Literature · Adventure

The Valley of Eyes Unseen 11

The Secret of the Hidden Race

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Kalliboas led us back to our quarters profoundly impressed, but a good deal more mystified by the double rite we had witnessed. It seemed to have left him, too, in a frame of mind more solemn than usual, and when at last we ventured to ask him questions he almost gave me the impression that he judged the event too sacred to be talked about. He then told us, briefly, that we had seen the coronation and betrothal of the new Prince of the state, and at once drew behind that impregnable barrier of reserve which I couldn't for the life of me bring myself to assault. And not another word did we get from him. This was unfortunate for our peace of mind, for when we reached the guest-house Kalliboas abruptly left us and we saw no more of him for several days.

I sat on the edge of the couch racking my brains for a solution of the mystery, but the more I pondered, the more bewildered I got. Not till now had I felt to the full the loss of that great clarifier of the brain, tobacco: I would have given worlds for a good leaf to compose my jumbled ideas over. But tobacco there was none. During the last stages of our ghastly journey across the mountains we were completely out of it, and the weed seemed to be unknown here in the valley. I remember reflecting how queer it was that a people plainly so skilled in the arts of life shouldn't have discovered it, and promising myself that if opportunity offered I would one day go out into the valley, where it might be the tobacco plant grew wild and unheeded, and come back to them like a new Raleigh bringing that one vice of this world which is a virtue.

On the second day, Kalliboas still being absent, I fell to wondering what was the reason of it, and why he had been so chary of telling us anything about the abdication ceremony after we had apparently been counted fit persons to witness it. To this also I could find no answer at the time, though after-knowledge made the matter clearer. Kalliboas, as I now see, was closely occupied elsewhere, and I don't even know that his desertion of us was intentional.

However these things might be, it seemed my best plan to get ahead with the language, so that I might dispense as soon as possible with Poyning's sentence-by-sentence translations. I told Poyning, who told one of the attendants that I wanted a language professor, and the request was acceded to without much difficulty.

I now made swift progress indeed. At Edinburgh I had enjoyed some repute as a Grecian, and though my knowledge had become heavily overlaid with the many oriental tongues I had studied in the meantime, I now found it came back to me easily enough. The prime trouble was, of course, pronunciation, but when we were stumped over this we referred to Poyning, or, if he was out of the room, resorted to writing. And thereby hangs an incident which, as it turned out, I was to be most unpleasantly reminded of later.

When we came down in the snow-slide most of our possessions naturally went missing, but I had been carrying what I regarded as my most precious piece of property next to my skin. That article, a hide-bound notebook, I still possessed. In it were recorded the events of our journey, and since arriving in the city I had filled several pages with our more recent experiences. Now, when I needed paper to write the disputed sentences of Greek, I produced this notebook and used a blank leaf at the end of it, and I couldn't help noticing that the old man who was teaching me stared very straight at that volume. At the time I took this to be caused by the sight of a strange foreign object, but afterwards I was driven to suspect there was more in it than that, and that I should have been wiser to call for a slate--which was the implement used by the folk of the valley on the rare occasions when they wanted to write.

As day followed day and still Kalliboas didn't appear, we got more and more tired of this virtual captivity, and at last Poyning told one of the attendants point blank that we must go out for exercise. The attendant took us, not to the street, but to a courtyard of the building, and remained close beside us with a purpose there was no mistaking. Poyning demanded of the man we should go farther afield, but he gravely shook his head and replied that it was the order of Kalliboas we should wait his return here. There was no getting over this. We knew little enough of the valley, but we had gathered that Kalliboas figured importantly in it, and I think both of us felt he was a person whose orders it would be extremely unhealthy to disregard; so we bowed to the inevitable with the best grace possible, which, to tell the truth, was an uncommonly bad one. Poyning paced up and down continually, like a caged wild cat, and seemed to have matters on his mind that he wouldn't confide even in me. I also spent a deal of time in the courtyard, from which we could catch glimpses of the populace without, and hear their subdued talk and see from time to time in the distant sky the monstrous bird-shapes that were still an unsolved riddle to us, but for the most part I buried myself in the study of the language, where, at least, there was satisfaction to be got out of this harassing delay.

Of Philipson we saw and heard absolutely nothing. I was peevishly inclined to blame him for this, but Poyning, despite his own nerves, took a more generous view.

'Depend upon it, Mirlees,' he said, 'Philipson would come if he could. I have a pretty shrewd notion there is more happening in this valley at the moment than we know anything about.'

'What's to prevent him coming?'

'I make no dogmatic assertion. But from what I saw of that rather picturesque ceremony the other day I would venture a hypothesis that the said and so-called Philipson, having been for reasons best known to themselves received by this people with such extraordinary favour, is now state property and no longer master of his own movements. That's my way of it, anyhow.'

At last, on what I think was the eighth day, Kalliboas came. He seemed, or it may be pretended himself totally unconscious of our burning impatience to get out, greeting us as if he had only been an hour gone; and when lunch was brought in, with an additional couch for him, he reclined there slowly and delicately sipping his wine and eating as if it were no way unusual for strangers to be brought into the city and imprisoned after getting the barest glimpse of it.

'We have many things to ask you, Kalliboas,' burst out Poyning at last.

The old man returned a suave, measured reply, which I found to my delight I could understand.

'I await your questions,' he said.

'Your people are of Hellene descent, are they not?'

'Hellene blood runs in our veins.'

'So. Now we ourselves know the original Hellas, which is many thousands of miles from this country. How did your people come here?'

'Have no fear, the time is not distant when you shall learn of our origin. But tell me, how did yourselves come to this country? Was it by design or did you stumble upon us?'

I am tolerably sure Kalliboas was already in possession of all the facts about this, and that he merely wanted to hear our version of it. Yet he started and bowed his head realistically enough when Poyning mentioned Philipson.

'Our comrade,' said the former, 'came of a set purpose. He had discovered evidence that somewhere in this region lay a valley inhabited by an unknown people. He determined to search for that valley. Together with us and the two native servants who are now dead he set out across the mountains.'

'What guided you here?' demanded Kalliboas.

'A monument in the mountains, on which was a record of this land. The writing had been made by a priest who penetrated into the valley but retreated at once into the heights, where he perished. We found the monument again, and from there struck across the mountains until we were carried down into this valley by the snow.'

The mention of the obo had put the old man into a perturbation which even his mask-like reserve couldn't altogether hide.

'Do others of the outer world know of this monument?' he said with a curiously grim inflection.

'We do not know. When our comrade found it on his former coming he copied the inscription and then effaced it, so that probably only we know what was written.'

'How, then, did they obtain their knowledge, those other men?'

'What other men?'

'They from whom you fled when you came hither.'

Kalliboas may, of course, have learned of this matter from Philipson. On the other hand, he may not.

'I cannot tell,' said Poyning, staring at the old man. 'But in some way they had come to suspect the existence of this valley, and believed our comrade had more exact knowledge. They strove to steal his secret. But tell me, Kalliboas, are we the first men from the outer world whom you have seen?'

The old man shook his head. 'There was one before,' he said.

'What manner of man was he?' cried Poyning with a curious eagerness.

'He was tall, and of a fair skin like yourselves.'

'Then he was not the native priest who made the inscription?'

'He whom we knew was no priest.'

'Whom you knew? Then he too has departed again?'

'On a long journey. He died in this land.'

'He is buried here?'

'We judged him to have been a man of standing in his own country, and our rulers decreed that his tomb should be of a fitting splendour.'

'Where is it?'

'It stands on the foothills southward of the valley.'

'When did this stranger come?'

'Some years gone--ten, eleven years.'

'How long had he been here when he died?'

'But a few months.'

'How did he die?'

'No man saw his end. The body was found on the hills, unwounded, and word passed in the city that the stranger had died from a bursting of the heart, in climbing.'

Poyning rapped out these enquiries in a way that got me distinctly alarmed. It seemed inevitable the old man must resent being thus brusquely cross-examined--there is no other word to it--and I noticed that he was indeed scanning Poyning's face with that curious intentness he had shown when the subject of former explorers first came up. I did my utmost to catch Poyning's eye and warn him to go lightly, but his head had fallen to his breast.

'You are much concerned for the stranger who died,' said Kalliboas at last.

Poyning looked up and gave the old man a look as straight as his own. 'He may have been of our race,' he said. 'We would at least go to his tomb to pay honour to the dead.'

'So,' said Kalliboas. 'But it may not be yet. The foothills to the southward are still impassable by reason of much snow which has recently fallen. But come, it is the will of the Prince that I should show you our city. You have asked to know more of the great birds you have seen in the valley, and to learn how our people first came here.'

We followed him into the open and struck out westward on foot, skirting the margin of the lake and making towards a broad grassy plain from which we could see the gigantic birds rising into the air. News of us was, of course, by this time general in the city, and I noticed that as soon as we emerged from the guest-house we were watched at courteous distance by a considerable crowd, who only desisted when Kalliboas ordered certain city wardens--the closest approach to police I ever saw in the valley--that we were to be pursued no farther. We must have walked a mile at a round pace--the old man was astonishingly vigorous for one of his age--and at last drew near enough to discern the true nature of these gigantic wing-flapping figures.

'Then they are men!' cried Poyning.

'Not so,' replied Kalliboas. 'They are boys. This is the school where our people are taught the art of flight.'

We were so close now that we could see several pairs of great wings lying on the ground beside a knot of youths in white skin-tight attire. They were gathered round an older man, whose voice we heard raised in the level tones of a set lecture. Our arrival caused no little commotion: the boys drew away from their tutor and ranged themselves in a half-circle, staring towards us with the liveliest curiosity. I make no doubt we were more interesting to them even than the art of flight was to us.

As Kalliboas approached, all saluted him with a profound obeisance, which having gravely acknowledged the old man obtained a pair of the great wings and had them held up while he explained the principle of their use. Much that he told us of the origins and development of flying in the valley I omit for brevity's sake. Suffice it to say that the people had, some hundreds of years back, after a long and systematic study of the feathered creation, begun experimenting in wing-building for themselves, designing their implements so as to unite the best points they had observed about the wings of the best-flying birds. They were soon in possession of a wing that would support the flier in the air, but the perfecting of the pattern and the elimination of accidents had been a work of years, and to this day experiments were still made. The wings we saw were of a very thin, very tough skin, ribbed with some rigid horn-like substance which Kalliboas told us was hollow and hermetically sealed full of a light gas. The buoyancy thus derived was merely an adjunct, however, and should one of the ribs become punctured and the gas escape, the flier was in no danger of falling, since he depended for support in the air almost entirely on wing-purchase. When in use the wings were worn on the shoulders, being hinged together by a most ingenious device on the principle of a ball-and-socket joint; there were thong loops on the under side of the main rib, through which the arms of the wearer could be slipped in or out at will, and lower down a light framework serving as a rest for the feet during flight. The distance from tip to tip of the wings Kalliboas showed us was something over twenty feet.

When he had explained their construction he bade the tutor select a boy to demonstrate how the wings were used. A youth of about sixteen years was chosen. As he came forward, I noticed a faint trace of a smile on the face of the tutor, and when the demonstrator had donned his wings and stood waiting, the other pupils broke into a downright cry of derision.

The tutor quelled this outburst, and turned to us.

'I have chosen this boy, O Kalliboas,' he said, 'that the strangers may see what our least skilful can do. He is my most backward scholar. See, he waits for a favourable wind. No bird does that.'

The youth flushed on hearing these words. He at once put his wings into a vigorous commotion, then threw his weight forward, poising on tiptoe at about forty-five degrees, and in another instant had swung clear of the ground. The wind-puff came, on which he soared almost still, and had risen to a hundred feet in surprisingly little time. When the current failed he climbed with a flapping of his wings to another, higher and higher, until at last the tutor had to shout at the top of his lungs to make the boy hear. It was a command to descend and demonstrate the way of other manœuvres, which the boy did, gliding down, wheeling, plunging, soaring, and finally, at a word from the instructor, coming to within about ten feet of earth. He then seemed with a sudden effort to shake the wind out of his sails, so to speak, and alighted so gently that I didn't hear his sandals touch the ground.

Whatever the tutor may have thought of the performance, to our eyes it was bewildering, marvellous. I had all I could do to refrain from clapping my hands.

'Tell me,' cried Poyning, 'how far can these boys travel on their wings?'

'But a little way,' replied the old man. 'I do not think there is one student in the school who could fly out of this valley without becoming weary. But when long distances are to be flown we use other wings than these.'

He spoke a few words in a low tone to the instructor, who nodded and gave a curt order to the boys nearest him. They ran to a large pavilion-like building near where we stood, threw open the doors, and carried out a pair of wings wider and apparently much heavier than those we had seen. I noticed at once that at the point where they joined, instead of the simple metal hingeing there was a curious shield-shaped contrivance, about eighteen inches broad by nine deep.

'These wings,' said Kalliboas, 'demand higher skill and strength than the others. No student is permitted to touch them until he has thoroughly learned to fly by his own exertions.'

The tutor himself had donned the wings and risen into the air with an ease and grace beside which, as we now saw, the performance of his pupil had been merely elementary. For about five minutes he amazed us by evolutions that brought my heart into my mouth time and again: he somersaulted like a gymnast, tumbled like a tumbler pigeon, swooped almost to the level of our heads, then rocketed up as if he had been shot out of a catapult, and finally seemed to poise dead still in mid-air. He was making some readjustment of the wings. These immediately began to flap with swift sweeps, and the flier to hurtle down wind at a prodigious speed. During the few short minutes we watched him he must have traversed the whole width of the valley. He at last re-approached, glided to within a few feet of us, gave the wings that curious shake we had seen the student employ, and sank gently to earth.

When the wings had been taken off him and laid on the ground I examined that queer "carapace" at the hinges, but could come to no intelligent conclusion about it. Two thin bars of metal the colour of aluminium but, I imagine, much tougher, projected from the shallow carvel-sided box and were hinged to the main ribs of the wings. It was through these the power came, obviously, but whence that power arose in the first place--

I turned to Kalliboas with an inquiry on my lips, but the look of him froze me to silence.

'Come, let us go,' he said peremptorily, and led us back across the plain. I was vividly conscious, as I had been conscious before, of something in his manner warning me that it would not only be useless but unwise to press him further. Clearly that strange force was a secret we weren't to be allowed to penetrate. The visit had one profitable sequel, however. Both Poyning and I extracted a promise from Kalliboas that we should learn to fly ourselves, and learn we did, making a beginning the very next day. But our experience in the air, and the queer consequences that arose from it, I reserve for a later chapter.

Such, then, was the mystery of the gigantic birds that had been seen in the air over this land of secrets and possibly far away from it, for it seemed likely from what Kalliboas told us that at one time and another scouts had been sent beyond the confines of the valley. I fancied then that this might account for the knowledge these people possessed of outside countries, but I know now that they had other and stranger resources.

We came in time to a neighbourhood near the middle of the city, which we hadn't yet visited, and here Kalliboas led us into a great walled courtyard, circular in shape, its centre an obelisk rising high out of the marble floor. The monument was beautifully carven from top to bottom in Greek character, so freshly preserved that I believe we could have read it without the help of Kalliboas. The old man was looking at the inscription with an expression of the profoundest reverence.

'On this stone, strangers,' he said, 'is recorded how our people first came to the valley. It would take long to repeat all the tale as it is written, so I will tell it you in my own words, more briefly. You are perhaps familiar with the name of the great hero of old, Alexander of Macedon?'

'He is known to us as the great Alexander,' replied Poyning.

'Mankind called him great, and with reason, for assuredly he was the greatest man this world has produced. To us of the valley his memory is a sacred thing. He was the founder of our race.'

Poyning's face was blank with incredulity. 'What you say is new to us, Kalliboas,' he said. 'History as we know it records that Alexander came far into the East, but never so far as this.'

'There is much in the life of our founder which your history does not tell, I believe,' returned the old man, with a shade of irony. 'What is the account your historians give you of his death?'

'He died at Babylon,' said Poyning, 'of a fever. This happened in the three hundred and twenty-third year before what we call the Christian era. Alexander of Macedon was never within a thousand miles of this valley.'

The old man seemed more deeply moved than I had yet seen him. For a moment the statuesque reserve was gone, his face flushed, his eyes blazed, his usually suave gestures took on a sudden convulsive anger. Then the mask had fallen again, but when he spoke it was still with a stern conviction which proved beyond all doubt that whether we believed his words or not, Kalliboas profoundly believed them himself.

'It is a lie,' he said. 'It is the greatest delusion in the history of the world. Listen, strangers, and you shall know the truth, even as it is written on this stone.

'In the year of which you speak, Alexander of Macedon was returning from greater conquests than mankind had ever known, but it is not for the magnitude of his victories this man should be revered. He was more than conqueror. For years he had seen visions of a splendid future for the world, of a uniting of its forces, of a fusion of the peoples of the East whom he had conquered with the peoples of the West from whom he sprang, a union without which the races of this earth would ever remain in half-complete fruition. It was to the realisation of this ideal that he devoted his life and his mighty spirit.

'What came of his projects, perhaps even your historians know. Gradually, sorrowfully, our great founder saw that the world of his day was not ripe for his ideas; his own people regarded them as fond imaginings. They saw in him only the marvellous leader, the means to certain victory and boundless plunder for themselves. Disillusionment more and more bitter came upon him: the visions which had inspired his vast conquests fell away one by one as he understood they could not be carried into effect. Worse, his sympathy with the peoples of Asia led to jealousy, discontent, then plots among his own followers. Their love for him had waned, their faith given place to greedy ambition and lust. At his bidding ten thousand of his men took wives from among the women of the East, but to them it was still the light union of conqueror with slave chosen from the conquered race. His best friend among the generals of his army, Hephaistion, had died, leaving him almost alone in the midst of a swarm of traitors awaiting only the moment to revolt.

'There had been many designs upon his life. At the city of Babylon a plot was laid to slay him by secret poison, and when knowledge of this came to him and he learned that the most fulsome among all his courtiers, the infamous Antipater, was ring-leader in it, his mighty heart broke. He determined to flee from this hotbed of treachery, strike out into the unknown, and found a new kingdom where the barbarian jealousy of Europe against Asia should not be. The plot gave him an opportunity. The poisoned food was privily destroyed, but the king feigned to have eaten of it and to be dying. His common soldiers, loyal to him still but understanding the true greatness of his mind no more than the generals, were admitted to the presence for a last view of their commander, who simulated approaching death before them.

'Then came the end. One plot had been met by another. Secretly, the King's place on the royal couch was filled by a youth like to him in form and feature even as his own beloved Hephaistion had been, who had died of a sickness two days before. The body of the dead youth was shrouded with a pall, and it may be that your historians record the truth, that no man ever saw the face of Alexander after his death. The King himself lay hidden in the innermost apartments of the palace, while the news of his death was noised abroad. There was, as he had anticipated, small difficulty in withdrawing secretly from the city. When asked who should succeed him he had answered, "The best among you," well knowing that among those he left behind there was none worthy to rule a satrapy, much less the empire; and he had truly foreseen that in the confusion of the fight for pre-eminence which would break out as soon as his death was announced, he might depart without knowledge or suspicion.

'With a small faithful band the King left that polluted court of Babylon and journeyed swiftly eastward. He had resolved to go beyond the uttermost limits of his former campaigns, that no tidings of him might reach back to the cities of Persia and give rise to fresh plottings and strife, yet even so his passing was not wholly unknown. The wild races which dwell to the west of us recognised him as the great Grecian conqueror, and paid him divine honour, so that to this day they call by the name of Alexander all things noble and great. So much we know from our scouts, who have at rare intervals visited those regions.

'The band, Grecians and their Asian wives, came at last to the great mountains which encircle our city. They suffered grievous hardship and peril, and their numbers were reduced by their sufferings, but there was ever with them the leader whose mighty soul could sustain armies, and in the end some fifty men and women reached this valley. Dreams had told the King that there lay a fertile land beyond the great snows, and this, it seemed to them all, was the land which the King had dreamed. Here he built his city, and I tell you, strangers, that there stand in the city to this day stones which the great King had touched with his own hands. These names'--Kalliboas pointed to the marble pedestal of the obelisk--'are the names of those devoted men and women who followed him across the wilds. Here they settled and prospered, and we who dwell in the valley to-day are their descendants.

'The King lived to see the young state multiplied far beyond the numbers which had accompanied him, and when at a great age he died, he left these words with his people.'

Kalliboas again pointed to the obelisk, and read, word for word, this astounding passage:

'"Not until the world is ripe to hear shall the secret of this land be made known to the world. In my life I have striven to unite the races of Europe and Asia, but I have failed, for the world was not ready. Barbarism and jealousy were too heavy upon it: the world has not understood my thoughts. But there shall arise in the years to come a generation more enlightened. Till then, I charge ye my people to hold aloof from the world. I go now to the nether shades, but I shall come again. Let you and your children's children remember."'

The old man shot a keen glance from one to the other of us. 'This is strange hearing to you, doubtless?' he said.

'It is monstrous!' I cried. 'It is impossible! We have been taught--our people have believed down through the ages that the man we call Alexander the Great died in Babylon, and that his body was borne in an alabaster coffin to his own city of Alexandria, which stands beside the Nile. There, our historians say, it was laid with great pomp and ceremony in the mausoleum called Sema.'

'That a coffin was carried from Babylon into Egypt on a car of gold and that it was deposited in our King's own city,' said Kalliboas, 'we ourselves know. That it was the body of Alexander was universally believed by his generals, and by his Baktrian wife Roxana, who at the time of his supposed death lost no time in murdering her rival the Persian Stateira, that her own son might succeed to the empire. Our King thought well to leave the murderess to a vengeance which was not long in overtaking her crime. He himself was already gone far eastward when that funeral procession set forth from Babylon towards the west. The body contained in the coffin was the body of a youth whose name, Krantor, has perhaps never been heard by you.'

We were silent for fully a minute. It was staggering enough to have the history I had believed as gospel thus torn to shreds; but when I came to reflect that I, Ronald Mirlees, had stumbled into company with a man who was not only to penetrate this mystery but seemed to be himself so strangely involved in it, I had some difficulty in fetching a breath.

'Tell me, Kalliboas,' I said at length, 'what manner of man do you conceive our comrade to be? To us he is known as a traveller in the East--for my part I believe him to be of my own race, which the world calls British. For what reason have your people received him in such honour and placed him so high?'

Kalliboas looked at me with surprise in which there was more than a hint of disdain. 'Can it be,' he said, 'that among those from whom you come there is so little knowledge of the great conqueror? Is there no statue, no carving upon metal or stone, which enables you to recognise our King?'

'You mean--' we cried together.

'I say,' broke in Kalliboas, 'that the man whom you call by your barbarian name of Philipson is no other than our own lost King who has returned to us after the years, Alexander of Macedon.'

Nothing was said by anybody as we walked back to our quarters. Kalliboas, as it seemed, was quite content to let us believe his amazing statement or not as we chose. We were silent because we simply found no words to say. From that far-off day beside Yangtze River, when Poyning had addressed Philipson as Macedonian and justified his impertinent fancy by the fact that our comrade's features bore a striking resemblance to those of the great Grecian conqueror, I had pondered much in my mind upon the nature of Saunders Philipson. More than once already in this narrative I have recorded things which argued him to be far out of the common run of men. His astonishing physical beauty--not to be totally extinguished even by the very skilful native disguise I'd first seen him in--the force and intensity of his mind, his almost superhuman determination in following an object he had set his heart on, his strange power of inspiring affection and faith, his stupendous bodily strength--all had got me and kept me speculating in a vague, perhaps even fantastic strain about him. But that he should regard himself as the living incarnation of one of the greatest figures in history, and that the people most interested in such a reincarnation should promptly accept him as such--this set my brain whirling again.

'You have added enough to your knowledge of us for one day, strangers,' said Kalliboas, when at last we had reached the guest-house. 'Let me now learn something from you. What moved you to accompany our King hither?'

It was on the tip of my tongue to blurt out something which, as I now see, would have been extremely impolitic, but luckily Poyning broke in.

'We are of a race which delights in strange adventures,' he said. 'When our comrade unfolded this adventure to us we readily joined him, for we believed he was a man who would accomplish much.'

This answer seemed to please Kalliboas greatly. 'You had faith in our King?' he queried.

'We had great faith, which was justified, for I do not think any other man in the world could have brought us over the mountains as he did. But now, Kalliboas, it is long since we saw him.'

The old man drew back his head sharply.

'Surely,' went on Poyning with a little heat, 'we have some claim upon him? We risked our lives in coming here, when few men even of our race would have followed him on a journey so full of uncertainty and danger. Though he is your King, to us he is still our comrade, with whom we went through much, and whom we greatly love. He, surely, will not deny us an audience?'

I don't know that the old man approved of Poyning's free words, but he seemed to relax a little at the evident sincerity with which they were spoken.

'Our own people, even our greatest, have audience with the King seldom,' he said, rising. 'Inquiry shall nevertheless be made.'

When Kalliboas had gone, Poyning sat for a long time on the edge of a couch, drumming his fingers on his knees. I spoke to him once or twice, but he returned nothing but absent monosyllables, and I could see from the look on his face that his thoughts were neither clear nor pleasant.

'This will never do, Mirlees,' he burst out at last.

'What do you mean?'

'We must have a plan--present a united front. We were within an ace of disaster to-day. When he asked our reason for coming here, you very nearly let him know your reason. I could see it.'

I began to catch Poyning's drift. 'That would be unwise, of course,' I said.

'Unwise? It would be suicidal. I've had my eyes open since we came here, Mirlees, and I can see this much with absolute certainty: we are not personæ gratæ in this state. The people greatly rejoice at getting back their King, as they call him--but they would sooner have had him come alone. There's a palpable atmosphere of suspicion wherever we move.'

'You think so?'

'I do most decidedly. Look at the facts. These people find us, strangers, on the hillside. What is the first thing they do? They take very good care that we shall not run back by the way we came. It is not till they find Philipson also, and recognise him for their lost King, that things become easier for us. Why? Because, I take it, they thought we were his servants like the Chinese and might be trusted not to run away. But as soon as they learn more about us, suspicion brews again, and we are under arrest for a week. Then, apparently, Philipson having vouched for us, we are given more freedom and shown more secrets. I don't imagine that would have happened unless they were satisfied those secrets were safe in our keeping, and what does that mean? That we must stay here for ever.'

This was putting the situation in an unpleasant light indeed. 'We shall have to have a say in that,' I said.

'Agreed. But how?'

'You think they'll keep us by force?'

'God knows. But I begin to fear this people, Mirlees. There is a cold magnificence about them and their city that oppresses me. I feel they are benevolent to a point, but that beyond it they could be unpleasant in a way we don't dream. How do you suppose they've kept their secret from the world for twenty-two centuries? The impassable mountains would account for it to a great extent, but even we know of two men who have strayed into this valley from the outer world. Kalliboas admits the coming of one--why, I don't know, unless he thought the tomb these people have for some reason or other built for the stranger is so conspicuous that sooner or later we should find it for ourselves, and all about it. But who's to know there were no other strays? There may have been many in the course of the centuries. Some may have been content to spend the rest of their lives here, but what of those who wanted to go back? They never left this valley alive, Mirlees--only the one man, the Tibetan who built the obo, and that perhaps only because he ran before they saw him. Had others got out alive, this valley would not have remained secret from the world. Then again, doesn't it strike you as queer that a man who could get over those mountains on foot and alone should die of heart-failure climbing the foothills this side? What was that man doing when he died?'

Poyning was striding swiftly to and fro, clenching and unclenching his hands in a curiously agitated fashion. Suddenly he halted, and stared. There, framed in the doorway, stood Kalliboas.

'Inquiry has been made,' he said. 'You are to be received by the King within a few days.'

Poyning bowed in silence, and the old man was gone.

'It's a tall order,' said Poyning with a queer look at me, 'but I wonder if our ancient friend knows English?'

'I'm beginning to be shy of assigning limits to our ancient friend and his people,' I said. 'But for the future we shall do well to discuss private matters in a whisper. I never heard Kalliboas approach then.'

'Neither did I. But it was uncommonly odd he should turn up at the moment he did. This place gets on my nerves, Mirlees. Thank God we're to see Philipson. We may be able to catch some hint of what these people intend to do with us. But we must take care not to give him or anybody else the slightest inkling that we want to leave the valley, and if ever you had an idea of writing a book about it, for God's sake keep the ambition dark!'

The promised audience with Philipson was the better part of a week in coming, but at last, one morning just after we had finished eating, Kalliboas came to announce the King was waiting us. We were swiftly carried in litters to the royal palace, where we mounted the magnificent marble steps, and passed into an outer hall, and there, at the bidding of Kalliboas, took off our sandals and followed him to the inner apartments. Kalliboas immediately threw himself on to his face, signalling us to do likewise. It seemed a pretty squalid thing to grovel in this fashion to a man with whom we had travelled so far on a footing of perfect comradeship, but I think we both realised it would be a bad move to demur.

We heard light steps across the hall, and felt ourselves touched on the shoulder. There stood Saunders Philipson before us, his long white robes setting off his face and figure to admiration. He greeted us with that wonderful grace he always had, bade Kalliboas go, and a moment later was chatting with us as frankly and informally as if the strange wheelings of fortune of the past weeks had never been.

He had motioned us to the lawn-covered couches of the apartment, three of which were laid so close together in a triangle that we could speak quite comfortably without raising our voices. We talked English.

'How do you find yourselves?' was Philipson's first question.

'We are very well looked after,' I said. 'But we ought rather to inquire for your health. You caught it pretty hot in the snow-slide, Philipson.'

He seemed to cast his mind back, as if to something that had happened a great while ago. 'Ah, yes,' he said. 'The avalanche. If it had not been for my two faithful comrades I do not know that I should be here now. I have heard how you got the search party and found me. That adds one more to the already long list of services for which I have to thank you.'

'We did little,' said Poyning. 'But the doctors who attended you did much. It amazed us, Philipson, to see the way you recovered.'

As Poyning spoke I saw him raise his head. His eyes opened in a wild glare of stupefaction. He was looking at something over my shoulder. Then I swung round on my couch, and looked for myself, and came near fainting.

The Chinese servants, Ah Sing and Lo Eng, stood behind me.

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