Chapter XXXIII: A Move in the Right Direction

James Battiscombe’s long experience as a magistrate in remote districts had taught him the value of stage-management where native religions were concerned.

Consequently, when he and the professor, with their handful of men, joined the tribesmen who squatted outside the breastwork, he led Dara forward, holding a lamp so that its light fell upon her face and shoulders and upon the sacred emblem that glittered at her throat.

The natives, who had risen at their approach, stared in hushed amazement at her coming and presently prostrated themselves before her.

She folded her arms and addressed them in their own tongue, and the fervour of their mingled responses inspired the magistrate with hope.

The girl turned to him.

“I have told them,” she said in Malay, “that I was spirited away from them by Abu-Samar; that he is a bad man and that, before the sun rises again in the east, he must die.”

Battiscombe nodded.

“And the men said,” pursued Dara, “that my words were wise ones and that they would take me back to my temple and tell the others what I have already told them.”

“All that is good,” returned Battiscombe, “except that this man Samar should die before dawn. Very surely he will die, but there are wise men at the coast who would speak with him first. Listen, Dara: When the white lady has been given over to me and we have placed you again in the temple in the hill, then shall the chieftains deliver Abu-Samar into my hands.”

She did not answer.

“You hear me, Dara?”

“I hear you, great _Tuan_, and I understand.”

They moved forward presently, under a violet dome where stars hung like jewelled ornaments amid wind-blown clouds. Battiscombe and the professor walked in front, with the native girl between them; a few paces behind them came the leader of the tribesmen--a man of enormous height, clad in a leopard skin, a blow-pipe, with a spearhead attached, slung across his shoulders. He was followed by Kuraman and six soldiers, who marched in double file, while the remaining natives fell in irregularly at the rear.

The first half-mile was rough going, and then, on the far side of a gorge, they wheeled on to a recognised track, which, in spite of fragments of stone occurring at frequent intervals, offered them better foothold.

Wild and mountainous country this, broken by rare strips of sparse vegetation and occasional clumps of stunted trees.

Banks of heavy clouds hung on the horizon, and at a little after eleven the moon came up.

“Blowing up for rain,” declared Standen suddenly.

“Yes,” said Battiscombe. “Vance’ll be glad. He wants it for his young rubber.”

They relapsed into silence again.

They climbed a stiff hill and began descending into a valley where a keen wind met them, carrying to their cheeks the spray from an adjacent cataract.

The native who spoke Malay caught them up.

“We will stop at the foot of the slope, _Tuan_. On the other side of the hill is the road by which our people must pass on their way to the temple.”

“_Baik_,” replied Battiscombe shortly, and pressed onward.

They called a halt in the hollow and the professor selected a boulder upon which he promptly sat.

“This is all very well for you younger fellows,” he laughed, “but it soon begins to tell upon a man of my age.”

Dara reclined at his feet, while the magistrate strolled off to interview his guide.

“O _Tuan_,” said the brown girl to Standen, “you are the man with the beard who is wiser than all other white men.”

The professor, who understood enough Malay to follow her meaning, bestowed upon her the look a father might give to a very young child.

“I would hardly like to say that,” he murmured in his own tongue, and then, so that she could understand him: “Who told you this, Dara?”

“The _Tuan-Hakim_ who is sick.”

“Armourer, eh? Well, that was really uncommonly nice of him!”

She surveyed him through half-closed eyes.

“The _Tuan-Hakim_ made me a promise; he said that, when the time had arrived, you and he would explain to the priests and the headman how it was that Abu had taken me away, and that you would kill this Abu, so that the prophecy might be fulfilled.”

Standen was puzzled.

“What prophecy, Dara?”

“That he who touches the goddess of the Crimson Butterfly--dies. Otherwise,” she added, “men will say that I went with him willingly, and will believe that I am a goddess no longer.”

The professor beckoned to Battiscombe, who was already on his way back to them.

“I say, Battiscombe! This girl has taken advantage of your absence to try and drive a hard bargain with me. As far as I can gather, she wants me to agree to have Samar killed and handed over to the natives to prove that the penalty for embracing this dusky goddess is death.”

The magistrate turned to Dara.

“We are moving on in but a little while,” he told her, “and there is no time to discuss this thing. But, when the white _mem_ has been restored to me, I shall see that these people believe and take you back again.”

She observed him doubtfully.

“If Abu does not die,” she declared, “very surely they will kill me after you have gone.”

Battiscombe did not answer.

“Some of their fellows have gone ahead to explain the position to any of their friends they may encounter in the road,” he remarked to Standen. “If they’re not back in a quarter of an hour, I’m starting without them. My interpreter thought it best to get a decent number of ’em on our side, in case our mission got misunderstood and we were attacked. On the whole I fancy he’s right.”

“It appears very sound to me,” said the other.

“We want a good backing,” continued the magistrate. “We’re not going to put up much of a show, if it comes to fighting, with seven men and a bunch of others who won’t know quite on whose side they are. They tell me the far side of the ridge is just teeming with the black-skinned blighters. Wouldn’t some of our padres at home give their cassocks and waistcoat buttons for a congregation like this?”

“By Gad, they would!” chuckled the professor.

“And think of the collection!”

Standen blew his nose vigorously.

“I suppose they have one?”

“You bet they do. Witch-doctors, _juju_-merchants and high-priests of native cults don’t just hang around producing mysteries for nothing.”

“What form do you suppose it takes. I mean they wouldn’t bring money.”

“No,” said Battiscombe, “they probably trot along a bunch of bananas, some nuts, or a coconut or two--and the priests await an opportunity and dispose of it in bulk to the first merchant that crosses the interior. There’s usually a commercial side to all these things. Nobody grumbles as long as there’s a good show. Your native likes his show. That’s why Dara’s position presents complications. We’ve got to convince the priests--or whatever they style themselves--that she’s the genuine article--and we’ve to convince them in such manner as not to arouse too many suspicions in the native mind. Their principal creed is that the butterflies protect their goddess and that no man who tampers with her survives the experiment. We can’t produce a butterfly and make it sting Abu-Samar, and we haven’t time to find and dispose of him and tattoo on him a fair imitation of the mark the Butterfly makes when it does sting. If we’re driven to extreme measures, we may have to pick the beggar off with a rifle-bullet, just to show ’em that the man who abducted Dara did die anyway.”

“It wouldn’t be sufficient, I suppose,” asked Standen, “to assure them that Abu-Samar will die in any case?”

Battiscombe produced a pouch and began filling his pipe.

“I’m afraid not. If I could only manage to get away with that, I’d consider I’d fulfilled my duty to the letter.--Hullo! here are some of our men back. We’ll fall the fellows in and get on.”