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\ CHAPTER XIV.
IN THE WOODS.
As there is in Ceylon no twilight in
the evening—no “children’s hour” be¬
tween light and darkness—so the blood
ired sun in the morning rises with a leap
on the horizon pouring forth the heat
at a furnace from the very minute that
his blazing shield peeps over the tree
tops. during the brief
They had all slept
hours of repose, feeling that as they
had risked the danger of freeing their
•captive, the precaution of a guard was
wasting the energies of anyone among
them, whose precious strength would
soon be taxed to the utmost. Dunbar
was the first to wake, aroused by
the dog which had from the hour
they found it manifested the strongest
attachment towards him, and now ap
proaehed him and gently licked hi:
face.
“Good old fellow!” Arthur said, tak¬
ing the animal's head between his hands
and looking earnestly into the brown,
honest eyes. “Heaven has sent you to
aid us in our coming peril; for I have a
strong presentiment that your instinct
may be more useful to us than our own
brainpower. Good dog! Fine fellow! 1
would not take a thousand pounds for
this moment.”
The camp was struck, and, after a
hasty meal, a few minutes were de¬
voted to a council of war between the
young American and his trusty lieu¬
tenant.
“What do you say, Campignon? Shall
we follow this track through the woods,
or turn back into the lake? For myself,
2 think that our trail lies by land. What
pay you?”
“That you are right, sir. Like most
of my breed, I am a fatalist, and I be¬
lieve that our finding this channel was
u little more than luck, and that wo
should be mad to throw away the clew
that fortune has placed in our hands.”
“Fortune! Say rather Providence.”
“As you will see. 1 am only a rough
sailor, and leave such nice distinctions
to my betters.”
The man’s levity jarred upon Dun¬
bar’s sensitive nature. Brought up in
the atmosphere of a New England
home, he felt that, if ever there was a
time in his life when he needed the
interposition of a Divine influence, it
was now, and the Frenchman’s words
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LED TO UNKNOWN DANGERS,
were not pleasant to hi» ear; but he
restrained the reproach that rose to his
lips, aud quietly asked:
“Shall we leave a guard with the
boat?”
“VVliat is the use? If we ever come
back—which I very much doubt—even
if the sampan is stolen, we can build a
raft; whereas, if the natives mean mis¬
chief. a man singlehand would be no
more protection to our property than a
lady's pot spaniel.”
“Then what shall we do?”
“Find a hollow tree and hide our
traps in it—the food we canuot take
with us, the ammunition we should be
foolish to overburden ourselves with.
It will be short commons with us for a
time, I fancy, but we must march
against the enemy with light baggage,
or we shall die by the roadside before
we can reach his lair, which I fancy
lies some distance up this wooded
wilderness.”
This being agreed upon, they put the
project into execution, and each man
carrying a rifle, pistols, a limited sup¬
ply of ammunition and a few day’s ra¬
tions, they turned their footsteps to
4he winding path, which led to un¬
known dangers.
Every step they took was fraught
with peril. The forest and jungle were
alive with the vlistant cries of wild ani¬
mals. strange reptiles lurked in tho
grass beneath their feet, and a tliou
san 1 imailer pes’ s retarded their prog¬
ress and drove them nearly to madness
with their persistent annoyance. Thus
myriads of “eye flies.” no bigger than
pins' heads, half blinded them, any
every now and then one of the party
would have to stop to pour oil on some
tick or leech which had buried itself la
Oh, tor one breatn of fresh air; one
draught of clear water! Days of burn¬
ing heat, nights reeking with malaria,
and not a drop of fluid for the parched
throat but the slimy water they got
from some stagnant pool, which they
could only drink after straining it
through a piece of linen, and which
was warm and bitter to the taste, and
brought the strongest among them to
me tnresnoia oi aeatn's door. And the
strongest among them was not Authur
Dunbar, with his massive frame and
limbs of a Hercules, nor the two na¬
tives who might have been expected to
endure the miseries with less suffering
than the Europeans; hut Capt. Cam
pignon, whose stout frame shrank from
the exposure, but whose tread was the
most elastic, and whose cheery words
animated his companions to fresh exer¬
tion.
“You hear a charmed life,” Dunbar
said to him, fretfully, one day. “As for
myself, I feel as though this cursed cli¬
mate was stealing my very manhood
from me. If we do not end our journey
soon there will be nothing left for me
but to lie down and die.”
“Which you must not think of do¬
ing,” Campignon observed, with a smile
which showed every one of his gleam
ingteeth, “for if anything happened to
you, what would become of these
brave fellows who are trotting along
with their tongues lolling out of their
mouths like dogs?”
“You would lead them hack again, I
suppose,” was the weary reply.
“Assuredly I would for my own sake
as well as theirs; but you forget that
if we reached Colombo without you, our
chances of renumeration would be dis¬
agreeably curtailed. You see, we are
not undertaking the adventure for chiv¬
alry, but are selling our services for
vulgar currency.”
“I know it, Campignon,” Dunbar said,
“but I have provided against such a
contingency. I have left your pay se¬
cured to you in the bank at Colombo
and enough to make these faithful fel¬
lows happy for the rest of their lives in
case anything happened to me.”
For a few minutes the Frenchman
walked on in silence. Suddenly he
turned to Arthur and said, eagerly;
“What made you tell me that? Have
you no fear that I should play you
false? What is to hinder me from
abandoning you in this wilderness?
Why, man, you cannot even speak a
word of the native language, while I
could talk these natives into any plot
before your very eyes, and you be none
the wiser.”
“I know it, Campignon, but—”
“But?”
“But, I trust myself to you without a
thrill of misapprehension, for I know
that though you would stoop to trickery
aud deceit in small things, you will be
true as steel to the man who trusts you,
when once you have bound yourself
follow his fortunes.”
Campignon’s eyes glistened.
“Aud you have implicit confidence in
me!” he -aid, with tremulous tone.
“Then, lr. the Lord, young man,
shall nev ve cause to regret it.”
There a prevalent idea that
tropical forests teem with wild fruits,
which n are is supposed to produce
spontaneously. Nothing can be more
erroneous. It is true our
sometimes found the gnava and katum
bille, which served to slack their
ing thirst, the blackberries and
acid gooseberries, and very rarely the
sweet “morra” which grows in
like clusters, but none of these
plentiful. The beautiful “jambo” apple
hung temptingly over their heads, but
though it is exquisite in appearance,
being snow-white with pink blushes
its side, they soon discovered that
was vapid and tasteless—a Dead
fruit. But if the wild bushes did r .
pander to the sense of taste, they
fied those of sight and odor, for
every side the most exquisite
drooped, ladening the heavy air
their delicious perfume.
For five days the wearied men
lowed the mysterious path,
hourly more exhausted with their toil,
yet without having met with any
ture worth recording. During the
treme heat of michlay and in the
ness which overshadowed them like
curtain before the moon rose,
slept, stretched on light
which they hung to the branches
trees.
It was during one of these
spells that the fir ‘ ‘ 1 '.•vaster of
quenee occurred. <>: nt them
been accustom o ’ • 7 wer
sleeper, the vigil U-: .
by European and native. • :< 03
casion Campignon had bee:. • w
No noise had aroused the tired s.ev yers,
yet when they woke it was to find the
Frenchman missing — the Frenchman
and the dog. In vain they cried aloud
till the woods reechoed their voices; in
vain they fired off their rifles
waited a response, The Frenchman
was gone from their midst, and,
waa worse, ho had taken their best
and their door with. bin.
• “Oh, th« faise-heartea traitor! to
leave me like this for a few paltry
•pieces of gold!” Dunbar groaned, when
the natives who had scoured the woods
•returned after a vain search. He could
hot communicate to them his sus¬
picions. He could only sit upon the
trunk of a fallen tree and give way to
despair. Somehow his memory seemed
to be failing him; he forgot where he
was; the trees assumed fantastic shapes;
the rocks seemed to be perpetually
wheeling round, and his head was
heavy as lead. He had an indistinct
idea that he was falling, a blurred
vision of a tawny coolie twining his
arms around him, and his senses failed
him utterly.
CHAPTER XV.
A DEATHBED REPENTANCE.
When Arthur Dunbar recovered con
tc'cr.sr.rss it was co nncl iumsett m a
small apartment, whose interior was so
remarkable that for she in wont he felt
that he must he the v.v, >.i * f some de¬
lirium, which peopled : ..U fancy with
strange shapes ar/i unusual objects.
The walls were of solid rock, the roof
was oval, and on its rounded sides
stalactites glittered like precious stones.
He was lying on a couch hewn out of
the virgin stone and covered with pan
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THERE ENTERED A YOUNG GIRL.
ther skins. From an iron ring in the
ceiling hung an oil lamp which gave a
flickering light. By the side of his bed
the dog lay apparently sound asleep.
But what caused him the greatest sur¬
prise was another couch, the fac-simile
of the one upon which he was lying, or
which was stretched the figure of a mar
whose waxen face showed that he was
either very sick or even dead, for his
eyes were closed and his hands wore
crossed on his breast. In vain he lis¬
tened for a sound, but all was as silent
as a tomb.
When lie tried to call out his tong ue
clove to tlie roof of his mouth and words
refused utterance; but, the effort, slight
as it was, aroused the faithful dog,
which sprang to his side and began to
lick his hands and face with cvei-y man¬
ifestation of joy. Suddenly 7 the entrance
to the place was darkened, and there
entered a young girl lightly clad in na¬
tive costume who uttered a glad excla¬
mation and ran to his side. IIow ten¬
derly she bathed his brow, and with a
great lotus-leaf fanned the Gush back
into his wan cheek.
“Where am I? Who are you?” lie
managed to gasp, but she only put her
finger to her pretty lips, and motioned
him to silence. Then she gave him food,
a sweet cereal broth in a yellow earthen
cup, which she held to his lips, mutter¬
ing the while a low sonorous chant in
the tone of a mother soothing a child to
sleep.
By degrees the vision faded before
his imagination, and he fell into a grate¬
ful slumber.
When he awoke, the seme sight pre¬
sented itself: The room unchanged, the
silent figm-e in its place, the girl and
the dog still there, Thus the time
passed. It seemed to him that he only
opened his eyes to gaze upon his strange
surroundings, to, receive sustenance at
the hands of his young nurse, and to
doze off again into a dreamless sleep.
But by degrees he noticed that the
wakeful periods grew longer, that he
had even vigor enough to raise his
head and gaze around him. The figure
on the other couch sorely perplexed
him. Who was this strange person
who lay so still that he did not seem
even to breathe? It was not Capt.
Campignon—that he was certain—for
the captain’s locks were raven black,
while this man’s hair was a dull vcllcw T ,
and not all the disease which ever af¬
flicted humanity could cause the sail¬
or’s bronze cheek to fade to such a
ghastly hue. It could not be a dead
body which wa3 lying there? The
thought was horrible, and he dismissed
it. for he well knew that in tropical
countries a very few hours occasion the
putrefaction of all dead animal sub¬
stances.
Once when he awoke it was night.
The lamp swung from its pendent ring,
but the girl and the dog were gone He
glanced nervously at the other couch
and shivered as he saw that its occu¬
pant was still in its place. It was. he
felt, horrible to be alone with this silent
effigy of manhood. He cried for assist¬
ance. Ilis voice sounded-strangely hol¬
low, but his heart leaped with joy as he
found that he could utter articulate
sounds which weakness had hitherto
rendered impossible. But there was no
response to his call. Again he uttered
a low, pitiful wail. Would no one hear
it? Yes, the sick man on the other bed
heard it, and as he heard it he raised
his wasted form upon his hands and
aiared st Arthur Dunbar with eyeslike
SMu Jewels act la the lace ol marble.
• M Wba otlk as*?" k* said, ia ft voice ao
feeble that it was little more tn&n
whisper. a
Arthur Dunbar, terrified at the ghast
ly spectacle, made no reply. the"
“Who calls?” wailed man, implor¬
ingly. “Oh. for an English ear to
listen to my guilty story! If J could
only i speak , to fellow-countryman, . ,
a Sir
Harry Grahame might yet be rescued
and my soul saved from eternal punish¬
ment; but no one here can understand
a word I say and I must die uncon
fessed!”
As the poor wretch breathed the
whispered words he fell back on his
couch senseless. And now a strange
vitality seemed to possess the frame of
the young American. He raised him¬
self from his rough bed, and with tot¬
tering steps stumbled across the room
to the bedside of the unhappy man.
“Speak out, man,” he hoarsely cried.
“What have you to say about Sir Harry
Grahame?”
It was a sickening sight—one, a
ghost of his former seif, so weak that
he could with difficulty stand, even
though his thin hands nervously
clutched the side. of the couch—the
other, exhausted to the very verge of
death, yet startled from prostration by
the unexpected appeal.
“Who are you?” gasoed the re
cum bent ngure.
“One who seeks Sir Harry Grahame.
Oh, speak quickly, or it may be too
late. What have you done with him?”
Hut though the white lips moved, no
sound came from them, and, Arthur
Dunbar, feeling that his strength was
spent, reeled back to his couch, on
which he fell, quivering with the re
action of an effort which had nearly
cost him his life.
Presently his little nurse and the dog
returned, the former filled with re¬
morse at having left her charge for the
brief time that it took her and her four
footed friend to indulge in a scamper
through the wood in the moonlight.
Thus a week passed. Every day the
American gained strength and at last
was in a condition to assist the girl in
her ministrations of mercy, tending the
dying man with a solicitude instigated
by the burning desire to secure his
secret as much as by human sympathy
for his afflictions. But their efforts
seemed futile. His was a life in death.
The heart beat feebly, the breath
lingered on his lips, occasionally the
eyes opened and the lips parted as
though he were about to speak, but be¬
yond this he gave no signs of anima¬
tion. From the girl Arthur could learn
nothing. She made him understand by
gestures that she was to Wait on him
hand and foot with the docility of a
slave and that when he was well
enough she would conduct him to a
place of safety—at least so he under¬
stood her.
One mystery to Arthur was where
the food came from that his active nurse
always had in preparation, and a still
greater surprise was how quickly he
regained his strength when once the
fever had left him, for each morning he
arose with a renewed energy, which
promised soon to restore him to his
pristine vigor. But he argued with
himself if he recovered too quickly he
would be called upon to leave the spot
before he had secured the sick man’s
confession. This would never do, so he
feigned weakness and allowed his gen¬
tle attendant to minister to his wants.
Ilis patience met with its reward at
last.
One night the sick man raised himself
on his bed, as he bad done once before,
and in a weak voice begged Dunbar to
come to him. In a minute Arthur was
by his side, supporting the trembling
frame on his arm and bending his head
over him.
“Have you strength enough to tell me
your story?” he said, gently.
“Yes,” came the faint reply. “My
brain is strangely clear and my tongue
is loosened.”
“Then tell me all you can, foi it is sad
to see you die with this unconfessed
guilt upon your soul.”
“Then, listen. Ah, how clearly I cau
think now, how easy talking seems to
me. I have heard that the last hour of
a man’s life who is dying of swamp
fever is always like this—a sudden and
mysterious strength, and then—”
lie shuddered.
“If these moments are so precious, do
not waste them,” Arthur urged.
“I will not. First, promise me that
you will do your best to repair the mis¬
chief I have wrought, even at your own
personal danger.” of Sir
“Does it refer to the rescue
Harry Grahame?” Arthur asked.
“It does.”
“Then I most solemnly promise you
that I will do all man can to carry
out your wishes.”
“Ah, sir, you have taken a load off
my mind. Now hear my story. My
name is Aaron Gore. I was born on
Sir Harry’s estate, played with him
when a boy, served him as a man, and
traitorously sold t-im to his enemies,
when he had none near him but my
in whom to put his trust. ’
self man's
Beads of agony stood on the
brow, as he uttered these words.
“You see, sir,” he continued, ‘“tall _
came about of the doings of Capt.
Frank Archer.”
“Frank Archer! Who is he?
“Sometimes I think he is omy a man
like the rest of us, but at other times I
believe he is a devil in human shape.
for surely no fiend could have wrought
more mischief than he has done. He
has been at the bottom of all my
? on
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Arthur said, impatiently *
groaS. T,« t'~:
thea supreme * evidently effort, nerrinayj L
story he 2
of crime in hurried
times unintelligible, but
his breathless listener eo
“I must write its fw ii
find this down
it t, » Arthur »“!“■ said, to do so, and jo\
Aaron when he tv
^ on will Gore’s find reply was to’
with the package several 1
pillow, of papei
sir."
“Ah, yes, here they are.
lie _ back and rest, whilst I
depositi^.
And this is what Arth
wrote, casting every now
anxious glance at the sick
lay, rapidly watching the his pencil ai
over paper;
I, Aaron Gore, believing
the point of death, do make
iug statement, which I so
clare to be true: That 1 was
ice of Sir Harry Grahame as
that gentleman was taken:
fever at Kistmun, in India,
early part of January of las
there was also in attends
sick baronet his friend, d
Archer; that Sir Harry Gij
prepared a will leaving j
part of his fortune to Mia
liame, his adopted daugiij
entered into conspiracy !
Frank Archer to prevent! (j
plisbment of this act; that ti
induced me to aid him in
a bribe of one hundred [
promise of a thousand po
scheme proved success^
pursuance of this plan, a
Sir Harry’s service who
point of death stricken
contracted at the same I
master, on a palmed hunting off er.pej
jungles, was oa
of the Forty-seventh regia gl
baronet; that this doctor
tificatc of cause of death aa
mit, fully believing that tli
was Sir Harry Grahame;I
baronet was carried by us
coast and shipped in chat
Archer to Colombo, whence
moved to the interior of C;
acting under orders of Capt
inained at Kistmun in chj
supposed deceased baron
that I received a telegram
Colburn, an attorney in I
was also in the conspiracy.
to proceed at once to Colon
should find instructions h
Capt. Archer in his retrea
to make my way to him a
that two men had Fftkngi
purpose of discovering the
of the baronet, whom they
be still alive: that I sailed
found a sealed packet of
there, prepared for such ai
that Aslmu I stai-tcd Ghooli, on my son jonnj of tij
of protej
village under whose
was living; that Along we the reachej Qua!
our passage down tW
sent a war-canoe
instructions they to nn^kt take rnc^J P ris ^1
ropeans giver. j
on guard at a retain,til :
were notified to
taking the journey across
I was seized with the
ness djffl
e f which 1 am now
.
heartily repent of ©v
implore the forgiveness o.
whose release, I
master, speedup.
God. may be
The dying m ‘; n
rent document of Ins with life was fee^W
in£ to use
Dunbar asked.
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