Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

As in a dream he heard his own words: “Nothing can ever really harm the soul.”

  Yulun’s hands fell from her tunic collar. Very slowly she lifted her head, looking at him out of lovely, proud young eyes.

  She said, evenly, her still gaze on him: “I am Yulun of the Temple. My heart is like a blazing pearl which you hold between your hands. May the four Blessed Companions witness the truth of what I say.”

  Then a delicate veil of colour wrapped her white skin from throat to temple; she looked at Benton with sudden and exquisite distress, frightened and ashamed at his silence.

  In the intense stillness Benton moved toward her. Into his outstretched hands her two hands fell; but, bending above them, his lips touched only two white hibiscus flowers that lay fresh and dewy in his palms.

  Bewildered, he straightened up; and saw the girl standing by the mantel beside Tressa, who had caught her by the left hand.

  “Tokhta! Look out!” she said distinctly.

  Suddenly he saw two men in the room, close to him — their broad faces, slanting eyes, and sparse beards thrust almost against his shoulder.

  “Djamouk! Yaddin-ed-Din!” cried Tressa in a terrible voice. But quick as a flash Yulun tore a white sheet from the bed, flung it on the floor, and, whipping a tiny, jewelled knife from her sleeve, threw it glittering upon the sheet at the feet of the two men.

  “One shroud for two souls!” she said breathlessly, “ — and a knife like that to sever them from their bodies!”

  The two men sprang backward as the sheet touched their feet, and now they stood there as though confounded.

  “Djamouk, Kahn of the Fifth Tower!” cried Tressa in a clear voice, “you have put off your body like a threadbare cloak, and your form that stands there is only your mind! And it is only the evil will of Yaddin in the shape of his body that confronts us in this room of a man you have doomed!”

  Yulun, intent as a young leopardess on her prey, moved soundlessly toward Yaddin.

  “Tougtchi!” she said coldly, “you did murder this day, my Banneret, and the Toug of Djamouk has been greased. Now look out for yourself!”

  “Don’t stir!” came Tressa’s warning voice, as Benton snatched his pistol from the pillow. “Don’t fire! Those men have no real substance! For God’s sake don’t fire! I tell you they have no bodies!”

  Suddenly something — some force — flung Benton on the bed. The two men did not seem to touch him at all, but he lay there struggling, crushed, held by something that was strangling him.

  Through his swimming eyes he saw Yaddin trying to drive a long nail into his skull with a hammer, — felt the piercing agony of the first crashing blow, — struggled upright, drenched in blood, his ears ringing with the screaming of Yaddin.

  Then, there in the little rococo bedroom of the Ritz-Carlton, began a strange and horrible struggle — the more dreadful because the struggle was not physical and the combatants never touched each other — scarcely moved at all.

  Yaddin, still screaming, confronted Yulun. The girl’s eyes were ablaze, her lips parted with the violence of her breathing. And Yaddin writhed and screamed under the terrible concentration of her gaze, his inferior but ferocious mind locked with her mind in deadly battle.

  The girl said slowly, showing a glimmer of white teeth: “Your will to do evil to my young lord is breaking, Yaddin-ed-Din.... I am breaking it. The nail and hammer were but symbols. It was your brain that brooded murder — that willed he should die as though shattered by lightning when that blood-vessel burst in his brain!”

  “Sorceress!” shrieked Yaddin, “what are you doing to my heart, where my body lies asleep in a berth on the Montreal Express!”

  “Your heart is weak, Yaddin. Soon the valves shall fail. A negro porter shall discover you dead in your berth, my Banneret!”

  The man’s swarthy face became livid with the terrific mental battle.

  “Let me go back to my body!” he panted. “What are you doing to me that I can not go back? I will go back! I wish it! — I — —”

  “Let us go back and rejoin our bodies!” cried Djamouk in an agonised voice. “There are teeth in my throat, deep in my throat, biting and tearing out the cords.”

  “Cancer,” said Tressa calmly. “Your body shall die of it while your soul stumbles on through darkness.”

  “My Tougtchi!” shouted Djamouk, “I hear my soul bidding my body farewell! I must go before my mind expires in the terrible gaze of this young sorceress!”

  He turned, drifted like something misty to the solid wall.

  “My soul be ransom for yours!” cried Yulun to Tressa. “Bar that man’s path to life!”

  Tressa flung out her right hand and, with her forefinger, drew a barrier through space, bar above bar.

  And Benton, half swooning on his bed, saw a cage of terrible and living light penning in Djamouk, who beat upon the incandescent bars and grasped them and clawed his way about, squealing like a tortured rat in a red-hot cage.

  Through the deafening tumult Yulun’s voice cut like a sword:

  “Their bodies are dying, Heart of a Rose!... Listen! I hear their souls bidding their minds farewell!”

  And, after a dreadful silence: “The train speeding north carries two dead men! God is God. Niaz!”

  The bars of living fire faded. Two cinder-like and shapeless shadows floated and eddied like whitened ashes stirred by a wind on the hearth; then drifted through the lamp-light, fading, dissolving, lost gradually in thin air.

  Tressa, leaning back against the mantel, covered her face with both hands.

  Yulun crept to the bed where Benton lay, breathing evenly in deepest sleep.

  With the sheer sleeve of her tunic she wiped the blood from his face. And, at her touch, the wound in the temple closed and the short, bright hair dried and curled over a forehead as clean and fresh as a boy’s.

  Then Yulun laid her lips against his, rested so a moment.

  “Seek me, dear lord,” she whispered. “Or send me a sign and I shall come.”

  And, after a pause, she said, her lips scarcely stirring: “Love me. My heart is a flaming pearl burning between your hands.”

  Then she lifted her head.

  But Tressa had rejoined her body, where it lay asleep beside her deeply sleeping husband.

  So Yulun stood a moment, her eyes remote. Then, after a while, the little rococo bedroom in the Ritz-Carlton was empty save for a young man asleep on the bed, holding in his clenched hand a white hibiscus blossom.

  CHAPTER XII

  HIS EXCELLENCY

  His Excellency President Tintinto, Chief Executive of one of the newer and cruder republics, visiting New York incognito with his Secretaries of War and of the Navy, had sent for John Recklow. And now the reception was in full operation.

  Recklow was explaining. “In the beginning,” he said, “the Bolsheviks’ aim was to destroy everything and everybody except themselves, and then to reorganise for their own benefit what was left of a wrecked world. That was their programme — —”

  “Quite a programme,” interrupted the Secretary of War, with something that almost resembled a giggle. But his prominent eyes continued to stare at Recklow untouched by the mirth which stretched his large, silly mouth.

  The face of the Secretary of the Navy resembled the countenance of a benevolent manatee. The visage of the President was a study in tinted chalks.

  Recklow said: “To combat that sort of Bolshevism was a business that we of the United States Secret Service understood — or supposed we understood.

  “Then, suddenly, out of unknown Mongolia and into the civilised world stepped eight men.”

  “Yezidees,” said the President mechanically. “Your Government has sent me a very full report.”

  “Yezidees of the Sect of the Assassins,” continued Recklow; “ — the most ancient sect in the world surviving from ancient times — the Sorcerers of Asia. And, as it was in ancient times, so it is now: the Yezidees are devil worshipers; their god is Satan; his prophet
is Erlik, Prince of Darkness; his regent on earth is the old man of Mount Alamout; and to this ancient and sinister title a Yezidee sorcerer called Prince Sanang, or Sanang Noïane, has succeeded.

  “His murderous deputies were the Eight Khans of the Eight Towers. Four of these assassins are dead — Gutchlug, Yarghouz, Djamouk the Fox, and Yaddin-ed-Din. One is in prison charged with murder, — Albert Feke.

  “Four of the sorcerers remain alive: Tiyang Khan, Togrul, Arrak, Sou-Sou, called The Squirrel, and the Old Man of the Mountain himself, Saï-Sanang, Prince of the Yezidees.”

  Recklow paused; the pop-eyes of the War Secretary were upon him; the benevolent manatee gazed mildly at him; the countenance of the President seemed more like a Rocky Mountain goat than ever — chiselled out of a block of tinted chalk.

  Recklow said: “To the menace of Bolshevism, which endangers this Republic and yours, has been added a more terrible threat — the threat of powerful and evil minds made formidable by psychic knowledge.

  “For these Yezidee Sorcerers are determined to conquer, seize, and subdue the minds of mankind. They are here for that frightful purpose. Powerfully, terrifically equipped to surprise and capture the unarmed minds of our people, enslave their very thoughts and use them to their own purposes, these Sorcerers of the Yezidees assumed control of the Bolsheviki, who were merely envious and ferocious bandits, but whose crippled minds are now utterly enslaved by these Assassins from Asia.

  “And this is what the United States Secret Service has to combat. And its weapons are not warrants, not pistols. For in this awful battle between decency and evil, it is mind against mind in an occult death grapple. And our only weapon against these minds made powerful by psychic knowledge and made terrible by an esoteric ability akin to what is called black magic, — our only weapon is the mind of a young girl.”

  “I understand,” said the President, “that she became an adept in occult practices while imprisoned in the Yezidee Temple of Erlik at Yian.”

  Recklow looked into the President’s face, which had grown very pale.

  “Yes, sir,” he said. “God alone knows what this child learned in the Yezidee Temple. All I know is that with this knowledge she has met the Yezidees in a battle of minds, has halted them, confounded them, fought them with their own occult knowledge, and has slain four of them.”

  The intense silence was broken by the frivolous titter of the Secretary of War:

  “Of course I don’t believe any of this supernatural stuff,” he said with the split grin which did not modify his protruding stare. “This girl is merely a clever detective, that is the gist of the matter. And I don’t believe anything else.”

  “Perhaps, sir, you will believe this, then,” said John Recklow quietly. “I cut it from the Times this morning.” And he handed the clipping to the Secretary of War.

  NEW PLOT IN EAST

  Moslem and Hindu Conspirators

  Have Formed Secret

  Organisation

  Have World Revolution in View

  Think to Rouse Asia, America, and Africa

  to Outbreaks by Their

  Propaganda.

  Copyright, 1919, by The New York Times Company. Special Cable to The New York Times.

  July 1. — A significant event has recently taken place. Under the name of the Oriental League has recently been established a central organisation uniting all the various secret societies of Moslem and Hindu nationalists. The aim of the new association is to prepare for joint revolutionary action in Asia, America, and Africa.

  The effects of this vast conspiracy may already be traced in recent events in Egypt, India, and Afghanistan. For the first time, through the creation of this league, the racial and religious differences which have divided Eastern conspirators have been overcome. The Ottoman League, founded by Mahmud Muktar Pasha, Munir Pasha, and Ahmed Rechid Bey, has adhered to the new organisation. So have the extreme Egyptian nationalists and the Hindu revolutionary group, “Pro India,” emissaries of which were recently sentenced for bringing bombs into Switzerland during the war at the instigation of the German General Staff.

  At a “Constituent Assembly” of the league, which took place in Yian, there were present, besides Young Turks, Egyptians and Hindus, delegates representing Persia, Afghanistan, Algeria, Morocco, and Mongolia.

  The league is of Mongolian origin. Its leading spirit is a certain Prince Sanang, of whom little is known.

  Associated with this mischievous and rather mysterious Mongolian personage are three better known criminals, now fugitives from justice — Talaat, Enver, and Djemal. It is to Enver Pasha’s talent for intrigue that the union between Moslems and Hindus, the most striking and dangerous feature of the movement, is chiefly due.

  Considerable funds are at the disposal of the league. These are partly supplied from Germany. Besides enjoying the support of the Germans, the league is also in close touch with Lenine, who very soon after his advent to power organised an Oriental Department in Moscow.

  The alliance between the league and the Russian Bolsheviki was brought about by the notorious German Socialist agent, “Parvus,” who is now in Switzerland. Many weeks ago he conferred with the Soviet rulers in Moscow, whence he went to Afghanistan, hoping to reorganise the new Amir’s army and establish lines of communication for propaganda in India.

  Evidence exists that the recent insurrection in Egypt, the sudden attack of the Afghans, and the rising in India, remarkable for co-operation between Moslems and Hindus, were connected with the activities of the league.

  The Secretary looked up after he finished the reading.

  “I don’t see anything about Black Magic in this?” he remarked flippantly.

  Recklow’s features became very grave.

  “I think,” he said, “that everybody — myself included — and, with all respect, even yourself, sir, — and your honourable colleague, — and perhaps even his Excellency your President, — should be on perpetual guard over their minds, and the thoughts that range there, lest, surreptitiously, stealthily, some taint of Yezidee infection lodge there and take root — and spread — perhaps — throughout your new Republic.”

  The Secretary of War grinned. “They say I’m something of a socialist already,” he chuckled. “Do you think your magic Yezidees are responsible?”

  The President, troubled and pallid, gazed steadily at Recklow.

  “Mine is a single-track mind,” he remarked as though to himself.

  Recklow said nothing. It is one kind of mind, after all. However, single-track roads are now obsolete.

  “A single-track mind,” repeated the President. “And — I should not like anything to happen to the switch. It would mean ditching — or a rusty siding at best.... Please do all that is possible to get those four Yezidees, Mr. Recklow.”

  Recklow said calmly: “Our only hope is in this young girl, Tressa Norne, who is now Mrs. Cleves.”

  “My conscience!” piped the Secretary of the Navy. “What would happen to us if these Yezidees should murder her?”

  “God knows,” replied John Recklow, unsmiling.

  “Why not put her aboard our new dreadnought?” suggested the Secretary, “and keep her cruising until you United States Secret Service fellows get the rest of these infernal Yezidees and clap ’em into jail?”

  “We can do nothing without her,” said Recklow sombrely.

  There was a painful silence. The President joined his finger tips and stared palely into space.

  “May I not say,” he suggested, “that I think it a vital necessity that these Yezidees be caught and destroyed before they do any damage to the minds of myself and my cabinet?”

  “God grant it, sir,” said Recklow grimly.

  “Mine,” murmured the President, “is a single-track mind. I should be very much annoyed if anybody tampered with the rails — very much annoyed indeed, Mr. Recklow.”

  “They mustn’t murder that girl,” said the Secretary of the Navy. “Do you need any Marines, Mr. Recklow? Why not
ask your Government for a few?”

  Recklow rose: “Mr. President,” he said, “I shall not deny that my Government is very deeply disturbed by this situation. In the beginning, these eight Assassins, and Sanang, came here for the purpose of attacking, overpowering, and enslaving the minds of the people of the United States and of the South American Republics.

  “But now, after four of their infamous colleagues have been destroyed, the ferocious survivors, thoroughly alarmed, have turned their every energy toward accomplishing the death of Mrs. Cleves! Why, sir, scarcely a day passes but that some attempt upon her life is made by these Yezidees.

  “Scarcely a day passes that this young girl is not suddenly summoned to defend her mind as well as her body against the occult attacks of these Mongol Sorcerers. Yes, sir, Sorcerers!” repeated Recklow, his calm voice deep with controlled passion, “ — whatever your honourable Secretary of War may think about it!”

  His cold, grey eyes measured the President as he stood there.

  “Mr. President, I am at my wits’ end to protect her from assassination! Her husband is always with her — Victor Cleves, sir, of our Secret Service. But wherever he takes her these devils follow and send their emissaries to watch her, to follow, to attempt her mental destruction or her physical death.

  “There is no end to their stealthy cunning, to their devilish devices, to their hellish ingenuity!

  “And all we can do is to guard her person from the approach of strangers, and stand ready, physically, to aid her.

  “She is our only barrier — your only defence — between civilisation and horrors worse than Bolshevism.

  “I believe, Mr. President, that civilisation in North and South America — in your own Republic as well as in ours — depends, literally, upon the safety of Tressa Cleves. For, if the Yezidees kill her, then I do not see what is to save civilisation from utter disintegration and total destruction.”

  There was a silence. Recklow was not certain that the President had been listening.

  His Excellency sat with finger tips joined, gazing pallidly into space; and Recklow heard him murmuring under his breath and all to himself, as though to fix the deathless thought forever in his brain: