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 From bank to bank of the sharp-gabled village they crossed the copper Me-nam, in a boat whose thwarts and roof-posts were polished by generations. A handsome young Dane, in a white tunic, spurred, belted with a sword, saluted them on landing. All was ready, he said, glancing admiration at Laura; he regretted that his duties prevented him from serving them as guide. And again the lone officer saluted, gravely, when they trotted off on his ponies, from headquarters of the mounted gendarmerie.

Borkman, with Chao Phya at his saddle-bow, led them along the silent, stifling, brown-burnt paths of the jungle. The split clay underfoot exhaled heat; the palm fronds overhead reflected heat; on either side, tumbling heaps of brick—outskirts of the ancient city destroyed by Burmese, and now worse racked by jungle creepers—reverberated heat unbearable.