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ft •" /K*S / SH 'S V, i i cm imm Y\ ' v A^KELLOGG ■**■'■*. ■ S' COPYRIGHTi!9! «Er/SR\PERC9. \ 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 \ dl k r % it J A 1 m \<M fj Ti 7 V i V*. i,\ ph 11} Wj 7 / iji'N 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 Wm ji /PUP S >: A & 4 •gi liu I I 1 m/mma I /Ok Its w <* Vi 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 7J A r ij % ., tv/ \ "/j »I 'i j 7 . AAEON CORE'S BTAtpai arra Ton une were. 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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