Peter shot the bolt and listened to the sad grumble of the river as he endeavored to adjust this strange incident to the stranger events of the very full evening.
Not until the mysterious Kahn Meng had said his good-night did Peter realize how exhausted he was.
He looked at his watch, a thin gold affair, which had ticked faithfully during all of his adventures, and was exceedingly astonished that the night had already flown to the hour of four-thirty.
Dawn would come very soon, and with the first peep of the sun he was to start for Kialang and Eileen.
The lamp smoked sleepily overhead; far away the great river sang its bass song.
He must be up at dawn. What a question-mark was Kahn Meng! A Harvard graduate--and a native of the red city! And what an adorable creature was the girl Naradia! Her eyes were like jade, her lips like poppy petals....
A crash of sound, a blaze of golden light, aroused him. He sat up, dodging a sunbeam which had flicked his eyelids. Shrill voices came from a distance. The odor of manure exhaled by the caravan sheds floated into the room, and Peter jumped up front the couch with an angry grunt. His heart was heavy with the guilt of the man who has overslept.
The watch ticked, and the neat, black hands had covered an amazing amount of ground; it was nearly tiffin-time.
The shrill, distant voices continued. Curiously, Peter looked out.
It was a beautiful sunlit morning, as clear as spring water. Miles away the sun shone on the yellow haunches of the range, altering them to a range of heavy gold; and gleamed tenderly on the paddy fields, black and ripely green.
Peter lowered his eyes to the square formed by the intersection of a number of alleys some distance beyond the caravansary. A sizable mob was collected in this enclosure; he estimated that there were at least a thousand pagan-Chinese assembled, in ring formation--a giant ring, dozens deep, and centered upon a small focussing spot of white.
The spot of white occupied the precise center of the square, and Peter studied it for some moments out of idle curiosity. Crowning the white object was a smaller spot of chestnut-brown. He dashed out of his room and down the stairs without even pausing for his hat.
Peter gained the edge of the crowd, and he bored into it, scattering protesting old ladies and chattering old men as ruthlessly as if they had been unfruitful stalks of rice.
It was a desperate fight to the center of that mob, for others were as curious as Peter. Then, over the swaying shoulders he caught a second glimpse of the chestnut-brown. It was a woman's hair, and it was familiar in arrangement.
He broke into an arena not more than nine feet in diameter in which were three objects: a wooden cask, upturned, a leather hand-bag, and a small and exceedingly pretty young woman. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes were gray and sweet, and her mouth was like an opening rosebud.
"Eileen----" he cried.
"Why, Peter Moore!" she gasped.
He rushed to take her, but she held up her palms, retreating.
He laughed. "What under the seven suns are you doing in Ching-Fu--and Kialang--and China? What's the meaning?"
He observed that a snow-white apron extended from her dimpled chin to her small ankles.
"This is my office hour," she said severely.
"But what does this mean--this?" he exploded, gesturing wildly toward the circle of attentive onlookers.
"My clinic!" She smiled.
"You're not practising medicine out here--in this street!" he ejaculated.
"Indeed I am," she replied. "Some of these people have been waiting their turns since daylight. I returned from Kialang an hour ago. And I'll work until I collapse. I must. I wish I could multiply myself by a thousand. There's not another doctor within miles. You can watch, if you'd like," she added, then called shrilly.
An old woman appeared, and went scurrying, returning immediately with a clean, wooden bucket filled with hot water.
Eileen removed from the hand-bag what appeared to be a wallet. Stripping a rubber band from this she revealed a row of shining surgical knives. Then she produced from the black bag several bottles and a roll of absorbent cotton.
"Eyes," she told him as her hand was swallowed again by the black bag.
A child, a river boy, was pushed forward by a squinting mother. Quaking fearfully, he sat down on the cask at the girl's feet.
She turned to Peter. "This child has been without sight for a month. Without this operation he would remain blind forever. To-morrow he will see again."
"You're wonderful!" Peter exclaimed.
At the gentle touch the child's loud whining ceased. She lifted one of the swollen lids. The boy did not flinch.
"Filth caused this," she explained. "The Chinese are the dirtiest race on earth, anyway," she added, dipping a clump of cotton into an antiseptic wash and rinsing the patient's eyes. "Where there is too much dirt, there is blindness. One-fourth of the population in this section of China are blind. They go to 'fortune tellers,' and they remain blind. In nine cases out of ten the simplest of operations followed by care will cure this type of blindness."
"Good enough; but will they be careful afterward?" Peter was curious to know.
"Once their sight is given back to them, they follow directions to a T. I'm leaving behind me a trail of the cleanest Chinamen you ever laid eyes on!"
She became silent, and so did Peter, who watched, hardly daring to breathe, the swift, sure dartings of the tiny knife in her white fingers. It was done in a jiffy; and there seemed to be on pain.
"Shouldn't you have an operating-room?" inquired Peter, as she bound up the child's eyes in gauze.
She gave him a bright, professional smile. "Peter, I've learned to operate with a thousand hooting infidels crowding closer than this. In Nanking I was nearly mobbed."
Peter looked concerned. "Did they harm you?"
"Oh, no! They wanted their children, their wives, and their virtuous mothers to see the light of day again."
"Eileen, you're an angel!"
"Be careful, Peter, or I'll kiss you in front of all these people." She blushed and smiled. "I think I was very bold to come up here all alone. Don't you?"
Peter grumbled something which escaped her.
She sat down wearily on the cask and looked up at him forlornly. "I thought it would be a lark; but it isn't. It's the hardest kind of work. There seem to be so many blind people--and I get tired--furious!"
"Can't we break away from this mob and have a little chin-chin by ourselves?"
"You're not anxious, Peter?"
"This is not Shanghai," he rejoined sententiously. "Ching-Fu is not a healthy spot for me--or for you. I've been watched. Perhaps, this very minute----" He stopped and looked at the dour faces pressed about them.
She shrugged. "Are you going on to Len Yang this time, Peter?"
He nodded slightly. "Perhaps."
"With me?"
"Without you," he stated firmly, dimly conscious of a stir on the fringe of their audience.
"It isn't fair," she murmured; "I've come all this way----" She touched her lips with the tip of a pink tongue. What she might have added was forestalled by rising confusion on the edge of the crowd. There were harsh voices, shrill voices; then these sounds were dwarfed by the thunder of furious hoofs.
White with the dust of the lower trail a troop of Mongolian horsemen, riding high in their jeweled saddles, swept into the square, shouting. Lashing their horses, they drove into the gathering with the fury of Cossacks.
Peter was thrown to one side by a tall man whom he had taken for a peasant. He tugged at his pocket, but the coolie was fighting his way toward the horsemen.
Indifferent to her struggles and screams, this giant carried Eileen in naked, brawny arms.
Peter leaped after, shouting and cursing at those who stood in his way. Some one tripped him. He regained his footing, shot his fist into the jaw of an argumentative youth, and struggled on.
The onlookers were scattering with loud and frightened squeals, running into one another, gathering in bewildered groups, darting for doorways, like sheep attacked by a wolf pack.
Then a black horse swept so close to Peter that the stirrup stripped the buttons from his tunic. A heavy whip stung him across the shoulders.
When he recovered from this blow the struggling girl was yards away, still struggling, but no longer screaming. She had been transferred to the arms of a giant Mongol, who evidently was the leader of this pack.
Peter whipped out the automatic and let go a burst at the horseman who now blocked his way; and the Mongolian, in the act of lifting a knife from its holster-scabbard, dipped across the animal's flank, with his eyes rolling toward heaven, his foot caught in one stirrup.
The horse, frightened, leaped up and spun about, twisting the fallen rider about his heels. And Peter had clear way for another few feet.
Another horseman swept down upon him. Peter brought the gun up and brought it down with fury. Twice he shot, and then this interference was removed.
The troops were gathering into crude formation, evidently for another charge. Eileen had disappeared.
Peter, knowing that she was somewhere in that quadrangle of rearing horses, struck forward, stumbling over fallen bodies, slipping in mud. His lungs burned, and he choked in a consuming rage. And suddenly he heard her scream his name.
The leader of the desert pack held her across his saddle, with his mighty arms pinioning her. He saw Peter, shouted, jabbed down with his spurs, and his mount fairly leaped. The others wheeled gracefully, and they vanished in thunder toward the plain.
Peter discovered the horse of one of the fallen warriors and leaped to capture him.
And in the next moment he was groping in blindness.
