughing—laughing.




                              CHAPTER VII
                    ON THE WAY TO THE TOMB OF KORAH


Time passed—time that had no measure—time that seemed an eternity. They
had all recovered from their encounter with the Sacred Serpent, but the
adventure had left them nervous and irritable. There was food in plenty,
and the luscious roots gave them both meat and drink. Always upward they
mounted—and as they saw the mountainous paths rise before them, hope
held out her encouraging hand, and whispered that one day they might
even see the stars. Jez-Riah still led them on, through untold paths and
a labyrinthine maze. She always maintained that she knew the right path
to take.

Sometimes they had to crawl on their hands and knees through narrow and
low passages that seemed to have no end. At other times they found
themselves in wide, airy byways with a height almost beyond computation,
for far above their heads they could just catch the faintest glimmer of
light on the purple growth that covered the roof. Now and again springs
bubbled up from the earth and ran along beside them, burying themselves
as suddenly as they had appeared. The atmosphere was very sultry and
fetid—very different from the air on the other side of the underground
river that separated the underworld people from the desolate region they
were now in. “How long, Jez-Riah?” they asked her over and over again.
“How long before we reach the Tomb of Korah?” And her answer was the
same each time. “Oh Men of the World Above, I do not tarry, I am leading
you to the Tomb as fast as I can. Be content with that.” So the days
passed—so the nights came round again. Days which had no night, nights
which had no day. Time was measured by sleep. When they were all weary
they lay down to rest and sleep. This they called night—when they awoke
they called it day. But they had lost count of the times they had slept
since Jez-Riah had come to them, they had lost count of everything. They
had only one object before them—to reach the Tomb of Korah. Their plans
ended there; they had no idea what their next move would be after they
reached it. They had grown accustomed to their strange, purple
companion—in fact she had become almost a necessity to them both. It was
she who passed many weary hours for them, by recounting stories of the
life of her people since they had lived below. It was she who told them
even more fully than Har-Barim had done, how her people’s forefathers
had risen up against Musereah, and Har-Raeon, and how they had
consequently suffered throughout the ages. And both the boys translated
Musereah as Moses, and Har-Raeon as Aaron, and were more than ever
convinced that strange as the story was, this new race was indeed
descended from the Israelites of the Old Testament and could claim
Korah, Abiram and Dathan as its progenitors.

It was Jez-Riah who told them that behind a barred gate was built a
golden tomb wherein had been deposited the remains of their first
priests—“Har-Barim and Kartharn.” It was at their shrine that the
ceremonies attached to the feast of Meherut were performed. It was their
Holy of Holies, and it was over the bones of Har-Barim and Kartharn that
the priests made their vows.

They asked Jez-Riah about the fire and she grew solemn as she answered
them—“Ah, Men from Above, Our Fire is sacred—it is Holy. It is the
symbol of our Jovah.—It is almost our God. The God of our forefathers
took on one occasion the form of fire, so fire is sacred to us.”

“The Burning Bush,” said Alan in an undertone.

“But,” she added sorrowfully, “the power of the Fire is waning.
According to one of our prophecies, when the Fire shall die, then, also
shall all the seed of Korah die too. In all the ages that have passed
since the earth closed against us, no fuel was needed for the Fire—it
burnt of itself and never grew less. Then one day noises were heard in
the earth—our land shook and trembled, and men fell on their faces in
fear. From that day we knew the Fire was growing less. Our priests knew
it—all our people knew it and terror was in all our hearts. Then our
high priest looked up all the old laws and in the fourth book of
Rabez-ka, Queebenhah the Seer writes—

    ‘When the Fire shall shrink, then is the time ripe for the
    people of Kalvar to rise. Live sacrifices must be offered to
    appease the God of Anger. Send forth a Light to the world above,
    and let it bring back men and animals and birds to feed the
    furnace of Light. Live sacrifices alone will keep the fire
    quickened—live sacrifices alone will prevent calamities falling
    on the Children of Kalvar.’

“So our wise men gathered together,” she continued, “and by the wisdom
of all, the Light was made. The wise men of the temple and Kaweeka alone
could handle it—for they were possessed of Holiness, and the Light was
made from the Fire itself. Chemicals were drawn from the recesses of the
earth, and in secret the Light was made.”

“How did they use it, Jez-Riah?”

“When it was sent out into the earth above, it was sensitive only to
life. When any warm living thing of the world was near, it swooped down,
and coiled round and carried its prey back to us.”

“I understand better,” said Alan to his cousin. “The Light is some
magnetic electrical current with abnormal power. Ugh! It’s horrible.”

“But why did they stop sending out the Light for fodder to feed the
flames?” asked Desmond.

“Because we realized that our time is short. Nothing will keep the Fire
alive. The end is near.”

So they travelled—and then depression overtook them as their journey
seemed endless and they got no nearer to their goal. Even Jez-Riah
herself seemed to lose hope, and with tears in her eyes she would say
pathetically “O Ar-lane, my senses seem dimmed—the way is dark. Surely
we must come there soon!”

The monotony of the way drove the white men nearly mad. The monotony of
the food sickened them. They felt half dazed; they forgot the reason of
their march; they forgot, even, what the goal was toward which they were
going. They knew only that some power within them urged them to go on
and on and always on.

At last Jez-Riah’s eyes grew bright and her step alert. “Don’t speak,”
she urged, “don’t speak!” So they went, until all the passages merged
into one long tunnel—darker than the others through which they had come.
The natural light shed from the earth itself, grew still more feeble,
and they found it difficult to walk for fear of hidden pitfalls.
Suddenly the passage ended and Jez-Riah gave a glad cry. “Behold, O Men
of the Sun, this is the entrance to the Tomb of Korah.”

“Are you sure?” asked Alan.

“Quite, O Ar-lane. The paths we have been traversing were made by our
forefathers long æons ago. After they had fastened Korah and all that
appertained to him fast within the bowels of the earth, they had to
fight their way through to make a place of habitation. They cut paths as
they marched along, and when they found the Fire—there they made their
home. I knew that when all paths merged into one, the way was near to
Korah’s tomb.”

The place in which they found themselves was very disappointing. Their
way just ended—it did not widen out at all, and the end was piled with
stones and earth that had fallen through the ages. Their quest was over
at last, and they took their first untroubled rest. They slept long and
quietly, and it was Jez-Riah who awakened them and placed before them
the food they were so heartily sick of. “Nay, eat,” she commanded, “your
strength is needed more than before,” and feeling the truth of her
words, they ate until they were satisfied and felt all the better for
the food.

“The earth has fallen,” said Jez-Riah. “If we are to find the entrance
to the tomb we must clear away all that rubble.”

Feverishly they set to work tearing their hands to pieces on the jagged
stones until the passage behind them was nearly closed with the mass of
rock and earth that they had displaced. Twice they slept, and then
success came to them, for a solid slab of rock appeared in the wall—a
rock that had been made smooth and upon which were carven hieroglyphics.

“I cannot read it,” said Jez-Riah, but Alan was already translating, for
it was the Hebrew he knew, and not the corruption that had come down
through the ages to the purple people.

“Read it aloud,” said Desmond, and Alan spoke the words of the
inscription reverently.

             “BY THE WILL OF THE EXILED CHILDREN OF ISRAEL.

    “Korah, son of Izhar, the son of Kohath, the son of Levi, and
    his wives and his children and all that appertains unto him and
    to them, lie buried in this cave. For the wrath of Jehovah fell
    on his people who sinned against the Lord, tempted by the Evil
    one—Korah. This is his Tomb—cursed be the ones who open it
    before the day appointed is at hand.

    “Dathan and Abiram, sons of Eliab, the son of Peleth, son of
    Reuben; Shedur, son of Helon, son of Abira, the son of Simeon.
    Priests, chosen by the banished Children of Israel in their new
    land of Kalvar—in the bowels of the earth.”

The cousins did little else but talk about the discovery until the time
came for them to rest. Their labours had been rewarded; the Tomb of
Korah had been revealed to them.

They worked hard when they awoke to move the massive block of stone.
There was no secret spring to assist them—the stone had been placed in
position some three thousand years before, and now seemed to defy all
the efforts they made to move it. With rocks and stones used lever-wise
they worked until after many “days” they succeeded in forcing the solid
block of stone to the ground, but behind it was a wall closely built of
stones and earth bound together with a rude cement. Their fingers were
torn and bleeding in their attempt to pull the stones apart. “At last,”
cried Alan in delight. For as he worked his hand had gone into space—the
tomb was laid open before him.




                              CHAPTER VIII
                           THE TOMB OF KORAH


The Tomb of Korah! They had reached their goal at last! The boys stood
back awed at the thought of what might have passed in that selfsame
cavern thousands of years before.

“You go first, Jez-Riah,” said Alan at last, and slowly, reverently the
two boys followed her in. The natural light had grown stronger and
allowed them to see quite plainly the mysteries the cave was to unfold.
They discovered it to be a cavern perhaps forty yards square. The roof
rose above them perhaps a hundred feet, and was marked by a deep,
zigzagged line running across it from one side to the other. It was like
a scar!

“Dez,” said Alan suddenly, “is that where the earth originally opened,
when it deposited Korah and the other Israelites within its bowels?”

“If so we ought to be somewhere in the neighbourhood of Palestine,”
replied Desmond.

The cave had no outlet, and on the floor lay precious stones of every
kind and colour;—diamonds, rubies, pearls, emeralds, sapphires—as large
as Barcelona nuts—lay strewn about in fabulous quantities. In one corner
of the cave were the remains of furniture and household goods, mostly
rotted away and eaten by worms; and mingled with the precious stones
were human bones—human bones in such quantities that it was impossible
to avoid treading on them. Here was a thigh bone, there a skeleton hand
or a skull. Everywhere the bones of men and beasts mingled together in a
heterogeneous mass.

Quietly, slowly they made a round of the place, There were skeletons of
horses, asses and camels lying together in a corner, and piled on top of
each other in such a way as proved it had been done by the human agency,
were the remains of little children.

Skeletons of females with the remnants of clothing on their whitened
bones, adorned with anklets of gold and bracelets set with gems, were
everywhere, and the whole scene was like a ghastly wonder story of the
East. They picked their way through a bed of grinning skulls to where
they saw something shining.

Alan picked it up. “A censer,” said he, “one of the most beautiful I
have ever seen,” And indeed it was of wonderful workmanship. Even their
little knowledge told them it was of pure gold; it was most wonderfully
fashioned to represent on the one side a cherub—a cherub so perfect that
even the finger nails were represented, and on the other, bunches of
grapes and vine leaves—symbols of the promised land.

Precious stones gleamed cunningly everywhere, and the chains from which
the censer swung were studded with diamonds. They could scarcely bear to
put it down, but gazed at it entranced with its beauty. Every moment
they found in it some greater glory.

“I have seen nothing modern even resembling this,” said Alan at last.
“Why, it is exquisite—think of its value!”

“Its history alone would render it priceless,” said Desmond, “apart from
its precious metal and workmanship.”

“Yes, but of what use is it to us down here?” questioned Alan. “And even
if we ever do get out, who will believe our story?”

“I wonder where we shall find ourselves if we do discover a way out,”
said Desmond. “We have lost all sense of direction down here—of distance
and of time. Why, we haven’t even any idea of how far we have walked
since we left the purple people—how far do you think, Alan?”

Alan shook his head. “It’s impossible to say, Dez. How many times have
we slept? We counted three hundred times and then forgot—three hundred
times is a long while, old boy. We must have walked at least fifteen
miles each ‘day’ we have been on the march—perhaps even more—so we have
done a considerable distance.”

“Then where shall we find ourselves? Africa? America? Asia?”

“Well, we shall not be penniless when we do get to the world again,” and
Alan pointed at the wealth of jewels at their feet.

“It is those that make me feel we shall never get out,” said Desmond
despondently.

“Why?”

“Because it is only in books of romance that such an adventure as ours
would culminate successfully, and it would only be in a Romance of
Romances that adventurers would come back from the very centre of the
earth, laden with such untold wealth!”

“Don’t be so depressing, Dez,” laughed Alan.

“But it’s true, Lanny. With wealth like this in our hands we could
command the trades of the entire world. Why, with this we could corner
wheat—corner cotton—corner millionaires themselves—if we were permitted
to use it.”

“Why permitted?”

“Well, it depends on the government of the country we eventually land
in; they will want their share. If it’s France we may get one half—if
it’s Spain perhaps an eighth—Russia?—well, nothing at all and the salt
mines into the bargain.”

“You are very cheerful,” laughed Alan, “but as a matter of fact, I’ve
been planning what I mean to do with my share if we do get out.”

Jez-Riah had been listening to the two boys speaking and sighed deeply.
They were talking in their own language and had forgotten all about
their strange companion.

“What will happen to her if we ever do reach the upper world?” said
Desmond suddenly.

Alan looked soberly at the quaint little purple creature who had so
grown into their lives, who had been so useful to them, who had become
almost a friend. They treated her as they would some great, faithful
hound who was devoted to them alone. She was like a dumb animal in her
unwavering loyalty to them, and indeed would have laid down her very
life for her friends.

“She’ll have no easy time, poor thing,” said Alan, “but I’ll use every
scrap of my energy to prevent an Earl’s Court Exhibition for her.”

Again Jez-Riah sighed and a tear rolled down her cheek.

“What ails thee?” asked Alan in her own language.

“I am sad and sorrowful, O Ar-lane,” she replied. “The memory of a
prophecy has come to me. I shall see the stars of Heaven—the Sun in the
Sky—but with pain alone will such sights come to me.”

“We’ll keep pain from you,” said Alan kindly. “If you are to see the
stars, then that means we shall all find a way out from here.”

The boys set to work to try and find Korah’s remains and an outlet to
the world above. Many times they slept, and their last waking thought
was—“Shall we find a way out to-morrow?” They counted the skeletons and
piled them reverently in one corner. They counted the remains of
twenty-two women, forty-nine men and about thirty children, some of whom
appeared to be but newly born.

They gathered the precious stones, and placed perhaps a gallon
measureful in a basket Jez-Riah had plaited out of the roots of the
mautzer—her fingers were busy the whole time they were exploring the
cavern and its contents.

She had made a covering for the censer, and that had been put carefully
aside. The furniture and tenting was all valueless. It fell to pieces at
a touch and only small scraps of tinder-like material remained to prove
the glories of the silken coverings that had been buried with the
Israelites of old. Harness made of leather, and trappings bound with
gold lay on the ground mixed up with the bones of the animals they had
adorned; chariot wheels lay among the wreckage, and the whole scene was
one of utter desolation and carnage.

“Do you know of a way out?” asked Alan of Jez-Riah over and over again,
and always she answered “I have brought you in safety to the tomb of
Korah, O my friends. Further the way is hidden from me. Now I trust to
you.”

There was no apparent outlet from the cavern, and the boys hunted for
any written record that might have been left behind by Korah or his
company. “I want a proof of our statements,” said Alan. “When we get to
the upper world we shall be looked upon as madmen if we are unable to
substantiate our story.”

But Jez-Riah would say, “Give up hunting for records of my forefathers,
I beg you, and turn your energies to find a way to the sun—”

Alan was thinking deeply on the situation they were in, when his eyes
were caught by the scar on the roof. “I wonder,” said he suddenly, “I
wonder if there is a way out—there.”

“Where?” asked Desmond.

Alan jerked his head in the direction of the scar. “It would be madness
to try and find out,” said he. “The ledges of rock are not strong enough
to bear one—don’t think of risking your life in such a foolish
adventure.”

And indeed it seemed almost impossible. The walls of the cavern were
jagged and rough, and in many places overhung in a dangerous manner. To
climb to the roof would have made even an experienced Alpine climber
think twice before he attempted it, and to one inexperienced in such
feats it seemed like courting death.

“You wouldn’t try,” Desmond urged. He knew Alan of old, and feared for
him.

Alan laughed. “Is it likely?” was all he said. But all the same the
thought remained in his mind, and his brain was working.

It was time to go to sleep. They had supped off the roots of mautzer,
and had drunk the liquid from the stems of the elers, and felt
refreshed. Jez-Riah was already breathing softly, and Desmond was
talking in fitful gusts with drowsy interludes between. Of the three,
Alan alone was wide awake. He answered Desmond quietly, and he at last
dropped off to sleep too. For some time Alan remained quite quiet,
afraid lest a tiny movement of his might awaken either of his
companions. Then Jez-Riah’s breath came in deep, indrawn sighs, and
Desmond lay with one hand over his head and his lips slightly apart.
Alan looked at them both closely—they were fast asleep.

Stealthily he rose and stepped past the sleepers through the low way
into the Tomb of Korah. He moved with purpose, for his plans were all
carefully thought out. High up in the roof, at the farthest right hand
corner, the scar seemed its widest. Quickly he walked toward it, and
without a backward glance began a long, dangerous and arduous climb. The
rocks were slippery, and the foothold almost nothing, yet with tenacious
pluck he kept on until his fingers were lacerated and his limbs ached.
Pulling himself up by the jagged pieces of rock, he came closer to the
roof. Once only he looked below, and his heart pumped and his head swam
as he saw the depths beneath. After that he kept his eyes bent upward,
and he did not stop until he could touch the roof itself. There was a
little ledge, three feet from the top, which was big enough for him to
sit on fairly comfortably, and his breath came in hard gasps as he
rested.

Then, as his strength came back to him, he carefully put his hand inside
the fissure. A stone moved, and as he withdrew his hand, it dropped into
the cave beneath, and the sickening thud made him tremble. He heard the
sound of rushing waters. Gradually he wormed his way until he was seated
in the fissure itself, and looked down on a swiftly flowing river twenty
feet below him. It was very swift—he could not tell its depth, neither
could he get down to it—for the water had neither bank nor ledge to
stand upon. High walls reared on either side of the water as it raced on
its mad journey. He watched the swirling depths. The spray at times
reached his face, and cooled him. The water was of a different colour
from the rivers in Kalvar—it looked cleaner, fresher. “I wonder whither
it leads,” he muttered, and then he examined his position.

He was inside the fissure on a ledge perhaps three feet wide. There was
a sheer drop into the waters below of twenty feet. There was no other
outlet at all. If they were to escape it would have to be by the water.
It was impossible to go back. Then a daring plan came to him. “If we had
the pluck,” said he to himself, “Well, it will be do or die.” and slowly
he turned his attention to the descent.




                               CHAPTER IX
                              THE PAPYRUS


Desmond had slept well; he woke lazily and looked round him. Alan had
already gone. He turned sleepily over, but raised himself quickly as
Alan hailed him from Korah’s tomb with an exultant shout. Even Jez-Riah
realized that something of import had happened as she watched Alan
enter, bubbling over with excitement, and his eyes bright and shining.

“What is it?” asked Desmond eagerly.

“I’ve found the remains of Korah.” Alan made the announcement quietly,
but his cousin saw the undercurrent of excitement that lay beneath his
words.

“You’ve found Korah?” he repeated stupidly.

“Listen,” went on Alan eagerly, and speaking in the quaint Hebraic
dialect, so that Jez-Riah might share his news, he told them of his
adventure to the roof of the cave, and of the river beyond. “Well,” he
concluded, “as I neared the bottom my foot slipped and I clutched at a
piece of jutting rock to save me, and I had to use all my strength to
keep from falling. My foothold gone, I had to worm my way round the rock
to find another place easy of descent. You know the wall is full of
cracks and crevices. I came upon a crevice larger than the others. It
was big enough to get through, and I wondered why we hadn’t noticed it
before. I realized, however, the tricks the lighting of this place plays
upon us, and I could see that the hole simply looked like a shadow on
the wall, so cunningly is it hidden. I scrambled easily through, and
found it to be a cave, quite small, in the middle of which is a deep
pond of water, and fastened on the wall by the aid of rude nails was
this—” and he held out a roll of parchment that crackled at his touch.

Desmond examined it curiously. “Why it’s a papyrus,” he exclaimed.

“Yes! and written by Korah himself, and placed there just before he
died.”

“Have you read it?”

“Yes, it’s quite easy in parts. Listen,” and Alan translated from the
old and faded Hebraic characters the following,

    “WRITING by KORAH, known henceforth to all generations as KORAH
                              THE ACCURSED

    Know, then, these four months, as far as it is possible to judge
    time in this accursed spot, I and all my belongings have
    remained in this cavern. Abiram and Dathan have sealed the doors
    of stone against us. Escape is impossible. There is naught for
    us to do but die. Be it known—I—Korah the Accursed—am sore at
    heart for my sins of rebellion against Moses and Aaron. Jehovah
    has inflicted upon us all a grievous punishment. His name be
    praised. Food there is none except that which came down with us
    into this pit of terror. Lord of Hosts, I tremble at what I see.
    Mothers tearing their little ones, women in childbirth crying to
    the God in Heaven that they may die before they are delivered.
    I—Korah—alone have remained fasting. It is the only reparation I
    can make for my sins, and for the unworthiness I have shown as
    one of Jehovah’s chosen ones. I Korah—”

Then came a space that was unintelligible. Time had worked its will and
the writing was indistinct, and in parts entirely erased. “How awful,”
said Desmond, shuddering. “Think—half these skeletons here were perhaps
murdered by their brothers for food. What agonies, what pangs they must
have suffered!” “Wait—there is more,” said Alan, and he went on
translating,

    “Forty days and forty nights fasting is as nothing to the
    fasting here. It seems forty times forty since food passed my
    parched and cracked lips. My people turn not upon me and slay
    me. Oh that they would! Dead flesh is rotting all around me—the
    air is heavy with the stench. There are none now left alive but
    myself. I will fasten this to the wall of the inner cave, and
    then lay me down to die. Of what use are gold and riches to us
    here? Poorer am I than the most disease-laden beggar of the
    world above. O God of Hosts forgive Korah, the son of Izhar, the
    son of Kohath, the son of Levi.”

For some time after Alan had finished reading the boys remained in
silence. The whole scene rose up in their minds like a picture, and the
horror of it nauseated them. The terrible hunger and thirst of the
captives-the scenes of cannibalism afterwards—the child murder—it was
revolting. “Now,” said Alan. “Come to the real tomb of Korah. This is
the tomb of his people—but he lies yonder.” So the three of them mounted
the rough steps in the rock, and ten feet above their heads was the
little opening. Just a little cleft through which they passed, and down
a short but steep path into the cave below.

The centre of the cave was taken up by a deep pool of water, but a
narrow path ran all round. A huge block of stone lay immersed in the
water and round it the water bubbled and sang showing the place where
the pond had its birth.

But Desmond saw no sign of the bones of Korah. He looked puzzled. “There
is no skeleton here,” said he. “Where is Korah?” Silently Alan pointed
to the grey rock over which the water was lapping. Desmond looked at it
intently-and then understood. In the course of time a spring had bubbled
up and the waters had covered the body of Korah. Some chemical property
in the water had preserved the dead body and turned it to stone, and in
the ages that had passed deposits of lime and other minerals had been
secreted on the body, until it was now of gargantuan size. Still plain,
however, were the features. A rather long nose, Semitic in shape,
protruded from a face that had possessed prominent cheek-bones and deep,
sunken eyes. The hair which had been long was now a mass of stone that
mingled with the shapeless body. They could just trace the semblance of
arms that were folded across the stone chest, and there was the
suspicion of feet protruding from a kilted tunic of cold grey stone.

In all, just a shapeless boulder in which could be traced the likeness
of what had once been a living man. The waters of the centuries had
preserved Korah alone of the Israelites of old who had been imprisoned
in the pit.

Jez-Riah had listened in silence. With one finger she had traced the
outlines of the once handsome face—now she spoke.

“He killed himself—in the water?” she asked.

“No,” said Alan, “I think the cave was dry in those days. He just came
here to die; and in the place where his dead body lay, before time could
rot the flesh, a spring broke through the floor of the cave and
preserved him—a memorial to all time of his sin.”

“Praise be to Jovah,” said Jez-Riah in a hushed tone.

“_Requiescat in pace_,” said Alan as they turned to leave the place.
“Amen,” whispered his cousin—and Korah was once more left alone.

“Now,” said Alan some time later while they were having their meal, “now
we must make some arrangements about leaving this place. The only way is
by the river, yonder.”

“Can we make a raft strong enough to bear us?” asked Desmond. Alan shook
his head. “I’ve already investigated,” he said. “There is absolutely
nothing. The wood in there is rotten with age. I doubt whether it would
even float. There is only one possible way,” and he looked at them
intently. “We can all swim pretty well. Our only hope is to throw
ourselves on the mercy of the waters. The knowledge we have of swimming
will enable us to keep our heads out of the water—we must trust the
current to do the rest. It may mean death—but are we not in a living
death already? At any rate are you willing to try?” They walked into the
big cave and Desmond looked fearfully at the terrible ascent which they
would have to make in order to reach the river, for it flowed on a much
higher level than that on which they were themselves.

“Yes, it’s pretty stiff,” said Alan grimly. “But it’s that or nothing.
Are you ready to risk it?” For a moment only, Desmond hesitated, then
his mind was made up and his hand gripped that of his cousin.

“Yes,” said he. “What about you, Jez-Riah?” And they were both surprised
at the calm way in which she took the suggestion.

“It is very high,” said she. “How easy it would be to fall!”

They rested and slept and ate before they attempted the ascent. Also
they had many preparations to make. There was certain of the jewels to
be taken with them—the papyrus and the censer. Jez-Riah plaited a
waterproof case for the parchment, and with a plaited rope fastened it
to Alan’s shoulders. The jewels were divided out between them and placed
in little bags that Jez-Riah wove from the root tendrils that grew
outside the large cave. The censer proved the greatest difficulty. It
was not only heavy, but exceedingly bulky and cumbersome. It was Alan
again who decided to carry it. “But it will drag you down,” objected his
cousin. “I’ll manage it,” he replied, and he had it fastened securely to
his back with the strong rope that Jez-Riah could make so quickly.

So they began their arduous climb. Alan went first, followed by
Jez-Riah, and Desmond brought up the rear. “On no account look down,”
Alan kept urging. “It will be fatal if you do.” At last they reached the
tiny platform. Alan looked at it doubtfully. Would it hold three grown
persons? He shivered—it would be a tight squeeze. His hand went down and
met Jez-Riah’s. He pulled her on to their resting place in safety, and
then Desmond reached it, and for a while they sat in silence. The
rushing of the waters could be plainly heard. Time was passing—Alan
dared not move, for Jez-Riah, worn out with the climb, was leaning
heavily against him, and he knew that the slightest movement from one or
the other of them might send them to their death, for the seat was none
too safe. “I think the time has come for action,” said he quietly at
last. “It is useless to wait here any longer.”

Jez-Riah moved restlessly. “What your will is, O Ar-lane, that will I
do,” said she.

“I am going to plunge in the water,” announced Alan. “If you see my body
rise—follow me quickly. Do not struggle, let the current do its will
with you. Safety lies in submission.”

“Why wait to see if you rise?” asked Desmond.

“Because I do not know what whirlpools may be hidden there. If you do
not see me after I have plunged in, then you must do as you think best.
But surely death is preferable to a lifetime here?”

“Then I shan’t—”

“Don’t argue, old man. Do as I bid you. God bless you.”

The cousins solemnly shook hands, lingering pathetically. It was like a
good-bye to the dying.

“Ar-lane, O Ar-lane,” came from Jez-Riah.

“Have courage, little sister, be brave and follow me.” And before they
could say another word, he had swung himself over the edge and had
dropped into the foaming water.

The water hissed and roared with fury as it felt the presence of the
foreign body—then it quieted a little. Alan’s head appeared, his face
deathly pale, and before they realized it, he was out of sight, borne on
the swift current.

Jez-Riah was trembling. “Be brave, little sister.” Almost unconsciously
Desmond repeated his cousin’s words. She clung to him for a second, and
then with a little frightened moan that went as soon as it was uttered,
she too dropped into the water below, and was carried out of sight.
Suddenly a great fear came over Desmond. He was alone. The cavern seemed
to ring with laughter—the laughter of dead men. He hovered at the edge
of the little cleft and looked deep into the boiling mass below, but he
dared not drop in.

“I can’t, I can’t,” he moaned, and the awful loneliness came upon him
and enveloped him in a cloak of terror.

He looked behind him at the yawning chasm below. If he lost his
foothold—he shuddered. And then with a mighty spring and a muttered “God
help me,” he followed in the wake of his cousin. The water closed over
him—he held his breath until his lungs felt as if they would burst with
the strain. Relief came at last, the waters had calmed a little, and he
was floating gently on the current. He was conscious of intense inky
blackness, of icy waters and a fetid air above; of a swiftly moving
stream, that, although not rough, was running fast; of strange shapes
that seemed to hover about him, and long, clammy hands that tried to
pull him out of the water. He knew it was death himself he was fighting,
and he fought to evade the fingers that were now so near, almost clasped
round his throat. Then his senses forsook him and he was only an atom,
tossed about on the bosom of the unknown river, a nothingness in a world
of mystery and wonder.




                               CHAPTER X
                               THE ESCAPE


And the seventh day was the Sabbath! The Lord rested on the Sabbath!
Sabbath! Seventh! Seventh! Sabbath! These words kept ringing in Alan’s
ears as he lay quiet and tranquil in the darkness. He wondered where he
was, but was too tired to make much effort to find out. His senses were
dulled and his whole body ached; he could see nothing, for total
darkness surrounded him. Then unconsciousness again overtook him, and he
dreamed again of the Marshfielden fields and the rippling brooks.

When he awoke it was with a healthy feeling of hunger, and gradually his
senses returned and he wondered where his cousin and Jez-Riah were. He
called them by name, but there was no reply. He reached out on either
side of him, but could feel nothing—he seemed to be alone. The silence
was oppressive, the air heavy, and he found a great difficulty in
breathing. He tried to think of the mad plunge for freedom into the
swift underground river; he remembered feeling the cold waters close
over him, followed by an interminable time under water when he could not
breathe, when his lungs were bursting, longing to disgorge the used up
air within him. Then he remembered a feeling of relief as he drew in a
long breath of air, and afterwards—no more. He seemed to have fallen
into a never ending dream. Now at last he realized he was safe again,
and in his heart he thanked God for having watched over him and brought
him once more to safety.

As the past events became clearer, Alan rose up cautiously, but his head
came in contact with the roof of the place he was in. He went on all
fours and groped his way round the place. It was very small, perhaps
twenty yards in circumference, and perfectly dark. Suddenly his hand
touched something, something warm. It was Jez-Riah, and, close beside
her lay Desmond. He spoke to them each in turn—shook them, but they
showed no sign of having heard him. He listened for their heart beats,
but neither showed any sign of life.

The water that had carried them all to this new abode ran near, and Alan
dragged the two bodies to the water’s edge. He dipped his hand in the
cool liquid and found that it was only an inch or two deep at the most.
He made a cup with his hands and dashed the water into his companions’
faces in turn, and at last was rewarded by a heavy sob from Jez-Riah and
a groan from Desmond.

“Dez, old man, how are you feeling now? Jez-Riah, are you better?”

So from one to the other he turned, his only thought to bring them back
to life and hope.

Suddenly Desmond spoke. “That was a near shave, Lanny.”

“How are you?”

“I feel beastly.”

“Where are we?” suddenly asked Jez-Riah.

“I’ve no idea. The river has either disappeared underground or we’ve
been brought up a little side creek and left the main channel itself.
There is very little water here—only a few inches at the most and it is
running very sluggishly. There is a tunnel to the right up which we must
have come, but it is very low; I can hear the sound of swiftly running
waters, but I don’t feel strong enough to investigate in the dark.”

“Of course not, Alan,” answered Desmond, and then Jez-Riah said
pathetically, “I am hungry, O Ar-lane.”

Alan shook his head wearily. “There is no food here. The purple light
has gone. I am afraid we are far from the vegetation of the underworld.”

They talked in low tones for some time—they all felt ill and weak. The
papyrus and all their treasures were so far safe, and the censer still
remained fast on Alan’s back. Their clothes were nearly dry, so they
realized they must have been thrown up by the water for some
considerable time. While they talked they suddenly heard the sound of
heavy blows from somewhere above their heads. Then the sounds increased
and they heard that which it was impossible for them to mistake—they
knew it too well—the dull roar of blasting operations in a mine!

Alan’s eyes were shining. “Did you hear that?” he asked excitedly. “You
know that sound? Haven’t you heard that dull roar in the pit at
Grimland?”

Desmond spoke huskily. “You mean that we are—”

“We are immediately below a mine. White men are not far away, I am sure.
They may be Britishers like ourselves—oh, how can we get to them?”

Wildly they hacked at the roof above them, but the sounds they made were
puny and little and made no impression in the distance. Tired and weary
they all fell asleep, and when they awoke there was silence everywhere.
They were suffering terribly from hunger; could they have seen
themselves they would have been shocked at their appearance. Pale,
emaciated, with hollowed eyes and deep furrowed cheeks, they looked
almost like old men, instead of youths still in the glory of their
manhood.

They fell into a stupor, and hardly roused themselves, so weak and tired
were they, when all at once there came upon their ears a mighty
explosion which shook the place they were in and sent stones and rocks
hurtling all about them in the darkness. Then came a rumbling deep and
terrible.

“It’s all right,” whispered Alan. “They are only blasting again.” But
neither Desmond nor Jez-Riah answered him. Weak and hungry they lay
inert and senseless upon the ground. The throbbing overhead began again,
and Alan alone in his agony beat at the roof with his hands, but
realizing his weakness fell on the ground beside his cousin and gave
vent to dry, hard sobs.

He listened to his cousin babbling meaninglessly in the throes of fever,
and he heard the pitiful cry of the purple woman as she asked for water
to moisten her parched mouth. Then he too gave way. Strong and brave he
had been through all their privations, but he cried and chattered
insanely to the figures he conjured up in the darkness. Death was
hovering near them; the Black Angel was standing by them, and the Reaper
had his scythe in his hand only waiting for the opportunity that he
hoped would come, and that would enable him to cut down three more
sheaves for his well stocked granary.

                  *       *       *       *       *

“I can’t think where the water comes from, Mr. Vermont. There must be a
hidden spring somewhere. Can I have the pumps going and make
preparations for an excavation?”

“Certainly, Mennell, when you like,” and William Mennell, foreman of the
Westpoint Gold Mines in Walla Balla, Australia, started his
preparations.

The part of the mine he was working on at the moment was overrun with
water, which made the working very difficult, and was causing a great
deal of anxiety about the ultimate safety of the mine. The pumps were
made ready, a shaft was sunk, and they began to work.

“The trouble is there, sir,” said he, indicating the ground under his
foot. “I’ll have it all up to-morrow.” By six the next morning the men
were hard at work, and merrily they shovelled the earth aside, cracking
jokes meanwhile. Suddenly one of the men lurched forward and gave a cry
as he threw himself backward on the ground behind him.

“What’s up, Bill? Tea too strong this morning?”

“Take care,” he shouted. “There’s a landslip or something. My spade went
right through. There’s a hole there.”

Carefully they examined the place, and found that the ground was not
solid beneath, but below yawned a pitch dark cavern.

“Where is Mr. Mennell? What had we better do?”

Mennell came up. “Got a lantern, boys?” he asked. “Let’s see how deep it
is.” They tied a miner’s lantern on to the end of a red neckerchief and
let it down. “H’m, only about eight feet—during the blasting the land
must have slipped. My God,” he shouted. “Ropes! Ladders! I’m going
down.”

“What’s wrong?” asked Ferrers, one of his pals. “You look as if you have
seen a ghost.”

Mennell wiped the sweat off his forehead. “Look down there, Ferrers,”
said he hoarsely. “Can you see anything?”

Ferrers took hold of the lantern and peered down into the blackness.
Then suddenly he stood up and looked closely into Mennell’s face. “There
is something there,” said he in an awe-struck voice. “Something that
looks like men.”

“You saw too?”

“Aye, William.”

“Then it was no ghost.”

Down the rope ladder went Mennell, followed by Ferrers. They bent over
the inanimate forms of Alan and Desmond Forsyth and gently carried them
up into the mine.

“What’s that?” Ferrers pointed to a far corner of the cave.

“It’s a woman.”

Tenderly also was Jez-Riah carried up the swaying ladder. The miners
were all speechless. How was it possible for three human beings to have
got into such a position?

Reverently they were carried to the office at the bottom of the shaft
where the manager was busy writing. Mennell told him what had happened,
and the boys were laid side by side upon the floor. But when they looked
at Jez-Riah they could not repress a shudder. She looked almost inhuman
with her purple skin and protruding horn. They overcame their
repugnance, however, and forced brandy between her parched lips.

Desmond opened his eyes first. “Is this Marshfielden?” he asked.

“It’s all right,” said Mr. Travers, the manager, kindly, and he offered
him some more of the stimulant.

“Then I am alive?” He touched Mr. Travers’ hand. “God, I am among white
people at last,” and he fell back again unconscious.

“The doc’s above,” said a man. “I’ve been on the ’phone. Beds are all
prepared for them.”

So the two boys, wrapped in miners’ coats, were carried out into the
sunlight once again. Alan, however, did not recover consciousness at
all. He was worn out from hunger, fatigue and worry. Always the one to
have a comforting word to cheer his companions, this last experience had
been too much for him and he lay so still and quiet and cold, they
feared it would be impossible to save him. And Jez-Riah? She had come to
her senses and had called for Alan but the miners did not understand
her, and drew away from her in fear.

“What shall we do with—it—her?” asked Mennell at last.

“Take her above and put her in Dr. Mackintosh’s care,” said Mr. Travers
kindly.

“Right, sir.”

The day was perfect, the sun shining brightly, the sky was blue, a
transparent blue, and the birds were singing gaily. The warmth of the
sun’s rays came through the coat that was wrapped round Jez-Riah, and
she struggled to be free of it. The men put her on the ground, and she
stood, hands outstretched and gazed at the sun.

“Jovah. Har-Barim,” she cried, and smiled at the brightness all around.

Suddenly a change came over her features and she stepped out on to a
grassy patch. A crowd of men watched her, and their expressions showed
horror and intense fear. There was perfect silence for a moment, and
suddenly a voice cried out in tones so hoarse as to be unrecognizable,
“My God” and a man turned and fled. All the rest of the miners followed
him, their faces white and strained, and little work was done that day
at the mine.

And in a little saloon near by, half the men were drinking deeply,
drinking to forget the horror they had just witnessed; and they laughed
brazenly and made coarse jests in their fear, but not one of them spoke
to the other of what he had seen.




                                BOOK III
                             EXIT THE WORLD
                           (_After the War_)




                               CHAPTER I
                             AT WALLA BALLA


Nurse Mavis Wylton looked after her patients cheerfully; she was glad of
something to do. Life had been very dull in the little township and
although the advent of the two Englishmen had made her unaccountably
homesick, it had done a great deal toward breaking the monotony.

In the first year of the Great War she had taken up nursing, had tended
the suffering on the muddy battlefields of Flanders, had seen service
under the scorching sun of Salonica, had continued her labours in Malta,
Gibraltar and Egypt. She was in Cairo when the Armistice was signed, and
applied for a post in Australia at the conclusion of the War.

An orphan, she had no ties in the dear old Mother Country; her only
brother was sleeping in the company of thousands of others in the
battle-scarred region of Ypres. She was interested in her two
patients—they had come from the mine in an unaccountable manner: she
heard the story of the strange woman who had accompanied them and only
half believed it—it sounded so very improbable. How could it be true?
What was it Mr. Travers had said? She remembered his exact words.

“Nurse, it was horrible,” he told her. “As we watched, it—the woman’s
face—seemed to dry up and wrinkle until it looked like parchment. The
outstretched arms grew thin and bony; the body trembled violently and
crumpled up and fell to the ground,—and when I went closer all trace of
the woman had vanished and there was only a little patch of brown dust
on the ground and a little purple package that she had been wearing
fastened to her back.” The nurse could hardly believe anything so
horrible, so uncanny. Yes, poor Jez-Riah had had her wish. She had seen
the sun, had drunk in God’s pure air. But the atmosphere was too rare,
and she had died. Died? Nay, withered up, and returned to the dust from
which she had sprung, and nothing remained of the strange, underworld
creature, but a little powdery matter that was blown away to the four
winds of the heaven she had just existed to see.

Both Alan and Desmond lay in a semi-comatose condition for many days.
Their hardships had been so great, their experiences so terrible, that
it was marvellous that they had returned sane to the upper world. As it
was, both suffered from brain fever, and were now being nursed back to
health and strength. The crisis over, both boys were on the high road to
convalescence. Side by side in little narrow beds they lay, and
gradually the knowledge of their adventures came back to them.

Mavis had just entered the room one day when Alan broke the silence.
“Nurse, what day is it?”

“Tuesday.”

“What month, Nurse?”

“It’s Tuesday the twenty-fourth of June.”

“Midsummer day?”

“Yes,” she smiled. “Now you mustn’t ask a lot of questions, but I’ll
tell you this—both you and your friend—”

“My cousin,” corrected Alan.

“Well, you and your cousin have been very ill. You were brought here
four weeks ago and at first we despaired of your lives. You are both
much better now, and we hope to have you up very soon. Now don’t talk
any more—”

“Nurse,” he pleaded. “Just one more question.” He pondered a minute. “It
was June at Marshfielden when—Why it must be 1915!” he finished quickly,
Nurse Wylton frowned. Was this a new form of delirium?

“Now don’t ask questions—”

“Nurse, Nurse—I must know! We’ve been away a long time. If this is June,
then it _must_ be 1915.”

“We are a long way past 1915,” said the nurse quietly. “This is June,
1920. You must have mistaken the date.”

Alan looked at her in blank amazement. “1920,” he muttered.
“Desmond”—hoarsely—“did you hear that?”

“Now don’t talk any more,” commanded the nurse—and she drew the green
blinds across the window, and shut out the brilliant sunlight.

As soon as she had gone, Desmond spoke. “Six years in that Hell! I can’t
realize it. Over six years cut right out of our lives!”

“I don’t know how we are to explain our presence in the mine,” said Alan
thoughtfully. “I don’t think it will be altogether wise to tell our
whole story. I’d rather Uncle John knew first. He would, perhaps, get
old Sir Christopher Somerville to organize an expedition to Kalvar.”

“Yes,” said Desmond, “a properly equipped exploring party would find it
comparatively easy to prove the truth of our story. Why we have made one
of the biggest racial discoveries of the century. Historically and
scientifically we shall have benefited the whole world by our
experience.”

“Poor Jez-Riah,” said Alan suddenly. “What an end!”

The first day the boys were coherent, they had asked about their little
purple companion, and it was Nurse Wylton who had broken the news of her
“death.” The boys had taken it very quietly—and the nurse was unable to
form any ideas on the relation she bore to them. But they really felt
towards her as they would have done to a domestic animal. They scarcely
realized she was human.

In fits and starts the cousins recounted their adventures to each
other—even yet they could scarcely realize they had come through safely.
Daily they both grew stronger, and the marks of privation and suffering
which had so disfigured their features were nearly wiped away. They were
afraid to cable old Sir John and tell him of their miraculous escape.
“We must break the news gently to him—for he has mourned us both, and it
may be too much of a shock for him to learn we are both alive and in
Australia,” said Alan.

Desmond chuckled. “Australia! Fancy coming out at the other end of the
world! It’s almost like a fairy story, isn’t it? Do you remember we
wondered where we should eventually land?”

Nurse Mavis entered—her arms full of flowers. “Now,” said she briskly.
“There’s too much talking going on. I am sure you will both overtax your
strength. Besides I have a visitor for you this afternoon.”

“A visitor?” echoed both boys.

“Yes, Mr. Travers, the Mine Manager, is very anxious to see you, and he
wants to return you your property.”

“What property?”

“Some packages you had when you—came—in Walla Balla.”

The boys looked at each other blankly. They had entirely forgotten the
papyrus and censer and jewels they had brought from the Tomb of Korah.
They had been worrying about their financial position, and now, if the
jewels proved to be real, they could raise enough money and to spare for
their expenses and their fares back to England.

“Mr. Travers will be here in about half an hour,” went on the nurse. “Do
you feel well enough to be wheeled out in chairs to the garden?”

“Please,” said Desmond. “I’m sick of this room.” But they felt very weak
as they walked across the corridor to where the bath chairs were
awaiting them with many comfortable cushions and rugs.

One of the under nurses wheeled Alan out first, and as Mavis tucked the
rugs round Desmond, he whispered “Wheel me once round the garden first,
Nurse.”

The hazel eyes smiled down at the blue ones, and a touch of colour came
into the nurse’s pretty cheeks. Of the two strangers, Desmond was her
favourite. He reminded her of her brother—in many ways he was so
helpless, and she mothered him and cared for him, until love had
overtaken her unawares.

She wheeled him along the grassy paths, and he asked her to stop and
pick him a rose, but when she offered it, he saw only the roses in her
cheeks—smelt only the perfume of her hair.

“Mavis, Mavis,” he whispered, “will you come back to England with
us—with me—when we go? It seems too soon to speak—I’m an old crock—old
before my time—but you have brought me back to life and hope. I can’t
tell you what we have been through, Alan and I. Some day you shall know
the whole story. Meanwhile may I hope? I love you with my whole soul.
Come back to England with me as my wife!”

The hazel eyes grew tender as Mavis bent over the chair and smoothed the
thin hand that lay on the coverlet. “I do care,” she whispered
tremulously. “I have grown to care a great deal—but are you sure? I know
so little of you both. I realize you have been through some terrible
experiences. I won’t question you, I will trust you, but isn’t it wiser
to wait? Wait until you are stronger. Perhaps in England there was a
girl once,” the pretty lips trembled, “a girl you once cared for. She
may be waiting still—but you have been ill, and have forgotten.”

“No,” said Desmond firmly. “There has never been a woman in my life. I
swear it—never.” Suddenly, as he spoke, there came before his eyes the
picture of a purple woman leaping into the flames—Kaweeka. “My God!” he
cried, “listen, Mavis! I’m not worthy of you. One day I will tell you
everything. It is true there was a woman once—” Mavis stifled a cry.
“Listen. She wasn’t a woman of this world, but like Jez-Riah, the woman
who was with us when we came here. I did not love her—I think I loathed
her, but she was like a siren. She exercised an unholy power over me.
Mavis—she asked me to marry her.”

“Did you?” in a whisper.

A flush of shame came over the white face. “Yes, Mavis,” hoarsely. “For
weeks I lived in her house—until my cousin found me. When he appeared
she did her best to woo him also. She cast me aside, but he was strong
where I had been weak. No overture she made was strong enough to tempt
him. He it was who brought me to my senses and saved me from everlasting
shame.”

“You loved her?”

“No! A thousand times no! Mavis—it’s difficult to explain. Our whole
story is so improbable, so fantastic, that without certain undeniable
proofs which we hold, it would be considered as the phantasy of a
disordered brain. This woman was nothing to me really; when we were
together I loathed and hated her—almost feared her, but I was clay in
her hands. It was a difficult situation—at that time I did not
understand her language or the ways of her people. Oh, how can I make
you understand! She wanted me as a new kind of toy. She knew nothing of
morality or life as we know it. Her power was almost mesmeric.”

“Is she living still?”

“No. She died—oh, years ago,” passing his hand wearily across his brow.
“I am sorry, Mavis. I had forgotten. I had no right to speak to you, but
all recollection of Kaweeka had faded from my mind until you spoke of
another woman. Will you forget what I said? I beg of you, don’t despise
me too much.”

“Dear—I hardly know what to say. I forgive you freely. I nursed you back
to life, Desmond. I devoted my whole time to you. While Matron and Nurse
Fanshaw attended to your cousin, I watched over you. You grew dear to
me. I wanted to see your eyes look at me with recognition in them.
I—I—wanted you to—to like me—a little. Then when you first became
convalescent I loved to talk to you. Dear, I can forget the past. Life
since 1914 has changed. Women have changed. We are no longer the narrow
minded stay-at-homes we were before the War.”

“The War?” asked Desmond wonderingly.

“Yes, the Great War. The war with Germany.” He looked puzzled, but asked
no questions, only lay back with his eyes closed, thinking. “We
understand the temptations of sex,” she went on, “and can forgive. You
asked me just now to marry you. I’ll marry you most gladly whenever you
like, and I’ll do my best to make you forget your terrible experiences.
Wait—” as Desmond would have spoken, “I’ll ask no questions. When the
time is ripe you can tell me all. Meanwhile I’ll be content to love and
trust.” There was no one in sight; a tall hedge on either side of the
garden walk gave them shelter.

“Kiss me, Mavis,” said Desmond hoarsely. “Oh my darling, how I love
you.” And so the old, old story was told once more.

“Nurse Wylton! Nurse Wylton!” Matron’s voice was calling and it was a
rosy cheeked nurse who answered.

“Nurse, wherever have you been? Mr. Travers has been waiting over half
an hour to see the patients.”

Half an hour! Mavis offered no excuse—indeed she had none, and she
wheeled her charge to Alan’s side. As she turned away to fetch Mr.
Travers, she heard Alan say petulantly, “Wherever have you been all this
time, Dez?” but she didn’t catch Desmond’s reply. If she had it would
have set her thinking, for he said in an awe-struck tone, “Lanny, old
boy, do you know there has been a war—a war with Germany? And we’ve
missed it, old chap, we’ve missed it.”

Mr. Travers was a genial soul and loved by all the miners. He came
forward and greeted the boys cheerily.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you are both better. A nice fright you gave
every one to be sure. We wondered at first how you had got into such a
position.” He laughed heartily at the recollection.

“However, the explanation was quite simple after all, wasn’t it?”

The cousins looked at one another with questioning eyes. In their
opinion the explanation could hardly be called simple! Mr. Travers,
however, went on. “After you had been rescued, Mennell, our foreman,
gave orders for the men to cease work at that point. He wanted
investigations to be made, after consulting me. The following day,
however, we found the cave had filled with water, and the pumps were
kept very busy, I can tell you. Then part of the flooring caved in, and
the walls gave way. Oh, it was a horrid mess! However, it was eventually
cleared away, and we discovered the subterranean passage. Very ingenious
indeed.” And he rubbed his hands together. The boys were frankly
puzzled.

“When did you leave Karragua?” asked Mr. Travers suddenly.

“Karragua?” asked Alan.

“Yes, Karragua.”

Desmond opened his mouth as if about to speak, but Alan was the first to
recover his wits.

“Before we tell you our story, won’t you tell us what you discovered?”
he asked shrewdly.

“Certainly, my friend. I suppose it was some bet you had on?”

“Something of the sort,” agreed Alan, now wholly puzzled.

“I thought so. I knew I was right. I shall take a bottle of rum off Old
Man Paterson now. I told him it was the result of some freakish wager—he
would have it you had discovered it by accident.”

“Do go on,” urged Alan. The situation was becoming desperate. Neither of
the boys had the slightest idea of what Mr. Travers was talking about.

“Well,” continued the cheery manager, “you may be sure it took some time
to clear away the débris after the cave-in. When it was clear we saw a
passage leading out of it, and followed it about a mile, when it became
choked up; and as we had made no preparations we returned and decided to
continue our investigations another day.”

“Well?” from both boys.

“It was a Thursday. John Cornlake, Bill Watson and one or two other
good, all round pick hands came with Mennell and me. It was a long
road—two and three quarter miles by our pedometer—pitch dark, as you
know. Suddenly we saw a speck of blue in the distance. We moved the
boulder aside—how cleverly it is hidden among the rocks and undergrowth!
and we realized at once it was the exit of ‘Red Mark’s Tunnel’.”

Neither of the boys spoke—they saw the humour of the situation, but were
afraid lest by a word they might give themselves away.

“It must be a hundred and twenty years since it was used. How did you
come to discover it?”

“A fellow told us about it,” said Alan vaguely after the fraction of a
pause, and Mr. Travers was content.

“Of course when the shaft of our mine was sunk, the workmen searched for
the entrance to the tunnel, but it was never discovered, and I don’t
suppose it ever would have been except by a lucky accident. I suppose
you were unable to find your way back to Karragua—was that it? You were
in a pretty bad condition when you were found. We have already informed
the government of the discovery,” he went on, “and agents have been sent
down to inspect it. We are not sure what the result will be. Every one
in Walla Balla wants to have it opened up as a sort of showplace. It
would certainly do the township an immense amount of good. Red Mark and
his fellow convicts who escaped through it have certainly left a
wonderful monument behind them.”

So! It flashed on Alan’s mind at once. In some miraculous way the
entrance to the passage by which they had come from Korah’s tomb was
again blocked up. Their secret was still their own, but a subterranean
passage made by early eighteenth century convicts had been unearthed
instead.

“Did Red Mark dig the passage himself?” asked Alan.

“The story goes that Red Mark and a fellow convict escaped and commenced
a passage. Walla Balla was a large farm estate at that time, and was
employing nearly sixty convicts. Escape was almost impossible, the place
was so well guarded, and such brutal treatment was inflicted on those
that attempted to escape that few tried. Red Mark and his companion were
lucky, however, and they managed to elude the bloodhounds. Their friends
helped them with food. Feverishly they worked at the tunnel. It was
their plan to burrow to the sea. It took them several years to complete
it, but they accomplished their stupendous task at last. The night it
was finished fifty convicts vanished. They had ransacked the larders and
had taken plenty of food with them. Those that were left talked vaguely
about having heard of a subterranean passage, but it was never found—at
least not until now. Those convicts were never seen again. But at
Karragua Creek a small sailing craft disappeared, and on it doubtless
went Red Mark and his friends. But of course you’ve heard the story
before. How did you find the place—by accident? And then I suppose you
wagered you’d find your way through to the other end.”

Alan smiled. Mr. Travers was extremely helpful. He talked so much
himself that he gave no one else the chance of speaking, and he
considerately answered all the questions that he put to the
boys—himself.

“Yes,” said Desmond, who had taken his cue from his cousin. “We told a
friend about it, who wagered us one thousand pounds we would find our
way through. Unfortunately, our lanterns went out, we lost our way, we
had no food and—”

“And I suppose you were a week or more in that cave—hungry and worn
out?” finished Mr. Travers helpfully. “Now I’ve brought you your
property back,” and he handed them the packages they had brought from
the Tomb of Korah. “Oh, you might give me an official receipt for them,”
and he handed the boys a paper for them to sign. “By the way,” he
continued, as he put the receipt away, “that woman.” His genial face
grew solemn. “What was it—? Was it some—some joke you had prepared, or
was it—”

“I can’t explain yet,” said Alan shortly. “We are going home to England
where we have a very strange story to tell. I cannot explain the
phenomenon you saw, but I may have to call upon you to repeat the story
of her death. I suppose I may use your name?”

“By all means. I shall be only too pleased to assist you young gentlemen
in every way I can, but I shall be glad to hear about that woman—it was
damned strange. By the way, I sealed your parcels with our office seal.
I should like you to examine them to see they are intact.”

“We won’t bother now, Mr. Travers, thank you. We have absolute
confidence in you. By the way,” he added, as if in afterthought, “could
you put me in touch with any one who would buy one or two unset gems? I
have some with me, and am anxious to convert them into cash for our
immediate use.”

“That’s easily done,” said Mr. Travers. “Our general manager is
connected with Messrs. Frimpton, Long and Beauchamp of Melbourne. They
are, I think, the biggest dealers in gold and precious stones in
Australia. I will get an introduction for you.”

“Thanks very much.”

“Don’t mention it. Now I think I have stayed quite long enough for a
first visit. Good-bye, Mr. Forsyth. Good-bye, Mr. Desmond. Take care of
yourselves, and don’t get over tired,” and the kindly man left them.

“We got out of that pretty easily, thanks to you,” said Desmond as they
saw him disappear down a bend in the garden. “I couldn’t think what he
was driving at.”

“It’s extremely lucky the way to Korah’s tomb has been hidden again.
That heavy fall of rock and earth did us a good turn.” Alan remained
silent a few minutes, and looked at his cousin quizzically. Then
quietly—

“Haven’t you anything to tell me?”

“What do you mean?”

“Oh my dear chap—don’t think I am merely inquisitive, but we’ve been
like brothers all our lives. I’ve watched our pretty nurse; I’ve watched
you too. Have you spoken?”

“Yes. My God, Alan! I’m not worthy. Think—Kaweeka—”

“That is past. It’s no good worrying over what is done. You were not
responsible down there, alone, in that Hell. Have you told Mavis about
it?”

“I’ve tried to make her understand about Kaweeka—but I’ve told her
nothing about our adventures and our discoveries.”

“I’m glad of that. I should like Uncle John to be at the first telling
of our experiences. I’m glad about Mavis for your sake. I like her very
much—in fact I might say I’ve grown to be almost fond of her. All
happiness, old boy.”

“I should like to be married before we start for England.”

“Will she agree?”

“I think so.”

“Well I’ll be best man. Ah, Mavis”—as she appeared—“there is to be no
formality now, you know. You are going to marry one of the best, and
you’ve got to like me too.”

Mavis bent down and kissed his cheek. “There! Alan, see how cousinly I
can be,” said she laughingly. “Now it’s time you both went to bed—you’ve
been up quite long enough for one day.”

That night before the lights were extinguished she told them the story
of the Great War. “Where have you been?” she asked in bewilderment. “Why
every one in the world knows of it. It’s been horrible—terrible; white
fighting against white; white employing black to help them. Every nation
in the world suffered in one way or another.”

“I know it sounds improbable, dear, but neither Alan nor I knew the long
talked of war with Germany had really come to pass until you spoke of it
to-day. Don’t ask any questions—just trust me.”

“It’s all very mysterious and strange,” said she ruefully. “But I will
possess my soul in patience.”

As soon as he was able, Alan sent one magnificent diamond and half a
dozen emeralds to Messrs. Frimpton, Long and Beauchamp and received in
return banknotes to the value of five thousand pounds. The boys had also
chosen some diamonds for Mavis, and had had them set into an engagement
ring for the woman Desmond loved.

Already they were well enough to leave the hospital, but as Walla Balla
was only a very small mining township, there was no accommodation for
visitors, so the cousins remained at the hospital as paying guests.

One day, late in July, a very pretty wedding took place. The bride was
dressed in her nurse’s uniform and the bridegroom and best man were
arrayed in unconventional white duck. The ceremony was performed by the
local clergyman, and there was a big spread afterwards at the hospital,
to which everybody in the township had been invited.

Alan felt rather sad as he stood waiting on the platform for the train
to come in that would carry off the happy pair to their honeymoon. No
woman had ever entered his life. His great ideal was a dream still; and
he wondered if the time had passed for her ever to materialize.

“You’ll arrange for everything, won’t you?” said Desmond.

“Rather. Now don’t worry. The boat leaves Sydney at noon on the seventh
of next month—eleven days from now. It’s the Clan Ronald. I’ll book your
berths and await you there.”

“Good-bye.”

“Good-bye.”

Their farewells were said, and Alan was left alone. He stayed a few days
longer at Walla Balla among the friends he had made, and then travelled
by easy stages to Sydney. The country was very beautiful but he longed
to get home. He longed to see the smoky chimneys of London, the bustling
streets, to hear again the noisy traffic, and at last to enjoy the truly
rural beauty of the English lanes and woods. He longed to see his uncle.
Was he still alive? he wondered. He was afraid to cable; he was afraid
to write. Suddenly an idea came into his head and he wondered why he had
not thought of it before. He would write to his uncle’s confidential
clerk and friend—Masters. He could trust him to break the news gently.

                                                    “HOTEL MAJESTIC,
                                                        “SYDNEY.

    “DEAR MASTERS (_he wrote_)

    “_You’ll be surprised to hear from one whom you no doubt have
    long mourned as dead. Don’t be afraid—it is no ghost who is
    writing you, but a living man. I cannot explain everything in
    this letter, but I am catching the next boat home, and I will
    telegraph on reaching Plymouth the exact time we expect to
    arrive in London. Yes—it’s ‘we,’ Masters, for I have found my
    cousin Desmond. It all sounds wildly impossible I know, and I am
    writing you that you may break the news to my uncle that we
    still live. Tell him we are longing to see him. Tell him Desmond
    has found a wife and is bringing her home. I can say no more—my
    hand is trembling with excitement as I write. We have seen
    strange things, been to many strange places since we left
    Marshfielden, but impress upon Sir John, that had we been able
    to communicate with him we should have done so._

    “_With our renewed wishes to Sir John and yourself_,

                                            “_Yours very sincerely_,

                                                “ALAN FORSYTH.”

“There! I think that will meet the case,” and Alan fastened up the
letter and posted it.

The seventh at last! All the luggage was on board; Desmond and his wife
drove up radiantly happy to the quay and waved excitedly as they saw
Alan leaning over the bulwarks. The bell clanged, the sailors gave vent
to their sonorous cry, “All ashore! All ashore!” The siren sounded.
Gradually the great vessel glided away; the smoke belched out in volumes
from her funnels; the landing stage grew smaller and smaller until it
was out of sight altogether. The vessel had started on her journey to
England.

That night after dinner, when Mavis had gone to her state-room, the two
cousins had a heart to heart talk in the moonlight.

“It seems impossible we are really going home at last,” said Desmond. “I
feel like a child again. I have so much to learn. When we disappeared
aeroplanes were only beginning to be used—now they are almost perfect,
and are vehicles of every day use. The whole world seems to have
progressed a century in these last few years.”

“There certainly is a great deal for us to learn,” agreed Alan, “but we
must leave it to Uncle John. He will put us right about everything.”

“I wonder how he has progressed with his airship,” said Desmond after a
pause. “We used to laugh at the dear old chap; he has the laugh on us
now.”

“He always said that the future of commerce was in the air.”

“Have you the papyrus safe?” asked Desmond suddenly.

Alan laughed. “Rather! Or at least the Purser has. I bought a strong
deed box in Sydney and packed everything in it; here’s the key. When
next we open it, please God, it will be in the presence of Uncle John.”

Alan looked sadly at the scene in front of him. A brilliant moon had
risen and was sending its beams across the phosphorescent waters. The
air was sweet and balmy—the Southern Cross was discernible and the whole
scene was like a wonderful painting. The chud-chud of the engines and
the swish of the water was the only sound to be heard. Somehow, Alan
felt very much alone that night. Desmond, his childish playmate, his
boyhood’s chum, and later his companion in adventure, seemed lost to
him. He had married a wife. That was the trouble in a nut-shell. Things
would never be the same again. He was fond of Mavis—she was a dear girl,
and would be a splendid wife for his cousin—

“Good night, old chap,” said he huskily. “I’m tired. I’m going to bed.
I’ve been keeping you too long from Mavis.”

“Good night, Alan. I think I will turn in now. I shall tumble to sleep
as soon as my head touches the pillow,” he added boyishly.

“Good night.”

But it was early morning before Alan went to sleep. He wondered what the
future had in store for him. Would it prove as adventurous as the past?
Or would he remain a lonely old bachelor, a wanderer on the face of the
earth? No fixed home of his own—a favourite uncle, perhaps, to Desmond’s
sons. Yes, he was getting morbid. He was still young, barely thirty and
had his life before him. Somewhere, perhaps, a mate was waiting for him.
Somewhere, some time he would find his ideal,—and then—

The clock struck five; he yawned, turned over and fell asleep.




                               CHAPTER II
                               HOME AGAIN


In a lovely part of Perthshire, deep in a valley among the mountains,
lonely and hard of access, stood a curious building. Any one with a
knowledge of aeronautics would have recognized it as a hangar for an
airship. A narrow track led from it to a tiny cottage in which lived
three men—Sir John Forsyth, Abel Masters and Hector Murdoch, the latter
a trusty and faithful mechanic. Shortly after Alan’s supposed death, Sir
John gave up everything to the last remaining object of his life—the
completion and success of his giant airship. He had grown very secretive
about it. He had it dismantled and taken to pieces, and in pieces it was
sent to Scotland to await further experiments. A hangar had been built,
the workmen had gone—and then the three men set to work to build up the
“Argenta” once again. Sir John had disposed of his interest in the
Marshfielden collieries, and his London offices had been taken over by
the new owners, hence he had no tie to keep him in the great metropolis.

For over five years he had worked, and now success had come. The
powerful spirit he had perfected as a motive power was unexcelled and on
the morrow they were going for their first trial flight in the great
machine.

Sir John rubbed his hand affectionately over the shimmering metal. It
meant everything to him since his nephews had gone.

“It’s beautiful, Masters!” said he, and there was a note of triumph in
his voice. “It’s perfect.”

“Yes, sir. Three hundred miles an hour we ought to do comfortably, that
is the minimum, and from four hundred and fifty to five hundred at
express speed.”

“You’ve worked with me very faithfully, Masters. It was good of you to
pander to the whim of an old man, and bury yourself up here.”

“I was only too glad to come, Sir John,” answered Masters. “For
forty-five years I worked in your office—your father’s it was then, sir.
I was the first to congratulate him after Victoria, God bless her, had
made him a baronet. For over twenty years I was your confidential
servant—”

“Friend! Masters, friend!” gently corrected Sir John.

“Well, friend, if I may say so. I was always interested in electricity
and mechanics, and when you started experimenting, it was me you asked
to help you. I have never forgotten that, Sir John, and now I am proud
to have been the one to see the work of years rewarded by such success.”

“Where is Hector this morning?”

“He has motored to Arroch Head for the letters.”

“Is it the day?”

“Yes, Sir John, it’s Friday.”

“Ah, of course, so it is.”

Since Sir John had been living at Dalmyrnie, no one had his address
except the Poste Restante at Arroch Head—the nearest village fourteen
miles away. No persuasion was strong enough to make him reveal his
hiding place. He seemed to live in dread of his secret being snatched
from him. No precaution was too great to take to prevent such a
catastrophe.

“Lunch is ready, Sir John,” came a voice from behind him. It was Hector
who had returned. The three men all had meals together in the little
honeysuckle-covered cottage that had once been a gamekeeper’s. There was
no ceremony—they were all workers together.

The leather Post Office bag was on the table, and Sir John unlocked it
with the key that hung so prominently on the wall.

“What a budget,” said he testily. “Why do people bother me?” He began to
sort the letters. “One from Freemantle and Goddard—their account, I
suppose. That’s from Armstrong’s with their invoice for those aluminium
screws. A wire for you,” tossing the little orange envelope across to
Masters.

Masters picked it up gingerly. “Who ever can it be from? Oh,” as he read
it. “I don’t understand it. I think it must be meant for you, sir.”

Sir John looked up. “Why?” he asked.

“It was handed in at noon yesterday at Plymouth. It was redirected on
from the old London offices. It says, ‘Landed quite safely. Leaving
Plymouth this morning. Arrive Paddington 5:20. Will come straight to
you. Forsyth.’”

“Forsyth!” repeated Sir John. “Who on earth can it be? And if it’s for
me, why did they address it to you?”

“I don’t understand it at all, sir,” said Masters. “Haven’t you a
cousin—Dr. Forsyth who went to Canada some years ago?”

“Yes, yes! Malcolm Forsyth! Of course, of course. Well, I can’t see him.
I won’t see him. I don’t want to see anyone. But why did he wire you,
Masters? He didn’t even know your name.”

“I can’t understand it at all, Sir John,” then his face brightened,
“unless the clerk who redirected it put my name on by mistake.”

“Ah, perhaps that was it. Oh well, never mind,” said Sir John testily.
“You must write and say I can’t see him. Here’s a letter for you, too,”
he went on.

“I expect it’s from the Stores,” said Masters. “I have been expecting
their list of concentrated foods with the highest caloric value. We want
them in our flights.”

He opened the letter casually. “My God!” he cried and it dropped from
his nerveless fingers.

“For Heaven’s sake control yourself,” said Sir John sharply. Now his
airship was complete, his nerves were all on edge waiting for the trial.
“What is it? What is it?”

“I’m sorry,” said Masters penitently, “but I’ve had a shock. I’ve heard
from some one I thought was dead years ago.”

Sir John showed little interest. “Well let us now get on with lunch,”
was all he said.

“I don’t think I’ll have any if you don’t mind,” said Masters. “I must
go into Arroch Head at once and send a telegram. I may have the car I
suppose?”

“Why, of course, but do have your meal first.”

“No—no I can’t wait. I must go at once.”

Masters had had a shock. He had received Alan’s letter from Sydney, and
the meaning of the telegram was clear. Alan and Desmond were safe and
had arrived in England. He must wire them at once, and give them Sir
John’s address. He scarcely knew how to break the news to him, and it
worried him as he went into the little village.

“Have you wired your friend?” asked Sir John when he got back.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to see him—if so you had better take a short holiday after
the trial.”

“Thank you all the same, Sir John, but I’ve wired them to come to Arroch
Head.”

“The devil you have!” roared Sir John. “I suppose the next thing will be
that you want them to come over here and see the Argenta.”

“I was going to suggest it to you,” answered Masters imperturbably.

“Have you taken leave of your senses? Show my work—the child of my brain
to strangers? Never!”

“They are not quite strangers, Sir John. The fact is—” he hesitated, “I
told you I had mourned them as dead—so have _you_, Sir John.”

“What?”

“I have given them your address and—”

“You’ve given them my address?” spluttered the old gentleman in rage.

“Yes, Sir John—don’t you understand now? I told you that _you too_ had
mourned them as dead.”

Sir John looked sharply at Masters, and as he gazed deep into his eyes
he read there the truth. “Alan—Desmond,” he said hoarsely. Masters
nodded his head and Sir John sank back into his chair.

“Alan!” he whispered. “Is it true?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t joke, man, for God’s sake! Don’t fool me! It can’t be true. It’s
six years since the accident. Why the mine has never been in use
since—not that part.”

“Don’t you understand the telegram now, sir?” Masters held it out. “They
have been away, but now they are back in England.”

“Was that the letter this morning?”

“Yes! Read it.”

Sir John was plainly overcome. “I’m sure it’s a joke,” he muttered over
and over again. “It can’t be true. The thing’s impossible.”

All that day work was at a standstill. Hector alone saw to the bodily
requirements of the men, and meals as usual were served at their proper
times.

“They will be here for the trial,” whispered Sir John excitedly. “Oh my
God!” and the old man burst into tears. His grief at the loss of his two
nephews had been so great, his affection for them so sincere that he
could scarcely realize that in some miraculous way they still lived.

“Will you meet the train?” asked Masters as they retired for the night.

“Yes! Yes! Of course! Take the large car. Are you sure everything is
ready for them? You see there will be a lady, too. Desmond’s wife—my
niece.”

“Everything is quite all right. We have made the place quite
comfortable—we will occupy the two rooms there, and that will leave
three bedrooms in the cottage free. Yours, Mr. Alan’s, and the largest,
at the front, for Mr. Desmond and his wife.”

“Splendid, Masters, splendid.” It was a glorious, late September morning
when the Scotch express steamed in. Alan was out of the train first.

“Uncle,” said he, “dear old uncle.”

“My boy—my boy! How are you? Oh, how you have changed! Desmond, my boy,
welcome home!”

“This is Mavis, Uncle John.”

Sir John held her by the shoulders and looked into her eyes. She could
see that suffering had left its mark on the old man’s face, so she
impetuously flung her arm round his neck and kissed him. “Uncle John,”
she whispered. “I’ve heard so much about you from Desmond and Alan. I’ve
been just longing to come home—to you!”

It was a very merry party that drove home to Dalmyrnie.

“Eat your breakfasts,” commanded Uncle John. “You shall tell me your
story afterwards. But have a good meal first.” After breakfast, they sat
in the old-world garden, among the trees—Sir John and Masters, the two
boys and Mavis, and their wonderful story was told.

Desmond began by telling how he was caught by the Light, omitting
nothing, and Alan concluded the story. “Now here is the papyrus and here
are the jewels and the censer. These, I think, will prove the truth of
our strange story.”

“And you mean to say there is a race of people living in the centre of
the Earth?”

“Yes, indeed, where we have been actually living for the past few
years.”

“They are actually descended from Korah, Abiram and Dathan?”

“Yes, as I told you, they still speak a patois Hebrew—they possess a
copy of part of the Pentateuch—they worship the God of the old
Testament, Jehovah, the great ‘I am’.”

“And yet you say they are savage?”

“I don’t think my description can be good, if I left you with that
impression,” said Alan thoughtfully. “They are not like the black,
savage natives of the present day. I should say rather, that they still
possess the savage instincts of our forefathers. The sacrifice of living
creatures, even humanity, does not revolt them. They are impervious to
great pain themselves, and can watch it in others without flinching. The
living sacrifices they offered to the Fire must have suffered agonies
before life was finally extinct in them; but to their mind the pain they
were inflicting made the sacrifice still more acceptable to their
Almighty. They inflicted terrible tortures on their Virgin Watchers of
the Temple—they were cruel, cunning, vile—yet in other ways they were
too cultured to be called savages. Savage yes, but not savages.”

“I see the difference you mean, my boy. But didn’t you say they
worshipped the Fire?”

“Yes. It is itself a part of their religion. I don’t think I ever
understood it properly myself. They looked on the Fire almost as God
himself—not a different God, but just God. Yet at the same time they
believed that the God of their Fathers exists in the Heaven above the
Upper World. It sounds very complicated, I am afraid.”

“No, no, my boy. I understand quite well what you mean.”

“They believed they had to offer living sacrifices to the Fire to keep
it burning. The strangest part of their belief is, that when the Fire
does die out, then will come the consummation of the entire world—not
only theirs but ours too.”

“Then they know of our world?”

“Oh yes. Dathan and Abiram left written histories about the world they
had left—the world they had once inhabited.”

“Going back to the Fire,” said Sir John. “Is it large?”

“Enormous. We never saw it in its entirety. It seemed to stretch away
into the distance for miles. It was walled in with a glass-like
substance, and was absolutely unlike any fire we had ever seen before.
It seemed to have no real substance—was all leaping, brilliant
flames—yet the heart of it seemed solid and firm. During our stay we
could see that the Fire was really growing less and less. Imperceptibly
at first, but latterly by leaps and bounds.”

“I wonder what _will_ happen when the Fire does go out,” said Desmond
thoughtfully. “It has existed on itself for these thousands of years.
The only fuel that was ever given it latterly was human or animal life.
Surely that could hardly feed a Fire.”

“I think some world-wide catastrophe will come when the Fire dies out,
if ever it does,” said Alan.

“And Jez-Riah just fell to dust,” went on Sir John slowly.

“Yes.”

Mavis was very excited. “Why our fortunes are made,” she cried. “Of
course you’ll write to the papers?”

“We didn’t know what to do,” said Alan. “Desmond and I talked it over
and came to the conclusion we would tell Uncle John first and get his
advice.”

“No one else knows at all?”

“No one but us five.”

Masters looked up and gave Alan a grateful look. “It was good of you to
include me,” said he.

“Why, you are part and parcel of ourselves, Masters,” laughed Alan.
“Nothing would be complete without you,” and he shook hands heartily
with his uncle’s trusty friend.

“We must go back to London,” said Sir John at last. “I will wire Sir
Christopher Somerville—he’s President of the Geographical Research
Society you know—and Professor Chard of the Geological Society to meet
us in town. I will put the whole matter before them and take their
advice. But, my dear boys, I can scarcely yet realize I have you back
with me again.”

“Have you done any more with your Argenta?” asked Desmond suddenly.

Sir John’s eyes shone. “Come with me,” said he and he took them to the
hangar. “She is complete and I think perfect,” said he simply. Very
beautiful indeed looked the Argenta. There was a perfect grassy incline
leading from the hangar to a large, flat field.

“I shall run her down the slope,” he explained, “and the field in the
hollow is splendid for both ascending and descending.”

“Have you tried her yet?”

“No. We were going to try her yesterday, Mr. Alan,” said Masters, “but
Sir John postponed it until your arrival.”

“And we must postpone it again, I am afraid,” said Sir John, rather
sadly.

“Is it necessary, Uncle John?” asked Mavis.

“I think so, my dear. Your story is too wonderful to keep back a moment
longer than is necessary. We will go to London to-morrow, and after all
formalities are done with, will come back, try the Argenta, and if she
is as I think she is, we will go for a long holiday in her.”

“Shall I accompany you?” asked Masters.

“Just as you like,” answered Sir John. “Come with us by all means, or
stay with Hector and watch over the Argenta.”

“I would rather stay here, sir, if you have no objection. I’ve no ties
that take me back to town, and I would rather remain by the Argenta.”

Forty-eight hours later Sir John, Alan, and Desmond and his wife arrived
in London. Sir John had let his town house, so they chose a quiet hotel
at the back of Berkeley Square for their domicile.

Sir Christopher Somerville and Professor Chard kept the appointment
made, and once again the boys recounted their adventures. “Wonderful!
Marvellous! Miraculous!” the professors kept muttering to themselves, as
the improbable story was unfolded to them, piece by piece.

“Now,” said Sir John, when it was at last told. “There are seven people
only that have heard this story. What do you advise us to do?”

“I will see the Home Secretary,” said Sir Christopher at last. “This is
a Government affair, of course. England’s to the fore again; lucky they
found their way out on British territory. The question will be brought
up in the House—an expedition must be formed, and the two young
gentlemen would probably like to accompany us, and help us with their
knowledge of the place.”

“Don’t go again,” cried Mavis, her face blanching. “Oh you wouldn’t take
him from me?”

“Don’t be afraid,” said Alan kindly. “Nothing is done yet, and when it
is they will be probably quite contented with me alone.”

“Would you go again?” eyes wide open in horror.

“Of course, Mavis, but I’ll see that Desmond doesn’t go,” and he laughed
cheerily.

The professors called a general meeting of their associations upon the
matter of “THE DISCOVERY OF A NEW AND HITHERTO UNSUSPECTED PEOPLE” and
the two boys came in for a great deal of congratulation and applause.
Everything was settled at last, however; matters were directed through
the right channel and a statement was brought up in the House of
Commons. The only point that was not made public was the exact place of
the entrance to Kalvar. That was kept entirely secret—the Home Secretary
having pledged his word that until the necessary arrangements had been
made between the two Governments, that of the Mother Country, together
with the Commonwealth of Australia, most stringent secrecy should be
kept, so that no one could possibly know that Walla Balla was the
favoured spot.

All the papers were full of the new discovery. Reporters, ordinary
newspaper men, big newspaper correspondents, all found their way to the
little hotel. Alan and Desmond Forsyth had become famous! Kings and
princes,—commoners and dukes, all vied with one another to meet and
entertain the two men who had had such remarkable experiences.

At last the expedition was complete and was due to sail in a fortnight’s
time. Meanwhile, Alan, who was to accompany it, was to take a
fortnight’s entire rest. Geologists, historians, geographers, all wanted
representatives sent. Mechanics, electricians and a small armed force
had to be provided. The Government had already made a large grant to the
Mining Company at Walla Balla, and had the entire rights for excavating
a mile each way from the Second Pit.

The whole expedition was a voluntary one, and once again Britain and her
Colonies came to the fore as the greatest pioneers in the world.

The golden censer had been offered to the British Museum, and had been
gratefully accepted. The papyrus had been placed in the hands of experts
who pronounced the document to be genuine. Antiquarians from all parts
of the world came to see the relics, and the newspapers had paragraphs
in them every day, relating to the “Kalvar Expedition.”

“Phew!” said Alan one day as he leant back in a taxi. “That is the last
public speech I shall make for months, I hope.” He and Desmond had been
guests of honour at a luncheon given by the Society of Antiquarians.
“Thank goodness we leave to-night for Scotland. To-morrow we shall see
the Argenta. Nine months since we were there. What a lot we have crowded
into our lives these last few months.”

“I think we’ve made up for our lost six years,” laughed Desmond.

Masters met them at Arroch Head and was frankly glad to welcome them
back.

“Nine months since we were here,” said Sir John. “You’ve seen the news
in the papers, of course?”

“Of course, Sir John. The _Cavalier_ sails in a fortnight, I believe.”

“Yes,” answered Alan, “and I am going to take fourteen days real rest,
and then—well, off to Kalvar again, only this time of my own free will.”

The longed-for moment had come! Hector was in the mechanic’s seat, while
Masters navigated the great ship down the grassy slope. Gracefully she
slid out of the hangar, and down the incline and stopped on the level.
Sir John was very excited. “You are sure you want to test her?” he
asked. “Remember she has never been up before—you have only my word for
it that she’s safe. Desmond, don’t you think you had better stay with
Mavis, in case—”

But Mavis interposed. “Nonsense, Uncle John. This is _the_ day of my
life. Now give me your hand,” and she gracefully swung herself up the
ladder and on to the lower deck. Sir John followed suit, and they stood
side by side, watching the cousins ascend the ladder.

At last! They were all aboard and the six persons entrusted themselves
to the aluminium bird that shone brightly in the sunshine. They hauled
the grappling irons in, Masters touched a lever, and they started.
Slowly they ascended at first—but climbed higher and higher, faster and
faster until the hangar was lost to sight and they saw only broad
expanses of country below them.

“Oh!” said Mavis breathlessly. “We’re off. Where are we going?”

“I want to make a circuit of the British Isles, and then home to
Dalmyrnie.”

“But shall we have time?”

“At express speed we ought to do it in about four hours.”

“Only four hours?” in amazement.

“Well, we shall only go from Dalmyrnie—we shan’t touch further north
to-day.”

“Now,” went on Mavis impatiently. “I want you to take me all over this
wonderful ship. I want to see everything. I want to know how it is
possible to navigate and propel such a tremendous vessel by the work of
only two men.”

“Then we’ll start right now,” laughed Sir John. “Come, boys, we’ll
explore the Argenta, and then have some tea.”




                              CHAPTER III
                              THE AIRSHIP


“It’s wonderful, Uncle John! It’s almost beyond belief!” Mavis had
walked the whole length of the vessel on the under deck in silence. Her
husband’s arm was about her waist, her face was radiant, flushed with
excitement. Alan, too, was bereft of words; even his wildest dreams had
never imagined a vessel so perfect, so magnificent, so sensitive to
touch that two men could manage it with comfort and ease, and should
necessity arise, even one man could manipulate the tiny levers and
navigate it.

With a torpedo body some nine hundred feet long, its nose narrowed to
three feet, giving it a grace unusual in such a monster aircraft. The
entire body was composed of an alloy of aluminium, the formula of which
was discovered by much hard work and research by Sir John and Masters.
An upper and lower deck ran round the entire ship, about six feet wide,
which was covered with a fibre, and had bulwarks of aluminium.

At intervals round the deck, hatches were open, leading to the hold,
which contained the tank for the reserve propelling spirit, the
water-tank, larders and cold storage. Three ladders on each side and one
at either end led to the upper deck. The bow of the vessel was covered
with a kind of thick glass and formed a comfortable smoking room where
one could sit in comfort in wet or windy weather and gaze into space.
There was a dining room, a drawing room, and five bedrooms; all most
beautifully upholstered and furnished with the maximum of comfort. The
inside walls were polished like burnished silver, and the windows of the
same thick glass were hung with pale blue silk to match the upholstery.
There was everything for use and comfort; telephonic communication from
every room to every part of the ship—electric light—electric
fans—electric stoves—a pianola and there was even a gramophone on board.

Sir John had also remembered a good library of books, novels and serious
works, and a wonderful supply of writing materials.

“Why, you have forgotten nothing,” said Mavis. “Uncle John, I think you
have been wonderful.”

Perhaps the kitchens furnished Mavis with most interest. They were so
well planned out. In one corner stood an electric cooking stove, and on
the wall hung everything necessary for the success of the culinary art.
A pipe led from the water tank to the kitchen and there was a very
ingenious arrangement by which all waste matter was emptied into an
electrically heated tank which reduced everything first to a pulp and
then to steam, which escaped through a pipe to the outer side of the
ship.

“How much water can we carry?” asked Mavis.

“Well, in cubic feet, my dear—” commenced Sir John.

“No! no! Uncle John! I don’t understand cubic feet. Tell me how long our
water would last.”

“With the utmost care we can carry enough water to last six people two
months.”

“As long as that?”

“Yes, and then, should any unforeseen circumstances arise, by which we
were unable to renew our water supply, I could fall back on a wonderful
discovery I have made. See, my dear.” and he opened a small press.
There, on shelves, were packed row upon row of transparent blocks,
perhaps an inch square.

“What ever is it?” said Mavis, laughing. “Why, it’s camphor!” Alan
picked a piece up and examined it. It was certainly like camphor to look
at, but was odourless and of an intense coldness. “It’s done me. What is
it?”

Sir John made no reply but took from a little stand a small electric
heater. Upon this he placed a quart metal bowl, into which he put the
little cube. “Very gentle heat at first, my dears,” said he. “Ah!” as it
began to melt. “Now I think it’s safe to put on full pressure.”

Fascinated, they watched until the vessel became full of a sparkling,
bubbling liquid. Turning on another electric switch, he plunged a metal
needle into the fluid. It belched forth a cloud of steam, hissed
violently and then calmed down.

“What ever is it?” asked Mavis. For answer, Sir John poured the liquid
into three glasses and handed one to each.

“Try it,” he suggested. “It’s quite cold. That was an electric needle
which generates a coldness below freezing point.”

“Another invention?” this from Desmond.

“Yes.”

“There’s no smell,” said Mavis, as she delicately wrinkled her pretty
nose.

“And no taste,” averred Alan.

“It reminds me of something,” said Desmond. “I’m sure I’ve tasted
something like it before.”

“What is it, Uncle John? Do tell us,” pleaded Mavis.

Sir John laughed. “Water, my dear, just plain water. Desmond is quite
right, he has tasted it before.”

“Water,” said Alan in bewilderment, “but surely frozen water has a
greater bulk than when it is in a liquid form?”

“So it has, my boy. But I call this ‘concentrated essence of water.’
There is enough in that cupboard to last eighteen months. Of course we
should never want such a quantity, but the experiments pleased and
cheered an old man in his loneliness.”

He then opened another press and showed that it was packed with
concentrated tea, concentrated essence of beef and chicken, concentrated
essence of milk; it had everything in it that had been devised for
reducing food bulk to the minimum with a maximum amount of caloric
value.

“Eighteen months’ provisions,” he chuckled. “The Argenta could withstand
a siege.” The boat was sailing beautifully, ten thousand feet up; it was
a glorious day, cloudless and fine.

“Now for the chef d’œuvre,” said Sir John. “Why, where is Masters? This
is his work.” He telephoned through: “All going well?” he asked.

“Splendidly, Sir John.”

“What speed?”

“About three hundred an hour. We’ve just sighted Plymouth.”

“Plymouth,” said Mavis in amazement. “Why, we have only just left
Scotland.”

“Come along to us, Masters. I want you to demonstrate the working of the
atmospheric shutters.”

“Will you come into the compressed air room?” said Masters as soon as he
arrived.

They found it was quite a small room which held no furnishings of any
kind. Levers and switches and strange electrical contrivances were
everywhere, and on one side of the room were twelve levers, very like
those in a signal box on the railways.

“My idea was this,” began Masters. “We have ten engines on board, of
which we use only one at a time; the others are reserve stock, as it
were, or would be useful if we came up against very nasty weather and
needed a stronger power to use against the elements. At the time I
worked out my theory, Sir John had no interest in life. You two young
gentlemen we believed were dead, and I have neither kith nor kin. It
struck us, that one day we might try and reach the outside of the
earth’s atmosphere for experimental purposes. I needn’t go into exact
figures now, it would not interest Mrs. Forsyth, but you all know after
a certain distance up life becomes impossible. Should we ever reach that
height, we should have recourse to these levers,” and as he spoke he
pulled them down one after the other. “Now we will put the electric
light on, and I would be glad if you would step out on to the upper
deck.”

Mavis gave a cry of amazement. Gone was the view of the sky; gone the
heavens above and the earth beneath. The entire ship was covered in with
an awning of metal.

“Do explain,” said Alan.

“This covering works almost on the principle of a Venetian blind,” went
on Masters. “There are really two coverings, with a space of thirty
inches between. The levers release the metal and it unfolds and clips
into position by means of strong clasps. By means of another lever we
fill the cavity between with a mixture of gases—ether is the chief
component, and this makes our little home absolutely air proof and rain
proof; and above all it makes the inner vessel impervious to atmospheric
pressure or gravitation. We hope later on, by the aid of an electrical
device we are still working upon, to generate an atmosphere of our own,
outside the vessel, which will enable us to propel ourselves through
infinite space, and thus we should be independent of the atmospheric
peculiarities around us.”

“But how can we breathe?” asked Mavis the practical.

“Masters thought of that contingency also,” said Sir John.

“In the little room we have just left are dynamos for generating our own
electricity; there is also another dynamo for generating an
inexhaustible supply of air.”

“You have left nothing to chance,” said Alan.

“Nothing, my boy. Remember this is the culmination of over thirty-five
years of study and experiment, and the last five years have seen us
progress by leaps and bounds.”

“Our absence had its good side, after all,” said Alan. “Had we been
allowed to remain, you might never have got this machine to such
perfection.”

“I’d rather not have had those years of sorrow, all the same,” said Sir
John softly. “I’d rather have destroyed the Argenta with my own hands,
and never built her up again, than you should both have left me for
those long years,” and the old man turned away with a sigh. “Now about
our air supply,” he went on, recovering himself. “As the used up air
sinks to the ground, it is attracted into pipes, and by the aid of tiny
electric fans is driven to a large cylinder. There it undergoes a kind
of filtering process. The purer portions go into circulation again,
while the carbonic acid gas is taken down pipes which run along the
whole side of the ship to an outlet where it can escape into space. To
guard against the extrance of any unknown noxious gases, this pipe has a
trap in every foot, which closes mechanically as the gas passes through.
The mechanism of these traps makes it impossible for any foreign air to
enter. No matter where we are, or through what poisonous air we may
pass, we are protected from its entrance by this device; while it is
impossible for the ship to collapse while it is protected by its
envelope of ether.”

“Then you could live as long as your provisions lasted on the Argenta?”
asked Desmond. “You are not dependent on the outer world for anything?”

“We are dependent only on ourselves,” replied Sir John.

“Why, it’s like a fairy tale,” said Mavis.

“Tea,” said a voice from behind them. “Tea, Mrs. Forsyth.” It was
Hector. Masters had unobtrusively left while they were all talking, and
Hector had turned cook.

“Tea is served in the Bows,” said Hector again.

Masters had drawn back the shutters, and once again the little room was
flooded with sunshine. The telephone bell tinkled. “Well, Masters?”

“We are passing over Whitby, sir. Do you wish to cut across country
direct for Dalmyrnie, or will you go right round by the coast?”

“Time is getting on. I think we had better make straight for home.”

“Very good, sir.”

“It’s been a wonderful success,” said Alan. “More wonderful than I could
have dreamed possible.” Sir John beamed at the praise. “But, Uncle John,
leave your atmospheric experiments until I come back from Kalvar. I’d
love to accompany you on your adventures.”

“Would you really?”

“Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“Look,” said Mavis presently. “We are over Loch Tay. How beautiful it
looks from here. Why there is still a suspicion of snow on Ben Lawers.”

“We are very near home, now,” said Desmond, looking at her fondly.

Within a very few minutes the great vessel tilted ever so slightly, and
then with a graceful movement, slanted her nose to earth. There was only
the faintest suspicion of a jolt as she touched the ground, and then ran
smoothly along the field, coming to a standstill at almost the very spot
she had left a few hours before.

The trial was over! The machine had proved her worth.

Science had won yet another brilliant victory.




                               CHAPTER IV
                          THE END OF THE WORLD


Four days had passed, four days of glorious sunshine. Every day the
whole party had been for a trip in the Argenta. They never landed
anywhere, however, for Sir John was still jealous of his secret; he
wanted to test her in every kind of weather—he wanted to leave nothing
to chance, so that finally her worth could not be questioned.

It was nothing for them to circle over the Outer Hebrides in the
morning, come home for lunch, and then run over as far as Paris before
dinner. Scarcely any motion was to be felt in the boat.

Alan had made arrangements with Sir Christopher Somerville to accompany
the expedition to Kalvar. Desmond was to stay behind and look after
Mavis, who intended staying at Dalmyrnie until her baby was born. Her
fingers were busy fashioning tiny garments for the little newcomer,
whose arrival was expected very soon.

“What shall we do to-day?” asked Sir John. “Mavis, my dear, would you
like to rest? You look very tired.”

“No, nothing does me as much good as a sail in the Argenta, Uncle John.
Let us go up after lunch for a couple of hours.” There was a curious
stillness in the air, as the Argenta climbed up to six thousand
feet,—hardly a breeze, in fact.

“Oh I’m stifling,” said Mavis.

“My poor darling,” murmured Desmond lovingly. “Are you sure you are not
overtiring yourself? Your fingers never seem still. Always working at
something or other, aren’t you?”

She blushed prettily. “I can’t let—him—come into the world and find
we’ve not prepared for him, can I?” and she hid her face on her
husband’s shoulder.

“You’ve made up your mind it’s to be a—‘him’—?” he laughed.

“Of course, Dez. I must have a son first.” He laughed at her naïve
remark.

“Well if you feel tired be sure and tell me, darling, that’s all.”

“I shouldn’t be surprised if we had a storm later,” remarked Masters.
“Although the sky is clear, there is the curious oppressiveness that
usually precedes a storm.”

“Then let us get back,” said Mavis. “I am terrified at thunder.”

Majestically the Argenta sailed, gracefully she skimmed along the sky.
Now above the level of the clouds, now close down above the waters of
the Atlantic.

“How beautiful the islands look, dotted about in the water,” said Alan.
“It is indeed a pearl-studded sea.”

Hector came up to Sir John with a puzzled frown. “I don’t quite like the
look of the weather,” said he. “The compass won’t work, and the
altimeter is frisking about in a most unaccountable manner. There’s a
bad storm brewing, and I think we shall be wise to turn her nose round
and go back.”

“If you think it is best,” agreed Sir John, and as he spoke the sun
burst out in all its glory from behind a fleecy cloud. At the same
moment, away on the horizon, where angry blue-black clouds had gathered,
came a vivid flash of lightning.

“Oh!” cried Mavis as she covered her eyes, “what a terrible flash.” In a
few minutes the sky was black and gloomy, the wind rose suddenly to a
hurricane, and the big craft was spinning and twisting in a most unsafe
manner.

“We’ll go back, sir,” said Hector. “Now go inside, Mrs. Forsyth. Believe
me, there’s no danger.”

Then followed a most awful experience. The lightning never ceased, but
lit up the ship from end to end, the thunder crashed and the Argenta
rocked violently. Gradually they steered her round, and to the
accompaniment of a most vivid flash of lightning and a deafening roar of
thunder, the ship started on her homeward journey. At last they came
safely to anchor outside the hangar and Mavis, always nervous in a
storm, was now in a state of semi-unconsciousness. Desmond lifted her
tenderly out of the ship and carried her to the cottage. Her nerve had
completely gone.

That night a son was born to Desmond, and old Dr. Angus, who had been
fetched in haste by Alan, spoke very gravely of the chances of saving
both mother and child. The slightest shock would be fatal to her, he
announced, as he took his leave.

“I’m glad you had a nurse in the house,” he added, “a very wise
precaution when so many miles separate doctor and patient.”

“You’ll come again?” said Desmond hoarsely.

“I will be round again in the morning.”

Desmond, white faced, his hands twitching convulsively, stood on guard
outside his wife’s room. The ordeal was terrible, and the perspiration
stood in beads upon his forehead. Once he heard a tiny cry, then
stillness. He dared not knock—there was a nurse behind that closed door,
and he knew he could trust her. Still—.

A hand touched him. “Go to bed, Desmond, and try to get a little sleep.”
It was Alan. “I’ll watch for you, and I’ll give you my word I’ll call
you if you’re wanted.”

“No, no, Alan. I’ll stay here. If she wants me, I want to be near.”

So the hours wore on, and no sound came from the sick-room. Dr. Angus
motored up, and without a word disappeared within. An hour later he came
out and saw Desmond’s haggard face.

“You may go in for two minutes only,” said he. “Both your wife and son
will live.”

It was a white-faced Mavis who greeted him. Her face was lined with
pain; her hazel eyes were sunk deep into her head. In her arms she held
a bundle, a little bundle that was everything to the man and woman
beside it. “Dear, he’s like you,” whispered Mavis weakly, and then, with
an almost roguish smile, “I said it would be a boy.” Her eyes closed,
and with her husband’s hand in hers, she gave a contented sigh and fell
asleep.

“Whew!” said Sir John, a few days later. “I wouldn’t go through last
week again for a king’s ransom.”

“Thank God she has pulled through,” said Alan fervently. The two men
were sitting at breakfast, the first square meal they had had for a
week.

“Any news?” asked Sir John, as Alan was devouring the _Post_.

“Not much, Uncle John. There was a new Housing Bill brought up in the
House last night. The Government seems very rocky. There are hints of a
General Election. H’m. H’m—A bad earthquake in South America, I see.
Five thousand people killed. Oh, and a landslip or something in New
Zealand. How shocking,” he went on, “ten thousand casualties there. Why,
it’s as bad as a war!”

“No, it’s the States where the earthquake is,” said Sir John who had
unfolded the _Scotsman_.

“No, South America,” contradicted Alan. “Listen—

  “A tremendous earthquake has been felt at Lima, Valparaiso, and Buenos
  Aires. These three cities have suffered great damage. Over five
  thousand people have been killed outright, while the casualty list is
  considerably greater. The shock was felt in Bermuda, New Guinea and
  even as far north as Kentucky.”

“Then there has been one in the States as well,” said his Uncle. And he
read from his paper

  “The Meteorological office at Pimenta states that a serious earthquake
  has occurred in New Jersey.”

“Later.

  “News has now come through that Tennessee and Vermont have suffered
  considerable damage also. The loss of life is comparatively small
  considering the damage done to property. The tallest buildings have
  toppled over, shaken from their foundations. The electrical supply is
  cut off, and in many places severe fires are burning.”

“It seems all over America,” said Alan lightly. “I am glad we don’t go
in for those merry little sideshows in this country.”

“Your time is growing short,” said Sir John with a sigh. “I shall miss
you very much, my lad.”

“I shall miss you too, sir. But of course I am rather looking forward to
the expedition.”

The weather had been quite settled since the time when the Argenta had
encountered the terrible storm, on the day preceding the birth of
Desmond’s son. Slightly sultry, perhaps, but an occasional cool breeze
tempered the heat.

The next day all the papers were full of the epidemic of earthquakes
that were occurring in different parts of the world. Work in many places
was disorganized, and a fear was expressed that influences were at work
round Southern Europe which might mean that the earthquakes would be
felt nearer home.

Alan was due to sail in two days, arrangements had been made for him to
leave Scotland the following morning, when a wire came from Sir
Christopher Somerville. “Postponing departure of _Cavalier_
indefinitely. Fear unsafe to sail south. Awaiting favourable report from
Greenwich. Will advise you at earliest of arrangements.”

“Well, it gives us a little more of your society, my boy,” said Sir
John, and there was a pleased look in his eyes.

Alan picked up the paper. “My God!” said he suddenly, and his face
blanched.

“Following the news of the disastrous earthquakes that have been
scourging America and the islands of the South American coast,” he read,
“come accounts of further appalling phenomena. In all parts of America,
after violent cyclones, the land has in many places opened up, and
swallowed men, animals and buildings. The loss of life is abnormal—rough
estimates are given as high as 900,000 lives. Internal rumblings and
coastal waterspouts in Tasmania have caused a panic among the
population. The sea is too rough for even the largest boat to sail upon.
Natives are rushing hither and thither with no real idea of where to go
for safety. Volcanic eruptions are taking place in districts where for
thousands of years the volcanoes have been extinct. Scientists are at
present unable to account for this extraordinary outbreak of nature. As
we go to press, news has come through that Sydney has disappeared
entirely. San Francisco is in ruins. The whole of Cape Colony has sunk
below sea level—and the water has poured over the whole country,
sweeping everything before it. A later edition of this paper will be
issued at noon, and at intervals during the afternoon and evening with
news as it comes to hand.”

“It is the worst scourge nature has ever given us,” said Sir John.

“What I cannot understand,” said Alan, “is why it is in so many places
at once. Different latitudes seem to have suffered and different lands.”

All that day a deep depression had taken hold of the occupants of the
little cottage, and they were all very quiet. “Masters, motor over to
Arroch Head,” said Sir John, about six in the evening, “and if you can
get no further news, ring up the offices of the _Scotsman_. Tell the
Editor you are speaking for me. He will give you the latest news, I am
sure.” Masters was back within the hour, his face blanched, his hands
trembling.

“Well?” asked Sir John. “Is it as bad as all that?”

“It’s terrible,” replied Masters. “It’s coming nearer home. Rome has
gone entirely—so have Naples and Athens. Spain and Portugal are under
water. Authentic news is hard to get, as telephonic and cable
communication in many places have failed. Some air scouts were sent to
investigate, and witnessed the destruction of Spain. The air
disturbances were so great that it was with the greatest difficulty they
managed to reach England in safety.”

“Do they think this visitation will reach us?” asked Desmond, the
picture of his wife and child coming before his eyes.

“The _Scotsman_ says that so far the Meteorological Office reports no
disturbances within eighty miles in all directions of our coast. They
hold out a hope, that being an island, we may escape,” said Masters
brokenly.

There was no sleep for any one that night; but the morning came and
brought with it a blue sky and a gentle wind. There was not even a hint
of disaster in the clear atmosphere. Hector got the big Napier out, and
all but Desmond motored in to Arroch Head. He stayed behind with Mavis,
to keep all breath of disaster from her ears. The little village street
was full of white faced men, women and children, children frightened
because their parents were frightened, yet realizing nothing of the
danger ahead.

“Any news?” asked Sir John, of old Weelum McGregor, the hotel keeper.

“Aye, sir, an’ it’s no verra guid. Paris is on fire the noo. There was
an internal explosion in the neighbourhood of Versailles yestere’en, and
soon the roads were running with molten lava. Paris caught fire, and
every one is powerless to suppress it.”

Three days passed. England and Scotland were isolated—entirely cut off
from the outer world. They had just to wait and pray that their time of
tribulation would not come. The night was extraordinarily dark, the wind
moaned and rose in mighty gusts. The rain came down in torrents. The
thunder rolled in the distance, and occasionally flashes of lightning
lit up the horizon.

Mavis was very restless. “Is anything the matter, Dez?” she asked, as he
sat by her bedside.

“Why, dear?”

“You look worried. You make me feel anxious.”

“I’ve been worried about you, my darling, that’s all,” and he lied
glibly to the sick woman.

Then there suddenly rose on the air a terrific sound, worse than the
loudest peal of thunder, and the room was brilliantly lighted from
without as though by a mighty fire. Mavis rose up in bed; her limbs were
shaking and she drew the sleeping babe still closer to her breast. “What
is it, what is it, Dez? No, no, don’t leave me,” as Desmond was about to
leave the room. He put his arms about her and crooned to her as if she
had been a baby. The noise was terrible—one long, mighty roar. The room
shook with the vibration, and the light from without grew brighter and
brighter.

Sir John entered. “Mavis, my dear, you mustn’t be frightened. Hector and
Masters are launching the Argenta—we are going to take you up in her.”

“What is happening?”

“I don’t quite know, my dear, but Ben Lawers has broken out in flames.
Schiehallion and Ben More in the distance are belching out heavy, dark
smoke—I think it’s volcanic action. Now, we’ve talked the whole matter
over, and we feel that the safest place is inside the airship.”

“But listen to the wind—could it live in such a storm?”

“It is the safest place,” said Sir John firmly. “We will carry you and
baby down in a hammock. Nurse has already packed you a goodly store of
clothes, and then we’ll all sail away to a more healthy spot.”

“Are you sure there’s no danger?”

“No, my dear! It’s a magnificent sight to see the grand old Ben belching
out smoke and flames. Lava is pouring down his sides into the Tay, and
Killin is lighted up so that you can see the houses as if it was day.”

Gently Mavis was carried to the ship, and tenderly lifted aboard. There
was no time to waste. Sir John had only told half the truth to the
invalid. The lava from Ben Lawers was already spreading towards
Dalmyrnie. The hot ashes were being carried on the mighty wind, and the
men were scorched and burnt while they were launching the airship.

Feverishly Masters hauled aboard packages, and bundles, hasty provisions
to supplement those on board. A crash sounded behind them—the pine woods
at the rear of the cottage had caught fire! It was an unearthly sight.
Ben Lawers roared and hissed and spluttered, the pine trees crackled—the
whole countryside was lit up with flames. In the distance the
surrounding peaks and Bens were beginning to show signs of fire, and the
whole scene was like a page of Dante come true.

“Everything aboard?” asked Sir John hoarsely.

“Yes,” said Alan.

“Where’s Nurse? Isn’t she coming?”

“No! I tried to persuade her, but she wanted to get to Arroch Head to
her mother. I told her to take the runabout—she’s a fairly good hand
with the car.”

The flames drew nearer. Already their cruel tongues were licking round
the house. The hangar was smouldering. Suddenly there came on their ears
a deafening explosion—the reserve petrol had caught fire! The heat was
unbearable. “It’s no good,” panted Sir John. “Let’s leave the rest and
get off.”

“Please God we shall soon be out of here, and shall be able to land in
safety,” said Alan.

Scorched, blackened with smoke, Masters made one more superhuman effort.
He shipped his whole cargo in safety! He swarmed up the ladder, the
grappling iron was drawn in, and the great ship slowly moved, travelling
upward with her human freight.

The Argenta pitched and tossed, but Masters and Hector worked steadily
at the delicate levers. Now they headed her right, now left; now she
climbed above the average ten thousand feet, now dropped low to avoid
the nasty air patches. Mavis was in her bed, her eyes wide open in
terror. Above the roaring of the engines, came claps of thunder,
deafening and awe inspiring.

“I don’t understand,” she moaned. “What is happening?”

“It is impossible to say,” said Desmond. “But I feel we are safer here
than we should be on earth to-night.” And the night of horror passed.

Below, as they hovered to and fro, the whole country was blazing. Dawn
came, but an angry dawn. Dark clouds scudded across the sky; the thunder
grumbled in the distance, and occasional flashes of lightning
illuminated the angry heavens.

“Where are we?” asked Sir John.

“Over Edinburgh,” answered Masters from the other end of the ’phone, “we
have scarcely moved for the last four hours.”

“What?”

“The engines seem disinclined to work. I can’t make it out at all.”

The ship suddenly swerved to one side—a terrific explosion filled the
air, and they saw the Castle Rock suddenly shiver, crumple up, and fall
a shapeless ruin on to the railway line beneath. In a few minutes,
Edinburgh, the Modern Athens, Edinburgh the Fair, was a mass of flames!
They watched the populace, mad with fear, running aimlessly along the
streets. “This is awful,” muttered Alan. “Make south if you can. Let us
get away from this desolation.”

With a great amount of patience and skill, Masters at length managed to
get the engines to work. But they came upon havoc and destruction
whichever way they went,—indeed, the whole world seemed to have turned
upside down. They circled London, but the first metropolis of the world
had been the first English city to suffer from the terrible scourge.
Blackened, charred, lifeless, London was a city of the dead.

As they swung in space over the dead London, they tried to pick out the
familiar landmarks, but in vain—The Houses of Parliament were but a mass
of bricks and dust; gone was the Abbey of Westminster, levelled to the
ground was the mighty Tower of St. Edward, belonging to the Catholic
Cathedral—gone was the Tower of London. There was not a sign of life in
the once great city.

Aimlessly they flew in all directions. The whole of England was a
flaming mass. They headed for the Continent. It was true, Paris had
gone; Brussels was no more; there was not a city left. Denmark was wiped
out,—and the sea washed up noisily and angrily over a barren rock that
had once been Norway. At short intervals terrific explosions rent the
air, and the vibration caused the Argenta to perform many nerve-racking
aerial gymnastics.

“Head for the Atlantic if you can,” cried Alan in despair. For ten days
they had hovered over dead cities, dying lands, and waste voids.
Navigation was almost impossible, the hurricanes drove the craft this
way and that; now forcing her high, now bringing her low. It was all
very fearsome, very terrifying. Mavis was up, and with her baby in her
arms she followed the men about, a forlorn pathetic figure. Landing was
impossible—there was no place where they could land. They had plenty of
water, plenty of provisions, but they ate mechanically, scarcely
realizing what it was that Hector placed before them with unvarying
regularity.

They watched Europe sinking—the vast Atlantic was slowly but surely
washing over lands and countries that had once been great empires.

The Argenta was wonderful; no matter what the atmospheric disturbances
were, she always righted herself. The heat, at times, was terrific, and
the Argenta was forced to climb out of the reach of the burning wastes
below. Then the water of the ocean seemed to rise like steam—the
Atlantic itself was boiling, and as it grew hotter and hotter, the ocean
seemed to grow less in size.

The heat was so intense that the Argenta rose to a great height and
remained among the clouds. After some days she descended, but seemed to
be in a new world altogether. There was a large tract of barren land
stretched out before them—gone was the Atlantic in its vastness. Dead
bodies lay strewn about—the remains of great ships were embedded in the
earth. Animals, humanity, fish, lay mixed together in that arid waste.

Suddenly Alan spoke, very reverently. “And the sea shall give up its
dead.”

“The Atlantic?” whispered Sir John.

“I think so,” answered Alan.

And as they watched there came a mighty sound, greater than any they had
heard before. The whole world shook, and for one moment was a living
ball of fire. Then it shivered violently, split into a thousand pieces,
and from its gaping wounds belched forth smoke and flames. Once more
came the terrible sound, the sound of a world’s death cry; there was a
mighty crash, the flames went out and where the world had been—was
nothing.

All was black, all was gone; the earth had returned to its original
state; the sea had disappeared entirely; shapeless, dark,—the earth was
dead! And in her last convulsive hold on life, she shook the very
heavens. The Argenta was whirled round and round in a maelstrom of
agony, and then was shot into space.

With a mighty effort Masters released the shutters, and filled the
intervening cavity with the ether. It was his last conscious act. On, on
went the Argenta, at a terrific speed. The fury of the heavens seemed
let loose, and the atom in the firmament was like a wisp of wool in its
grasp. Turning, twisting, rolling, the Argenta was borne on the bosom of
the whirlwind, and carried with its seven souls of Terra; seven souls
that had escaped from, but had witnessed The End Of The World.




                                BOOK IV
                           THE PERFECT WORLD




                               CHAPTER I
                                IN SPACE


Space—infinite space! On, on, swept the Argenta through the heavens at
frightful speed. The engines were useless; the levers refused to work,
and the occupants of the airship sat within the shuttered vessel,
helpless.

For days they had eaten nothing—they were unable to move; terror had
them fast within its grasp.

“Sir John,” said Masters at last, “I’m going to make a cup of tea. Here
we are, and here we must remain until our food gives out. Mrs.
Desmond,—won’t you come and help me?” Mavis rose from an armchair, and
tenderly laid the sleeping babe on the cushions of a settee.

“My baby,” she murmured, “to think I bore you for this.”

“Come, Mrs. Desmond,” and Masters led the way to the tiny kitchen.

All sense of direction had gone, and the occupants of the giant airship,
had simply to accept the extraordinary conditions that had been thrust
upon them, and remain helpless in the Argenta, carried they knew not
whither, adrift in the heavens. They had ceased to reckon time, minutes
had no meaning; hours and days passed as one long whole. They were just
atoms, existing in space, which is infinite—where time is infinite—where
life itself is infinite!

Mavis entered with a tray laden with tea and biscuits—the exertion had
done her good, and already there was a slight colour in her cheeks.

The airship was ploughing along at a terrific rate, but its motion was
steady, and they could walk about in comfort. When first the explosion
that had accompanied the end of the world sent them spinning into the
infinite unknown, the Argenta had behaved in a most erratic way.
Broadside she skimmed like an arrow, throwing them from side to side,
then she reared up on her tail, and climbed the heavens almost
perpendicularly; then she would roll over and over, porpoise-like, until
the frail mortals lost all sense of everything except that a great
calamity had come into their lives.

“Where are we?” asked Mavis suddenly.

“I intend to try and find out,” said Masters grimly. “Whatever happens
we can’t be in a worse position than we are at this moment. I intend to
move the shutters from the bows and then we may get some idea of where
we are.”

“But is it safe?” objected Desmond, looking first at his wife and then
at his child. “So far we are safe. This mad journey must come to an end
some time or other. Why jeopardize all our lives for the sake of a
little curiosity?”

“Must it come to an end?” said Sir John thoughtfully.

“Of course,” answered Desmond. “We can’t go on forever.”

“Why not?” continued his Uncle. “Space is infinite. Now time is
eternity. We, when in the world—”

“How strange that sounds,” interrupted Alan.

“As I was saying, when we were in the world, we often used the
expression, ‘For ever and ever.’ If we thought what it really meant, it
dazed our brains; we wanted to probe further, and find out what it was
that came after that ‘ever and ever.’ We puzzled our intellects by
pondering on the infinity of time. I realize now, what Eternity is!
Since we have been here, I have ceased to count the minutes; I have
ceased to think of days, or night, or weeks. Time is! That is enough for
me.”

“Then you really think we may go on forever?” asked Desmond in horror.

“I don’t know. I certainly think it is as likely as not.”

“Oh God,” Desmond muttered between his clenched teeth.

“Come, dear,” said Mavis bravely. “We ought to be thankful that the
promptitude of Uncle John and Masters saved us from an awful death
below.”

“Are you sure it was ‘down below’?” asked Alan quizzically.

“Why, of course,” Mavis began. Then she stopped. “Oh I don’t know. That
is all so strange and puzzling.”

“Now, Masters,” said Sir John. “What were you going to do?”

“I was going to release the shutters from the bow. I can close the
patent traps, and leave the ether protection all round the ship,” he
explained to the others. “But it is possible to leave a small portion of
the glass in the bows, exposed, through which we shall be able to see
the course we are taking.”

“I think it’s worth making the experiment,” said Sir John, and they all
followed him into the comfortable front cabin.

“Now if you see the slightest sign of danger, ’phone me,” said Masters,
who was going into the lever room.

“How can you tell if danger is near?” asked Mavis with interest.

“This way,” said Masters. He pointed to a portion of the glass wall, now
covered with the outer sheet of aluminium.

“That portion of the glass is of extra thickness and strength. If the
outside air pressure is too great, or the gravitation or any unknown
element too powerful for it, that glass will bulge, either inwards, or
outwards. Only slightly at first, but it will get bigger and bigger
until it bursts asunder. Now, if you see the slightest suspicion of that
happening, ’phone through to me, and I will close the shutters again. At
any rate, we shall have done no harm, and at least we shall have tried
to do something to ease our position.”

In breathless silence they waited, watchful in the dark. Suddenly a tiny
ray of light lit up the stygian gloom. Bigger and bigger it grew, until
the whole of Masters’ wonderfully planned “lookout” was exposed to view.
Breathlessly they watched. There was not the slightest sign of strain
upon the glass. It was certainly capable of protecting them for the
present at any rate.

“All serene,” cried Alan through the ’phone.

“Everything safe?” from Masters at the other end.

“Quite safe.”

“Oh-h-h-h.” It was Mavis. “How wonderful!” They were looking into
endless space at last! They had no sense of location—no ordinary sense
of North or South—East or West. They were in the heart of the Solar
system, with no horizon to act as a guiding line! The vastness of space
overwhelmed them; there was no landmark to direct them. There was no
comforting horizon, with mighty arms outstretched, embracing the world.
There was nothing to give them a feeling of security. Here space just
“went on” for ever and ever, beyond human comprehension.

Wherever they looked, there was just—no end.

But the scene was beautiful beyond comparison. Away to their right, in
the dark recesses of the firmament, was a wonderful brightness.

“It’s the Milky Way,” said Mavis clapping her hands in ecstasy.

“I don’t think so,” said Alan. “But all the same, I think that gives us
an idea in what direction we are flying. That brightness must be the
Greater Magellanic Clouds in the Southern Constellation.”

“What, are they only clouds, then?”

“No, just stars. Stars of all magnitudes, richly strewn in the heavens.
Even the faintest of the nebulæ are more abundant than in any other part
of the firmament.”

“It’s wonderful,” said Sir John. “The illuminating brightness is almost
overpowering.”

They were unable to take their eyes from the cloud-like condensation of
stars—one of the glories of space.

“We don’t seem to be getting any nearer to it, although we are going at
such a pace,” said Mavis.

“My dear,” answered her uncle. “We are too many miles away to see any
appreciable lessening of distance between us.”

“What is that bright star there,” asked Mavis pointing. “Just a little
to this side of the Magellanic Clouds?”

“I don’t know. It certainly is wonderfully bright,” answered Sir John.

Alan was searching the heavens. “Isn’t that the Constellation of
Draco—the Dragon—?” he asked suddenly. “I think it must be. If so, that
star, as you call it, which lies between the Greater Magellanic Cloud
and Draco must be Jupiter.”

“Jupiter?”

“Yes. One of Jupiter’s poles lies in the heart of Draco, and the other
is close by the Greater Magellanic Clouds.”

Mavis puckered her brows. “Jupiter,” she almost whispered, “the Prince
of all the Planets?”

“Yes.”

“We don’t seem to know much about him, do we?” she went on.

“No,” said her husband. “The astronomers seem much more interested in
Saturn and Mars.”

“I’ve often thought,” said Alan, “that such a magnificent orb could not
have been created just to have shown our old earth light. Its beauty,
its grandeur, its magnitude, suggests to us the noblest forms of life.”

“You think it is inhabited?” asked Desmond.

“Why not? Surely its beauty and magnitude alone are a convincing proof
of the insignificance of our earth. If Terra was inhabited, populated
with many fine races of human beings, possessed of glorious scenery, and
full of nature’s wonders, surely if such a puny world as ours was
peopled, why should a far finer planet be debarred from possessing and
nurturing higher forms of animal life?”

“It sounds very interesting,” said Mavis laughing, “but I wonder whether
it’s true.”

“If people are on Mars, or Saturn, or Jupiter, they would hardly be like
us,” announced Desmond, grandiloquently. “They would either be like the
Mechanical Martians that Wells wrote of, or just animal life of some
gelatinous matter as favoured by Wolfius.”

“Oh you egotistical, egregious Englishman,” laughed Sir John.

“Can you beat him?” said Alan. “No one but a Britisher _could_ have made
that remark!”

There was a laugh at Desmond’s expense, and then Alan went on,
“Personally, I feel convinced that ours was not the only inhabited
planet. Even our feeble knowledge of the solar system, individually and
in bulk, has proved the wonder of Jupiter, the symmetry and perfection
of the system that circles round him, the glory of his own being, and he
should rank as the world of worlds. I should be inclined to believe that
Jupiter is not only capable of producing the highest forms of life, but
that his humanity surpasses in intelligence the most cultured, most
brilliant, most learned of our earth’s philosophers.”

“No, no, I won’t have that,” said Desmond. “Look at the brilliant men of
letters Britain alone has given to the world. Think of her eminent
scholars, dauntless pioneers—why no other country or world could compete
with Britain.”

“As I remarked before, the egregious Englishman!” said Sir John. “I
admire your courage, my boy, in sticking to your guns. I admire your
loyalty to the country that gave you birth. But we are not in the world
now, my boy. Our beautiful little planet has vanished, has disappeared
into the void from which it came; yet here, before our eyes, we see
Jupiter still existing, still a brilliant orb in the sky. Surely now,
Desmond, you are convinced of the minuteness of the planet upon which
you were bred and born?” Sir John put his hand on Desmond’s shoulder.
“While you were upon it, it was everything. Now it is nothing—gone—while
other planets still exist and shed their brightness over space.”

“I think,” said Mavis thoughtfully, “that if our own little world
possessed such a high form of life, and we measure a planet by its bulk,
then surely the Jovians must be the most highly favoured race in the
Solar Kingdom?”

A tiny cry came from the cabin behind. “Baby,” she cried. “Oh, I’d
forgotten him,” and she fled to her nursling who had missed his mother’s
care.

“Such are the wonders of the heavens,” said Sir John, thoughtfully.
“It’s so grand, so massive, so unbelievable, that it makes even a mother
forget, in its contemplation, her first-born, her little son.”

“Why he is not named yet,” said Desmond. “I had forgotten all about
that.”

“Well, we have no parson here,” said Alan. “Now our world has gone, can
we call ourselves Christians? How do we rank with the Almighty? Have we
become atoms tossed about on an endless sea, or Christians to whom
eventual release will come?”

“We are still in God’s Hands,” said Sir John reverently. “In the absence
of an ordained priest, a layman may administer the Sacrament of Baptism.
I am getting very old. I have one foot very near the grave. Shall I do
it?”

“Please,” said Desmond.

And whirling through the Solar system, belonging neither to earth nor
heaven, was performed surely the strangest rite ever known from time
immemorial. And it was in this strange place, in this strange manner
that Desmond and Mavis’ son—John Alan—was named.




                               CHAPTER II
                      ADRIFT IN THE SOLAR REGIONS


Life in the Argenta became very monotonous. After the first throes of
despair, the glimpse of the glorious expanse of the Heavens served to
cheer the prisoners within the ship. They had no clocks that were going.
During the terror of the first few days time had mattered so little to
them that they had let them run down. They now arranged to set all the
clocks, and judge the time accordingly, and plan out their days. Rise at
eight; lunch at one; tea at four; and dinner at seven and then to bed.
The “night” would pass and they would begin another “day.”

They reckoned they had sufficient food to last the twelve earth months,
and they could exist in comfort for three hundred and sixty-five days.
And with the minutest care, perhaps even longer. “We can’t live in space
for more than twelve months, surely,” said Mavis, but Sir John did not
answer her. They had consumed perhaps an eighth of their water supply,
and had the supply of concentrated water essence untouched. Still, they
were afraid to waste any for washing purposes, and considered it a treat
to be allowed to dip their fingers in any fluid that was left over from
cooking; even a drop of cold tea proved a boon to them, and they
gratefully damped cloths in it and wiped their hot and dry faces.

Alan fixed a piece of paper on the wall of the front cabin, and every
night before they retired, he would tick off the number of the day from
the time they had reset their clocks and begin to count again. Thirty,
forty, fifty, so the “days” passed, and little John Alan grew
enormously. The few garments that had been packed in their hurried
flight were now too small for him, and Mavis was forced to use some of
her own dresses, and cut them up for the growing child. He alone was
unconscious of the danger of their peculiar position, and he crowed and
gurgled and bit his toes, in complete babyish happiness and delight. If
anything, Mavis had grown more beautiful after the arrival of her child.
Her eyes glowed with maternal pride, and her cheeks were flushed with
joy as she watched her baby, born into such a strange life, grow day by
day fairer and more loving.

The library aboard, which Sir John had had the foresight to install in
his giant Argenta, proved a godsend to the weary travellers. Every day
they read aloud some old literary favourite, and renewed their
acquaintance with Sam Weller, Pip, the Aged P, and Little Nell; laughed
over the experiences of the “Innocents Abroad” enjoyed again the story
of “Three Men in a Boat.” But even with these diversions, with chess,
dominoes, and draughts; with singing and playing, they grew tired of
their enforced inactivity, and chafed at their surroundings.

Their air supply was excellent; the mechanism never failed in its work;
certainly the air grew hot and fetid at times but by the aid of electric
fans it was freshened and purified. Every day they looked out of the
little glass window, and drank in the glories of the heavens.

One day, it was the ninety-eighth according to Alan’s chart, Mavis
startled them all by a sudden exclamation.

“What is it, my dear?” asked Sir John, looking up from an interesting
game of chess he was enjoying with Alan.

“Look at Jupiter! Isn’t he large to-night?” said she. “Why, yesterday he
looked like a big star, to-day he is like the moon at harvest time.”

They all crowded round the little window.

“By Jove, you’re right,” said Alan. “We must be sailing in a direct line
toward him.”

“How plain the clouds are upon him,” said Desmond. “You can see them
plainly right across his face.”

The belts across the face of Jupiter were certainly very plain; across
the surface of the planet they floated pearly white, like masses of
“snow-clouds” as seen in England on a hot summer’s day. From the
equatorial region they merged, both north and south from a glorious
coppery colour, becoming a deep, ruddy purplish tint at the poles.

“Are they clouds like ours?” asked Mavis wonderingly.

“I don’t think it has ever been proved what they really are,” answered
Alan. “I think the general theory is, that those clouds as you call them
are, in reality, a vapour-laden atmosphere that floats across the orb.”

“I should love to go there,” said Mavis.

“Well, it looks as though we were making for that part of the
firmament,” said her uncle.

“It certainly does,” she retorted. “But when shall we reach there?”

At that moment Masters and Hector came in, in great excitement.

“The engines are working,” announced Hector enthusiastically.

“What!” from all.

“It’s true. Masters and I were tinkering at them this morning, when
suddenly the little starting cog flew round, there was a roar, a flash
of sparks, and they started properly.”

This was indeed good news, for ever since the end of the world the
airship had been propelled through space by some unknown outside
influence; her engines not only refused to work but her steering
apparatus refused to act.

“I intend navigating straight ahead,” announced Masters. “I’ll have
eight engines going, and then we ought to get up a speed of over four
hundred and fifty miles; that together with the pace we are already
travelling should help us considerably in reaching somewhere, if there
is anywhere for us to get.”

Eagerly they all went into the engine room, and watched first one, then
another of the powerful engines set going. They were however surprised
to find that they felt no difference in their speed; yet the speedometer
registered four hundred and twenty miles, and all eight engines were
working merrily.

They went back to the bows, and watched the universe stretched out
before them. They passed close to a star, whose name they did not know,
and its radiance lit up the little cabin for fourteen days, that were
marked off religiously on Alan’s calendar. Then came another terrible
time, when depression took hold of them all again, and they would sit,
silent, staring into space. Their eyes were dull and lustreless; their
limbs cramped from lack of exercise, and their brains torpid and
sluggish.

Perhaps Alan felt the deprivation of air and exercise most, but he
continued to be the cheeriest of them all.

“Oh, for some green vegetables,” sighed Mavis one day. John Alan had
been particularly restless, and she felt more than usually miserable.

“And plenty of nice rabbit food,” went on Alan cheerfully. “Crisp, long
lettuces, the rosy radish, juicy tomatoes, and above all the cool,
refreshing slices of the unwholesome cucumber.”

“Oh, Alan, I’m so miserable,” she sobbed. “Will this awful existence
never end? Shall we just die here, and this ship become the meteoric
tomb of seven unfortunates of the world? A tomb always spinning on, on,
through endless space, through endless time, like some lost soul.”

“Lost world, you mean,” corrected Alan. “You are mixing your metaphors,
and when a lady does that, it’s a sure sign she wants a cup of tea!”

“I don’t want a cup of tea, Alan. I just want to get a breath of air.
Alan, couldn’t you persuade Masters to open the shutters? Couldn’t we
just go on to the deck for five minutes—only five minutes?” she pleaded.

“My dear,” said Alan gently. “It’s quite impossible. Now listen
carefully to what I am saying. Long, long ago, we were out of the
atmosphere and the gravitation of our earth. In some way or other, the
tornado that accompanied the end of our world drove us through space
where nothing is! Oh, I know it sounds complicated, dear, but by all the
knowledge of science, as taught by the most advanced astronomers, long
ago we should have been suspended in space, unable to move or be moved,
outside the gravitation of other worlds; just atoms, motionless, still.
That hasn’t happened. We have defied the great authorities, and are
being whirled through the heavens by some power unheard of by the
scientists of the earth. Still, dear, we do not know whether there is
air outside. Should we lift the shutters that protect us, we might find
we were unable to exist.”

“That’s the word,” cried Mavis. “We aren’t living now. We are only
existing. We don’t know from hour to hour what terrible fate may await
us. If by lifting the shutters we kill ourselves, surely that is better
than this lingering death.”

“Mavis, Mavis, don’t.”

“Do you know we have only a month’s supply of food left?”

Alan looked at her in horror. “You don’t mean that, Mavis?” said he
incredulously.

“My dear Alan, you are just like all men. Sufficient for the day! That’s
your motto. You never enquired about the food. Since I took over the
culinary department, none of you have worried a bit, while day by day
I’ve seen our stock of provisions grow less and less. In a month’s time,
Alan, our food will be totally exhausted.”

“What about the condensed foods?”

“Oh we still have some of them—perhaps with extreme care they would last
another four weeks, and then—the end.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before, Mavis?”

“Oh I couldn’t,” hysterically. “You were all so contented. Besides I
didn’t realize the seriousness of it myself until to-day. Our flour is
nearly gone. You yourself said the bread wasn’t as good this morning. Of
course it wasn’t. It was just mixtures of every cereal I could think of
to try and make it last out.”

This news was indeed serious, and Alan walked thoughtfully to his chart.
Yes, he ought to have known. It registered five hundred and fifty-five
days. Over eighteen earth months they had been flying through the
heavens. Their food had lasted magnificently.

“Water?” he queried.

“We finished the tank water long ago. I’m pretty well through with the
cubes.”

“Let me come and see the food supply.”

Carefully he went over every item. Even yet, there seemed to be enough
to feed an army, but he knew how little there was in reality. “I think
if we have one good meal a day, we ought to make it last longer,” said
he. “After all, one good meal is better than three small ones, and
incidentally, we save over the one transaction. We must sleep longer,
that’s all. We will get up at noon, and have a cup of tea and a biscuit.
At four we will have dinner, and if we retire at eight, a cup of cocoa
then should suffice us. The longer we remain in bed the less food we
shall require. Come, let us tell the others.”

Sir John took the news very quietly. Not a muscle of his face
twitched—he might have been receiving a most ordinary announcement.
Masters shrugged his shoulders indifferently, and Murdoch went on with
his work as if he had not heard. Desmond took the news badly, however.
His face grew ashen. “Why should this have come upon us?” he cried. “We
had been through so much. Happiness came my way at last, and now—” He
drew Mavis fiercely to him. “I won’t lose you. There must be some way
out.”

“There is none, my boy,” said Sir John, “so you had better make up your
mind to that at once. Here we are and here we must remain, till by some
merciful intervention, we die, or are given release.”

“Where shall we ever find release?” from Desmond.

“In some new world, perhaps.”

“How big Jupiter is,” said Alan, looking out into the vastness. “He is
certainly a wonderful planet,” said Mavis.

“Is it my fancy or are we slowing down?” asked Sir John.

“I’ve wondered the same thing myself,” said Masters. “For the last few
days I have noticed an appreciable difference in our speed.”

But although the difference was so slight as to be almost undiscernible,
the new topic of conversation gave the prisoners new life.

The days passed—the quantity of the food they consumed grew daily less
and less, and they were growing weaker and weaker every day. At length
they gave up their cup of tea in the mornings—their tea had gone. Then
they halved their dinner portions making one day’s share of food last
two! But all the same the dreaded day came only too soon, and five
hundred and ninety-five days after Alan had put up his calendar, they
found they had only a few tins of concentrated food left. They were all
hungry. Little John Alan grew fretful, his mother feverish. There was
silence in the little front cabin, the silence of the grave. The little
party were all half asleep, when suddenly Alan rose. “What’s the
matter?” he asked quickly.

“What is it?” asked his uncle.

“Don’t you realize?—we’ve stopped! We’ve stopped!” It was true, the
Argenta was stationary at last! At the same moment Masters came rushing
in.

“We’ve stopped!” he cried. “The engines have refused again to work.”

They all crowded round the little “lookout,” but could see nothing. For
the first time for nearly two years their vision was limited. Gone was
the brightness of Jupiter, gone the glorious Magellanic Cloud—gone, too,
the many thousand points of light that enriched the heavens. All about
them was a moving vapour. It was unlike clouds, but surged and swirled
like heavy snow flakes. It was a whitish vapour that looked like
steam—that altered again and took on the hue of thick yellowish smoke.

“Where are we?” asked Mavis. “Can’t we get out?”

“We’ll see,” said Alan soothingly.

But still Mavis went on pleadingly. “Oh surely our chance has come at
last. If we opened the shutters now, we might get free altogether.”

The next morning, Murdoch was missing. His bed had not been slept in.
“Where’s Murdoch?” asked Alan of Masters.

“I don’t know. I’ve been expecting him to relieve me in the engine room
every minute. Is he in the kitchen?”

“No. I can’t find him anywhere.”

“Good God! Then I know what he has done,” said Masters brokenly. “He was
very upset over Mrs. Desmond yesterday. She wanted me to open the
shutters. Come.”

At the stern of the ship and on the lower deck was a little trap door in
the metal covering. “He’s gone through there,” said Masters hoarsely.
“He asked me a lot of questions about it last night. I told him about
the mechanism of this trap and he suggested we should go out on deck,
and see if it was possible to breathe out there. I laughed at him and
thought no more about the matter.”

As he was speaking he deftly wound a scarf about his nose and mouth, and
stuffed his ears with cotton wool saturated with oil. He touched a
spring and a sheet of metal unfolded and when it rested at last in
position, it formed a tiny air tight closet outside the trap. “I shall
open the trap as quickly as I can,” said he quickly. “On the other side
the deck is opened up and there is a space left large enough to test
thoroughly the outer air. But by the aid of this “cubby-hole” we still
have our ether protection kept safe all round the ship. Now I am going
out to see if Murdoch is there. If I don’t come back, don’t search for
me. It will be too late.”

“Masters, don’t go!” urged Alan.

“I must go,” grimly, “but I beg of you, if I don’t return in ten
minutes, forget I ever existed.”

Without another word he slipped into the little boxlike chamber, and the
door snapped to after him. They heard the sound of a click, rushing air,
and then, silence.

Five minutes passed—six—seven—eight. Sir John, Desmond and Mavis had
come up in time to hear the trap close, and quickly Alan explained the
position.

“Why did you let him go?” cried Mavis.

“Murdoch went for you, my dear,” he answered sternly. “Masters went to
save him.”

Mavis covered her face with her hands, and the tears trickled down her
face.

“My dear, don’t take it to heart,” went on Alan kindly. “If anything
happens to Murdoch, he will have given his life for his friends.”

Then a muffled cry came from within the little chamber. Quickly Alan
touched the lever, the folds of metal rolled back, and two figures fell
forward on their faces.

“Water,” commanded Alan, and Mavis rushed to get some.

“Have you any brandy left?” asked Sir John.

“A very little.”

“Bring some too,” he cried as Mavis disappeared into the kitchen.
Tenderly they wiped blood and sweat from the faces of the unconscious
men.

Masters opened his eyes. “Out there,” said he hoarsely. “Terrible
smell—sulphuric—can’t breathe properly—whirling clouds—eyes smart—don’t
go again.”

“He’ll do,” said Sir John. “How’s Murdoch?”

“He’s so terribly cold,” said Mavis.

Alan took his place by the still form. “Brandy,” said he. He looked at
the man on the floor. Thick veins like whipcords stood out upon his
forehead. Blood trickled from his nose, his ears, his mouth. His lips
were swollen, and were blue in colour and cracked.

“He’s gone,” said Alan.

“Dead?” cried Mavis in horror.

“Quite dead.” Gently they carried the dead man, who had risked his life
for his friends, to his little sleeping cabin. Tenderly they laid him on
his bed, covered up his face, and closed the door softly behind them.
Then they went back to Mavis who was watching over Masters.

“How is he?” asked Desmond.

“Better, I think. He asked for water. I think he is sleeping now.”

Alan bent over their old and valued friend. The look of pallor had
vanished, the veins subsided, he was breathing naturally.

“Poor Murdoch,” sobbed Mavis. “I feel it was my fault. I was always
worrying you to open the shutters and let us go outside.”

“Don’t worry, little one,” said Sir John. “He died like an English
gentleman.”

“Oh how terrible everything is,” she sobbed hysterically. “There seems
no end to our torment. Oh this horrible place, this horrible ship of
doom!”




                              CHAPTER III
                       THE VISION OF A NEW WORLD


Perfect silence, perfect stillness, and the clouds whirled round and
round outside.

In vain they tried to move the ship. The engines worked smoothly, and
with perfect rhythm, but were powerless to propel the Argenta.

The death of Murdoch had a terribly depressing effect on every one—they
all missed his kindly brusqueness, his forethought and stolid help.

When Masters was sufficiently recovered he told his story. “I got
through the ether all right,” said he. “I was through in a second and
was standing on the exposed deck at the mercy of the elements. The cold
was intense—I’ve never before experienced anything like it. In those few
seconds it just cut through me. I could hardly see—my eyes filled with
water, and smarted terribly as the gaseous vapour touched them. I
lowered my handkerchief for the tiniest fragment of a second, and drew a
very slight breath. The effect was terrible. My lungs felt as if they
would burst—my mouth felt as if it had been seared with hot irons—my
senses reeled; I felt as if I should fall. Then I became conscious of
Murdoch lying huddled at my feet. I pulled him into the cabin after me,
and well,—you know the rest. Poor Murdoch—I was too late.”

The excitement following the loss of Murdoch and Masters’ adventure
after him, had made the hungry prisoners forget the emptiness of their
larder. They all sat down to a hearty meal, and it was only at the end
they realized it meant their being on still shorter rations in the
future. And only too soon the larders were indeed empty! Mavis grew too
weak to move, and lay helpless on her bed, her baby at her breast.
Masters was the last to give in, and as he walked unsteadily to his
cabin, he had visions of Sir John on one chair and Alan on another, each
vainly trying to whisper words of comfort to the other.

Still the ship remained motionless—the stillness was of the grave.

Suddenly a whitish beam of light shot out through the clouds, and Alan
saw a new moon rising. And as he watched he saw another skim the
heavens, and another, and yet another. He looked at them in
perplexity—four pink tipped crescents in the sky!

“Four Moons! God!” he cried. “The four satellites of Jupiter! Or should
there be eight? Four—eight—eight—four.” His brain muddled. Four Moons
visible at once! Jupiter! He was witnessing the rise of four of the
planet’s moons! He was watching them through the misty clouds—then came
a blessed sense of oblivion, and he too, lost consciousness. When he
awoke again, it was with a feeling that the Argenta was again moving
through space—moving slowly, but with a speed that was gradually
quickening. He staggered to his feet, and bent over his uncle. Sir John
was still breathing, but there was a curious greyness in his face, and
Alan moistened his lips with a drop of brandy. The old man moved, and
opened his eyes. “Drink a little,” said Alan kindly. “It will do you
good.”

Sir. John managed to swallow a little of the burning fluid, and sighing
naturally, closed his eyes in sleep. With difficulty, Alan managed to
reach Desmond’s room, for he was very weak. He found Mavis lying on her
bed, hardly breathing: the babe lay in her arms sleeping peacefully. She
had given the very essence of her strength to her child, and he had
scarcely suffered at all.

Desmond was breathing heavily, jerkily, the breath came like sobs from
between his clenched teeth. Alan forced some of the brandy between his
lips and said huskily, “Dez, old boy: don’t leave me, old chap; we’ve
been through some tight corners, don’t give up yet.”

Desmond struggled to a sitting position. “Good old Lanny,” he muttered.

“I must see Masters,” said Alan. “Keep up, if you can, till I return.”

Alan reeled from side to side in his weakness as he struggled on to
Masters’ cabin. It was empty! He was almost too weak to think or act
coherently.

“Masters,” he moaned. “Where are you?” Slowly he made his way back to
the little room in the bows, and as he neared it, a brilliant beam of
light shot across his path. The unexpectedness of it threw him off his
balance, and he would have fallen, had not Masters rushed forward and
put his arm about him.

The light was strong. So strong that they could feet the heat of its
rays through the little glass window.

“What is it?” he asked.

Masters could hardly speak. His lips were swollen and blackened, and his
tongue parched. “Help,” said he thickly. “That light is like a magnet—it
is drawing us somewhere. It’s sent out by human agency I am sure. See
how it flutters and fades, only to come bright again.” They watched the
ray—it was focussed directly on the bows, and it seemed to be drawing
them closer and closer to some harbour of refuge. Still they were going
through the encircling clouds, which had suddenly turned to a most
beautiful roseate hue. Then without any warning they emerged and found
they were gazing on the most wonderful scene they had ever beheld.

It was more wonderful than their thoughts could have expressed. Imagine
hovering over the most wondrous piece of natural scenery—double—treble
its beauty, and even then you could have no idea of the grandeur, the
poetry of the picture they gazed upon.

They were, perhaps, three thousand feet up. Mountains rose all round
with rocky crevasses, and wonderful waterfalls dashing down their sides.
Foaming waters trickled and bubbled and laughed by the sides of grassy
paths. An inland lake glowed in the glory of the sunshine. Trees of all
kinds nestled in the valleys and climbed the hillsides.

A sea—a glorious azure sea—with dancing waves and white flecked foam
rolled merrily in and out on wonderful white sands. There were rocks and
caves, and velvety grass slopes along the sea shore; babbling brooks
merged into the blue, blue waters; tall lilies, virginal white, mingled
with roses, red like wine, and grew in clusters at the water’s edge. All
was nature at her best—unspoiled by man.

Wooded islets were dotted about in still more wonderful bays; birds
white as snow, birds with plumage rainbow-hued floated idly on the
waters, and added to the picturesque beauty. They could see little
buildings nestling among the trees here and there, buildings that, like
the châlets of Switzerland, only added to the beauty of the scene.

The airship had stopped suddenly, and they were unable to move her, and
still they hovered over the wonderful land. Sea—sky—both of a most
glorious blue; the verdure of this new land was green—“The same as our
world,” murmured Alan.

“But with what a difference,” whispered Sir John.

“I never knew what the sea was until now,” said Alan. “I never realized
what ‘colour’ was—what blue or green meant, until I looked down yonder.”

New life was born in the three men. “I’ll call Desmond,” said Alan.
Mavis was lying as he had left her—white, inert, silent. “Leave her,” he
told his cousin. “She will be quite safe; but we’ve news at last—we are
in sight of land.”

When he reached the bows again, he saw they had dropped a few hundred
feet, and were now well below the summit of the mountains.

Below them, in a fertile valley, they saw what they thought were six
giant birds running along a field. They rose, soared straight up, and
flew directly toward the Argenta. They were like swans with outstretched
wings, and necks like swans; but never had they seen birds of such a
monstrous size.

“They are as big as a small plane,” said Sir John wonderingly.

“By Jove, I believe that’s what they are,” said Alan.

As the “birds” drew nearer, they could see that the body was in reality
the car of the plane. Soon six were circling round the Argenta, and the
prisoners within could see figures standing in the cars of the strange
looking aeroplanes.

The Argenta gave a jolt, and quivered from stem to stern, and they felt
themselves sinking. The newcomers had thrown out some kind of grappling
rope and were pulling them to earth. They were nearer to this wonderful
country. Already they could see the brilliant flowers—trees laden with
wonderful fruit and bright plumaged birds fluttering about without any
sign of fear.

“Release the shutters,” said Alan hoarsely.

“No,” said Sir John with decision. “Remember we have on board a
defenceless woman and her child. We don’t yet know if we are in the
hands of friends or enemies. I’ll get my revolver. Dez, my boy, I’ll
give it to you. Stay in your cabin and be prepared. You understand?”

“Shoot—her?” asked Desmond hoarsely.

Sir John bowed his head. “Surely you would rather do it than me?”

“Yes—but—”

“There is no ‘but,’ my boy. Rather death than horrors unnameable. Stay
in the cabin with your wife and child. If I think we are in good hands I
will call you. Otherwise, I will give our whistle—the one we used when
you were boys—the three sharp calls, and a long minor note,” and he
illustrated it softly. “If you hear that,—don’t hesitate, my boy.” They
gripped hands, and Desmond, dazed, speechless, walked unsteadily out of
the room, and they heard the click of his cabin door as it closed behind
him.

Slowly, but surely the Argenta was being dragged down to the field
below. At last they touched solid ground—there was a scrunch and a
grating—they were on some earth at last.

“Alan,” said Sir John grimly. “I have two other revolvers on board.
Masters, if the worst comes to the worst, and I give the warning whistle
for Mr. Desmond, go in to him. If he does not turn the weapon on himself
do it for him—and keep a spare bullet for yourself.”

“I understand, sir.”

The six white “birds” had also reached land, and from out of the bodies
they saw strange figures appear. The figures were like themselves—yet
how different! The men approaching were perhaps under average height,
but they were beautifully moulded, muscular with a symmetry of form that
was glorious to behold.

All but one wore white—a garment that reached to their feet, and which
resembled in shape a Roman toga. This white garment was embroidered with
richly coloured silks at the neck, wrists and hem. On their heads, they
wore fillets of gold. The leader was garbed in a garment of the same
shape, but of a glorious blue bound with gold, and his fillet was
studded with gems that shone and flashed in the sunlight. All walked up
to the Argenta and smiled through the little window at the occupants.
Then the leader opened his hands—held them up empty, and with a charming
smile, bowed low before them. Then he seemed to issue a command, and all
the others, there were altogether perhaps thirty of them, followed his
example, and bowed before them.

“They look friendly,” said Sir John. “Masters, let the shutters be
raised—then stand near Mr. Desmond’s cabin. If I shout—‘view halloo!’
bid him to come out on to the upper deck, but—”

“But if I hear the whistle, sir, I shall know what to do.”

“Keep your revolver hidden, Alan,” said Sir John, and they made their
way to the upper deck.

They waited in silence for the ether to be pumped back into its
cylinders, and for the shutters to lift. Gradually light came creeping
in through chinks here and there—higher and higher was lifted the moving
metal, until at last the two men drank in fresh air and bathed in
glorious sunshine once again. They found they could scarcely move along
the deck—in fact it was with the greatest difficulty they could keep
their balance. They felt horribly material and gross.

“What is it?” whispered Alan.

“The law of gravity, my boy. Wherever we are, I should say it is about
three times the strength of that we were used to when we were on Terra.
I think we have about trebled our weight.”

The strangers had advanced—the leader was smiling graciously. He gave
another command, and his band of followers came to a sudden halt, and he
approached the Argenta—alone. He addressed them in a language they did
not understand.

“I do not understand—” commenced Sir John, but before he could say any
more the stranger spoke—haltingly it is true, and as if unused to it,
but he spoke in English.

“Where are we?” cried Sir John in amazement.

“You are on, what I think you would call—Jupiter.”

“Jupiter?”

“Yes. And may I welcome you strangers to our land of plenty. I know not
who you are or whence you come—but you are welcome—very welcome. But you
look tired—”

“You are not enemies, then?” cried Sir John.

“Enemies?” repeated the Jovian. “I understand not the word.”

“You are friends?”

“Friends of course—we are all friends. Can you find a more beautiful
word than friendship?”

“Thank God! Thank God!” cried Sir John, and with a wild “View Halloo”
issuing from his lips, he fell senseless to the ground.




                               CHAPTER IV
                        JUPITER AND THE JOVIANS


The sweet toned bell in the Observatory at Minnaviar rang violently, and
startled the students out of their usual calm and placidity.

Kulmervan looked up from his studies. “What is it, my Waiko?” said he in
his own language to his friend.

“I know not, my Kulmervan. Let us go to the Turret Room, and see.” The
two astronomical students at the most important meteorological college
on the whole of Keemar, went swiftly up the wide, marble stairway to
their Djoh’s room. Before they were half way up, the bell rang louder
than before.

“Haste, my Waiko,” said Kulmervan. “The Djoh is anxious.” As they
reached the archway leading into the experimenting room, the Djoh met
them.

“At last,” said he testily. “At last you are come. I summoned you as
there is a most remarkable phenomenon registered by the sensitive disc.
After we recorded the destruction of the planet ‘Quilphis,’ you will
remember, we discovered a new comet or meteor that seemed to have
separated from the planet itself. We witnessed this extraordinary ‘star’
whirling toward us, daily nearer and nearer. Our learned Ab-Djohs
consulted together as to the meaning of this extraordinary thing. At
last I was consulted, and by the aid of every scientific means we
possessed we tried to discover the substance of this new moving orb. You
recollect?”

“Yes, my Djoh,” answered Kulmervan, the senior student.

“Look,” said the Djoh triumphantly, and he led the way to a large disc
that stood in front of the large window. This disc was of glass, and was
connected by etheric pipes to a large telescopic tube fixed outside the
window. It was by the aid of this that the Keemarnians studied the solar
system, and learnt about the other worlds in the sky.

As Kulmervan looked into the disc, he saw, by reflection, a peculiar
body suspended in the heavens—stationary it rested near Wirmir and
Kosli, the twin stars of Gorlan. “What is it?” he asked eagerly, while
Waiko, the younger student, stood silent, listening eagerly to the
conversation.

“It is the meteor of Marfaroo,” said he. “It is the strange body that
detached itself from Quilphis, when the life of that unfortunate planet
was run.”

“But it is still now, my Djoh.”

“The four Meevors have not yet risen, my son. In fourteen permos from
now, they will be bright and shining. When they are at their full, they
will draw that orb within our surrounding vapours. Then we must direct
our light rays upon it, and draw it within our atmosphere. It is a
wonderful thing, my son, and will aid us in our knowledge of science. My
theory is, that it is a minute portion of the planet Quilphis itself.
Oh, very small, hardly as big as the Rorka’s palace; but the knowledge
of its composition will help us in our research. Take turn and watch
with me, my sons, and at the right moment we will direct our Ray upon
it.”

Eagerly the students watched. The honour was great the Djoh had put upon
them, and they were eager to be present when the light of the four full
Meevors should shine upon the strange presence in the sky.

“But the time the Kymo sinks to rest, my sons, the fourth Meevor will be
at the full, and we will watch the developments with interest.”

The three surrounded the little disc; the pale beams from the Meevors
shone distinctly on the glass; there was a movement—the foreign body
moved slowly toward them.

“The Ray,” cried the Djoh. “Summon the Ab-Djohs.”

Ten Ab-Djohs appeared at Waiko’s call. They were all dressed in the
green tunic and vest and short cloak—the symbol of their calling as the
highest astronomers in the land, bar one, the Djoh himself, who wore a
voluminous cloak and tall, conical hat in addition. The wise men
adjusted the focussing apparatus and directed the nozzle toward Wirmir
and Kosli. A whirring noise sounded—and then suddenly shot out a most
glorious ray. “When Kymo has risen but four thoughts, the orb will be
here,” announced the Djoh. “Waika, go call Waz-Y-Kjesta. Tell him the
Djoh has words of import to utter.”

Soon Waz-Y-Kjesta appeared. He was a handsome man, fair-haired,
long-limbed. He wore his blue toga as became him as Waz of the air
birds, the vessels which were used by the inhabitants of Keemar to
journey by the sky.

“Fetch in that strange star, O Waz,” said the Djoh. “Bring it to earth,
and I will await its arrival here.”

Waz-Y-Kjesta bowed low. “Your will shall be done, my Djoh,” said he, and
he went swiftly to the place where his air birds were housed.
“Mashonia,” said he to his Waz-Mar, or Lieutenant. “Order out six air
birds, we go on a mission for the Djoh.”

In a very short space of time, six beautiful “birds” rose from the
ground and skimmed toward their goal which was now approaching very
rapidly.

“My Waz,” cried Mashonia suddenly. “It is part of no planet that we are
approaching. See, there is glass in front, and men like ourselves are
looking toward us!”

“They are like us, yet unlike us,” said Waz-Y-Kjesta. “They are habited
in sombre clothing—they look dark and gloomy.”

“Where can they come from?” asked Mashonia wonderingly. “All sons of
Keemar would signal us. They are strangers from another world, I fear.”

Gradually they circled round the Argenta, and brought her safely to the
ground. They watched the lifting of the shutters curiously. This was
indeed the strangest “air bird” they had ever seen. When Sir John gave
his wild cry, the Keemarnians realized that the strangers who had come
in so wonderful a manner to their land, had suffered acutely. “Send for
six Bhors,” said Waz-Y-Kjesta quickly, “these friends are ill.”

In the shortest space of time, the Bhors, the Keemarnian carriages,
appeared. They were comfortable litters like vehicles, laden with rugs
of silk and downy cushions. Above were canopies of silk which shaded the
occupants, who swung hammock wise from a wheeled frame, into the shafts
of which were harnessed magnificent colis—beasts very similar to
Shetland ponies, only with long curly hair.

At a command from Waz-Y-Kjesta, Mashonia and another leapt nimbly over
the bulwarks of the Argenta, and without a word, in turn carried all the
erstwhile prisoners of the airship, and placed them on cushions in the
comfortable Keemarnian equipages. As Alan was carried past the Waz, he
murmured feebly. “A guard for the Argenta, please.”

A look of surprise passed over the Keemarnian’s face. “What meanest
thou?” he asked.

“A guard,” urged Alan. “The Argenta contains all our possessions.”

“A guard?” answered Kjesta. “Nay, why should we do that? It is safe
there. It does not belong to us. Fear not, no one will touch it, my
friend.”

Gently the colis stepped out, drawing easily the Bhors and their
occupants. “Drive to the palace of the Jkak,” said Waz-Y-Kjesta. “We
must acquaint him first with the news of the arrival of these
strangers.”

The weary travellers saw nothing of the country through which they
passed. They were too weary and worn to raise themselves on the cushions
and look around. The cool breeze swept across their faces and refreshed
them, so they were content to remain as they were and not think or worry
about the future.

A runner was sent before to acquaint the Jkak of their near approach,
and as they stopped at his beautiful palace, men came out, unhooked the
hammock part of the Bhors, and carried the occupants into the Jkak’s
presence. He was awaiting them in the cool reception hall, and regal and
patriarchal he looked, in his robe of loose green silk, with his golden
fillet low upon his brow.

“My brothers,” said he in a low musical voice. “Welcome to Keemar, the
land of all good. Eat first from yonder viands. They will revive you.”

Trays daintily laden with food and wine were placed before the hungry
travellers. The Jkakalata, consort to the Jkak, attended to Mavis. “A
child,” said she, “and a woman, too. Come, Persoph,” to her husband,
“give me that glass of friankate—it will revive her.” She moistened
Mavis’s lips with the fragrant wine—Mavis opened her eyes, and as she
looked at the kindly woman’s face, she burst into tears. “Who are you?”
she cried.

“I am Mirasu, the Jkakalata,” she replied. “Drink this, it will do you
good.”

Mavis drank long of the sweet liquor, and ate the strange fruits that
were placed before her. Alan, as usual, was the first to recover and
made a movement as if to rise from the Bhor.

“Nay,” said Persoph. “Do not move, I beg you. Rest, and later you can
tell us your story.” Then he turned to Desmond. “She with the babe—she
is yours?”

“How did you know?” asked the perplexed husband.

“By the look in your eye when my Mirasu handled your babe,” said the
wise old man sagely. “It was the look of possession.”

“Yes, she is my wife,” said Desmond.

“Wife—ah! that is the word. Now rest among the cushions of the Bhors.
Rooms are prepared for you. Sleep, my friends, until the Kymo rises
twice again. Then refreshed and strong we will welcome you among us, and
listen with interest to your story.”

The Jkak’s palace was of a glorious green marble, highly polished. In
the entrance hall was a huge fountain. Six beautiful maidens, their
garments chiselled out of coloured marble, held large shells from which
poured water into the basin beneath. The figures were life size, and
gracefully moulded. Lovely water flowers grew all around, and coloured
fish swam in and out among the pebbles and plants.

Up a wide stairway, which branched out into large galleries, the
strangers were carried, the Jkak himself leading the way, as if he were
doing homage to the Rorka himself. They wended their way through a
narrower passage which widened out again into a spacious loggia. In the
very centre of this space four malachite pillars, highly polished,
supported a crystal shell out of which poured sparkling waters into a
pond beneath. There were six doors round the loggia; at the first the
Jkak stopped, opening it himself, led the way in. With gentle hands
Desmond and Mavis were transferred to soft, downy beds. “Rest, my
friends, and sleep until Morkaba brings you wine and food.” Then the
other three were taken to separate sleeping apartments, where their
weary limbs rested in contentment on the soft, downy cushions.

Desmond and Mavis’s room was perhaps the largest—a glorious room with a
wide balcony upon which were growing the most beautiful creepers and
plants—with wonderful perfumes and flowers. An enormous four poster bed
stood in the centre of the room, with its back immediately in front of
the door. A canopy of silk was overhead; there were no sheets or
blankets upon it, but there was an abundance of cushions, and silken
rugs of all hues. Easy chairs, plenty of mirrors and a dressing table
furnished the room. The walls were of a polished pale pink marble, and
the fittings, tapestries and silken hangings were all of colours that
blended and made one harmonious whole. All the other rooms were similar,
except in the colouring, and on the polished marble floors were spread
rugs of exotic colours.

A silver bell tinkled! To Mavis, it sounded like the Angelus on a summer
morning. She opened her eyes; again the bell sounded. “Where am I?” she
cried, and with sudden remembrance. “Baby—where’s Baby?”

Desmond woke. “Where’s Baby, Dez?” she asked again piteously, and even
as she spoke she heard the sound of a tiny chuckle, and by her side on a
bed, the miniature of the one she was on, lay her baby, crooning with
delight. The bell tinkled again. Desmond went to the door and opened it
slightly. A smiling girl was outside with a table on wheels. “Your
mushti,” said she wheeling it toward him.

“To eat?” queried Desmond.

“Of course. It is pleasant on the ‘vala,’ outside among the flowers—have
it there with your friends.”

“Thank you. It’s breakfast, Mavis,” said Desmond. “Look out on the
balcony and see if Uncle John is there.”

Mavis was almost too bewildered to ask any questions, and obeyed. There
was a tiny gate dividing their balcony from the next, and she went
through. “Uncle John,” she called softly.

Sir John, Alan, and Masters appeared at the window of the next room.

“You’re awake then?” laughed Alan.

“Yes.”

“Have you had any food?” asked Desmond.

Alan laughed. “A table each—and chock full. Shall we wheel ours along
and all have it together?” In a trice the six were sitting down to the
first real meal they had had since they had so miraculously escaped from
the end of the world.

The tables were of different coloured glass, and were laden with food
very different from that to which they had been accustomed. There were
jugs full of steaming liquid, neither tea, coffee, nor cocoa, but with a
reminiscent flavour of all three, and extremely refreshing. There were
wines—fruits whole, and fruits compote. There were cereals served almost
like porridge, and there was bread too. Bread and tiny, crisp rolls,
biscuits sweet and biscuits plain, and pats of golden butter. It was a
delightful meal, refreshing, invigorating, and so different from the
stodgy, unwholesome tinned meats they had been living on for so long.
There was also a tiny tray for the baby—a bowl of fresh new milk and
some rusks. A plate of a kind of arrowroot mixture was greatly
appreciated by little John Alan, who cried out “More—pese, mum, more.”

“The little beggar likes it,” said Sir John. “He appreciates the change
too. Well, here we are all on land again at last, and among friends.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Mavis.

“We’ll throw ourselves on the mercy of the Jovians of course; make up
our minds to settle down in a new world, and live the remainder of our
lives in peace and contentment.”

“Shan’t we ever go home again?” Mavis’s eyes widened, and she looked
imploringly at the others. The truth was forced on her mind at last. She
had no home! Gone were all her pretty possessions—gone her trinkets,
her books, her silver. Gone also her delicate trousseau—her frocks,
lingerie, jewels.

Everything was gone. The world itself had vanished.

“Now, my dear,” said Sir John. “We must acclimatize ourselves to this
new life. After, all, we can easily do that. We have been treated as
honoured guests, so I must speak to the Jkak, and find out our future
standing in this world.”

“They speak English!” said Alan wonderingly “How is that? Surely we are
the first English people who have found their way here? There can’t be a
colony of Britishers in Jupiter!”

The bell sounded again, and Alan went to the door. Waz-Y-Kjesta stood
outside. “The Jkak is eager to see you,” said he. “If you feel strong
enough and sufficiently rested, come with me and I will lead you to
him.” They followed him down the stairs to the entrance hall, and
through into a spacious apartment.

“The Reception Room,” said the Waz. “The Jkak wishes not to be on formal
terms with you—he bade me bring you to his garden room.”

Through a doorway they went and out into the most glorious garden they
had ever seen. Fountains splashed in the sunlight—tiny brooks gurgled
over white stones, as they wound round beds of flowers. There was a riot
of colour in this wonderful garden—glorious, flowering trees and shrubs
abounded—creeper-covered archways were everywhere, and at the further
end they could see a creeper-covered arbour, hung with exotic blooms.
Inside this were easy chairs, settees and comfortable lounges. The Jkak,
and Mirasu, his Jkakalata, were seated there awaiting their arrival, and
rose to greet them.

“Now tell us your story,” said the Jkak, “for wonderful it must be.”

“First,” said Alan, who at Sir John’s request, acted as spokesman, “how
is it you can understand our language? Surely English isn’t spoken
here?”

“English?”

“Yes. We are English. We come from that part of our world that was known
as England, you know.”

“We have the ‘gift of tongues’ my friend,” said the Jkak. “Until we
spoke to you, we had never before heard your tongue, but the moment you
spoke we understood. I cannot describe our gift—it just—is. We of Keemar
all speak one tongue. No confusion is here. Until you came, we had never
had the opportunity to benefit from this gift we all believed we
possessed. To-day, all Keemarnians are thanking Mitzor, the Great White
Glory and Tower of Help, for His graciousness in having conferred upon
us this gift, and for allowing us to have the means given us for using
the ‘gift of tongues’. We understand, all of us. We may not understand
every expression you utter, for things are different in other worlds,
and we ourselves no doubt possess peculiarities of our own—still we can
converse freely with you.”

“It is a wonderful gift to possess,” said Sir John.

“Now your story,” insisted the Jkak gently.

So Alan told the whole story of his life since the time when he and
Desmond first went to Marshfielden. He told of the Light, and the people
of Kalvar—of their wonderful escape from the bowels of the earth, and of
the end of the world.

“So Quilphis is no more,” said the Jkak. “Indeed, we witnessed its
destruction, and thought that your airship was part of the planet
itself. And so,” he went on, “you believe that the end of the world was
caused through the failure of the fire in the centre of the earth?”

“I feel sure of it,” said Alan. “During our stay in Kalvar, we noticed
that the Fire grew daily less and less. And the purple people prophesied
that when the Fire went out, then would come the end of the world. I
think that, in its last dying gasp, it tried to get a new lease of life.
In its gigantic death struggle, it burst its bonds, and earthquakes,
volcanoes, and water spouts were the result.”

“Oh, it was horrible,” said Mavis shuddering.

“And your ship—the one you sailed in—you must invite me to see it,” said
the Jkak.

“Why, of course,” said Sir John. “Have you not been?”

“It is not mine,” replied the Jkak. “It would be an impertinence to pry
into your affairs without an invitation. Now, with regard to yourselves.
I must see that you go to Hoormoori and pay your respects to our Rorka.
Hoormoori is the chief place in this world of ours; it is there that our
Rorka has his palace.”

“Rorka?” asked Mavis “What is that?”

“Our Rorka rules over the whole of Keemar.”

“Have you only one Rorka or King over the whole of Keemar?” asked Sir
John.

“Why, of course. Why should we have more?” asked Mirasu smiling. “Keemar
is one world—with one Rorka. Then we have one hundred Jkaks, and one
thousand Moritous—that is enough, surely, to govern a world?”

“Are you only one nation then?”

“Naturally. We are all Keemarnians—just one great nation, divided into
many families. We all speak the same language—all worship in the same
fashion Mitzor, the Great White Glory and Tower of Strength, and all
live in peace, friendship, and harmony, one with another. But now my
friends, strangers though you are, you are welcome here. I will put at
your disposal houses and serving men.”

“We possess nothing,” said Sir John. “We have no property, no
valuables—nothing but the Argenta. How shall we repay your kindness to
us?”

“Repay?” said the Jkak, “nay, that is another, word I know not the
meaning of.”

“But,” began Alan.

“Nay, you are strangers in a strange world. It is our duty to make you
all feel at home here. I can see you were of high estate in your own
country—you must be of high estate here also. Know you, we are wise in
this land. Our Rorka is first, and his spouse, the Rorkata, ranks
second. Their offspring and nearest blood relations come next; then come
the Jkaks and Moritous; our Djohs and Ab-Djohs; the Wazi, Captains of
our air birds, our learned men and students, down to the serving men and
maids, and the builders of our homes and our ships. From highest to
lowest, all share ‘pro rata’ in the good things of the world. We are all
satisfied—the laws of our land have fixed the rates that are to be paid
to each household from the common fund. I assure you, there will be
enough and to spare for you.”

Masters spoke for the first time. “I am Sir John’s servant,” he began.

“No,” corrected Sir John. “Masters is my faithful friend and adviser.”

“Then you would like him to dwell in the same house with you?”

“Please,” said Sir John, “and my nephew Alan, also.”

“And you, no doubt,” went on the Jkak turning to Desmond, “you would
like to have apartments to yourselves.”

“Thank you,” answered Mavis for her husband and herself.

“Good. I will summon Waz-Y-Kjesta. There are several new houses near at
hand. Go with him—you can take your choice,” and with a wave of the hand
and a smile, they realized that they were dismissed from the presence of
the Jkak and his charming wife.

Waz-Y-Kjesta was hovering near and came toward them. He had received his
full instructions beforehand. “Come,” said he. “The houses that are
unoccupied are quite close—come and take your choice.”

“How is it,” asked Alan, “that we can walk so easily now. When we first
came out on to the open deck of the Argenta, our limbs were as heavy as
lead. We could not walk an inch, and we were so top-heavy we could
hardly stand.”

“That is easy to explain,” replied the Waz. “Eight Kymos have risen
since you arrived here.”

“Kymos?” asked Mavis. The Keemarnian names puzzled her.

“Sun?” suggested Alan.

“Ah, you call it—sun. Yes, since you first came, the sun has sunk seven
times. You have slept—breathed in our air. While you were sleeping, our
men of science administered medicinal gases through your nostrils. These
gases lightened you—took from you the heaviness of your earth. You will
find no difficulty now,” and he led the way through the garden to the
most glorious street it was possible to imagine.

“Now you will see our country,” he continued, “and compare it with your
own. You are not too tired?” he asked Mavis.

“No, of course not. I feel too excited. I want to see your beautiful
city—your beautiful country. May I first see that my baby is all right?”

He gave the necessary permission, and soon she returned. “He is sleeping
peacefully,” said she. “Morkaba is watching over him. Now I’m ready,”
and they all went down the marble steps of the Jkak’s palace, eager for
their first sight of this new, strange land.




                               CHAPTER V
                            DEATH IN JUPITER


They walked down a lovely avenue to the outer gates. It was
grass-covered, soft and velvety and cool. Birds with the gayest plumage
hopped among the branches of the trees, and came fearlessly up to the
strangers. One bird, perhaps as big as an English bullfinch, of many
colours and with a fan-shaped tail, perched on Mavis’ shoulder, and
chirped prettily to her.

“How wonderful!” said she.

“Did not your, birds do that?” asked Waz-Y-Kjesta.

“No, they were too nervous.”

“Nervous?”

“Yes—frightened—terrified,” she explained.

“I understand the meaning of the word you utter,” said he, “but you will
not find the sensation of fear known on Keemar. We live in harmony with
our birds, our animals, and even our fish. They are all our friends.”

At the end of the avenue they found themselves on a broad road. Hills
rose up at the side, steeply in some places, while in others the rise
was more gradual, leaving moorland and valley in view. Houses were built
at intervals along the roads, all of wonderful, coloured marbles, but
they were all surrounded by beautiful grounds, and added to the scene.

“Oh,” said Mavis suddenly. “There’s a shop.”

Waz-Y-Kjesta looked puzzled, and followed her gaze. “Oh yes, you mean
our Omdurlis. How else should we get food to eat and clothes to wear?”

“How then do you manage about your coinage? Do you have money?” asked
Alan curiously.

“I know not the word.”

“How do you buy things—what do you give in exchange?”

“Oh, we have laika—royla, suka and minta,” said he; and he drew from his
purse that hung satchel-wise across his shoulders, some coins. The first
was square, as large as a five shilling piece, and green in colour.

“This will purchase the most,” he said. “Five roylas make a laika.” The
royla was exactly the same, but no bigger than a florin. “Then there are
ten sukas to a laika, and twenty mintas.” The last two coins were of a
bronze hue and as big as a shilling and a sixpence.

“I expect those five coins are equal to a fiver, a sovereign, a two
shilling piece and a sixpence,” said Mavis thoughtfully.

“How do you get your money?” asked Sir John.

“Oh, from the Rorka,” explained the Waz. “I am a Waz—I receive one
thousand roylas or two hundred laikas a murvin. The Jkak will get a
thousand laikas, while little Morkaba, who is born of the workers, gets
but ten and her food.”

“I suppose the shopkeepers make a lot of money,” said Desmond.

“Oh no. All members of the Omdurlis get one hundred laikas. All that
they make above that they are bound to send to the Rorka. He places all
the surplus in the general fund which is held in reserve for all
Keemarnians. As each male Keemarnian reaches the age when he has seen
the Kymo rise three thousand and thirty times, he journeys to Hoormoori,
makes his bow to the Rorka, and receives from him his manhood. According
to the station in life in which he has been born, and from which he has
sprung, so he learns to take his part in life.”

“It is a wonderful system in theory,” said Sir John. “But how does it
work in practice?”

“It is our custom,” was all the reply the Waz made.

“But don’t you sometimes find you get dissentient spirits? Don’t they
rebel against this formality? Don’t they want to make more money than is
allowed by custom? Don’t you sometimes have trouble from these spirits?”

Waz-Y-Kjesta smiled. “In our books of science we have read that in other
places than ours—there were troubles like those you name. That man
fought man—brother hated brother—women sorrowed, and children were
rendered homeless. We, in Keemar, know not the meaning of such things.
We are happy; we are content with our life; why should we complain?”

There were no ugly streets and lines of shops in this wonderful city;
but the Omdurlis were to be found here and there at the edge of the
grass covered paths, while the houses lay further back. Everywhere were
to be seen happy-faced men and women, and laughing children. Bhors
driven by colis, and bhors driven by the etheric power that was used for
lighting and propelling purposes, thronged the streets, and the whole
scene was gay and beautiful.

Although the sky was a wonderful blue, and all the buildings were of
white and brilliant coloured marbles, the whole effect had none of the
tawdry or bizarre appearance of the cities of the East, in the world;
but the whole was soothing and pleasing to the jaded nerves of the earth
folks. They turned a corner and found themselves in a short road ending
in a cul-de-sac formed by high gates and marble pillars.

“This is one of the houses,” said Waz-Y-Kjesta. “Come, and see it.” The
garden entranced Mavis before she saw the house. It was like a picture
out of the fairyland she had dreamt of as a child—the fairyland she had
dreamt of as a woman! For are not all true women half fairies at heart?
Is not the mysticism of life itself a fairy gift to a pure woman’s mind?
Mavis had lived her life among the fairies. As a child she had played
with them in bluebell woods and primrose glades; and when she renewed
her own childhood in her baby, she renewed through him her acquaintance
with the fairies.

Trees overhung the grassy path which was on a gradual upward slope.
Burns ran down on either side—rushing, laughing, maddening burns. Tiny
flowers peeped out among the grass; lichen-covered rocks reared up
majestically from the centre of still pools. Gnarled trees lined the
way, and their twisted roots formed steps up the hillside. The top
spread out plateau-wise, and a blue marble house was built in the very
centre. It was not very large; a verandah ran all round it on both
floors, and the foliage and creeping plants added to its beauty. The
door was open wide, and the splashing fountain in the entrance hall
looked inviting and cool. Apart from the kitchen and servants’ quarters,
there were on the ground floor only two living rooms and the entrance
hall. Each of the six bedrooms on the upper floor had magnificent
bathrooms leading from them. They were like miniature swimming baths,
shallow at one end, deepening to six feet, and the water was hot and
cold in the pipes. The whole house was decorated in a delicate shade of
blue, and was absolutely ready for use. Mavis was entranced. “May we
stay here?” she asked.

“I will acquaint the Jkak with your decision,” answered the Waz. “Now,”
turning to Sir John, “through the garden yonder, and down a short
woodland path is a garden house. Would you care to see it? It might suit
you, and you would be all near to one another.”

“It sounds most attractive,” said Alan.

They walked through the garden and down the hill on the other side of
it, and saw, nestling among the trees, the tiniest house they had so far
seen on Jupiter. It was an absolutely perfect bachelor establishment,
and the three men decided at once that it was an ideal spot to live in.

“The Jkak is eager to see your air bird,” announced Waz-Y-Kjesta. “When
may he go?”

“Why I’d forgotten all about the Argenta,” said Alan. “Can’t we go now?”

Mavis looked from one to the other. “Do you want Dez?” she asked
pathetically. “I seem to have seen so little of him lately. Dez
come—come home, and Baby, you and I will have a long, happy day
together.”

So it was decided that Sir John, Alan and Masters should go back to the
Jkak’s with the Waz, and arrange about the trip to the Argenta. “Waiting
men and maids have already been dispatched to your houses,” announced
the majordomo, Marlinok by name.

“Is the Jkak at liberty?” asked the Waz.

“He is, my Waz.”

“Tell him, if it is his desire, the strangers will show him their air
bird now.”

A few minutes passed and Marlinok returned. “The bhors are ready and
waiting, my Waz. The Jkak has already started.”

Outside they found two double bhors ready, and Sir John and his
faithful Masters travelled in one, while Alan and Waz-Y-Kjesta
occupied the other. Alan was now able to enjoy the scenery through
which he passed. The path by which they travelled ran by the side of
an island lake, with tall mountains towering on the further side of
the water. The woodland nature of the scene with the twining paths and
overhanging branches reminded Alan forcibly of the bank of Loch Lomond
between Tarbet and Ardlui; yet the almost tropical colouring of the
flora—the wonderful brightness of the birds’ plumage, the waving
palm-like trees that were interspersed here and there, were unlike
anything he had ever beheld. This place seemed to possess everything
to make it perfect—mountain—moorland—water—and woodlands. Nothing was
missing from this panorama of glory.

At last the Argenta hove in sight, and somehow its beauty seemed to have
lessened in this land of glory. The silver brightness of its aluminium
looked dim in the golden sunlight; the torpedo-shaped body seemed ugly
and sinister in comparison with the beauty and symmetry of the
Keemarnian air birds. The Jkak waited for the strangers to alight, and
the Waz whispered his instructions. “Welcome the Jkak, my friend,” said
he. “It is our custom. Ask him to honour you by boarding your craft. Let
him bring peace and prosperity to your house by stepping across the
threshold of your boat.”

“My Jkak,” said Alan, going to the side of the state bhor, “will you
honour us all by boarding our Argenta, and bring us joy and peace?”

“You have learnt your lesson quickly and well, my son,” said the Jkak in
reply. “I will come with pleasure.” He walked aboard and was extremely
interested in the vessel. “But how do you move it?” he asked. “How does
it rise into the heights of the heavens?”

“This is the spirit,” said Alan, “but alas, it will not work in your
atmosphere. There seems no power in it. Perhaps later on, we might
experiment with your etheric current?”

The Jkak and his suite were enchanted with the fittings of the
Argenta—the electricity, the furniture, the hangings. As they made their
way toward the sleeping cabins, Masters suddenly spoke.

“Poor old Murdoch—he’s in there,” said he. “I am afraid I forgot all
about him.”

“Poor chap,” said Alan, “so did I,” and he quickly barred the way. “May
I suggest, my Jkak, that you do not go in there,” said he. “A very dear
comrade of ours risked his life for us all. He is in there—dead.”

“Dead?” asked the Jkak.

Sir John bowed his head sadly. “Dead,” he repeated, “and one of the
truest servants that man ever had.”

“But if he is in there,” said the Jkak with a puzzled frown, “why does
he not come out?” He looked at the others in turn. “Why does he not
enjoy life with you? Ah! He thinks the Argenta would not be safe without
him? That is foolish. I will enter—I will assure him he has nothing to
fear.”

“But he is dead,” urged Alan.

“Dead?”

“Yes, he died before we reached Keemar.”

“I know not the meaning of the word. The ‘gift of tongues’ fails me
here. Explain—dead.”

Alan looked at him in amazement. Death was such a common word in the
world; one met with it at every turn; it was strange that it should
remain unknown to the Jovians with their wonderful “gift of tongues.”

“His life has gone,” said Alan simply.

“But life is eternal, my son.”

“Surely you do not live for ever on Keemar?” asked Alan incredulously.

“Ah, no. We do not live for ever on Keemar it is true—but our life is
eternal.”

It was impossible to explain—they had no knowledge of death—yet they, on
their own showing, seemed to expect to leave Keemar at some time or
other. Surely death alone could remove them?

“I beg of you, do not go in there,” urged Alan, and he barred the door
of the death chamber.

“My son,” said the Jkak. “I must know all things in my country. If what
you call ‘death’ has entered—then I beg you, acquaint me with it.”

“But it is horrible—”

“Let me meet it face to face—”

“It is loathsome,” urged Alan. “I pray you, do not go inside.”

The Jkak made no reply, but raised his right hand high above his
head—palm outwards, and even as he did so, Waz-Y-Kjesta and his suite
bent low on one knee.

“The sign of the Jkak,” said the Waz. “His wishes must be honoured, his
commands obeyed.”

Alan moved away from the door, his head bowed in acquiescence, and
Marlinok turned the handle of the door, and stepped back to allow the
Jkak to enter. There was a tense silence for a moment, then from the
darkened chamber came a startled cry, a cry full of poignant horror, and
with an ashen face the Jkak appeared at the door.

“I have seen Death,” said he. “I have seen the horrors of sin. Death,
until now, has never entered Keemar. Death brings its own punishment.
Death brings horrors and adversity. Death! Oh Great, White Glory, Tower
of Help, Mitzor of our Fathers—I have seen Death in its hideousness.
Mitzor the Mighty, grant preservation to thy people—grant help to thy
faithful.” Persoph the Jkak was trembling. His face was white, his hand
was shaking as he pointed to the door.

“What will you do with—with—that?” he asked, almost inaudibly.

Alan answered him. “Bury him, poor chap.”

“Bury?”

“Yes. Do you not dig graves for your dead?”

“We have no dead, my son. I pray Mitzor, that the entrance of
this—soul—may not bring disaster on our land. But how do you bury?”

Alan explained, and as he finished the Jkak’s face was more
horror-stricken than before. “Nay, my son, bury you cannot. That would
be impossible here.” He turned to the Waz. “Does not the Sacrament of
Schlerik-itata take place within eight Kymos?”

“Yes, my Jkak,” answered Y-Kjesta. “Ak-Marn sent cards for all to attend
it. It will be the biggest feast I have ever known. His seed is mighty,
his seed is great. Five thousand and ten cards have been issued, and yet
five thousand and more still clamour for admittance.”

“Good,” answered Persoph. “This,” pointing about him, “all this must go.
Summon me Misrath, the High Priest. Bid him bring his ‘waters of purity’
and his smoke of sweet odours. Bid him bring his choir of young voices,
and bid all prepare. A sacrifice will be offered to Mitzor; the Great
White Glory must be appeased.”

Alan and Sir John were very mystified over the whole scene. These
Jovians did not seem to understand Death—yet they spoke of sacrifice!

“I am sorry, my son,” said the Jkak. “I can save nothing for you. All
must be burnt and offered to Mitzor. Come now, I will draw a ring around
the contaminated spot, and we will witness the destruction from
without.”

Sir John and Alan were both loth to have the Argenta burnt—but being
dependent on the Jovians for their entire future, they were unable to
demur. With a silent prayer for the friend who had given his life for
them, they left the ship and stood some way off. After an interminable
time of waiting, a mighty blast of music burst on their ears, and they
saw a procession of etheric bhors coming towards them. The first
stopped, and Misrath the High Priest alighted, followed by priests and
acolytes in quaint garments of ecclesiastical cut.

A procession formed—two acolytes with censers led the way, and wafted
the glorious perfume from side to side. Then followed one of the most
mystical and picturesque ceremonies it was possible to imagine. Almost
of Mosaic grandeur, it thrilled the watchers. They were unable to
understand what was being said—all was in the language of the
Keemarnians—but the meaning was plain. The High Priest offered the
Argenta and its contents to Mitzor, the Great White Glory. He offered
it, with its fine workmanship, its precious metals—and its body of sin.
He asked that through the mediation of the sacrifice, any evil might be
averted, that the entrance of Death might bring. He consecrated the
Argenta to Mitzor—he consecrated the ground it contaminated. He poured
the “waters of purity” across its bow, and named it “Meeka,” the Bringer
of Knowledge.

Then the Argenta was sprayed from stem to stern with a milky fluid that
dried like little curds all over the vessel. A torch was lighted and
applied to the ship. Little flames ran along meeting each other until
they merged into one great whole; there was a roar and a noise like
thunder, and the Argenta, the hobby of a life time, the fruit of patient
labour, was no more!

Sir John watched with a set face, but as the fire died out, and he saw
that the whole had been swallowed up, had consumed itself entirely,—he
crumpled up, and lay inert upon the ground.




                               CHAPTER VI
                    THE SACRAMENT OF SCHLERIK-ITATA


Alan bent over his uncle, but the High Priest waved him away. “Touch him
not,” said he sternly, and such command rang in his tones, that Alan
stepped back involuntarily.

Again the scene was repeated—Sir John was prayed over, sprayed with the
“waters of purity,” and incensed. As the sweet fumes found their way up
his nostrils, he stirred. Alan rushed to him and embraced him. “It was
only foolishness, Alan,” said he brokenly. “But the Argenta—my ship—I
was so proud of her. Masters, you know how I felt? She was my all in my
days of sorrow. And in my days of joy, when reunited we sailed in her,
she was my joy.”

“I understand, Uncle John. But try not to mind—when one is in Rome—you
know the rest. We are in Jupiter and we must do as the Jovians wish.”

Persoph the Jkak, came up to them. “Nay, grieve not,” said he kindly.
“We have cleared this place of sin. An air bird to take the place of the
one that has gone shall be placed at your disposal. Go you home. Cards
will be brought you for the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. I beg of you
all—attend it. Nay, I command you. We will meet again within eight
Kymos. Farewell. Farewell.”

Waz-Y-Kjesta, motioned to their bhor. “Come, my friend,” said he. “I
will drive you back another way—we will drive along the shores of the
secti, and watch the breakers roll in.” The sea shore was wonderful; the
sea was blue, a deep, deep blue, and the breakers, flecked with foam,
rolled in to a golden shore. They passed bays, promontories, caves and
rocks—and they found the drive of bewildering beauty.

Alan asked, “What is the Sacrament of Sch—”

“Schlerik-itata?” supplemented the Waz.

“Yes.”

“My friend, you must wait until you witness it. You will understand us
more fully when you have been to the home of Ak-Marn. Now to-night,
there is a small party being given by Kulmervan and his fellow students
at the Observatory. I have been asked to bring you all. Will you come?”

“With pleasure,” said Alan.

“The Jkak is sending you all a complete outfit, my friend. Your clothes
are old, travel-stained and torn—they are sombre too. If you accept his
present, wear to-night your brightest garments.”

“Will you help me to adjust them?” asked Alan.

The Waz drew himself up with a haughty air, but it as soon passed. “I
was forgetting, my friend, that you know not our customs. The serving
men will assist you. When you reach home, you will find your house fully
staffed, and Quori, a most efficient steward and adviser.”

“What about meeting to-night for the party?”

“I will call for you as the Kymo sinks. You will have bhors sufficient
for your use.”

When they reached home they found a note awaiting them from Mavis,
asking them to come over and have lunch with her and Desmond, and they
walked through the garden to the other house. Mavis was waiting for
them, her cheeks dimpling and her eyes sparkling. “It’s a wonderful
country,” said she. “I’ve nothing to do all day; the cooking and
cleaning seem to go by clockwork. Morkaba is Baby’s personal attendant
and mine; she has arranged my frock. How do you like it?” and she
twirled round on one foot showing the soft draperies of Keemarnian
dress.

It was of a soft green, embroidered with coloured silks and her hair was
left loose flowing around her shoulders, and caught above her ears by a
narrow fillet of gold that gleamed as she tossed her head.

“I like it much better than the frumpy old English fashions,” said she.
“Desmond is not quite ready yet—he will look splendid.”

“We shall change later,” said Sir John, “and I shall be glad to get out
of these stuffy and dirty garments. All the same I don’t fancy myself a
cross between an imitation gladiator and a stained glass twelfth century
saint.”

They thoroughly enjoyed their meal; eggs served in a wonderful salad of
fruit and vegetables proved to be the staple part, and this course was
followed by a baked grain, similar to barley, but of a bright green
colour, deliciously creamy and sweet. There was milk to drink, and
plenty of heavy cream.

“They seem to be almost vegetarians here,” said Mavis, “for although we
have had plenty of milk, eggs and cream, I have not seen a sign of fish
or meat.”

“All the better,” said Sir John, “after all that tinned stuff while we
were on the Argenta—ugh!”

They drove in state to the students’ party. The Waz had constituted
himself their guide, and they were very thankful for his services. The
large ground floor of the Observatory had been converted into a
veritable bower of roses. At one end, almost hidden by flowers, were the
musicians—playing dreamy music on soft-toned, stringed instruments.

The Host in Chief, Kulmervan, with Waiko, stood on a raised dais at one
end and received their guests, who were all announced by an usher who
wore a kilt-like shirt and a flowing cape. As the strangers entered he
announced from a card they gave him, first in his own language and then
in English, “Sir John, Alan, Desmond, Masters, and Mavis.” No surnames
were known on Jupiter, and so far they possessed no Keemarnian title. To
Sir John they gave his prefix, although they did not quite understand
it.

A great silence reigned when the announcement was made—Kulmervan left
the dais and advanced toward his guests, and this mark of homage was
acknowledged by clamorous cheers from all the others who were present.

“Welcome,” said he. “I witnessed your descent upon our land. Indeed, it
was I who helped to focus our ray of attraction upon your vessel and
helped to draw you into our atmosphere.”

“What are your rays?” asked Alan. “Surely you had never any cause to use
one before?”

“Indeed, yes, my friend. Some time ago, some of our Keemarnians, while
experimenting in the Heavens, found themselves outside our atmosphere.
They never returned. Across the roadway between the red planet
‘Mydot’—Mars I think you call it—and ourselves, are many rapidly moving
meteoric bodies. We fear that our gallant brothers met one of these, and
were destroyed. Many men of science went after these lost ones but none
ever returned. Through our wonderful glass, we saw one of our air birds
in space; it was unable to reach home. Then was the great magnetic ray
discovered. In the shortest space of time it was perfected, and played
on the silent air bird. Gradually it was drawn nearer and nearer to our
shores until it was within our atmosphere, and was able to land in
safety. Since that time, if air birds venture too high, we have nearly
always been able to save the adventurous spirits, and in your case, we
brought you safely here.”

“It’s a wonderful invention,” said Sir John, “and I can imagine would
have been of immense value to our airmen on earth.”

Kulmervan then presented them to Waiko, and Mavis was led to a seat of
honour on the dais.

They spent a most enjoyable time, and the whole entertainment was very
like what they were accustomed to on earth. Games were played,—games
with balls and racquets, and balls and hoops, and between the games
there was singing and dancing.

Refreshments were served in a hall adjoining, and consisted mainly of
luscious fruits and dainty cakes and pastries. The many Keemarnians they
met, invited them in turn to parties and entertainments, and they felt
they had more invitations than they could safely accept. “Never accept,”
whispered Waz-Y-Kjesta to them all, “unless you mean to honour your host
with your presence. A refusal never offends, but to accept and then to
disappoint, is unforgivable.” Suddenly in the middle of the dancing a
trumpet blew loud and clear. The band ceased and the couples stood
still. Then rang out a fanfare of royal welcome, and the guests rushed
to the entrance hall in great excitement, waving and cheering. “It must
be some one of importance who is coming,” said Desmond. “Perhaps it is
the Rorka,” suggested Mavis. There was a roll of drums, and then, on a
litter carried by six stalwart men, entered a girl of perhaps eighteen
years. The cortége stopped and Kulmervan bent low before her, and kissed
her proffered hand. She bowed ever so slightly, and he assisted her from
her cushioned throne. She stood beside him, and proved to be quite
small, not more than five feet in height, but of a beauty almost
indescribable. She was very fair and fragile. Her eyes were purple-blue
fringed with long, black lashes. Her fillet was of gold, and was
enriched with gems the colour of her eyes, while her robe of blue hung
in folds about her. Perhaps it was her lips that impressed the watchers
most. A perfect bow—they were of a vivid scarlet that contrasted
strangely with the delicate pink flush of her cheeks. Self possessed,
calm and regal she looked as she graciously acknowledged the plaudits of
the guests.

“Who is she, Alan?” asked Mavis. But he was unconscious of her question,
he could only gaze and gaze at the beautiful apparition who had come so
unexpectedly upon the scene.

Waiko bent in turn before the stranger who whispered something to him.
Immediately he came toward Mavis. “We are honoured to-night,” said he.
“The Ipso-Rorka Chlorie has journeyed from Pyrmo to welcome you. She
heard of your presence and came at once.”

“Who is she?” asked Mavis.

“Why the highest lady in the land—the only child of our Rorka.”

Mavis went toward where the girl stood, and the Ipso-Rorka held out both
her hands to the English girl. “Welcome,” said she, in a voice musical
and low. “I hear you start soon to honour the Rorka, my father, with a
visit. May I welcome you first?” In turn the others were presented to
her, but her attention was all for Mavis—it was Mavis the woman she
wanted to know.

And Alan? He had seen his ideal! Years before, he wondered whether he
would ever meet her—and now he had. And a King’s daughter! And he a
stranger in a strange world! How dare he even lift his eyes toward her.
Yet he dared—and his pulses leapt madly as his eyes feasted on her
beauty. Not once did she address him—not once did she even seem to
notice him. Chlorie put her hand lightly on Desmond’s arm. “I will dance
with you,” said she smiling, and Alan watched them lead the merry throng
of dancing couples. The demon of jealousy, earth jealousy, was in his
heart.

“Why are you looking so—how can I put it—so sad?” asked Kulmervan.

Alan laughed. “He has a wife,” he muttered. “Why does he take her from
others?”

“But she has honoured him. It is not for us to choose for the
Ipso-Rorka,” said Kulmervan.

“Yes, but she is so beautiful, so sweet, so glorious,” began Alan. Then
he stopped suddenly. “Oh,” he continued, “what do you people of Jupiter
know of love or hate? Your lives are too quiet, too humdrum to know
aught of passion—”

“Teach me! Teach me!” cried Kulmervan leaning toward him. “Your face is
drawn—your eye hard. Yet you look as if you could battle with the world.
What is it?”

“Love and hate,” said Alan grimly. Then he laughed. “What a fool I am.
Desmond is my cousin; we love each other like brothers. He has won
Mavis—why should he not dance with the Ipso-Rorka? Mavis does not mind.”

But Kulmervan turned away in silence. Knowledge had come to him in a
curious way. He saw passion, love, hatred, anger, jealousy all raging
within a human heart. Unconsciously the feelings were photographed upon
his too sensitive mind. Love that had only smouldered was now born in
all its fury for the Princess Chlorie, the fair. And with love was born
the twin, hate—hate for Alan, the man he feared might supplant him.

It seemed as if death, although burned and purified, had brought into
Keemar unrest and sin. The prayers of the High Priest himself were
unable to wash it away, until scourged and purified the earth folk
themselves became less material and more godlike and true.

The day for the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata arrived at last and the
strangers found themselves on the way to Ak-Marn’s palace.

Although the Aks had no administrative powers, as had the Jkaks, they
were held in the highest esteem, for they were princes of royal blood.

Ak-Marn greeted them warmly. They saw that his dress was different from
the usual male costume. He was in unrelieved white, and wore neither
jewel nor ornament. The material of his robe, which hung with a long
cloak to the ground, was almost like plush and there was something
almost bridal about the costume. Yet Ak-Marn was an old man, with a
beard of white, and grandchildren in plenty. Surely Schlerik-itata could
not be the same as matrimony, thought Mavis.

The guests were eight thousand in number, and all wore their brightest
jewels and their finest raiment.

There was singing and dancing and much gay chatter, and the whole scene
was one of wonderful gaiety and joy. Refreshments were brought in, and
Ak-Marn began to speak. The English people could now understand the
Keemarnian language fairly well. It was easy, its grammar simple, and
its pronunciation almost Latin.

“Friends,” said Ak-Marn. “I break bread with you. Two and ten Kymos have
sunk since I quenched my thirst or satisfied my hunger. I’ve prayed to
Mitzor, the Great White Glory and Tower of Help, to prepare me for my
journey. My call came eighty and five Kymos since—I saw the figures in
fire. I heard my call, and am prepared. I go with hope in my heart—with
joy in my breast. I am to be envied, my friends, for my days have been
long upon Keemar. I leave my loved one, Viok, and our children, and our
children’s children in your care, my friends. When I am gone, cheer her
with loving words—help her with kind counsel. I leave you with love in
my heart. I leave you with the knowledge that our parting is not for
long. Soon you will join me in the home of the Tower of Help. Remember
that the eternities of time cannot be measured.”

Then bread was broken, and there followed the “Feast of the Sacrament,”
and the most intimate friends of Ak-Marn drank to his “future”—drank to
his coming “joy.” And Alan and Sir John were no longer mystified. They
realized that what they in their materialism knew as “Death” was
nigh—but not Death, the slayer of happiness, Death, the dread reaper,
but Death in a kindly form, a death that gave life—a death that was
glorious.

“I thought at first that the Jovians were of a finer nature than ours,”
said Alan.

“If they have conquered Death, they must indeed be high,” said Sir John
thoughtfully.

“Who is Mitzor?” asked Mavis.

“The God of our Fathers, my dear. The God of Abraham and the God of the
New Testament. Whatever their religion and ritual is, they worship the
same God as we do,” said Alan.

“Are you sure?”

“Quite.”

When the feast was ended, the guests, one by one, bade farewell to their
host. It was a long tedious business, as no one was permitted to pass
without at least a few personal words from Ak-Marn who was seated on a
raised chair near the doorway. And as each woman passed out, she was
crowned with a wreath of beautiful, freshly cut flowers, from which hung
a filmy white veil, while the men were given long white cloaks with
hoods which they drew over their bare heads. Mavis bent her knee, and
held out her hands to the kindly old man. “My child,” said he. “Our
beautiful ceremony is so far meaningless to you. Go home—pray to Mitzor
the Mighty that He may refine and cleanse you, that when your time comes
you may be reincarnated to Him, through the medium of his Sacrament.
Farewell.”

To Alan he spoke long and quietly. “My son,” said he, “you are in a
strange world, you are young, you are carnal. Ah,” as Alan would have
protested, “we of Keemar, my Alan, are not as of your world. We know not
sin as you know it. Our first parents, Menlin and Jorlar, were placed in
a garden—” Alan started—“Yes, my friend, as your parents were. They
succumbed not to temptation—so they lived in happy solitude for many
years. Then Mitzor in His great kindness gave them the knowledge of
Love—Love without sin. They mated. Their love grew. Children of love
were born sinless into our world. Child bearing was a glory; motherhood
the highest estate. They knew neither sin nor sorrow, and so in love our
populace grew.”

“Do you mean to say you are sinless here?” asked Alan incredulously.

“My son, it is not an estate for us to glory in, for the merits do not
belong to us, but to our first parents. No—real sin has never entered
here, but we live in dread of its coming. In a far off country—in
Fyjipo—there is built a large palace behind high walls. If anger, or
lust, or impatience is shown by any one of us, an order is given and the
offender is taken to the Hall of Sorrows to purge away his sins. Should
a madness come upon us, for such we reckon these failings to be—we are
kept safe until it has passed, and until we can no longer contaminate
our fellow creatures.”

“It’s a wonderful country,” said Alan. “Where we come from, is all sin
and misery and—”

“Nay, tell me not. I go on a journey. I shall face my Mitzor. I charge
you, should you or your friends feel this madness coming on you, hide
yourselves, I beg, in the Hall of Sorrows. Stay there until it has
passed, and preserve the purity and happiness of this land. Farewell.”
The cloak was fastened round Alan’s shoulders, and he too left the
kindly presence.

Waz-Y-Kjesta was waiting for them at the outer hall. “Go home,” he
whispered. “Your bhor awaits you. I beg of you, eat no more this night,
but in the early dawn, while Kymo still sleeps, put on your cloaks, and
the Lady Mavis her veil, and go you to the Temple of Mitzor. Farewell.”
It was a very solemn party that retired to their rooms that night, yet
the full mystery of the Sacrament had not been unfolded to them.

It was dark when they arose, and in a dim twilight they drove to the
Temple. They had never before been inside it, and it was with much
trepidation that they waited on the threshold. It was a very beautiful
building of pale blue marble—the colour of the sky. An enormous dome
rose up in the centre of the square body of the Temple, and at the four
corners, minarets with gilded tops finished the picture. A flight of
fifty steps led up to the doors which were of a burnished metal, and
studded with precious gems. Just inside was an antechamber, where the
guests waited in silence until they were ushered to the seats that were
allotted to them. The inside was wonderful. Mosaic walls representing
allegorical tales gleamed in the dim light; the roof was of gold, and
marble pillars supported it down the long aisle. An enormous altar rose
up at the further end upon which were carved in marble cherubim and
seraphim. In the sanctuary, if such it could be called, was a small
white throne of marble, with heavy, white curtains draped at either
side. It was placed in such a position that although it did not
intercept the view of the altar, which was high above the nave, yet it
could be seen by every one in the building.

The seats allotted to Alan and his party were very near the front where
rails of gold separated the Sanctuary from the people’s part of the
Temple. Music floated on the air—soft like babbling brooks and the song
of birds; now bursting out into thunderous praise and mighty worship.

Suddenly there came a solemn hush; a bell tinkled; the organ played
softly, and there came the sound of boys’ sweet voices raised in
ecstasy: from a door at the side of the choir a dozen acolytes walked
dressed in their garments of white. The procession started down the
nave. After these boys came priests and deacons, and then Misrath, the
High Priest walked in front of a raised throne. On this sat Ak-Marn, his
eyes closed and his hands clasped in prayer. Behind him walked his wife
and their children. Their faces were radiant, it is true; yet there was
a touch of sadness in his wife’s gait. Then followed more priests and
acolytes, all singing hymns of joy.

The procession wound round the Temple, and back through the middle
aisle, and through the rails into the Sanctuary. Ak-Marn was led to the
marble throne; his wife alone of his family had followed close behind,
and now his arms were around her. Their lips met in one long kiss, then
with a bowed head she left his side, and took her place with her family
in the very front seats.

The organ thundered. Voices rang in a mighty pæan of praise. Then
silence! Misrath came forward and offered prayers to Mitzor—prayers of
offering, prayers of supplication. A mighty wreath of freshly cut
flowers was placed upon the altar. It was to be a burnt offering, and as
the smoke of the sacrifice arose on the air, the white curtains were
drawn around the figure of Ak-Marn and he was hidden from view. Then
singing rent the air; the acolytes incensed the throne, until it was
entirely covered by the perfumed smoke, covered like a pall.

Alan watched in wonder. The grandeur of the prayers, the singing, the
mystic curtains drawn around Ak-Marn appalled him. Misrath’s voice rose
above the music.

“Children of Keemar,” he intoned. “One more brother has been caught by
the mantle of Mitzor, and has left this world for ever. He has gone to
Glory, gone to Happiness—gone to Mitzor Himself. Peace be unto his
house. Peace be unto his wife. Peace be unto his seed for ever. We bid
him—farewell.”

There was a great silence. The censers were stilled. Gradually the smoke
of the incense cleared away from the marble throne, now gleaming in the
rising rays of the Kymo.

Misrath touched the cords of the enveloping curtain, and drew them back.
The little white throne was empty! Ak-Marn had returned to the bosom of
his Creator! But stay! On the floor, as if shed in the hurried flight of
its owner, lay the bridal robe of Ak-Marn. The High Priest raised it,
blessed it, sprinkled it with the waters of purity, and Ak-Marn’s wife
received it in her arms. Then the mighty congregation rose and sang one
last song of praise, and at the end, quietly left the building. And the
last view Alan had of Ak-Marn’s wife was of a solitary figure, dressed
like a bride, clasping the little white throne that was the last resting
place of her loved one.

“I don’t understand,” whispered Mavis hoarsely, as they were being
driven back to their home.

“My dear, he is dead,” said Sir John.

“Dead? If that is Death, then it is something to welcome and not to
dread,” she answered softly. There was a faraway look in her eyes. “What
a wonderful Sacrament! Death that is no sorrow—only a parting for a
little while, and then—reunion.” She clasped her husband’s hand.
“Belovèd,” she murmured, “if Death comes to us like that, then can we
have no real sorrow any more. Its shadow cannot cause us pain or grief.
What do you think, Alan?”

But Alan did not answer. He was thinking of two deep blue eyes, a
laughing mouth, wilful golden curls that flirted on two soft, pink
cheeks. He was longing to crush the lithe and sweet body close to his,
and smother her roses with kisses. The knowledge and fear of Death had
lapsed; Jupiter had eradicated it,—but with its extinction had come
love. Love, stronger a thousandfold than Death. He looked upward to
where the Sun, Kymo in all his glory, was shining. The whole world was
bathed in a glory of light. Yes, Jupiter had conquered death, and before
him lay life and love!




                              CHAPTER VII
                            HATRED ON KEEMAR


Marlinok, the Jkak’s majordomo, called on Sir John and Alan a few days
after they had witnessed the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata. “Will you be
ready,” he asked them, “when the Kymo is at the full, to start on your
journey to Hoormoori to render homage to the Rorka?”

“Are we all to go?” asked Alan.

“But one of you need go,” he answered. “The Rorka will visit Minniviar
later, and then the other strangers may make their bows.”

“I am glad of that,” said Sir John, “for I should like to stay here in
quietness and retirement for a little while. I am beginning to feel the
burden of my age, and am worn out with the strain of the last few
years.”

“I will go to Hoormoori,” announced Alan, “I can start at whatever time
the Jkak thinks best.”

“He has prepared incense and jewels for you to take as gifts from the
absent ones,” said Marlinok, “if you will now see Waz-Y-Kjesta all your
arrangements can be made.”

“I’ll go now,” said Alan.

Alan was going down a pretty lane toward where the air birds were housed
when he suddenly became aware of footsteps behind him. He
turned—immediately the footsteps ceased, and he could see no one.
Thinking he must be mistaken, and fearing nothing from the Keemarnians,
he went on his way blithely. The air was deliciously warm, and the fresh
breeze, balmy with the scent of flowers, tempered it. Still the
footsteps followed with monotonous regularity; as he hastened, so they
became quicker; as his died down, so they ceased altogether. Yet he had
no sense of fear, no feeling of impending evil; the thought of peril on
Keemar was impossible to imagine. The Keemarnians were of a breed as
different from the earth to which he belonged, as he was from Heaven! He
passed delightful homely fields, gleaming with buttercups and daisies.
Friendly cows chewed the cud in sleepy enjoyment. They did not rise as
he drew near, but only raised their sleepy heads, and looked at him out
of their liquid eyes with interest and friendliness. A pig grunted in a
corner as she suckled her squealing young; a donkey brayed; a couple of
goats were nibbling the grass while their kids frolicked near them. He
saw strange animals too. There was the gorwa of the deer family, a
beautiful creature, the colour of a Scottish stag, and its counterpart
in miniature, but with none of its brother’s timidity. All the animals
on Keemar were of a smaller build than those he had been accustomed to.
The cows were even smaller then the little fawn Jerseys so valued in
England. He had seen terriers and bull dogs, dalmatians and spaniels in
this strange world, and the bigger breeds were all represented on a
smaller scale. The Jkak had a dog—a Borzoi, Alan would have called it,
yet perhaps it was no bigger than a small Irish terrier; but strangely
enough, its beauty was not diminished by its minuteness. So Alan went
on. The way was strange to him, but he was enjoying the calmness of the
scene, and he knew his excellent bump of locality would sooner or later
lead him to Y-Kjesta. Again the footsteps beat time with his own, and
anxious for companionship, he stepped into the shadow of a tree, and
hoped to waylay a shy, but friendly stranger. A second passed. The
footsteps had ceased—then came a rustling, and the head of Kulmervan the
Student appeared over a honeysuckle bush. Silently he came forward,
alert and watchful until he was on a level with Alan.

“Hullo!” said Alan amiably. “Where are you going, Kulmervan?”

The effect was magical! Kulmervan jumped as though he had been struck,
and his face whitened. He remained silent. “I’m going to see
Waz-Y-Kjesta,” went on Alan. “Are you coming my way?”

Kulmervan did not reply, but a baleful light gleamed in his eyes, and
his mouth twitched.

“What’s the matter?” asked Alan curiously.

Suddenly Kulmervan spoke, and there was a wealth of passion in his
tones. “Why did you come here, you strangers? I was happy until you
came. I was contented. You have made me want—want the unknown. You have
stirred my heart and filled it with longings that I cannot yet fathom.
Why have you come to stir up misery among a happy and contented race?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Alan, “I have done nothing.”

“You’ve done everything. You dared to raise your eyes to the level of
Chlorie, our Ipso-Rorka. You put thoughts about her into my head. Oh—”
as Alan would have broken in—“I read your thoughts, it was easy, my
friend. You dared to think of her as a woman—even your woman. It was an
impertinence, I tell you. I love Chlorie with my whole soul, and before
Mitzor the Mighty, I’ll carry her away into some far off land, before
she can look with a favourable eye on a man, not only of another world,
but a man of a coarser nature than our own.”

Kulmervan was breathless when he finished, for his words had come thick
and fast, tumbling over themselves in his great excitement. Alan was
speechless, and looked as he felt, absolutely uncomfortable and ill at
ease. “Why your very pose proves guilt,” continued Kulmervan.

“Why should I not love Chlorie?” demanded Alan, “Why should my love for
her cause strife between us?”

“Because, my stranger, I am a Prince of the Rorka’s House. I am not only
Kulmervan the Student; but Taz-Ak of the House of Pluthoz. Why else
would Chlorie have honoured my party—why else come to the dance of a
student? There are but four Keemarnians that Chlorie can marry, and I
rank second.”

Alan wondered at the time why the Princess should come in so natural a
manner to the Student’s reception. He wondered at the time at her
familiarity with Kulmervan. She had patted his hand, smiled into his
eyes, and had honoured him more than once with a dance.

But Alan, too, was in love. Idiotically, insanely in love with a woman
who had not even troubled to raise her eyes to his, at his presentation.
His pulses throbbed at the remembrance of the touch of her fingertips as
he raised them to his lips. He loved her, and in that moment was born a
desire to overcome all obstacles, and princess or no princess, to win
her. But he knew too that in this pleasant land of Keemar an enmity had
come upon him, and wondered whether the Curse of Death had brought it.
He wondered whether the dead and decomposed body of their faithful
Murdoch had indeed brought sorrow to this fair land.

“I’ve spoken to your Ipso-Rorka only once,” said he. “The night of your
party. She has called on my uncle and Mavis. Mavis has been out driving
with her several times. But I, unfortunately, have missed her each time.
Surely you are not jealous because I—”

“Because you love her? I am,” said Kulmervan thickly, “and I say this—if
you so much as dare to raise your eyes to her, if you dare to address
her, I’ll make you suffer for it—aye, even though I also suffer
eternally for it,” and with that he turned on his heel and walked
quickly away.

Alan was very perturbed about this meeting, and felt inclined to tell
the story of it to Waz-Y-Kjesta,—yet the sacred feeling he had for
Chlorie was not to be spoken of, or bandied about from man to man. No,
he would keep it to himself, and trust to time and common sense to cure
Kulmervan of his strange hatred.

He walked quickly on, and already could see the air birds in the
distance, circling above their houses. The little lane turned quickly at
right angles—there was a steep descent, and hedges rose at either side
to a height of six or seven feet, while the overhanging branches of the
trees met in the middle and formed a leafy arch. The grassy banks were
carpeted with flowers, and the scent hung sweet on the air. Again the
narrow path turned sharply to the right, and before Alan realized it,
there almost at his feet, stretched across almost the full width of the
path, lay a lion, full grown, with his shaggy mane stirring in the
breeze. Alan stopped suddenly, and his heart beat quickly. The lion’s
eyes were closed—he was sleeping.

The Englishman was almost afraid to move lest the savage beast should
spring upon him and devour him. He looked round to the right, the bough
of a tree hung low over the path. He leapt up the bank, and with one
mighty spring caught hold of it, and swarmed up to a topmost branch.

He was safe—but the sudden sound had startled the lion, who rose up and
with a low growl prowled backward and forward beneath the tree.

It was an uncomfortable position to be in—the tree bough was very thin,
and bent and twisted and crackled ominously. Still the King of Beasts
remained sentinel underneath. Alan felt the perspiration on his face as
the limb shivered and bent, yet there was no other to which he could
move. Still the animal remained near, his quickened senses no doubt
wondering at the noise he heard, and waiting to see what had caused it.

The minutes dragged by—the branch was weakening perceptibly—he could
already see the white of the inside where the branch was gradually
tearing away from the parent trunk. There was no one in sight, and still
the lion walked restlessly to and fro.

The Kymo was sinking rapidly. It was already low down on the horizon,
and Alan knew he had been about two English hours in his perilous
position. He saw a branch above his head, and he wormed his way along to
see if he could in any way reach it. Carefully he went—slowly—suddenly
with a scream and a crash the branch gave way, and Alan felt himself
being hurled to the ground.

The distance was not great, and he landed in the centre of some
sweet-smelling, soft bushes. He was dazed, and wondered when the lion
would pounce. He knew he was powerless to help himself. He heard the
pad, pad, of its feet; he could hear the sharp intake of its breath—then
the thing was upon him. He shut his eyes and waited.—Nothing happened
but the snuffing of the wild beast, and a gentle nosing as it examined
the stranger.

Alan opened his eyes. The animal was sitting on its haunches surveying
him, and he felt there was amusement in the beast’s eyes as it watched
him. He moved slightly—still the beast watched motionless. He raised
himself up from the encircling bushes and clambered down. He knew he
would have to face the inevitable.

Suddenly a voice hailed him, and he saw Waz-Y-Kjesta coming round the
bend in the lane. “Stand back,” he cried. “There’s a lion here—he may
spring!” But the Waz came on fearlessly. Alan was petrified, his tongue
was parched, no sound came from his lips. He watched the Waz in frozen
horror.

The Keemarnian was smiling. “Where have you been, my friend? You are
late—very late. I thought you had missed your way, so I came to seek
you.” He was now within three feet of the lion. “What is the matter? Why
are you so grave? Has aught affrighted you?”

Alan pointed to the tawny beast. His hand was shaking. Surely the farce
must end soon, the lion spring, and tragedy culminate the play.

“Why Maquer,” said the Waz affectionately, “what are you doing here? You
seldom visit us, you know.”

The lion moved toward him, and rubbed his great head against the
Keemarnian’s leg, while Y-Kjesta talked to him and petted him.

“He’s tame then?” gasped Alan with a rush of relief. “You know him?”

“No, my friend. I’ve never seen this Maquer before—they generally stay
in rocky places.”

“But he is so friendly.”

“All beasts are friendly here, my Alan. What—would Maquer have hurt you
on your Earth?”

And Alan laughingly told of his fright at the lion. He had learnt one
more truth about Keemar—there were no savage animals upon it. Of a
truth, it was a perfect land!

Waz-Y-Kjesta was highly amused at his friend’s story, and together they
went toward the air birds. The Keemarnian airships were indeed wonderful
creations. White and gold, they were shaped like swans, with graceful
wings outspread, gleaming in the light. They were made of a mixture of
wood and metal, and contained accommodation for perhaps forty
passengers, as well as the Waz in command, and a staff of ten. Although
not as big as the ill-fated Argenta, the Keemarnian airship was
possessed of a speed nearly thrice as great.

“This is the Chlorie,” said Y-Kjesta, “and our fastest bird. The Jkak
has given orders that you are to choose your own vessel, so perhaps you
would like to see over some others?”

“No,” said Alan, looking at the blue hangings, and seeing in them the
reflection of his love’s eyes. “No, this one will do beautifully.” And
the Waz was impressed by the easy way in which his friend was pleased.
He little realized that it was the name of the vessel—the Chlorie—that
attracted him. And in the strangeness of it Alan tried to read his fate.

“We’ll go for a short cruise,” said the Waz, “and go back to the landing
stage Minniviar.”

There was not a cloud in the sky, and the warmth from the sun’s rays was
pleasant.

“I can’t understand how you benefit so considerably from the sun, your
Kymo,” said Alan. “Let me see, you must be at least five times further
away from the sun than we were on our earth, yet instead of your light
and heat being reduced to about one twenty-fifth of our supply, you
appear to benefit to exactly the same degree.”

“Ah, my friend, that is easy to explain. Dark clouds hover outside our
globe—”

“Yes, bands of vapour,” corrected Alan.

“Well—vapour. These bands completely encircle our world. They are
saturated with a composition of gas, sulphuric ether I think you would
call it. Well, this gas acts as a trap to the sun’s rays. It admits the
solar rays to our planet but prevents their withdrawal. Therefore it
permits the heat to enter, but prevents its escape.”

“Well?”

“Consequently we get the maximum of light, and an equable temperature.”

“Do you then, have no seasons here?”

“Seasons?”

“Yes, Spring or Winter.”

“Oh yes, it is cold at the poles—very cold, but as we get nearer to the
equator it becomes warmer, and hardly varies. You see, my Alan, our
world differs from yours. The axis of rotation is almost perpendicular
to our orbit, consequently we are not subject to seasons as you were in
Quilphis.”

“I didn’t know that before.”

“We too, are more flattened at each end—indeed, there are many
differences between our world that is, and yours that was.”

“Do you ever have rain here?”

“Yes, my Alan. How else would plants live and crops thrive? But again,
we do not suffer from excesses.”

“But don’t you have hurricanes that last from six to seven weeks? Surely
those are excesses.”

“Hurricanes? I do not know the word.”

“Hurricanes—winds—tornadoes.”

“Why they affect only the polar regions, and nothing lives there.”

“Well,” laughed Alan “I think your world is a great improvement on
ours.”

The scenery they passed on this pleasure trip was very varied, but very
similar to the world he knew at its best. Here he could imagine he was
in the highlands of Scotland with its crags and hills and torrents.
There in Southern France with its vineyards sloping to the river’s edge.
Again, the warmth of colouring suggested the tropics, and the next
moment they were flying over great inland arms of a sea, that were
reminiscent of the fjords of Norway.

They descended at last, and went to the Jkak to bid him farewell. There
a surprise awaited Alan.

“My son,” said the Jkak. “Our Ipso-Rorka has decided to travel in the
Chlorie to Hoormoori. She desires to reach her father’s side without any
more delay. Taz-Ak Kulmervan has obtained permission from his kinswoman
to attend her on her journey. But you need have no fear, my Alan. I
doubt whether you will even see the Princess. She will keep within the
precincts of her apartments, and will be attended exclusively by her
maid.”

Alan felt distressed. Should he tell the Jkak of his encounter with
Kulmervan? Had he obeyed his first impulse and confided in the kindly
old man, he would have saved both himself and Chlorie from much
suffering. As it was—well, who can tell which is always the right course
to take? Errors are made, and paid for in suffering, even in a Perfect
World.

“Is it far, my Jkak, to Hoormoori?”

“Forty Kymos will take you there.”

“Forty Kymos—about twenty of our earth days! It is quite a long way
then?”

“Ah, my friend, you have no idea of the size of our planet.”

“And yet you are all one nation—with the same customs and religion and
speech! It is hard to comprehend, my Jkak, for at home on our little
islands, we were composed of four distinct races.”

“The Ipso-Rorka will board the Chlorie immediately,” said the Jkak. “Now
Mitzor be with you. Farewell.”

There was no sign of the Princess when Alan boarded the ship, neither
was Kulmervan to be seen, but he was surprised to find Waiko lounging on
the deck. He gave Alan a cursory nod of recognition as he passed, but
did not rise or offer any greeting.

“Don’t you know Waiko?” asked Y-Kjesta in some surprise.

“Why of course. I met him at Kulmervan’s party.”

“Then why does he not rise and greet you according to Keemarnian custom?
You have broken bread with him—”

“Please, Y-Kjesta, don’t say any more. I—I think I understand, and
perhaps it’s my fault. Let it pass.”

“As you will, my Alan.” The Chlorie rose, soared gracefully over the
marble buildings of Minniviar, then tilting her nose, climbed swiftly.

The Princess remained in her cabin, her doors were closed, and the
balconies round her apartment shuttered.

“Ought I to pay my respects to the Ipso-Rorka?” asked Alan.

Waz-Y-Kjesta looked at him in horror. “Nay, my friend. It is not seemly
to address our Ipso-Rorka unless she summons you first. She has given
strict orders that she is not to be disturbed.”

So! Kulmervan had begun his work of revenge. Darkness fell, and Alan
retired to his little cabin. There were few on board, ten souls in all,
and the whole place was wrapped in stillness. All the same he felt very
restless—the four moons of Jupiter were shining brightly; they were now
passing over a sea, and the moonbeams were playing on the rippling
waters. He rose, dressed himself, and was about to leave his cabin, when
he heard a faint movement outside. His senses were quickened, he felt
for the first time since his entrance into this new world, a feeling of
impending danger.

In a second his mind was made up—quickly he placed a cushion on his
couch and covered it over with rugs: in the semi-darkness it almost
showed the curves of a living body. The door latch rattled softly, and
Alan slipped behind the folds of a heavy silken curtain. Softly the door
opened, until it was just wide enough to permit the passage of a man’s
body. Alan peered through the curtain opening and saw that it was
Kulmervan who had entered.

The Keemarnian stepped over to the couch and touched the coverlet. “He’s
asleep,” he whispered in his own language, and Waiko entered softly.
“Have you the spray?”

“Yes, my Kulmervan—but is it necessary? I’m afraid—”

“Fool,” hissed Kulmervan. “The spray.”

Waiko handed him a long piece of tubing, the end of which was fastened
to a small bulb. Kulmervan laid the nozzle end on the bed—there was a
slight hissing sound, and the room became sweet with a subtle scent.

“Quick,” whispered Kulmervan to his accomplice, “hasten, lest the fumes
overpower us,” and the two hurriedly left the chamber closing the door
tightly behind them.

The air was already heavy, and Alan felt a drowsiness coming over him.
With a mighty effort he opened the window and leant out. It was a battle
royal between the fumes and the fresh air. Alan felt his head reel and
his senses swim, but the pure night air conquered, and the little cabin
was soon free of its poison.

Silently Alan sat until the dawn broke, thinking over the strange
problem that had presented itself to him. He had made an enemy,
unwittingly it is true, but an enemy who would stop at nothing in order
to further his ends. He wondered what effect the powerful fumes would
have had upon him. In a land where there was no death, could life be
taken? What would have happened to him had he inhaled them? He was
determined to ask Waz-Y-Kjesta at the first opportunity. Suddenly from
without a cheery voice hailed him. It was the Waz.

“How did you sleep, my friend?” and he entered the cabin.

“Very well indeed,” said Alan, glibly lying.

“I slept badly, my Alan. I had evil dreams of you. I saw you
lying—serquor—oh!”

“What is serquor?”

“It is the worst thing that could befall us on Keemar, my friend. Seldom
it happens—but once in a lifetime. The body stiffens, sleep comes from
which one never awakens. Life is, to all intents and purposes, extinct.
Yet the body does not melt into nothingness, as at the Sacrament of
Schlerik-itata. It remains on earth, cut off from the living, cut off
from those already in glory,—useless, desolate, alone.”

“What causes it?” asked Alan eagerly.

“Sometimes a blow or a fall—or it can be produced artificially by
inhaling morka, a gas used in the weaving of our silks. The workers wear
shields over their mouths when using it, and are very careful. Never
have I known such an accident to occur, but it could. It was thus I
dreamt of you, my Alan.”

Alan smiled. He had come across as strange proofs of telepathy as in the
old world between kindred spirits. Whatever happened he knew
Waz-Y-Kjesta was his friend. “Perhaps I am in danger, my friend,” said
he. “If so can I count on you?”

“My Alan, I would suffer even serquor for you,” he answered fervently.
And Alan knew he spoke truly.




                              CHAPTER VIII
                         THE UNFORGIVEABLE KISS


The day passed slowly. Still the Princess remained in her cabin. Alan
passed Waiko with his usual cheery smile, and the guilty student
trembled and turned white at sight of the healthy man, who he thought
had been doomed to serquor. Kulmervan remained in his cabin near the
princess, and had his meals served him there. Waz-Y-Kjesta realized that
something was wrong, but as Alan did not confide in him, he made no
effort to find out the cause of his friend’s restlessness.

“My Waz,” said Alan suddenly, “is it possible for me to see the
Ipso-Rorka? I wish to speak to her.”

“Not unless she sends for you, my friend. It is impossible else.”

“It is a matter of grave import,” said Alan earnestly. “To me, to her—”

“Nothing can alter custom, my friend. If she sends for you—well.
Otherwise—” and he shrugged his shoulders expressively. Alan, however,
was determined to speak with Chlorie by foul means or fair. Her cabin
was situated in the front of the ship, and round it was a tiny balcony
railed in just above the level of the deck.

He paced round this portion of the ship the whole day, resting only at
mealtimes from his self imposed watch. Never once did the Princess
appear. The Kymo was setting, the sky was bright with sunset colours;
the sea was unruffled and calm. A fish leapt out of the water leaving
rings of glistening fluid, roseate in the glow. Alan sat, out of sight,
still watching the cabin door. Suddenly it opened and Morar, the
Princess’ personal attendant appeared. She looked around hastily. “All
is quiet, my Princess,” she cried. “No one is in sight. The sinful
stranger is in his cabin, no doubt plotting ill against you and yours.”
Chlorie came through the doorway. Her hair was gleaming, and her flowing
draperies of blue showed up the fairness of her skin.

“I am stifled, Morar. ’Tis ill to spend so many hours without a breath
of air. Watch you the other side, and should you see the evil one
appear, appraise me, and I will again take shelter within.”

With a low bow Morar vanished, closing the cabin door behind her. The
Princess paced up and down the tiny balcony, singing a Keemarnian
lullaby. Still Alan remained silent and watchful, hidden from sight
beneath the covering rail. Morar returned. “There is no sign of Alan the
evil one,” said she, “but Taz-Ak Kulmervan begs an audience.”

“Bid him come hither,” said the Princess with a sigh. “Tell him I am
weary, and must beg of him to be quick about his business.” She seated
herself on a swinging lounge, just above Alan, who could almost feel the
sweetness of her presence, the fragrance of her breath.

“Sweet Cousin,” said Kulmervan entering.

“Nay, Kulmervan, say what you have to say quickly. My head is tired—my
eyes weary.”

“You have not been out to-day, my Chlorie?”

“Not until this evening. I have carefully obeyed your instructions. Were
my father here, I should not care. But I dare not run any risks in his
absence. How is Waiko?”

“Still very weak, my Princess. This evil one, this Alan, had contrived
his evil work well. When I discovered Waiko a bandage was drawn tightly
round his mouth, his nostrils were plugged with wool, and had I not
entered when I did, serquor would have set in and Waiko would no more
have laughed and played.”

“Oh, it’s terrible,” breathed the Princess. “Why has sin thus entered
our beautiful land? I have heard of treasons, and plots and miseries;
but so far we have escaped. What is this stranger’s object, my
Kulmervan?”

“I know not all his treachery, my Chlorie, but—”

“Why bring sorrow on Waiko’s family, and upon you, his friend?”

“I do not understand, but his intentions are evil throughout. I heard
him tell his kinsman Desmond, that even the person of Chlorie herself
was not sacred to him, provided he worked his will.”

“That is enough, Kulmervan,” she interrupted haughtily. “I will keep my
cabin as you advise. Had I known in time, I should not have travelled
home in his company. The Rorka, my father, will deal with this stranger,
and the Hall of Sorrows will hold him safely, until he has been purged
clean. Now good night.”

“Chlorie,” said Kulmervan passionately. “I dare say much to you
to-night. Will you not offer me the flower of love? I dare not ask you
to wed me—you are Ipso-Rorka—’tis for you to choose. But know I love
you, love you with all my soul. Will you not honour me by choosing me
for your mate?”

“Kulmervan,” said the Princess gently. “Why make me sad by all this
useless talk? It can never be. I can place my hand in only one man’s—him
I love. Him, alas, I have not yet met, but I do not love you, my
Kulmervan. I never shall. Think, we played together in Hoormoori as
babes, built palaces of sand by the sea, picked flowers and fondled our
pets. We grew as brother and sister until you went to study with the
Djoh, and I had to learn the lesson of royalty. No, my kinsman. I love
you ’tis true, but not as a maid should love the man she mates, not as
wife for husband, lover for lover. Let this be the last time you speak
of such things, my Kulmervan. I will forget, and—”

“But I want you—you—you—,” and Kulmervan strode close to her and placed
his arms about her.

“Let me go,” breathed the girl—but his lips were seeking hers.

“No—no—no,” she cried. “Not my lips—Kulmervan be merciful. My lips are
sacred until I wed—spare my lips.” But Kulmervan’s reason had gone. “My
beautiful one,” he murmured, and ran his fingers through her glorious
mantle of hair. He held her head between his hands, and drank in the
glory of her face. Her eyes were open wide in terror, her lips tightly
compressed, her power of movement gone. Nearer, nearer he drew. His
breath came in hot gusts upon her cheek. Her eyelids quivered under his
scorching kisses. Her cheeks reddened as his lips touched them. With one
mighty effort she tried to release herself.

“In the name of Mitzor the Great, leave my lips,” she cried, but the
madness of passion was upon him. He revelled in his power, laughed at
her struggles, mocked at her impotence. Roughly he clasped her still
closer to him, but the Princess was inert in his arms—the strain was too
much for her, and blissful unconsciousness had come to soothe her. There
was the slightest of sounds. Alan, the athletic still, vaulted over the
rail, and swinging Kulmervan by the scruff of his neck threw him on to
the ground. Tenderly he lifted the Princess in his arms—she was as light
as a feather—and went into her cabin.

“Morar,” he called. “Morar.” The serving maid appeared, trembling as she
saw her beloved mistress in the arms of “the evil one.”

“Your mistress has had a fright,” said Alan thickly. “Show me her
couch.” Without a word the little maid led the way into the tiny
sleeping apartment, and tenderly he laid his burden on the silken
coverings of blue. “Look after her,” said he, “she has fainted.” With
arms folded across his chest and his breath coming in spasmodic jerks,
he waited outside the door. Presently Morar appeared. “The Ipso-Rorka
has recovered,” she said, “and has now fallen asleep. What shall I do?”

“Allow no one to enter her apartments at all. I will send a letter to
her in the morning. Can I depend on your giving it to her?”

“Yes. I can see you are not evil,” said the little maid. “Some mistake
has been made. You are her friend.”

“I am her friend,” said Alan grimly. “Remember, Morar, no one is to
enter these apartments without the Ipso-Rorka’s permission. You
understand?” and he strode out on to the balcony. Kulmervan had gone,
and he vaulted lightly over the balcony rail and went straight to his
cabin. As he opened the door he recognized the sweet, sickly odour that
he had smelt once before. So! He must be on his guard. Kulmervan and
Waiko would stop at nothing—a madness had indeed come over them, a
madness of the earth!

Holding his breath he went swiftly across the room, and opened the
windows, then shutting the door behind him, went into the big saloon.
Waz-Y-Kjesta smiled as he entered. “Where have you been, my friend? I
looked for you everywhere.”

“Resting,” said Alan grimly. That night he never went to bed, but waited
grimly for what might happen. He was left in peace, however, and toward
dawn slept fitfully. When he woke, he wrote this letter to Chlorie.

  “_Chlorie—The Ipso-Rorka._

  I beg of you, see me, just once before we alight at Hoormoori. I
  overheard the conversation of Kulmervan, and implore you to see me, if
  only to clear myself of the imputations your kinsman has made against
  me. In any case, believe that I am your devoted servant always.
  Command me—I will obey.

                                                                   ALAN”

He took the letter to Morar himself. “I will wait while the Ipso-Rorka
reads it,” said he.

In a moment she had returned. “She will answer you later.” There were
only four more nights to be spent on board the Chlorie, but much might
happen in that time. There was no sign of the enemy—all Alan could do
was to wait patiently for their next move.

That night, again, he had no sleep. Soon after he retired, the same
sickly odour permeated the cabin. Again he leant out of the window until
the fumes had passed; this time they were stronger and took a longer
time to dispel. He smiled—it was to be a duel to the end, and he needed
all his wits about him. Certainly, Keemarnians possessed of the
“madness” were more formidable, more crafty, more callous enemies, than
men belonging to Terra. Another night passed—no communication had come
from Chlorie. Alan, weary of his vigil, tried to keep awake, but
drowsiness overcame him, and his last conscious effort was to drag
himself to the window, and rest with his head breathing in the pure air.
Again the sweet fumes entered the room, but Alan had safeguarded
himself. The next night passed without the enemy showing their hand.
They doubtless thought him proof against “serquor” and would take other
methods to rid themselves of his presence. Suddenly in the darkness of
the night, a noise interrupted his musings. There was a jerk—a crash—and
the vessel shivered. Alan flew out of his cabin and met Waz-Y-Kjesta.

“What is it?” he cried.

“Nothing to be alarmed about, my friend. Something has happened to the
engine. I have not discovered what, yet—we shall be forced to make a
descent. Luckily there is an island near; we will anchor there, and put
the matter right. We shall be delayed only a very short time, I think.”

The machine descended in jerks and jumps with many creakings and
groanings, but reached the ground in safety.

“I will seek Morar, and tell her to acquaint the Ipso-Rorka with this
news,” said the Waz. The whole day passed, and the Y-Kjesta called Alan
in dismay. “I cannot understand it,” said he. “There is a screw missing
here, and that waste pipe has been filled with refuse. It means taking
the whole of the mechanism to pieces, and two days delay at least.” But
Alan guessed who had planned this sinister work, and that night he kept
vigil—not in his own room, but outside the Princess’.

Waz-Y-Kjesta was frankly puzzled. “Yesterday I fixed up the screw for
the outer valve,” said he, “yet to-day it has gone again. Surely I
couldn’t have dreamt it—yet it could not go without hands.”

“Perhaps some one has moved it, purposely, for spite,” suggested Alan.

Y-Kjesta laughed. “Not in Keemar. Besides what for? Who could do such a
foolish thing?”

True, the faith of a Keemarnian was wonderful. Alan longed to confide in
him—yet dared not. For the second time he made a mistake. Alan saw Morar
and asked her if the Princess’ apartments were quite safe from
intruders.

“Quite,” said she. “There is only a very small window, and the doors
have heavy bars.”

“She always keeps them locked?”

“Always.”

That night Alan remained in his own cabin, and worn out with continual
watching, fell asleep at his open window. He had a dream so vivid that
he thought it was real, and awoke with a start. Chlorie—the lady of his
heart had appeared to him, arms outstretched, eyes swimming with
tears—“My Lord,” she whispered. “The Cave of Whispering Madness—the
Cave—” Her voice trailed away, something dark came before his eyes,
there was the sound of a scuffle, a small cry, he felt a stabbing pain,
and he awoke. It was broad daylight, and his door was flung open wide
and Waz-Y-Kjesta, usually so placid and calm, was staring at him and
calling him in excited distress.

“My Alan! Awake! I beg of you—”

“What is it?”

“The Ipso-Rorka—is gone.”

“Gone?”

“Gone! She has disappeared.”

“Are you sure?”

“Morar, her maid, left her as usual last night. This morning she knocked
as usual for the Princess to open the door, which by the way, she always
keeps barred, but she could get no answer. Thinking her mistress had
overslept she went round to look in at the window. The bed was
empty—Chlorie was not there”

“Where is Kulmervan?” asked Alan thickly.

“Kulmervan?”

“Yes. Is he on the boat?”

“I do not know”

“Go and see at once, and I’ll go to Morar”

The Ipso-Rorka’s little maid was crying bitterly. Without any ceremony
Alan forced the door. The bed was rumpled and rough; the silken
coverlets twisted and torn—Chlorie had not gone without a struggle!

Waz-Y-Kjesta came to Alan, with consternation written all over his face.
“Three are missing altogether” said he “Can some evil spirit have taken
them? Kulmervan and Waiko are nowhere to be found”

“I thought as much” said Alan savagely. He glanced rapidly round the
room. A pile of papers lay on a desk. He smoothed them out. There, in a
little blue envelope addressed to himself, was a letter from his dear
one. He opened it quickly.

  “_My Lord_, (it ran)

  Since you saved me from my kinsman, Kulmervan my cousin has once more
  forced himself into my presence. He is possessed of a madness. I beg
  of you save me from him. I have looked at you often and I know now I
  was deceived by him when he whispered tales of your evil doing. I
  trust you implicitly. I do as you bid me. I command your help.

                                                                CHLORIE”

Then underneath was written,

  “He has spoken to me again through my window. He threatens me with
  dishonour—disgrace. He talks of the Cave of Whispering Madness. Come
  to me on receipt of this”

“The cur” muttered Alan. He turned to Y-Kjesta. “Where is the Cave of
Whispering-Madness?”

“I have never heard of it, my Alan”

“Listen. I am going to find Chlorie. Wait for me here with the air bird.
Should I fail to come by the time the Kymo has sunk ten times—go at once
to the Rorka, and ask him to send his aid here”

“Where then, is Chlorie?”

“I don’t know, but I’m going to do my best to find out. This island
isn’t very big—ten miles square at the most, and I intend to search
every bit of it if necessary, to find her”

“What about Kulmervan and Waiko?”

“Should you see them, put them under restraint. Bar their windows, and
prevent their escape. They are both possessed of the madness—but there,
I doubt if you’ll see them. Where Chlorie is—there shall I also find
Kulmervan and Waiko”

“Can I come too?”

“No, my friend. You stay here and watch in case Chlorie comes. I go
now—I shall take no provision with me—fruit will be my meat, and the sap
of the water tree my drink. Farewell” and Alan leapt over the bulwarks
and disappeared from sight in the thick brush and undergrowth of the
island.




                               CHAPTER IX
                         ALAN—THE KNIGHT ERRANT


As Alan leapt over the bulwarks, his quick eye caught sight of
footmarks, two going one way, and two the other, with perhaps five feet
between them. “So,” said he grimly to himself, “they were carrying her
between them. Poor little Chlorie.” The tracks were easy to follow, they
led down to the sea and along the seashore. Steadily they went on and
Alan followed dauntlessly. There was no attempt made to cover their
traces. On they went, carrying their burden between them.

They had about ten hours start, and although night was falling, Alan
continued at his self imposed task. Darker and darker it grew, until at
length it was impossible to see the footmarks, so he sat down hopelessly
to wait for the dawn.

The night was chilly and the rain poured down, so Alan was soaked to the
skin, and shivered violently as the grey dawn rose. The rain had almost
obliterated the marks, but they showed up faintly here and there on the
wet sand. He had no time to look at the scenery through which he was
passing—his one thought was Chlorie—not the Princess, but Chlorie the
woman, Chlorie his love.

On, on he went all day, and still the footprints showed here and there.
Night came, and again he was forced to rest and wait for the light. He
was colder than ever, he shivered violently, and longed for the warmth
of the sun. That night he never slept at all, and he rose in the early
morning light stiff and tired. His head felt light, his limbs ached, and
the one thing he could think of coherently was Chlorie.

Suddenly all traces of the marks vanished. He hunted high and low, but
all to no purpose; they ended as abruptly as if the pursued had been
snatched up into the heavens.

Two nights and two days he wandered to and fro. He was chilled to the
bone, and was in a high fever. At last he had to give in, and lay under
the shelter of a tree. The warmth of the sun revived him, and he crawled
weakly to a bush on which grew luscious plums, ate his fill and slept.
When he awoke he felt better and stronger. Perhaps he had been
dreaming—the footprints _must_ go on. But no, they came to an end at a
grassy edge, and there was no mark to show that human beings had passed
that way. He spent that day hunting for a sign of the fugitives, but was
unsuccessful, and wearily retraced his way to the air bird.

The scenery was beautiful. The island rose to a chain of peaks in the
centre, and beautiful passes and wooded valleys led through the
mountains to the further side. The vegetation was purely tropical.
Palms, breast high, grew to the edge of the sea shore; the undergrowth
showed no sign of any animal inhabitants; not a twig was broken, not a
leaf trampled upon, to mark the passage of a foreign body. Alan made the
return journey quickly, and soon found himself at the edge of the bush.
But the “Chlorie” had gone! There were the signs of where she had
rested; the mark on the sand of her wheels; an oily patch on the ground
showing where her engines had been lubricated—but all sign of her had
vanished. Had Waz-Y-Kjesta failed him, or had Chlorie returned? He felt
in his pockets—there was a scrap of paper and a pencil. “I am going
inland,” he wrote. “If you come back, search for me. Alan.” He pegged it
to the ground close to where the Chlorie had been anchored, and turning
his face westwards, retraced his footsteps.

Time passed without his reckoning. When the nights came he lived for the
day; and in the day time he dreaded the coming of the night. He reached
the place where the footsteps ceased at dusk, and for the first time for
days, slept through the night peacefully. His fever had abated, but he
still felt curiously weak. Yet his brain was clear, and he set to work
again to hunt carefully for the missing ones. Yard by yard he worked,
and at last his patience was rewarded. There, on a bush low on the
ground, he saw a piece of something blue that fluttered on the breeze.
He stooped and picked it off the twig—it was blue silk, and with a
thrill he recognized it as a piece of Chlorie’s dress. Feverishly he
looked round him; alas, there was no other piece to act as a further
guide. A thought came to him, and he lay flat on the ground and peered
under the bush. There, a grassy avenue unfolded itself before his
wondering gaze—it had been completely hidden by the dense woody
undergrowth. So it was under this bush they had made their escape, and
it was probably in dragging the unconscious girl through, that her dress
was torn.

Alan wormed his way under the bushes, and gasped in wonder at the vista
opened out before him. A straight avenue—bordered on either side by
thick bushes and overhanging trees, ran perhaps two miles in a straight
line. The grass underfoot was soft and velvety, and a narrow streamlet
ran over white stones at one side. The bushes were laden with fruit, but
even a cursory glance showed that a quantity had been picked quite
recently. Twigs bearing fruit had been roughly broken off, and trampled
under foot. On went Alan until he reached the end of the avenue, where
four paths branched out in four different directions. He hesitated for a
second—all four looked like virgin ground. But his eyes were quickened
by love, and only love could have noticed a small patch of damp earth
close to the water’s edge from where a stone had been kicked aside in a
hasty transit. He looked round and saw the stone, its under side still
damp—and knew that the fugitives were not too far off.

Down the path he went which twisted and turned, now narrow now wide
again. Suddenly the path also came to an end, and thick bushes and low
growing vegetation barred his way. Profiting by his past experience, he
tried to peer under the bushes, but could find no sign of an outlet
anywhere. All at once there came the sound of voices so close that he
turned quickly, expecting to see figures behind him. But there was no
one in sight. He listened intently—the voices came again—the Keemarnian
tongue which he could understand quite well by this time— “—will leave
you here,” “—spare me, I beg”—“leave you here”—“Kulmervan have
mercy—mercy.”

It was all very disjointed, and the sounds seemed to come from every
direction. Again he heard his loved one’s voice—distorted it is true,
but even in the hoarse tones, he recognized that it was Chlorie
speaking. “—get away.—help me. Waiko help—my father will reward—Waiko—”
The voice trailed off. Alan was frankly puzzled. The voice came first
behind, then before him—then it seemed to come from Heaven itself. A
hoarse laugh sounded—Kulmervan’s. Alan was on the near track at last.
Again the maniacal laugh came, fading away in the distance. Alan
realized the trick nature had played him. He was listening not to the
tones of his loved one, or her abductor, but to an echo. The originals
might still be many miles away.

Madly he tried to force his way through the undergrowth. It was
impossible. All night long he stayed in the little cul-de-sac, and at
intervals caught fragments of conversation.

“prevent her escaping.—torture her if need be.”

“—love me Chlorie, just love me,” “—save me, Waiko!”

“—keep you with me always.”

The madness indeed possessed Kulmervan and his friend.

When the sun rose Alan made one more attempt to leave the enclosure.
Crawling on his belly, he wormed his way round the roots of the bushes.
At last he discovered an opening. He crept through it, low upon the
ground. When he got through, a network of pathways confronted him, but
it was quite easy to discover the pathway Kulmervan had taken. Feeling
secure in his flight, he now refrained from attempting to cover his
tracks. By the broken grass and branches, the general upheaval of the
soil, Alan was convinced that through this part of their retreat, they
had dragged their unwilling victim along the path, so he ground his
teeth and swore softly under his breath.

Twisting and turning the path opened out into a valley—a valley of rocks
and stones between two mighty mountains. The scene was desolate, awe
inspiring, dreary—almost terrifying in its grandeur. For perhaps two
miles he followed it, until again it narrowed and the character of the
scene changed. Once more it was a leafy lane he was traversing, that
might have been in Devonshire, with its red earth and dainty ferns.

At intervals during the day he heard the echo, and it led him on—on—to
his love.

A sound came upon his ear; it was that of voices—real voices, this
time—no longer an echo. Cautiously he crept from tree to tree. There in
the centre of a clearing sat Kulmervan. His robe was torn, his skin
scratched—his eyes held a look of madness. At his feet stretched Waiko,
listening eagerly to his friend’s counsel. And tied to a tree, her fair
hair covering her, her garments lying strewn on the ground beside her,
torn from her body by her half mad kinsman, Kulmervan—was Chlorie. Her
head was sunk on her breast. She was breathing heavily.

Alan dared not move—it was two against one, and he had to save himself
for her. Silent as a sleuth hound, he watched and waited; and even as he
did so Chlorie lifted her head and gazed across the bodies of the two
Keemarnians. Through the leafy spaces their eyes met. Into hers came
recognition, followed by a flush of shame, as she shook her hair closer
still about her gleaming body. Then she smiled a trustful smile, and
dropped her head once more upon her breast.




                               CHAPTER X
                     THE CAVE OF WHISPERING MADNESS


Throughout the night Alan watched. Never did Kulmervan move from his
place in the clearing—never did his eyes close nor did he show the
slightest inclination to sleep. Towards morning Waiko raised himself
from the ground. He was pitiable to look upon. Led on by a stronger will
the madness had come upon him also. But it was a weaker madness than
that which affected Kulmervan—it was a madness that chattered and
gibbered in the sun, that laughed and cackled insanely—a madness that
was pitiful to behold.

Alan watched through the leafy branches, and as the dawn rose, many
times he met Chlorie’s questioning gaze with looks of encouragement and
help. And she knew that when the time was ripe, this strange Lord from
another world would save and deliver her.

As Kulmervan still made no attempt to move, Alan wondered whether it
would be possible to overpower him. He made a movement and the slight
sound was heard. Kulmervan sprang to his feet and looked round, and Alan
saw he was clutching the huge limb of a tree—a formidable weapon in a
madman’s hands. He was evidently not satisfied, and peered round the
tree trunks carefully. Quietly Alan crept behind a large bush, and
dropping on his belly he wormed himself underneath it until he was
completely hidden.

The crackling of a twig was heard by the madman, who, with his dormant
passions aroused was a dangerous enemy. He spoke sharply to Waiko. “What
sound is that, my Waiko? Is it the stranger that tracketh us?”

“I know not,” said Waiko shuddering. “Oh, Kulmervan, my friend, let us
leave the Ipso-Rorka here, and flee from the wrath of her father.”

“Nonsense, my Waiko! When the Rorka is told that his daughter, Chlorie
the Fair, Chlorie the Pure, has spent forty and one nights with us in
the darkness, he will be glad to give his soiled goods into my keeping
for ever. Then in good time, I shall become Rorka. Shall I not punish my
Chlorie then, for her indifference and insults?”

Waiko shuddered.

“My Chlorie,” cried Kulmervan suddenly, his manner changing. “Will you
not promise me your hand? Oh, my darling, forgive me—I love you so—I
love you. Give me your hand—swear before Waiko that you’ll take me for
your mate. I’ll be so good to you—I’ll love you so” His voice was
pleading. His earnestness could not be doubted, yet Alan knew it was but
a moment’s lull in the disordered brain.

Chlorie never answered a word, and her silence drove Kulmervan again to
threats. Tearing a handful of withes from the side of a running brook,
he lashed the captive Princess across her legs with the stinging rushes.
With an oath Alan burst from his hiding place, and was on the back of
his enemy, before Kulmervan could recover from his astonishment.

Then followed a terrific fight. Alan with all his knowledge of the
scientific sport was unable to get in a knockout blow. He parried and
thrust, and landed Kulmervan a heavy blow under his jaw. His opponent
tottered for a moment, but the blow had no lasting effect, and the heavy
Keemarnian struck mightier blows still at his enemy. Waiko was entirely
demoralized. He stood watching the fight—his breath coming in gasps, his
blue eyes staring, his teeth chattering. As an ally, he was useless to
Kulmervan; as an enemy he counted as naught to Alan.

Chlorie, tied tightly to the tree, was unable to move. Her wide open
eyes followed the fighters in an agony of spirit; but not a sound came
from her lips. True to the tradition of her land, the daughter of the
Rorka gave no audible sign of her terror. Alan knew he was weakening.
Imperceptibly at first he lost ground, but gradually he realized that
his blows had no effect upon the Keemarnian. His hasty rush into the
field of battle was worse than useless—he could no longer help his love.
The Keemarnian gave him one terrific blow in the stomach. His wind
went—he gasped, choked for breath, crumpled up and sank to the ground.

Kulmervan left his vanquished enemy’s side and went to Waiko who had
been stupidly watching the scene.

“Watch him,” he commanded. “If he show any sign of awakening, give him a
blow with this. It will be sufficient to put him to sleep again,” and he
tossed the heavy stick beside the prostrate body.

Brutally he untied the ropes that bound Chlorie. She was stiff and weak,
and the agony as the blood once more coursed freely through her veins,
was almost more than she could bear. Still she remained silent, and with
a noble gesture of majesty, stooped, and drew her mantle of blue about
her naked body. Two other garments still lay on the ground—with a sudden
thought she caught one up, and drew it within the folds of her cloak.
She had a plan! Love had been born to her, in that exquisite moment of
agony when she saw Alan knocked down. Her soul cried out within her that
here was her mate at last. Her fine sense of belief and trust told her
that it was impossible that he was sleeping the sleep of serquor.
Sometime he would rise again—bruised, bleeding, torn, perhaps, but rise
he would, and come to her aid.

Kulmervan took her roughly by the arm. “Come,” said he. “Waiko wait
until the Kymo is full in the Heavens—it is but a short time. If Alan
the Evil has not moved by then, follow me quickly. Always to the East,
my friend. Always take the most easterly path, and you will find me.”

“Where are you going?” asked Waiko in horror.

“To the Cave of Whispering Madness,” said he, and involuntarily Chlorie
shuddered.

“Do you know where it is, my Kulmervan?” asked Waiko.

“Yes. Have I not been there often? Ah, my friend, I arranged that the
engines should fail. Ah, oft times should I have been in the Hall of
Sorrows, but I came here instead, and of my own free will. I know the
place I intend taking you to—I will show you sights—sights I have
seen—ha! ha! ha!” and with a wild burst of laughter he dragged his
unwilling captive through the bushes, and made his way Eastward.

Waiko remained silent, watching his vanishing friend. His mind was
working strangely. The madness had left a deep sense of fear in the
heart of Waiko. The inanimate body of Alan seemed to point to his
undoing. The blood trickled slowly down the unconscious man’s face till
there was a little red pool shining wickedly on the green grass. With a
cry, Waiko picked up the club and swung it once, twice round his head.
But as he would have swung it a third time, it slipped out of his
nerveless fingers, and went spinning a hundred feet away. With a cry at
his loneliness, Waiko turned and fled after Kulmervan. In a short space
of time he had caught them up, and noticed with surprise that Chlorie
was walking almost willingly with her captor. There was a rope passed
round her body, it was true, but it was slack in the centre, and
although she lagged somewhat behind, there was no need to drag her
along.

“Alan?” questioned Kulmervan, as Waiko reached him.

“Is serquor.”

“Good.”

“I struck him, as he rose to hurt me. With one mighty blow I felled him
to the ground. The heavy weapon you left with me I dashed on his head.—
Now he lies quiet, and cold and bloody.” Waiko almost believed his
story, and as he recounted it, he looked upon himself as a hero.

“’Tis well, my Waiko,” said Kulmervan. “What say you to that, my
Chlorie? Alan is serquor—never more will Kymo rise upon his smiling
face. Never more will he force his presence upon the people of Keemar.
He is gone for ever from our sight.”

But Chlorie made no reply—only from beneath her mantle could be seen a
slight convulsive movement, and from underneath came a tiny tatter of
blue, that caught on a rose bush and fluttered in the breeze.

Birds singing—sweetly smelling flowers—a sense of hunger and thirst.
These were the first conscious thoughts Alan had, as he opened his eyes
on the world once more. He rose from the ground. His head was sore, but
the bleeding had ceased. He plucked some luscious fruit that grew low to
the ground. It revived him. Then he tried to think. Chlorie had been
taken from him once more—but he would find her yet. He tenderly touched
the tree to which she had been bound—and stooped and picked up the
silken garment she had left behind. It was just a piece of soft, blue
drapery that crumpled into nothingness in his hand. He kissed it
reverently—it was part of his love.

He looked round wearily—there, attached to a bush was a piece of
something blue—he bent over it—it was part of her gown. Further down, in
the very centre of the path was another piece, while in the distance he
could see yet a third. It was a sign. Chlorie was directing him the way
she had gone. The trail was difficult to follow. The breeze had blown
many pieces away altogether—others it had carried away playfully into a
wrong direction, but by careful watchfulness, he discovered the right
way, and there were always the little pieces of blue to guide him.

Then he lost the trail altogether. The last piece of blue was caught on
a stone at the bottom of a mighty face of rock. No matter where he
looked, there was no shred of blue to cheer him. He ran his hand over
the surface of the rock, it was of a reddish sandstone and quite smooth.
All around was a low-lying valley with neither a stone nor a tree behind
which any one could hide. He could see for about ten miles, and there
was no sign of the fugitives. Backward and forward he walked by the
mighty wall of rock, and always his journey ended by the last little
flutter of blue. The cliff rose sheer perhaps three hundred feet, and
the solid wall extended as far as eye could reach. It was unthinkable
that Kulmervan had scaled the wall—yet whither had he gone?

Suddenly he heard a rumbling noise; the sound of a thousand people
whispering, and in front of him a huge slab of rock swung back,
revealing a cavity within. The whispering grew louder and louder. He
looked round for a hiding place. There was none—so without a moment’s
hesitation he leapt inside the darkened cavern. A narrow path led
downwards, and it was up this path the whispering seemed to be coming;
whispering that sounded like a veritable army speaking in hushed tones.
There was a piece of rock jutting out—Alan slipped into its embracing
shadows, and waited. The sounds came nearer and nearer—then Kulmervan
appeared with Waiko at his side. “The voices whispered that a stranger
was coming. The voices are never wrong. See, my Waiko, see yonder if
Alan the Evil is approaching.” The voice whispered and rolled in the
darkness. The whole place was unwholesome and terrifying.

Kulmervan followed Waiko into the sunlight. Immediately they were out of
sight, Alan slipped from his hiding place and ran swiftly down the
narrow passageway. The faster he ran, the faster he drew in his breath,
and it seemed as if a thousand men were mocking him. He sighed as his
breath caught in his throat—immediately there were a thousand sighs
behind him. Quicker, quicker he tore down the passage, to where he
hoped, somewhere he would find his love hidden. The path was steep and
narrow and was in total darkness, and he risked his life in his mad rush
through the whispering horrors. He heard the voices again! Kulmervan and
Waiko had returned. Blindly he rushed on—stumbling here, tripping there,
in his haste to reach the Ipso-Rorka.

The path took an upward turn—he tripped over something. Putting his
hands out before him, he felt on the ground. Rough steps had been cut
out of the rock. Steadily he mounted upwards—upwards—the darkness was
intense—the whispering shadows terrifying; but he never ceased his mad
pace, so eager was he to reach Chlorie.

Steadily he ascended the stairs—they seemed interminable. Then in the
distance, he saw a yellowish spot of light. As he rose higher, it became
bigger, until it ended in a blaze of brightness. He had reached the top
and was in an enormous cavern lit by torches in sockets all round the
walls. The awful grandeur of the place startled him. In the very centre
was a huge figure, twenty feet high. It was seated on a throne and had
its hands outspread as if in benediction. It possessed a terrible face,
cruel, hard, sensual,—and the incongruity of the posing of the hands
struck Alan at once. Round the cave, at equal distances, were other
figures, all enormous in stature, and possessing in their features the
same bestial cruelty and lust. Stalactites hung from the roof.
Stalactites forty feet long—Stalactites fifty feet long. Stalactites
glorious, yet like deadly serpents with heads outstretched ready to
strike. In one corner of the place was a huge beast in stone. Once it
had lived, no doubt, now it was fossilized and cold. It was similar to
the ichthyosaurus of prehistoric days—an evil-looking beast in its life,
but infinitely more terrible in its stone period.

Every movement Alan made was intensified a thousand times in this Cave
of Whispering Madness. He realized what the name meant. It could indeed,
drive the sanest man mad. He realized that he had a fair start of the
two Keemarnians, and hurriedly hunted for his lost love. Softly he
called, but although her name reverberated from floor to roof, no
answering cry took up his challenge. Then whispering voices sounded
nearer. Silently he slipped behind the stone monster that had once lived
and mated. He was only just in time. Still louder grew the whisperings,
and Kulmervan and Waiko appeared at the top of the stairway. With the
greatest difficulty Alan was able to distinguish their words. The
whisperings were so loud, so sibilant, that the voices sounded like one
long hiss.

The two Keemarnians came close to the big carved figure in the centre of
the cave. Kulmervan bent low on both knees before the hideous figure.
“Spirit of our Fathers,” he cried out. “Humbly I pray, take my soul into
thy keeping. It is thine—thine for ever—but in return, I pray you, grant
me Chlorie’s love. See, I sprinkle thee with my blood in ratification of
my bond,” and with a short knife he severed a vein in his arm and
sprinkled the statue with the warm, red fluid.

Waiko was whispering, “Mitzor the Mighty, have mercy! Have mercy!”

“Fool,” cried Kulmervan. “Why mention that name here? I have bargained
with Pirox the Killer—I belong to him. Chlorie shall be mine. You have
come thus far with me, my Waiko, but further thou shalt go. Down, down
on thy knees before Pirox—admit that he is great—greater than Mitzor!
Ask a favour—nay demand a favour—seal it with thy blood.”

Waiko went down on his knees. His face was ashen—he was trembling in
every limb. Then came a strange duet, intensified a thousand times by
the whisperings. “Mitzor the Mighty.” “Pirox the Killer.” “Pirox.”
“Mitzor.” “Mitzor.” “Pirox.”

In a passion Kulmervan arose, and struck Waiko, down. “Lie there, thou
dog,” he cried. “May thou sleep for ever in serquor. I alone am mighty.
Pirox alone is great.” Waiko never moved, he showed no signs of
breathing. Had he indeed fallen into the trance-like state that the
inhabitants of Keemar so dreaded? It seemed hopeless to Alan, that he
would ever find Chlorie in this cavern of horror. He realized at last
that Kulmervan was a degenerate. The entrance of poor Murdoch had not
caused the madness. No doubt he had posed as a good Keemarnian, but he
suffered from the madness, and deep in his heart even denied the
existence of Mitzor the Mighty, the Great White Glory, and indulged in
devil worship and fetish honour. What this Cave of Whispering Madness
was Alan could not conjecture—perhaps in some far gone age, fallen
Jovians had met here; made the Temple for their abominable worship, and
lived a second life, unsuspected by their friends.

That the image in the centre was their god, Alan was convinced. But how
had Kulmervan discovered it? Had it been handed down to him from his
childhood, or had he in some way found it for himself? If was pitiful to
see—a young Keemarnian of noble lineage, saturated with heathen
mythology and heretical dogma. In truth he was a menace to his
companions, living a life of deceit and sin. His was a complex
character, for there was much that was sweet and lovable about him, and
he was much to be pitied, for when his secret was discovered he would
indeed become a pariah and an outcast. At the moment he felt he was
safe, and continued his “Black Sacrifice.”

For Chlorie’s sake, Alan was forced to witness in silence the horrors
that followed. At the foot of the statue was a slab of stone—raised
perhaps ten inches from the ground. Upon it were ominous red stains.
Quickly Kulmervan set about his business. In one corner of the cave were
piles of brushwood—these he piled high under the stone slab. With a
mighty effort he lifted the senseless Waiko upon it, and rested his head
in a tiny curve at one end. Alan shuddered to see how it fitted the
neck. The use of the slab was plain to see. He set fire to the wood by
one of the torches, and the smoke curled up and the wood hissed and
sizzled.

When the fire was safely alight, Kulmervan went to a corner of the
cavern, and touched a hidden spring. A door opened, and revealed a
flight of steps inside, leading below. As soon as he was out of sight,
Alan rushed from his hiding place, lifted Waiko from the altar and hid
him behind the mammoth fossil.

But the noise of his movements was magnified a thousandfold by the
hideous whispering echoes of the place. Waiko was still and quiet—he
scarcely breathed, and Alan dared not try to revive him. Kulmervan
returned bearing in his arms a precious burden in blue. Alan started,
and leant forward; his darling was not unconscious, but was submitting
to the indignity put upon her with her usual patience. At the altar he
stopped in frozen amazement. The stone was beginning to show red,—the
deadly fire should have begun its work—but the altar was empty. He
looked round—there was no one in sight. With a cry of rage he let go the
rope to which Chlorie was fastened, put her to the ground, and darted to
the head of the stairway leading to the cave’s entrance. And the yells
of his curses and imprecations rose on the air, in volumes of sinister
whisperings.

Alan was but six feet from his dear one. With a mighty rush he leapt
from his hiding place, and caught Chlorie in his arms. He made for the
secret door through which Kulmervan had brought her; Kulmervan heard the
sounds and was just in time to see two figures disappearing through the
little door. With another oath he strode across the cave—but the figures
had a big start. They had closed the door behind them, and his fingers
hesitated over the secret lock; so he was delayed by his own impatience
and anger.

Chlorie had given herself up for lost, and when she felt two strong arms
encircle her a vague terror came over her, but even as she was lifted
up, a voice whispered in her ear—“Have no fear. ’Tis I—Alan. Trust
yourself to me and I will save you.” Her emotion was too great for her
to speak, but she let herself nestle in comfort in the arms of the
powerful stranger.

The door clanged behind them—more stairs, very narrow. Down Alan went,
and the darkness gave place to a faint light.

“Where are we?” asked Alan.

“I don’t know—but there is a cave down here which is kept padlocked—it
was there I was imprisoned.”

Alan looked round quickly; the passage had widened and openings led off
on either side. Immediately in front of them seemed to come the
daylight.

“Can you run?” he asked tenderly.

“Yes—yes. Oh, to be free of Kulmervan!” Through the dim light they went.
The whisperings were not quite as bad as in the upper cave, but still
they were quite fearsome enough. They seemed to people the place with
dead men—men who laughed, and jeered, and pointed their clammy fingers
at their victims. But upon the whisperings came a more fearful
sound—Kulmervan’s laughter!

“Hurry—hurry, my Princess.”

“I cannot,” she breathed. “My heart beats—it hurts me to talk.” Without
a word he picked the light burden again up in his arms and made off at a
still greater pace; she flung one arm round his neck and clung to him
confidingly. Nearer came the laughter. It was so close that it seemed
almost on the top of them. Alan never forgot that journey; with his
precious burden in his arms he hurried onward, always following the
light. And nearer and nearer came the footsteps of the madman. At last
they turned a corner—the cave opened out and they saw Kymo, shining in
all his glory; the sea was breaking gently on the golden shore.

There was plenty of shelter near; rocks abounded and the vegetation was
thick. Alan ran to where a dozen rocks, man high, rose from the
seashore. There was in one a crevice that was wide enough to admit
Chlorie.

“Stay there,” he whispered.

“Oh, don’t leave me.”

“I won’t leave you for long I promise you—but I want to watch for
Kulmervan.”

“Take care of yourself,” she pleaded. “Oh, run no risks, I pray.”

With a quick glance round Alan left the shelter of the rocks. No one was
in sight—Kulmervan had not shown himself. Quickly Alan made his way to
the cave from which they had emerged. He entered it, and to his
amazement found it had no exit. Solid walls blocked his way—it was just
a hollowed out rock on the sands, going inland, perhaps ten or twelve
feet only. Alan was perplexed. He had marked it as he thought by a big
coloured boulder at its entrance; but upon careful examination he found
there were dozens and dozens of such boulders all over the beach.
Stepping from his hiding place he walked to the next cave; that upon
examination proved to go deep into the earth, but it was not the cave
from which they had escaped into the open. Wildly he rushed up and down.
Twenty, thirty caves he encountered all like, very like, the one he was
seeking. Some had narrow passages that twisted and turned and ended in a
cave next door. Others went further, and after many serpentine turnings,
brought him back to the place from which he had started. He knew he was
in a dangerous position; any one of these caves might hold Kulmervan—an
observer, but unobserved. Rapidly Alan made up his mind. With Chlorie he
would leave the cave district altogether—they would strike inland. If
they were still on the island, they would endeavour to find their way
back to where the air bird had been anchored. That Waz-Y-Kjesta would
return Alan was convinced—and when he did so, they would be saved.

Having made up his mind, he began to retrace his footsteps—but a hoarse
burst of laughter startled him. He rushed to the mouth of the cave.
There, sailing away to sea in a frail craft, was Kulmervan. It was just
a raft he was on, with a tiny makeshift sail. But it was not at
Kulmervan that Alan was staring horror stricken—incredulous. But at a
blue figure near the helm—a little blue figure that was tied to a post
to which the main-sail was fastened; a little blue figure that held out
her arms imploringly to the shore. Alan could only stare and stare,
incredulous, unbelieving—but the little craft grew smaller and smaller
as it was tossed on the waves. Alan rushed to the rocks—the crevice was
empty—Chlorie had once more been snatched from his arms.




                               CHAPTER XI
                       THE WRAITHS OF THE RORKAS


Alan remained motionless, watching the little craft vanish from his ken.
He was thinking hard. Kulmervan had so far got the better of him, but
the game was not yet won. It might be check to the King, but Alan was
far from being mated. His eye searched the beach—there was nothing in
sight; neither boat, nor sailing craft. He looked behind him at the many
yawning cavern entrances. He was still in doubt as to the one which led
to the Cave of Whispering Madness. He clenched his hands together till
the knuckles showed white—there he was, alone on an island, impotent,
useless—while the woman he loved was in the hands of a madman, and in
danger, not of death as he knew it, but of dishonour, disgrace, and
perhaps serquor itself.

There was a mist at sea, and already the little barque had been
swallowed up in its grey folds—nothing was in sight on the broad expanse
of water. He looked above him—he saw no air bird in the heavens, its
body gleaming in the light. On the island there was no trace of humanity
but himself. Hope seemed far away. Then suddenly he remembered
Kulmervan’s words. “Take the most easterly path, my Waiko. Always to the
East.” Unconsciously he turned to the left, and walked quickly across
the sands. A great promontory of rock stood out before him, hiding from
sight the next little bay. He strode towards it, and found it was
impossible to get round it. Already the water was too deep, so he made
up his mind to scale it. Clambering up the slippery rocks, he at length
reached the top. There before him lay the whole stretch of coast line.
Tiny bays; little rivulets coming down narrow valleys and emptying
themselves at last in the sea; rugged headlands, and grassy slopes all
took their place in the picture. None of these things, however focussed
themselves upon his mind; one thing only he saw, and one thing only drew
him helter skelter over the rugged rocks. A tiny boat, almost like the
Rob Roy canoe he favoured in his ’varsity days, lay drawn high up on the
beach, and near it, a little log cabin was built at the water’s edge.

Hurriedly he made his way to the little hut, and knocked loudly on the
door. There was no reply and he tried it; it opened at his touch. He
entered it—it was deserted, but he soon had proof of its owner. Upon the
wall hung a beautiful painting of Chlorie—and it was signed “Kulmervan,
from his kinswoman. Chlorie.” On a table by the window was a pile of
books, and on the fly leaf of nearly every one was written in a strong
hand, “Kulmervan, Taz-Ak of the House of Pluthoz.” Mostly the books were
on Astronomy and Alan noticed with amusement one was called “Quilphis,
or the most important unimportant Planet.” Quilphis—Terra! His world,
once his all—now nothing.

He looked round the room, a door led on one side to the sleeping
apartment, and on the other to the kitchen and offices. The whole place
was tastefully furnished and showed signs of frequent use. Alan hurried
to the seashore—the little craft was called the Chlorie. He sprang into
it, and pushed off. In the bow he saw a tiny engine with three levers.
He was already slightly acquainted with the simple Keemarnian machinery,
so he pulled one down with assurance. Instantly the boat skimmed along
the water at a terrific speed. Hastily he touched the second, a slower
pace resulted, and the third stopped the boat altogether. With the first
speed on, he ploughed out to the horizon. He could see no trace of
Kulmervan. The sea was desolate and bare. He felt hopeless. Had
Kulmervan swamped the boat, and were he and Chlorie now lying dead at
the bottom of the sea? Death! He knew the Jovians had no death—yet
surely they were not immune from drowning? Perhaps they would remain on
the sea’s bed—serquor. The thought maddened him, and savagely he turned
the boat first this way, then that, in his hopeless endeavour to find
the fugitives. Kymo had sunk, darkness was setting in—he could see the
faint outlines of the hut. Suddenly two beams of light shone out from
its windows, which were as suddenly obscured. Kulmervan had doubtless
returned. Quickly he turned the boat towards shore; he drew close in and
beached her without a sound. Quietly he crept up to the open window and
moved the heavy curtain ever so slightly.

There was Kulmervan in his easy chair, reading a book—but he was alone.
A knock sounded and a man appeared.

“Do you want refreshment now, my lord?” he asked.

“Yes, Arrack. At once.”

“Shall I take refreshment to the lady, your mate?”

“No, Arrack. But stay—take her a glass of wine, and,” fumbling on his
table—“melt this pellet in it. She will fall asleep. When she is asleep,
carry her hither and place her in my room. ’Tis my wedding night,
Arrack. I have an unwilling bride it’s true, but before Pirox the
Killer, my mate shall she be this night.”

Arrack smiled evilly. “’Tis well, my lord. I will do thy bidding.”

“When you have brought her hither, stand sentinel at the rocky ledge. If
Alan the Evil should appear, strike him down, bind him and acquaint me.
Should that happen to him, then Pirox the Killer again will have a
victim.”

Silently Arrack left the room to return almost immediately with a tray
laden with food.

“Where did you go this midday, Arrack?” asked his master.

“To the Cave of Whispering Madness, my master. I built the sacrificial
pyre beneath the altar. Everything is in readiness. I hardly expected
you so soon. Two Kymos should have passed before you came.”

“The pyre is ready? Good! But what did you with the Chlorie?”

“’Tis on the beach as it always is.”

“Nay,” said Kulmervan, “when I landed at the covered bay, I dragged my
unwilling bride by way of the beach. The Chlorie was not there, and I
thought you must have sailed to the mainland for food.”

“It is there I swear, my lord.”

Kulmervan looked puzzled. “Could Alan have found it and—” he
began—then—“Go quickly, Arrack, and see.”

Alan slipped round the corner of the hut, and in the darkness stood
flush with the wall, completely hidden. He saw the figure of Arrack run
lightly down to the beach, heard him get into the boat, and as quickly
return. He reached his coign of vantage in time to hear Arrack say, “It
is there, my lord. I saw and touched it. It has moved its position
slightly, but the wind has been rather high to-day; otherwise it was as
I left it.”

“That puling girl has taken my senses away,” grumbled Kulmervan. “I can
think of naught but her. Go, Arrack, fetch her here. But remember, give
her the wine first. When she awakens, she will have become my mate,” and
he chuckled hoarsely.

Alan was in a quandary, he scarcely knew what to do. Was the secret way
into the place where Chlorie was hidden, in the cabin or not? He wormed
his way round the hut, and as he did so, he saw a door open, and in the
ray of light a figure cross to a little lean-to shed, that had been
built against some high ground. He gave Arrack a moment or two of grace
and then followed him in. There on the floor was an open trap door with
some steps leading from it into the unknown below. A length of cord was
in a corner of the shed, Alan picked it up and then followed Arrack. At
the foot of the steps, a subterranean passage led for some distance, and
then opened out into a large cave. He remembered it—it was the one
immediately under the secret exit in the Cave of Whispering Madness.

He saw Arrack in front of him—he had taken a key from his waist and had
undone a heavy, metal door. Silently Alan crept nearer and nearer to
him. He heard the sound of liquid being poured into a glass. He heard
Chlorie’s gentle word of thanks. Now he could see the grim tragedy.
Chlorie had finished the wine, and was now swaying to and fro; she
tottered and fell on to a low couch in a corner of her prison. Arrack
watched her until he was convinced she was fast asleep, then he put the
wine bottle down and bent over the prostrate girl. He remembered no
more—a mighty blow rendered him unconscious, and Alan tied up his
unresisting foe, and left him helpless upon the ground.

Tenderly he raised Chlorie and bent over her—he was aching to kiss her
sweet lips, but he remembered her anguished cry, “Not my lips,
Kulmervan, not my lips.” No, until she offered them of her own free
will, they should remain sacred to him. He knew she would sleep deeply
for some time, so he examined his quarters. Chlorie’s cell was hewn out
of the solid rock, with nothing in it but a chair, a table and a settee.
There was the passage leading to the log cabin; the one with the glimmer
of light that led he knew to the sea shore; and the one to the cave
above. To the right, there was a tiny passage that looked almost like a
crack in the rock. He peered through—it led on into the distance, and he
was determined to try that. Arrack had carried a lamp which gave a good
light. Alan picked it up, lifted Chlorie gently, and started down the
passage. He wondered whether it would lead to safety, or to adventures
even more horrible than many of those he had been through. He held
Chlorie tightly; he was determined not to lose her again. Again the
passage opened out into a cave—narrowed, and a still larger cave came
into view. He saw a niche high up in the wall, and with his precious
burden, he managed to reach it in safety. He found himself on a high
narrow ledge, where they could rest in safety from the machinations of
Kulmervan.

Chlorie woke to find her head supported by a strong arm, and her hands
held between two firm ones. She looked up. “Alan,” she breathed, and
made a tiny movement towards him. “My Chlorie,” he murmured, and their
lips met in one warm long kiss. “Oh, my darling, you really love me?” he
said brokenly at last.

“My Alan, I know not the customs of your world. In mime, it is shame to
a maid who offers her lips before she is wed. Indeed, a maid would never
be thus,” and she slipped from the circle of his arm—“even were she
sworn to wed. I know not your customs, my Alan, but I am Ipso-Rorka, and
my father’s child. I—I love you, Alan—”

“And you’ll be my wife?” he asked tenderly.

Shyly she hid her face on his breast “In truth, my Alan,—’tis sweeter
far to be asked, than ask. I am glad you are of a different world—for
your wooing is stronger and yet more sweet than ours. Oh, willingly,
willingly, Alan, will I marry you.”

Alan had at last met and won his ideal, and he caressed and murmured
sweet nothings to her, until they forgot they were fugitives—forgot that
a madman would soon be on their trail—forgot aught but the joy of the
present, and the hope of the future. Chlorie recovered herself first.
Shyly she slipped her little hand into Alan’s. “My loved one,” said she.
“My father the Rorka knows naught of Kulmervan and his sin. We must
escape, reach him, and for the safety of the community, for the
traditions of our dear land, we must send Kulmervan to the Hall of
Sorrows.”

“My Chlorie, nothing will purge him of his sin. He is mad—quite mad.”

“But he must go away all the same. See what unhappiness he has caused
already—see what he may do in the future!”

“You are right. He must be put away. He has money, position and
cunning.”

“Where are we, my Alan?”

“I know not where this leads,” said Alan, “but it is the only road I
dared take.”

Hungry, tired and worn, they crept on along the little narrow ledge.
Suddenly a cave, lighted from without through slits in the wall, burst
on their view, and Chlorie gave a startled exclamation. “The Hall of our
Fathers,” she cried, “I have been here before.”

“What is it?”

“This is the place where the regalia of each reigning Rorka is placed,
together with his throne, when he has left the fair land of Keemar,
through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata.” Round the cave were thrones of
all descriptions—some in heavy marble—others in gold adorned with
precious jewels; others just simple, wooden thrones, that showed their
antiquity.

“Down, down on your knees,” cried Chlorie, and Alan realized that the
cave had become alive with living figures. The thrones were occupied by
men who wore crowns of gold and jewels, and who carried sceptre and orb
in their hands. The cave that had been dead and cold only a minute
before, was now alive. But there was no sound; all was hushed and still,
and the figures were shadowy and unreal. “Oh my Mitzor,” breathed
Chlorie. “The joy! To think I should have been permitted to witness this
scene—to see the wraiths of my forefathers. My Alan, watch—read a
meaning in this visitation, for it augurs well.”

Alan felt unable to move. He was petrified at the sight before him—at
the ghostly pageant of years gone by. Slowly the Rorkas—kings of æons
past—rose from their thrones and walked in single file to the end of the
cave. There they ranged themselves on either side of a slightly raised
platform of rock. They prostrated themselves, and Alan saw a thin vapour
rise and like a curtain shut out from sight the little stage. Then it
lifted, and through the shadowy film he saw strange figures disporting
themselves amid the strange scenery. Then, all at once, he realized that
he was watching shadowy figures of himself and Desmond and Mavis. He saw
their little cottage at Arroch Head; he witnessed their hasty flight in
the Argenta; once more he saw the destruction of the world, his world.
But this time it was different. Like a tiny star it shone white and
bright, then it shivered, turned red like a tiny ball of fire in the
sky, burst into a thousand different pieces, and then disappeared from
sight. And as it disappeared the scene clouded again, and the filmy
curtain of haze shut out the picture from his sight. The scene
changed—once more he saw himself as an actor on the stage, but this time
he was a minor character in the drama. Kulmervan was the villain, and
played the chief character. He witnessed their meeting in the little
lane—he watched the flight of the air bird, Chlorie—the descent, and the
abduction of the Ipso-Rorka. So the play went on until one more picture
showed clearly before him. He saw Chlorie—Chlorie in a gown of
diaphanous white with a crown of gold upon her head. By her side he
stood, crowned and with orb in hand; and between them stood a child—a
man child who bore traces of his mother’s beauty and his father’s
strength. Then darkness came upon the scene, and Alan drew his trembling
love still closer beside him.

Then the wraiths of the Rorkas became faint and misty, and when next he
looked, they had vanished from sight.

“We shall win through, my Alan,” said Chlorie. “The wraiths of our
Rorkas never show themselves except to the favoured few.”

“Do you know the way out from here?”

“Yes. Straight through yonder archway a passage leads to the sea. We are
not far from Hoormoori. The island is Waro—the Isle of Joy. It is a safe
place for Kulmervan to have chosen for his madness—no one would have
sought for evil here.”

“How far is Hoormoori then?”

“From where we emerge into the light, we shall see the citadels and
towers of my home. Oh Alan—the joyous moment when I can take you by the
hand and lead you to my father—my chosen one—my love.”

“How shall we reach the mainland?”

“We must light a beacon on the shore. Fire is a signal, and some one
will row across to us.”

In a short while they emerged through a tiny door out on to the beach.
They gathered sticks and laid them crosswise upon each other until they
were man high, and then set the pile ablaze. At length came a sign from
the distant shore where white minarets gleamed in the light, and golden
cupolas rose high in the air. There rose against the whiteness of the
scene tall tongues of flame and curling smoke.

“Their answer,” said Chlorie. “Some one will soon come now.”

They watched a craft put out to sea—they saw the pale green sails grow
clearer and nearer. Soon they could distinguish the crew. Chlorie ran
down to the sea’s edge, and stood gaily clapping her hands.

The little launch beached with a groan and a rattle and a Waz stepped
out. “We saw your signal,” he began, then a look of recognition came
over his face and he fell on one knee and clasped the Princess’ hand and
impressed a loyal kiss upon it. “Oh my Ipso-Rorka,” he cried. “We have
mourned you as serquor. No tidings could we get of you. Mournings and
tears have been in Hoormoori for ten and one Kymos. The Rorka has shut
himself within the precincts of his palace, and neither eats nor drinks;
but sits always alone—silent, and quiet, and drear.”

“Thank you for your welcome, my Waz. I have had strange adventures since
I left my father’s house. These I will tell my people when the right
moment arrives. But first lead me to my father.”

The journey to the mainland occupied a very short space of time, and Waz
Okoyar obtained a bhor for the Ipso-Rorka.

“I shall not forget you, Waz Okoyar,” said Chlorie. “Reward shall be
given you for your speedy assistance to me.”

“Nay, my Princess, it is a joy to have served you.”

Hoormoori proved to be even more beautiful than Minniviar—the streets
were wider and the buildings more magnificent. The bhor stopped outside
a marble building. “I told him to stop here,” whispered Chlorie. “It is
better that I break the news to my father myself, of my safe return.”
They passed through a noble courtyard into a lovely garden. “Our own
private apartments. I shall be able to get to my father unnoticed.”

Through a little door, up a short flight of stairs, and down a narrow
corridor. A heavy curtain of blue hung outside a doorway. Chlorie lifted
it gently. Alan drew back. Much as he loved her, he could not intrude at
such a sacred moment.

“Father!”

“My child! My child!”

There was the sound of kissing—a whispered conversation, and then Alan
heard his name. Slowly he entered the room, and at last was face to face
with the Rorka—King of all Jupiter, but above all, father of his loved
one. The majesty of the Rorka overwhelmed him, and he bent his knee in
homage.

“Nay, rise,” said a gentle voice, musical, benign, soothing. “Rise and
greet me, oh my Alan, for Chlorie has told me you are to be my son.”




                              CHAPTER XII
                         THE FATE OF KULMERVAN


Hoormoori was rejoicing! Their Princess, Chlorie the Ipso-Rorka, was
found. Not only was she alive and well, but she had found her mate. True
he was from another world, but she loved him, and the Jovians, like the
men of Terra, dearly loved a romance. The wedding day was fixed,
telepathic messages had been sent to Sir John, and he and his party were
coming to Hoormoori as guests of the Rorka.

The Rorka was very troubled over Kulmervan. Never, in the history of
Keemar, had such a terrible tale of iniquity been told. His cunning, his
audacity, his double life was a terrible blow to the proud old
Keemarnian.

Waz-Y-Kjesta was thankful to welcome Alan back. Day after day he had
circled over the island, and sent search parties to find the missing
ones. The Isle of Waro, which was joined to the larger isle by a narrow
strip of sand, they left unexplored. It was holy ground—consequently
they missed the log cabin of Kulmervan. Waz-Y-Kjesta, Alan, and a staff
of twenty men embarked on the Chlorie and flew to Kulmervan’s retreat.
They landed close to the hut, and although firearms were unknown on
Keemar, they, on Alan’s advice, protected themselves with heavy sticks
and carried thick silken ropes.

They found the hut empty and signs of a hasty retreat. From the little
house they crossed to the “lean-to” and descended into the subterranean
passage. They ascended the steps to the Cave of Whispering Madness, and
forced the door open. The Cave was empty. Alan looked behind the huge
fossil animal and hoped to find the body of Waiko—but it had gone.
Ominous foot prints on the sandy floor proved that his body had been
found, and Kulmervan and Arrack had dragged him back to the Altar. As
they reached the slab of stone Y-Kjesta gave a cry of horror.

“See, my Alan. Mitzor have mercy!”

There on the Altar were the charred remains of what had once been a man.
The bones were twisted into horrible forms, as if, in their last
convulsive agony, they had writhed in vain on the table of fire. One
bony arm hung over the side. Every scrap of flesh had been burnt from
it—even the tips of the finger bones were missing. The skull was
hairless—the eyes had been scorched from their sockets. It was a
horrible sight and Alan shivered.

“Who is it?” asked Y-Kjesta.

“I am afraid it was Waiko. Heaven grant he was serquor when that madman
found him.”

Gentle hands attempted to move the charred remains from the bed of
pain—but they fell to powder as they were touched. The whisperings in
the Cave served to make the horrors more intense, and the Keemarnians
turned their heads as they passed the human sacrifice.

Down the steps they all travelled, but no trace of Kulmervan could they
find. They forced the outer entrance to the cave, but although they
hunted through the leafy byways and hidden avenues, he continued to
evade them. Again the cave was searched, and the Waz was inclined to
give up the task.

“Is it possible,” asked Alan at last, “that he is hiding in the place of
the Wraiths of the Rorkas?”

“No. Nothing evil could live in the presence of our holiest men.”

“Nevertheless, I’d like to go there,” suggested Alan.

The Waz shrugged his shoulders. “As you will, my Alan. Remember, of all
Keemarnians, only the Rorkas can visit again the home of their life.
They would not show themselves to such a thing of evil as Kulmervan has
become.”

But at the entrance to the Holy Place they saw Kulmervan. Stiff he was
standing, and upon his face was a frozen look of horror. Y-Kjesta fell
to his knees. “The Wraiths,” he cried.

A cloud of haze had passed away, and upon the little stage was being
enacted a drama. High in the air a great white cloud hovered. It was
pink tipped with a golden glory shining through; at either side were
lesser clouds, but all tinged with the glorious roseate hue. And in
chains beneath them stood the astral figure of Kulmervan, surrounded by
Keemarnians who had gone before. And as they watched, his clothes melted
away, and naked and ashamed he stood before his judge—the great white
glory. Gradually a dusky shadow seemed to come over the gleaming body,
darker and darker it grew until it was jet black. Not the black of an
African native, but a cruel black; a thick black that was horrible to
look upon, so evil was its appearance. Then all the Keemarnians shrank
away from the solitary evil figure standing alone before the glory. The
shadowy figure of Kulmervan looked round him wildly, and threw out his
hands in supplication. It was no use. His prayers were too late. A
yawning pit showed up bright with flames. Yellow tongues of flame licked
round the mouth—long, red flames danced together in riotous harmony.
Then out of the terrible place appeared a figure, so terrible that Alan
closed his eyes and strove at once to forget it. A figure that was
neither man nor animal, but part of both. A creature with bloodshot eyes
and a baleful smile, with teeth that looked like fangs, with arms that
twisted and twirled like evil serpents. Nearer and nearer the figure
drew, until, radiating with heat, it drew close to Kulmervan. There was
a mighty noise—the Great White Cloud vanished leaving the scene in a
pitchy darkness—only the fiery cavern gleamed and glistened. The
venomous figure put a sinewy arm about the form of Kulmervan—there was a
crackling noise—the hideous smell of burning flesh, and the picture
vanished as the two figures disappeared into the fiery jaws. Then
Y-Kjesta spoke. “The Great White Glory has judged. We cannot punish
now.”

There was a fearsome shriek, and Kulmervan rushed from the cave, and
fell prostrate on the ground outside. Y-Kjesta stooped over him. The
body was rigid—the eyes fast closed.

“Serquor has descended upon him,” said the Waz. “Righteousness has
spoken.”

With an awed feeling, Alan watched them pick up the body and carry it to
the air bird, and as they did so a mighty roar filled the air. There was
a sound as of thunder—a blinding flash—then silence. The Cave of
Whispering Madness had gone! Shivered to atoms, there was nothing but a
hillock of rocks and sand to mark the last resting place of Waiko the
Unfortunate. The little passage to the Sacred Cave alone remained
perfect. When the last shock of the earthquake had subsided, Arrack the
servant came out from his hiding, and threw himself upon the mercy of
Alan. Firmly he was bound, and taken to the Chlorie, there to await the
judgment of the Rorka.

“My son,” said the Rorka, when he had been told the whole story.
“Kulmervan was shown his future punishment. He may not be suffering now,
for he is in the unhappy state of serquor—but some day, when he leaves
this world, his time of pain will come. A case of glass shall be made to
hold his cold and rigid body. In the Hall of Sorrows shall it be placed
as a living testimony of the fruit that is garnered by evil. To Fyjipo
the accursed shall be taken—there to remain, until he changes the state
of serquor, for his lasting punishment.”




                              CHAPTER XIII
                        THE SENTENCE UPON ARRACK


Sir John, with Masters, Desmond and Mavis arrived at Hoormoori in time
for the trial. They were much interested in Alan’s adventures, and were
looking forward to witnessing the spectacle of Jovian justice. Mavis and
Chlorie were already warm friends, and the Rorka insisted on the
strangers occupying suites of apartments in his palace. Baby John Alan
had grown into a fine boy. Now nearly four, he toddled about the palace
and chattered away in a quaint mixture of Keemarnian and English. The
grown-ups seldom used English now—their past life seemed to be fading
away entirely; they were already acclimatized to Jupiter and looked upon
it as their home. Mavis at the bottom of her heart, however, did not
forget all the pretty customs in which she had been brought up from
childhood and she it was who introduced a trousseau as a necessary
adjunct to a wedding. Chlorie took up the idea with fervour, and in
future all society weddings had trousseaux, cakes and honeymoons as
essential parts of their festivities.

Chlorie’s mother had heard the call of Schlerik-itata when she was but a
small child, and possessing no near feminine relatives, the Keemarnian
Princess was glad to have Mavis helping her at the happiest time of her
life. All was bustle and rush at the palace. The wedding was to be a
grand affair, but before it took place, Arrack had to answer publicly
the charges that were brought against him. In the large Justice Hall, on
the day appointed, the Rorka took his seat wearing his purple robes of
Justice.

A fanfare of trumpets announced his arrival, with his postillions and
servants and attachés. All wore full court dress, and the whole scene
was picturesquely brilliant. Alan had not yet been admitted to the
highest circles in Jovian society; his honour was to come on his wedding
day—so to meet the exigencies of the case, a special raised seat had
been placed at the right hand of the Rorka, and there Alan sat in state
and watched the proceedings. There were neither lawyers nor barristers
in this wonderful land of harmony. The case for the defence, if so it
could be called, was taken by the High Priest—and for the prosecution by
the highest Djoh in the whole of Keemar.

The Rorka listened to the statements made on both sides, and gave his
sentence as he thought fairest. No appeal could be made afterwards; his
judgment was final. Never had there been such a case as this one. Arrack
had broken the traditions of his land. If the Rorka adjudged him guilty,
he would take his punishment stoically. The Rorka rose, and the silence
in the court was profound. “Bring in Arrack the Miserable,” he cried,
and Arrack appeared in the prisoner’s garb of an ugly neutral tint. This
garment of shame was worn only by prisoners, when charged with some
heinous offence. It was something of the shape of a Jewish gaberdine.
About his waist the prisoner wore a hempen rope; his head was covered
with a hood, and there were sandals upon his feet. “O Arrack,” said the
Rorka, “take your seat upon the Penitent’s Chair, for you are accused by
this court of most grievous dealings. If you are found guilty, a
terrible fate awaits you. Speak first, Lamii, Djoh of all Keemar, read
your charge first.” And Djoh Lamii, a dignified old greybeard, stepped
forward and read from a parchment.

“Rorka, most mighty, by the grace of Mitzor, Keemarnians one and all, I
charge Arrack the Miserable with grievous sins. Whether he alone is
responsible or whether responsibility rests with another—unnamed, but
now in a state of serquor—remains to be proved. First, I charge Arrack
with idolatry and devil worship,—nay more, I charge him with the
greatest offence of all against Mitzor—the offence of offering black
sacrifices, the sacrifice of living bodies, to Pirox the Killer, a
graven image of hideous aspect. I charge him with acting as assistant in
that Temple of Sin and Death. I charge him as a heretic and a heathen.
He, a born believer in the one and only Creator, is a deserter from his
faith. I charge him with aiding the unnamed, now serquor, in his
horrible, nefarious practices. All these charges are with regard to his
sins against Mitzor. Now I charge him with attempting to lay hands on
the precious person of our loved Princess; with offering her wine that
was drugged, and being a party to keeping her a captive against her
will. Above all, I charge him with trying to aid the unnamed, now
serquor, to soil her purity, and thus to cause her to wed one she did
not love. These, O Rorka, are the sins in brief, and a more hideous
category of evil, I have never before had to repeat. Although I am old,
and my call must come soon, this is the saddest day of my life to think
I have to utter such things against a true Keemarnian.”

He sat down, and then rose up Misrath the High Priest. “O Rorka, the
mighty and the just. I cannot deny the charges that Lamii has brought.
Long have I talked with Arrack the Miserable, and it is hard to offer
even a word in his favour. Yet because of thy justice I beg of you to
hear me out, and I will tell the tale of sorrow and shame. Arrack and
the unnamed, now serquor, were foster brothers. The mother of the
unnamed received her call while her babe was yet a suckling, and these
two babes, suckled from the same breast, drew the food of life from the
same woman. As toddling mites they flew their kites together, and threw
their balls. Then the sire of Arrack, Meol, now serquor, took these
suckling babes to the Temple of Pirox the Killer. It is he I blame, not
the innocent ones. He, with two others, lived a life of lies. Respected
Keemarnians, wise fathers, loving husbands, they lived unsuspected of
their evil practices; for they were all devil worshippers and offered up
the black sacrifice. But serquor took them all into his bosom. These
tender nurslings grew in the ways of sin. He, the unnamed, possessed
brains and cunning. He was the leader. He it was who took Arrack the
Miserable on to our Isle of Holiness—made him build him a hut, and left
him there, a tool to work his will and prepare his heathen rites. Since
he was of tender years he has led this life—hating it, yet loving it;
fearing it, yet welcoming it. Then the time came when he, the unnamed,
whispered words that affrighted even Arrack the Miserable. Whispered
words of passion for a Princess. The Ipso-Rorka was named—and even to
that length of degradation would Arrack have assisted, so deep was he in
the toils of sin. Then the day of reckoning came. Mighty thunders shook
the Cave of Darkness. The wrath of Mitzor tore it asunder; no more shall
these perfidious practices be handed down from father to son. No longer
shall sin creep out unseen in Keemar. The Great White Glory has spoken.
The Temple of Sin is in ruins, and under the mass of rock and stones
lies the tortured body of Waiko. Whether he, too, had practised the sins
of the unnamed also, we know not. But we do know his character was weak.
We pray that his suffering on the Black Altar may have purged his soul
and that soon he will be sitting in the warmth of the Tower of Help.”

Misrath sat down, and the Rorka rose. “I have heard your case, O Arrack,
in silence. I have listened to your tale of shame. One thing only is in
your favour. You sought not an evil life, but sin and its sorrows were
taught you when you were yet a child. But—” he paused. “You lived the
life of Keemar. You attended our services of joy that were offered to
Mitzor. You knew sin was abhorrent to us. From the time when our first
parents populated our world, we have fought to keep Keemar perfect.
Thanks to Mitzor we nearly succeeded. It is to prevent the occurrence of
sins like yours that I pronounce sentence. Misrath, High Priest of our
Temples—our Mediator on earth between Mitzor and man, robe the sinner in
the garments of shame.”

Immediately the grey tinted gaberdine was torn from Arrack, and in its
place was put a long robe of black. The covering was taken from his
head, and the sandals from his feet. His head was bowed in shame, and in
shame he was led to the Sentence Bar, there to hear his fate.

“Through the streets of Hoormoori shalt thou be led,” said the Rorka. “A
rope round thy middle shall direct thee the way to go. Neither man nor
woman shall speak to thee. Neither beast nor bird shall be permitted to
fawn upon thee. Alone and an outcast shalt thou be sent upon thy way.
Lonely shalt thy days be. Lonely shalt thou be taken to the Hall of
Sorrows at Fyjipo. There thou shalt live until thy beard grows and turns
white with age. Should thy call come early, alone wilt thou have to meet
the Great White Glory. No Sacrament shall help thee on thy way. Neither
incense nor prayers shall assist thee in thy last moments here. Alone
and wretched thou shalt leave this world. But should thy call not come
soon, then shalt thou stay in the Hall of Sorrows until thy beard covers
thy face and thy middle, then—when that time arrives, shalt thou be free
to leave the place of sorrow. But thy life will be lonely all thy days
for the sins thou hast committed.”

Misrath rose. “Oh my Rorka, thy wisdom is sound, thy judgment just. May
I ask but one favour for the guilty Arrack? During his time of sorrows,
should he perform two noble deeds wouldst thou reconsider thy verdict
and allow him freedom?”

“Yes, Misrath. Should he perform two noble deeds, deeds that mark him as
a true son of Keemar, then publicly shall his punishment be remitted
him, and once more shall he take his place among the people he has
wronged. I have spoken.”

The Rorka rose from his seat of justice, and with another fanfare of
trumpets took his place in his state bhor and drove to the palace. Alan
waited to see the end. The wretched Arrack was led from his place, and
taken through a side entrance out on to the highway. There a rope was
twisted round his waist, a rope that had six ends. Six men took hold of
each end, and dragging it taut, led him through the streets. On he went,
a misery to himself, and to those that saw him.

An air bird was made ready for the journey to Fyjipo. Alan begged that
he might accompany it. He wanted to see for himself what the Hall of
Sorrows was really like. He had no conception of it. Was it like a
Pentonville or Portland in England, or did it possess some horror that
no ordinary human mind could conceive?

“Go then,” said the Rorka to Alan. “Swift be thy journey there, and as
swift return. Just time shalt thou have before the day arrives when
Misrath shall make my child and thee—one. One on earth and one in
Heaven.”

“Farewell,” said Chlorie, when Alan told her of the journey he was to
make. “’Tis customary in Keemar for a bride to withdraw herself from all
for twelve Kymos before her wedding day. During that time she thinks and
meditates on her future state. I go into silence to-morrow, Alan, and my
prayers will be all for you. May you return to me in safety. Farewell.”




                              CHAPTER XIV
                          THE HALL OF SORROWS


The air struck cold and Alan was glad of the heavy cloaks that the Rorka
insisted on his taking for the journey. They had passed through glorious
scenery, but now it was changing. No longer was the air sweet and balmy;
no longer were the fields below covered with beautiful flowers. Great
stretches of bare and rocky country took the place of the fields, and
snow-topped hills looked down on the desolation.

Then Fyjipo hove in sight. One great building dominated the scene. Of a
dark grey stone it looked gloomy and forbidding. Kulmervan, still in the
state of serquor, had been brought in a coffin of glass, and Alan felt
the awful loneliness of the place, when he saw the coffin being
unshipped, preparatory to being placed in the Hall of that dreadful
abode. The Waz, who was in command of the journey held the only key to
the heavy gates, and as he unfastened them, a drear wailing rose from
within.

Arrack was dragged along, pushed inside the gate, and then left—to learn
how to fend for himself in that gloomy place. Carefully was Kulmervan
placed upon a huge pedestal in the hall. His face had lost its youthful
candour, its beauty of outline and its peace. The visage seen through
the glass, was the face of an old man worn with sin; evil and sinister.
Alan shuddered as he turned away from the coarsened form. The state of
serquor as known by the Keemarnians was a very dreadful thing. Struck
down in life, the victims assumed a trance-like form from which they
never recovered. Real death the Jovians knew not; a far happier parting
was permitted them. As in a dream a voice told the sleeper that his time
had come—that so many more Kymos would pass before he would have to bid
his world good-bye. Then in the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata his body and
soul were rendered astral, and in a cloud of smoke the favoured one
disappeared from sight, and entered into dwelling with his God. It was a
wonderful end; there could be no great sadness at such a departure; no
corruption was to be the lot of the departing Jovian—he was just carried
into glory. But those poor souls that suffered serquor remained in their
comatose condition. Alive yet dead! Dead yet alive! Useless to
themselves, and of use to no one! No wonder it was the one dreaded thing
in this land of all good.

There were but fifty bodies in the condition of serquor on the whole of
Keemar, and most of them had been there for many ages. None could
remember some of them as creatures full of life; their names were
written on tablets and placed above them—their only connection with the
generation of the present. In a small, underground chapel in the Temple
at Hoormoori were these poor ones kept. Niches, cushion-lined were made
in the walls, and in these the victims were laid. There they would
remain until Jupiter itself returned to its first void, and emptied its
population into the lap of Heaven.

“I beg you stay not long here, my Lord,” said the Waz to Alan. “’Tis an
evil place, and I would fain hurry and leave it far behind me”.

“Nay, my Waz. Stay until the Kymo rises full in the Heavens—’tis but a
short time now, and then I shall be ready to accompany you”.

There were no separate degrees of punishment in the Hall of
Sorrows. The real punishment lay in its awful loneliness. The
Keemarnians who were there were paying dearly for their faults.
Utter loneliness—comfortless—cheerless—it was desolation
personified. Those were the first impressions that Alan received.
Food was let down from the air at certain intervals. There was no
division, and only just sufficient to go round. It was a question
of first come, first served, and the man who appeared last
received little if any of his portion. No lighting was arranged in
the place, and as it was near the Pole, half their time was spent
in total blackness. There was no warmth; it was cold and draughty;
no privacy; no comfort.

The Keemarnians who offended purged themselves clean in this dread place
of sorrow. Once they were free of it, they never put themselves into the
position to be sent there again. Their terms of incarceration varied.
For some it might be for only six Kymos; for others sixty or even six
hundred! The worst sinner there had nothing on his conscience one
quarter as bad as Arrack the Miserable; but he was sent there too, to
consort with them.

Alan could not bear to stay in the place. The atmosphere stifled him—the
sight depressed him. His last view of Arrack, was of a lonely figure in
a gown of black, sitting drearily in a corner of the big Hall, watching
intently the still form of his late master. His hands were clasped, his
expression hopeless—his whole attitude one of despair.

“It’s very terrible,” said Alan to the Waz as they sailed away from
Fyjipo.

“What is, my Lord?”

“Your Hall of Sorrows.”

“But why, my Lord?”

“Surely it must do more harm than good?” The Waz looked amazed. “I know
if I were sent to such a place, I should come out hardened and defiant.”

The Jovian smiled. “That is where we differ, my Alan. The Keemarnian
hates evil of every kind. This dread is born in him. He offends—ever so
slightly. The Priest remonstrates with him. He makes promises to atone,
but offends again. No second chance is given him. Straight to the Hall
of Sorrows he is sent, there to live in discomfort, cold and solitude.
He is too ashamed to mix with his fellow creatures; so his sin is purged
and he comes out a better man.”

Alan laughed slightly at the Keemarnian’s earnestness. “I am afraid, my
friend, that the world I came from was more material than yours. A life
in such a place would have led to worse sin—it would not have cured it.”

“Then I am glad I belong to Keemar,” said the Waz simply.

They made the return journey in record time, and Desmond and Mavis were
waiting for Alan on the roof station when the air bird sailed in.

“Welcome home,” said Mavis. “We have missed you badly. However
everything is ready for you, and in three more Kymos we will have you
safely married.”

“Are you so anxious to get rid of me?” laughed Alan.

“No,” answered Mavis with a happy smile, “but I’ve tasted the joys
myself, and I want you to find your happiness also, my brother.”

“That’s very nicely put, Mavis,” said Alan tenderly. “I could wish for
no one but you for Desmond. At first I was a little jealous when I
thought his affection for me would be halved.”

“Not halved, Alan.”

“No, that’s not the right word. But Desmond and I had been everything to
each other from our childhood, and then you came—”

“Well?”

“Now I understand what it means, and am glad I am going to partake of
the same kind of happiness that Desmond enjoys.”

“I’m sure you’ll be happy, Alan. Chlorie is so sweet—so human, so
understanding. But—” there came a perplexed note into her voice. “I’m
afraid of only one thing, Alan. You are sure you are not too—too
material—for these Jovians. You are going to mate with a girl
almost—spiritual, if I may so put it. Now—the time is drawing near, I’m
so afraid—”

“Don’t be afraid, little woman. I’ve learnt a great deal since I came
here. The past is growing dim. My love for Chlorie is so great that I
think it is cancelling all my earthly senses. I have only one fear for
the future.”

“And that is?”

“My inborn dread of death. Not that I fear death for myself, but dread
its coming and separating me from my love. She will not have that fear.
Until I can comfort myself in the belief of Schlerik-itata, I shall have
that fear always with me.”

“Death!” Mavis looked dreamily into the distance where her son and his
father were romping together. “I think I, too, have a tiny bit of fear
left,” said she, “but I am trying to put it away. We have left the old
world behind us. I was wrong to put doubts in your heart, Alan. You’ve
chosen wisely, I am sure. Good luck and good fortune be yours!”




                               CHAPTER XV
                         THE TRIUMPH OF AK-ALAN


The populace of Hoormoori were wildly excited, for the time had come
when their Princess, the Ipso-Rorka of all Keemar, was to wed. Every
place was full, the streets were thronged with visitors, for people had
come from all parts of Jupiter to witness the long ceremonies and
jubilations that preceded the actual wedding. Parties came from the
warmth of Xzor, from the heat of Paila, from the temperate breezes of
the Isles of Kalœ. Every dwelling house in Hoormoori was full; every
public guest house had used every available space for their overflowing
guests. The streets were gaily decorated; the trees were adorned with
coloured lights, and across the wide boulevards silken flags were hung.
There were festoons of flowers and leaves everywhere. Every window was
bright with silken rugs; the whole scene was gay and brilliant.

The first ceremony of interest was the admittance of Alan into the bosom
of the Rorka’s family. In a wonderful golden robe Alan stood at the foot
of the Rorka’s throne in the great white Throne Room in the palace. The
whole apartment was thronged with guests, and by the Rorka’s side sat
the Princess. She had on her face a grave, sweet smile, and in her court
robes of blue and gold she made a regal figure.

A majordomo handed the Rorka a golden fillet of beautiful workmanship
studded with diamonds. This was placed on Alan’s head by the Rorka
himself, who said—“Oh Alan, known hence forward by the Royal prefix of
Ak—I salute thee. Thou hast taken the oaths of allegiance to me, your
Rorka. Thy fidelity and love thou hast offered me. I salute thee, Oh
Ak-Alan,” and he took him by both hands, and kissed him on either cheek,
and raised him to the topmost step of the throne. Then Alan faced the
people.

“Behold him,” said the Rorka. “Ak-Alan, a noble of the House of Pluthoz.
Acclaim him as your own, for he is indeed a Prince of the House of your
Rorka.”

How the people cheered! With one accord they shouted and surged forward
to the foot of the throne, and stretched out their hands to their newly
made prince. Alan was delighted with his reception, and had an
individual word to say to nearly every one who came near him. The story
of his adventure for Chlorie had been widely told; Kulmervan’s treachery
was known; and every one welcomed the newcomer royally. But this was
only the beginning. Ak-Alan had to become a Djoh of the Outer Shelter,
and to receive the blue ribbon of his office. The Golden Circle of Unity
of Keemar was placed on his finger—The Star of Joy—The Order of Hope—all
these ceremonies took their time. But they were all picturesque and
interesting.

Many times had he looked upon Chlorie, but never had an opportunity been
given to him to speak with her alone. But at his ardent gaze, the shy
colour would mount her cheeks, and her eyes would drop in sweet
embarrassment.

Waz-Y-Kjesta had been appointed to the Royal Household of Ak-Alan, and
was delighted to have the opportunity to remain by the side of the
friend he had made. Persoph the Jkak, and Mirasu the Jkakalata had sent
handsome presents to Alan and Chlorie, and had expressed their sorrow
when Desmond had announced his intention of settling down in Hoormoori.

“We want to be near Alan,” explained Sir John.

“We shall miss you of course. We are grateful for your kindness to us
all since we arrived so strangely in your land. But we should miss the
society of our kinsman, we must stay near him.”

“We understand,” said Persoph. “But visit us, my friends, and allow us
to visit you. Your friendship is dear to us—your esteem we prize.”

Several orders had been offered Sir John, but he stuck to his prefix
throughout. “My father earned it,” he explained. “I honour him by using
it. Please allow me to keep it,” and the Rorka gave his permission.
During all this time Masters had scarcely left Sir John’s side. A
devoted friend, a loyal servant, he remained always at hand in case the
old man needed him. And when Alan had been appointed Ak of the House of
Pluthoz, Masters received the shock of his life. Suddenly the majordomo
cried out, “And I command Masters of the household of Sir John to kneel
at the foot of the Rorka’s throne.”

Masters turned dead white, and looked appealingly at Sir John.

“Go forward, my friend,” said Sir John, and Masters obeyed him.

The Rorka rose, and touched him lightly with the Silver Staff of Office
of a Waz. “I promote thee henceforward, Waz, to the house of Sir John.
Waz-Masters shalt thou be, with all that appertains thereto. Accept this
staff, Waz-Masters, for thou art a faithful friend.”

Masters was unable to express his gratitude, the honour was so
unexpected that it rendered him speechless; but a few moments later Alan
smiled as he saw him talking earnestly with Zyllia, a kinswoman of
Y-Kjesta’s. And as Alan watched the luminous eyes that smiled at
Masters, watched the parted lips and the colour that came and went in
the olive tinted cheeks of the beautiful Keemarnian, he foresaw, and
foresaw truly, that soon Masters would forsake the lonely role of
bachelor; and another love match would be made in Keemar—the land of all
good.

Then came the feasts and banquets; a pageant and procession through the
streets of Hoormoori. Bhors gaily decorated, fancifully costumed bands,
dancing children dressed like wood nymphs, fair-headed, slim youths with
pipes like the pipes of Pan, woodland fairies, ladies in court attire,
all took part in this wonderful procession.

And Alan sat on a balcony in the Royal Palace and watched it. But half
the time his eyes were feasting on the features of his bride of the
morrow. Occasionally, under cover of the cheers and the darkness, his
hand would stray out, and for a moment clasp hers in the darkness. But
no chance had he of speaking with her alone, and her nearness maddened
him with passionate longings. He longed to be alone with her, away in
the woods and fields, along the seashore, just they two together,
communing with nature in all her glory.

“May I not speak to Chlorie a moment alone?” he begged earnestly.

The Rorka smiled. “In your world, perhaps, it would be allowed. But I
cannot sanction it. To-day she belongs to me—to the people. To-morrow
she will be yours for ever. It is custom, my son. But to-morrow—” he
stopped, and looked shrewdly at Alan. “I have been converted to
your—‘honeymoon’. It is a strange idea to us of Keemar, but a beautiful
one, and will, I think, prove popular with my countrymen. To-morrow you
take her away—alone. No duenna’s guiding eye will follow you. The House
of Roses in the Wyio Forest is at your disposal. It is ready—prepared. I
have given way on many points, my son, but on this one I am firm. You
cannot speak alone to Chlorie to-night. Now I wish to speak to Sir
John.” Alan bowed his head and moved away, so that his uncle could take
his place. He was further away from his love, but sat in the shadow and
gloried in her as the light shone brightly on her profile.

“Sir John,” said the Rorka, “I have heard much about your wonderful
airship that carried you safely to our world. Would you be prepared to
build another as like it as possible? I will place men, material and
means at your disposal. You need want for nothing, and I should esteem
it a personal favour if you would at least consider my proposal.”

Sir John’s eyes shone. “O Rorka, you have put new life into me by your
suggestion. I felt I was growing old—but my heart is still young. To be
of use in your world will make my last years happy; to feel I am not
wasting my time will strengthen my life. Masters and I were planning
another Argenta on paper only to-day. He has been examining the metal
you use, and he says it is even lighter and stronger than our aluminium.
My whole time is at your disposal, and Masters’ as well.”

“Speak for yourself, Sir John,” smiled the Rorka. “But unless I am much
mistaken, Zyllia will have more to say about Waz-Masters’ affairs than
you have dreamt of.”

“Zyllia?” repeated Sir John looking puzzled.

“Look behind you,” said the Rorka. In the room behind were two
figures—Masters and a woman. The woman was delicately beautiful. Darker
than most Keemarnian women, with blue black hair and flashing eyes.

“So he has found a mate,” said Sir John softly. “I never thought of
Masters and marriage. He seemed too mature. In our world he would have
been called ‘middle-aged’ He has seen forty and three summers.”

“But Zyllia is mature,” said the Rorka. “She looks a girl, but although
her soul is young, she and Masters are not far apart in years.”

“You will not object to the match?”

“Nay. I have a great opinion of Waz-Masters, but I like not his name.”
He touched a bell. “Waz-Masters and the Lady Zyllia. I desire them here
at once.” The girl bowed, and in a moment the two were standing before
him. “My friend,” said the Rorka kindly, “I like not your name.
Waz-Masters sounds crude and harsh. In our language we have a far softer
word that means ‘Master’ Henceforward shall you be known by that.
Waz-Aemo, for now and ever.” Masters remained silent. He was embarrassed
and hardly knew what to do. “So you are going to mate with Zyllia?” said
the Rorka. Zyllia bent on one knee, her hands extended in supplication.
“Oh Rorka, most noble. Have I thy permission? Him have I promised to
wed, if I have thy permission. For I love this stranger dearly.”

“My consent was given long ago. I have watched your play with pleasure,
my child. Tell Waz-Y-Kjesta he can give you the use of an air bird for
your—your honeymoon.”

“Oh how can I thank you—”

“That is enough. See, the procession has resumed—how beautiful are the
flowers—the silks—” and taking these words as their dismissal, they bent
on one knee, and then passed from the balcony to the room beyond.

The last vehicle had passed, the last burst of music had died away,
night fell. But one more ceremony remained to conclude the time of
rejoicing—the wedding on the morrow.

Alan woke early on the morning of his wedding day. His personal
attendant had placed all his wedding clothes ready for him, and he
donned the golden robe and swung from his shoulders the blue velvet
cloak. It was lined with gold, and caught up at one corner with a
beautiful jewelled buckle. His fillet of gold was on his head, and as he
looked at himself in the long glass he saw the romantic robes fade away,
leaving in their place a worn and shabby, but nevertheless very
comfortable golf jacket. The shadowy figure was carrying a bag over his
shoulder—golf clubs. Alan sighed. It was a very long time since he had
teed up, and with a mighty drive seen a little white ball sent skimming
along at a terrific pace. He could see the ascent to the approach of his
favourite green; the green itself, smooth and velvety, resting in a
little hollow below. Well, he would get his game of golf on Jupiter. He
would plan a course, have clubs made, and he and Chlorie would—No, he
didn’t regret giving up the old and ugly garments of the earth. He
regretted nothing. He wouldn’t have altered his fate if it had been in
his power to do so. Life held nothing for him but Chlorie. Life and love
were before him, and he felt fitted for and happy in the new world.

His golden, sandal-like boots were on. The ring for Chlorie was in his
satchel purse. The Crown of Wifehood with which he would presently crown
her was in Y-Kjesta’s possession. The Waz also had taken care of the
gifts, which according to the rites of the Temple he must present to his
wife. The coins, to represent that he endowed her with his wealth. The
loaf divided in two—to denote that she would share in everything. The
fresh cut flowers, a symbol of the joys they would find in each other,
and lastly the basket of fruits that were to be laid on the Altar and
offered as a burnt offering to Mitzor the Mighty. As they were reduced
to ashes, the High Priest would waft them to the four winds of heaven,
and the nuptial pair would swear to love each other until such time
arrived as the burnt fruits regained their virgin freshness. A poetical
way of vowing their eternal fidelity each to the other.

Waz-Y-Kjesta entered. He was plainly nervous at the thought of the part
he was to play in the day’s ceremony. “The time has come, my Alan. Your
bhor awaits you.”

“I am ready,” Alan smiled at the Waz. “I don’t know how I should get on
without you to-day.” The streets were thronged with people. Alan sat
alone in the State Bhor which drove slowly down the decorated streets,
and immediately in front of the bridegroom’s equipage rode Y-Kjesta, on
a magnificent white coli.

Sixteen Keemarnians, appointed by the Rorka for his personal staff, rode
behind him. Sir John and Desmond were already in the Temple. A beautiful
blue carpet spread from the door to the street, and the whole way was
lined with flowers. Slowly Alan walked up the flowered aisle and took
his place at the altar rails. The organ was playing softly. Suddenly it
burst out into the Ipso-Rorka’s personal air—The Bride had arrived. On
the arm of the Rorka she walked up the long aisle. Her bridal gown of
blue brought out the colour of her eyes. Upon her hair was draped a thin
veil of gold, and her long train was carried by little sturdy John Alan!
At the altar rails they stopped, and the High Priest demanded—“Who
giveth permission, that this woman shall leave her home and her people,
and live in peace with the mate of her choice?”

“I do,” said the Rorka.

“You are convinced that happiness and joy will be the woman’s lot?”

“I am.”

“Thanks be to Mitzor. I am content.” Thereupon the Rorka took his seat
upon his throne, and the ceremony commenced.

Mavis, who had followed the bridal procession, now took her place on
Chlorie’s left, to assist the bride. It was a beautiful ceremony, and
the incense, the priest’s vestments, the music, all helped to make it
awe inspiring and impressive. The gifts were offered—Chlorie accepted
them—the moment was almost at hand that would make them one. Alan was
repeating softly after the priest—

“May this ring, with which I encircle thy finger, be a lasting proof of
the unity of our affection. May the circlet with which I crown thee,
prove that I honour thee as my loved one, and install thee as Queen of
my House.”

And Chlorie answered softly, “I accept this ring, and from my finger it
shall never slip. I accept the crown that thou offerest me, and in
return I pray Mitzor the Mighty, that I may rule my household wisely and
well.”

Then came the vows of love and fidelity; each repeated the words with
hands clasped.

“Before Mitzor the Mighty, the Great White Glory, I promise to let
naught come between my chosen spouse and me. I promise to love him (her)
and honour him (her), share his (her) troubles, and smooth away his
(her) griefs. Lastly, I ask Mitzor, the Tower of Strength, to crown us
both with the glory of our union.”

Then, kneeling, the High Priest blessed them.

“May Mitzor, the Great White Glory, bless you both, and keep you both in
the paths of righteousness. May he make thee, Oh Ak-Alan, a tender
husband; and thee, Chlorie, a loving wife. Thy vows are made—kneel and
pray while the sacrificial fires are lighted, and the dust of thy
offering is thrown to the winds.”

Hand in hand the newly married pair knelt. Into a tiny tabernacle the
offering of fruits was placed—the doors closed upon it. A second passed,
and by the aid of etheric heat there was nothing left but a little
powdery dust.

Slowly the priests and the acolytes walked down the aisle, the bridal
pair following. With prayers and exhortations the dust was scattered,
and wafted out of sight by the breeze. The ceremony was over—a hymn of
joy was sung, and Alan and Chlorie were led to their bhor that was
waiting.

They drove together in the open bhor, and Chlorie could not speak—her
heart was too full of emotion. The excitement, the cheering, the crowds
tired her—and yet there was still the reception to get through.

Not a word had she spoken to her newly made husband, but as they
alighted he whispered—“You don’t regret, my darling?”

She gave him a quick, shy glance, but it satisfied him. They had to wait
for the congratulations of the intimate friends and guests, but at last
Mavis whispered, “Come, dear, it is time for you to change into your
other frock.” Quietly the bride left the reception and changed into her
other gown. Tenderly she bade her father good-bye.

“Good-bye, my little one,” he murmured, “Mitzor take care of you. In
forty Kymos I shall come for you. Be happy in your new life.”

“Good-bye, my father.”

“Good-bye.”

“You will find everything in readiness at the House of Roses,” said
Waz-Y-Kjesta.

There were renewed cheers, the band played—and the comfortable equipage
drove off, bearing the happiest couple in all Keemar.

“My darling,” murmured Alan, when they were at last outside the town,
and running swiftly through quiet country roads. “Are you sure you won’t
regret this day?”

“Never, my Alan,” she replied, her eyes smiling as she nestled close to
her husband—“but Alan, I think I am a little frightened all the same.”

For answer he crushed her in his arms, and rained passionate kisses on
her unresisting lips—and it sufficed her. She was content.




                              CHAPTER XVI
                           THE PERFECT WORLD


Many hundred times the Kymo rose and set, and Ak-Alan and his wife,
beloved of all Keemarnians, lived in peace and happiness. A son and
daughter had been born to them, and now the time had come when the Rorka
had received his call, and through the Sacrament of Schlerik-itata would
make his exit from the world, and enter into glory.

“My son,” said he, “the voice came in my sleep last night. My room was
bathed in a wonderful whiteness when the messenger from Mitzor called
me. ‘When the Kymo reaches the full for thirteen days make ready—for on
the fourteenth thou shalt meet the Great White Glory.’ I must now set my
house in order. You will reign jointly with Chlorie. I can safely leave
my country in your hands.”

“Father,” said Alan, “must you really leave us?” He was troubled. “Oh
it’s terrible.”

“But why?” said Chlorie. “I shall miss my father it is true—for I love
him dearly. But how can I wish him here, when his happiness lies
yonder?”

“I don’t understand,” said Alan miserably. “Death is so sad.”

“But it is not—death—” said the Rorka. “I am simply—‘going away’.”

“That’s just it. You are going away, and you are never coming back.”

“That is true, my son. _I_ am never coming back—but you will eventually
come to me. Why mourn? To mourn is selfish.”

“It’s no good,” said Alan. “I suppose I am of coarser clay. I can’t
believe that I could ever ‘pass yonder’ through the Sacrament of
Schlerik-itata. I come from another world. Suppose I die—oh you don’t
know death as I do—but suppose it comes to Keemar through me, and
afterwards through my children.”

“Have no fear,” said the Rorka, “that day will never come.” And so the
last few days had passed, and Alan saw him enveloped in the incense, and
vanish from sight.

Alan marvelled at his wife’s fortitude. He had felt the knife of death
on Terra; this glorious parting was so different. He longed to believe
that he, too, one day, would vanish thus, material and earthy though he
was. And so Alan the Rorka, and Chlorie his wife were crowned, and
occupied joint thrones in the land of Keemar.

Their joy in their unity, in the completeness of their life, was a
constant wonder to them. They renewed their joys in their children—their
life was almost perfect. Sir John was growing feeble. Part of the time
he spent with Mavis and Desmond, and part with Alan. But wherever he
went, Masters and Zyllia always accompanied him.

Mavis’ three children and Alan’s two, grew up like brothers and sisters;
indeed, their parents were all like one big family. Alan had not long
been on the throne of Keemar, when an urgent message was brought him,
that Waz-Mula, humbly begged an audience.

“Who is he?” asked Alan.

“He is holder of the key to the Hall of Sorrows,” answered Y-Kjesta,
“and sails the air bird, that plys to and fro from Fyjipo.”

“I remember him well. Bring him in.”

“O noble Rorka, I beg a favour of you,” said Mula.

“What is it that troubles you?”

“You remember Arrack the Miserable?”

“Well?”

“He has done a most noble thing, O Rorka. A most terrible scourge has
come upon the Hall of Sorrows. A fire broke out. How or where it started
no one can tell, but when I reached the place, it was a raging furnace,
and the poor captives were beating against the gates in their frenzy to
get out. The heat was intense—their skins were blistering. I landed
safely, and rushed to undo the gates. But even as I did so, great
tongues of fire curled out and licked round me. See, O Rorka, my hands
are burnt—my hair is scorched. Three times I essayed to unlock the
padlock, but the flames drove me back. Suddenly I heard a cry, and
Arrack burst through the flames. ‘Throw me the keys,’ he cried, and his
tone commanded and I obeyed. I watched him as he touched the red hot
metal—the flames were fiercer than before. He never trembled or grew
hasty. Although his clothes were in flames, and the flesh burnt from his
fingers, yet still he strove to open the prison door. At length he
succeeded. Five figures fell out on to the ground, burnt and still. I
called to Arrack to save himself, but his only answer was to beat his
way through the avenue of fire. Minutes passed and he did not return. We
looked at the poor burnt things at our feet—their souls had departed,
but as we looked their mutilated bodies disappeared. Then through the
smoke and grime Arrack appeared bearing in his arms a burden which he
laid at my feet. He returned again and again, and yet again. Five
women’s lives he saved, and he returned again to save the life of a pet
animal. Then, O Rorka, he fell at my feet. His face was burnt beyond
recognition; his poor hands useless; his body one mass of blisters. He,
and those he saved we brought to Hoormoori. The women are now in safety,
but Arrack says his call has come. Oh, my Rorka, this then is my prayer.
His one wish now, is to enter into glory through the Sacrament of
Schlerik-itata. Will you grant him pardon, and answer his prayer?”

Alan was much moved. “Go, return to Arrack. Tell him Misrath shall come
and administer the Sacrament himself.”

“May I say that?”

“Yes. Where is he now?”

“On board the air bird. He is in great pain, but I think I could get him
taken to the Temple in safety.”

“See to it at once, my Waz.”

Hurriedly Alan sent for Misrath, and told him the news.

“He has purged his sins indeed,” said he.

So, with the rites of Schlerik-itata, Arrack left Keemar. He bent and
kissed the hem of Alan’s garment, and sank back exhausted in his chair.
And as the incense covered him, his voice could be heard
murmuring—“Great White Glory, I come—I come.”

“And so there is to be no more Hall of Sorrows,” said Chlorie softly.

“No, my darling.”

“It’s gone for ever?”

“Yes. It has served its purpose, but I don’t think its omission will
bring more sin into Keemar.”

“I believe you are right, Alan. It was a terrible place, and sometimes I
think the punishment was too great for the sin.”

A blue-eyed curly-haired girl ran into the room. Breathless and flushed,
she clasped a doll in her arms, and hugged a pink-cheeked apple. She was
followed by a bright, eager-faced boy of twelve or thereabouts.

“No, John Alan, I won’t marry you,” said she. “I am Acuci, and
Ipso-Rorka, and you are only Ak.”

The children did not see the grown ups who were hidden by a curtain, and
their childish chatter went on unheeded.

“You must marry me, Acuci—I love you, and papa says that love is
everything.”

The little maid pouted. “I love you, John Alan, and I think I’ll marry
you after all.”

The two children embraced fondly, and ran out of the room hand in hand.

“My wife,” said Alan. “Don’t ever leave me. Teach me to know the real
meaning of Schlerik-itata—teach me to believe.”

Chlorie offered her beautiful lips to her husband. “Love teaches
everything, my husband. Love is powerful—love is mighty. Love will teach
you even that.”

He strained her to his breast. “My wife—my wife—I love you so. The
terror of parting is always with me. Teach me to believe—you see, dear,
even in this Perfect World, there is a grain of sadness—of earthly
discontent.”

“My husband—I have no fear—listen—.” And from outside came the merry
laughing voices of their children at play. “In your children you will
learn belief.”


                                _Envoi_

The time came when Sir John himself heard the Call. Half believing, half
fearing, he bade farewell. The prayers were said, the incense rose about
him, and he, like the Jovians themselves, was taken to the Great White
Glory and was seen no more. And in that moment, Alan believed and was
content.

“My wife,” he cried, “no longer is there any sadness in my life. I
believe. Jovians we have become in body and in soul, I no longer
fear—death.”

And hand in hand they sat, married lovers ever, and watched their
children at play.


                                THE END

------------------------------------------------------------------------




                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES


 1. Silently corrected typographical errors and variations in spelling.
 2. Anachronistic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings retained as
      printed.
 3. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.





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