THE CAPTORS of Fou-tan were exerting no effort to make haste. For almost two days they had been marching rapidly through the jungle, searching for a clue to the whereabouts of Fou-tan and her escort; and now that they had found her, they were taking it easy, moving slowly toward the spot where they were to camp for the night. Knowing nothing of the presence of the soldiers of Beng Kher of Pnom Dhek, they anticipated no pursuit. Their conversation was often filled with conjecture as to the identity of Fou-Tan’s companion. Some of them insisted that the Yeack and King were one and the same.
“I always knew that there was something wrong with the fellow,” opined a warrior; “there was a peculiar look about him. He was no Khmer; nor was he of any race of mortal men.”
“Perhaps he was a Naga, who took the form first of a man and then changed himself into a Yeack,” suggested another.
“I think that he was a Yeack all along,” said another, “and that he took the form of man only to deceive us, that he might enter the palace of Lodivarman and steal the girl.”
It was while they were discussing this matter that a warrior marching at the rear of the column was attracted by a noise behind him. Turning his head to look, he gave a sudden cry of alarm, for in their rear, creeping upon them, he saw the brute and a body of soldiers.
“The Yeacks are coming!” he cried.
The others turned quickly at his warning cry. “I told you so,” screamed one. “The Yeack has brought his fellows.”
“Those are soldiers of Pnom Dhek,” cried the officer. “Form line and advance upon them. Let it not be said that men of Lodidhapura fled from the warriors of Beng Kher.”
“They are Yeacks who have taken the form of soldiers of Pnom Dhek,” cried a warrior. “Mortals cannot contend against them,” and with that he threw down his spear and fled.
At the same instant the soldiers of Pnom Dhek leaped forward, shouting their war-cry.
The defection of the single Lodidhapurian warrior was all that had been needed to ignite the smouldering embers of discontent and mutiny already fully fed by their superstitious fears. To a man, the common soldiers turned and ran, leaving their officer and Fou-tan alone. For an instant the man stood his ground and then, evidently realising the hopelessness of his position, he, too, wheeled and followed his retreating men at top speed.
What Fou-tan’s feelings must have been, it was difficult to imagine. Here, suddenly and entirely without warning, appeared a company of soldiers from her native city, and with them were the horrid Yeack that had stolen her away from King and also Gordon King himself. For a moment she stood in mute and wide-eyed wonderment as the men approached her, and then she turned to the man she loved. “Gordon King,” she said, “I knew that you would come.”
The soldiers of Pnom Dhek gathered around her, the common warriors keeping at a respectful distance, while the officer approached and, kneeling, kissed her hand.
King was not a little puzzled for an explanation of the evident respect in which they held her, but then he realised that he was not familiar with the customs of the country. He was aware, however, that the apsarases, or dancing girls of the temples, were held in considerable veneration because of the ritualistic nature of their dances, which identified them closely with the religious life of the nation and rendered them, in a way, the particular wards of the gods.
The officer questioned her briefly and respectfully; and, having thus assured himself of King’s loyalty and integrity, his attitude toward the American changed from suspicion to cordiality.
To Fou-tan’s questions relative to Prang, King explained by telling the story of the brute as he had had it from his own lips; yet it was evidently most difficult for Fou-tan to relinquish her conviction that the creature was a Yeack; nor could any other have assured her of Prang’s prosaic status than Gordon King, in whose lightest words she beheld both truth and authority.
“Now that I have led you to the girl,” said Prang, addressing the officer, “give me the liberty that you promised me.”
“It is yours,” said the officer; “but if you wish to return and live in Pnom Dhek I can promise you that the King will make you a free man.”
“Yes,” said Fou-tan, “and you shall have food and clothing as long as you live.”
The brute shook his head. “No,” he said. “I am afraid of the city. Let me stay in the jungle, where I am safe. Give me back my weapons and let me go.”
They did as he requested, and a moment later Prang slouched off into the forest soon to be lost to their view, choosing the freedom of the jungle to the luxuries of the city.
Once again the march was resumed, this time in the direction of Pnom Dhek. As Fou-tan and King walked side by side the girl said to him in a low voice, “Do not let them know yet of our love. First, I must win my father, and after that the whole world may know.”
All during the long march King was again and again impressed by the marked deference accorded Fou-tan. It was so noticeable that the natural little familiarities of their own comradeship took on the formidable aspects of sacrilege by comparison. To King’s western mind it seemed strange that so much respect should be paid to a temple dancing girl; but he was glad that it was so, for in his heart he knew that whatever reverence they showed Fou-tan she deserved, because of the graces of her character and the purity of her soul.
The long march to Pnom Dhek was uneventful, and near the close of the second day the walls of the city rose before them across a clearing as they emerged from the forest. In outward appearance Pnom Dhek was similar to Lodidhapura. Its majestic piles of masonry arose in stately grandeur above the jungle. Its ornate towers and splendid temples bore witness to the wealth and culture of its builders, and over all was the same indefinable suggestion of antiquity. Pnom Dhek was a living city, yet so softened and mellowed by the passing centuries that even in life it suggested more the reincarnation of ancient glories than an actuality of the present.
“Pnom Dhek!” whispered Fou-tan, and in her tone there were love and reverence.
“You are glad to get back?” asked King.
“That can scarcely express what I feel,” replied the girl. “I doubt if you can realise what Pnom Dhek means to one of her sons or daughters; and so, too, you cannot guess the gratitude that I feel to you, Gordon King, who, alone are responsible for my return.”
He looked at her for a moment in silence. As she stood devouring Pnom Dhek with her eyes there was a rapturous exaltation in her gaze that suggested the fervour of religious passion, and the thought gave him pause.
“Perhaps, Fou-tan,” he suggested, “you have mistaken gratitude for love.”
She looked up at him quickly. “You do not understand, Gordon King,” she said. “For two thousand years love for Pnom Dhek has been bred into the blood that animates me. It is a part of me that can die only when I die; yet I could never see Pnom Dhek again and yet be happy; though should I never see you again, I might never be happy again even in Pnom Dhek. Now do you understand?”
“That I was jealous of stone and wood shows how much I love you, Fou-tan,” he said.
A soldier, lightened of his cuirass and weapons, had run swiftly ahead to the city gates, which they were approaching, to announce their coming; and presently there was a blare of trumpets at the gate, and this was answered by the sound of other trumpets within the city and the deep booming of gongs and the ringing of bells until the whole city was alive with noise. Then once again was King mystified; but there was more to come.
As they moved slowly now along the avenue toward the city gates, a company of soldiers emerged and behind them a file of elephants, gaudily trapped, and surging forward upon either side of these were people—men, women and children—shouting and singing, until from hundreds their numbers grew to thousands. So quickly had they gathered that it seemed as much a miracle to King as did the occasion for their rejoicing, and now he became convinced that Fou-tan must be a priestess at least, if all this rejoicing and pandemonium were in honour of her return.
The populace, outstripping the soldiers, were the first to reach them. Quickly the warriors that composed their escort formed a ring about Fou-tan and King, but the people held their distance respectfully, and now out of the babel of voices King caught some of the words of their greeting—words that filled him with surprise.
“Fou-tan! Fou-tan!” they cried. “Welcome to our beloved Princess that was lost and is found again!”
King turned to the girl. “Princess!” he exclaimed. “You did not tell me, Fou-tan.”
“Many men have courted me because I am a princess,” she said. “You loved me for myself alone, and I wanted to cling to that as long as I might.”
“And Beng Kher is your father?” he asked.
“Yes, I am the daughter of the King,” replied Fou-tan.
“I am glad that I did not know,” said King simply.
“And so am I,” replied the girl, “for now no one can ever make me doubt your love.”
“I wish that you were not a princess,” he said in a troubled voice.
“Why?” she demanded.
“None would have objected had the slave girl wished to marry me,” he said, “but I can well imagine that many will object to a nameless warrior taking the Princess of Pnom Dhek.”
“Perhaps,” she said sadly, “but let us not think of that now.”
In the howdah of the leading elephant sat a large, stern-faced man, beneath a parasol of cloth of gold and red. When the elephant upon which he rode was stopped near them, ladder-like steps were brought from the back of an elephant in the rear and the man descended to the ground, while the people prostrated themselves and touched their foreheads to the earth. As the man approached, Fou-tan advanced to meet him, and when she was directly in front of him, she kneeled and took his hand. There was moisture in the man’s stern eyes as he lifted the girl to her feet and took her into his arms. It was Beng Kher the King, father of Fou-tan.
After the first greeting Fou-tan whispered a few words to Beng Kher, and immediately Beng Kher directed Gordon King to advance. Following Fou-tan’s example, the American knelt and kissed the King’s hand. “Arise!” said Beng Kher. “My daughter, the Princess, tells me that it is to you she owes her escape from Lodidhapura. You shall be suitably rewarded. You shall know the gratitude of Beng Kher.” He signalled to one of his retinue that had descended from the elephant in his rear. “See that this brave warrior lacks for nothing,” he said. “Later we shall summon him to our presence again.”
Once more did Fou-tan whisper a few low words to her father, the King.
The King knit his brows as though he were not entirely pleased with whatever suggestion Fou-tan had made, but presently the lines of his face softened and again he turned to the official to whom he had just spoken. “You will conduct the warrior to the palace and accord him all honour, for he is to be the guest of Beng Kher.” Then, with Fou-tan, he ascended into the howdah of the royal elephant, while the officer, whom he had designated to escort Gordon King, approached the American.
King’s first impression of the man was not a pleasant one. The fellow’s face was coarse and sensual and his manner haughty and supercilious. He made no attempt to conceal his disgust as his eyes appraised the soiled and tarnished raiment of the common warrior before him. “Follow me, my man,” he said. “The King has condescended to command that you be quartered in the palace,” and without further words of greeting he turned and strode toward the elephant upon which he had ridden from the city.
In the howdah with them were two other gorgeously dressed officials and a slave who held a great parasol over them all. With no consideration for his feelings and quite as though he had not been present, King’s companions discussed the impropriety of inviting a common soldier to the palace. Suddenly his escort turned toward him. “What is your name, my man?” he demanded, arrogantly.
“My name is Gordon King,” replied the American; “but I am not your man.” His voice was low and even and his level gaze was directed straight into the eyes of the officer.
The man’s eyes shifted and then he flushed and scowled. “Perhaps you do not know,” he said, “that I am the prince, Bharata Rahon.” His tone was supercilious, his voice unpleasant.
“Yes?” inquired King politely. So this was Bharata Rahon—this was the man whom Beng Kher had selected as the husband of Fou-tan. “No wonder she ran away and hid in the jungle,” murmured King.
“What is that?” demanded Bharata Rahon. “What did you say?”
“I am sure,” said King, “that the noble prince would not be interested in anything a common warrior might say.”
Bharata Rahon grunted and the conversation ended; nor did either address the other again as the procession wound its way through the avenues of Pnom Dhek toward the palace of the King. The way was lined with cheering people, and strongly apparent to King was the sincerity of their welcome to Fou-tan and the reality of their happiness that she had been returned to them.
The palace of Beng Kher was a low rambling building covering a considerable area. Its central portion had evidently been conceived as a harmonious unit, to which various kings had added without much attention to harmony; yet the whole was rather impressive and was much larger than the palace of Lodivarman. The grounds surrounding it were beautifully planted and maintained with meticulous care. The gate through which they passed into the royal enclosure was of great size and had evidently been designed to permit the easy passage of a column of elephants, two abreast.
The avenue from the gate led straight between old trees to the main entrance to the palace, and here the party descended from their howdahs and followed in the train of Beng Kher and Fou-tan as they entered the palace amidst such pomp and ceremony as King never before had witnessed. It occurred to him that if such things must follow the comings and goings of kings, the glory of sovereignty had decided drawbacks. There were at least two hundred soldiers, functionaries, courtiers, priests, and slaves occupied with the ceremony of receiving the King and the Princess into the palace, and with such mechanical accuracy did they take their posts and perform their parts that it was readily apparent to the American that they were observing a formal custom to which they had become accustomed by long and continued usage.
Down a long corridor, those in the royal party followed Beng Kher and Fou-tan to a large audience chamber, where the King dismissed them. Then he passed on through a doorway with Fou-tan; and when the door closed behind them, most of the party immediately dispersed.
Bharata Rahon beckoned King to follow him and, conducting him to another part of the palace, led him into a room which was one of a suite of three.
“Here are your quarters,” said Bharata Rahon. “I shall send slaves with apparel more suitable for the guest of Beng Kher. Food will be served to you here. Do not leave the apartment until you receive instructions from the King or from me.”
“I thought that I was a guest,” said King, “but it appears that I am a prisoner.”
“That is as the King wills,” replied the prince. “You should be more grateful, fellow, for the favours that you already have received.”
“Phew!” exclaimed King as Bharata Rahon left the room. “It is certainly a relief to get rid of you. The more I see of you the easier it is to understand how Fou-tan preferred My Lord the Tiger to Prince Bharata Rahon.”
As King examined the rooms assigned to him, he saw that they overlooked the royal garden at a particularly beautiful spot; nor could he wonder now why Fou-tan loved her home.
His reveries were interrupted by the coming of two slaves; one carried warm water for a bath, and the other raiment suitable for a king’s guest. They told him that they had been assigned to serve him while he remained in the palace and that one of them would always be in attendance, remaining in the corridor outside his door. The water, which was contained in two earthen vessels and supported at the ends of a pole that one of the slaves carried across his shoulders, was taken to the innermost of the three rooms and deposited beside a huge earthen bowl that was so large that a man might sit down inside it. Towels and brushes were brought and other necessary requisites of the toilet.
King stripped and entered the bowl, and then one of the slaves poured water over him while the other scrubbed him vigorously with two brushes. It was, indeed, a heroic bath, but it left King stimulated and exhilarated and much refreshed after his tiresome journey.
The scrubbing completed to their satisfaction, they bade him step out of the bowl on to a soft rug, where they oiled his body from head to foot and then proceeded to rub his skin vigorously until all of the oil had disappeared. Following this, they anointed him with some sweet-smelling lotion; and while the water-carrier emptied the bowl and carried the bath water away, the other slave assisted King as he donned his new clothing.
“I am Hamar,” whispered the fellow after the other slave had left the apartment. “I belong to Fou-tan, who trusts me. She sent this to you as a sign that you may trust me also.” He handed King a tiny ring, a beautiful example of the goldsmith’s art. It was strung upon a golden chain. “Wear it about your neck,” said Hamar. “It will take you in safety many places in Pnom Dhek. Only the King’s authority is greater than this.”
“Did she send no message?” asked King.
“She said to tell you that all was not as favourable as she had hoped, but to be of good heart.”
“Convey my thanks to her if you can,” said King, “and tell her that her message and her gift have cheered me.”
The other slave returned now, and as King had no further need of them, he dismissed them both.
The two had scarcely departed when a young man entered, resplendent in the rich trappings of an officer.
“I am Indra Sen,” announced the new-comer. “Bharata Rahon has sent me to see that you do not lack for entertainment in the palace of Beng Kher.”
“Bharata Rahon did not seem to relish the idea of entertaining a common warrior,” said King with a smile.
“No,” replied the young man. “Bharata Rahon is like that. Sometimes he puts on such airs that one might think him the King himself. Indeed, he has hopes some day of becoming king, for it is said that Beng Kher would marry Fou-tan to him, and as Beng Kher has no son, Fou-tan and Bharata Rahon would rule after Beng Kher died, which may the gods forbid.”
“Forbid that Beng Kher die?” asked King; “or that Fou-tan and Bharata Rahon rule?”
“There is none but would serve Fou-tan loyally and gladly,” replied Indra Sen; “but there is none who likes Bharata Rahon, and it is feared that as Fou-tan’s husband he might influence her to do things which she would not otherwise do.”
“It is strange,” said King, “that Beng Kher has no son in a land where a king takes many wives.”
“He has many sons,” replied Indra Sen, “but the son of a concubine may not become king. Beng Kher would take but one queen, and when she died he would have no other.”
“If Fou-tan had not been found and Beng Kher had died, would Bharata Rahon have become king?” asked the American.
“In that event the princes would have chosen a new king, but it would not have been Bharata Rahon,” replied the officer.
“Then his only hope of becoming king is by marrying Fou-tan?”
“That is his only hope.”
“And Beng Kher favours his suit?” continued King.
“The man seems to exercise some strange influence over Beng Kher,” explained Indra Sen. “The King’s heart is set upon wedding Fou-tan to him, and because the King is growing old he would have this matter settled quickly. It is well known that Fou-tan objects. She does not want to marry Bharata Rahon, but though the King indulges her in every other whim, he is adamant in this matter. Once Fou-tan ran away into the jungle to escape the marriage; and no one knows yet what the outcome will be, for our little princess, Fou-tan, has a will and a mind of her own; but the King—well, he is the King.”
For three days Indra Sen performed the duties of a host. He conducted King about the palace grounds; he took him to the temples and out into the city, to the market place, and the bazaars. Together they watched the apsarases dance in the temple court; but during all this time King saw nothing of Fou-tan, nor did Beng Kher send for him. Twice he had received brief messages from Fou-tan through Hamar, but they were only such messages as might be transmitted by word of mouth through a slave and were far from satisfying the man’s longing for his sweetheart.
Upon the fourth day Indra Sen did not come, as was his custom, early in the morning; nor did Hamar appear, but only the other slave—an ignorant, taciturn man whom King never had been able to engage in conversation.
King had never left his apartment except in the company of Indra Sen, and while Bharata Rahon had warned him against any such independent excursion the American had not taken the suggestion seriously, believing it to have been animated solely by the choler of the Khmer prince. Heretofore, Indra Sen had arrived before there might be any occasion for King to wish to venture forth alone; but there had never been anything in the attitude of the young officer to indicate that the American was other than an honoured guest, nor had there been any reason to believe that he might not come and go as he chose. Having waited, therefore, for a considerable time upon Indra Sen on this particular morning, King decided to walk out into the royal garden after leaving word with the slave, who always attended just outside his door, that the young officer, when he came, might find him there; but when he opened the door into the corridor there was no slave, but, instead, two burly warriors, who instantly turned and barred the exit with their spears.
“You may not leave your quarters,” said one of them gruffly and with a finality that seemed to preclude argument.
“And why not?” demanded the American. “I am the King’s guest and I only wish to walk in the garden.”
“We have received our orders,” replied the warrior. “You are not permitted to leave your quarters.”
“Then it would appear that I am not the King’s guest, but the King’s prisoner.”
The warrior shrugged. “We have our orders,” he said; “other than this we know nothing.”
The American turned back into the room and closed the door. What did it all mean? He crossed the apartment to one of the windows and stood looking out upon the garden. He rehearsed his every act and speech since he had entered Pnom Dhek, searching for some clue that might explain the change of attitude toward him; but he found nothing that might warrant it; and so he concluded that it was the result of something that had occurred of which he had no knowledge; but the natural inference was that it was closely allied to his love for Fou-tan and Beng Kher’s determination that she should wed Bharata Rahon.
The day wore on. The taciturn slave came with food, but Hamar did not appear; nor did Indra Sen. King paced his quarters like a caged tiger. Always the windows overlooking the garden attracted him, so that often he paused before them, drawn by the freedom which the garden suggested in contrast to the narrow confines of his quarters. For the thousandth time he examined the quarters that had now become his prison. The paintings and hangings that covered the leaden walls had always aroused his interest and curiosity; but to-day, by reason of constant association, he found them palling upon him. The familiar scenes depicting the activities of kings and priests and dancing girls, the stiffly delineated warriors whose spears never cast and whose bolts were never shot oppressed him now. Their actions for ever inhibited and imprisoned in the artist’s paint suggested his own helpless state of imprisonment.
The sun was sinking in the west; the long shadows of the parting day were creeping across the royal garden of Beng Kher; the taciturn slave had come with food and had lighted lamps in each of the three rooms of his apartment—crude wick floating in oil they were, but they served to dispel the darkness of descending night. King, vibrant with the vitality of youth and health, had eaten heartily. The slave removed the dishes and returned.
“Have you further commands for the night, master?” he asked.
King shook his head. “No,” he said, “you need not return until the morning.”
The slave withdrew, and King fell to playing with an idea that had been slowly forming in his mind. The sudden change in his status here that had been suggested by the absence of Hamar and Indra Sen and by the presence of the warriors in the corridor had aroused within him a natural apprehension of impending danger, and consequently directed his mind toward thoughts of escape.
The windows not far above the garden, the darkness of the night, his knowledge of the city and the jungle—all impressed upon him the belief that he might win to freedom with no considerable risk; yet he was still loath to make the attempt because as yet he had nothing definite upon which to base his suspicion that the anger of Beng Kher had been turned upon him, and further, and more important still, because he could not leave Pnom Dhek without first having word with Fou-tan.
As he inwardly debated these matters he paced to and fro the length of the three rooms of his apartment. He had paused in the innermost of the three where the flickering light of the cresset projected his shadow grotesquely upon an ornate hanging that depended from the ceiling to the floor. He had paused there in deep thought, his eyes, seeing and yet unseeing, fastened upon this splendid fabric, when suddenly he saw it move and bulge. There was something or someone behind it.