THUS the months passed. A new note of sadness was added when Chicma died of old age and rich living. Having been the pet of the Empress, she was given a royal funeral, and her mummy was laid away in a magnificent sarcophagus in one of the pyramidal mausoleums of the burial grounds of Re.
Like all popular idols Jan had his enemies. Chief among these were Samsu, High Priest of Set, and his craven son, Telapu, whom Jan had ousted. It was popularly conceded that the Emperor would name Jan his heir; but Samsu had other plans.
The black priest, however, was very crafty. Openly, he voiced only admiration for the Emperor’s favorite. But several attempts were made on Jan’s life. Assassins attacked him by night. Heavy stones mysteriously fell near him from house tops. Once he was near death from poison.
Although Samsu was suspected, there was never the slightest evidence of his guilt. But like all who plot in secret, he finally made a slip that exposed him.
Jan entered his room late one night, tired after a day’s hunting. A slave was there to take off his armor, and another to prepare his bath. The room was fully lighted, and everything was apparently as it should be. Yet Jan had a feeling of uneasiness which he could not shake off. Something was wrong. A sixth sense seemed warning him that danger threatened.
Having bathed and donned his silken sleeping garments, he got into bed. One slave had taken his armor out to be polished. The other snuffed the fragrant oil lamps and departed, leaving him in darkness and silence.
Then Jan realized what had warned him of danger. Above the powerful aroma of the burning lamps, his jungle-trained nostrils had caught the scent of some one—a stranger—there in his room.
For some time Jan lay still, listening tensely. There was no unusual sound. He realized that whoever was in the room would know, by the way he was breathing, that he was not asleep, so he simulated the regular respiration of slumber.
A few minutes later he heard some one slip from behind a tall chest that stood in one corner and stealthily move toward him in the darkness.
Continuing his regular breathing, Jan reached for the heavy stone water bottle that stood on a taboret beside his bed. Then, springing out of bed he hurled it straight at the shadowy form of the marauder. A thud, a gasp, and the sound of a heavy body falling to the floor, told him his missile had struck the mark. He leaped to the door, flinging it wide and admitting the yellow light from the flickering hall lamps.
A black-robed, shaved-headed figure lay upon the floor, moaning and choking. It was the priest Kebshu, first assistant to Samsu. Jan had seen him at court many times with the High Priest of Set. Near his hand lay a long, keen dagger, which he had dropped as he fell.
Some one came along the hallway, stopped in front of the door. Jan looked up. It was Sir Henry Westgate, his arms filled with dusty scrolls from the library. He dropped them, and taking a lamp from its bracket, brought it into the room.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. “What has happened?”
“Just another assassin of the Black One,” said Jan, wearily. “I hit him with a water bottle and he doesn’t seem to recover well.”
Sir Henry opened the black robe of the fallen man, revealing a bloody bruise over the heart from which a fractured rib protruded.
“I am dying!” moaned the man on the floor. “There is something—must confess—to Emperor!”
A sentry came clanking along the hallway, stopped, and entered the room.
“Go and ask the Emperor to come here at once,” Jan told him.
The guard hurried away.
“Why did you try to kill me?” Jan asked the gasping man on the floor.
“Samsu—made me,” was the reply. “Must obey—chief.”
Sir Henry shook his head sadly.
Presently Mena arrived, a robe thrown over his sleeping garments. He bent over the recumbent priest.
“Well, Kebshu, you finally got caught in the act,” he said, “and having the man, we can easily take the master.”.
“Must—tell—something, majesty,” said Kebshu. “Bend lower—will not be here much longer.”
“Go on. I’m listening,” said Mena, stooping still lower.
“About your majesty’s infant daughter. It was I who stole her, for Samsu. He did not want—heir—stand between Telapu and—throne.”
“Villain! What did you do with her?”
“Samsu put her in—floating basket, with—prayer to Hepr. I think that she—that she—” His weak voice trailed into silence. A shudder ran through his frame. Kebshu was dead.
Mena stood up, solemnly raised his right hand, and said:
“By the life of my head and the tombs of my forefathers, I swear that Samsu shall be chained naked on the Rock of Judgment for three days without food or water, that the great god Re may do with him as his wisdom dictates.”
Then he turned, and with bowed head, started to walk out of the room. But Sir Henry, who had been listening attentively, suddenly called:
“Majesty!”
The Emperor turned slowly.
“What would your majesty say if I were to tell you that your daughter is probably alive?”
Mena dropped his dejected air, fiercely gripped the wrist of the Englishman.
“What do you mean?”
Westgate told how Don Fernando had found Ramona in a basket.
“You must take me to her!” said Mena. “I will violate every tradition of my ancestors. I will wreck the barriers that shut us off from the outer world which we have not passed for thousands of years, if I can only find my little daughter!”
“That will not be necessary,” said Jan of the Jungle. “I can find Ramona for you.”
He opened his right hand, displaying the tattooed sacred lotus.
“This was copied from the palm of her right hand,” he said. “She taught me to speak, to write, to draw. I begged her to come here with me, but she refused. I was hurt. For that reason I have never gone back.”
“But you will go back now,” said Mena.
“The Emperor’s word is my law,” replied Jan. “I leave at dawn.”
Harry Trevor had left no stone unturned in his search for his lost son. Large parties of his men traversed the jungle from east to west and from north to south, looking for Jan and inquiring about the lost colony of Mu.
When, he saw that his quest might take months, or even years, Trevor brought a large tract of land across the river from the property of Don Fernando. Plans were begun for a palatial home. At the river front he prepared to install concrete docks and a large boathouse for launches, speedboats and canoes. He would also set out thousands of rubber trees, the nucleus of a plantation.
Dr. Bracken’s lung recovered, and he again took charge of the jungle sector south of the Suarez plantation. The two Indians who were implicated with Santos in the kidnaping of Ramona had run away. But he kept the others at his base camp, and posted new guards at the tree hut.
Shortly after his arrival there, Dr. Bracken was seated in his cabin one day when a familiar figure appeared in the doorway. With a start, he recognized Santos. The captain’s appearance was much changed by a livid scar in the center of his forehead.
“You don’ expect to see me again, eh?” said Santos, with a grin.
“One doesn’t look for dead men to come to life,” replied the doctor, “and you are officially dead. Sit down.”
The captain seated himself on a folding stool and lighted a cigarette.
“Was only knock’ out for leetle while,” he said. “My two Indian come back for gat my gun. They find me sitteeng up. I ’ad stock the ’ut weeth provision, so we stay there. But now I need some theengs. You are my frand. I come to you.”
“You made a damn’ fool move, kidnaping that girl when you did. But we’ll forget that. I can use you if you want to take a little trip for me. I’ll put you on a salary and pay all expenses. But of course you’ll have to keep under cover.”
“I do that, all right. What ees this trip?”
“I want you to go to Caracas for me, to get some things. I’m going to set a trap for Jan that he won’t escape. The Indians fired their hypo bullets, all right, but Jan was evidently wearing gold-plated armor. Now this time I’ll fix him. Here’s what I want.”
Closing the door so the Indians would not overhear, he hitched his chair close to that of the captain and gave him his instructions.
That night Santos left for Caracas.