For three days Indra Sen performed the duties of a host. He conducted King about the palace grounds; he took him to the temples and out into the city, to the market place, and the bazaars. Together they watched the apsarases dance in the temple court; but during all this time King saw nothing of Fou- tan, nor did Beng Kher send for him. Twice he had received brief messages from Fou-tan through Hamar, but they were only such messages as might be transmitted by word of mouth through a slave and were far from satisfying the man’s longing for his sweetheart.
Upon the fourth day Indra Sen did not come, as was his custom, early in the morning; nor did Hamar appear, but only the other slave — an ignorant, taciturn man whom King never had been able to engage in conversation.
King had never left his apartment except in the company of Indra Sen, and while Bharata Rahon had warned him against any such independent excursion the American had not taken the suggestion seriously, believing it to have been animated solely by the choler of the Khmer prince. Heretofore, Indra Sen had arrived before there might be any occasion for King to wish to venture forth alone; but there had never been anything in the attitude of the young officer to indicate that the American was other than an honored guest, nor had there been any reason to believe that he might not come and go as he chose. Having waited, therefore, for a considerable time upon Indra Sen on this particular morning, King decided to walk out into the royal garden after leaving word with the slave, who always attended just outside his door, that the young officer, when he came, might find him there; but when he opened the door into the corridor there was no slave, but, instead, two burly warriors, who instantly turned and barred the exit with their spears.
“You may not leave your quarters,” said one of them gruffly and with a finality that seemed to preclude argument.
“And why not?” demanded the American. “I am the King’s guest and I only wish to walk in the garden.”
“We have received our orders,” replied the warrior. “You are not permitted to leave your quarters.”
“Then it would appear that I am not the King’s guest, but the King’s prisoner.”
The warrior shrugged. “We have our orders,” he said; “other than this we know nothing.”
The American turned back into the room and closed the door. What did it all mean? He crossed the apartment to one of the windows and stood looking out upon the garden. He rehearsed his every act and speech since he had entered Pnom Dhek, searching for some clue that might explain the change of attitude toward him; but he found nothing that might warrant it; and so he concluded that it was the result of something that had occurred of which he had no knowledge; but the natural inference was that it was closely allied to his love for Fou-tan and Beng Kher’s determination that she should wed Bharata Rahon.
The day wore on. The taciturn slave came with food, but Hamar did not appear; nor did Indra Sen. King paced his quarters like a caged tiger. Always the windows overlooking the garden attracted him, so that often he paused before them, drawn by the freedom which the garden suggested in contrast to the narrow confines of his quarters. For the thousandth time he examined the quarters that had now become his prison. The paintings and hangings that covered the leaden walls had always aroused his interest and curiosity; but today, by reason of constant association, he found them palling upon him. The familiar scenes depicting the activities of kings and priests and dancing girls, the stiffly delineated warriors whose spears never cast and whose bolts were never shot oppressed him now. Their actions for ever inhibited and imprisoned in the artist’s paint suggested his own helpless state of imprisonment.
The sun was sinking in the west; the long shadows of the parting day were creeping across the royal garden of Beng Kher; the taciturn slave had come with food and had lighted lamps in each of the three rooms of his apartment - crude wick floating in oil they were, but they served to dispel the darkness of descending night. King, vibrant with the vitality of youth and health, had eaten heartily. The slave removed the dishes and returned.
“Have you further commands for the night, master?” he asked.
King shook his head. “No,” he said, “you need not return until the morning.”
The slave withdrew, and King fell to playing with an idea that had been slowly forming in his mind. The sudden change in his status here that had been suggested by the absence of Hamar and Indra Sen and by the presence of the warriors in the corridor had aroused within him a natural apprehension of impending danger, and consequently directed his mind toward thoughts of escape.
The windows not far above the garden, the darkness of the night, his knowledge of the city and the jungle — all impressed upon him the belief that he might win to freedom with no considerable risk; yet he was still loath to make the attempt because as yet he had nothing definite upon which to base his suspicion that the anger of Beng Kher had been turned upon him, and further, and more important still, because he could not leave Pnom Dhek without first having word with Fou-tan.
As he inwardly debated these matters he paced to and fro the length of the three rooms of his apartment. He had paused in the innermost of the three where the flickering light of the cresset projected his shadow grotesquely upon an ornate hanging that depended from the ceiling to the floor. He had paused there in deep thought, his eyes, seeing and yet unseeing, fastened upon this splendid fabric, when suddenly he saw it move and bulge. There was something or someone behind it.
13. FAREWELL FOR EVER!
For the first time since Gordon King had entered the palace of Beng Kher as a guest he was confronted with the realization that the ornate apparel and trappings that had been furnished him had included no weapons of defence; and now as he saw the hanging bulging mysteriously before his eyes he stepped quickly toward it, prepared to meet either friend or foe with his bare hands. He saw the bulging fold move slowly behind the fabric toward its outer edge, and he followed, ready for any eventuality. With a quick movement the margin of the fabric was pulled aside as Hamar, the slave, stepped into the room, and at the same instant King seized him by the throat.
Recognition was instantaneous and, with a smile, the American released the slave and stepped back. “I did not know whom to expect, Hamar,” he said.
“You were well to be prepared for an enemy, master,” said the slave in low tones, “for you have powerful ones in Pnom Dhek.”
“What brings you here, Hamar, in secrecy and in such mystery?” demanded King.
“Are you alone?” asked Hamar in a whisper.
“Yes.”
“Then my mission is fulfilled,” said Hamar. “I do but ensure the safety and the secrecy of another who follows me.”
Again the hanging bulged as someone passed behind it; and an instant later Fou-tan stood before Gordon King, while the slave, Hamar, bowing low, withdrew.
“Fou-tan!” exclaimed Gordon King, taking a step toward the girl.
“My Gordon King!” whispered Fou-tan as his arms closed about her.
“What has happened that you come to me in this way?” asked King. “I knew that there was something wrong because neither Hamar nor Indra Sen came to-day and there were warriors posted at my door to keep me prisoner. But why talk of such things when I have you? Nothing else counts now, my Fou-tan.”
“Ah, Gordon King, but there is much else that counts,” replied the girl. “I should have come before, but guards were placed to keep me from you. The King, my father, is mad with rage. tomorrow you are to be destroyed.”
“But why?” demanded King.
“Because yesterday I went to my father and confessed our love. I appealed to his gratitude to you for having saved me from Lodivarman and to his love for me, believing that these might outweigh his determination to wed me to Bharata Rahon, but I was mistaken. He flew into an uncontrollable rage of passion. He ordered me to my apartment and he commanded that you be destroyed upon the morrow; but I found a way, thanks to Hamar and Indra Sen, and so I have come to bid you farewell, Gordon King, and to t
ell you that wherever you may go my heart goes with you, though my body may be the unwilling slave of another. Indra Sen and Hamar will guide you to the jungle and point the way toward the great river that lies in the direction of the rising sun, upon whose opposite shore you will be safe from the machination of Beng Kher and Bharata Rahon.”
“And you, Fou-tan — you will go with me?”
The girl shook her head. “No, Gordon King, I may not,” she replied sadly.
“And why?” he asked. “You love me and I love you. Come away with me into a land of freedom and happiness, where no one will question our right to love and to live as the gods intended that we should; for you, Fou-tan, and I were made for one another.”
“It cannot be, Gordon King,” replied the girl. “The thing that you suggest offers to me the only happiness that can be possible to me in life, but for such as I there is an obligation that transcends all thoughts of personal happiness. I was born a princess, and because of that there have devolved upon me certain obligations which may not be escaped. Had I brothers or sisters born of a queen it might be different, but through me alone may the royal dynasty of Pnom Dhek be perpetuated. No, Gordon King, not even love may intervene between a princess of Pnom Dhek and her duty to her people. Always shall my love be yours, and it will be harder for me than for you. If I, who am weak, am brave because of duty, how can you, a man, be less brave? Kiss me once more, then, and for the last time, Gordon King; then go with Hamar and Indra Sen, who will lead you to the jungle and point the way to safety.”
As she ceased speaking she threw her arms about his neck and drew his lips to hers. He felt her tears upon his cheeks, and his own eyes grew dim. Perhaps not until this instant of parting had King realized the hold that this dainty flower of the savage jungle had taken upon his heart. As fragile and beautiful as the finest of Meissen ceramics, this little, painted princess of a long dead past held him in a bondage beyond the power of steel.
“I cannot give you up, Fou-tan,” he said. “Let me remain. Perhaps if I talked with your father—”
“It would be useless,” she said, “even if he would grant you an audience, which he will not.”
“Then if you love me as I love you,” said King, “you will come away with me.”
“Do not say that, Gordon King. It is cruel,” replied the girl. “I am taught to place duty above all other considerations, even love. Princesses are not born to happiness. Their exalted birth dedicates them to duty. They are more than human, and so human happiness often is denied them. And now you must go. Indra Sen and Hamar are waiting to guide you to safety. Each moment of delay lessens your chances for escape.”
“I do not wish to escape,” said King. “I shall remain and face whatever consequences are in store for me, for without you, Fou-tan, life means nothing to me. I would rather remain and die than go away without you.”
“No, no,” she cried. “Think of me. I must live on, and always, if I believe you to be alive, I shall be happier than I could be if I knew that you were dead.”
“You mean that if I were alive there still would be hope?” he asked.
She shook her head. “Not in the way you mean,” she replied; “but there would be happiness for me in knowing that perhaps somewhere you were happy. For my sake, you must go. If you love me you will not deny me this shred of happiness.”
“If I go,” he said, “you will know that wherever I am, I am unhappy.”
“I am a woman as well as a princess,” she replied, “and so perhaps it will give me a sad happiness to know that you are unhappy because I am denied you.” She smiled ruefully.
“Then I shall go, Fou-tan, if only to make you happy in my unhappiness; but I think that I shall not go far and that always I shall nurse hope in my breast, even though you may have put it from you. Think of me, then, as being always near you, Fou-tan, awaiting the day when I may claim you.”
“That will never be, Gordon King,” she replied sadly; “yet it will do no harm if in our hearts we nurse a hopeless hope. Kiss me again. It is Fou- tan’s last kiss of love.”
An eternity of love and passion were encompassed in that brief instant of their farewell embrace, and then Fou-tan tore herself from his arms and was gone.
She was gone! King stood for a long time gazing at the hanging that had moved for a moment to the passage of her lithe figure. It did not seem possible that she had gone out of his life for ever. “Fou-tan!” he whispered. “Come back to me. You will come back!” But the dull pain in his breast was his own best answer to the anguished cry of his stricken soul.
Again the hanging moved and bulged, and his heart leaped to his throat; but it was only Hamar, the slave.
“Come, master!” cried the man. “There is no time to be lost.”
King nodded. With leaden steps he followed Hamar to an opening in the wall behind the hanging, and there he found Indra Sen in the mouth of a corridor, a flickering torch in his hand.
“In the service of the Princess,” said the officer.
“May the gods protect her and give her every happiness,” replied King.
“Come!” said Indra Sen, and turning he led the way along the corridor and down a long flight of stone steps that King knew must lead far beneath the palace. They passed the mouths of branching corridors, attesting the labyrinthine maze that honeycombed the earth beneath the palace of Beng Kher, and then the tunnel led straight and level out beneath the city of Pnom Dhek to the jungle beyond.
“That way lies the great river, Gordon King,” said Indra Sen, pointing toward the east. “I should like to go with you farther, but I dare not; if Hamar and I are suspected of aiding in your escape, the blame may be placed upon the Princess, since Hamar is her slave and I an officer of her guard.”
“I would not ask you to go farther, Indra Sen,” replied King, “nor can I find words in which to thank either you or Hamar.”
“Here, master,” said Hamar, “is the clothing that you wore when you came to Pnom Dhek. It will be more suitable in the jungle than that you are wearing,” and he handed King a bundle that he had been carrying. “Here, also, are weapons — a spear, a knife, a bow and arrows. They are gifts from the Princess, who says that no other knows so well how to use them.”
The two waited until King had changed into his worn trappings, and then, bidding him good-bye, they entered the mouth of the tunnel, leaving him alone in the jungle. To the east lay the Mekong, where he might construct a raft and drift down to civilization. To the south lay Lodidhapura, and beyond that the dwelling of Che and Kangrey. King knew that if he went to the east and the Mekong he would never return. He thought of Susan Anne Prentice and his other friends of the outer world; he thought of the life of usefulness that lay ahead of him there. Then there came to him the vision of a dainty girl upon a great elephant, reminding him of that moment, now so long ago, that he had first seen Fou-tan; and he knew that he must choose now, once and for all, between civilization and the jungle — between civilization and the definite knowledge that he would never see her again or the jungle and hope, however remote.
“Susan Anne would think me a fool, and I am quite sure that she would be right,” he murmured, as with a shrug he turned his face squarely toward the south and set off upon his long and lonely journey through the jungle.
In his mind there was no definite plan beyond a hazy determination to return to Che and Kangrey and to remain there with them until it would be safe to assume that Beng Kher had ceased to search for him. After that, perhaps, he might return to the vicinity of Pnom Dhek. And who could say what might happen then? Thus strongly is implanted in the breast of man the eternal seed of hope. Of course, he knew that he was a fool, but it did not displease him to be a fool if his foolishness kept him in the same jungle with Fou-tan.
The familiar odors and noises of the jungle assailed his nostrils and his ears. With spear in readiness he groped his way to the trail which he knew led toward the south and his destination. When he found it, some caprice of hope
prompted him to blaze a tree at the spot in such a way that he might easily identify it, should he chance to come upon it again.
All night he travelled. Once, for a long time, he knew that some beast was stalking him; but if it had evil intentions toward him it evidently could not muster the courage to put them into action, for eventually he heard it no more. Shortly thereafter dawn came and with it a sense of greater security.
Shortly after sunrise he came upon a herd of wild pigs, and before they were aware of his presence he had sunk an arrow into the heart of a young porker. Then an old boar discovered him and charged, its gleaming tusks flecked with foam, its savage eyes red-rimmed with rage; but King did not wait to discuss matters with the great beast. Plentiful and inviting about him grew the great trees of the jungle, and into one of these he swung himself as the boar tore by.
The rest of the herd had disappeared; but for a long time the boar remained in the vicinity, trotting angrily back and forth along the trail beneath King and occasionally stopping to glare up at him malevolently. It seemed an eternity to the hungry man, but at length the boar appeared to realize the futility of waiting longer for his prey to descend and trotted off into the jungle after his herd, the sound of his passage through the underbrush gradually diminishing until it was lost in the distance. Then King descended and retrieved his kill. Knowing the cunning of savage tuskers of the jungle, King was aware that the boar might return to the spot; and so he did not butcher his kill there, but, throwing it across his shoulder, continued on for about a mile. Then, finding a suitable location he stopped and built a fire, over which he soon was grilling a generous portion of his quarry.
After eating, he left the trail and, going into the jungle a short distance, found a place where he could lie down to sleep; and as he dozed he dreamed of snowy linen and soft pillows and heard the voices of many people arguing and scolding. They annoyed him, so that he determined to sell his home and move to another neighborhood; and then seemingly in the same instant he awoke, though in reality he had slept for six hours. Uppermost in his mind was his complaint against his neighbors, and loud in his ears were their voices as he opened his eyes and looked around in puzzled astonishment at the jungle about him. Then he smiled as the dream picture of his home faded into the reality of his surroundings. The smile broadened into a grin as he caught sight of the monkeys chattering and scolding in the tree above him.
Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26) Page 477
