The Adventures of Kathlyn

"Those ropes were cut," declared Ahmed.

"But who in the world could have cut them?" demanded the colonel.

Ahmed shrugged. "We may have been followed by thieves. They could

have got here before us, as we were forced to use the elephant trails.

Let us keep our eyes about us, Sahib. When one speaks of gold, the

wind carries the word far. And then . . ." He paused, scowling.

"And then what?"

"I do not want the Mem-sahib to hear," Ahmed whispered. "But who shall

say that this is not the work of the gurus, who never forget, who never

forgive, Sahib."

"But they would not follow!"

"Nay, but their servant would, on the fear of death. I will watch at

night hereafter."

Ahmed searched thoroughly about the ledge from which the east side of

the bridge had swung, but the barren rocks told him nothing. Armed

with his rifle, he plunged boldly back along the elephant trail, but

returned without success. Whoever was following them was an adept, as

secret as a Thuggee. All this worried Ahmed not a little. He readily

understood that the murderous attempt had not been directed against

Kathlyn alone, but against all of them. But for her eagerness and

subsequent warning some of them would have been dead at this moment.

"Sahib, it would be better to make camp on the other side of the ford.

The Mem-sahib is weak from the shock and might collapse if we

proceeded."

"I leave everything to you, Ahmed. But is there not some place farther

below where the water does not run so fast?"

"Ramabai will know."

But Ramabai knew only the bridge. They would have to investigate and

explore the bank. Half an hour's journey--rather a difficult

one--brought them to still and shallow water. Here they crossed and

made camp beyond in a natural clearing. They erected the small tent

for Kathlyn, inside of which she changed her clothes, drank her tea and

lay down to sleep.

"What does Ahmed think?" asked Bruce anxiously.

"That we are being followed by some assassins hired by our friends, the

priests."

"Colonel, let us make straight for the seaport and let this damnable

bushel of trinkets stay where it is," urged Bruce, the lover.

"That is not possible now," replied Ramabai. "We can now reach there

only by the seacoast itself, or return to the desert and journey over

the old trail. We must go on."

The colonel smoked his pipe moodily. He was pulled between necessity

and desire. He had come to Asia for this filigree basket, and he

wanted it, with a passion which was almost miserly. At one moment he

silently vowed to cast the whole thing into the sea, and at the next

his fingers would twitch and he would sigh.

Sometimes it seemed to him that there was some invisible force working

in him, drawing and drawing him against the dictates of his heart. He

had experienced this feeling back in California, and had fought against

it for weeks, without avail. And frequently now, when alone and

undisturbed, he could see the old guru, shaking with the venom of his

wrath, the blood dripping from his lacerated fingers, which he shook in

the colonel's face flecking it with blood. A curse. It was so. He

must obey that invincible will; he must go on and on.