Table of Contents

PANOMPIN

MIRRIKH.

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BOOK I.

LEVITATION.

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CHAPTER I.

PANOMPIN.

In 1870 I was at Panompin.

But for this—and it was only by accident that I chanced to be there—my part in the singular adventures which I am about to narrate would never have been played.

Not that there existed any reason why I should not be at Panompin in the year mentioned; still it seemed strange to be wandering alone about the streets of the Cambodian capital free from all responsibility, when only two short months before I had been loaded down with a burden of care which promised to be never-ending, and I would just as soon have thought then of going to the moon.

Permit me before proceeding any further to introduce myself.

I am George Wylde, ex-American Consul at Swatow. The addition of the prefix to my official title was purely of my own seeking. I felt that I had seen enough of Swatow, and of China too, for that matter. I resigned simply because I wanted to get away.

My reasons—well, I suppose they must be stated, and I may as well undertake the disagreeable task first as last. I had trouble with my wife, serious trouble which had been constantly increasing during the five years of our married life. This trouble had culminated in a way that would ​have wrecked the lives of most men. My wife appropriated as much of my personal property as she could readily lay her hands upon, and in company with an English adventurer left Swatow for parts unknown.

Thank God there were no motherless children left behind her, our only offspring had been taken from us before we left New York.

How she wept on that cold October afternoon when we laid the little fellow in Greenwood! How she clung to me, how—but there, I have no more to say about it. When she went I swore that I would tear her image alike from my heart and memory—that I would never raise my finger to find her. I simply let her go.

It was getting dark when I returned from my spin on the Mesap that evening, and in Cambodia the twilight does not last long. I remember I had considerable difficulty in making my way among the mass of native boats which lined the shore, and was not a little preplexed to find the particular float from which I had started, for the low, bamboo huts, with their sloping roofs of thatch all looked alike to my unaccustomed eyes, and it was difficult to tell one from the other. At last, however, I found it, and making fast, leaped ashore.

Lighting a cheroot I drew on my coat and soon found myself strolling leisurely along the principal street of Panompin, elbowed by Chinamen, Klings, Siamese, all easily distinguishable from the native Cambodians by their peculiar costumes and facial distinctions. I was intent upon my thoughts, which concerned chiefly the contents of the windows of the bamboo shops beside me, for just then I was contemplating a descriptive work upon the manners and customs of Farther India; and I had long since accustomed myself to habits of observation; for a traveller with a retentive memory even the most casual stroll is never taken in vain.

The main thoroughfare of the city runs north and south along the river, and I had proceeded for a considerable distance—was almost in sight of King Norodom’s palace, in fact, when a person brushed past me who certainly was neither Chinese, Kling nor Cambodian, and at the same time was as different from a European as an Englishman from a citizen of Timbuctoo.

A man dressed after the fashion of the wealthy native ​gentleman of Calcutta, half European, half Oriental. But for the somewhat exaggerated white turban which covered his head, there was nothing about his apparel which need have attracted attention in the streets of Panompin or any other city in the East, save in one particular—the whole lower portion of his face, from the nose down, was concealed behind a black silk covering that extended high up on the cheeks, being secured by cords passing around the ears. The cloth did not cover the ears, but fitted close beneath them; it also passed completely around the neck, concealing it from view, which left only the upper part of the face visible. This was yellowish—not yellow as a Chinaman’s face is yellow, but more like a Cuban’s, or Spanish American’s. The eyes were small, black and piercing, yet mild and full of intelligence. Certainly there was nothing disagreeable about the face—what was to be seen of it, at least—rather the reverse.

I was puzzled. Women with partially veiled features are no novelty to an old traveller like myself; but a man—well, here was something I had never seen before.

But my interest in this mysterious individual was not long enduring. In a moment or two I had dismissed him from my thoughts with the conclusion that he probably had excellent reasons for covering the lower part of his face. “Some dreadful disfigurement,” I reflected, for such things are common enough in the East; and I sauntered on.

My mind was in that peculiar frame which often seizes us after some great calamity. We know that the worst has happened; we comprehend that the long anticipated has at length been realized; that we are upon the other side of the mountain of awful possibilities conjured up during weeks, months, years, perhaps, of anxious expectation, and we say to ourselves that it is all over, it cannot be changed; if there is no hope at least no cause for further anxiety exists. There are states when the over-taxed brain demands rest and will have it. I was in such a state just then.

Positively I could not think connectedly for five minutes upon any subject without that sensation of tightness above the eyes which tired brain-workers know so well. Even to speculate upon the mystery of that covered face made my head ache, and I therefore dismissed the subject abruptly and turned my attention to the shop windows again, wandering on through the crowd until I found myself at last in the ​neighborhood of the pagoda, a ruinous old affair, that I had already visited, surrounded by image houses, in one of which is an immense gilded Buddha with mother of pearl finger nails and eyes.

Both the mound upon which it stands and the pagoda itself are built of curious little bricks, and from the summit of the former a splendid view of the city, and even as far as the great Makong river, can be had. Any one is at liberty to visit the pagoda; the prejudices of religion sit very lightly upon these Cambodians. I was just debating whether it would not be a good idea to climb the steps and look down upon Panompin by moonlight, when a sudden shouting behind aroused me from my reverie and set me on the alert at once.

There was some excitement further down the street; I could see an angry crowd surging, and almost in the same instant I caught sight of a tall figure running toward me. It was the man with the concealed face.

Off the main street lights were not plentiful. Looking back I now perceived that the mob was coming in my direction; but I had scarcely time to reflect upon this when the man was at my side and I saw that his face was no longer hidden.

As any attempt to describe my amazement when I looked upon that face would fail to do it justice, I will simply state that the object of the singular mask was now apparent. The lower part of the face was beardless and black.

“Friend, you are an Englishman—for God’s sake help me!” he exclaimed, pausing for an instant. “I met with an accident back there—they are chasing me—they may kill me unless I can manage to get out of their sight.”

What had happened to the man? His turban was gone as well as his mask, his clothing was torn and covered with dust. As he stood beside me I noticed that he carried a small hand bag—the kind that we Americans call a “grip sack”—on one side of which was a splash of blood.

Now, I thought I knew something about a Cambodian mob, for only the week before I had seen an unfortunate Chinaman chased through the streets of Panompin and almost torn limb from limb, though for what offense I did not learn, and I saw at a glance that unless something was done, and that pretty quickly, the man who had appealed to me would be beyond need of help.

As it happened, the residence of the American Consul was ​not far distant, and by good fortune the consul was my most valued friend. If I could contrive to get this man to the consulate he was safe for the time being at least.

“This way,” said I, without an instant’s hesitation, pointing toward a street leading off on our right. The next moment we were running side by side with the shouts of the mob ringing in our ears.

“Where are you taking me?” he demanded in excellent English.

“To the American consulate. It is but a few steps.”

“Good! I shall be safe there. It was only an accident, and I am sure no one can regret it more than I do.”

“What happened?” I asked, eyeing him curiously.

For a moment he made no answer but turned a pair of deep set, black eyes upon me with a persistence of gaze positively painful. In vain I tried to withdraw my own eyes from his, but it was quite impossible. I had heard of men who could fascinate by a look. Was I face to face with such a person now? Be that true or false, the face before me was certainly a puzzle—a wonder if it was natural, which I could scarcely credit then.

The line of demarcation was wavy, running just below the ears, half way toward the nose, and then striking obliquely downward to the corner of the mouth, being the same on both sides. Above the line the skin was yellowish white, lighter about the forehead than lower down; below the line the darkness suddenly became an intense black; this included the lower lip and chin, part of each cheek and the throat. I wondered if it extended to the body, but the fact that the hands were of the same shade of color as the forehead seemed to indicate that such could not be the case. Altogether the face was an enigma; yet there was nothing repulsive about it. Nothing could make that face repulsive, for the features were singularly perfect and beneath the heavy eyebrows beamed the intelligence of those peculiar eyes. Have I mentioned that the hair was long, straight and intensely black?

A moment passed and he removed his gaze, to my great relief.

“I have a defect of sight,” he said calmly. “In crossing the street back there I accidentally stumbled over a little girl whom I did not see. I fancy she was not much hurt, but as I stooped down to help her up two fellows set upon me ​and before I knew it I was down myself—the only wonder is they did not kill me. I thought they would. You can see with what effect I was forced to use my only weapon, this bag.”

“But surely the police—” I began, when he immediately interrupted me.

“The police? They would give me no help. You are an intelligent man. I need not call your attention to the fact that my face is peculiar. I usually hide it, but they tore off its covering, and nothing else was needed to set them upon me like a pack of wolves. Are we almost there?”

“We ought to be within a stone’s throw of it now,” I replied, when it suddenly dawned upon me that I had made a mistake. Instead of taking the street on which the consulate was situated, I had unwittingly turned down the next one, and now it seemed almost too late to repair my blunder, for the mob had turned the corner, and, catching sight of us, were rushing on like so many mad dogs, shouting as they came in a fashion that was anything but reassuring.

“This is a bad business. We are going wrong!” I burst out.

I could feel his hand tremble as he clutched my arm.

“Don’t tell me that,” he panted. “You don’t know what it is to be differently made from other men. My friend, I have been through this sort of thing before—one cannot always hope to escape.”

“Before matters come to a crisis they shall have the opportunity of looking down the muzzle of my revolver,” I answered. “Look, here we are on the wrong street—we must cut across somehow to the next.”

“And then?”

“Then we shall be directly in front of the consulate.”

“It must be done. Look behind there—you can see we have only a moment. Shall we try this alley? It may take us through.”

The alley was a narrow passage between two of the largest houses I ever remember observing in Panompin. It was dark at the entrance and barely wide enough for us both to walk abreast, but down at the further end a flickering light dimly burned.

Positively I can’t say whether I gave assent or not; I only remember that the next moment we were running along the alley and I was beginning to fancy that we had ​given our pursuers the slip, when my hopes were dashed by hearing their shouts behind us. Klings, Chinamen and Cambodians were pouring into the alley like sheep.

The situation had now grown desperate. My singular companion saw this as well as I.

“Too bad! too bad!” he muttered. “My plans are ruined. See, friend, we’ve made another blunder. Here’s a wall which neither of us can climb.”

I gave an exclamation of disgust, for directly in front of us stretched the wall, a good twelve feet high, cutting off our retreat completely. We had run into a veritable cul-de-sac.

“It means fight now!” I exclaimed. “I’ll stand by you. Are you armed?”

“No, no! If I was I would not shoot down one of those poor wretches for the world.”

“You must do something quickly.”

“And you?”

“I am not afraid of them.”

“I wish I could help you,” he said, eyeing me strangely. “If you do not fear for yourself, I fear for you. I am the taller. Perhaps I can spring up and catch the top of the wall and so pull you after me.”

He dropped the hand bag upon the ground and leaped up, missing the coping of the wall.

“No use!” he exclaimed. “They are here! May God help you my friend, I cannot—therefore I leave you. A thousand thanks for your kind intentions. Farewell!”

What ailed me—what ailed my man with the parti-colored face?

It would have been useless to ask me then, for at that time even the claims of the Buddhist adepts were unknown to me.

If any one had attempted to describe what happened as something actually having taken place, who would have been readier than I to set him down as a lying imposter or a fool; and yet—

But I find it quite impossible to speak as I could wish. Here is what occurred under the wall at the end of the alley, as I saw it—nothing less, nothing more.

Astonished at the words of my strange companion, knowing as I knew that the next moment must bring me face to face with the mob even then rushing down the alley, I was ​about to speak, when it suddenly struck me that the man's face had undergone a change.

It was growing thin and shadowy, his whole body also seemed to be assuming a certain vapory indistinctness, to become etherealized, so to speak.

As he stood there motionless before the wall, I gazed at him in speechless amazement. Was it actually as I saw it, or was the trouble with my own brain?

He seemed to be sinking slowly downward, his feet and legs disappeared, seemingly dissolving as he went, until nothing but the head rested on the ground.

I was horrified, amazed beyond all telling.

Meanwhile every surrounding object retained its distinctness—the lantern above the wall burned as brightly as before.

From that dreadful head I struggled to remove my gaze in vain. Thinner and still more shadowy it became, until suddenly, as a puff of wind wafts away the last flickering flame of a burnt-out candle, it vanished.

The man had faded away before my eyes, leaving me to face the mob alone.

THE SHADOWS OF THE NAGKON WAT

​

The mists still hung thick above the forests when we reached a resting place on those seemingly interminable steps and leaned panting for breath against the embrasure of one of the little windows up near the top of the grand central pagoda of the Nagkon Wat. Far below us—two hundred and fifty feet is said to be the height of the pagoda—lay the tropical jungle, with its nodding atap palms alive with the screams of monkeys, the notes of peacocks, quails and parrots, a dense mass of green stretching off as far as the eye could reach. At our feet was the inner court of that strange old temple, the very name of whose builders is lost in the mists of ages, the sloping roofs, projecting cornices and crumbling columns gilded by the first rays of the rising sun.

“Too late!” exclaimed Maurice De Veber; “too late ​George; old Sol is up before us. Next time you arouse me from my peaceful slumbers to witness a Siamese sunrise, I shall know enough to refuse to lend myself to your mad schemes. Why there’s not a particle of breath left in my body, to say nothing of the condition of my legs.”

“Peaceful slumbers, indeed!” I replied, contemptuously. “For my part, what with the mosquitoes and the howling of the jackals I haven’t slept a wink all night. Who was it, pray, that insisted upon dragging me two hundred miles into the wilderness to visit those miserable ruins? And now you complain because I make you share my discomforts. Come, Maurice, that’s not fair.”

Maurice laughed.

“My friend,” he said, “I take it all back. It’s grand, it’s glorious! I am beginning to breathe now, and my legs are rapidly returning to their normal condition. It is worth two years of a man’s life to gaze upon this view ten minutes. I for one do not regret my climb.”

But as for myself, I was indifferent. Two months had elapsed since my singular adventure in the streets of Panompin. Two months more had been given me to forget my troubles, yet they had not been forgotten. I needed something besides the dreamy existence I had been leading in the society of my friend Maurice De Veber to drive them from my thoughts.

On that night my escape from the mob had been less difficult than might be supposed.

It was not me they were after; besides they took me for a Frenchman, I fancy, and to interfere with a Frenchman in Cambodia would be a very dangerous matter.

When at last I succeeded in pushing my way through the excited throng and found myself at the door of the American consulate, I discovered that I still held the little hand bag which had been dropped by the stranger and which I must have picked up, although I have no recollection of having done anything of the sort.

I was dazed—absolutely confounded.

What I had seen I had seen. In one moment that man with his peculiar face had stood before me; his eyes had looked into my eyes; he had spoke; he had pressed my hand; and in the next he had disappeared as completely as if he had never been.

Where? How?

​Absolutely there was no explanation of the mystery; and the next day when I visited the alley, making a most critical examination, I found myself still further mystified.

At its end was the wall which the man had failed to climb. On the right rose the solid bamboo side of a Chinese merchant’s warehouse, while on the left was the side wall of another warehouse, and as both faced the other street with neither window or door opening on the alley, what conclusion was I to draw?

“Pshaw! The sun has affected your head George,” said Maurice when I told him about it. “You had better take a dose of quinine and keep indoors out of the night air. The fellow may have had a most extraordinary birth-mark, I’m willing to admit, but you may be sure he managed to scale the wall while you were looking back at that crowd. Probably he’ll turn up to-day and claim his bag, explaining the whole affair.”

But he did not.

Day after day elapsed and still nothing was heard of the man.

I fairly forced poor Maurice into making inquiries about him, and he, as American consul at Panompin, had every facility for gaining information if it was to be had.

A few persons had observed a tall, peculiar appearing man, with the lower part of his face concealed under a black cloth, walking along the main street of Panompin that night, but no one was able to furnish the slightest information as to who he was, or where he came from; nor could I convince myself that anyone had seen him after he left me at the end of the alley in that strange and altogether unaccountable fashion.

Meanwhile the days came and went. Maurice busy with his consular engagements grew tired of hearing me talk about the affair, and so I ceased to mention it. I hung the bag upon a nail in my sleeping room, but as it was locked, I made no attempt to open it, for I have a particular dislike to prying into other people’s business—besides it was very light and probably contained nothing but a change of clothing.

In fact the matter had begun to fade from my memory, and growing tired of the monotonous, idle life I was leading at Panompin, I was planning to go to Calcutta with the idea of engaging in business, when one afternoon Maurice burst into the room where I sat reading, blurting out:

​“Now then, old fellow, here’s something to make you forget your troubles. I have the promise of a passage in a steamer bound up to lake Thalaysap and the Siamrap river. I am going to take a month’s vacation and visit the world-famed ruins of Angkor—will you go along?

“Go!”

Why I would have gone to the South Pole with Maurice De Veber willingly, and yet he was only a chance aquaintance, after all.

We had met two years before on a steamer plying between Swatow and Hong Kong, to which latter port I was bound upon certain official business, I had been attracted by his manly figure, dark, handsome face, and regular features, from the moment I first laid eyes on him at the supper table, just after we left Swatow; and when I found he was an American and a New Yorker, of course an acquaintance sprang up at once.

Maurice was a splendid fellow; positively my ideal of young American manhood. What, therefore, did it matter that I had seen forty years and he not more than twenty-five?

You see there was a great void in my heart waiting to be filled by some one. It was the place my wife might have filled, should have filled, but at that time the very sight of womankind was disgusting to me. I execrated the sex; in my lonely hours of self-communion I had brought my mind into that condition where I looked upon every married man as one to be pitied; where I longed for my vanished youth and its opportunities, where I reversed the order of nature, and despising the affection of woman, sighed for that of the brother or the faithful friend. Positively my mental state, just then, must have bordered upon insanity, for I never had but one brother and he was a drunkard and a most precious rascal, and as for my early friends there was not one I could name who had not used me in a shameful way.

Long before we reached Hong Kong I stood ready to give Maurice De Veber my head if he had asked it, and I know that I made myself noticeable by the way I followed him about.

Still he seemed to like it without making the least pretence of returning the absurd affection which I could scarcely help displaying for him.

Possibly some one had said to him, “that old fellow ​Wylde is as rich as a Jew." I should not wonder, for there were those on board who knew me, and the snug little fortune left me by my father had been greatly exaggerated among my associates in China. Indeed, I often thought of that, and I found the thought making me so miserable that I was positively relieved when we reached Hong Kong and our intimacy was broken off.

“Good-bye,” said Maurice, as I took leave of him on the deck of the Singapore steamer, in which he had taken passage for Saigon, from there to proceed to Panompin, where he had just been appointed consul. “Good-bye! If you get tired of Swatow take a run down to Cambodia and pay me a visit. Bring Mrs. Wylde with you and I’ll promise to entertain you both as well as a poor bachelor can.”

Well, when the crisis came, I took the run down to Cambodia, but I did not bring Mrs. Wylde.

Of course I am morbid. I know it. Very likely if I had been different my wife would have been different. There are those who do not hesitate to say so, and doubtless they are right.

But I am what my hereditary tendencies have made me; or perhaps I should say, what, by a careful fostering of those tendencies, I have made myself. I had longed to be free from the chains which held me down, but now that freedom had actually come I found myself bound by chains still more powerful—regret for what had been, thoughts of what might have been, sad memories of the past.

Not but what Maurice tried to make life pleasant for me at Panompin.

He did everything that a man could do, and I honestly believe that by this time he had conceived as sincere an affection for me as it is possible for a young man to feel for a comparative stranger so much his senior.

Indeed, I believe that the trip to Angkor was arranged for my especial benefit, for it was I and not he who had expressed a desire to visit that wonderful city of the ancient Buddhists, which has lain buried in the dense forests of Cambodia for more years than man can count.

We were off within an hour, for the opportunity had presented itself suddenly and had to be embraced at once if at all. Indeed, our departure from Panompin was so hasty that we had barely time to throw together the necessary articles of clothing, leaving our heavier baggage to be ​brought up by Maurice’s Chinese servant, in a native boat, which was to go up to the lake on the following day.

This was the dawning of our fourth day at the ruins—the others had been spent in exploring the great temple, studying its bas-reliefs and unreadable inscriptions, silent memorials of a forgotten race.

Yes, the enjoyment should have been all mine, not his; and to a certain extent it was so. Even in my unhappy frame of mind I could not gaze down from that height unawed at the mighty monuments of a lost people which lay beneath us; nevertheless they had failed to amuse me as I had hoped.

“Hark!” exclaimed Maurice suddenly, as we stood there gazing off upon that ocean of green, tinged at the horizon with a broad dash of orange, deepening in its lower lines into crimson; “hark, George! Don’t you hear someone on the platform above us? I am certain I heard a step.”

“I thought I heard something a moment or two ago,” I replied, “but I hear nothing now.”

“Nor I, but I did as I spoke.”

“It is very unlikely that any of those lazy priests can have gone up before us,” said I, alluding to the dull-eyed old Cambodians, who, dwelling in the group of low thatched huts far below us, have charge of the temple. “Unless something special calls them they have shown no anxiety to leave their rice and betel since we’ve been at Angkor.”

“True, George; and yet I heard——”

“What my dear fellow?”

“Some one praying, I think—at least it sounded that way, though I couldn’t understand the words.”

“Then your hearing is a precious sight more acute than mine, Maurice,” I answered. “I thought I heard some one shuffling about on the platform above us, but praying—nonsense! Don’t fancy those fellows would climb that terrible stairway simply to mutter a prayer which could be just as well mumbled before the big statue of Buddha in the room below.”

Maurice laughed shortly and leaning forward attempted to look up to the next platform above. He was, however, able to distinguish nothing.

Understand the design of the three great towers of the Nagkon Wat; it is necessary for the full comprehension of that which is to follow. Briefly I may describe them as ​vast, circular stone terraces, platform placed upon platform, each slightly receding from the one beneath, until the apex of the cone is reached. The central and largest of these remarkable piles, Maurice, when he first caught a glimpse of it, compared to a huge Papal tiara—no inapt comparison, by the way, for it certainly looked more like that than anything else. In spite of the distance we had climbed, there still remained three of the platforms to be passed before the top could be reached.

“George, you don’t know these Buddhist priests,” Maurice said musingly. “Lazy and indifferent as they appear, they are the most inveterate fanatics on earth. If it were a part of their religion to witness the sunrise from the top of this tower on this particular day, they would move heaven and earth to get here—they would crawl up step by step on their knees, if they could gain their end in no other way.”

“I saw enough of them in China, to understand pretty well what they are like,” I replied.

“Indeed you did not. The Chinese Buddhists are different. With them religion has little or no meaning. Like some of our Christians they make it but a fetich; a bald formula of words and ceremonies which they are alike too ignorant and too indifferent to understand.”

“And are these people different?” I asked skeptically.

“Very different. I have made a study of them since I have been in Cambodia. Of course with the masses it is the same the world over. The Chinese are too practical, too worldly to make deep spiritual thinkers, but among the higher classes of Buddhists in Farther India there are minds capable of the deepest metaphysical reflection; minds stored with an accumulation of spiritual knowledge such as you and I are utterly unable to comprehend.”

“Bosh!” I exclaimed, lighting a cheroot. “Why to hear you talk, old fellow, one would think you were a convert to Buddhism. What are these Buddhists but a parcel of ignorant idolators, worshiping gods of wood and stone, which neither see nor hear nor think nor smell, as the Scripture says somewhere. Positively, Maurice, you surprise me—you do indeed.”

He sighed, gazing upon my face with a certain far-away look that I had often observed in his eyes, and had as often set down to a morbid dreaminess of character which he certainly possessed at times. Thrusting his hands into his ​vest pocket he pulled out a small silver coin, a piece a little smaller than our American quarter dollar, and passed it over to me. Upon one side it bore a representation of the zodiacal constellation pisces , on the other were Persian characters, the meaning of which I was, of course, unable to understand.

“George, what is that?” he asked in the same dreamy fashion.

“One of your Hindoo coins, of course,” I answered, wondering what he was driving at. “I think you told me it was one of a series called the Zodiac rupees.”

“Precisely. I told you so, and having faith in me you believe my assertion.”

“Certainly.”

“Would you have known that those seemingly unmeaning marks on the reverse were Persian letters if I had not told you?”

“No; but of course I should have known they were Oriental letters of some sort.”

“Very likely; because so far and no further has your education in such matters advanced. But suppose you were to take that coin and show it to a New York longshoreman who did not know you, and consequently had no faith in you; suppose you were to assure him that those marks were letters, what conclusion do you suppose he would draw?”

“Either that I was making sport of him or that I was a fool.”

“Then there you have it. As the longshoreman is to the coin so are we to the Buddhist philosophic acumen of the East. To our minds their doctrines are rubbish, absurd to the last degree. Why? Simply because we are incapable of comprehending them; because we are wholly unaccustomed to their methods of thought. Remember this much; when our forefathers were savages, these people were enjoying the height of a glorious civilization. When the naked Britons drove the hosts of Cæsar into the sea, Angkor was old, and, for all we know, even then deserted. George, it required a motive to build this massive pile, as well as unlimited treasure, architectural skill and physical strength. What was that motive? Religion! A profound sense of the littleness of man and the greatness of the God who constructed the mighty temple of the universe; call ​him Jehovah, call him Buddha, Brahma, or by whatever name you please."

“Bravo!” I cried. “Bravo! Positively I never imagined that I had in my friend so profound a thinker, an adept, a philosopher! Then you don’t regard the Buddhists as idolators, it seems?”

“No more than you are, no more than I am. I speak only of the educated. Long before I left America I entertained these views, and since my residence in the East I have seen much to confirm me in them; but—”

“But not enough to make you willing to credit the mysterious disappearance of my friend with the parti-colored face?” I answered, somewhat sneeringly. “You made game of that, you know.”

“I own that I did, but it was because I did not care to enter into a discussion upon these matters at the time. Your state of mind was not such as to make it desirable that I should do so. It is hardly otherwise now, and I regret— George, there certainly is some one on the platform above us. Hark!”

No need to call my attention. What Maurice heard I heard—could not help hearing. A deep voice had broken out above us, singing, or rather chanting the lines which follow.

Coming suddenly as it did, close upon Maurice’s learned disquisition on Buddhism, every word is as firmly graven on my memory as though heard only yesterday, instead of many long years ago. Let me add that the words were English, as perfectly pronounced as if chanted by myself.

The song ceased. As the last echo died away, the shadowy mists which had hitherto hung over the horizon ​were suddenly dispelled and the sun shown forth in all its glory.

Turning my face upward, I, at the same instant, caught sight of a shadow upon the platform above.

It was but a glimpse—then it was drawn back and had vanished.

But that glimpse showed me a man bending over the balustrade.

Instantly I knew him.

It was my mysterious friend at Panompin-the man with the parti-colored face!

MORE MYSTERY

​

“Maurice!” I cried, grasping my friend’s arm. “Maurice, did you see?”

“See—what? I saw a man leaning over the balustrade up there. Some visitor at the ruins like ourselves.”

“Maurice!” I exclaimed in a hurried whisper, “it was that man.”

“What man?”

“My ‘levitating’ friend, as you call him.”

“No, George! Never!”

But it was though. Didn’t you see his face? It was uncovered—half yellow, half black.”

“The sun must have been in my eyes or yours. I saw nothing of the sort; but to tell the truth I didn’t see his face plainly. Just as I caught a glimpse of it, presto, it was gone.”

Strange sensations seized me. I trembled, though I knew not why.

“If it is actually your Panompin friend, George, by all means let us go up and interview him,” said Maurice lightly. “His song, though a trifle high flown, was not so bad. Do you know I like that idea of sun worship. God is omnipotent, omnipresent, but invisible. He made the earth, but the sun was his master mechanic. By all means let us be sun worshipers, old fellow, but for heaven’s sake, ​don’t drag me into any discussion with your friend upstairs. Such thoughts as I unfolded to you a few moments ago belong to certain frames of mind in which I seldom indulge. If you transgress, don’t be surprised to find me roughly repudiating all I said. I’m in no mood to argue with a Buddhist adept to-day.”

“My lips are sealed,” I replied, “but first we have to ‘catch our hare,’ who knows that we may not find that my singular friend has levitated to parts unknown. Then the laugh will be on your side, and that’s a fact.”

“We’ll see! We’ll see!” exclaimed Maurice, pushing on ahead of me. “If he is still there I’m as eager to interview him as you can be, for—hark! He is there!”

It was true.

We had reached the level of the next platform now, and there, leaning against a sculptured column with arms folded across his breast, stood the object of our thoughts.

Involuntarily we paused and peered out through the doorway communicating with the platform.

As he stood gazing in deep meditation off upon the dense forest there was something grand and majestic in his very attitude.

To Maurice the sight of that face must have been a marvel; to me it now seemed so much a part of the man that I could no longer regard it as hideous, nor even strange.

“What’s his name?” breathed Maurice in my ear. “You want to introduce a fellow, you know.”

I made no answer, for that same cold shudder had come over me again. What could it mean? Could it be that I, the confirmed agnostic was wavering in my agnosticism? For I found myself wondering if I was about to address a being from another and unseen world.

Determined to divest myself of all such nonsense, I now strode forward with outstretched hand.

“Good morning!” I said boldly. “It strikes me we have had the pleasure of meeting before.”

He did not at first change his position—simply turned and surveyed me calmly. Then unfolding his arms he extended his hand and grasped mine just as I was about to withdraw it, pressing it in that hearty fashion that I have always made a point to adopt myself.

“Ah! my Panompin friend!” he exclaimed. “Positively this is a surprise and a pleasant one. How came you here?”

​It struck me very forcibly that mine was the right to ask that question, but I concealed my thoughts, and explained briefly the object of my visit to Angkor.

“It is a wonderful place,” he replied. “Few are aware of its existence and fewer still appreciate its beauties. But your friend here—introduce me please. By the way, our last interview was interrupted so abruptly that I had no opportunity to learn your name.”

My eye was full upon him when he made that allusion to our adventure in the alley, but he showed by no outward sign that he did not consider his strange departure the most natural thing in the world.

“I am George Wylde,” I replied, “and this is Mr. Maurice De Veber, American Consul at Panompin, to whose residence we were on our way when—when——”

“When I was forced to bid you farewell in a most summary manner,” he interrupted with perfect coolness. “Mr. Wylde, I am most happy to meet you again. Mr. De Veber, I trust that you are enjoying life in Cambodia. You are both Americans, I presume.”

“We are—and New Yorkers.”

“A fine city. Greatly improved of late I am told. It is some years since my last visit there. You Americans are an enterprising, practical people, but——”

“But what?”

“I was about to add that like all children you possess a somewhat exaggerated idea of your own intelligence,” he answered, smilingly, “but I had no intention of giving offense—let it pass.”

“You are quite right there, according to my friend’s views,” I laughed; “but pardon me, so far our introduction has been somewhat one-sided. May I ask your name?”

“My name! Well, strictly speaking, I have four names. Two are unpronouncable for you Americans. In Calcutta I am known as Mr. Mirrikh, and that must answer here.”

As he spoke he thrust his hand into one of the inner pockets of his coat, and producing a strip of black silk proceeded to adjust it about the lower part of his face.

He made neither explanation nor the least allusion to this act, and when the silk was in position, stood before us as calmly as ever, evidently waiting for me to speak.

It was Maurice, however, who began.

​“You speak of Calcutta; are you a Hindoo, Mr. Mirrikh?”

“No, sir.”

“Pardon me. You can scarcely be a Cambodian or Siamese. Persian, perhaps?”

“Neither one nor the other, sir. We will let that matter pass.”

Maurice turned slightly red. The dear fellow never could endure rebuff.

“Do you smoke?” he asked, producing his cigar case.

“Seldom, and I do not care to smoke now. Pardon me, Mr. De Veber, if I have given offense. I can assure you——”

“In refusing my vile cheroots, sir? Indeed no.”

“No, no; not that. In declining to disclose my nationality. Believe me the best of reasons exist why I should keep my secret. To all intents and purposes I am a citizen of Benares. I have resided there ‘off and on,’ as you Americans say, for some years.”

“No explanation is necessary, sir,” replied Maurice, lightly. “My question was an impertinent one, but you know I must maintain my reputation for Yankee curiosity. But to change the subject; when did you arrive at Angkor? We have been here four days and, but for the priests, thought we had the ruins to ourselves.”

“I arrived this morning, Mr. De Veber,” he answered, the curious shadow which passed over his face telling me that Maurice was treading on dangerous ground again.

“This morning! Why there was no party in this morning before we left. You could hardly have come up the lake, for I am expecting some one on the next boat due. Possibly you came over from Siamrap?”

“Mr. De Veber, I came from a different direction entirely.”

“Indeed! May I ask from where?”

“Yankee curiosity again?” he laughed. “Really it is too bad, but I am forced to disappoint you. My movements cannot possibly concern you. I prefer not to tell from which direction I came.”

It was too much for Maurice.

Biting his lip he moved toward the balustrade and remained looking down upon the temple roof below.

Scarcely was his back turned when Mr. Mirrikh—I adopt the name he gave us—moved to my side and drew me back toward the door.

​“I am sorry, very sorry,” he said in a low voice, “to have offended your friend a second time, but I assure you it was out of my power to answer his question.”

“Which should not have been asked,” I replied. “The fault is his. He is over sensitive. In a moment he will have forgotten—say no more.”

“Not upon that subject since you wish it; but I must speak with you upon another while opportunity offers. That little hand bag of mine—you recollect. Have you it with you here at Angkor?”

“Unfortunately no;” I took it in charge that night, but it was left behind us at Panompin. Of course I never dreamed—?”

“Of meeting me—certainly not. Why should you? I was engaged in a peculiar mission at Panompin and was particularly anxious not to—that is to say not to leave hurriedly. But tell me—and you must think me very rude for not inquiring sooner—how did you manage to escape?”

“Now it is you who are asking questions. If I answer, I must take the liberty of asserting my Yankee prerogative of asking you the same question in return.”

He smiled strangely—you can scarcely fancy what a singular sensation it is to see a man smile only with his eyes.

“I am dumb,” he said, “but one question I must ask—were you harmed?”

“Not in the least.”

“Good! I am thankful for it. I have many times thought of you—but to return to the bag.”

“It’s at your disposal,” I interposed. “If you are going to Panompin—”

“But I am not. It is doubtful if I ever visit the place again. When you return will you oblige me by addressing a label to Mr. Radma Gungeet, at Benares, and forwarding the bag by express?”

“Certainly. It shall be done if you wish it.”

“One question more. Do not be offended. Did you open the bag, thinking you would never see me again?”

“The bag has remained precisely as you left it, sir,” I replied with dignity.

He gave a slight sigh of relief and turned away just in time to meet Maurice coming toward us from the balustrade.

“Come, George, let’s go down,” he said abruptly. “Mr. Mirrikh, I bid you good day.”

​“Stay—one moment. We part friends?”

He extended his hand which Maurice took.

“Certainly. There is no reason why we should not. I can’t help being a Yankee anymore than you a—well, whatever you are. Come and join us at dinner. We are in the last room of the north wing, and have as fine a Chinese cook as Cambodia can afford.”

“I should be most happy, but it will be quite impossible. Frankly, gentlemen, I am something of a Buddhist. My visit to the Nagkon Wat is for a religious purpose which renders it necessary for me to fast.”

“In which case we shall have to excuse you,” said Maurice lightly. “At all events promise to see us before you leave.”

“I promise that. You shall certainly see me.”

“When?”

“That is more than I can say. Hark! Do I hear someone singing? Gentlemen, I must leave you. As you may easily imagine, my peculiar deformity,” he pronounced the word with an emphasis almost sarcastic, “makes me shy of strangers. Good day.”

Yes, there was some one coming, we could hear the sound of footsteps ascending the stone stairs within the tower, and a rich baritone voice singing—not an ode to the sun god this time, though certainly something akin to it—the good old fisherman’s chorus from Auber’s pleasing, but well-nigh forgotten, opera, Masaniello.

“More visitors!” cried Mauii

“Evidently, and I am off. I cannot meet them,” said Mr. Mirrikh.

Waving his hand politely, he drew back through the doorway, disappearing in the dark shadow beyond.

“Why, the man will run right into this newcomer, whoever he is,” cried Maurice. He started to follow, but I caught his arm and drew him back.

“Don’t,” I whispered. “Whoever he is, or whatever he is, he is certainly a gentleman. Respect his wishes and let him go.”

“Bother!” said Maurice, pulling himself away. “He called me a Yankee, let me show him I’ve got my share of Yankee curiosity. Come on George, I intend to find out where he goes.”

And he stepped through the door, leaving me to follow or not, as I pleased.

​I chose to follow, for I confess that my curiosity had gained the better of my politeness.

Was the strange episode at Panompin about to be repeated, and in broad daylight? Meanwhile, the singing continued, though the sound of footsteps had ceased, and we knew that the new comer must have paused on the platform below.

There were still two platforms above us. We listened, but could hear no footsteps on the stairs.

“He must have gone up,” whispered Maurice; “Yes, by gracious! there he goes now."

Even as he spoke, we caught sight of Mr. Mirrikh’s back vanishing around a turn in the winding stairs.

“Stop!” I whispered. “Maurice, at least let us be decent.”

“I won’t! If he don’t want to meet strangers, neither do we. Come on.”

He crept up the stairs, and I followed him. When we turned the corner there was nothing to be seen of Mirrikh; nor was he on the first platform when we gained it, nor yet on the second and last. Now nothing but a huge cylindrical stone remained above us—nothing save that and the sky.

“Holy smoke!” cried Maurice, dropping into American slang in his excitement. “George, the fellow ain’t here!”

“Evidently not. Now, my friend, perhaps you will be willing to believe me that I was neither drunk nor dreaming that night at Panompin. Too much samschow! Too many Manilla cheroots! All a hallucination—I believe that was the way you talked.”

“Shut up!” cried Maurice, half angrily. “This is a mighty serious matter.”