The Temple of the Ten/Chapter 12

OR a time Day sat in gloomy silence. At length he picked up his pipe and lighted it.

“I am beginning to be converted to your belief,” he said in a changed voice. “If this Rani woman of yours were here, Kilgore—you think she would squeeze us?”

Kilgore nodded.

“The cards are stacked,” he answered briefly.

Both men lifted their heads and looked toward the entrance of the chamber. The grate of footsteps on the sanded floor reached them. They saw, flitting into the circle of light from their lamps, the yellow-shrouded figure of their guide.

This figure came toward the grill that prisoned them, halted a yard from it and felt with extended hand. Touching the iron, the figure recoiled a pace and then sat down. At this gesture, at this entire action, the two captives for the first time perceived that the figure was blind.

“Now we shall talk, sahibs,” said that same vibrant voice.

“Who are you?” demanded Kilgore, staring.

“I am Esrun,” came the answer, with a laugh that rang eerily from the rock walls. “But once you knew me by another name, sahib. Would you recognize me again?”

It was here that Esrun abandoned her broken English and spoke in Hindustani. Kilgore made answer in the same tongue, which Day understood fairly well.

“If you are the Rani—” and Kilgore's voice shook a trifle—“then I would remember you indeed!”

For response, Esrun drew the yellow cloths from her figure.

Kilgore stiffened with horror; Day uttered a low, choked gasp. The thing before them had once been a woman—this much was certain. More, it was hard to say. Leprosy had wrought its frightful vengeance on the human flesh. The creature appeared to be an old hag, yet Kilgore knew that if this were indeed the Rani, she could be not yet fifty years. Thirty years since, his uncle had loved the Rani, and women ripen young in Kashmir.

“There is nothing left of the Rani,” said Esrun, a mournful note in her tone, “except the voice. But you, who heard that voice only once, still remember it. Sir Fandi Singh had forgotten it—but perhaps he was not to blame. I was frightened that day. Nor did I give him any chance to recognize my voice.”

Kilgore strained forward.

“Fandi—and Severn! They were here?”

“They were here,” repeated Esrun.

“And now”

“Let us talk of them later.” The answer came with a tinge of mockery. The hag again shrouded herself in the yellow cloths. “It will be more interesting now if we talk of you, sahib! Or shall we speak first of the days that are dead—of Kashmiri days?”

In the mocking voice of this blinded, ravaged atom of humanity there lay a dreadful significance. Kilgore comprehended this and straightened up. He was master of himself now, and he lighted a cigaret with steady fingers.

“As you please,” he said coolly. “Then the Rani and Esrun are one?”

“They are one, sahib. Do you remember the day when you sat in the courtroom by the side of your uncle? Do you remember that I threatened him and his on that day?”

“Quite well,” said Kilgore.

“The threat was well meant. Listen, sahib! My lover was murdered by your uncle and the rajah. That deed changed the entire course of my life. In striving to avenge it, I became a leper. Later, your uncle sent me to a leper's prison. I escaped. I took jewels and fled, with two faithful men who served me. We fled far, into the north, into this land. And here we came to rest.”

Day intervened.

“Tell her she's away off the mark!” he said roughly. “Tell her your uncle never had anything to do”

“Oh, I say!” said Kilgore languidly. “Why bother, old chap? We can't demean ourselves to argue with this creature, you know.”

Esrun laughed, and her laughter rang oddly in their ears. The words had stung.

“This creature was a princess of the Rajputs!” she returned. “And she has made herself strong, powerful, feared! And rich, also. What is better, after the lapse of many years she is about to avenge her ruined life upon the rajah's son, and the nephew of Sir Cecil Kilgore, the proud sahib!”

To this Kilgore returned no answer.

“Your two friends were here—they trapped me,” went on Esrun after a moment. “I shot Fandi Singh. His companion shot me and left me for dead. But I was not dead. I was badly hurt—so badly that I was unable to prevent the escape of the two men. They joined the party of the Chinaman who came to aid you.”

“Sheng Wu!” exclaimed Kilgore sharply. “Then Sheng Wu was at the temple?”

“Yes. He found Fandi Singh, who did not die, and Severn, who lost one arm from blood-poisoning. They could find no trace of you, and they returned.”

“Ah! And they got away?”

“They got away. They reached Urga safely. My followers at Urga so informed

Day drew a deep breath and relaxed. He had been sitting under tension.

“Then it's all right!” he exclaimed loudly. “They'll come back to look for us!”

“They will come back,” repeated this deathly Echo. In those words was a note so sinister, so pregnant with meaning, that Kilgore shiver despite himself. “In fact, they are nearly here!”

There was a moment of silence.

“If you mean to kill us,” said Kilgore suddenly, “why not do it and put an end to this waste of words?”

Esrun laughed—a delicious peal of girlish mirth that was frightful to hear, so bitter was its contrast with realities.

“I have thirty years of suffering to make up,” she answered. “Do you think that this can be repaid in a moment—in a day—in a year? Do you think it can be repaid by the destruction of the body alone? No, sahib! The gods have been kind, by sending me you and Fandi Singh. Why should I hurry? I am not yet near death.”

Day watched the creature in a species of horrified fascination. Kilgore remained cool; the more definitely their position became pronounced, in fact, the cooler he grew.

“You have suffered slightly,” she continued. “Now I have returned to you your razors and the things that make you happy. Why? Because presently you shall lose them again, and suffer the more. I could have ordered my followers at Urga to kill Sir Fandi Singh, but I chose to let him return here. Let your strong comrade break all the iron he wishes—when he has finished, another grill will descend!”

The two captives began dimly to perceive what frightful refinements of cruelty this loathsome hag was capable of applying to them. The iron grating over which Day had triumphed, only to have a second descend in his face at the moment of victory, was only a slight instance; a symbol. Their return from slavery and torture to all the comforts afforded by their own food and personal effects, was another symbol. Realities would come later.

“Now, sahib, let us have an understanding. I have little quarrel with your friends; it is with you and Fandi Singh the Rajput that I wish to deal. Of course, if you make it necessary to kill your friends, as the Sikhs were killed at the temple, so much the worse for them!”

“Ah!” exclaimed Kilgore. “Then instead of being an execution, this is a parley!”

“Neither; it is a choice. And the choice remains with you. Your friends in Urga, Severn, Sheng Wu and the Rajput, have proceeded cleverly. They interviewed the Hutuktu and obtained his authority to act, also a hundred horsemen. With these men, and a strong party of Manchu soldiers, they have crossed the desert and are now close at hand. They have taken every precaution. They mean to search out these caverns and discover your fate. They think me dead. They do not know that in their company are two of my men who communicate daily with me and inform me of their doings.”

Esrun laughed—this time a chuckle of malicious amusement. Day, thinking of the unsuspecting band of men, began to perspire freely.

“All very well,” said Kilgore in a calm voice. “What of it? Your spies will be discovered. Your telepathic communications will be discovered. This place will be found out. What then?”

“If the thought makes you happy, cherish it!” was the sardonic response. “But I would advise you to be cautious. I shall let this strong friend of yours, this American, go free. He shall be found by your friends. Let Fandi Singh hear his tale, then give himself up to me, join you here. The others may return home to Urga unhurt.”

Kilgore laughed a little.

“You do not know my friends! If Day joined them, he would bring them here to my rescue.”

“The word of a sahib is as the word of a Rajput,” came the response. “And if the promise is broken, what matter? Your friends are powerless before me. The race of priests who once inhabited this place had many secrets, which I have discovered. They had much treasure, which I have used. Shall I set this friend of yours at liberty?”

“Let him return his own answer,” said Kilgore curtly. “Speak up, Day!”

The American wet his lips with his tongue. In this moment, he was swiftly weighing the chances pro and con—not of his own safety, but of rescuing Kilgore. He perceived the one great danger. Knowing Fandi Singh as he did, and the highly chivalrous nature of the Rajput, he did not doubt that if he gave a promise, it would be kept by Fandi. He did not doubt that Fandi would return here in his place and trust the others to rescue them. And he dared not risk this.

“May the lowermost swallow you!” said Day. “I'll stay here.”

Without a word, the figure in yellow rose and flitted away into the darkness.

For a space, the two white men regarded each other in silence, each of them oppressed by what had just taken place.

“Would you have kept your word to her?” asked Kilgore suddenly.

“Not by a sight!” Day said frankly. “But Fandi would have kept it for me.”

Kilgore nodded, relaxed his cramped limbs and rose. He yawned and stretched himself.

“Well, I'm for a bit of sleep, old chap. What say?”

“Suits me,” was the response.

Neither man cared to discuss the recent conversation; it was too fresh in their minds.

Kilgore found his blankets, spread them out and rolled up. He was at the point of bodily and mental exhaustion, and in two minutes he was fast asleep. The conversational duel with Esrun had been so terrific a drain upon his inner self that the reaction was swift and sure. He slept like a man drugged.

When awakened he knew that he must have slept the clock around. The two lamps still burned, softly illumining the cavern chamber. Kilgore yawned and sat up. Somewhere on the other side of that dividing partition of iron Day must be asleep still. Kilgore put out his hand to seize the grating and rise

An exclamation broke from him. He leaped to his feet, staring. The central grating had disappeared—lifted again to whence it came! The others were still in place.

“Day!” cried Kilgore sharply. “Look here—wake up!”

The American did not answer. With the entire chamber to himself Kilgore strode forward. Half a minute later he realized that he was alone in this place. Day had absolutely vanished.