Delphi Collected Works of Edgar Rice Burroughs (Illustrated) (Series Four Book 26)

by Edgar Rice Burroughs

  His mind was harassed by unhappy apprehensions concerning Fou-tan. He was obsessed by the conviction that she was in dire and imminent peril, and the thought left him frantic because of his helplessness.

  Such was his state of mind when, as he was passing along a corridor flanked on either side by dark and gloomy doorways, he saw that the passageway he was following ended at a transverse corridor. Which way should he turn? He knew that he could not hesitate, and at that moment he heard a voice calling his name from the interior of a dark cell beyond one of the gloomy doorways.

  King halted as did the men near him, startled and apprehensive, their weapons ready. King stepped toward the doorway from which the voice had come.

  “Who speaks?” he demanded.

  “It is I — Indra Sen,” replied the voice, and with a sigh of relief that was almost a gasp King stepped quickly to the low doorway.

  The light of his torch illuminated a narrow cell, upon the floor of which squatted Indra Sen, chained to the wall.

  “May the gods be thanked that you have come, Gordon King,” cried the young Khmer officer; “and may they grant that you are not too late to prevent a tragedy.”

  “What do you mean?” demanded King.

  “Fou-tan is to be forced to wed Bharata Rahon tonight,” replied Indra Sen. “Perhaps the ceremony already has been performed. All those whose duty it is to defend Fou-tan have been chained in the dungeon here.”

  “Where is the ceremony to be performed?” demanded King.

  “In the great audience chamber,” replied Indra Sen.

  “Can you lead me there by the shortest route?”

  “Take off my fetters and those of my men and I will not only lead you, but we will strike with you in the service of our Princess.”

  “Good!” exclaimed Gordon King. “Where are your men?”

  “Along both sides of this corridor.”

  To release them all was the work of but a few moments, for willing hands and strong struck off the fetters; and then, directed by Indra Sen, the party moved quickly on to its work. The warriors of Fou-tan’s guard had no weapons other than their bare hands and the hatred that was in their hearts, but once within the audience chamber they knew that they would find weapons upon the bodies of their antagonists.

  The high priest of Siva stepped forward and, turning, faced Bharata Rahon and Fou-tan. “Arise,” he said, “and kneel.”

  Bharata Rahon stepped from his throne half-turning to await Fou-tan, but the girl sat rigid on her carved chair.

  “Come,” whispered Bharata Rahon.

  “I cannot,” said Fou-tan, addressing the high priest.

  “You must, my Princess,” urged the priest.

  “I loathe him: I cannot mate with him.”

  Bharata Rahon stepped quickly toward her. His lips were smiling for the benefit of those who watched from below the dais; but in his heart was rage, and cruel was the grip that he laid upon the gentle wrist of Fou-tan.

  “Come,” he hissed, “or by the gods you shall be slain, and I shall rule alone.”

  “Then slay me,” said Fou-tan. But he dragged her to her feet; and those below saw his smiling face and thought that he was merely assisting the little Princess, who had been momentarily overcome by the excitement of the occasion.

  And then a great hanging parted at the rear of the dais behind the throne, and a warrior stepped out behind the semicircle of those that half- surrounded Bharata Rahon and his unwilling bride. Perhaps some in the audience saw the tall warrior; perhaps at the instant they were moved to surprise, but before they could give an alarm, or before they could realize that an alarm was necessary, he had shouldered his way roughly through the cordon of warriors standing between him and the three principals at the front of the dais, and behind him the doorway through which he had come spewed a torrent of hostile warriors.

  Cries of alarm arose simultaneously from the audience and from the warriors of Bharata Rahon who stood upon the dais, and above all in sudden fury burst the war-cry of Lodidhapura.

  Simultaneously Bharata Rahon and Fou-tan wheeled about and instantly recognized Gordon King, but with what opposite emotions!

  With a curse Bharata Rahon drew his sword. A dozen spearmen leaped toward the rash intruder only to be hurled back by the warriors of Lodidhapura and the unarmed soldiers of Fou-tan’s guard, led by Indra Sen.

  “Dog of a slave!” cried Bharata Rahon, as the two men stood face to face, and at the same time he swung a heavy blow at King’s helmet — a blow that King parried and returned so swiftly that the Khmer prince had no defence ready.

  It was a fearful blow that Gordon King struck, for love of a princess and to avenge a king. Down through the golden helmet of the false prince his blade clove into the brain of Bharata Rahon; and as the body lunged forward upon the dais, King swung around to face whatever other antagonist might menace him. But he found himself entirely surrounded by his own warriors, and a quick glance about the audience chamber showed him that his orders had been followed to the letter. So quickly had they moved that at every entrance now stood a company of his brass-bound soldiers.

  There had been little resistance, for so sudden had been the attack and so overwhelming the surprise of the men of Pnom Dhek that those in the audience chamber had been completely surrounded by a superior force before many of them had realized what was happening.

  Indra Sen and his warriors had succeeded in wresting weapons from the men of Bharata Rahon, and with them King now dominated the situation, at least in the audience chamber; though in the city without were thousands of warriors who might easily overcome them. But this King had foreseen and had no intention of permitting.

  Turning toward the surprised men and women in the audience chamber, he raised his hand. “Silence!” he cried. “Let no man raise a weapon against us, and none shall be harmed. I came here not to attack Pnom Dhek but to avenge her King. Beng Kher did not fall in battle; he was stabbed by Bharata Rahon. He is not dead. Beng Kher is still King of Pnom Dhek.”

  A cheer arose from Indra Sen and his warriors, in which joined many in the audience chamber, for with Bharata Rahon dead they no longer feared him and quickly returned their allegiance to their King.

  Fou-tan came close to the tall warrior standing there beside the body of Bharata Rahon and facing the officers and the dignitaries of the court of Beng Kher. She touched him gently. “My Gordon King!” she whispered. “I knew that you were near. I knew that you would come. But tell me again that my father is not dead and that he is safe.”

  “He is wounded, Fou-tan; but I have left him with honest people who will nurse him, the same who nursed me when I was lost and ill in the jungle. He sent me here to save you from Bharata Rahon, though I would have come without the sending. Here is the priest, Fou-tan, and you are in your wedding-gown. Is it in your heart to deny me again?”

  “What would my father say?” she murmured, hesitatingly, and then suddenly she raised her head proudly. “He is not here, and I am Queen!” she exclaimed. “I care not what any man may say. If you will have me, Gordon King, I am yours!”

  King turned toward the audience. “The scene is set for a wedding,” he said in clear tones. “The priest is here; the bride is ready. Let the ceremony proceed.”

  “But the groom is dead!” cried one of Bharata Raven’s lieutenants.

  “I am the groom,” said King.

  “Never!” cried another voice. “You are naught but a Lodidhapurian slave.”

  “He is neither slave nor Lodidhapurian,” said Fou-tan. “He is the man of my choice, and tonight I am Queen.”

  “Never! Never!” shouted many voices.

  “Listen!” exclaimed the American. “It is not within your power to dictate, for tonight the Princess Fou-tan is Queen; and I am your conqueror.”

  “You are already surrounded by the soldiers of Beng Kher,” said the partisan of Bharata Rahon who had before spoken. “Several escaped the audience chamber when your men entered, and already they
have taken word to the warriors in the barracks. Presently they will come and you and your warriors will be destroyed.”

  “Perhaps,” assented King; “but with us, then, shall die every man in this room, for I hold you as hostages to ensure our safety. If you are wise you will send a messenger at once to order your warriors to return to their barracks.” And then to his own warriors he cried: “If a single warrior of Pnom Dhek enters this apartment without my authority, you will fall upon those here and slay them to a man, sparing only the women. And if my word is not sufficient I bring you the authority of your own King,” and with that he displayed the King’s ring, where all might see it.

  Beaten at every turn, the followers of Bharata Rahon were forced to accept the inevitable, while those who had hated him were secretly delighted now that they were assured that both the Princess and the King had vouched for this strange warrior. Then in the great audience chamber of the Khmer King, Beng Kher, Fou-tan the Princess, dancing girl of the Leper King, was joined to the man she loved.

  17. CONCLUSION

  That night, for the first time in a thousand years perhaps, the soldiers of Lodidhapura and the soldiers of Pnom Dhek sat at the same board and laughed and joked and swore strange oaths and feasted and drank together; and the soldiers of Lodidhapura bragged of the prowess of their Prince, who single- handed and armed only with javelin had slain My Lord the Tiger; and the soldiers of Pnom Dhek boasted of the beauty of their Princess until presently those who were not sleeping beneath the table were weeping upon one another’s brass cuirasses, so that when morning broke it was with aching heads that the soldiers of Lodidhapura climbed into the howdahs upon their great elephants and started back upon their homeward journey.

  At the same tune a strong force from Pnom Dhek, including many high officials of the court, together with the Princess Fou-tan and Gordon King, mounted upon swift elephants, set out through the jungle toward the dwelling of Che and Kangrey.

  Upon the afternoon of the second day they reached their destination. Che and Kangrey and little Uda were overcome by the magnificence of the spectacle that burst suddenly upon their simple and astonished gaze; nor were they entirely free from apprehension until they had made sure that Gordon King was there to protect them.

  “How is the patient, Kangrey?” asked King.

  The woman shook her head. “He does not mend,” she said.

  Together Fou-tan and Gordon King, accompanied by the high priest of Siva from Pnom Dhek and several of the highest officers of the court, entered the simple dwelling.

  Beng Kher lay stretched upon his mean cot of straw and hides. His eyes lighted as they rested upon Fou-tan, who ran forward and kneeled beside him. The old warrior took her in his arms and pressed her to him, and though he was very weak he insisted that she tell him all that had transpired since King had left him to return to Pnom Dhek.

  When she had finished, he sighed and stroked her hair; and when he motioned to Gordon King, and the man came and knelt at Fou-tan’s side, Beng Kher took their hands in his.

  “Siva has been kind to me in my last hour,” he said. “He has saved Pnom Dhek and Fou-tan from the traitor, and he has given me a new son to rule when I am dead. All praise be to Siva.”

  The King, Beng Kher, closed his eyes. A tremor passed through his frame, which seemed suddenly to shrink and lie very still.

  Gordon King lifted the weeping Fou-tan to her feet. The highest officer of the Khmer court came and knelt before them. He took the hand of Gordon King in his and pressed it to his lip. “I salute the son of Beng Kher,” he said, “the new King of Pnom Dhek.”

  THE END

  THE LAD AND THE LION (1917)

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 1

  A stately pile of ancient masonry rose in a great park of linden trees and ash and oak. There were broad, formal gardens and great expanses of level sward. There were gleaming marble fountains throwing their shimmering waters into the warm sunlight. There were men in uniform standing guard — tall, splendid fellows. A sad-faced old man walked along neat graveled pathways through the gardens, past the marble fountains. He was a very erect old man whose unbending shoulders and firm gait belied his age, for he was really a very old man. At the old man’s side walked a little boy; and when the two approached them, the soldiers snapped their burnished pieces smartly in salute.

  The old man was inordinately proud of the little boy. That was why he liked to have him walk with him in the gardens and down near the great gates where people often gathered to see them as they passed. He liked to have him ride with him through the city in one of the royal carriages where all the people might see him; for when the old man died, the little boy would be king.

  “The people seem to like us,” said the boy, as they passed the gates and the crowd waved and smiled and cheered. “That is why I cannot understand why they killed my father.”

  “They’d do not all like us,” said the old man.

  “Why don’t they?” asked the boy.

  “It is not so much that they do not like us as that they do not like kings. They believe that they, who know nothing about ruling, can rule better than we who are trained to rule and whose families have ruled for centuries.”

  “Well,” said the boy, with finality, “they like you; and when I am king, I shall try to rule as you have.”

  “I could wish that you might never be king,” said the old man, bitterly. “It is a thankless job, Michael.”

  * * * * *

  Three men sat on the veranda of a hunting lodge in the cool woods a few miles from the capital. One was a little, myopic man with horn-rimmed spectacles and thin, disordered hair that had not known shears for many weeks. His collar was soiled; so was his shirt, but most of that which showed in the V of his coat collar was hidden by a Windsor tie. He was a mussy little man with mussy clothes and trousers which made him appear about to jump, when he stood. His mind, however, was not mussy. Its facts were well ordered and easily accessible to a glib tongue which could marshal them in any formation that seemed best adapted to the occasion; on it, all facts seemed plastic, assuming any guise the little man desired to give them. Often the little facts’ own mothers would not have recognized them.

  The other two men were in easy tweeds; loose, comfortable clothes that did not, however, look as though they had been cut to fit someone else, or no one, as did the little man’s; also, they were well barbered, and their linen was clean — and linen.

  “Your highness will understand,” said the little man, “that in the event of an accident which removed the king and Prince Michael we are to have a new constitution, a far more liberal constitution, and that the representatives of the people shall have the deciding voice in government.”

  The older of the other two nodded. “I understand, Meyer,” he said.

  “And agree?”

  “Certainly. I presume you will be chancellor when I am king?”

  “That is understood,” said Meyer. “My associates, who collaborated with me in drawing up the new constitution, would insist upon it.”

  “So the constitution is already drawn,” said the younger man, a little testily. “Would it not be well to let his highness see and approve it?”

  “That will not be necessary,” said Meyer.

  “Why?” demanded the younger man.

  “Beca
use my associates would not brook any changes in this document into which they have put their best efforts,” replied Meyer, suavely.

  “Rubbish!” exclaimed the young man. “Why don’t you come right out and say the king will be nothing but a figurehead — that you will, in reality, be king?”

  “At least, the new king will be alive,” said Meyer.

  “Come, come, Paul!” said the older man. “I am sure that everything that Meyer and his associates contemplate is in the best interests of the people and the country.”

  “Absolutely,” assured Meyer.

  “And we should interpose no obstacles,” added H.R.H. Prince Otto.

  The young Count Sarnya sniffed.

  “We are peculiarly fortunate in being able to eliminate obstacles permanently,” said Meyer, looking at Sarnya through the thick lenses of his glasses; “and now that everything is understood, I must be going. You know how to reach me if you think it necessary. I — always — know — how — to - reach — you. Good day, your highness; good day, Count Sarnya.”

  The older-man nodded; the young man merely turned his back and walked toward the sideboard, where he poured himself a stiff drink. As the door closed behind Meyer, he gulped it down. “I want to get a bad taste out of my mouth,” he snapped; then he wheeled suddenly on the older man. “I thought you told me that it was to be only the old man; you were to be regent if anything happened to him. I didn’t know you were going to murder the boy, too.”

  “Stop!” commanded Otto. “You are overwrought; you don’t know what you’re saying. I am going to murder no one — that is a nasty word. You know I have had nothing to do with this. They are going to do what they are going to do. No one can stop them. Can I help if it they have offered to make me king? What would have happened had I refused? They’d kill me, too; and Meyer would be dictator. I have had to do it to save the life of my dynasty for my country and my people!”