The Dark Star

Then I cast out again; and very soon my grapnel hooked into what I

expected--a canvas sack, weighted with a round shot. When I got it

aboard, I hesitated a long while before opening it. Finally I made

a long slit in the canvas with my knife....

She was very young--not over sixteen, I think, and she was really

beautiful, even under her wet, dark hair. She seemed to be a

Caucasian girl--maybe a Georgian. She wore a small gold cross

which hung from a gold cord around her neck. There was another,

and tighter, cord around her neck, too. I cut the silk bowstring

and closed and bound her eyes with my handkerchief before I rowed

out a little farther and lowered her into the deep channel which

cuts eastward here like the scimitar of that true believer, Abdul

Hamid.

Then I hoisted sail and beat up slowly toward my little dock under

a moon which had become ghastly under the pallid aura of a

gathering storm---"A poor dead young lady!" interrupted the child, clasping her hands

more tightly. "Did the Sultan kill her, daddy?"

"It seems so, Ruhannah."

"Why?"

"I don't know. He was a very cruel and wicked Sultan."

"I don't see why he killed the beautiful poor dead lady."

"If you will listen and not interrupt, you shall learn why."

"And was the chest that Herr Wilner pulled up the very same chest that

is here on the floor beside me?" insisted the child.

"The very same. Now listen, Rue, and I shall read a little more in

Herr Wilner's diary, and then you must have your bath and be put to

bed----"

"Please read, daddy!"

The Reverend Wilbour Carew turned the page and quietly continued: March 20. In my own quarters at Trebizond again, and rid of

Murad for a while.

A canvas cover and rope handles concealed the character of my

olive wood chest. I do not believe anybody suspects it to be

anything except one of the various boxes containing my own

personal effects. I shall open it tonight with a file and chisel,

if possible.

March 21. The contents of the chest reveal something of the

tragedy. The box is full of letters written in Russian, and full

of stones which weigh collectively a hundred pounds at least.

There is nothing else in the chest except a broken Ikon and a

bronze figure of Erlik, a Yildiz relic, no doubt, of some Kurdish

raid into Mongolia, and probably placed beside the dead girl by

her murderers in derision. I am translating the letters and

arranging them in sequence.