CHAPTER XIV
THE DEVIL DANCERS OF TUNA
Flat-roofed, arcaded buildings terraced one above the other, with gailypainted walls from which covered wooden verandahs and box-like, latticedwindows jutted out, surrounded a paved courtyard, its rough flagstoneshidden by shifting, many-coloured throngs of gorgeously vestmentedpriests, mitred bishops, hideous demons, skeletons with grinning skullsand weird creatures with _papier mache_ heads of bears, tigers, dragonsand even stranger beasts. Wild but not inharmonious music fromshaven-headed members of an orchestra of weird instruments--gongs,shawns, cymbals, long silver trumpets--deafened the ears. Crowds ofgaily-clad spectators covered the flat roofs of the building andarcades, thronged the verandahs, filled the windows and squatted aroundthe courtyard--these last kept in order by bullet-headed lamas withwhips.
It was the annual ceremony of the Devil Dance of the great Buddhistmonastery of Tuna, one of the fantastic Mystery Plays, the now almostmeaningless functions into which the ideal faith preached by Gautama,the Buddha, the high-souled reformer, has degenerated.
From all parts of Bhutan west of the dividing line of the great BlackMountain Range, from Tibet, even from far-distant Ladak, the faithfulhad made pilgrimage to be present at the great festival in this mostfamous and sacred _gompa_ of the land. Red lamas from Western Tibetand yellow from Lhassa, abbots and monks from little-known monasterieslost among the rugged mountains, nuns with close-cropped hair from theconvents of Thimbu, Paro and Punaka, robber chiefs of the Hah-pa andgraziers from Sipchu, townsfolk from the capital and peasants from thefever-laden Himalayan valleys--all had gathered there. For all whoattended the sacred festival could gain indulgences that would save thema century or two's sojourn in the hot or cold hells of their religion.
In a gallery adorned with artistic wooden carvings and hung withbrocaded silk and gold embroideries sat a fat, bare-legged man withclose-cropped hair and scanty beard, wearing an ample, red silk gownornamented with Chinese designs worked in gold thread. He was the Penlopof Tuna, the great feudal lord of the province, whose high-walled_jong_, or castle, crowned the rocky hill on which the monastery and thetown were built. Behind him stood his officers and attendants clad insilk or woollen kimono-like garments bound at the waist by gaily-workedleather belts from which hung handsome swords with elaborately-wroughtsilver hilts inlaid with coral and turquoises and with gold-washedsilver scabbards.
The courtyard was gay with fluttering prayer-flags, the poles of whichas well as the wooden pillars of the arcades were hung with thebeautiful banners artistically worked with countless pieces of colouredsilks and brocades and needlework pictures of Buddhist gods and saintsfor which the monasteries of Bhutan are justly famed. From the blue skythe sun blazed on the riot of mingled hues of the decorations and thedresses of spectators and performers.
Especially gorgeous were the robes of the high priests in the spectacle.They strongly resembled Catholic bishops in their gold-embroideredmitres, copes and vestments as, carrying pastoral crooks or sprinklingholy water, they moved around the courtyard in solemn procession behindacolytes carrying sacred banners, swinging censers and intoningharmonious chants. Troops of baffled demons fled at their approachhowling in diabolic despair. Shuddering wretches clad in scanty rags,groping blindly as in the dark, wailing miserably and uttering weird,long-drawn whistling notes, shrank aside from the fleeing devils andstretched out their hands in supplication to the saintly prelates. Theywere intended to represent the spirits of dead men straying in theperiod of _Bardo_--the forty-nine days after death--during which thesoul released from the body is doomed to wander in search of its nextincarnation. In its journeyings it is assailed and terrified by demons,who can only be defeated by the prayers of pious lamas to Chenresi theGreat Pitier.
The whole purpose of these representations is to familiarise during lifethe devout Buddhists with the awful aspect of the many demons that willobstruct their souls after death and try to lead them astray when theyare searching for the right path to the next world in which they are tobegin a fresh existence.
On this strange, bewildering spectacle an English girl looked down froma small balcony not twenty feet above the courtyard. And the sight ofher caused the attention of many of the spectators to wander from theMystery Play. The fat old Penlop frequently looked across the quadrangleat her from his gallery and as often uttered some coarse jest about herto his grinning followers, while he raised a chased silver goblet filledwith _murwa_, the native liquor, to his lips.
It was Muriel Benson. For weeks she had been a prisoner in the lamasery,cloistered in a suite of well-furnished rooms and waited on by aclose-cropped nun. She had been surprised in the bungalow andoverpowered by three of the Chinamen before she realised her danger orcould seize a weapon with which to defend herself. Had she been able tosnatch up a revolver she would have made a desperate fight for freedom.But with fettered hands, a helpless captive, she had been carried awayon a mule. From the first she had recognised the pock-marked, one-eyedleader of the gang as the _Amban's_ officer, and so had known who wasthe author and cause of her abduction. For days she had been borne alongup the rough track over the mountains, through narrow, high-walledpasses, down deep valleys and across rushing torrents, closely guardedbut always treated with respect. Her captors used broken Tibetan andBhutanese when they desired to communicate with her, but they answerednone of her questions. She had dreaded reaching their destination, whereshe expected to find Yuan Shi Hung awaiting her; and once, in fear ofit, she had tried to throw herself down a precipice along the brink ofwhich the path ran. After that she had been roped to a big, powerfulManchu.
On her arrival at the monastery she learned from her garrulousnun-attendant that the _Amban_ had been summoned to Pekin, where arevolution had taken place and his friends there hoped to make himPresident, which he regarded as a step towards the Imperial throne. Themonks of the monastery were his faithful allies on account of hisrelationship to the powerful Abbott of the Yellow Lama Temple in theChinese capital. They had agreed to guard his prisoner, if his mensucceeded in capturing her, until he returned or sent for her.
At first the girl, relieved of the dread of falling at once into hishands, lived in the hope of a speedy rescue. It was unfortunate, shethought, that Colonel Dermot, with his extraordinary knowledge of andinfluence over the Bhutanese, had left India. But even without him thepower of the British Empire would be set at once in motion to avengethis outrage on an Englishwoman. Dermot's understudy, the AssistantPolitical Officer, faithless lover though he was, would do all he couldto save her. Assuredly she would not have long to wait.
But as the days dragged by and she still remained a prisoner her heartsank. She needed all her courage not to lose hope and give way todespair. For she had always hanging over her the dread of Yuan ShiHung's return. But she had resolved to kill herself rather than fallinto his hands, and for that purpose had bribed her cheery, good-naturedattendant to procure a dagger for her. She pretended that she wanted itas a protection in the lamasery, for the door of her apartments waswithout a fastening. Even on the outside there was neither lock norbolt, for escape was considered impossible for her. If she got out ofthe monastery she would be captured at once in the town.
She was not interfered with and saw no one but her nun. Once or twiceshe ventured to creep down to the great temple of the monastery, drawnby curiosity and the sound of harmonious Buddhist chants intoned by thelamaic choir. But for her anxiety about her father and her dread of the_Amban's_ return her worst trial would have been the monotony of hercaptivity, were it not that the memory of Wargrave and her unhappy lovecaused her many a sleepless night.
With nothing to occupy her mind she hailed the festival of the DevilDance as a welcome distraction. Not even the impertinent curiosity ofthe spectators could drive her from her balcony. She followed the manyphases with interest, although she could not understand the meaning ofthem. For the performance was a curious mixture of religion andblasphemous mockery, of horse-play and coarse humour a
s well as astrange impressiveness. A comic interlude would follow the most solemnact. Troops of devils burlesqued the sacred rites of the faith, andbands of comic masks filled the arena at times and delighted theaudience by playing practical jokes on the spectators and each other.The solitary white woman attracted their clownish humour, and theydanced in front of her balcony, shouting out rude witticisms that causedmuch amusement to the lookers-on. Fortunately the girl's command of thelanguage, fairly good though it was, was insufficient to enable her tounderstand their coarse jests. But their intention to insult her becameobvious. The leaping, howling mob of strangely apparelled performersthreatened to storm her balcony. Some climbed on each other's shouldersto get nearer her, others even began to swarm up the pillars supportingher balcony. To the delight of the audience the noisy mob eventuallyclambered up to the railing of the balcony and, jesting, laughing,uttering weird cries, perched on it and shouted and jeered at her.
Her face flaming, the girl drew back and was about to retire into herroom when suddenly she stopped, rigid with surprise. For above theshouts of the maskers, the roars of the spectators and the din of theclashing cymbals and braying trumpets, she heard her name spokendistinctly. Incredulous she stood rooted to the ground and stared at theyelling clowns perched on the railing. The uproar redoubled; but againshe distinguished one word above it all:
"Muriel!"
A wild hope flashed into her heart. Pretending to be amused at theantics of the performers she advanced laughingly towards them. Theygesticulated and shouted more furiously than ever. But in the medley ofstrange sounds she distinctly heard the words:
"It's I, Frank. Don't be afraid."
They seemed to come from the _papier mache_ head of a grotesque serpentworn by a man who was foremost among her tormentors and wildest in hisfrenzied gestures. Smiling the girl stood her ground even when some ofthe maskers, encouraged by her attitude, climbed down from the rail andsurrounded her, dancing, hallooing, leaping. The snake-headed one wasthe wildest in his antics and shrieked and shouted loudest of them all.But mixed up with incoherent cries and sounds she caught the words:
"Are you guarded?" A wild yell followed. "Can you get out?" Then heyelled like a mad jackal.
With wildly-beating heart the girl pretended to repulse the advances ofthe maskers good-humouredly and spoke to all in English, telling them toleave her balcony and cease to molest her. But with her laughingremonstrances she mingled the words:
"I am not guarded. I can leave my room. I will go down to the temple andwait behind the statue of Buddha."
Then the serpent-headed one, aided by another with dragon mask, bothuttering fiendish yells, pushed his companions back to the railing, justas the Penlop spoke to one of his officials who shouted across to theman angry command to leave the white woman alone. The scared maskerstumbled over each other in their hurry to quit the balcony.
Thrilled with delight the girl watched them go and then, when the entryof a fresh body of mummers into the courtyard distracted the attentionof the spectators from her, she withdrew quietly to her room. She wasalone, the nun having gone long ago to witness the Devil Dance fromamong the crowd. Muriel opened the door leading to a broad stonestaircase and peered cautiously out. There was no one to be seen. Allthe inhabitants of the monastery were gathered in the courtyard. Shestole carefully down to a side door of the lamasery chapel.
This temple was a large and lofty building richly ornamented with finewood carvings, rich brocades and elaborately embroidered banners andhangings. The pillars supporting the roof were covered with copperplates beaten into beautiful patterns and the altars were of silver, thechief one, as in all Bhutanese chapels, being adorned by a splendid pairof elephant's tusks. Idols abounded. There was a central seated figureof Buddha thirty feet high, heavily gilt and studded with turquoises andprecious stones, with a canopy and background of golden lotus leaves. Oneither side were attendant female figures; and images of Buddhist gods,larger than life size, stood in double rows.
Muriel concealed herself behind the colossal statue of Buddha and hadnot long to wait before from her hiding-place she saw two maskers, theSnake and the Dragon, enter the Temple cautiously. The latter remainedon guard at the door while his companion, who carried a bundle, advancedfurtively towards the great idol. As he drew near he opened the jaws ofthe mask and said in a low tone:
"Muriel! Muriel! Are you here?"
At the sound of the well-remembered voice the girl trembled violently.Her heart beat quickly as she came out from behind the statue. When hebeheld her the masker lifted the snake's head off; and Muriel saw thatthe face revealed, disguised and stained a dull yellow, was that of herlover. At the sight of it she forgot the painful past, forgot hergrievance against him, forgot the other woman, the sorrow that he hadcaused her. As he sprang towards her with outstretched arms she cried:
"Oh, thank God you've come, dear!"
Frank caught her in his eager embrace. Then under the image of the GreatDreamer who taught that Love is Illusion, that Affection is Error, thatDesire but binds closer to the revolving Wheel they kissed fondly,passionately, like two faithful lovers met again after a lifetime ofparting. And the grotesque Devil-Gods around glared fiercely at them.But the Lord Buddha looked mildly down, on his sculptured face theineffable calm of _Nirvana_, the peace of freedom from all Desireattained at last. But, heedless of gods or devils, the man strained thewoman to his heart and rained kisses on her lips, her eyes, her hair.
There was little time for dalliance. Danger encompassed them. Wargraveproduced from the bundle that he carried a mask and a costume with apair of high, felt-soled boots, which effectively disguised Muriel. Thenthey joined Tashi; and the three passed out into the vestibule only justin time, for here they found a group of lamas and peasants from adistant part of the country stopping for a moment to look at the greatpictured Cycle of Existence painted on the wall before they entered thetemple. The vestibule opened on to a courtyard lined with the cells ofthe monks of the monastery and, as this led to the great quadrangle inwhich the Miracle Play was being performed, a stream of mummers, lamasand laymen was passing through it, mostly going to the spectacle,although a few were coming away from it. With Muriel clinging closely tohim Wargrave followed Tashi as he pushed his way through the crowd,exchanging jokes and careless banter as he went.
The rabbit-warren of steep lanes, flights of steps and bridges overravines through the town built on the precipitous slopes of the hill wasalmost deserted, for most of the inhabitants had flocked to the DevilDance. So, unmolested and unnoticed, they reached the caravanserai inwhich the two men had lodged for several days before the festival. Herethey hurriedly changed their costumes. When they emerged from it Muriel,her hair cropped almost to the scalp and her face stained a yellowishtint, was garbed as a boy-novice of a lamasery in the priestly dress,with a great rosary round her neck. In one hand she held a begging-bowlwhile with the other she guided the feeble steps of the aged lama whosedisciple she was supposed to be. Behind them limped a lame lay-brotherof their monastery.
In this disguise the fugitives met with no hindrance as they quitted thetown for the open country, heading towards the south. Only when wellclear of the houses did Frank and Muriel venture to converse in theirown language. Wargrave narrated all that had happened to him since theyhad parted. Anyone watching them beyond earshot would have wondered atthe joy that shone in the face of the young _chela_ (disciple) claspingthe hand of the old priest and gazing affectionately at him as they wentalong; for Frank was telling the girl of Violet's letter which had sethim free. He described his many fruitless attempts to cross thefrontier, his fortunate meeting with Badshah and the marvellous way inwhich the wonderful animal had helped him. Safely inside Bhutan he andTashi had parted with the elephants in what appeared to be the sameforest as the one in which Colonel Dermot and they had left the herd ontheir previous entry into the country. Frank had tried to imitate hischief in ordering Badshah to meet them there again; but he was verydoubtful of the result.
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They had not found it difficult to follow the trail left by Muriel'sabductors, for once inside the border the Chinamen had not tried tohide themselves. At every village along the rough road Tashi had learnedof their passing with their captive, so the two had followed themwithout difficulty to Tuna, where they soon discovered where the girlwas imprisoned. The festival had offered them an unhoped-for opportunityof rescuing her. Tashi, once a star performer in similar devil dances inhis own monastery, procured costumes and taught his companion what todo. As the number of those taking part in the performances ran tohundreds it was easy to slip in unobserved among them.
Then Muriel told of her adventures. But, far more interesting to boththan the details of these mere happenings, each revealed to the otherthe longings, the love, the hopes and fears, that had filled his and herheart during the unhappy period of their estrangement.
Now began a wonderful odyssey that, but for the dread of pursuit andcapture would have seemed a journey in Fairyland to the re-unitedlovers. Indeed, as they travelled on day after day and danger seemedleft behind, they forgot everything in the joy of being together oncemore, their vows exchanged, their faith pledged, the Future a long vistaof golden days of delight. It was well that Tashi was with them to be onthe watch, for the lovers walked with their heads in the clouds.
And certainly theirs was an interesting pilgrimage. Bhutan is perhapsthe least-known country in Asia, the last that has kept its cherishedseclusion since Anglo-Indian troops burst the barrier of Tibet andflaunted the Union Jack in the streets of the fabled city of Lhassa. ButBhutan is still a secret, a mysterious, land. Only a few British Envoys,from Bogle in the latter half of the 18th Century to Claude White andBell in the beginning of this, and their companions, had intruded on itsprivacy before Colonel Dermot. So that for the lovers it had all thefascination of the unknown.
Sometimes, among the ice-clad peaks of the giant ranges of theHimalayas, they crossed snowy passes fourteen thousand feet above thesea, and did not neglect to throw a stone upon the _obos_--the cairnsthat pious and superstitious travellers erect to propitiate the spiritsof the passes. Sometimes the path led under beautiful cliffs of purewhite crystalline limestone that in the brilliant sunlight shone likethe finest marble. Often they journeyed through a lovely land ofgently-sloping hills, of grassy uplands, of deep valleys givingdelightful vistas of snow-clad mountains far away. They walked throughpinewoods, through forests of maple, silver fir, and larch, and miles ofhuge bushes of flowering rhododendrons. They toiled up a rough and stonytrack over bare and desolate land that was an old moraine and undermoraine terraces one above another, forming giant spurs of the ruggedhills. There were dark and fearsome ravines, so deep that they couldscarcely hear the roar of the foaming torrents rushing among the greatboulders below as they crossed on swaying suspension bridges of ironchains. These had been built hundreds of years before by long-forgottenChinese engineers. Three chains on one level supported the bamboo orplank footway, while one on either side served as a hand-rail, and abamboo or grass lattice-work between them and the roadbearers hid fromsight the deep gorge below. Often these bridges were only of ropes oftwisted withes or grass and swung and swayed in terrifying fashion withthe motion of the traveller. There were broad rivers over the eddying,swirling waters of which strong cantilever bridges of stout wooden beamswere pushed out from the steep banks.
Truly a beautiful land Bhutan, at its loveliest perhaps in spring, whenthe hills and upland meadows where the yaks graze, ten thousand feetabove the sea, blaze with the mingled colours of anemones blue andwhite, of yellow pansies and mauve and white irises, of large whiteroses and small yellow ones, of giant yellow primulas with six tiers offlowers, when the oaks and the chestnuts are clothed in young green, andthe apricot, pear and orange trees are in bloom, when large and lovelyblossoms cover that little-known tree that the Bhutanese call _chape_,when the bright green of the young grass runs up to the whitesnowfields. The woods are full of a pretty ground orchid, beautifultrailing blossoms of others droop from the boughs of the great trees,and on the magnesium limestone hills one of the rarest orchids grows inprofusion.
But to the two pilgrims of Love the land seemed beautiful even now thatthe winter was not far distant. In the silent woods, hidden from pryingeyes, they sat hand in hand and whispered to each other over and overagain the oldest, sweetest story that the Earth has known. Strange tohear words of love from the lips of such a weird-looking couple; yetMuriel in her quaint disguise with her silky hair cropped to the scalpwas as beautiful in her lover's eyes as when he had seen her in herprettiest frocks. And she thought the yellow-skinned, wrinkled old lamainfinitely more attractive than the gay young subaltern of RangaDuar--for he was her own now. Such is Love's glamour. Muriel hadforgiven royally.
Bhutan is a Buddhist-ruled land, therefore slaying for sport and fishingin the rivers is prohibited; nay, more, the Maharajah sometimes forbidsthe killing of even domestic animals for food. So wild life abounds. Thefugitives often saw flocks of burhel--called _nao_ in Bhutan--feeding onthe precipitous slopes of the higher hills. Once Frank and Murielexcitedly watched a snow-leopard stalking one of these big-horned sheepsixteen thousand feet above the sea-level. And in these heights theyeven saw an occasional lynx or wolf, generally only to be found in thehighest elevations bordering on Tibet. Silver-haired _langur_ apes, thewhite fringes around their black faces giving them a comic resemblanceto aged negroes, awoke the echoes of the mountains with their deepbooming cry; while in the lower valleys little brown monkeys mopped andmowed from the trees at the fugitives as they passed. On one occasionMuriel, exhilarated by the keen, life-giving air, ran gaily on ahead ofthe others in a wood--and came on a tiger enjoying its midday siesta.But the striped brute only uttered a startled "Wough! Wough!" like a bigdog and dashed away through the undergrowth. Another time they disturbeda red bear feeding on the carcase of a strange beast that seemed amixture of goat, donkey and deer--Tashi called it a _serao_. And at alower elevation they blundered on two black bears--not flesh-eatersthese, yet more dangerous--grubbing for roots, and on another occasionsaw one climbing a tree in search of wild bees' nests.
In a dense jungle early one morning a beautiful black panther with askin like watered silk glided stealthily by them, showing its whitefangs and red mouth in an angry snarl as it went. And deep down in avalley they espied a rhinoceros feeding a thousand feet below them. Butthey came across no elephants; and Frank noted the fact despairingly asrendering even less probable a meeting with Badshah and his herd.
Bird-life abounded, from the snow partridges that flew in the hillseighteen thousand feet high to pigeons of every kind: birds of allsizes, from great eagles to the little quails that hid in thecornfields; lammergeiers that were fed on human bodies, the dead offamilies of high degree, exposed on a flat rock of slate with head andshoulders tied to a wooden axle that stretched the corpse like a rack.In Bhutan ordinary folk are cremated.
On their journey the fugitives met with wayfarers of every rank andclass. On a steep mountain track they stood aside to let a high officialgo by. He was sitting pickaback in a cloth on a powerfully-builtservant, the ends of the cloth knotted on the man's forehead. Behindtrudged an escort of bare-legged swordsmen with leather shields andshining steel helmets. Coolies, male and female, followed, carrying thegreat man's baggage in baskets placed in the crutch of forked stickstied on their backs. Sometimes they passed a rival lama glaring withjealous eye at them. Often they met groups of raiyats, sturdy peasants,thick-limbed, bare-footed, bare-headed, the women clear-eyed,deep-bosomed, but uglier than the males. These did reverence to the holymen and put their modest offerings of copper coins or food into Muriel'sbegging-bowl.
Another time it was a family group at food, eating by the wayside. Thegroup consisted of a stout, ruddy-faced woman with close-cropped hair,hung with many necklaces of coral and turquoise, and waited on by herthree meek and submissive husbands, all brothers--for this is a land ofpolyandry. She invited the fugitives to share their meal, and ba
de herdutiful spouses serve the supposed lamas. They proffered cooked ricecoloured with saffron and other food in the excellent Bhutanese basketswoven with very finely split cane. These are made in two circular partswith rounded top and bottom pieces fitting so well that water canactually be carried in them. From sealed wicker-covered bamboos thehosts filled _choongas_ (bamboo mugs) with _murwa_, the beer of thecountry, and _chang_, the native spirit. Frank and Muriel refused theliquor; but Tashi drank their share as well as his, to give the piouspeasants an opportunity of acquiring merit. And wife and husbandsthought themselves amply rewarded by a muttered blessing.
A very different figure was that of a man lame of the right leg andlimping painfully down a steep hill in front of the fugitives. Muriel,full of pity, whispered to her lover after they had passed him: "Oh, thepoor wretch! Did you see, dear, he had lost the right hand as well?" Butshe shuddered when she learned that the cripple was a murderer punishedby the severing of the tendons of the leg and the loss of the hand thatstruck the fatal blow.
In the cultivated valleys, where barley, buckwheat and mustard grew,there were everywhere evidences of the religious feeling of the WesternBhutanese. Every hill was crowned with a _gompa_ or chapel, _chortens_and praying-wheels stood beside the road, and _mendongs_ orpraying-walls, a mile long, their stones engraved with sacred words,were built near habitations.
In the villages the disguised fugitives were well treated. Food andlodging were offered them freely in the cabins as in the great houses ofofficials and rich folks, where they spent hours watching the skilledartisans among the feudal retainers of their hosts weaving silk, makingwoollen and cotton garments, brocade and embroideries, or hammeringartistic designs on silver or copper plates backed with lac. Nonesuspected the three of being other than they seemed. The Buddhism ofBhutan and Tibet to-day has but one article of faith--"Acquire merit byfeeding and paying the lamas and they will win salvation for you." Sorich and poor vied in giving their best to the holy wayfarers, andsought not to intrude on the meditations or privacy of lama and _chela_,and welcomed the cheery company of the more worldly lay brother whocould crack a joke or empty a mug with any man and pitch the stonequoits or shoot an arrow in the archery contests better than the villagechampion.
Thus, contentedly and free from care, the three fugitives wandered ontowards the south where on the frontier they expected their troubles tobegin. One day when passing a hamlet by the roadside they tarried tolook on at a wedding at which a buxom country maid was being married toa family of six brothers. The village headman performed the simpleceremony, which consisted of offering a bowl of _murwa_ to the gods,then presenting a cupful to the bride and eldest bridegroom, blessingthem, and expressing a hope that the union might be a fruitful one. Therest, after the usual presents had been given to the bride's relatives,was simply a matter of feasting everyone. The stranger lamas wereinvited to join; but Frank refused and dragged away the convivial Tashi,who was anxious to accept the invitation. Wargrave with difficulty ledhim aside and was so occupied in arguing with his discontented guidethat he did not notice that Muriel had not followed.
A sudden cry from her and his name shrieked out wildly made him turn inalarm. To his horror he saw the girl struggling in the grasp of aChinaman, while another on a mule and holding the bridle of a secondanimal was calling on the villagers in the Penlop's name to assist hiscomrade.
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