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.. meta::
   :PG.Id: 43595
   :PG.Title: Alive in the Jungle
   :PG.Released: 2013-08-29
   :PG.Rights: Public Domain
   :PG.Producer: Al Haines
   :DC.Creator: Eleanor Stredder
   :DC.Title: Alive in the Jungle
              A Story for the Young
   :DC.Language: en
   :DC.Created: 1892
   :coverpage: images/img-cover.jpg

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ALIVE IN THE JUNGLE
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   .. _`Cover`:

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      Cover

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   .. _`"Here is the child, Mr. Desborough," cried Oliver. *Page* 160`:

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      :alt: "Here is the child, Mr. Desborough," cried Oliver. *Page* 160

      "Here is the child, Mr. Desborough," cried Oliver. *Page* `160`_

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      ALIVE
      IN THE JUNGLE

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      A Story for the Young

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      BY
      ELEANOR STREDDER

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      *Author of "Jack and his Ostrich,"
      "Archie's Find"
      etc.*

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   |  "In the night, O the night.
   |  When the wolves are howling."
   |                      TENNYSON.

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      T. NELSON AND SONS
      *London, Edinburgh, and New York*
      1892

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   Contents

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I.  `THE OLD GRAY WOLF`_
II.  `IN PURSUIT`_
III.  `HOW THE SEARCH ENDED`_
IV.  `THE WOLF'S LAIR`_
V.  `NOAK-HOLLY`_
VI.  `AWAY TO THE HILLS`_
VII.  `THE RANA'S SONS`_
VIII.  `THE INVITATION`_
IX.  `OLIVER AND HIS UNCLE`_
X.  `A VISIT TO THE RANA'S CASTLE`_
XI.  `THE FOOTPRINT`_
XII.  `BEATING THE KOOND`_
XIII.  `CAUGHT IN A TRAP`_
XIV.  `THE HOMEWARD ROAD`_
XV.  `A LITTLE SAVAGE`_
XVI.  `THE CONCLUSION`_

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.. _`THE OLD GRAY WOLF`:

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   ALIVE IN THE JUNGLE.

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   CHAPTER I.

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   *THE OLD GRAY WOLF.*

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Night was brooding over the wide and swampy
Bengal plain.  The moon had sunk low in
the west, and was hiding behind a bank of threatening
clouds.  Darkness and shadow covered the sleeping
world around.  But the stilly quiet which marked
"the darkest hour of all the night" was broken by
the fierce growling of a tiger and a buffalo, fighting
furiously on the open highroad, within a dozen yards
of Mr. Desborough's indigo factory.

The jackal pack were gathering among the distant
hills, already scenting their prey.  On they came,
rushing down the nearest valley in answer to their
leader's call—shrieking, wailing, howling in their haste
to be in time to pounce upon the tiger's leavings;
an ever-increasing wave of sound that startled the
weary factory-workers, sleeping in their mud-walled
huts under the mango trees.  The pack sweep round
the straw-thatched sheds belonging to the factory, and
gather in front of Mr. Desborough's house.

This was a large one-storied building, looking very
much like a Swiss cottage, with its gabled roof and
white-painted walls.  The broad eaves projected so
far beyond the walls that they covered the veranda,
which ran right round the house.  Like the sheds
of the factory, it was thatched.  Beautiful climbing
plants festooned the columns which supported the
veranda, and flung their long trailing arms across the
pointed gables.  A whole colony of wild birds nestle
in the reedy thatch, and find out quiet corners in the
cool shadow of that wide veranda.  A pair of owls
are wheeling round and round.  Kites, hoopoes, and
blue jays find such comfortable homes beneath
Mr. Desborough's eaves, and bring up such numerous
families, that the whole place seems alive with
twittering wings and chirping voices.  But now the
flying-foxes, which have hung all day head
downwards from the trees like so many black bags, are
screaming and chattering at their shrillest.

The hot May night seems more oppressive than
ever.  There is neither peace nor rest.  Every door
and window in the bungalow is wide open, for within
the heat is intense.

The youngest child is ill with fever, and cannot sleep.

Like so many English fathers and mothers living
in India, Mr. and Mrs. Desborough have lost several
of their children.  Grief for those that were taken
from them makes them watch over the dear ones
that are left with nervous anxiety.  Mr. Desborough
had put up a tent on the lawn, hoping the little
sufferer might find rest in the fresher air, surrounded
by the cool night-breezes and the sweet scent of the
flowers.

The poor child was dozing on its mother's lap when
the yell of the jackals arose.  They were quite safe
in their tent; for a mat was tied across the door, and
nothing could get in to hurt them.  But how was
their boy to sleep in such a noise?

The fierce crescendo was reaching its loudest, when
Mr. Desborough came out with his loaded gun in his
hand, and fired it into the air, hoping the sound of a
shot would scare the jackals away.  He was right:
the pack swept past with a mad rush, helter-skelter
on the tiger's track.  He paused on the steps of the
veranda, and looked cautiously around him.

The dark shadows of the trees were thrown across
the dewy grass.  Overgrown bushes, swaying in the
night-wind, seemed to take to themselves fantastic
shapes.  His garden might well be described as one
wild tangle of flowers.  Roses of every shade,
carnations, mignonnette, petunias, myrtles, choked each other:
tall scarlet lilies and pomegranate flowers caught the
twining honeysuckle, and taught its trailing branches
to kiss the ground.  Amidst this luxuriant profusion,
in the glamour of a darkened heaven, it was no
wonder Mr. Desborough did not distinguish the flick
of a tawny tail, creeping stealthily behind a giant
rhododendron.  At the sound of the shot the old gray
wolf skulked down amidst the folded flowers; and the
father, after exchanging a word with his wife, went
back to his bed comforted, for his darling, his little
Horace, was conscious—yes, conscious—and crying
for his twin-brother Carlyon.  Racy and Carl, as they
were usually called, had never before been parted.

Poor little Racy had not known much about it
when his mother sent Carl into another room, and
refused to let Kathleen give him one good-night kiss.
Kathleen was their only sister—a soft-eyed, fragile
girl, about nine years old.  She had wept with her
father and mother over an empty bassinet; and so,
when two little brothers were given to her in one
day, her delight knew no bounds.  From the hour of
their birth she became their devoted slave.

Carl, in the full wilfulness of his second summer,
was too little to understand the reason why he was
banished from his mother's lap and parted from Racy.
He strutted about in his indignant anger, looking as
red as a turkey-cock; and no one but Kathleen could
do anything with him.

She invented some fresh amusement every time the
clamour for Racy was renewed.  Her last great
success was the manufacture of a bridle of red ribbon for
Sailor, a big black retriever, the favourite playfellow
of the twins.

Kathleen, too, was wakened by the yelling of the
jackals.  She heard her father's step in the veranda,
and listened to the sound of his gun as if it were a
waking dream.

A voracious mosquito, which had crept inside the
net curtains which enveloped her little bed, stung her
cheek.  Up started Kathleen, and called to the ayah,
or native nurse, who slept on a mat by Carlyon's cot.
Yes, there was something the matter; she was sure of
it now.  A small dusky hand put back the thin
curtains; a gentle, smiling black face peeped at her; and
cold water was sprinkled over the flushed forehead and
burning pillow, until Kathleen felt refreshed.  Her
winged tormentor was caught and killed, and the ayah
would have left her; but no.  Kathleen was broad
awake now.  She was thinking about her father.
Something was the matter.  Racy was worse.  She
begged her ayah to go and see.

Carl was safe in his cot on the other side of the
room, forgetting his baby troubles in happy slumber.
So the ayah, who fully shared her little mistress's
anxiety, ventured outside the curtained screen, or
purdah, as they called it, which was drawn half across
the open doorway.  The room was large and lofty.
It was at the corner of the house, with doors opening
into the veranda on two sides.  This helped to keep
it bearable in a usual way, with the help of a
great white calico fan fixed to the ceiling.  This was
called the punkah.  Two of the native servants were
kept in the veranda all night to work it by turns.
They were the punkah coolies.  One of them was fast
asleep on his mat, and the other was nodding as he
lazily pulled the rope which moved the fan.  They
assured the ayah all was right.  No one was afraid
of the jackals.  They seldom hurt any one unless they
were interfered with.

Whilst she was speaking, Kathleen grew impatient,
and, persuaded that Racy was worse, she threw aside
the thin sheet, her only covering, and ran to the other
door.  She was not tall enough to look over the
purdah, and slipped softly into the bathroom adjoining.
All the doors had been set wide open, so she made no
noise to waken her little brother.  There was no glass
in the window of the bathroom.  It was latticed, but
it too was wide open, and the blind was down.  These
blinds, or tatties, are made of grass, and are kept
damp to cool the air passing through them.

The troubled child managed to unfasten it and push
it just a little aside.  There was the tent gleaming
white beneath the spreading trees.  She could hear
her mother singing some soothing lullaby.  The two
tall carriage-horses were cropping the tender buds
from the hedge of roses which divided the garden
from their paddock.  She could see the gleam of the
lilied pool beneath the farthest trees, with the fire-flies
dancing round its banks like an ever-moving illumination.
She heard the cries of the tiger and the deep
bellow of the vanquished buffalo, and ran back to her
bed in a fright, leaving the blind awry.

They were safe from the tiger; for a tiger always
turns away from a fence, and Mr. Desborough's grounds
were surrounded by a high bank, with a low stone
wall on the top, shutting in garden, paddock, and
stable-yard, with only one gate for the carriage, and
that was locked.  How had the wolf got in—that
grim, gaunt creature, which still sat washing its torn
shoulder behind the rhododendron unseen by any one?
It had had a round with the buffalo before the tiger
came out for his midnight stroll, and got that ugly
scratch from her antagonist's horn.

So the wolf left the buffalo to the tiger, and plunged
into the stream which fed the pool.  The water was
low, and the wolf was wary.  The dive was pleasant.
A scramble up the opposite bank landed her in
Mr. Desborough's garden.  Kathleen's peep-hole did not
escape the wolf's observation.  She saw the child's
white face, and thought of her half-grown cubs.  She
dashed through the window, under the loosened blind,
leaped clear over the row of tall earthenware water-jars
which stood before it, and followed the child into the
sleeping-room.  Her unerring scent guided her to the
cot where Carl lay tossing.  He had thrown off the
thin covering, and was fighting away the mosquito-net
which enveloped his cot.  She seized the child in
her teeth, and was over the purdah with a bound.

Kathleen's wild shriek of terror called back the ayah.

The first fault gray of the summer twilight entered
with her, and rested on Kathleen's long fair hair, but
the empty bed in the other corner was still in shadow.

"Carl!  Carl!" gasped Kathleen, and fainted in her
nurse's arms.

The hubbub that arose among the coolies who
were sleeping in the veranda, the frantic cries of
"Sahib! sahib!" brought Mr. Desborough to the scene
of dismay.

He had reloaded his gun, and snatched it up as he
came, out of all patience at the ill-timed noise, when
he had enjoined silence on every one whilst his darling
boy was sleeping at last—a sleep which, undisturbed,
meant life.

Seeing nothing to account for the consternation
among his servants, he was on the point of refusing
to listen to their entreaty.

"Shoot, sahib, shoot! a booraba by the nursery!"

"A booraba—a wolf!" he repeated, discharging his
gun into the air with the rapidity of lightning, as
anger changed to fear.

"Unloose the dogs!" he cried, preparing to give it
chase, as his keen eye detected a break in the bushes
of the garden, and the trampled heads of the flowers,
which marked the track of the wolf.  He knew very
well that not one of his Hindu servants would dare
to kill it, even if they had the chance.  It was a
matter of conscience with them.  It was a thing
they would not, dare not do, under any circumstances;
but they flew like the wind to obey his commands.

The hounds came bounding round him, and were
soon on the trail of their midnight visitor.  They
scented the wolf to the edge of the pool, and then
paused at fault, poking with their noses among the
water-lilies, and looking round at their master with
short, angry barks.

Evidently the wolf had once more taken to the
water, and the scent was lost.  Mr. Desborough saw
something moving on the other side of the pool,
among the reeds and grasses.

He quickly readjusted the barrel of his gun, and
was preparing to fire, when his chuprassie, the
Hindu servant who carried messages in the day and
watched the premises at night, caught his arm,
exclaiming, "No, no, sahib! no shoot booraba."

Mr. Desborough shook him off angrily, and levelled
his gun.

"Shoot booraba, shoot baby!" cried out another
of his servants, who had just overtaken him.  The
poor fellow was trembling like a leaf.—-"Come
to the beebee, Kathleen!" he entreated.  "Come
quickly!"

The truth flashed upon the father's mind—the
wolf had already entered his nursery.  He rushed to
his wife's tent.  His servants stopped him.

"The mem-sahib" (for so they called their mistress)—"the
mem-sahib knows nothing yet.  Spare her till
we are sure."

One stride, and Mr. Desborough was over the
veranda railing, parting the chintz curtains of the
nursery purdah.  The ayah threw herself at his feet,
and began to tear her hair.

Now Mr. Desborough knew very well that his
black servants exaggerated dreadfully.  Their excited
imaginations magnified everything.  It is the way in
the East, and a bad way it is.  Having had two or
three false alarms, he never believed more than half
they told him.  Could he believe them now?  "Where
is Kathleen?" he demanded sternly.

In another minute Kathleen's face was buried on
his shoulder, as she sobbed out her piteous story.  "A
dog, papa—a huge, horrid, lean, lank dog—rushed out
of the bathroom, and ran away with Carl."





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.. _`IN PURSUIT`:

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   CHAPTER II.


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   *IN PURSUIT.*

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It was all too true.  The punkah coolie was
fanning an empty cot—the child was gone.

With Kathleen fainting in her lap, even the ayah
had not missed poor Carl in the moment of her
return.  It was but a moment ere the alarm was raised,
yet the wolf had carried off her prey.

Charging the servants on no account to let the
mother discover that her boy was missing, until he
returned, Mr. Desborough started in pursuit.

Like most English gentlemen in India, he was a
keen sportsman, and loved to hunt the wild hogs in
the bamboo swamps, with a party of his friends, and
plenty of native trackers and beaters to find the game
and drive it out of the thickets.

But he dare not wait to call his friends to his help.
He started forth alone with his coolies, to find which
way the wolf had gone.

Tall trees were growing on either side of the
high-road, upon which his gate opened.  A broad ditch
behind them drained the road in the rainy season,
when floods arose so easily.  It was many feet deep;
and now the water ran low between its banks, dried
up by the great heat.  The jackal pack had retired
with the growing daylight; the tiger had slunk
away before the rising sun.  Well might Mr. Desborough
shudder and turn away from the remnants
of the dead buffalo, as he trembled for the fate of his
child.  The country all around him was well
cultivated.  Rice and dall (another kind of grain much
grown by the Hindu villagers) covered large fields
along the course of the stream.  They were interspersed
by clumps of trees and groves of date-palms
growing amidst patches of jungle and tangle.

But the increasing heat had reduced the watercourse
to a succession of glistening pools, connected
by a muddy ditch.

Already the hounds were busy among the fringe of
bushes which overhung its margin.  Mr. Desborough
mounted his horse, and galloped after them, with the
broad white hat belonging to the lost child in his hand.

He soon came up with the dogs, and whistling
them to his side, he leaned down from his saddle, and
made them smell the hat and sun-veil (or puggaree)
little Carl had worn the evening before.

They sniffed it well over, looked up in their master's
face with their keen, intelligent eyes, and started
once again in swift pursuit.

They had passed the closed gates of the indigo
factory, but encountered one or two of the native
workers there, who had risen with the sun, and were
watering their fields and gardens before the business
of the day began.  The district was studded with wells.
The water was drawn by bullocks into huge skins.

But they left their skins on the brink of the well,
and joined the servants, who were throwing stones
among the bushes, and howling with all their might,
to make the wolf show.

The noise brought out old Gobur from his little
homestead by the riverside.  Mr. Desborough paused
by the bamboo paling which surrounded the little
enclosure, which was neither yard nor garden, but
partly both.  He knew the aged Hindu had been a
chakoo, or look-out, in his prime.  The different
hunting-parties in the neighbourhood used to hire
Gobur to go before them into the jungle, to watch
which way the wild beasts were roaming.

He was the very man to help him.

Within the bamboo fence was a tangle of wild
roses and creepers, twining about the roots of the
luxuriant fruit-trees shading the low mud hut in
which the old man lived; a tiny well sparkled like
crystal in the rosy light.

The old man was gathering sticks to light his fire
in the one clear space beyond his trees.

He threw them to a graceful dusky figure just
peeping out of the door of the hut, and came to the
sahib's assistance.  The shouts of Mr. Desborough's
servants, as they hurled about the biggest stones they
could raise, had told him only too plainly what had
happened.

All the native Bengalese knew well the dangerous
propensity of the wolves in May, and guarded their
babies with double vigilance.

He knew the hat in the father's hand, and with
scant words but many gesticulations tried to make
him understand the wolf was probably hiding in one of
the coverts near.  If they scared her out, she might
drop the child; for it was that one dreaded month in
all the year when the wolves take home their prey
alive to their half-grown cubs.

There was hope in the old man's words, and the
father caught at it.  Yet he dared not fire into the
dwarf cypress, where they all fancied the wolf might
be.  No; his gun was useless on his shoulder, for he
might shoot his child.  He could only follow the
example of his coolies, and join his shouts to theirs,
until they wakened the echoes.  Jackal, wolf, and
night-hawk had alike disappeared with the rising
dawn.  Gobur warned him a tiger might yet be
moving, as the morning breeze blew cool and fresh
after the sultry night.

"Well, Desborough," demanded the cheery voice of
an English neighbour, "up with the sunrise, like
myself, to catch a mouthful of fresher air after frying
indoors all night?  But what on earth is all this row?"

The speaker was an English officer who was taking
his morning ride betimes, foreseeing still greater heat
as the day advanced.  He was followed by his syce,
or native groom.

"The heat has done it," he exclaimed, as he heard
the father's piteous tale.  "The streams are drying up
among the hills, and the wild beasts are driven to the
cultured plains to seek for water.  I heard a tiger
grunting all night in the river; many may be lingering
in the thicket for their mid-day sleep.  Poor
fellow! you'll see your baby no more."

The kind-hearted major turned his head away, he
could not look the distracted father in the face, as he
added, "Be a man, Desborough.  Thank God for this
fresh breeze; it will save your other child—think of
that."

But his syce pressed forward, with a low salaam, to
the unhappy sahib, to assure him he heard the cry of
a child from the grass by the river, pointing as he
spoke to a waving forest of graceful feathery blades,
full twenty feet high.

"Cries of monkeys!" interrupted his master angrily,
provoked to see his poor friend tantalized with hopes
which seemed to him so utterly delusive.

He reined in his horse by his side, and tried to
reason with him on the probable fate of his child.
They passed a group of sleepy vultures, perched upon
a boulder stone.  If the poor baby had been dropped
living amidst the fields, how could it escape
destruction?  Even Mr. Desborough was afraid to place
much trust in the syce's words, with the ever-increasing
chattering of monkeys and screaming of birds.
He looked at the wide plains around him, and at the
great herds of graceful, delicate-limbed, smoke-coloured
cattle, which were now being slowly driven out to
pasture.  For the brief tropical twilight was over,
and day had fairly begun.  The air was full of cries.
The voices of the night had but given place to the
myriad voices of the day.  Was it possible for any
one to distinguish between them?  He heard, or
seemed as if he heard, the shriek of his child
mingling with every sound, and he knew it was not real.
He heard it amidst the bellow of the fierce,
ungainly-looking buffaloes, who were marching forth in troops
from many a native village, followed by flocks of
goats and bleating sheep.

With a hope which Mr. Desborough said hoarsely
"was no hope," he rallied his men to beat the huge
thicket of grass, and drive out any living thing
lurking within it.  Afraid of hurling stones at a venture
into such a tangled mass, the coolies armed themselves
with long sticks, which they struck with a sharp,
ringing sound on the bark of the nearest trees.  A
scampering was heard.  The grass swayed hither and
thither.  There was a cry.

"Nothing but the scream of a frightened pig,"
persisted the major.  "It is the very spot for a wild
boar's lair."

He reined in his horse, and stationed himself where
he could command a good view of the thicket.
Mr. Desborough had chosen his post already, on the
opposite side, and was watching as if he were all eye,
all ear.  Old Gobur had gone round to the back
of the thicket.  Nothing could escape them rushing
from it.

"Not too near," shouted the major to his friend.
"Have a care for your own life!  No one knows yet
what it is we have dislodged."

As they watched the heaving grass, another cry
arose in the distance, prolonged and hideous.  But
the friends knew well what it meant.  A party of
travellers were approaching, and their tired bearers
were calling out for a relay of men from the village
to come and take their places.

"Ho, coolie, coolie, wallah! ho-o-o-o-o!" seemed to
ring through the air from all points, confusing every
other sound.  Mr. Desborough's eye never moved
from the heaving mass before him.  Out rushed a
whole family of wild pigs—a "sounder," as the
major called it.  They were led by a grim old boar
with giant tusks, the very picture of savage ferocity.
He glared around him, ready to charge the enemy
who had dared to disturb him.  He was followed by
pigs of every age and size, from a venerable sow,
tottering along from her weight of years, to squealing,
squeaking infants, who could scarcely keep pace with
their mothers.  Oh, the screaming and the grunting,
the snorting and chasing, as the whole family of pigs
rushed across the opening towards the nearest mango
grove or tope!

Aware of the danger of facing such a formidable
charge, both gentlemen wheeled round, and prepared
to fire if necessary.  The major was inwardly groaning
for the boar-spear that was standing idle in the corner
of his bungalow.  He looked up, and perceived the
party of travellers coming along one of the narrow
paths which divided the rice-fields, just in front of the
bristling array of fiery eyes and curling tails.  He
saw a lady's dandy—that is, a kind of canoe-shaped
seat with a canopy—carried on two men's shoulders.
There it was in the line of the angry pigs.  The
danger to the unwary occupants was imminent.  The
little cavalcade had halted in dismay.  The major
thought of the naked legs of the bearers, who wore
nothing but their white calico waist-cloths and cotton
turbans, and galloped to the rescue, firing as he rode,
to make the old boar change his course.

The weary bearers shrank back in terror, raising
a wild howl for assistance, when a small lad, who
was riding a little pony in the rear, pressed forward
through the standing rice which had hitherto
concealed him, and planted himself in the front of his
companions, with no better defence than a huge bough
he had broken from the nearest tree.

"Well done, my young hero!" cried the major as
he rode up to them and waited; for dandy and bearers
had retreated behind the screen which the green ears
afforded, and safety was best secured by silence.  The
furious boar came on, foaming and champing his
enormous tusks; but the well-timed shots urged him
forward.  He crossed the path of the travellers
within a dozen yards of the hole into which the boy
had pushed them, with nothing but the growing
rice-straw for a shelter.  The stampede of the pigs passed
over.  The boy still stood sentinel behind his bough.

"Trying the trick of Dunsinane," said the major,
with a laugh he intended to prove reassuring to the
unseen occupant of the dandy.

"Well content if they do take me for a young
mango sapling," answered the little stranger, in the
shy, blunt tones of an English school-boy.  His broad
sun-hat hid every bit of his face except the firm-set
white lips.  The major had seen enough.  He
dismounted, and assisted in lifting the dandy out of the
rice.  The blades were higher than his head, and the
ground was more than muddy, for the field was
undergoing its morning irrigation from the nearest tank.

"Tie-tara! tie-tara!" cried the black partridges
they had unceremoniously disturbed.  The birds, with
a tameness which astonished the young travellers,
fluttered about among the rice-stalks, pecking at the
curtains of the dandy.

"Oliver, Oliver! where are you?" entreated a
girlish voice from within.

"Safe, my dear young lady, quite safe," reiterated
the major.  "Let me ask if you were intending to
change coolies at Noak-holly," pointing as he spoke
in the direction of the village nearest to the indigo
factory.  "You had better join forces with us, as we
were the unfortunate cause of your alarm, having
dislodged those pigs whilst searching for a lost child."

"A lost child!" re-echoed the voice within.  "Oliver,
Oliver, can we help to find it?"

At that moment a great shout of triumph arose
around the grass clump, and with one accord the little
party pressed forward to ascertain its cause.

The sharp report of a gun sent the major spurring
in advance.  Had his friend forgot his caution?  How
had he dared to fire?

Another moment and he saw Mr. Desborough wheel
round, raise himself slightly in his stirrups, and
discharge his second barrel at a dusky speck emerging
from the tufted grass.  The tall blades swayed and
quivered with the report.  There was a smothered
shuffling sound, a heavy thud upon the ground, a
rustling in the quivering grasses.  The native grooms
ran forward eagerly, and dragged out the body of a
satiated wolf.

"A cool shot, Desborough," observed the major.

"It may save another parent such a pang as mine,
but it cannot give me back my child," groaned
Mr. Desborough.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`HOW THE SEARCH ENDED`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER III.


.. class:: center large bold

   *HOW THE SEARCH ENDED.*

.. vspace:: 2

Their work was not yet done.  There were
many narrow paths leading into the clump,
which the wild beasts had made for their own
convenience.  Some of the grass had been cut down by
the wild boar's tusks, and some of it had been trampled
under-foot.  Mr. Desborough dismounted, determined
to penetrate the tangled mass, to see if any vestige of
his little darling was to be found there.

The major followed him; old Gobur entered by
another path.

"Let me go with you," entreated Oliver, as the
coolies set down his sister's dandy under a tree, and
flung themselves upon the ground to rest, waiting
until some of the men in the nearest village should
answer their summons, and present themselves
according to custom, prepared to take their places.

Oliver had already picked up enough Indi to make
his request intelligible; but forcing his way into the
twisted grass was very trying.  There were sudden
drops into holes and unexpected scrambles up steep
banks; whilst the twisted stalks, interlaced with most
luxuriant wild-flowers, presented an impervious wall
on either side, diversified by tufts of wild arrowroot
and an occasional bramble.  Now and then old Gobur
paused to point out a porcupine's burrow, or to drag
his young companion aside, as a hissing snake wound
its green length across the path; whilst the impudent
monkeys chattered and screamed as they swung
themselves high over Oliver's head, rejoicing in the sudden
departure of their more formidable neighbours the
great pig family.  Bright and beautiful birds peeped
at him out of their nests, unscared, with that happy
boldness common to all the feathered tribes in India;
because no Hindu boy would ever dream of hurting
or teasing any living thing.  As for old Gobur, he
darted about like a monkey, dragging Oliver along
with him until they reached a sort of grassy tent in
the very centre of the clump.  It was the wild-hog's
lair, which they love to make in the midst of
"thatching-grass," as Gobur called it.

The boy went down on his hands and knees and
crept inside.

It was a sort of grassy tent which its hoggish owner
had made by cutting down some of the grass with
his teeth.  One half he had trampled under-foot, and
the other half he had heaved aloft with his head, as
he walked round and round in a circle, until his grassy
cave was complete.

An aspiring porcupine was just disputing with a
giant rat which of the two had the better right to this
deserted mansion, when Oliver poked in his head.
Forthwith the rat, with his twelve-inch length of tail
switching from side to side, made a grab at his hair;
and the porcupine, bristling with spears, rushed at him.
Oliver received the charge on his arm, which he hastily
extended to save his face.

Gobur pulled him backwards; but the resolute boy
refused to cry out, although the blood was streaming
from his elbow to his wrist.

Oliver was wofully crestfallen at this unexpected
disaster.  There was nothing for it but to retrace his
steps.

His silken shirt was torn to shreds, and his hat was
left in pawn with the rat.  His knees were bruised,
with slipping into holes and crawling out again.

Old Gobur began to think it wiser to extricate his
unknown companion than to continue a search which
he knew to be utterly hopeless.  When they got free
of the grass at last, it was some small consolation to
Oliver to find they had penetrated farther into the
thicket than any one else.  Mr. Desborough and the
major owned themselves baffled, and were now trusting
to the sagacity of the dogs.

Poor Oliver's appearance attracted Mr. Desborough's
attention.

"Who is that boy?" he asked.

"A young stranger who joined in the search and
got scratched by a sahee," explained the grooms.

Such being the case, Anglo-Indian ideas of hospitality
compelled Mr. Desborough to offer him a bath
and breakfast if he would return with them to
Noak-holly and have his arm bound up.

The major turned surgeon, and offered to do the job
for him on the spot.  He had taken to the boy, and
wanted to know a little more about him.

One of the syces pinned up a large leaf with
thorns, and fetched some water in it from the nearest
well.  The major tore his own handkerchief into
strips, and bound up the lacerated arm with a wet
bandage.

Taking the opportunity to satisfy his curiosity at
the same time, he quickly ascertained that Oliver
St. Faine and his sister Bona had come out to join an
uncle, a deputy-judge, who was to have sent to meet
them.  They had travelled from Calcutta in a big
box, with shutters in the sides, so the boy asserted,
with a grimace at the recollection.

"Oh, of course," remarked the major; "that was
what we call a *dak-gharri*, our Eastern equivalent to a
post-chaise.  Why did you leave it?"

"Because we were to leave at the last government
bungalow, and take a short cut across the country to
my uncle's; but it seems to be one of those short
things which grow longer with cutting," answered the
boy dryly.  "There has been a muddle and a mistake.
The gentleman who took care of us on our journey
could come no farther, and some one was to have met
us.  But that some one did not come; so he got the
pony for me, and hired these fellows to carry my
sister, and I believe they have lost their way."

"Then we will put you in it again.  Come on
with us to Noak-holly; and when I have done all I
can in this melancholy business to help poor
Desborough, I will take you myself to Judge St. Faine
in the cool of the evening," said the major.

Kathleen was watching for her father's return.
Her sad eyes grew bright with excitement and hope
as she heard the gate open.  She was sitting by the
gardener, in the midst of a heap of roses and
carnations which he had just flung down, on the shady
side of the veranda; for India is a very land of
flowers.  He had brought in his baskets full, as
usual, to adorn the rooms, and was sitting
cross-legged in his snowy turban, weaving them with his
dexterous fingers into wreaths and bouquets of
surpassing loveliness.  But the sweet perfume and the
fresh, cool touch of the leaves, which Kathleen loved
so well, had lost their charm.  The roses fell from
her lap, and she trampled recklessly upon the glorious
azaleas with which he had been trying to divert her.

She sprang into her father's arms.  "Horace is
better!" she cried.  "He has slept; he will get well,
papa.  But have you found Carl?"

Her father pressed her to him and turned his head
away as he answered, "We have been searching
everywhere.  No, darling; we have not found him
yet.  These people must all have breakfast.  There! go
to that young lady.  In mamma's absence I must
leave her to you.—I dare not tell her the worst," he
added in a low aside to the major as he turned
towards the tent, where the hardest task of all awaited
him.

In shy obedience to her father's wishes, Kathleen
followed the major to the gate.  As Bona St. Faine
was lifted out of her dandy, she too whispered
something about the sincere sympathy of a stranger, and
her exceeding reluctance to intrude at such a time.

The major thought it a pretty little speech from
a stranger; so he engaged her forthwith to do her
best to comfort his little fairy Kathleen.

Bona promised readily; and Oliver, who gave no
promise, did still more.  They took the little girl
between them, and would have led her to the house;
but she hung back, intent upon the coolies, who
were bringing home the dead wolf.  She slipped
her hand away from Miss St. Faine and ran to the
gate.

"Fetch her back, Oliver," whispered his sister.
"It is dreadful to let her see that brute.  You say
it has devoured her brother."

But he was too late to prevent it.  Kathleen was
peeping through the iron-work of the gate.

"It is the wolf," he said gently.  "Your father
shot it.  It will never frighten you again.  Come
and tell us all about it."

"I can't," persisted Kathleen.  "Let me look."  She
laid her hand on the iron.  It was so hot to the
touch in that burning sunshine it almost blistered her
fingers; but she did not heed that.  "Did papa
shoot the wolf?" she asked, with a painful catch in
her breath between each word.  "Then where is Carl?"

Oliver dare not tell her, for he had heard what
her father had said to the major; and being of a
straightforward turn of mind, who naturally answered
yes or no to every inquiry—"I will tell you" or
"I will not tell you"—he was quite at a loss for a
reply, not having the least idea how to evade a
question.

"Why don't you speak?" she asked desperately.

Oliver muttered something, and creaked the gate,
so that she could not hear what he said.

Out she flew panting, Oliver after her.

"What could he do that for!" exclaimed his sister,
considerably chagrined.  "How just like a boy!  He
always is so stupid.  I believe he wanted to have a
look at the wolf himself."

The syces had laid the dead animal on the bank
which ran round Mr. Desborough's compound, and
were standing under the shadow of the garden trees
considering it.  They called to the gardener to bring
them some fern leaves and bushes to cover the wolf
from the sun, until they knew whether the sahib
wished to preserve its skin.

It was a savage-looking brute, young, for its
prevailing colour was a tawny fawn, with a little gray
on its back and inside its legs.

"That is not the horrid dog that ran away with
Carl!" exclaimed Kathleen.  "It was not a buff
dog; it was a gray dog, with a great scratch on its
shoulder.  I should know it anywhere.  I see it
now—I always see it—stealing out of the bathroom."

The gardener pressed in between and threw his
load of fern leaves over it, to prevent her seeing any
more of the fierce booraba.  Her own favourite syce,
who drove her out in her little carriage every evening,
tried to lead her away.  Old Gobur stopped him.

"Let the little beebee [the little lady] look."

"It will only terrify her; and the sahib will be
angry," urged the syce.

"Stop!" persisted Gobur, speaking in his soft Indi,
which Oliver tried hard to follow; and then the old
man explained—"The colour of a wolf tells its age:
they all turn gray as they grow old.  If a gray
wolf carried off the child, it has carried it off alive.
We must search again."

At this moment Bona St. Faine appeared at the
gate, and taking little Kathleen's hand in hers, led
her resolutely away, threatening the servants with
their master's displeasure for suffering such a child
to see the dead wolf.

"How wrong of you, Oliver!" she said, glancing at
her brother reproachfully.

To avoid her upbraiding, which Oliver felt he
deserved, he stepped behind old Gobur, who was
forcing open the wolf's mouth and examining its teeth.
He sprang up excitedly and pointed to the little bits
of matted hair sticking about them.

"What is that?" he asked triumphantly.  "Where
did that come from?  The buffalo hide.  The wolves
as well as the jackals follow the tiger to feast on
what he leaves, as every hunter knows.  The little
beebee is right.  We must search again."

How Oliver listened!  These dark-skinned men,
who were chattering round him so fast, had lived in
the midst of wild beasts all their lives.

One was telling of a wolf which had stolen a baby
from its mother's arm as she lay sleeping.

The gardener hurried away to find his master.  The
coolies who had carried Bona's dandy joined in the
eager discussion; some were contradicting the old
man's assertion, others were asking questions none of
them could answer.  Had any one heard the child
cry?  No, not even the coolies in the veranda.  Why,
they kept on fanning the empty cot!  The child had
been spirited away in its sleep.  Only a clever old
wolf could have done it.

"That scratch on its shoulder—was the blood
dropping from it?" asked Gobur, almost breathlessly.
"Wherever a drop has fallen you will find the black
ants covering it by this time.  Run and look."

Up sprang Mr. Desborough's own syce, followed by
half-a-dozen others, gesticulating and talking all at
once at the top of their voices.

"Stop that row!" exclaimed Mr. Desborough, who
was bending over the cot of his other little boy,
trying to prepare its mother for the dread disclosure.

Out went the major.  "Two wolves indeed!  Preposterous!"

The syce pointed to the patches of tiny black ants
which he had found along the veranda and across the
grass, as Gobur expected.

"Sahib," he asked suggestively, "is it from the
wolf or from the child?"

"From the child," answered the major, examining
the rhododendron bushes, where the crushed flowers
and broken stalks were thickly covered by the busy
insects.

Both believed they had found the fatal spot to
which the wolf had retreated.

Oliver had gone up to the fountain on the lawn,
and was deluging his bandaged arm.

"Go indoors, my boy, and rest," said the major, as
he passed him, "or you will suffer for it with that arm."

Oliver walked slowly on towards the veranda,
examining for himself the little black patches that
marked the trail of the wolf.  He traced its course
from the rhododendron to the window of the bathroom,
then he discovered a second trail leading from
the veranda to the pool.

He pointed it out to the gardener, who was returning.

"Wasn't old Gobur right after all?"

The punkah coolie joined them.  He was certain
he must have heard the snap of the wolf's teeth if
he were behind that bush.  For a wolf, they both
asserted, bites with a snap, and clashes its teeth with
as much noise as a steel trap.  No; it had carried off
the child alive to its lair.

Oliver bounded up the steps of the veranda, and
ran into the hall.  Kathleen was flitting restlessly
from room to room.

"Be comforted, dear!" he exclaimed; "your brother
is not killed.  We may find him yet, alive in the
jungle."





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE WOLF'S LAIR`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IV.


.. class:: center large bold

   *THE WOLF'S LAIR.*

.. vspace:: 2

Yes, it was all true!  That grim gray wolf was
not seeking an early breakfast for herself, but
a safe plaything for the five young wolflings which
she loved so dearly.  She cared but little for the
scratch on her shoulder when she thought of their
delight.

She snatched up Carl so stealthily, and with so
soft a touch, he never wakened until he felt the cool
breeze that arose with the peep of day, fanning his hot
cheeks as the wolf ran swiftly on.  It was too dark
for him to see where he was, or he might have been
frightened into fits.  He put up his two little chubby
hands and felt the wolf's shaggy coat.  He thought
it was Sailor, and threw his arm lovingly round the
big throat.  He was far too sleepy to take much
notice.

The wolf gave him a gentle swing, as she still ran
at her fastest pace,—aware, by the way in which she
looked over her shoulder, that the pursuers were
already on her track.  She could hear the baying of
the dogs, and darting down the river-bank, hid
herself in a natural hollow formed by the dripping of a
little spring.  She laid Carl down where the cool
drops trickled on his head, and he was soon asleep
again, sounder than before.

The wolf knew well what she was about.  In that
quiet water-cradle, with long trailing creepers for
fly-curtains, and the softest of mosses for a bed, the child
never roused to utter a sound.

Many a native mother tries the same plan, and
puts her little black baby to sleep in a shallow
watercourse when the heat and the insects become intolerable,
and so secures a few hours' refreshing sleep for
it on the most sultry days.

The dogs lost the scent when the wolf stepped into
the water, and scoured the plain beyond her retreat.
Then the wary creature took up her prize once more,
and doubling cleverly upon her pursuers, made her
way to the hills, where her mate was keeping watch
over the precious wolflings.  A run of five miles
through the morning air was an invigorating
experience after his fretful, feverish night, and Carl
waked up at last, with a stretch and a laugh, quite
unconscious of his perilous position.

They had entered one of the basins scooped in the
side of the hills, where the wild beasts made their
retreat.  The gorge was narrow at the entrance, and
partly filled up by dislodged stones and fallen rocks,
now overgrown with tangle and jungle, and
overshadowed by spreading trees.

These places are called *koonds* in India; and in
the rainy season are well watered by a mountain
torrent, dashing and foaming from the heights above.
Beneath those precipitous rocks, and through the
dense foliage which clothed them, the hottest rays of
the midday sun could scarcely penetrate.  Now, at
that early hour, it was so dark Carl could distinguish
nothing but a dog-like form.  He was still dreaming
of his faithful Sailor, and began to struggle and kick
to be set on his feet.  His hands had dabbled in the
wolf's blood, and he rubbed his half-open eyes,
wondering more and more why his ayah did not come and
make Sailor leave go of him.

The rapid exercise had made the wolf's torn shoulder
burst out bleeding again, and as they forced their
way through a perfect sea of grass and fern and
flowers, under bush and over brake, he became smeared
all over.  This was his safeguard.  Wolves live for
the night, and trust to their own keen scent to
recognize each other, in the blackness of darkness which
envelopes them, as they penetrate deeper and deeper
into the innermost recesses of the koond.

It is a well-known fact that when a pack of wolves
are out hunting, if one of their number gets into a
fight, and becomes smeared with the blood of their
prey, the rest of the pack mistake it for the object of
their chase, and tear it to pieces instead.

We think only of the savage ferocity of the wolf
when it is seeking its prey, but it has a warm and
loving heart beneath its shaggy coat.  The nobility
of the dog is in it; and to each other they are as
faithful, affectionate, and obedient, and even more
intelligent.

The gray wolf stopped at last before a luxuriant
korinda bush.  The thick-leaved branches arched
over until they touched the ground, forming a leafy
tent so thick and dark and cool no rain could filter
through, and the brightest sunshine could scarcely
dart more than a flickering glimmer upon the
snug nest it sheltered.

Such was the spot the wolves had chosen for their
nursery.  They had dug a hole and lined it with the
softest moss they could find, and the wolf-mother had
torn off the hair from her own coat to improve her
babies' bed.

Five little heads popped up to welcome mother, as
the gray wolf, with Carl in her mouth, pushed her
way beneath the branches; and the grim, gaunt
wolf-father, who had been guarding them in her absence.
got up with a stretch as she dropped the child into
the midst of the pricking ears and wagging tails.
She had brought Carl to her wolflings as a cat
brings a mouse to her kittens, to teach them how to
kill and to devour; but the savage lesson was yet
unlearned.  They were more ready for play than
for lessons, and found infinite delight in tearing his
shirt to pieces, and freeing him from so strange an
encumbrance.

They rolled over and over together as puppies love
to do; and when Carl cried, not knowing what to
make of such strange surroundings, the wolf-father in
much perplexity sniffed all over him.

Could that smooth-skinned, hairless little creature
be one of his cubs?  How he pricked up his ears
every time the small lips puckered, half in fear, and
more than half in anger, because nobody came to
fetch Carl!  The deepening sobs ended at last in a
roar that made the five strong wolflings howl in concert.

The shaggy mother stepped into her nest and
cuddled her young ones lovingly in her rough paws.
The sixth little head crept closer and closer until it
also found a pillow on that hairy shoulder.  Sleeping
in the dark on the dewy moss, Carl dreamed of Sailor
in a rougher coat, and waked to find his dream a
reality.  But his arms were round his hairy nurse,
and the pouting lips were kissing her rough cheek,
as if she really were his own dear old doggie.

Could he have seen the savage face, he might have
been afraid.

Those who live in the land where wild beasts dwell,
know that a loving caress will even induce a tiger
to withdraw its teeth; but few, very few, have the
courage and presence of mind to try it.  It is just
another proof that love, which is stronger than death,
is also stronger than the savage instincts of wolves
and tigers; reminding us of that millennial day when
the wolf shall lie down with the lamb, and none
shall hurt or destroy in all God's holy mountain.

Rare as such instances are, they do really happen,
and many a story is told under the banyan trees of
Bengal of children who have been brought up thus
in a wild wolf's nest.

From that hour the grim and savage creature
looked on Carl Desborough as her own.

He waked up wide at last, hungry and thirsty.
Old Gray Legs, the fierce wolf-father, cracked a
marrow-bone with his formidable teeth as a boy
might crack a nut, and gave it to him to suck.  The
wild honey trickled from the rocks above the korinda
bush.  Ripe mangoes dropped from the trees around,
and lay ready to his baby hand in the drying grass,
and other wild fruits ripened and fell around him as
the summer days went on.  It must have worried the
wolf-mother that he cared so little for flesh, which her
cubs begin to eat at five weeks.  But nothing comes
amiss to a wolf in the shape of food, so she let him
help himself to what he liked best.

The wild birds sang overhead; the frogs croaked
in the grass, and queer-looking lizards basked in the
chinks of the rock; crawling snakes wound their
slimy length about unheeded, as they hissed in anger
or basked in some happy spot into which a straggling
sunbeam happened to penetrate.  Carl might shriek
with terror when he heard the tigers grunting in
the bed of the stream, as the search for water grew
more difficult every day, or the "Ugh! ugh!" of a
grizzly bear in search of the mangoes in which it so
delights; but he was really safe, for the wolves never
leave their young alone.  If one parent takes a stroll,
the other remains to watch over them, and at the
sound of their cry the whole pack would rally to
their defence.

Carl was so much weaker and so much more helpless
than their other wolflings, that Old Gray Legs
and his mate kept him close beside them when he
ventured outside his mossy hole.

No human foot had ever penetrated this forest
fastness, and if some echo of a hunter's cry did
occasionally waken its solitudes, it was scarcely heeded.

It was as if poor little Carl had been transported
to another world, beyond the reach of all who loved
him so dearly.  As the weeks went on he forgot his
home, or remembered it only in dreams.  Like a baby
Robinson Crusoe,

   |  "He was out of humanity's reach;
   |    Must he finish his journey alone—
   |  Never hear the sweet music of speech,
   |    And start at the sound of his own!"
   |

The young wolflings made him run on all fours;
for if they saw him stand upright, one or other was
sure to leap on his back and roll him over.  Besides,
it was often much easier to crawl than to walk in
that trackless wild of fallen rocks and marshy swamps,
where decaying tree-trunks barred the path, and
unsuspected burrows perforated what might otherwise
have been described as solid ground.

Like all wild beasts, the wolves retreated to their
secret bower for a midday sleep, and took their stroll
in the moonlight.  So Carl was almost always in the
dark, and his eyes grew so weak he began to blink
like an owl in the sunshine.  For sometimes he waked
up when his wolfish companions were all fast asleep,
and at such times he was apt to stray beyond the
dense foliage of the korinda.  Now and then the
fierce blaze of the noonday sun shot a swift ray across
the drying watercourse, where a fallen tree made a
break in the thick masses of leaves that for the most
part shut out sky and sun altogether.  He would
scramble over the rough ground, attracted by its
brilliancy, and then, half-blinded by the
unaccustomed light, stumble and fall.  Many a sad hurt
befell him, and many a time Old Gray Legs fetched him
home; many a fight he had with chattering monkeys
and sprightly-spotted fawns—fights which would
have ended badly for Carl but for the vigilance of
his foster-parents.  But the scars and scratches, the
bites and stings, taught him at last to find protection
and safety by the gray wolf's side, until he became
afraid to lose sight of her, and answered her slightest
call as dutifully as the five strong cubs, who were now
his sole playfellows.

He became the old wolf's constant care; for the
perils which surrounded him increased when week
after week wore away, and the ever-increasing heat
dried up the last and deepest pool, which had remained
to mark the course of the once dashing torrent.  The
blackening grasses rustled as the wolves rushed hither
and thither, with their tongues hanging out of their
mouths from thirst; and the young things cried for the
water they could not find.

When the moon rose behind the rocky steeps
which shut in the koond with its precipitous wall,
the patriarch of the pack gave tongue, and called his
hairy children to follow him out.  The time had come
for those five wolflings to obey the call, and Carl was
as unwilling to be left behind as the gray wolf was
to leave him.  Out, out he went into the silvery
moonlight, led by the two old wolves into the very
midst of the pack, catching something of the
excitement of the hunt as the wolves swept down the
dried-up river-bed with an appalling howl, in pursuit of
their flying prey.  To keep up with them was
impossible, and when he could neither run nor crawl, in his
terror he scrambled upon his foster-mother's back
and rode.

When that appalling howl rang through the
midnight air, every sleeper in Noak-holly wakened in
trembling fear; and yet a bit of white rag fluttering
at the end of a tall bamboo would have made so good
a "scare-wolf" that it would have kept the whole
pack at a respectful distance.

After nights like these, Carl grew vigorous and
strong, bounding into the air, and leaping like the
young fawn they were pursuing, and running on all
fours with astonishing swiftness.

Once he was almost left behind, as the whole pack
scampered off suddenly at the unwelcome sound of
the hunting-horn of a Rana, or small hill chieftain.

The child was left staring wistfully at the Hindu
train; for, like the wolves, the Rana had chosen the
midnight to come out with his hog-spear and beat the
jungle for his share of the game with which the hills
abounded.  But the sight of the turbaned heads and
the dusky faces, the bare black arms poising the long
bamboo-handled spears, and the sound of their
unearthly cries, aroused no thought of home in the heart
of the baby hunter.  They only terrified him.  The
boy was growing wild.  With a leap and a yell he
bounded into the air, for the Rana's dogs were upon him.

Out from the towering moonje grass rushed the
returning wolves, hemming him round as they would
the weakest of the pack, and fighting off the hounds.

Carl was down; but Gray Legs stood over him and
brought him out of the fray unhurt, although the
Rana's spear stuck in the ground within an inch of
his naked chest.

"There is a boy in the midst of the pack," said the
Rana's jogie or beater, who had thrown the spear—"a
child of the fair people"—for so the Hindus amongst
themselves usually call the Europeans.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`NOAK-HOLLY`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER V.


.. class:: center large bold

   *NOAK-HOLLY.*

.. vspace:: 2

Alive in the jungle.  These words, which had
brought such comfort to little Kathleen in
her childish simplicity, were torture to Mr. Desborough,
as he pictured his boy dropped by the wolf
in the midst of the pathless wilds, the dwelling-places
of those ravenous beasts, and not of them alone.
He thought of the birds of prey that lodged unheeded
in those stately trees—the brooding vultures, the
screaming kites.  He seemed to see the poisonous
hissing snakes, the stinging scorpions, and creeping
things innumerable, that infest the trackless
undergrowth of the hill forests.

"Tell me anything but that!" he exclaimed,
shuddering.  The search was renewed with an added
desperation.  By the water's edge, among the broad
crinkly-edged lily leaves which starred the stream
and formed fairy rafts for innumerable water-wagtails,
he found a fragment of embroidered muslin, torn off
by cruel teeth from Carly's tiny sleeve.  He saw it
was blood-stained.  He saw no more, for the fierce
sun shot its hottest rays upon his uncovered head.
His hat fell as he stooped to secure it, and he sank
unconscious on the slippery bed of the drying stream.

"Dropped with the heat," said the major, who
thought all further search was vain, and he bade the
servants convey their master home.

The house was now hermetically closed, every door
and window shut up to exclude the heat.  The
well-moistened tatties cooled the hot air as it passed
through them, and kept the darkened rooms just
bearable.

It is the custom of most families in India to have
two breakfasts: one quite early; the second, which
is called *tiffen*, resembles the French *déjeûner*, and is
ready a little before noon.  The early breakfast had
been forgotten by every one in Noak-holly that
morning.  The black servants were gliding noiselessly
about; and when the major inquired for his little
fairy Kathleen, they confidentially informed him that
the little beebee would not eat.

"Bring her in to tiffen," said the major; and he
strolled into the familiar dining-room, where he found
his new acquaintance of the morning, Miss Bona St. Faine,
seated in solitary state.  At any other time,
the odd expression of her face would have convulsed
him with laughter.  She was new to Indian ways,
and was looking very blankly at an empty table to
which she had been solemnly conducted by Mr. Desborough's
butler, Bene Madho.  She was feeling very
hungry, understood she was summoned to breakfast,
and saw nothing before her but flowers.  Oliver, who
had just emerged from the bathroom, appeared at
another door.

"I wish," she said almost petulantly, "you would
not leave me in such awkward fixes in a stranger's
house.  You might behave a little more like a
gentleman, Oliver.  In such circumstances as these no one
likes to give trouble, but I am really getting ill for
want of food."

"It is coming," said her brother, as the black
servants, who had only been waiting for the major, made
their appearance, handing round course after course
of fish and curry and game.

Down flew a whole troop of impudent young
sparrows.  Some darted after the dishes in the
servants' hands, and others set to work on the crumbs
by Bona's plate, quite unabashed by the near
neighbourhood of her knife and fork.

Little Kathleen was brought in by her ayah, a
coolie following, anxious to obey to the uttermost the
incoherent charges of their prostrate master—"Take
care of my little Kathleen."

The stately Bene Madho brought her plate of
stewed fowl and rice, the usual diet of children in
India; but it stood untasted before her.  The major
patted her feverish cheek, afraid to allude to her lost
brother, for fear of bringing on another passionate
outburst of her childish sorrow.  He sent the ayah
away, thinking the child would only copy the
lamentations and cries in which she indulged—a display
of grief very distasteful to the English officer.  His
young companions sat silent and constrained, watching
Kathleen.

"She will fret herself into a fever before night,"
said the major.  "Weeping becomes dangerous with
the thermometer at 110°.  I must intrust her to you,
my dear young lady.  Try and comfort her."

But from all Bona's endeavours Kathleen shrank.
She did not want the strangers; she wanted her
own mamma; she longed only to creep into some
quiet corner and cry unseen.  This was just what the
major was charging Bona to prevent.  The shy child
fixed her large pleading eyes on the old soldier's face,
and the white lips moved, but there was no word that
any of them could understand.

They had fetched her away from her ayah, feeling
as if the nurse must be in some way to blame for the
catastrophe of the night, and was no longer to be
trusted.

"She ought never to have the care of these
children again," said Bona energetically.  "Stranger
as I am, I will remain with the little girl, if
Mrs. Desborough wishes me.  I will, indeed, if they are
going to send the woman away."

"What a Job's comforter you are!" muttered Oliver,
as the spoon fell from Kathleen's fingers in dismay.

"It was not my ayah let in the wolf; it was me,"
Kathleen sobbed.  "Let me go and tell mamma all
about it."

"Tell me," suggested the major, drawing her
between his knees.

"O my dear!" exclaimed Bona, horrified.  "Surely
you never did.  How could you be so naughty?"

Oliver got up and stood by the major, that he
might not lose a single word of the faltering confession.

"I never can be happy until Carly's found—never,
never!" murmured Kathleen, putting both
her little hands into the major's, and repeating
earnestly, "You will tell mamma it was all my
doing."

The gravity of the look which stole over the
major's face as he listened choked Kathleen's voice
with sobs, for she felt every one would blame her,
and she was shy and sensitive.

"How could you meddle with the blind?" exclaimed
Bona.  "Only think, my dear, of the terrible
consequences!"

"Yes, talk to her, Miss St. Faine," said the major.
"She must never do such a thing again."

Bona laid her hand on Kathleen's shoulder, but she
shook it off, and darting away into the darkest
corner of the hall, hid herself behind her father's
door, dislodging a whole family of toads, who had
crept indoors to find a shelter from the heat.
Kathleen's kitten hotly resented this intrusion, and sprang
after them with tail erect and bristling hair.  The
toads receiving many sharp pats on their broad backs
from her uplifted paw, were driven across the hall,
backwards and forwards, keeping Bona dancing on
one foot as she tried to follow Kathleen.  But at last
she fled in disgust, as the whole toad family were
sent leaping into her dress by pussy's officious paw.

"Oliver!  Oliver!" she entreated.

He came to her help with a laugh, which seemed
so out of place in the mournful house he felt ashamed
of himself the next minute.  He knelt down beside
Kathleen.  "I like you, my little woman," he
whispered.  "You took the blame on your own shoulders,
like a brick.  Oh, what little shoulders they are!  Of
course, a boy would have done so.  Don't fret about
how the wolf got in too much.  They are awful
creatures.  I am a sailor boy.  Terrible things happen
at sea.  My father was captain of a merchant vessel.
I have been to Calcutta before with him.  He died
at sea.  The mate brought the ship into port.  Bona
is only a school-girl, fresh from England.  She was
coming out to uncle, so they sent me on with her.
Never mind her, she is such a fuss-fuss!"

Awkward as Oliver's attempts at consolation were,
Kathleen felt they were sincere.  She looked into his
honest brown eyes and repeated her question—the
question every one shrank from answering—"What
will the big wolf do with Carly?"

"Iffley," called Mr. Desborough from the other
side of the chintz curtain which did duty for a door,
"stop those children's tongues, or I shall go mad."

The major laid an imperative hand on Oliver's arm
and marched him off into the veranda, where a mat
in a shady corner invited him to take the siesta he
so much needed after his night-journey.  The ayah
carried Kathleen away in her powerful arms.

The stifling, burning heat grew more and more
intense.  The heavy sleep of sorrow slowly stole over
the desolated household, and the weary day wore on.
The coolies, who had been abroad since the dawn,
returned one by one to eat their rice and repeat the
same tale—"No trace! no hope!"  There was
nothing more to be done.  There is no land like
India for sudden calamity.  Those of us who pass
many years among its rice-fields and banyan trees
learn a resignation and a promptitude in action not
common elsewhere.  To do quickly all that ought to
be done, before it is too late, is so imperative that no
one was surprised when Mr. Desborough announced
his determination to send Mrs. Desborough and the
two children still left to them to the hills immediately.

"This very night, if it were possible!" he
exclaimed, as he caught up Racy, only to grieve the
more over the loss of poor little Carly.  A terrible
fear of another midnight alarm oppressed the whole
household.  The syces lighted fires close outside the
compound, to scare away any wild beasts which might
be prowling about in the groves and thickets.  Every
precaution was taken.

.. vspace:: 2

The sun was sinking.  The brief ten minutes of
summer twilight had come when every one in India
hurries into the open air.  The long white line of
road winding between the shady rows of trees was
alive with traffic.  Bona and Oliver stood ready for
departure, watching the novel scene.

Straggling groups of workers from the indigo
factory loitered round the gates of Mr. Desborough's
compound—hideous-looking creatures with waist-clothes,
hands and faces all blue: a whole troop of
Bluebeards, which Bona thought would haunt her
very dreams.  They meekly drew aside and salaamed
to the ground, as a gilded carriage, drawn by a pair
of white humped oxen, swept by.  A long line of
carts, creaking under their loads of indigo pulp,
quickly followed.  The scantily-clothed villagers who
accompanied them were uttering most unearthly cries
to encourage their weary beasts.  A deafening sound
of splashing of water and stamping of feet told of the
near neighbourhood of a drove of buffaloes returning
to their homes for the night.

Oliver looked for them in vain.  They were making
a pathway through the pool, and only the tips of
their noses were to be seen as they sniffed the evening
air, or snatched a mouthful of lily-leaves with snorts
of rejoicing; while groups of merry children on the
opposite bank were washing all the clothing they
had—a broad white calico sash or waist-cloth.  Their
washing was a curious performance.  They banged
one end of the sash on a smooth stone, just under the
water, until it fluttered before them white as snow,
then they turned it and washed the other end.

A group of travellers, resting under a tree on the
opposite side of the road, watched the lighting of the
fires with evident curiosity, as they passed a friendly
hookah, or pipe, from one to another.  They smoked,
and listened to the remarks of the indigo-workers,
who were charging the children to hasten home before
the darkness gathered.

All were talking, all were discussing the disaster of
the morning—rejoicing that the wolf had eaten the
bullet of the sahib, and their children might sleep in
peace.

Major Iffley was bargaining with a party of coolie
wallahs, who had come from the village, to carry
Bona's dandy to the judge's bungalow.

Mrs. Desborough put back the curtain of her tent,
and waved a farewell to the brother and sister on the
eve of their departure, and entreated the major to
remain with them that night at least.

She was pale and calm, but the havoc which that
day had made in her appearance had reduced her to
a shadow of her former self.

"Not me only, but my loaded gun," he answered,
as he hastened to assure her every precaution they
could devise was already taken.

Bona and Oliver drew a few steps nearer, looking
the sympathy they knew not how to express in
words.  But the curtain fell suddenly, and they saw
no more of the mournful mother behind it.  Even the
major, old family friend as he was, would not, could
not intrude on the sacredness of a grief like hers.

He shook hands with his new young friends, hoped
for a happier meeting before long, and returned to the
veranda of Mr. Desborough's bungalow.  He loaded
his gun with scrupulous care, and beguiled the weary
night-watch by smoking an unlimited number of
pipes, and growling at the numerous inmates of
sun-cracked walls and retired corners, not to mention the
disturbances of the punkah coolies, who cried out in
terror every time a big Langour monkey stole across
the lawn or a wild-cat leaped from the trees, one and
all declaring that another wolf had ran away with the
little beebee.

To have had a real skirmish with a wolf, a panther,
or even a tiger, would have been less distasteful
to the English officer than soothing the midnight
fancies of the dismayed household, or escaping from
the unwelcome attentions of Kathleen's pet lizard,
which had left its favourite retreat behind the
pictures in the dining-room for a midnight stroll in the
veranda.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`AWAY TO THE HILLS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VI.


.. class:: center large bold

   *AWAY TO THE HILLS.*

.. vspace:: 2

"Can you ever love me again, mamma?" asked
Kathleen when Mrs. Desborough left the
tent on the lawn for the first time, whilst the ayah
took her place by baby Horace, who was slowly but
surely recovering.

For three whole days, whilst Kathleen was left to
herself, she had never ceased crying.  The servants
found her continually by the window of the
bathroom through which the wolf had entered, leaning
her burning head against one of the huge red
pitchers which contained the supply of water for the
day's use.  Let no one say cold water, for there
was nothing cold to be found anywhere.  The bath
towels were as hot to the touch as if they had been
hanging in front of a blazing fire.  The air was thick
with tawny dust.  The oppression was frightful.
The excessive dryness made every breath feel like
the blast of a furnace.  Insect wings began to drop
off all over the rooms, and were wafted into drifts by
the waving fans from the ceiling, and their wretched
little owners, who had lost them, were wriggling
about the floor.  The thousands of poor white ants
had already done so much mischief that no one had
any pity left for their forlorn condition.  The bhisti,
the coolie who does housemaid's work, came and
swept them away.  Wasps, crickets, and enormous
horned spiders abounded, but were worse in the night
than the day.  Not one of the numerous families of
birds which made their homes in the veranda would
sing a note.

Sailor lay at his young mistress's feet, and followed
her everywhere with a pertinacity that said very
plainly, "She is all that is left to me."

The ayah had done her utmost to divert the child.
Her dolls and playthings strewed the veranda.

Bene Madho brought her cakes and sweetmeats
when he returned from the bazaar, which he visited
daily.  Four or five in the morning is the hour for
marketing in India, and therefore the busiest time in
all the day.  He virtually kept his mistress's purse,
and bought everything she wanted.  His purchases
that morning were numerous, for the preparations for
the removal to the hills were hurried on by
Mr. Desborough.  He wanted to take Kathleen away, for
in her great sorrow she would not eat or speak, and
was always slipping off unseen, even from him.
Children in India who are left to the black servants
so often grow troublesome.

"See that she eats; mind and send her to sleep,"
he charged the ayah.  But the ayah told him in her
despair Kathleen would do neither.

The gentle touch of her mother's hand, and the
fond, sad kiss on her parching lips, at last lifted the
lead-like load which to Kathleen seemed breaking her
heart, and she whispered tearfully, "Can you ever
love me again, mamma?"

"Love you, my darling!" repeated Mrs. Desborough,
in surprise at such a question.  "Mamma must love
her little daughter more than ever now, for she may
soon have no one else to love."

"No, no, mamma, you do not know.  I let the
wolf in," lamented Kathleen under her breath.

"The wolf!" exclaimed Mrs. Desborough.  "My
child, the wolf that killed dear little Carly!"

"It did not kill him, mamma!" cried Kathleen
vehemently.  "The stranger boy said so.  O mamma,
could not God, who took care of Daniel in the lions'
den, take care of our Carly in the wolf's mouth?"

The bhisti, who was coming in with his water-skin
to fill up the great red pitchers against which Kathleen
was leaning, ran to his mistress as she sank on the
edge of the bath, overcome with the thoughts which
Kathleen's wild words had suggested.  It was the
first hint which had reached her that there was any
uncertainty about her poor little child's fate.

She could not in her motherly love take away from
Kathleen the hope that Carly was still alive, the poor
little sister's distress of mind was so great.  But she
saw Mr. Desborough's strong motive for hurrying them
off to the hills.  If the wolf which had seized one
child was still prowling about the place, it might
seize another in some unguarded moment.

"Let us take them away to-night," she said to him;
and the effort to get ready, which had appeared so
overwhelming when he proposed it, seemed now as
nothing compared to the fear of the wolf's return.
Beds were packed up.  But beds in India are a simple
affair.  A thick quilted cotton *resais*, as they call it,
serves for sheets, blanket, and mattress all in one.
A supply of pillows is all that is necessary; bolsters
are unused in India.  They must also take calico for
punkahs, and plenty of palm-leaf matting, which is so
cheap it can be used for anything.  Bene Madho had
bought abundance of all these things, which the
servants were packing in huge bundles, to be carried on
poles between men's shoulders.

How they all worked throughout the day, despite
the heat, and Mr. Desborough harder than anybody!
An adventurous kite carried off a fork from the
dinner-table, and a monkey sprang down from the roof
of the veranda and snapped up Kathleen's doll, which
it carried to the tallest tamarind tree in the garden.
There it sat on one of the topmost branches, cuddling
the doll in its olive-green paws, as if it were a great
treasure.  Kathleen did not mind it much.  The
gardener assured her he should find it, as he had found
the fork, dropped among the flowers; and then it
seemed so easy to Kathleen to think Carly might be
found in the same sort of way.  She never lost the
hope which Oliver's words had put into her heart.

But to hear her say so was an added grief to Mr. Desborough.

In the evening, when they were dressed for the
journey, papa took her on his knee and told her not
to talk about the wolves to mamma any more.  Then
he bade her remember no one must believe all the
servants were saying, for they were idolaters.  They
thought that monkeys were better than men, and
that some of them were sacred, and they really
worshipped them.  They did not know any better.  No
one could be sure whether the tales they told about
the wolves were true or not, so he wished her not to
repeat them; it would frighten Horace.

Yes, Horace was better—going with them.

"There he is," said papa, pointing to the ayah, who
was carrying him up and down the veranda, before
the windows of the drawing-room where they were
talking.  Away flew Kathleen, holding out her arms
to take him, and covering him with kisses.

"She will soon be herself again, with change of
scene, and Horace for a playfellow," Mr. Desborough
continued, turning to his wife.  "Thank God, my
dear, if the one child has been taken from us, the
other is left."

By the close of that busy day everything was ready
for departure.  The long procession passed through
the gates of the compound just as the glorious sun
was sinking in its bed of ebony and gold; for deep
black bars of cloud were crossing the flood of light
which covered the western sky.

Mr. Desborough's horse was prancing in its impatience,
while the coolies harnessed themselves to the
curtained dandies.  There was one for Mrs. Desborough,
with Horace on her lap, and another for the ayah and
Kathleen, so that the children could sleep away the
greater part of the journey.  Until the heaving of
burdens and the buckling of straps were concluded,
the ayah amused Kathleen by pointing to the setting
sun, and gravely assuring her there were twelve suns,
brothers, who shone by turns.  This one was going
away, and his elder brother, who was so strong he
could kill a man, would come in his place.  The ayah
was very glad they would all be safe on the hills
before the strongest of all the twelve took his turn.
The younger brothers were much weaker; the youngest
of all was so weak he could hardly melt the snow
that fell on the mountains.

Kathleen thought that this must be one of the tales
papa referred to.

The syce, who ran by the horse's head with a
fly-flapper in his hand, was shouting to it to be quiet
until the sahib was ready to mount.  "O son of a
pig!" he was crying, "O faithless, perverse one! have
ye never learned to be still?"

Away they all went at last, the bearers keeping
time with a long, monotonous, grunting sort of cry,
to which the horses were too well accustomed to be
frightened.  They soon left the highroad, going at
the rate of four miles an hour, by narrow paths, too
narrow for any cart or carriage.  Mounting wave
after wave of hill, higher and higher, sometimes
winding by the edge of a precipice, or climbing the steep
side of a giant cliff, then almost tumbling down some
mountain valley, on, on they went, with a slow and
even swing, whilst the coolies laughed and chatted as
if they were almost enjoying the heavy burdens which
English arms could never have lifted.  Up and up
once more, as the moon shone forth with its silver
radiance, bathing the stately forest trees with its soft,
clear light, and making the dark shadows which rested
on the deep ravines all the blacker by contrast.  They
were passing the two-storied stone-built castle of a
mountain chief, perched like a gigantic bird's nest on
the verge of a tree-crowned height.  A bright and
gurgling mountain stream was dashing and foaming
by its side as it leaped from height to height.  The
travellers were sprinkled with its flashing spray as
they crossed the edge of the torrent, little dreaming
that news of Carl would await them there on their
return.  But now the scream of the night-owls, and
the flap of the vultures' wings, and the ever-increasing
cries of the jackals, echoed all around.

   |  "But the darkest hour of all the night,
   |    Is that which brings us day."
   |

Oh, if Mr. and Mrs. Desborough could have understood
the silent lesson that midnight journey might
have taught them, it would have soothed their
heartache.  They could see no ending to their night of
sorrow; they scarcely thought the soothing touch of
time would ever dull the sharpness of their grief.
But every night does end.

The first pale gleam of the coming day showed
Kathleen the sloping roof of a white-walled bungalow,
peeping amid a forest of pine trees high up overhead.
Should they ever reach it?  The flowers which covered
those steep hillsides began to open their petals and
drink in the drop of dew that was falling for each
and all.

Racy woke up with laughing eyes and outstretched
hands, clamouring for the bright, many-coloured dahlias
which grew by thousands in their path.

The good-natured coolies stopped to gather them
by handfuls, to Racy's infinite delight.  The pleasure
of pulling them to pieces and pelting the black
shoulders of their bearers with them, found vent in
little squeals of merriment that brought the first faint
ghost of a smile to his mother's lips.

With the daybreak came many changes.  Flocks of
sheep and goats met them in the narrow path, making
the crossing doubly dangerous.  Some asses laden with
grain were on their way to the Rana's castle, and their
drivers drew aside to make their salaam to the English
travellers, and exchange greetings with the coolie
wallahs, and carry the news to the Rana's castle.

A most obstreperous cawing from hundreds of
cunning-looking crows arose from the forest, whilst a
regular chorus of wild laughter echoed through the
darkest ravines.  It was the morning song of the
black-faced thrushes that congregate in unimaginable
multitudes in these hidden solitudes.  But sweeter
than all was the lengthened flute-like note of the
black-headed oriole.

Suddenly the path changed.  They were going
downhill beneath magnificent trees, yews and oaks
rising from an undergrowth of creepers and roses,
checkered with multitudinous flowers that were
unknown to Kathleen and her mother.  On they went,
swinging to the bottom of the valley, through whole
fields covered with pale-blue foxglove, over which
myriads of bees were flitting.

Horace began to mimic the cry of the black partridges
which abounded.  "Tie-tara! tie-tara!" rang on
every side, as the footsteps of the coolies disturbed
them in their lowly nests.  One more toilsome hill,
and then the coolies paused on a small plateau on the
verge of the dark pine wood.  Before them stood the
pleasant bungalow, with its hospitable doors wide open
to receive the travellers.  Its white-washed rooms
looked airy and clean.  A few native servants who
belonged to the place hurried out to welcome them;
and Kathleen, who was leaning eagerly forward, could
see the graceful figure of a Hindu woman making
cakes, which she flattened between her hands with
astonishing celerity, and flung into a brass pan which
stood near her over a quaint-looking brazier.  The
dandies were set down, and Mr. Desborough came to
lift his wife out.

"Too much cover for snakes," he said, as he cast a
sharp eye at the thick, tall grass spreading from the
steps of the veranda to the very edge of the precipice.
The half-made garden was more indebted to nature
than art; but that only heightened the peculiar charm
that overspread the place.  Here and there the great
bauhinia creeper wreathed itself into delightful bowers
above the moss-covered stem of a fallen pine.  Its
strong tendrils, like furzy brown horns, caught the
overarching boughs of the tallest trees and bound
them in leafy fetters.  Proud peacocks strutted about
at will.  A stately old stork seemed untiring in its
endeavours to find the snake Mr. Desborough dreaded
to discover.  But, above all, the fragrant breezes from
the vast pine forest seemed an earnest of returning
health.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE RANA'S SONS`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VII.


.. class:: center large bold

   *THE RANA'S SONS.*

.. vspace:: 2

The first thing which attracted Kathleen's
attention, when her father lifted her out of her
swinging carriage, was the sight of a Thibetan woman
milking the cows.  She was dressed in dirty rags,
with a torn blanket thrown over her head.  But
round her neck she wore three strings of beads, so
quaint and curious Kathleen could do nothing but
look at them.  The beads were as big as hazel-nuts.
One row was of coral and turkois; in another the
beads were of a greenish hue, spotted all over like
thrushes' eggs; the third was coral, with silver tags
between.  So the ayah took her to beg a cup of milk,
whilst the breakfast was preparing.  They made her
a cup with a leaf and a thorn; and as the
queer-looking milkmaid twisted it into proper shape round
her slender fingers, she noticed the child's red eyes
and colourless cheeks and heard the story of the
lost brother.  "O children of pigs!" she exclaimed.
"To think a wolf in May would eat him up!  No,
no.  There has been many a child brought up by
the wolves, as I've heard tell.  Perhaps it was its
grandfather; who knows?  It would not hurt it
if it were."

She caught up Kathleen in her arms, and carried
her to the edge of the cliff, pointing downwards to the
tops of the mighty trees growing in the dark ravines
between the hills they had been crossing—hills below
hills, stretching away beneath their feet, so grand and
vast and wild.  The gray mud walls of the little
Hindu village looked like an ant-hill in their midst.
Kathleen felt dimly how the timid, gentle, imaginative
Hindu men and women, who have lived all their
lives within reach of the formidable beasts that range
at will through those forest-glades, grow so afraid
that their fear almost changes to reverence.  They
say they are all God's creatures, mightier and stronger
than themselves.  They dare not hurt them for the
world; and they think when they die they shall be
changed into them.  They mix their fancies with all
they see and hear, as her father had told her; but yet
she could not help listening when the weird-looking
milkmaid entreated her not to cry any more, but to
see the glorious places where the wild wolves slept in
the sunlight, and to think her little brother was there
among them.  Oh no; she did not believe he would
want to come back.  He would grow into a wolf, and
be happy.

Kathleen felt frightened, for she saw that the ayah
believed her.  Then the Thibetan unloosed the
wonderful beads from her neck and let Kathleen examine
them.  They were heirlooms which had been handed
down for many generations.  The coral and turkois
had been worn by her great-grandmother; the coral
with the silver tags came from her father's people.
She always wore them; they were safer round her
neck than anywhere.  The ayah agreed with her.

Kathleen carried her leafy cup indoors, to show to
her mother.  A hasty breakfast was preparing—fowl
and eggs, but no bread anywhere, only chupatties, the
thin round cakes which the woman outside was
making when they arrived.  They very much resembled
a dry crisp pancake.  The fresh hill air gave the
children an appetite, and they ate heartily.

"Papa," whispered Kathleen, "may I talk about the
wolves to you?"

"Better not, darling," was the quick reply; "father
is too busy to talk now."

Away went Mr. Desborough, ordering and arranging
everything to insure the comfort of his wife and
children; for he knew that he must soon leave them
to enjoy their three months' gipsying among the hills.
He trusted that picking flowers and chasing butterflies
would soon occupy all his little fairy's thoughts, if he
could but keep her from dwelling on the terrible
remembrance.

Horace was soon fast asleep on his mother's lap,
and Kathleen's eyes were blinking.

There were chairs and tables and charpoys in the
bungalow, kept ready for the use of visitors.  So as
soon as breakfast was over, the ayah put Kathleen and
Horace to bed.

The rooms were all on one floor, and as every door
stood wide open, they were not out of Mrs. Desborough's
sight a single moment.

The charpoy, or Indian bedstead, is only a wooden
frame with cross-bars of webbing, and on this a mat
or a resais is laid.  The ayah fetched the pillows Bene
Madho was unpacking, and all was ready.  Going to
bed is such a simple affair in India, for nobody
undresses as we do in England.  Dressing and undressing
belong to the bath.  The ayah covered the children
with a large mosquito-net, and then flung herself on
the matting beside them.

A few hours' refreshing sleep made them feel like
different beings.  But they were still very tired, and
were quite content to sit together on the steps of
the veranda, watching the mowers cutting the grass.
It was happiness to Kathleen to have her little brother
once again, and she devoted herself to the delightful
task of making Racy laugh.  There was a bird a little
bigger than an English starling, with shining wings of
copper colour, violet and blue, which hopped about their
feet, and then flew off to perch on the cow's back, and
good-naturedly catch the insects which were teasing it.

Presently they saw a curious procession coming up
the hill—two Hindu boys riding on donkeys, with
syces running beside them carrying scarlet umbrellas
over their heads, ornamented with deep gold-fringes.
Behind them rode their tutor, and after him four
native Hindus, carrying trays on their heads,
tastefully piled with fruit and vegetables and flowers.

"Early visitors," exclaimed Mr. Desborough, who
was walking about directing the mowers.

The boys proved to be the two young sons of the
Rana of Nataban, or "the brook of the forest," whose
castle they had passed by the way.

"Look! look!" cried Racy, clapping his little
hands, and making such a noise that all the strangers
turned their heads and regarded him.  The two
young chieftains alighted, and advanced to Mr. Desborough,
who held out his hand to the eldest, English
fashion.  The boy took it between both his own and
dropped into it something which felt very like a
little ball of cobwebs, but was in reality a tiny bag of
musk.  He then directed his servants to place their
trays on the ground at Mr. Desborough's feet.  They
were a present from his father, the Rana.  They
were bright-eyed, intelligent boys, but as delicate and
graceful as girls.  Their tutor was a clever young
Brahmin, who had been educated in the government
schools, and longed, above all things, to visit London.
He could speak English, and was teaching it to his
pupils.

This was quite a relief; and when the formal
greetings were well through, and the boys were seated
one on each side of Mr. Desborough, he sent Kathleen
to fetch the jar of English sweets which Bene Madho
had bought for her consolation.  It was just unpacked,
and stood on the table near the window by which
they were seated, and he perceived the large, dreamy
eyes of his youngest visitor rested upon it very
curiously.

Whilst she was gone for it, Horace came and stood
between his father's knees.  He certainly mistook the
two young ranas for big dolls, as they sat as stately
and grave as they could in their saffron-coloured
dresses, embroidered belts, and heavy silver bracelets.
Horace, with his curly flaxen hair and blue eyes, was
equally interesting to them, and the drum with which
he was playing still more so.

The old trouble had returned to Kathleen's eyes as
she ran in for her jar of peppermint lozenges.  She
was thinking of the Thibetan woman and all she had
said.  "Oh, if Carl were alive in the jungle, could
not they find him and bring him home?"  Her little
heart was full.  She longed to pour it out to her
mother, but her father's words restrained her.
Mrs. Desborough looked so ill, so sadly worn, and kissed
her so fondly, Kathleen could only venture to entreat
her to come and look at the strange milkmaid, with
her wonderful necklaces.  She was hoping the Thibetan
would repeat to her the strange things she had
said about Carl.

Mrs. Desborough promised at once; she had not
the heart to refuse her darlings anything, for fear
they, too, should be stolen from her.  She followed
her little daughter into the veranda, putting on her
gloves.  They were black.  The youngest boy, Aglar,
had never seen a lady's glove before.  He watched
her intently, as if he thought her hands had suddenly
changed colour.  He spoke to his tutor in his soft,
musical Indi; who gravely informed her the young
Rana had such a longing to feel the lady's hand,
might he be permitted to touch it?

Mrs. Desborough smiled, and held hers out to him.

Aglar rose, made his salaam, and softly felt her
fingers all over.  It seemed to afford him infinite
delight.  So, to amuse him, Mrs. Desborough took off
her gloves and put them on again.  The long row of
buttons pleased him exceedingly.

"Give them to him," suggested Mr. Desborough,
who was wondering how he could return the Rana's
present, having nothing with him but just the
necessary things his family required.

The transfer was made; the mystery of the buttons
made easy, too, by the addition of a tiny button-hook.
The little fellow was in ecstasies.  Not so
Horace, who set up a clamour to have his mother's
gloves back, which amused them all.

Mr. Desborough was talking to the elder, whose
name was Rattam, about his lessons.  He was fond
of reading, had made some way in English and
Persian, and was much gratified with the gift of an
English book on botany, which Mr. Desborough had
brought with him, hoping to interest his wife in the
lovely plants and flowers she was sure to find among
the hills.  It was very doubtful whether the new
owner could possibly understand it, but he liked to
examine the plates.

Mr. Desborough thought they were getting on,
when Horace renewed his clamour, pointing at Aglar,
and declaring, "He is nobody but a native.  He shan't
have my mamma's gloves.  He shan't!"

Mrs. Desborough grew pink with annoyance, for
she knew their young visitors would be highly
offended, if they really understood English well enough
to know what the child was saying.  In vain his
father frowned.  He would not be quieted.  Kathleen
slipped round and filled his mouth with her
peppermint, to stop his tongue.

"We are all spoiling him as fast as we can,"
muttered her father, with a bitter sigh, as he sent her
across to Rattam, who regarded Horace with pure
amazement.  No Hindu child is ever permitted to be
rough or rude.  Kathleen shyly offered Rattam her
jar, trying to make up for Racy's naughtiness by
behaving as prettily as she could.  Rattam examined
her peppermints curiously, and then drew back, afraid
to touch one, for it might be degrading to himself.

He dare not taste one, he said, for fear of losing
caste by eating anything which might be improper
for a Brahmin.

This horror of losing caste—that is, of forfeiting
his position as a Brahmin, one of the highest class
of Hindus, to whom all the others look up with
reverence—is the bugbear of a Hindu gentleman's life, and
Rattam was fully impressed with its importance.

Yet he was gratified; and although no persuasion
could induce him to touch the peppermint, he
expressed his thanks with the air of a prince, adding,
"You must permit me to send you a bird of my own
training, to be my vakeel" ("Ambassador," interpreted
the tutor), "and remind you of me," Rattam went on;
"and, I assure you, he is a very amusing fellow."

He spoke so carefully and so correctly, it made
Kathleen think he had learned his English sentences
ready before he came.  She wished she could ask her
ayah how she ought to answer him in Indi; but that
was out of the question.  If he understood not her
reply, he knew by her shy little smile she was pleased.

"It is a hill-mina from Nepaul, with a remarkably
good, rich voice—"  He looked to his tutor, perplexed
for the next word.  It was not forthcoming.

"Does the little beebee understand Persian?" he asked.

Mr. Desborough shook his head, relieved to find
his guest's English was not yet perfect.

"Persian is our French," said the tutor, making a
sign to Aglar, who had not yet finished his
examination of Mrs. Desborough's hands; but when he caught
his tutor's eye, he dropped down on the ground by
her side, sitting cross-legged, as still and stately as a
little statue.  He never raised his eyes or uttered a
single word until a second sign gave him permission.

When the ayah appeared with the children's box of
playthings, the two young visitors forgot themselves
and their grand manners in the wonders of Kathleen's
magic top, and behaved with an easy grace which was
natural to them, and much more prepossessing.

"Let Aglar take it away with him, Kathy,"
whispered Mr. Desborough; "I will buy you another."

Mamma had slipped out during the exhibition of
the playthings to consult with Bene Madho about
the tiffen.  She thought he might know better than
she did what such fastidious young princes would
condescend to eat.

He told her they never touched anything but
butter, sweetmeats, and vegetables or fruit.  Butter
Mrs. Desborough could procure in plenty, but the
sweetmeats ran wofully short.  Salad and syllabub, with
some of their own beautiful fruit, had to suffice.

The amount of butter the little princes consumed
was something astonishing.  No wonder Rattam was
so fat.  Aglar's hoarse cough distressed Mrs. Desborough.
She always carried a well-filled medicine-chest
about with her, for the sake of her own delicate
children.  So she found him some cough-drops, and
a porous plaster for the chest, to lay on the empty
trays her husband was trying to refill.

Kathleen relinquished a great many of her toys
to please their dusky visitors.  Rattam liked
everything in pairs.  He was highly delighted with her
doll's tea-cups, as he said "there were three pairs."  But
he returned her the teapot.  One of a sort
looked mean in his eyes.

When tiffen was over, their interesting neighbours
rose to depart, with the demure gravity of old men.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE INVITATION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER VIII.


.. class:: center large bold

   *THE INVITATION.*

.. vspace:: 2

The night before Mr. Desborough's return to
Noak-holly, he called Kathleen to him as he
sat dreamily watching the glorious landscape as if he
saw it not.

"Can my darling sing to me?" he said, softly
humming the first notes of a tune she had heard him sing
in the old times, when Kathleen was "her daddy's ae
bairn," and the cot stood empty.

He put his arm round her waist, and taught her as
he used to do, beating time with his other hand.

   |  "Go bury thy sorrow, the world has its share,
   |  Go bury it deeply, go hide it with care."
   |

She turned and looked in his face.

"Go on," he said, in the quiet, decided tone
Kathleen always obeyed.

   |  "Go think of it calmly, when curtained by night;
   |  Go tell it to Jesus, and all will be right."
   |

She sang it after him, drawing a little closer, for
her father was not often like this, until they came to
the last verse—

   |  "Hearts growing a-weary with heavier woe,
   |  Now droop 'mid the darkness—go, comfort them, go!
   |  Go bury thy sorrows, let others be blest:
   |  Go give them the sunshine, tell Jesus the rest."
   |

"Is my little girl too young to understand what
that means?" he asked, stroking her hair.

"Yes, I do understand, papa," she answered thoughtfully.

"Your mother's sorrow is heavier than ours," he
went on, "just because she was Carly's mother; and
Racy is pining for his twin-brother, just because he
was his twin.  It is that which makes him so techy
and troublesome.  Will my Kathleen try to comfort
them when I am gone?"

Instead of the promise he expected there came a
rush of tears, so hot and bitter he was taken aback.

"What is the matter, my love?" he asked.

"The dreadful misery to think I let the wolf in!"
she sobbed.

"We will bury all that," he answered.  "It will
not bring sunshine to mamma to see you crying.
Think! what ought you to be to poor mamma?"

"Carly and Kathleen, too," she murmured.  "But
I can't undo it."

His arm went round her very closely; it answered
her better than words.  No fear of Kathleen talking
to poor mamma about the wolves after that night.
A new object was before her—how to give others
the sunshine.

Her father had scarcely left them when Rattam's
messenger arrived with the promised bird, and an
invitation to the Sahib Desborough to visit the Rana
at his castle.  Aglar's mother, the Ranee, added her
entreaties that the beebee, who had given her youngest
son the little breastplate against the weather (which
was endued with such a wonderful charm it had hushed
the noise in his breast and given him the vivacity
of a panther) would let a grateful mother look upon
her face and beg a similar charm for her other son.
"The women of your people, sahib," said the letter,
which was evidently written by the tutor, "can come
and go.  It would demean ours to descend the stair
of their own home; but they are dying to see more of
the wonderful magic the beebee Desborough possesses."

The Rana's peon or foot-soldier, who had brought
the letter, stood watching Mrs. Desborough as if she
were some superior being.  He had shuffled off his
shoes as a mark of respect before he approached her,
and now stood before her salaaming at every interval
when she happened to raise her eyes.

Of course there were a few crows strutting about
the veranda, and little fretful Racy was afraid of
their sharp beaks.  Kathleen was trying to tempt
them away by scattering crumbs.  They were so
tame they soon ran after her to get them.

"More magic," thought the peon, bowing himself to
the ground, as she came near to him to look at the
wonderful bird Rattam had sent her.

It was jet black, with a coat as glossy as satin, and
a lovely dark eye, full of fun and intelligence.  Its
beak and claws were deep orange.  It was looking
about very curiously, pricking its ear to every sound.
Kathleen drew her finger across the gilded wire of its
cage, and it called out in a rich, sweet voice—a
wonderfully rich voice, and yet an odd one—"Ram, Ram,
baher!" just as he had heard Rattam and Aglar call
to one another.  The ayah told her it meant "God,
God, brother!" which is the Hindu way of speaking,
just as English boys would say, "Good-morning,
brother!"

With her nurse and her bird talking Indi, Kathleen
thought she should soon learn enough to understand
Rattam if he came again.

Mrs. Desborough wrote her reply, and promised to
visit the Ranee when her husband returned.

Little mischievous Horace was fitting on the peon's
slippers, and quite ready to dispute possession with
the "man in petticoats," as he called the peon.
Kathleen and the ayah pursued him half round the veranda.
They would not have got the slippers away then
without a roar, if Kathleen's wonderful bird had not
begun to make a creaking sound, like a rusty hinge,
which it imitated exactly, and then as suddenly
changed its note to the cheerful crowing of a cock.
This diverted Horace amazingly.  The peon recovered
his slippers, put up his umbrella, and departed with
the English beebee's answer.

But there was many a long day to wait before the
visit could be paid.  Mrs. Desborough was glad, for
she had no heart for visits, although she thought it
only right to go, as no one but a lady is scarcely ever
permitted to enter the homes of the higher classes of
Hindus.  In the meanwhile the invigorating air of
the hills was restoring the children to health and
spirits.  Mrs. Desborough hoped Horace would forget
some of his provoking sayings, which he had caught
up on the journey.

The Thibetan milkmaid had gone away to her own
people before Kathleen could persuade her mother to
go and talk to her.

But Kathleen would describe the dark-skinned
woman, with her dirty rags and glittering beads, so
earnestly and so frequently, that her mother began to
suspect there was something more she had not told
her.  "Well?" she would say questioningly; and
then Kathleen would stop short, remembering her
father's words.

Mrs. Desborough asked the ayah what the Thibetan
had said.

"Nothing, nothing," was the quick reply.  "We
only tried to comfort the little beebee, and stop her
tears, that fell like evening rain."

The ayah was frightened, for her mistress turned
pale and faint at the most distant allusion to her
dreadful loss.  So she led the children away, and
filled their pinafores with rice to feed the fishes.

Whilst Horace was throwing it by handfuls into
the basin of the fountain, which was soon a moving
mass of heads and tails, the ayah drew Kathleen away.

"Look at the mem-sahib," she whispered, so that
Horace should not hear.  "It is the cry for the lost
one shut in her heart that hurts.  Don't wake it."

Kathleen hung her head; for the first time in her
life it seemed wrong to speak out all her thoughts to
her mother.  But the hope still lived on—Carl would
some day be found.  It helped her to fulfil her father's
parting charge, and try to give the sunshine to Horace
and her mother.  The dry heat of May gave place at
last to the sultry, oppressive damp of the rainy season;
and Mrs. Desborough began to long for home.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`OLIVER AND HIS UNCLE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER IX.


.. class:: center large bold

   *OLIVER AND HIS UNCLE.*

.. vspace:: 2

When Mr. Desborough returned to fetch his
wife and children, he found his little fairy
half a head taller and twice as strong as at the
never-to-be-forgotten singing-lesson the night before he left.

"Well! and what have you been doing?" he asked,
when he found himself seated once more, with a child
on each knee.  "Setting traps to catch the sunbeams
to give away, eh, my precious?" he continued.

"But I think Racy got them all," Kathleen answered.

"*Via* Racy is one of the best of roads to reach
mamma," smiled her father, as he stroked her hair
fondly, and turned to his boy, who was clamorously
demanding all his attention.

A game at horses round the white-washed sitting-room
assured Mr. Desborough that Kathleen's traps
had not been set in vain.  Horace was riding
triumphant on his father's shoulder, shouting at him
after the fashion of the native drivers, in high glee,
when the card of an English gentleman was brought
in by Bene Madho.

Who should it be but the deputy-judge, who was
going on circuit, and had just arrived to hold a "bed
of justice," as the natives say, in the neighbourhood of
Nataban.

"Well set to work, Desborough!" he exclaimed.
"Have I followed my bit of pasteboard too quickly?"

"No, no," retorted Mr. Desborough warmly.  "We
are going away to-morrow.  There are rooms enough
here to accommodate all for a night."

"My fellows can sleep anywhere," continued the
deputy, chucking Kathleen under her chin, and
pointing to his train of servants, who were chattering
without.  "I and my nephew will do our best not
to interfere with the ladies' comfort.  Only say the
word, and we will make quick work here, and hurry
forward to our next station."

"Oliver!"

Mr. Desborough scrambled to his feet, and with
Horace still tugging at his watch-chain, held out his
hand to the boy without recognizing him; but
Kathleen knew him again in a moment.

"Mr. Desborough has forgotten you, my boy,"
whispered the deputy.  "Do not refresh his memory;
it will only revive a painful recollection."

Oliver nodded; and they all went in together to
congratulate Mrs. Desborough on the improvement in
her children.

When old neighbours meet there is no lack of
conversation.  The gentlemen sat long over the dinner,
discussing the recent rains, the present attitude of
Russia, and the success of the government schools for
Hindu boys, in which the deputy was greatly interested.
Kathleen sat beside her father, forgetting to
eat.  At the first movement she glided round to her
mother's chair with a breathless request.

"May I show my bird to Oliver?  and may we
go for a walk—a long walk?" she asked.

"Certainly, my love, if he wishes," answered
Mrs. Desborough.

Kathleen tripped on.  A gentle pull at Oliver's
sleeve made him look round.  He was too
good-natured to decline the shy invitation.

Life was very free and easy at the little hill-station.
The whitewashed bungalow was neither inn nor
lodging-house, but something between.  When one
party went away, there was usually another
waiting to take their place, so that the servants who
were stationary there were not disconcerted by the
deputy's arrival.  They were laughing and singing as
they hurried about, contriving to make an unusual
hubbub, as a sort of tribute to the dignity of the
Stunt Sahib, as they called the deputy.

Some of the newly-arrived were seated in groups,
cross-legged, on the grass, smoking a friendly pipe
with their old acquaintances of a previous year.
Oliver would willingly have lingered to watch them,
so he divided his attentions between them and
Kathleen's wonderful bird.

It was crying so like a child as they drew near its
cage, Oliver was looking about for some squalling
baby among the dusky smokers.  Then it changed
its note, and imitated the soft musical tinkle of the
temple bell, where Rattam and Aglar went to see the
sacrifices to their idol-gods.  Oliver was enchanted.
"It beats the parrots hollow!" he exclaimed.  "It is
something like a bird."

"I have not much left to give away," said Kathleen,
thinking a little regretfully of all the toys she had
bestowed upon the young princes; "but I'll give you
my beauty mina, if you will take me for a walk, a
very long walk."

"You!" he repeated in astonishment.  "Which
way do you want to go?"

She tripped down the veranda steps, and pointing
to the wilder part of the ground, ran eagerly forward,
looking back every now and then to see if Oliver
would follow.

The ground around the house was partially gardened,
but the further they went the wilder it grew.
All path was lost.  Arrowroot and ginger plants
sprang up spontaneously.  By one of their tall green
sheaths, with its droop of snow-white bells like a
magnified Solomon's seal, Kathleen paused panting
until her companion overtook her.

Off she started again.

"Is it a jolly game at hare-and-hounds or
follow-my-leader that you are starting?" asked Oliver.
"You are not quite right for either.  We boys never
played just so.  In the first place, you should start
fair."

"It is not play at all," answered Kathleen, slipping
her hand into his and looking up beseechingly.  "You
do not mind, do you?"

"Not a bit," he retorted, holding back a mimosa
bush to let her pass.  She had led him on to a
dangerous spot, where the ground sloped steeply down to
the bottom of a ravine.

Dark shadows of bushes and plants unknown to
him obscured its depths.  A sound of gurgling water
met his ear, but the gloom was so profound he could
distinguish nothing.

"Is not that a place where the wild beasts sleep?
Now will you take me as far down as you can?"
asked Kathleen.

"No," answered Oliver bluntly—"no, indeed; you
must be crazy!"

She drew her hand away, and leaning over the
edge of the precipice, called, "Carl, Carl, are you
there?"

Oliver caught hold of her dress and pulled her
back.  "You absurd little creature, you'll slip and fall
if you do so!"

"Oh, never mind that.  If I could make him hear
me—if I could but make him hear!" she wailed.
"But I am not to talk about the wolves—I'm not to
talk."

"Yes, you may to me; you may say anything you
like to me," interposed Oliver, resolutely turning her
round and walking back towards the house.

"Do you speak the truth?" asked Kathleen.

"I tell you what, young lady: I don't admire
your ways one bit.  If you had only been a boy, I'd
have bowled you over for that in less than a minute.
What do you mean by asking me such a question?"
he retorted in hot indignation.

"Then I may believe what you tell me, and you
said he was alive in the jungle!" she exclaimed.

Oliver gave a long-drawn "Oh!" adding slowly, in
a considerate tone, "Yes, I did.  I said so because I
thought so."

"And the milkmaid thought so!" she cried.  Then
for the fiftieth time she pictured the dusky face, with
its rags and beads, and repeated the soft Indian
words until the white walls of the bungalow were
once again in sight.

"Now we must not talk any more," she exclaimed,
"for fear mamma should hear us.  There she is!"

Oliver looked up, and saw Mrs. Desborough seated
on one of the fallen trees, talking to his uncle.  The
ayah was taking Horace for his evening walk.  Being
new to Indian life, Oliver stared in astonishment at
the strange way in which she carried the child.
Instead of taking him in her arms, as an English nurse
would do, she had a nice little soft saddle strapped
round her waist, on which he was riding.  Her arm
was round him, to keep him from falling, whilst his
own clasped her neck, and his little feet were kicking
her back and front.  For Horace was as restless and
fidgety as a young elephant, which every mahout
(elephant-driver) knows never is at peace a single
moment.  It is always shaking its flapping ears, or
switching its tail, twisting and untwisting its trunk,
or stamping with one or other of its big feet.  But
the ayah was patience itself in her untiring devotion
to her white baby.

"Look at that nephew of mine," laughed the deputy.
"I shall have to start him off again to England, for
a couple of years at the East India College, before I
put him into harness.  But Iffley has taken to him
wonderfully.  Now his sister—"

But Bona's perfections were cut short by a squall
from Horace.  The Rana's peon was approaching with
renewed invitations to the whole party.

"We must go," said the deputy, who was bent upon
cultivating friendly intercourse between himself and
his dusky neighbours.

He had won their respect by his uprightness—perhaps
even their esteem; "but to get a step beyond
that beats me," he declared.  "You must know as
well as I do, Desborough, how these Orientals hedge
in their private life with their ceremonies and
formalities, and keep us all at a distance.  Here I have
been coaxing them out of their shyness and reserve
for years.  What way have I made?  One-half the
pains I've taken would have brought these monkeys
from the woods around me as tame and affectionate as
the kitten in your veranda at home.  Now you ladies
have a chance.  The door of the zenana opens to you.
That is why I want my niece.  I want her to take her
share in the Englishwoman's mission to her dusky
sisters.  You will go with us, Mrs. Desborough?"

"Yes," she replied.  "I had intended to do so;
but," she added, turning to Mr. Desborough, "we
must take the children with us."  The fact was, she
dare not leave them behind.

"No objection to that, as far as I can see,"
returned the deputy; and so it was settled.

As Oliver was falling asleep that night, he seemed
to hear nothing but the little sister's passionate cry,
"Carl, Carl, come back!"  How she had clung to the
lingering hope his words had implanted!  He almost
wished he had never said them.  Did he and Bona
love each other like that?  He saw nothing but the
fluttering of Kathleen's sash and the flapping of her
broad sun-hat as she rushed before him to the very
edge of the precipice.  How she must have longed to
get there! and it was such a dangerous place.  Oh the
innocence of the thought!  The brave, faithful heart!
Yes, that was it.  Oliver hated himself for having
spoken those misleading words.  "But then I
believed it after what old Gobur had said."

He tossed and slept, and dreamed of Romulus and
Remus, and the old Roman fable of the she-wolf.
When he waked at last, the day was well begun, and
everybody around him was busy preparing for the
visit to the Rana's castle.  He wished his
schoolbooks had not all been left behind him in another
hemisphere.  There was no Roman history to be
found in the hill bungalow, or he would have
refreshed his memory about that old-world tale of the
founders of Rome.  His uncle thought him unusually
moody as he mounted his little pony and rode after
him.  It was a glorious morning.  Mrs. Desborough's
bearers were chanting gaily.  Mr. Desborough, who
rode behind her, turned his head to make some
remark upon the indigo crops to the deputy, who was
still descanting about "that fog-bank which always
rises between us and the people of the land, do what
we will."

Oliver yawned, feeling quite sure beforehand he
should detest a fat boy who ate nothing but butter
and sugar, and wouldn't and couldn't run a race if it
were to save his life, whatever his colour might be.
He was thinking of Major Iffley's impatient interruptions,
when his uncle started his favourite topic before him.

"Let the natives alone, St. Faine.  They are the
most exclusive set on earth.  It is all labour in vain,
I tell you."

The road by which they reached the Rana's castle
was very picturesque, shaded here and there by grand
old forest trees and great clumps of waving bamboos.
The village houses were very low, and their peaked
thatched roofs covered with a climbing plant with
melon-like leaves.  Clusters of tamarind trees secured
the necessary shade.  Two men were ploughing in a
field, and three more were idly watching their work.
Several women were scouring their brass pans; at
their feet lay their babies, cooing or fretting.  Some
graceful girls were drawing water at the village
well.  There was a native musician with his sitar,
and a group of listeners round him, some smoking,
and others playing a native game with little bits of
wood.

They lifted up their eyes and saw the English
party approaching.  The women snatched up their
infants and ducked under the mats, which serve for
doors to their huts, as if to be seen were to be killed.
The girls by the trickling water under the tamarind
trees muffled up their faces and waddled away as
fast as they could.  To walk like a goose is a Hindu
girl's desire.  The very children, intent upon the
manufacture of dust-pies, jumped up and hid
themselves; whilst the men started, gave a pull at their
clothes, pushed the sitar out of sight, threw away
their pipes, and stood in a row, bowing like so many
machines, humble, shy, and mute.

The deputy's benevolent face wore nothing but
smiles; but the poor creatures had received little but
cruelty from the hands of foreigners for so many
generations, they could hardly believe in a stranger's
kindness.  The headman of the village had bustled
off to put on his company clothes, which he kept
very carefully for state occasions.

He looked as if he had wrapped himself in a clean
sheet; all his dignity lay in his belt, which had
served his grandfather before him.  However, he had
found his tongue, as the children say, and came to
meet the deputy with a string of compliments as
extravagant as they were meaningless.  Just then the
long-drawn, quavering notes of some huge horns,
drawing nearer and nearer, announced the approach
of the Rana, who was coming to meet his visitors.
Presently they saw him sweeping down the castle
hill in his bullock-chariot, all brightness and gilding.
Four of his men were holding over his head a huge
scarlet umbrella with long glittering fringes; several
more were running by his side.  A small band of
horsemen preceded this stately chariot, sounding their
big brass trumpets from time to time; and behind
it came a motley procession of his chief followers
and relations.  In the midst of them Oliver detected
that fat boy he was so certain he must dislike.





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.. _`A VISIT TO THE RANA'S CASTLE`:

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   CHAPTER X.


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   *A VISIT TO THE RANA'S CASTLE.*

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The deputy being the chief of the English
party, was pressed to take a seat in the
chariot by the Rana's side.  Then the runners and
the riders turned their faces, and the long procession
wound its way up the castle hill.  All the dogs
in the village collected to bark at the heels of the
departing horsemen, and bright little eyes peeped
round the corners to see them go.  Then the girls
returned to their pitchers, and the men to their music
and play.

The strong and time-worn castle was all of stone,
with rich, deep balconies and oriel windows.  The
carving of the stone screens which protected them
was as delicate as point lace.  Behind those splendid
screens the ladies of the family were peeping as
furtively and shyly as the village children, and quite as
anxious to see without being seen.  All Kathleen's
attention was taken up by the dear little gray
monkeys, who were playing at hide-and-seek with each
other through the beautiful tracery.  Some noise
within sent them off with a scamper.  Their leader
called them round him; and Kathleen soon saw them
busy as ever in the court below, turning over stones,
and hunting out beetles and scorpions, which they
caught by the tail.  The biggest of them was about
the size of a bull-terrier; and their babies were the
dearest little sweets in the world.

It was slow work defiling one by one across the
bridge which spanned the stream in front of the
castle.  Mrs. Desborough and the children had entered
the large, untidy court some minutes before Mr. Desborough
and Oliver arrived; so they waited, looking
round them at the novel scene.  In the centre of the
court there was a large group of horses picketed,
who seemed very much annoyed by the descent of
the small gray plagues from the balcony, who showed
no respect for stamping hoofs or kicking heels.  All
round the court there were rows of straw-thatched
huts and sheds, where the servants lived, next door
to the animals in their charge.  There were lynxes,
kept for hunting hares; and splendid spotted leopards,
tamed, and tied to strong posts, each with a leather
hood over its eyes, to keep it from springing
unawares.  More than a hundred dogs of different
kinds were kennelled in their midst.  The yelling
and the barking which arose on all sides so terrified
Mrs. Desborough, that she positively refused to get
out of her dandy or suffer Horace to be taken from
her arms, although he roared in concert with all his
might; so her bearers rested in front of the flight of
white steps leading to the porch of the castle.

A group of servants had gathered round them—looking
very haughty in their clean white dresses
and turbans—who were announcing the arrival of
the guests with eager cries.

When Mr. Desborough's puggaree appeared beneath
the gateway arch, one of the peons stepped forward
with his mace in his hand to meet him; and behind
the peon, on the topmost step, stood the
guest-receivers of the Rana—two fat little old men,
dressed all in white—bowing low, and inviting him
to enter.

But no; Mr. Desborough must first of all reassure
his terrified wife and pacify his screaming boy.
Oliver thought it only manly to follow his example,
and stepped up to the other dandy, expecting to find
Kathleen in a similar state.  The ayah was leaning
forward, with her finger on her lips to enjoin
silence, and Kathleen was gazing breathlessly in her
face.

"Hush!" she whispered, pointing to one of the
Rana's men, who stood staring at Horace, as
Mr. Desborough lifted him up, with a scared, startled
look, as if he had seen some marvellous prodigy.

What was the fellow saying?  The ayah knew,
and Kathleen more than guessed.  She had been
learning Indi from her ayah ever since Rattam's visit.
She understood it better than Oliver; a great deal
better than her mother.  She was trying to get out
of the dandy in her impatience.

"Let me go! let me go!" she entreated.  "I must
go to papa."

Mr. Desborough was looking round to see if she
were all right.  He relinquished Horace to the ayah,
and gave his arm to his wife.

"I'll take care of Kathleen," said Oliver, with the
air of a grandfather.  But she tried to escape from
him.

"I must tell papa," she persisted.

"Nonsense!" he urged; "you can't."

He led her up the steps resolutely.

"Which are the Ranee's apartments?" asked
Mr. Desborough of the servants.

"They are in that direction looking east; but we
cannot point them out," was the deferential reply,
with a horrified look, as if to be guilty of such
rudeness as pointing out the window of a lady's room
would indeed have been unparalleled.

But then they all entertained a private opinion
that these English sahibs were utterly incomprehensible,
and on some points downright lunatics.

Kathleen turned round, and pointing to the jogie,
who still stood staring after them, she whispered to
Oliver, "That is the man.  He was looking at
Horace, and he said, 'I saw that child last night
come down the koond on a booraba'—that is a wolf,
you know."

"Is it?" said Oliver, who did not happen to know
that booraba was Indi for "wolf."  "Well," he
continued, "it is certain he did not see your brother
there."

"No, not Horace," she cried, clasping her hands
passionately; "but could it—could it be Carl?"

She was forced to be silent now.  They were
entering the Rana's hall of audience, a huge room,
thirty feet high, with a gallery at one end, and at the
other a much smaller, narrower room, with carved
marble arches and glittering walls.

Here they saw the Rana himself, seated upon a
large, low sofa, with the deputy by his side; and
Aglar, as still and motionless as a lizard, was sitting
cross-legged at his feet.  A few stout old gentlemen,
swathed in costly shawls, looked as if they were
propped up against the wall, on English chairs.  They
had come to see the sahibs, and the Rana thought it
only complimentary to provide English seats when
English visitors were expected; but his uncles and
brothers seemed to find them singularly uncomfortable.
They balanced themselves on the edge of the
chairs, and threw their heads back with great
solemnity.  But what to do with their arms seemed the
difficulty.  One old gentleman stuck his against his
sides, and spread out all his fingers; another was
vainly trying to rest his hands on his knees without
leaning forward.

Horace began to point at them and laugh, and
Oliver was nearly as bad, in spite of his uncle's frown.

Beneath the marble arches there were long flights
of steps leading down to the gardens, which were
overlooked by the back of the zenana, or ladies'
rooms.  The carefully-screened balconies looked like
one splendid mass of stone lace.  In the centre of the
gardens there was an artificial lake, fed by the
mountain stream, where golden fish were leaping in
the sunlight, and stately swans were gliding.  Around
its banks, and almost built out into the water, at
equal distances, there were white marble kiosks, or
arbours; and high above the stately trees and
luxurious wealth of flowers the jagged red cliffs were
frowning.  Mrs. Desborough was lost in admiration
as she was pompously conducted down the snowy
steps, across the velvet grass, to a low door leading
to the Ranee's apartments, the ayah following with
Horace, riding on his little saddle, and Kathleen
shyly tripping by her side.

The low door was unfastened, and they entered a
dark passage, with an earthen floor, leading to a long
staircase, which was very dirty.  The contrast to the
hall of audience was so great, Mrs. Desborough
thought there was some mistake, when out they
stepped upon the cool and shadowy balcony.  Little
dark heads, with snowy whiskers, came poking
through the interstices of the stone-work, to watch
the English children, and absurd-looking monkey
mothers tossed up their babies and jabbered unceasingly.
The folding-doors of the Ranee's sitting-room
stood wide open.  Its Eastern loveliness was spoiled
by some smart-looking English tables and
looking-glasses, of which the Ranee was very proud.  She
was seated upon a velvet cushion, with her little girls
by her side, and her servants standing round her.
The Hindu lady looked so stately and calm and stern,
as she surveyed her visitors with a fixed, cold stare,
Kathleen was almost afraid of her.  Her long black
hair was twisted into a sort of coronet, fastened by a
silver buckle, and set with large silver bosses.  Her
fixed and haughty eyes were dark with excessive
brightness.  Her proud, curving lips and set white
teeth seemed as if they could scarcely permit the
word of welcome to pass between them.  A little
girl, as beautiful as her mother, was leaning against
her, and on the other side an elder sister sat with her
arm round her mother's waist, embowered in shawls
and her own long, dark, waving curls.  They were
still more fascinating children than their brothers.
All the force and fire of the family seemed to have
centred in its females.  But the youngest girl hid her
face in her mother's lap, and the other only ventured
on a sidelong glance at the strangers—evidently
terrified at Horace, who was manfully kicking at his
ayah's waist.  The sight of a splendid doll Mrs. Desborough
was unpacking drew the shy little Orientals
from their mother's side.  The ayah was interpreter.
Whilst the ladies were admiring each other's children,
Kathleen took the doll on her lap, and showed the
little sisters how to dress and undress it.  Then they
sent for their own dolls, and displayed the mystery of
their tinselled robes and gossamer veils.  Here at
least was common ground.  And perhaps those little
Hindus loved their dolls even more than Kathleen
did, for they had scarcely any other pleasure in their
dull life; for while their brothers were made so
much of by every one, nobody wanted them.

The gentlemen remained in the hall of audience,
where the cup-filler and the hookah-filler were in
attendance.  Oliver had the best of it; for although
he could do nothing but laugh at Rattam, in his
saffron-coloured satin dress, and flowered silk trousers,
and his turban hung round with tigers' teeth set in
gold, not to mention his bracelets and chains, he found
him a cleverer boy than himself.  They went together
into the Rana's armoury; and whilst Rattam was
showing him swords of fabulous value, from the jewels in
their hilts, and helmets of the strangest shapes
imaginable, Oliver decided he was not half a duffer after all.

They were entering the room where the Rana kept
his clocks; for he had a perfect passion for clocks, and
had accumulated some dozens—French, Dutch, English,
and American, all ticking.  Oliver thought this a bit
of a bore.  "Couldn't we have a stroll out of doors?"
he asked.  Rattam agreed.

Oliver gave a tug at his own hair.  It was a habit
of his when he felt uncertain what to do.  But the
momentary hesitation passed over.  He turned to
Rattam and said, "Do you know that Mr. Desborough
lost a child a month or two ago? it was carried off by
a wolf."

"Ah!" interrupted Rattam.

"One of your fellows was saying something about
a child in the jungle as we rode into your court.  I
want to ask him what it was," continued Oliver.  "I'll
tell you all about the loss of the poor little thing as
we go along."

"Leave that to me," replied Rattam, waving his
hand with the air of a prince.  "You would scarcely
understand the jogie's tale if you heard it.  Our
people are very imaginative.  It may be nothing but
moonshine and shadow.  Leave it to me.  Before you
quit the castle, all he has to tell shall be known."

The boys had broken the ice of ceremony in which
their elders were freezing, and agreeing that it would
be cruelty to raise false hopes by speaking a word too
soon to either Mr. or Mrs. Desborough, they parted.
Oliver returned to the hall, to sit in irksome silence,
while Rattam speedily vanished.  The old gentlemen
by the wall looked as if they were longing to slip off
their chairs on to the floor, and take a rest after their
own fashion.  The appearance of the attendants with
trays of sweetmeats was a welcome diversion.

The five shawl bundles munched contentedly,
mumbling a word or two now and then, when another
servant appeared carrying a vase of most overpowering
scent.  He made a dart at Mr. Desborough's handkerchief
and deluged it.  Oliver's not being quite so
handy, he received a dab on the sleeve of his jacket,
where it remained to torment him for many a long
day, by its overpowering perfume, which nothing could
get rid of.  The deputy's handkerchief was forthcoming
in a moment.  Like a prudent man who knew
what he had to expect, he had provided himself with
a second; and when he received it again well saturated,
he quietly dropped it on the floor.  Aglar was at play
with his ball in the gardens, tossing it up to the
balcony through which his little sisters and Kathleen
were peeping, when Rattam reappeared.

He was anxious to show the young sahibs the wild
beasts in the gardens; not only Oliver, but Horace also.
That unmanageable young gentleman was clamouring
for the ball, which bounded high over Aglar's head;
so that Rattam's proposition was thankfully acceded
to by all parties.  The boys visited the dark dens,
with their paved floors, well sluiced with water from
the lake, which were built at intervals in the midst
of myrtle bowers and clustering roses, and watched
the fierce striped tigers, growling behind the strong
iron bars which enclosed the front of the dens.

Rattam drew Oliver aside.  "It is a tale of magic,"
he whispered, "in which all our people believe, but
yours do not.  Yet the beebee Desborough must possess
some powerful charms.  Think of the breastplate she
gave my brother!  A bit of sticky paper, but
possessing such virtue."

"Bosh!" muttered Oliver.  "It was a plaster, wasn't
it?" and he laughed heartily.

"These charms that I wear," continued Rattam, touching
the loops of tigers' teeth in his turban and the silver
chains round his neck, "will keep me from all evil,
unless I destroy their power by some act of my own."

"Then," retorted Oliver, "I should call them
reminders to do right and fear no evil."

"Ah, you English have such different ideas to ours!"
said Rattam.  "But I have sent for an old man from
the village—a hunter who has roamed the forests all
his life.  He knows the footprint of every animal
that lives in them.  I will send him into the jungle
to see if there is a wild child about; such things do
occasionally happen, as our people know."

Rattam had been working hard at his English since
he brought the fruit and flowers to Mrs. Desborough,
and he was an apt scholar; but he learned it all from
books.  As they were speaking, a remarkable old man
entered the gardens, and approached Rattam, bowing
to the ground.





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.. _`THE FOOTPRINT`:

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   CHAPTER XI.


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   *THE FOOTPRINT.*

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"There he is!" said Rattam, waving his hand
grandly.  "Look at him well.  Did you
ever see such eyes?  He is Tara Ghur, the oldest
shikaree, or hunter, among the hills, and he does what
few beside himself would dare to do.  He goes alone
into the forest for days, marking the tracks of the
game, that he may know which way to lead the
hunting-parties.  He was ready to start when I sent
for him."

Oliver looked curiously at the wiry figure before
him, so unlike the rest of the Rana's servants.  His
eyes were light blue, with a piercing glance and a
flash like burnished steel.  His cap and waistcloth
were a dull greeny brown, that yet approached to
yellow in the sunlight.  In fact, it was so exactly
the same hue as the parched and dying leaves in the
drought of summer, that when he was creeping among
the bushes he could scarcely be distinguished from
them.  He carried a light bamboo over his shoulder,
with a small water-pot slung at one end, and a skin
of atta, or meal, at the other.  This was all the food
he took with him.  His hunting-knife was in his
hand, as if he had been trying its edge, but he stuck
it in his belt and lowered his rusty matchlock to do
honour to the son of his chief.

"He has the true Tartar eye," continued Rattam,
"gifted with a power of sight that can detect the
smallest speck in the distance and recognize it at
once, no matter how far off it is or how queer it
looks.  He is never deceived, and we have never
known him make a mistake.  Now tell him what
you like."

Oliver did not trust much to his own scant stock
of Indi.  He caught up the ball and sent it bounding
before him.  This, as he expected, set off Horace
running after it, whilst Aglar called out to his bearer
to pick up his "golee."

Down tumbled Horace.  Oliver pulled him up, and
taking off his hat, showed him to the shikaree.  The
old man surveyed him curiously.

"Child like this carried off by booraba.  Search
for any trace of it.  Reward sure," said Oliver,
asking Rattam to repeat his words for fear old Tara
should not understand.

He did so, adding, "Search in the koonds by the
ruined temple."

The old man's keen eye glittered as he salaamed to
the very ground.

Oliver turned round to the fat boy in his silks and
satins, and shook him warmly by the hand until he
made the twining, serpent-shaped bracelets jingle.
"We are going to be chums after this," he said.

"Chums!" repeated Rattam; "what are they?"

"Friends, if you like it better," retorted Oliver.

"Friends! ah, that I understand.  That is good,"
replied the young chieftain, taking Oliver's hand
between his own in his Eastern fashion.  Happily for
Oliver, no little bag of musk was near to drop into
it.  He was perfumed past all endurance already by
"that beggar with the scent-bottle."

"Now," cried Oliver, "I should like to be off with
the old man.  I'm good for a ten-mile walk any day.
What say you?  Could we be back again before my
uncle starts?"

Rattam drew himself up with dignity.  "It would
hardly become me to walk," he said with emphasis.

Oliver's impatient shrug was cut short by a
summons to the hall of audience.  The deputy was going.
It was Rattam's turn to sigh, for he was as weary
of perching on a chaukee, or chair, as Oliver was of
the scent-bottle.  He managed to draw up one leg
unseen by his tutor.

Mrs. Desborough was amused to discover the
fabulous powers attributed to her, and soothed the Ranee's
disappointment by sketching the three little girls as
they stood together in the flickering light and shade
cast from the fretwork of the balcony.

But now the word passed round that the sahib was
going.  A breath of life entered into the five shawl
bundles.  Rattam's other foot found its way to the floor.
In walked the two stout gentlemen in white with a
tray of wreaths.  Oliver espied the scent-bottle in the
back-ground, and thought about flight.  The Rana took
up a splendid wreath of weeping jessamine, with its
pure white blossoms trailing loosely over his outspread
arm, and dropped it solemnly over the deputy's head.
He, poor man, was doing his utmost to preserve his
gravity, and half succeeded.  But Mr. Desborough's
utterly failed when a superb circlet of white and
orange *immortelles* found its way to his neck.  He
took refuge in a fit of coughing, which approached
strangulation when he caught sight of Horace's face.
The little fellow was just brought in from the gardens,
and stared with wide-open eyes, literally struck dumb
by his father's absurd appearance.  For the five by
the wall gravely left their chairs and followed the
Rana's example, until Mr. Desborough's shirt front
was lost to sight beneath the multitude of garlands.

The band was gathering in the porch, and the
pompous peons were waiting.

"Good-night, gentlemen," said the deputy, shaking
hands all round.

"By your honour's condescension, may your slaves
be reserved in health," replied the five, salaaming to
the ground, and they followed him to the top of the
steps, where the Rana was standing.

The tomtoms and trumpets struck up with a sudden
blare as the horses were led forward.

Oliver squeezed Rattam's hand as he whispered his
last question, "When will the shikaree get back?"

"I shall send him to you," answered Rattam; and
they parted.

Mrs. Desborough and the children were already in
their dandies, crossing the bridge, as the horses
cantered out of the castle gate sniffing the cool hill
breezes.

"In pity, free me from this rubbish, boy," sighed
the deputy, turning to his nephew; when he beheld
ten coolies running behind them, carrying between
them jars of sweetmeats slung upon bamboos—a
parting gift from the Rana.

"Uncle," said Oliver in a low voice, "I have
something to tell you."

Whilst Mr. Desborough shunted wreath after wreath
into his wife's lap, shaking himself after each surrender
like a dog emerging from the water, Oliver was
explaining to his uncle about Rattam and the shikaree.

Horace was fast asleep, and Kathleen's eyes were
blinking, when they reached the bungalow.

"Cheer up, little woman!" whispered Oliver, as he
bade her good-night; "Master Gravity, in his saffron
satin, is going to find out what his fellows have really
seen."

"You shall have my bird!" she exclaimed in her
rush of gratitude.

"Nonsense, you silly little goose!  You must not
give away a keepsake.  Do you think I am like those
dusky beggars on the hill?  My hands are empty
enough, ready for work, and I mean to keep them
so," retorted Oliver, stretching them out with intense
satisfaction to prove the truth of his words.

He did not see her again, for by daybreak the
Desboroughs were all *en route* for home, sweet home.

How happy the children were to see the many-gabled
roof once more, embowered as usual in an
ever-increasing mass of foliage and flowers, and
replete with joyous life in every corner!  The owl still
sat in the entrance of his hole, blinking benevolently
at Kathleen and Horace as they took their first run
round the wide, cool veranda hand in hand, just to
see if all the old pets were safe.  Kites and hoopoes
and blue jays were screaming and croaking to their
hearts' content.

The ayah called Kathleen to look at her billee, as
she called the kitten, which had grown immensely in
their absence.  Then she lifted up Horace to watch
the gitchree, or squirrel, leaping from bough to bough
among the garden trees, and to listen to the cooing of
the jangalee, or wood-pigeon.

The dark faces of the gardener and the bhisti
appeared at unexpected corners, with new treasures they
had been saving for the little beebee.

One had tamed a moongus, a cat-like creature as big
as a greyhound, and excellent for rats and mice, and
equally good for cockroaches and many another insect
pest which life in India knows only too much about.

Its soft gray coat and arching back, and all its
amusing ways, won a smile from mamma as it ran
about the house, sniffing at every new thing, and
examining every hole and corner with the greatest
curiosity.  Finally, it set to work with teeth and
claw, and dug itself a subterranean retreat by the
door-step, where it could munch its dinner undisturbed
by the liberties of its many neighbours.  It was so
clean, mamma had not a word to say against it.  So
with that and Kathleen's mina, who was trusted to
leave his cage whenever he liked, the children had
plenty of amusement, and the first few days at home
sped rapidly away.

One evening, when they were returning from their
walk, Kathleen with Sailor by her side, and a coolie
holding an umbrella over them both, they were hailed
by Oliver, who was driving in his uncle's boondee (a
hooded gig drawn by two oxen) to the gates of the
indigo factory.  A long train of native carts, creaking
under their load of indigo pulp, were waiting to enter.
One ghareewan, or carter, had brought a rumour that
a fair child had been seen by some hunters in the
jungle.  The tale had passed from lip to lip, until it
had reached Mr. Desborough, who was pacing his
office floor in unwonted agitation.

Oliver sprang out of the chaise and made his way
through the press with most unusual energy for India.
He entered the labyrinth of straw-thatched sheds,
passed the great crushing-mill, which a party of
half-dressed men were treading, and got splashed by the
dark-blue stream issuing from it.  Never mind; on
he pressed, inquiring for the sahib.  He was almost
deafened by the hissing and sputtering of the steam
from the huge boiling vat, when he became aware
that on all sides the men were rushing from their
work, and pointing to a dark reddish cloud that had
suddenly appeared in the north.

He could not tell in the least what all this uproar
could mean, so he tried to edge his way through the
crowd of hideous blue figures who were gesticulating
and screaming at their loudest.  Then they began to
snatch up the stones around them, which they poised
in their hands as if prepared to hurl them at the skies.
Oliver thought of a riot, and was thankful to
perceive Mr. Desborough himself step out from one of
the numerous sheds and glance hurriedly around.
Just then a stick struck Oliver on the head.  He
looked round; a second was thrown at him.  The men
had not sent it, for it came from an opposite direction.
He glanced upwards; another was hurled at his back.
He did not like that at all.  In spite of the agitation
visible in Mr. Desborough's manner, he began to laugh
as Oliver tried to run from his unseen persecutors, and
pointed to the roof of a great shed out of which the
busy workers were rushing pell-mell.  Oliver looked
up, and saw a troop of black-faced monkeys, big
fellows three or four feet high, clambering over it.  They
caught his eye at last, and then the shower was
renewed in earnest.  He saw their switching tails and
grinning teeth.  And oh, the chattering and jabbering
from five-and-twenty monkeys in a passion was
something very tremendous indeed!  Oliver gathered
up a handful of the sticks which were showered around
him, and shied them back again.

"Stop, stop, my lad!" shouted Mr. Desborough.
"Throwing at monkeys will not do.  Come in here."

Oliver darted into the counting-house, fully
believing the riot he had been anticipating among the men
was already in full swing among the monkeys.

"They are hunimans, my boy, the most sacred of
all the monkey tribe.  Had you hurt one of them you
might have paid for it with your life.  Timid and
peaceable as my men appear, they would have mobbed
you in a moment," exclaimed Mr. Desborough.

"Peaceable!" repeated Oliver; "why, they are
yelling like furies."

"Oh, they are watching the locusts.  Can't you see
them coming?" replied Mr. Desborough, pointing to
the rapidly-moving cloud, which seemed extending
itself in every direction, darkening the air as it came.

"Strange," said the boy; "but I have something
here for you that is stranger still."

As he was speaking Oliver unpacked a lump of
clayey earth, and showed it to him with an elation he
could scarcely conceal.

"Look at that, Mr. Desborough.  Do you see those
marks?  What are they?" he demanded breathlessly.
"The print of a child's foot," he added, after a
momentary pause.  "The most sagacious hunter among
the hills dug it up two nights ago at the entrance of
the koond by the ruined temple.  It is proof positive
that a wild child is wandering in the jungle.  Can it
be your lost little one?"

The father's hand trembled as he held up the lump
of earth to the fast-decreasing light.

"Send for Iffley!" he exclaimed.

"He is waiting for you, Mr. Desborough—waiting
at my uncle's with the wonderful old man who dug
up the footprint.  We have gathered the most
experienced beaters and trackers from the villages round.
By the time we reach my uncle's bungalow he will
have everything ready to beat the koond."

Mr. Desborough waited to hear no more.  He was
already striding across the open space between the
sheds towards his home.  Oliver hurried after him.
The sky above them was darkened by a fluttering host
of beating wings.  Look which way they would, the
air was thick with locusts, appearing like dark-red
spots in the increasing gloom, but white as snowflakes
where the sunlight still lingered.

The fearful hullaballoo the factory-workers were
making to prevent the locusts settling down was
caught up and redoubled by every ghareewan at the
factory gate.  The living cloud that now completely
overhung the place was slowly and surely descending.

Up went the shower of stones, forcing it to rise
some feet into the air and flutter further.

The men knew well if the locusts were once permitted
to settle, not a green leaf would be left in the
village, and the sahib's garden would become a barren
waste before sunrise.

The exceeding singularity of the sight, which held
Mrs. Desborough spell-bound on her veranda, was
altogether lost upon her husband, who saw nothing but his
children slowly returning from their evening stroll,
like all the rest of the world, gazing upwards.  Oliver
alone cast a wary eye at the monkeys, who, having
given the young stranger notice to quit in their most
peremptory fashion, were making off again to rob the
nearest fruit-shop whilst its owner stood gazing at the
wondrous insect army hovering in mid-air.

Mr. Desborough snatched his boy from under the
ayah's arm, pulled off his shoes and socks, and bade
him stamp his feet with all his might on the garden bed.

Mrs. Desborough called out in horror, for she thought
some one of the myriad insects in earth or air would
be sure to dart a fiery sting into the pretty "pink,
five-beaded sole."

Determined to spare her the burning suspense which
Mr. Desborough was telling himself was sure to end
in the bitterest disappointment, he would not let
Oliver enter the compound.

"Iffley has sent for me," was all the explanation he
volunteered as he seized the gardener's spade, and dug
up the clod upon which Horace had been stamping.
He dared not tell her more, for he saw too plainly her
grief for the missing little one was sapping her life.
Any sudden shock and a spasm at the heart might
snatch her from him in a moment.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`BEATING THE KOOND`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XII.


.. class:: center large bold

   *BEATING THE KOOND.*

.. vspace:: 2

As the boondee, with its two Mysore oxen, came
in sight, Major Iffley, who had been watching
for it at the gate of the deputy's compound, rode out
to meet it.

"Come, old boy," he said to Mr. Desborough; "we
are only waiting for you.  Marching orders have been
out an hour or more.  Come in and change your coat.
No use going on an errand like ours in any colour
but dead-leaf brown.  St. Faine has got one waiting
for you.  Only be quick, for the brutes have not yet
left their lair, and we have a four-mile ride to reach it."

Out sprung Mr. Desborough.  Dare he put so much
faith in a few faint marks on a crumbling clod?  Yet
he was the first in the saddle as the hunting-train
set forth from Runnangore.  A most singular sight
awaited them.  As they looked down into the
valleys they saw them filled with fluttering wings, and
every mountain height encircled by its reddish cloud.
All locusts, and nothing but locusts.  Vultures and
kites flew about in great disorder.  A cold breeze
from the hills told of the probability of a coming
storm.  In sheltered places the oppression in the air
was awful.  The locusts called off the attention of the
men, but they also concealed them from the keen,
bright eyes that were waking up with thoughts of
evening prey.

As they drew nearer the hills, the ground became
so rough and broken the horses began to stumble.
There was nothing for it but to dismount, leave the
horses with the grooms, and proceed on foot.  Tara
Ghur, the old hunter with the wonderful Tartar eye,
took the lead.  On, on they crept in perfect silence,
until they perceived the sheen of a pool of water
sparkling at their feet.  It lay at the base of a
projecting spur of rock, and was overlooked by the
picturesque ruins of a native temple.  It was small, and
overgrown with tall tropical weeds.  The flight of
steps to the temple court was half buried in mud.
The white pillars of the colonnade which surrounded
it were still unbroken, but the dome above the shrine
had fallen in.  Yew and cypress flourished on the
spot where Hindu suppliants were used to bring their
offerings to Mata Devee, the dreaded goddess of
destruction.

How strange Oliver felt it to be living in a land
where idols abound!  One by one they climbed the
broken stair, and gathering round the prostrate figure
of the fallen idol, arranged their plan.  From this
ascent they looked down upon the sombre depths of
the rugged koond.  Round the shoulder of the hill, on
the other side, was the entrance to a similar gorge.
Tara Ghur led them towards the one in which he had
dug up the footprint.  He sent the jogies forward
one after the other, like a living ladder, until they
reached the topmost height of the precipice at the back
of the koond.

Another division, who were to act as scouts, climbed
the trees, some of them warily venturing further and
further into the leafy abyss, leaping like monkeys
from bough to bough.

Mr. Desborough, the deputy, and the major took
up their position where the opening was the narrowest,
so that no living thing hiding within the darkest
recesses could rush out unseen.  Mr. Desborough and
the deputy were on one side; the major, Oliver, and
the old shikaree on the other.  The space between
them was scarcely more than fifty yards across.  Old
Tara had marked the trees commanding the surest
outlook.  Mr. Desborough was the first to mount to
his post of observation.  The hunter handed him up
his loaded gun.

"No, no," said the father; "no firing."

"No firing!" repeated the major.  "Then how do
you expect to recover the child from a pack of raging
wolves?  Face the truth like a man, Desborough.
If your boy is alive in this jungle, some wolf has
adopted him, and it will guard that child with all the
affectionate fidelity of a noble-hearted dog."

"Ah! but you need the true, clear eye and unerring
hand of a William Tell.  Not one of us possesses them.
No, no; I dare not suffer a single shot to be fired,"
answered the father desperately.

"Well," interposed the deputy soothingly, "nothing
of the sort may be necessary.  We are not yet sure
this child, if child there be, is yours.  Trust us, we
have come to save it, not to hurt it.  Still, I say, we
must rescue it at all risks."

"Time, sahib, time presses," urged the shikaree.

They climbed into their appointed places.  The
deputy and Mr. Desborough on their side commanded
the better view.  Then the jogies began their work
at the back of the koond, hurling down fragments of
rock and stones, striking and crashing among the
trees, beating tomtoms and howling with all their
might.  The terrific row they made was repeated by
the hollow echoes from the opposite side of the
winding gorge, and was enough to scare even bears and
tigers from their sleep.

The shouts redoubled.  A tiny white flag, waving
on the top of a long bamboo, fluttered above the
tree-tops.  It was the signal from the jogies on the heights.
Something had been viewed.  All the father's life
seemed centring in his eye and ear.  The cry of the
jackals was beginning.  The scream of the owls was
echoed back from the temple ruins, where the bats
were wheeling in endless circles.  Then up rose the
moon, flooding the temple hill with its silvery
radiance, and giving an exaggerated profundity to the
depths of the ravine.  The pool, or jheel, below the
overhanging rock shone like a burnished shield.  In
the open ground between, which the beasts must cross
as they were driven out of the koond, any object could
be clearly seen.  Then the scouts who were posted in
the trees by the sides, each with his matchlock, blazed
away with powder only, to prevent any of the beasts
rushing up the steep, and turn them back towards the
watchers by the entrance.  There was a crashing and
heaving in the thick underwood.  A tiger showed and
hid again in the jow.

Oliver's heart gave a great bound.  Oh no, it was
not fear!  But he felt the presence of danger, and his
cheek grew pale with excitement.  Not a shot was
fired; not a sound escaped them.  There must be
nothing to intimidate the other inmates of the koond
which might be following.  The dead silence was
broken only by the tiger's grunting.  Did it scent its
foes in the trees around?  It did what nothing but
a tiger could ever do—sent its innocent young cub
before it into the danger.  What a contrast between
the tiger and the wolf!  But for once the unsuspecting
young one did not fall a sacrifice to its mother's
selfishness.  It ran towards the water, crouching in
the moonje grass which tigers love so well.  Another
furious onslaught from the jogies, and the mother
flashed past like lightning, rearing up and roaring as
it plunged into the jheel.  The scouts came down from
the trees and began to talk.  They were half afraid
the tiger was the only game that would show that
night.  Should they move on to the second koond
to seek for the wolves?  Then Tara Ghur bade all be
still.  His ear detected a movement in the distance—a
tremor among the leaves, which no one else would
have perceived.  The scouts changed their places,
flying back to the trees, and blazed away as before.

They were near to that korinda bush, but they did
not know it.  The tiger had started, and the patriarch
of the wolves gave tongue from the other koond.

Mr. Desborough turned away from the darkness
of the koond to watch the gaunt, lean, savage forms
that were gathering on the moonlit ground to follow
the track of the tiger.  A movement in the tangle
around escaped him.  But Tara Ghur was aware of
it.  Oliver saw him bend forward, and his eye was
quick to follow the hunter's.  Tara knew that
something was coming along the track where he dug up
the footprint.

That footprint!  The father was thinking of it.
The trace was so slight, yet it was exactly like
Horace's.  His heart was sickening with suspense.
Were they on a wrong scent, after all? thought the
major, when out leaped the family from the korinda,
with answering cries to the leader of the pack, who
was rushing down the slope.  The appalling howls of
his following, as they gathered from brake and bush,
might have chilled the stoutest heart.  No child was
there.  The tall grass bent and swayed about the tree;
then a small white form bounded from the midst of it
like a kangaroo, but the old gray wolf was beside it.

Shouts from opposite sides of the ravine gave
warning that something had been sighted.  The small
white thing dropped in the towering grass.  A gun
was fired.  It was Major Iffley's.  The wolf had
pounced upon her nursling.  The gun was loaded
with small shot for the purpose.  The major fired
along the ground.  The wolf received the charge in
her shoulder.  They could see her clawing the earth as
she felt the pain, and then dropped down as if she
were dead in the tufted grass.  They could hear the
screams of the terrified child.

"Carl!  Carl!" Mr. Desborough called in coaxing
tones of fatherly endearment, which rose to command
as he met with no reply.  The scouts were darting
from point to point, as far as ground and jungle
permitted.  The three friends sprang down from the
trees, only charging Oliver to stay were he was.  They
loaded their guns with ball, and advanced cautiously
to within a yard or so of the giant grass tuft.  They
stationed themselves at even distances, that whichever
way the wolf leaped out they might be ready to
shoot him sideways through the head, so that the
ball should not enter the tuft of grass.  Their first
object was to rouse the wolf and make it show.  They
trusted that terror would prevent the child leaving
the shelter in which it lay concealed.

Tara Ghur had broken off a tall branch from the
tree in which he had remained, and creeping along
one of its mighty arms, peered down into the grass,
but could see nothing.  He stirred it up with the
broken branch, but roused nothing except a screaming
pea-hen.

He leaped to the ground.  "The wolf is gone!"

"But the child—the child!" gasped Mr. Desborough,
laying down his gun and forcing his way into the
tangled mass.  No child was there.  The wolf had
doubled upon them so swiftly and so stealthily, it
seemed as if the ground had opened to swallow it up.
The scouts jumped down from their trees, and all
separated, taking different paths, to try and find which
way the wolf had gone,—all but the old shikaree
and Oliver, who was still aloft.  Mr. Desborough was
foremost; he no longer waited for the hunter's
guidance.  Yes, he had seen his child.  He believed now
it was his fair-haired boy.  He had seen him and lost
him again.  The thought was madness.  The major,
gun in hand, kept close beside him.

Tara Ghur, who seemed, like the owl, to possess the
power of seeing in the dark, was tracing the way the
wolf had come, not the path by which it had fled from
them.

Oliver, beginning to be afraid of being left behind
in so wild a spot, climbed down again and followed the
hunter, who was the last to leave it.  The sailor-boy
had climbed so high into his tree, thinking to gain
a more commanding view, that he had not seen all
that was taking place at its foot.  Having first met
Oliver in the company of the Rana's son, old Tara
Ghur regarded him with something of the devotion
and respect he felt for his native chief.  He knew
the boy was safest by his side, and invited him by
gesture to follow.  So the two crept on through the
pathless wild no foot but theirs had ever penetrated.

If Oliver had found it hard work forcing his way
with Gobur through the grass clump by the river, it
was nothing to the task before him now.  There were
sudden drops into unseen nullahs, or watercourses,
and a dangerous climb in the darkness up the steep
bank, facing rolling stones from the jagged heights
above.  Now and again their only course was to climb
the trees, and swing themselves from bough to bough.
But through it all the hunter traced out the path
of the wolf with an unerring dexterity that was
perfectly marvellous to Oliver, tracking its course to the
sweeping boughs of the deserted korinda bush.

The bones about the gray wolf's home were gnawed
and dry.  It was evident the hungry mother had
suppered her young family on snails and field-mice;
and she must have gone far afield for these, for the
hunting-grounds about the hairy nest had been
clearing fast of late.  Old Tara tried to explain his
purpose, but Oliver did not half understand.  He could
only watch what the hunter was doing, and second
his efforts whenever he could.

"Child been here, sahib!" exclaimed Tara Ghur
suddenly, after carefully groping round and round
the well-made lair.

But their object was to capture, not to kill, and
Oliver began to wonder more and more how this
could ever be effected.

The shikaree paused in perplexity.  He had passed
his life among the wildest fastnesses of the district.
He had watched the ways of the living creatures who
lorded it there.  He had studied the tastes, habits,
and disposition of every creature in the forest.  He
was well aware the wolves would draw to their lair
with the return of day, and prepared to watch the
night out by the korinda bush.  Then a sudden
thought seemed to strike him.  He sprang up and
began anew to examine the ground around the path
the wolf had chosen.  A deep hole, the burrow of
some wild animal, gave him intense satisfaction.  He
heaved aside the decaying arm of a tree which had
fallen across it.  Oliver came to his help, and adding
his strength to that of the wiry hunter, they dislodged
it altogether, and laid the burrow open.

Oliver saw that it was a dangerous pitfall, and
wondered what was to be done with it.

Tara leaped down and began to enlarge it with the
hunting-knife he carried in his belt.  Then he tore
off a huge piece of bark from a neighbouring tree,
and pulled up a shrub by the roots.  With this
impromptu shovel and broom he set himself to clear
out the loose earth and stones which had collected in
the bottom of the hole.

Oliver meanwhile was keeping guard over the shikaree's
skin of meal and the earthen pot, which on this
particular occasion did not contain water.  What it did
contain he could not imagine, for the edge was sticky
in the extreme.  Before the moon began to wane the
burrow was enlarged to a good-sized pit.  The
shikaree grew exultant.  He beckoned to Oliver to follow
him, and the two wandered about among the trees
until they found some giant leaves of a bauhinia
creeper.

They stripped the stem as far as they could reach,
and returned with their load of leaves to the edge of
the pit.

The shikaree spread them on the ground before it.
Then he smeared them over with the contents of his jar.

"What is it?" thought Oliver—"bird lime?"

Then he saw what the clever old man was about—making
a wolf-trap.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`CAUGHT IN A TRAP`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XIII.


.. class:: center large bold

   *CAUGHT IN A TRAP.*

.. vspace:: 2

Whilst Oliver and the old shikaree were
working hard in the moonlight, Mr. Desborough
and his friends were in hot pursuit of the
flying wolves.

The major, who was the keenest sportsman of the
three, gave it as his opinion that their wisest course
was to keep the pack in sight.  The wolf with the
child was rushing from its covert in answer to the
patriarch's call, and would be sure to join the others
sooner or later.

Up came some of the jogies, breathless and panting,
to declare they had heard the cry of the child far up
the hill, toward the temple ruins.  If so, the wolf
must have been retreating to the second koond, on the
other side of the hill.  The deputy, who was anxious
to pick up his nephew, turned back to beat it with
another party of the jogies, who were examining the
tracks about the jheel.

"Mind you beat up stream," shouted the major, as
he sprang into his saddle, prepared to give chase to
the wolves.

They came up with the pack at the head of a
valley, where they were picking the bones of a spotted
deer some tiger had brought down.  But no child was
among them.  In a country so full of cover it was
impossible to say where the little fugitive might be
hiding.  So they posted chakoos, or lookouts, all about,
to give instantaneous notice if anything showed.

In the gray of the dawn, disheartened and weary,
the friends drew together once again.  Hunting-flasks
were taken out, and counsel held in the weed-grown
court of the temple.

"Our hour is coming," said the major cheerily.
"Wait until the day is well up, and we shall find the
child asleep under one of these bushes.  Now for
some lure to make it show.  We must beat them all."

"And frighten him into idiocy, if his dawning sense
has not been scared away already!  He knew me no
longer," exclaimed Mr. Desborough.

"Surely he would recognize his mother's voice,"
put in the deputy.

"I dare not risk the torture of suspense like this
for her; but we might have Kathleen.  If he remembers
anything, it would be Kathleen," answered Mr. Desborough.

"Send for her at once without alarming Mrs. Desborough,"
said the deputy, taking out his pocket-book;
and scribbling a note to his niece, he despatched his
syce with it to Runnangore.

At a very early hour, Bona's dandy appeared once
more at the gate of the compound at Noak-holly.

"I have come in the cool of the morning," she said,
"to fetch your little girl to spend the day at
Runnangore.  You must not refuse her to me, dear
Mrs. Desborough, for Mr. Desborough wishes her to accept
my invitation."

But Kathleen did not much like Bona, and did not
want to go, until Bona whispered, "Hush! not a
word; but come you must.  They are searching for
Carl in the jungle."

Oh how tedious it seemed to wait until the little
beebee was bathed and dressed!

In the meanwhile Oliver was nodding in his tree,
waiting for the shikaree's signal.  The old man was
listening for the faintest sound.  Not a quiver in the
bush below escaped him; not the beat of a weary wing
as the night-birds drew to their haunts; not a tremble
in the grass at his feet, where the children of the day
were awaking.

The wind changed with the daybreak, and the wary
hunter changed his position with it.  He swung
himself from tree to tree, leaving no footprint on the
ground that the keen scent of the wolf might detect.
Avoiding the trees where the branches grew low to
the ground, he stationed the boy at a far greater
distance than before.  Again they watched and
waited.  A few sharp, trotting steps went by, and a
dhole sprang from the thicket.

"Bear," murmured Tara, as the creature turned
aggressive, and dashing out with a rush upon the
wild dog, charged him fiercely.

In the noise of their scuffle other sounds were
lost.  But the flap of the vulture's wing, the scream
of the kite, and the hoarse gobble-gobble of the still
more numerous turkey-buzzards grew more and more
distinct as the red light of morning painted the
eastern sky.

The sun arose, and the furry tyrants of the
midnight fled before it.  The tiger was slumbering in
the moonje grass he loves so well; the spotted
leopard chose out his favourite tree, uprising from the
thickest underwood, and coiled himself up for his
mid-day rest; the bear trotted off to his den behind the
fallen rock; the spotted deer roamed freely; and the
peacocks, with which the jungle abounded, spread
their glorious tails in the sunlight.

Then Tara Ghur descended his tree, and signing to
Oliver to follow, stealthily approached the pit.

The large leaves of the bauhinia creeper and the
pranes tree, a kind of sycamore, with which he had
carpeted the path of the wolf, had been trampled
down and displaced.  Some had altogether vanished.
The old man's eyes were flashing with their steeliest
blue as he felt success was sure.

Avoiding the remnants of the bird-lime leaves, which
were strewn about in all directions, he led his young
companion to the other edge of the pit.  Something
had been caught.  The sombre gloom around, the
perpetual twilight which reigned all day in those deep
recesses, prevented him from telling what it was.  It
seemed like blanket, not hair, that was covering a
dark heap in the corner, besmeared with many a leaf.
There was more than one denizen of the pit.  How
he smiled as he was bending over it!  Oliver was
watching a foolish hare, which came with a light
bound across the treacherous pathway.  As its feet
touched a well-smeared pranes leaf, they were set
fast, and not all its frantic endeavours could free
itself.  It rolled over and over, lifting the leaf high
into the air, as far as its paws could reach.  It bit it
frantically; lips and paw were glued together.  It
struggled harder still to regain its liberty, until it
became a rolling ball of dirt and leaves, every movement
bringing it nearer and nearer to the sloping edge
of the pit, into which it must have fallen if Oliver
had not caught it in his arms and set it free.

The hunter recalled his attention.  A faint sound
was audible, like the feeble fret of a weary child.
Oliver's cap went high into the air.  Tara reminded
him of the necessity for silence by laying his finger
on his lips.  Then he took the hunting-knife from his
belt and felt its edge.

Oliver's eyes were growing more accustomed to the
all-pervading gloom, and he began to see more clearly.
He leaned over the edge of the pit.  There was the
wolf crouching in one corner, and a shapeless bundle
in the other.  Many a treacherous leaf was sticking
fast about the shaggy coat, and one hind leg was
evidently broken by its fall.  Was that a bundle of
leaves it was cuddling between its fore paws, and
washing so lovingly despite its pain?

"Child found—found!" whispered the old man
triumphantly, as he returned his knife to his belt and
began to descend.

Swift as lightning the young sailor-boy slid down
before him.  He guessed the hunter's purpose.  He
saw the gleam of the sharpened blade, and seized the
old man's arm.

"No, no; don't kill the wolf!" he entreated.

"Maro! maro!" shrieked a voice behind them, and
a woman's face peeped out of the dirty blanket.  The
jewels round her neck shone like stars in the darkness.
"Maro!" she reiterated.

"Maro."  Oliver knew that word—"Kill it."  The
old shikaree was muttering the same.  But Oliver
only grasped his arm the tighter.  "Should we be
harder-hearted than a wolf?" he urged.  "What are
we, if we reward the generosity that spared the
victim in her very teeth, with the knife?"

Tara Ghur looked at him in astonishment.  "But
the mighty lords that are coming will make it eat
their bullets," he answered under his breath.

Oliver knew he was arguing with a man who bent
the knee to hideous idols without number.  Yet he
was a man, and deep down in his heart the law of
God was written, "Do as you would be done by"—a
law that is never quite obliterated in any human
breast, however persistently disobeyed.  Although of
another race, Tara had learned something of the Hindu
tenderness for animal life, and he listened when
Oliver still went on: "You have caught the wolf so
cleverly, Tara.  If there is not another hunter in all
the hills that could do it, I am sure that you can get
the child away without killing the wolf, if you will
only try.  I want it for Rattam," he added.  The last
argument was all-prevailing.  The knife went back
into the old man's belt.  They looked around.  Their
first endeavour was to reassure the unfortunate woman.

She was crossing to Nataban, and had lost her way
in the jungle, where she had been wandering about all
night.  Her feet slipped on the bird-lime, and she
fell, as the wolf had fallen, into the hunter's trap,
where she was forced to remain huddled up in her
blanket, expecting every moment the brute would
turn and devour her.  But deliverance had come
with the morning.  Her gratitude knew no bounds.
Oliver scrambled out of the pit, and gave her a hand
from above, while Tara lifted her up on his shoulder;
and so between them they dragged her back to the
daylight, if daylight it might be called.

The dirty blanket was dropped in the pit, and the
Thibetan woman stood before them in her necklaces
and rags.  Oliver had not forgotten little Kathleen
and the mountain milkmaid.  Could those three
strings of beads belong to any one else?  But he
dared not stay to question.  He left her seated and
trembling on the root of a tree, and leaped down into
the pit again.  The wolf was blinded by the birdlime,
but she had heard their voices.  Like all wolves
when caught in a pit, she was completely cowed.
Instead of offering the least resistance, she stretched
herself at the bottom of the pit, as if she were dead,
with her fore paws over her nursling, hiding him all
she could.

The hunter, who knew what wolves will do under
such circumstances, guessed it was only pretence.
She could not get out of the pit herself; and he had
known wolves artful enough to let him drag them
out, without showing the slightest sign of life, and
when he had left them lying on the ground, believing
they were dead, they would suddenly start up and
run away.

Tara Ghur explained this to Oliver as well as he
could, assuring him in this state she would submit to
be handled.  It was clear she had not attempted to
touch the woman.  Under any other circumstances
she would have torn her to pieces.

The boy's heart gave a great leap of joy.  He saw
a baby's foot twitching between the outstretched paws.
Old Tara saw it too.  He took from the bosom of his
loose brown vest, which is the Hindu's pocket, a coil
of rope, and was tying a slip noose at one end, when
Oliver guessed his purpose.  In another moment the
noose would have been round the gray wolf's throat.
Oliver knew the old man was only doing his duty to
those who had employed him to find the child and
destroy the wolf, but he could not bear to see him
kill the noble-hearted creature with the child in her
paws—the child she had spared and cherished and
guarded from unimaginable perils all those months!
"We must, we ought to spare her in our turn," he
cried, pushing back the noose as far as her jaw.
"We will muzzle her; that's enough."

But the collar to fix the muzzle was wanting.  Oliver
was wearing knickerbockers and a loose brown blouse,
belted round his waist.  He tore off his belt and
slipped the buckle down: there was the collar they
wanted.  Whilst Tara still held the ends of the rope,
securing the wolf's mouth, Oliver slipped his belt
under her chin, and buckled it firmly at the back of
her neck.  Then they drew the two ends of the rope
over her forehead and knotted them to the belt, and
the wolf was securely muzzled.  With the end of the
rope which he still held Tara pulled her backwards,
and Oliver snatched up the child, all sticky with
the bird-lime, and covered with the dust and dirt in
which it had been rolled; but its limbs were warm
and strong, for it resisted his attempts to hold it.
He was by far the stronger of the two, but the
struggle might rouse the wolf to animation.  Oliver
slipped two fingers into his pocket, which he was in
the habit of filling from the Rana's jars, and pushed
a bit of the beautiful sweetmeats with which they
were filled into the tiny mouth.  The little creature,
so long a stranger to the taste of sugar, sucked its
lips with pleasure.  It must have been hungry.  He
fed it with all he had, until Tara came and took it
from him to carry it out of the pit.  Oliver watched
him scramble to the top with the child in his arms,
but he did not follow when he saw them safely on
the bank.  There was something else he wanted to
do.  He was not going to leave the wolf down there,
with a broken leg, to perish slowly from hunger and
thirst: that would be cruelty indeed.  He stood a
while considering the broken limb.

"Sahib! sahib!" called the hunter.  Oliver's plan
was made; so he grasped the dusky hand which was
stretched out to him, and clambered up.

The ragged woman had taken the child in her
arms, and was trying to rub off some of the dirt
which covered it with the corner of her chuddar,
the loose garment the Hindu women wear.  Her own
had once been pink, but had now lost all trace of its
original colour.

What child had they found?  Was it black or
white?  Who could answer the question in its state
of dirt in that dim twilight?  Had it been so long
with the wolves that it had learned their ways, or
had it become dumb with terror?  No sound came
from its lips but a low fret.

Old Tara drew his fingers over its shock of matted
hair and parted its toes; but its shape was enough
for him—it was no Hindu.  Not one white spot was
to be seen about it.  No matter; the old man was
confident he had found the lost one.

They were now at the very head of the koond, far
away from the rest of their party, who were vainly
beating the bushes about the sloping ground below
the temple.  The long night-watch had made them
hungry.  Tara looked about for a breakfast for his
companions.  The chasm which divided the koond
had changed to a rushing torrent during the rains,
and he searched along its banks for the nest of the
black goose.

Date-trees, which abound in every part of Bengal,
were not far to seek.  He quickly wove himself a
basket of leaves, and brought back his spoil in
triumph.  He found Oliver cutting up a strip of
bark with his penknife, talking to the woman as best
he could.

He had discovered that her name was Kopatree.
She had been tending cows among the hills.  A
buffalo had attacked them; she fled for her life, and
lost her way.  If they could only guide her back to
the road or to the village by the Rana's castle, she
could find her way.

"Have you been working at the sanitarium high
up on the hills?" asked Oliver.

"Yes; before the rains began."  She remembered
the weeping beebee, and her distress for the lost one.

All agreed it would not be safe to take the long
walk through the jungle towards the ruined temple,
as the child might set up screaming any moment, and
bring the wolf's mate upon them, with the whole
pack at his heels.  No; they must steal away while
the wolves were well settled in their mid-day sleep.
Better climb the rocks under which they were
resting, and seek hospitality at the Rana's castle.

When this decision was reached, Oliver slid down
into the pit, with his strips of bark in his pocket.
He had no scruple about appropriating the dirty
blanket, resolving to buy its luckless owner a better
in Noak-holly bazaar.

His father's sailors had so often brought back some
strange pet from foreign parts, to amuse them on
their homeward voyage, that he was not so afraid of
touching the wolf as many boys would have been.
Once they had had a lion cub, and twice a bear, so
that he had had a little training as a menagerie-keeper.
He tore off a strip of the blanket, and knelt
down, with his little bundle of splints by his side, and
set the poor broken leg as well as he was able,
keeping the splints in place with his blanket-bandages.
This done, he clambered out of the pit with the end
of the rope in his hand, and tethered the wolf to the
nearest tree, for the rope uncoiled to a considerable
length.

Tara Ghur was impatient to be gone, for he knew
that a storm was impending, was stealing over them,
with the growing heat of the day.  Suddenly in a
moment the mighty trees of the forest swayed hither
and thither, bowing their giant heads as a furious gust
of wind swept through their leafy arcades; and he
knew it was time to be gone.

Making prize of the remainder of the dirty blanket,
he slung the child to his back.  The bag of atta
and the pot of bird-lime were left behind under a
heap of stones.  The old man led them by a path
the wild goats had made.  As they began to climb
the steep ascent, he grasped Oliver by one hand,
Kopatree seized the other, and so between them they
almost carried him along, until the topmost height
was reached.





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.. _`THE HOMEWARD ROAD`:

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   CHAPTER XIV.


.. class:: center large bold

   *THE HOMEWARD ROAD.*

.. vspace:: 2

The old hunter's forethought was apparent now;
for the child at his back began to howl most
dismally as poor little Carl became aware that he was
being carried away from his forest home.  Oliver's
sweetmeats were exhausted, and words, entreaties, and
caresses were lavished on him in vain.

Through his wonderful power of observation, and
the experiences of his adventurous life, old Tara knew
as accurately as any scientific professor how surely
sound descends.  Ah, what if the wolves should
awaken!

He knew the whole pack were sleeping in the dark
shadows of the gorge where he had found the child,
and he knew also that nothing makes a wild beast
so angry as being wakened from its mid-day sleep.
Carly's wild howl grew louder and louder—it might
bring death upon them all—and nothing would
still it.

But for the sudden breeze which had tempered the
air, Oliver would have dropped with the noonday
heat.  As it was, he found it almost impossible to
keep up with his companions.  His thirst was becoming
unbearable, when Tara espied in the distance one
of the water-sheds which are built all over the sides
of the hills where there is water.  The little party
made their way towards it, grateful for the refreshing
shade its roof afforded.  In the shed there was a
range of stone troughs, filled from the running stream
by which it was built; and round these troughs
were a row of pipes, some made of reeds and some
from hollow trees.  It was a curious sight to see
them spouting out water with a gentle, trickling fall.
A native hill-man had brought up his oxen to drink,
and whilst they slaked their thirst, he was smoking
his pipe in the cool, damp shelter.  Two women were
filling their pitchers, and after the fashion of
hill-mothers, they had laid their babies to sleep under the
water-spouts.  The Thibetan caught sight of the little
black faces sleeping so peacefully, and ran to place
their howling burden beside them.  She laid little
Carl down, with his head within a few inches of a
spouting reed.  The effect was instantaneous.  The
eyes and mouth closed slowly, and the child fell into
a profound, sweet sleep, which she knew would last
as long as they left him under the spout.

Tara Ghur was talking to the herdsman, who lent
him his pipe.  Oliver begged a draught of water from
one of the women's pitchers, and washed his face and
hands at one of the many rills that were flowing so
prettily around him.  He was thinking that Bona
would consider herself a queen in the plainest of the
necklaces worn by the ragged and dirty creature
before him.  He was wondering whether it would be
safe to leave her with the sleeping child whilst he
went on with the shikaree to the Rana's castle.

But no; he decided Mr. and Mrs. Desborough would
never forgive him if he lost sight of their scarcely
recovered treasure.  No; he must wait until Carl was
so soundly asleep that they could take him up and
carry him away without waking him.

"Rest, sahib," urged the hunter, pointing to the
trickling reeds.

Hungry as he was, Oliver laid himself down,
intending to watch, not to sleep.  But the heat and the
drowsy influences of the gentle shower-bath overcame
the boy, and he was soon as fast asleep as the child.
After his night's adventures in the forest, the
sensation was most delightful.  Care and fear seemed to
vanish, and his dreams transported him to the beauties
of fairy-land.  The horned heads of the oxen came
alarmingly near, but they did not disturb the blissful
tranquillity in which he lay, as if he were spell-bound.

Tara's hand upon his shoulder roused him at last.
He heard the faint, low musical tinkle of a distant
bell from the idol-temple, where the Rana worshipped
his monkey-headed divinity; where he took his
young sons to be sprinkled with consecrated water,
and have their limbs touched with all imaginable
substances, until Rattam was thoroughly cross.  He
was crosser than usual this morning, being bored out
with the tedious childish ceremonies which he had
had to sit through in stately silence.

It was delightful to receive a message from a
native woman, as he came out of the temple, to tell
him the hunter had returned, and was waiting with
the young sahib at the water-shed.

When the shikaree touched Oliver on the shoulder,
the milk-white ass, the gold-fringed umbrella, and
the crowd of dusky attendants were advancing with
Rattam across the intervening plateau.

"What does my brother in so mean a place," he
asked, "when tiffin waits him in our castle-hall?"

Oliver stretched himself and rubbed his eyes, not
at once remembering all that had happened.  Then
recollection came back, and he sprang to his feet,
pointing to the sleeping child, and gave Rattam's hand
a hearty Yorkshire grip.

The girlish young Oriental smiled, although he
felt as if his fingers would all be out of joint: and
pointing to a led ass behind him, signed to Oliver to
mount.

The Thibetan had hid herself in the shed.  But
Rattam would not come near poor Carl.  "He will
bite," he said warningly, and his attendants shared in
his belief.  Not one of them dared touch Carl.

"Give him to me," shouted Oliver; for it was easy
to see the Thibetan was growing fearful by contagion.

Oliver tumbled into the saddle.  The hunter gently
lifted up the child and laid it across his knees.  A
running syce led the ass, and another carried an
umbrella over it, shading Oliver and his novel burden
from the dazzling sun.  Rattam rode beside him.

Tara Ghur came up, bending to the very ground
before them.  He was anxious to be the first to carry
the good news to the search-party below the koond.
He was thinking of his well-earned reward, and he
did not want another messenger to share it.  So they
bade him go.

Rattam called to his attendants to halt under the
leafy arches of a banyan tree, that they might watch
Tara leaping down into the koond, springing from
bough to bough, as if food and sleep were luxuries,
to be enjoyed in leisure hours alone.  Then Oliver
blamed his sleepy head that he had not spoken again
about the wolf.

"O Rattam," he urged, "you have one empty den
in the corner of your lovely gardens; will you have
it there?  Think of the love that could transform a
wolf!  You should have seen its face as I did, when
we first looked down into the pit.  It made me feel
there is nothing in the world so beautiful as
love—nothing so strong.  And when we had got the child
away, I could not bear to let Tara hurt the wolf.  The
same God who made us made it.  God is love.  Does
not he care for the whole world around, for everything
he has made?  How will he look on the cruelty
of leaving the noble brute to perish in the pit?—and
I've done that."

"Forget it," said Rattam; "remember only you
have rescued the child."

Oliver hugged the sleeping bundle of life in his
arms.  "Oh, don't mistake me!" he said passionately.
"But now we have got him away, it is such cruelty
to leave the wolf tied as I have tied it.  Surely you
must see it is.  And I have let the hunter go."

Perhaps Rattam did not see just what Oliver
desired he should; but the young idolater was struck
by his companion's earnestness.  With all a Hindu's
reluctance to take the life of the animals around him,
he had no care for the cruelty of leaving the wolf to
perish; yet, like a flash in the darkness, a sense of
the difference between him and the English boy was
stirring in his heart.

"It is too much like striking a fallen foe," urged
Oliver, as they resumed their journey.

"Nay," returned Rattam; "I accept the gift: the
wolf is mine.  There is my father."

The Rana in his everyday dress of ordinary white
cotton could only be distinguished from the headman
of his village by the silver ring on his finger and the
fineness of the shawl about his waist.  He was driving
back from the village when he encountered his son.

Meanwhile the old shikaree had raised the signal
of success agreed upon.  He had sent up a tall column
of smoke whilst Oliver slept, by setting fire to a patch
of grass.  The nearest scout had seen and repeated it.
The tiny flags on the long bamboos which his
companions carried had waved the good news from the
jagged cliffs across the temple ruins, from point to
point along the broken ground, until it reached the
father's ears.

The boys glanced round, and saw the wearied
jogies swarming up the steep ascent above the
koond, towards the slip of table-land on the verge
of the forest behind the Rana's castle.

Foremost of all came Mr. Desborough up the precipitous
path, until the footing for the well-trained
mule he rode became too precarious.  Then he sprang
to the ground, flung the bridle to his syce, and
hurried along on foot.  The two friends following
copied his example.

Rattam and Oliver turned back to meet them; then
they perceived the old shikaree running before them
as their guide.  His tattered garments were so
exactly the colour of the waving grass and scattered
bushes through which he was leading them, that he
looked more like some huge grasshopper than a
living man.

They saw him pointing to the castle wall and
gesticulating frantically in all the pride of his
hardly-earned success, counting on the moment when he
should lay the rescued little one in its father's arms.
Then far down behind the lingerers of the scattered
party they heard the echo of the dandy-wallahs'
song.  Despite the stubborn temper of the thing
he was riding, Oliver did manage to press forward,
and lifting up the sleepy child, he held it
conspicuously before him.  Of course he waked up Carl, and
the howling wail again began.

Was ever any sound so grateful to Mr. Desborough's
straining ears?

"There, there; listen!" he exclaimed, as he cleared
the ground between them and came up panting.

.. _`160`:

"Here is the child, Mr. Desborough!" cried Oliver.
"Now tell us, is he yours?"

"Turned nurse, my boy?" laughed the major.

Oliver answered with a shrug and a grimace, growing
ridiculous, as he felt their task was accomplished.

Mr. Desborough sat down with the child on a
lichen-covered stone.  Where were the clear blue
eyes?  Gummed up.—Where was the soft fair hair?
A shock of dirt.

The child snapped savagely at the hand that was
fondling him, and renewed his wail.

"Take care," said Rattam.  "I warned you it
would be dangerous," backing his ass as he spoke.

"Quiet!"  The single word fell from the major's
lips in the stern tones of military command.  The
howl ceased, and the child lay passive in
Mr. Desborough's arms.  They soon found out how well it
had learned the all-important lesson of obedience in
the wild wolf's nest.

"A good scrub would be an improvement, I am
thinking," remarked the deputy, with more drollery
in the corner of his eye than Oliver had imagined
him to possess.

The whole party were gathering now.  They drew
together under the banyan tree.  In its grateful
shadow there was room for all; for its arching
branches had struck root as they touched the ground,
forming a succession of leafy cloisters, until a grove
had grown from a single tree.  The overwhelming
thankfulness in Mr. Desborough's heart lay far too
deep for words as he looked the child well over,
and felt it was his own—his Carl.

There were laughter and rejoicing all around him;
but his brow was grave with the depth of his
gratitude when the dandy-wallahs came up.  As Kathleen
peeped from her swinging carriage, she saw but one
face, and that was her father's.

What did it mean?

He looked up and smiled at her.  His eye was
off the child just for one moment.  Carl sprang into
the air with a bound, leaping off like a frog to the
tufted grass.  Everybody ran—even Rattam.  But
Kathleen and her bearers faced him.  They set the
dandy on the ground, and ran round and round,
scaring the queer little creature back, but not daring to
touch him.  Kathleen, peeping through the curtains
of her dandy, saw it all.  The great love that was
throbbing in her childish heart shut out every thought
of fear.  The strange wild thing gave another leap.
She tumbled out of the dandy, and as it touched the
grass, with hands outspread, she caught it in her
arms.  The thing seemed nothing better than a
human frog, with half-blind eyes and champing teeth.
Save where the leaves clung to it, as if they had been
glued, the little figure was completely naked and
covered with slimy dirt.  What did it matter? she
loved him the more.

"You will have hard work to get the child home
in safety yet," said Major Iffley; "you will have to
secure it somehow.  Borrow a cummer-band and
swathe it round and round like a mummy."

"No bad thought," added the deputy; "something
must be done."

Mr. Desborough was kneeling by his children.
Before the major had finished speaking, an elderly
bearer in Rattam's train, who looked as if he had
huddled himself into a clean sheet to attend his young
chieftain at the temple service, threw off this
additional covering at a sign from his master and laid it
at the sahib's feet.

"Put it round us both, papa," said Kathleen, "and
then Carl won't mind it."  Mr. Desborough thought
the sunbeam she had been trying to entrap had made
its home in the happy eyes uplifted so pleadingly
to his.  "He will be good with me, papa; he always
was," she added.

The deputy was searching in his niece's dandy.
Yes; Bona had understood all his hasty directions.
At the back of the cushions there was the store of
cakes, sufficiently English-looking to delight a child.
"Here, Oliver," he said; "feed it."

"It."  The word jarred on Kathleen's ears.  "It
is not it," she persisted indignantly; "it is my pretty
Carl."

Mr. Desborough took the cake from Oliver's hand
and fed Carl himself.

The cake was devoured; and whilst he filled the
hungry mouth, the major passed the long length of
calico quickly round Carl's neck, enveloping arms and
feet, until the wild little harlequin was reduced to a
great white ball, at least in appearance.  How fast
the cakes were vanishing!

"O Bona!" muttered Oliver, too proud to take
the share he was longing for, "she might have sent
us more."

No one but Rattam heard the low-voiced grumble.

"Sahib," he said, "my father awaits you," waving
his hand in the direction of the castle wall.

But home was the word.  "Yes, home," repeated
Mr. Desborough—"home to his mother."

"Try a tub first," suggested the major.

Rattam was speaking to his shikaree.

"You have done my bidding, and you have done it
well," he said like a prince.  "Now bring me home
the wolf you have caught.  Bring it home alive to
the vacant den in the castle gardens."

Tara Ghur salaamed before his chieftain till the
dust rose up in a cloud between them.  Oliver grasped
the hand of his dusky friend once more.  How was
it he was always feeling Rattam more of a man than
himself, or far too much of a girl?

Now that poor little Carl was made safe, so that
he could not hurt any one, Rattam alighted, and drew
nearer to the group on the grass.

"Talk to Carly again, Kathleen," Mr. Desborough
was saying; "I believe he knows you.  But you must
not kiss him until I tell you it is safe," he added
quickly, as she threw her arms around her long-lost
brother.

Kathleen paused, and looked up in her father's face,
bewildered for a moment.

"Then I will not do it, papa.  I'll never forget
again to mind what you say."

The hand which had snatched her back patted her
fondly on the cheek, and the bitter pain which
Kathleen had felt so long vanished altogether as her
father answered,—

"Yes: I can trust you now, and I am going to
trust you to take Carl home, my darling."

He put them both into the dandy, and drew the
curtains closely round, so that nothing could be seen
by the children.  Bona's great bag of cakes was on
Kathleen's lap, and her father showed her how to
give Carl a bite without letting her fingers go near
enough to his teeth to be in danger of an angry snap.

Mr. Desborough had left himself a peep-hole, so
that his eye was never off his children for a moment
as he walked by the side of the dandy.  Had ever
father such a journey before?

"Now, Kathy," he said cheerily, "you can do what
no one else can do: you can make Carly listen.
See how his eyes follow yours!  Try and waken up
his old love; you were with him to the last.  Think
of all that he was fond of in his nursery days; no
one knows but you."

"Sahib! sahib!" entreated the coolies round, "no
trust it with the little beebee—no trust it; grow
angry, tear and bite."

Even the major and the deputy looked on doubtfully.
They had known Kathleen only as a little
wilful, heedless thing; but now they saw the better,
higher nature in the child, expanding through the
sorrow and the joy she had felt so deeply,—just as
young plants grow and blossom when sunshine follows rain.

"I should think myself a happy man, Desborough,
if I had such another fairy to call me father,"
observed the major, as they listened to Kathleen's cooing
voice as she chattered on.

"O Carly, don't you know your own, own sissy?
Now eat this, you dear, and Kath will give you
plenty more, all so nice.  There, there!"

"That sahib would blow the conch shell for a
daughter," remarked Rattam thoughtfully.  "I
remember how our people blew it loudly for joy when
Aglar was born; but when my little sister Deodee
came, they all began to sigh and lament.  I really
think it would be well for us if that were changed."

"Then change it all you can," retorted Oliver.
"Some day you and I will be men.  But you need
not wait for that; you are a brother now."

Rattam went home with a shadow on his brow,
and a hunger in his heart for better things.  We
know of the promise that such hunger shall be
satisfied at last; but Rattam knew only the favourite
Hindu saying, "As it has always been, so it always
will be," which fell like a wet blanket on his
new-born wish to try.  Yet that one day had not been
lived in vain.





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.. _`A LITTLE SAVAGE`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XV.


.. class:: center large bold

   *A LITTLE SAVAGE.*

.. vspace:: 2

As the search-party were descending the hills, the
Thibetan peeped out from the water-shed.
The sheen of her resplendent jewels caught Oliver's
eye, so he sent his uncle's syce to persuade her to go
with them to the Beebee Desborough, who knew her.
She was mourning over her lost cows, which she feared
some of the wandering robber tribes would drive
away if they found them straying.  They all wore
necklets of red cloth, she said, which she had sewn
with cowries in patterns.

Oliver was counting up his money, to see if he
could buy her a cow, when one of the jogies declared
he had seen them rush out from the jungle when they
were beating the second koond.  He was certain she
would find them roaming amidst the bushes below
the ruins.  So on she went, for the vultures and
kites were sweeping round and round in great
disorder—a sure presage of the approach of the storm
Tara Ghur had predicted.  A gust of cold wind swept
down from the highest peaks, driving before it a dark
and whirling cloud, which covered the travellers with
a thick pall of dust.

They groped their way, afraid to linger in the
dangerous neighbourhood of the koonds, and still
more afraid of losing each other.

Major Iffley rode about, looking up the stragglers;
and making the men close round the dandy, they
marched on.  A brooding silence filled the air, only
broken at intervals by the vulture's scream or the
beat of retreating wings.  Mr. Desborough parted the
curtains of the dandy and felt about, to assure
himself both children were safe.  Carl waked with the
darkness, and began to howl—the same wild howl
which had frightened the old shikaree in the
morning.  He was not there now to point out its danger.
But the Thibetan put her hand to her ear again and
again as she listened.  Was there an answer from the
distant koond?

"Do you hear anything?" asked Oliver, as the
first returning gleam of light showed them the gate
of Mr. Desborough's compound.  They had reached
his home, and might have passed it unawares, so
great was the darkness of the coming storm.  The
trees in his garden bent their proud heads, and swayed
from side to side like jungle grass as the rain came
down at last in a mighty torrent.  There was just
light enough to distinguish the white columns of the
veranda through the open gate.  There was a general
rush to shelter, for in those brief moments the
carriage drive had become a rushing river.  The gleam
of the lighted lamps in Mr. Desborough's hall cast a
glow of welcome on the sodden curtains of the dandy.
Mr. Desborough made his men carry it right through
the folding doors, and set it down on the middle of
the floor, whilst he carefully closed them behind it.
Major Iffley had divined his intention, and was already
shutting every other door which opened into the hall.
Oliver and his uncle were both shut out, and groped
their way to the dining-room window, where Bona
was standing watching the storm.

"You here!" they both exclaimed in surprise, as
she opened it to let them in.

"Why, yes," she hesitated.  "I grew so impatient
I came across to see if you had got home.  Have you
found anything?"

"Yes, yes!" they reiterated, as Mrs. Desborough
herself appeared behind her.

"Where is Kathleen?" she asked, looking beyond
the deputy—whom she failed to recognize in the
gloom of the storm—to the dripping coolies.  The men
were crowding in the veranda, rubbing their wet feet
and wringing the water from their calico garments.

In the hubble-bubble of the many tongues she
failed to understand anything.

"Kathleen is all right," said Bona quickly.  "I
told you she was with her father."

"Calm your anxiety, my dear Mrs. Desborough,"
began the deputy, with a seriousness which he
intended should prepare the way; but it only startled her.

"What does all this mean?" she asked, looking
from one to the other.

"It means—well, it means—" and the deputy
coughed to gain time.—"Just see, Oliver," he added
aside.

"Bother it!" muttered the boy; "I can't open this door."

Bona hastened to his help; but they pushed against
it in vain.

Mrs. Desborough, always apprehensive since Carl
was lost, was growing desperate.  "Where is
Kathleen?" she reiterated.

"Call her," suggested the coughing deputy to his nephew.

"Kathleen!" shouted Oliver.  "Do come to your mother."

"Are the doors all shut?" demanded Mr. Desborough
in return.

"Yes, yes!" echoed a chorus of voices as Mr. Desborough
walked in, carrying what seemed to his wife
to be nothing but a big bundle of calico.

Kathleen flew to her side.  Mrs. Desborough caught
hold of her by both hands.

"Do not look at me, mamma; look at what we've
found," said Kathleen excitedly.

"A child," continued Mr. Desborough, speaking as
quietly as he could.  "Come and look, my dear."

A flash of lightning lit up the darkened room for
one brief moment, and left it blacker than before.

"Bring lights," said Mr. Desborough.

"Yes; and order in the roast-joint, for this poor
lad has scarcely tasted food all day," put in Major
Iffley, laying his hand on Oliver's shoulder.
"Besides," he added in a low aside, "nothing will be so
attractive to that young animal as the savoury smell
of the roast.  I speak advisedly."

"Let us have our dinner, my dear," said Mr. Desborough,
turning to Mrs. Desborough as she bent
over the bundle in his arms.

The lights quickly appeared, followed by the ayah
with sponge, soap, and towel.

He took the sponge from her hand, and gently
washed the queer little face that was hiding itself
from the light under his arm.  He turned Carl slowly
round towards Mrs. Desborough.  But no amount of
dirt, no scars, no scratches, could hide the truth from
his mother.  She clasped him to her, exclaiming, "It
is ours—our own—our Carl!"

"Can it be possible?" cried Bona.

"With God all things are possible," said the deputy
reverently.  How Kathleen listened!  The servants
were hurrying in with the steaming dishes of
roast-meat, game and fowl.  The cloth had been laid an
hour ago, awaiting the return of the gentlemen.
There was little to do, but they made that little long
in their eagerness to catch sight of the lost and found.
At last they were all dismissed, and the doors made fast.

"Now, Iffley," said Mr. Desborough; and they
began to unwind the length of calico with which poor
Carly had been fettered.  Between them they got
him at last into a clean pinafore of Horace's which
the ayah had brought.

Then his mother took him on her lap; but how to
hold him was the difficulty.  He wriggled and twisted
himself into all sorts of contortions.  He had struck
with shoes and socks, and would have none of them,
and began his fearful howl once more.

"Quiet!" said Mr. Desborough, in a quick, decisive
tone; and the noise was hushed in a moment.  But
the light was obviously painful to Carl.  He put up
his hands, flickering his fingers before his eyes.

"He will howl again," said the major, "if we all
stand looking at him."

"Give him a bone," suggested Oliver, who was
going in for a good feed, a little quicker and faster
than etiquette allowed; but a day's starvation is no
joke, and everybody told him to help himself, and he
was just doing it.

Carl slid down from his mother's lap and sat under
the table sucking his bone contentedly.  Presently
he gave a rough, hoarse cry that sounded very much
like "More."  It was his first attempt to speak.
The wing of chicken on Kathleen's plate was in his
other hand in a moment.

"We are getting on," said the major, looking down
at the two small heads beneath the table, whilst the
deputy was explaining to Mrs. Desborough where and
how they had found her child.  It was a never-to-be-forgotten
hour: the storm was raging without, thankfulness
and wonder reigned within.

Oliver grew eloquent as he described the amazing
sagacity of Rattam's old hunter.  It was happiness
now to look back and see how slender was the thread
on which the poor child's fate had depended, and
how singularly it had been preserved in the midst of
unheard-of perils.  Mrs. Desborough's eyes were
welling over as she thought of her long-lost darling, in
the midst of the wild beasts in a trackless koond,
yet fed and cherished!  How?

By the mercy of our heavenly Father, as she truly
said, in the fervour of her mother's love.  But she
did not see the way in which the wonderful escape
had been brought about.  She knew nothing of the
double nature in the wolf; and they told her it was
safe in Rattam's cage.  That there was any danger
yet for her child, from the very love of the wolves,
never crossed her mind; how could it?

She had enough to think about.  Her child was at
her feet, but it had forgotten its home.  She saw it,
estranged and wild.

"Call him by his name," said Mr. Desborough.
"Call him Carl every time you give him anything to
eat, and he will remember his name; if not, he will
soon learn it afresh.  We must 'gentle' him, as the
grooms say, my dear.  Never fear; we shall bring
him round."

Carl had taken the wing of the chicken Kathleen
had brought him, and laid his other bone on the floor.
Kathleen still sat on the carpet by his side, with a
patience she had never shown to any one before.  He
had even rubbed his head against her shoulder, when
the moongus, which had been asleep in one corner
of the room, aroused, and seeing an inviting bone,
stole up to it for a taste.  Carl flew at it in savage
fury, tearing and raging.  The scuffle which ensued
before the two were parted filled Mrs. Desborough
with many fears for Horace, who was happily in bed
and asleep before his brother was brought home.
But to the surprise of every one present, when
Mr. Desborough made his voice heard above the din of
the combatants, Carl was silent in a moment, and
dropped back on the floor in instantaneous obedience.
After a little while he came creeping to his father's
feet.  Oh, it was piteous to see him so, and yet it
was hopeful.

Kathleen, who was trembling all over, put her
moongus out of the room, and ran back with her lap
full of playthings.  She had brought Carl's own old
drum that he used to be so fond of, and his horse and
cart, and a new steam-engine he had never seen.
"Perhaps," she thought, "he may remember these.  They
were his favourites; and Racy always loves my engine."  She
set it running on the floor before Carl's feet.
The major lifted up his corner of the tablecloth, that
he might watch the proceedings.  Carl gave one of
his frog-like leaps, pounced on the swiftly-moving
toy, and snapped it in two with a cry of delight.

"Never mind, dear," said Mrs. Desborough, turning
to Kathleen.

"Mind, mamma!" repeated Kathleen desperately;
"can I ever mind anything he does, when I know
that all this happened because I meddled with the
blind?  You told me never to touch it, and all my
crying would not undo the mischief.  Carl is better
than I am, mamma, for he has minded every word
papa has spoken."

"This comforts me, Kathleen, more than anything
else," answered her mother fondly.  "Always to obey
is the one great lesson for every child to learn, and it
cannot be learned too early.  It is the foundation-stone
of all that is good in after life—a young child's
safeguard and its shield.  If you both are careful to
obey, we shall soon bring Carly round, and all be
happy again."

Kathleen hung her head in her self-reproachful
shame.  She did not see the joy in her mother's eyes;
for there is no joy so dear to a mother's heart as the
joy of seeing her children try to overcome their faults,
and turn to all that is right and good.

No one else understood the whispered conversation;
they were all intent on Carl.  Oliver took up the
drum and beat a jolly tune.

Suddenly Carl sprang up and listened.  Yes, there
was a tiny creeping sound.  It was only the lizard
from behind the picture-frame that hung over the
sideboard coming out for its crumbs, which Kathleen
gathered for it every day after dinner.  It was a
pretty rose-pink creature, with a sharply-pointed tail
and bead-like eyes.  It had grown so tame it ran
between the plates, helping itself as it liked.

"Tic-tickee!" cried Carl, calling it by the Hindu
name his ayah had taught him, and grabbing at it
with both his hands.

Strange that he should remember the lizard, when
everything else was forgotten!  Had he played with
the lizards in the forest?  Oh, horror! he was going
to eat it.  Bona nearly screamed.  In her heart she
was almost as afraid of him as the Hindu servants,
and was thankful when the deputy talked of going,
for the storm was over.

"If you want us, Desborough," said Major Iffley,
"we are not so very far away.  But you will tame
your young savage all the better when you are alone."

They were careful even in the moment of departure
not to leave a door ajar, for fear little Carl should try
to rush out.

"Come and look at him to-morrow," replied
Mr. Desborough, "when a warm bath and his mother's
scissors have had their turn."

"Leave the shoes and socks for a day or two—that
is my advice," laughed the deputy as he rode away,
splashing through the flood that still surrounded the
compound.

The horse which had been found for Oliver was
tired with its day's hard work, and would not keep
pace with his uncle's and Bona's.  As he lagged
behind he heard a cow lowing in the moonlight.  He
thought of the Thibetan when he saw the horned
head drinking at the stream which drained the road.
He rode up to it, looking for the scarlet necklet she
had described.

There it was, embroidered all over with tiny shells
in a most fanciful pattern.  Laughing heartily to
think of so much ingenuity being wasted on a cow,
he drove it before him into the gates of Runnangore,
glad to have recovered one of the scattered herd for
their luckless owner.  He was sure that Mr. Desborough
would look after her; but he meant to take
her a new blanket all the same.





.. vspace:: 4

.. _`THE CONCLUSION`:

.. class:: center large bold

   CHAPTER XVI.


.. class:: center large bold

   *THE CONCLUSION.*

.. vspace:: 2

The sunrise found Old Gray Legs roaming through
the koond in search of his missing mate, whilst
the half-grown wolflings sat howling by the korinda
bush until the sun was high.  The time for sleep had
come.  They laid themselves down, but not to rest.
The most adventurous of them all had his ear on the
ground listening.  It heard Old Gray Legs give tongue
as he found himself at last on the track of his mate.
Out they all rushed, scattering themselves over bush
and boulder to join him.  They were scenting the
ground as they ran, and one of them alighted on the
path which Carl had taken with his furry protector.
Once on the scent of his lost playfellow, the keen
young wolf pursued him through all its windings to
the pit, which it had just light enough to avoid, then
up to the heights, and back to the very gate of
Mr. Desborough's compound, where it lay crouching among
the ferns.

The native servants were at their usual work.
Bene Madho was returning from the bazaar, with one
or two of the coolies carrying home his purchases.
The dandy-bearers, who went into the patches of
jungle to cut grass for the horses every day, were
coming back with their bundles on their heads.  The
Thibetan was with them.  She had gone out hoping
to see something of her straying cattle.  Oliver, too,
had risen early.  He wanted to tell her to come over
to Runnangore and claim her cow.  In spite of her
rags and her losses she was a rich woman.  She had
only to sell a few of her beads to buy a new herd.
Bona would gladly become their purchaser, so he made
this a reason for presenting himself at the gate of
Noak-holly by five o'clock in the morning.  He did
not expect to see either Mr. or Mrs. Desborough at
such an hour, but he thought he might inquire of the
servants how the night had gone.

In truth, it had gone queerly enough behind the
nursery purdah, where both father and mother had
been working at their precious little savage with
sponge, soap, and towel.  The cutting of his hair was
terrible, and, worse than all, the cutting of his nails,
which had grown into veritable claws.  The poor wee
child, so long a stranger to bath or hair-brush, hated
both.  If his father had not been there to hold
him, it would not have been possible to wash him
clean from Tara's bird-lime.  Painful as the tedious
process must have been, he was singularly obedient.
He seemed to like nothing so well as coiling himself
round on his mother's lap.  But to get him to sleep
was an impossibility.  Oh how his father longed for
the lulling influences of the water-shed on the hills!
Carl was continually racing after the toads and spiders,
making all sorts of strange noises, feeling his way
about the darkened room, and howling at each
unfamiliar sound.  But morning dawned, and he began
to yawn and blink in the growing light.  Suddenly
he gave one of his frog-like leaps, parting the chintz
curtains of the purdah with his head, and peeping
into the veranda.  Mr. Desborough was nodding; but
mamma was close beside her boy, wondering what he
would do next.  The servants were all astir, and the
gate was locked, so she let him take his first look
round by daylight.

Another bound and he was over the veranda railing
into the garden, where he coiled himself round in
the middle of a bed of mignonnette, and settled for
sleep at last.

"Better not disturb him," thought Mrs. Desborough.
"After so many months in the woods he could not
sleep indoors."

So she opened a large white sunshade over his
head, and sat down under an acacia tree to watch his
slumbers.

Mr. Desborough was sleeping too, having had no
rest for two whole nights.  She could not bear to
wake him, so she called up Kathleen.  It was early;
but the early morning in India is delightful.  The
ayah brought her, and returned to Horace, who had
not yet seen his brother.

Swarms of young frogs had appeared in the
veranda after last night's storm.  The bhisti was
gathering them up, sweeping them into a pail to carry away
and put them somewhere outside the compound.
Kathleen amused herself with watching the round,
red insects which covered the grass, looking as if,
instead of a hailstorm, there had been a shower of
red velvet buttons, the rain had brought them out
in such numbers.  The gardener was hoeing within call.

"Yes," thought Mrs. Desborough; "all safe at
home.  All danger over now."  Yet she could not
take her eyes off the little sleeper in the mignonnette.

"When he awakens," she said to Kathleen, "we
will let him see Horace at play in the veranda.  I
fear they have forgotten each other; but they are
twins, and the old love will revive.  It will be safer
to have the veranda railing between them at first.
Racy is so trying, and if Carl grew cross he might
fly at his brother as he did at your moongus.  We
will put the old red reins on Carl, so that he cannot
leap away unawares.  Being with Racy will bring
Carl round sooner than anything else, if it is but safe
to let them be together."

Whilst Mrs. Desborough was speaking the men
came in with their bundles of grass.  As the gate
opened, in rushed the wolf with a cry.  Up flew Carl
with a bound of delight to meet it.  They tumbled
on the grass together in a tumult of ecstasy.
Mrs. Desborough's first thought was to lift up Kathleen
into the acacia under which they were sitting, while
she shrieked for help.  At the sound of her voice and
of the running feet hurrying towards her from every
direction, the wolf stopped in its gambols, seized Carl
in its mouth, and was dragging him away.  They
were nearly at the gate.

"Come back, Carl!  Carl, come back!" cried
Kathleen from the acacia boughs.

Mr. Desborough ran out with his gun.  He was
levelling it to take deadly aim, when he perceived the
close embrace with which Carl was clinging to the
wolf, and lowered it in despair.

"Shut the gate!" he shouted.

Oliver and the Thibetan rushed into the garden.

Mrs. Desborough saw Carl turn his head at the
sound of his sister's voice, and she repeated the call
in her desperation.  His name rang loud and clear
above the clamour the servants were raising in their
usual fashion.  Carl came as a well-trained dog obeys
his master, and, O horror! the young wolf with him.
She showered the cakes she had brought with her
across the grass towards him.  Oliver snatched a
pitchfork from one of the grass-cutters and ran; but
the Thibetan, who was the nearest, seized the wolf by
the hind legs and held it fast.  Oliver put the arching
tines of the pitchfork over its neck like a collar,
and drove the points into the ground until its head
was fixed but not hurt, and he leaned on the handle
with all his strength to keep it there.  Oh for Tara
Ghur! but the old shikaree was far away, rejoicing
in his well-deserved and ample reward.  Was there
nobody to help?

"Hold hard!" shouted Mr. Desborough, as he
rushed up white and resolute to pull the child away.
But Carl clung passionately to his furry playfellow.
The wolf had ceased to struggle, but it held his
pinafore in a grip of iron.

Mr. Desborough tore the thin muslin in two, and
forced the child backwards.  Mrs. Desborough was
close beside him.  She pushed the sweetest cake she
had into Carl's mouth to try to divert his attention.
He threw it to the wolf as he struggled to free
himself from his father's arm.

"Booraba no hurt child," said the Thibetan, who
had watched the wolf and the child all night in the
shikaree's pit.  "Young booraba like its bahee
[brother].  Hurt it, and child hate you all its life.
Cage it, child stop, feed booraba; no run away from
each other."

There was so much sense in what she urged so
earnestly, Mr. Desborough was afraid to disregard it.
He looked around him, not knowing what to do for
the best.  Then he shouted to the grass-cutters to
fetch the iron hurdles which divided the paddock
behind the garden.  They ran across, pulled them up,
and flung them over the hedge of roses.

Meanwhile Bene Madho had fetched old Gobur to
the sahib's assistance.  Mrs. Desborough had taken
off Kathleen's sash and knotted it round Carl's waist,
so that she could hold him whilst Mr. Desborough
fixed the hurdles firmly in the grass.

Gobur came up with another pitchfork and put it
over the wolf's hind legs, fixing them to the ground,
as Oliver had fixed its head, to release the courageous
Thibetan.  It was a trying moment for Oliver when
Mr. Desborough put down the fourth hurdle and shut
him in with the wolf and Gobur.  It was a
tremendous effort to hold the wolf down, and he was
getting exhausted.

Mr. Desborough saw this, and leaving his men to
make a threefold fence round the wolf, he leaned over
the hurdle and took the handle of the pitchfork from
him.  The boldest of the syces followed his example,
and released Gobur.  It was a moment of intense
relief to Mrs. Desborough when she saw them both
safely outside.  The Thibetan was helping her to
control Carl, who was struggling to get free.  Five
or six men were driving in the hurdles as fast as
they could, and in the noise of their hammering
Mrs. Desborough could no longer make herself heard.

By Mr. Desborough's orders every hurdle on the
place was brought, until a perfect pyramid of iron
was piled over the prostrate wolf.  After the
three-fold fence a row of hurdles were set endways between
the lines, slanting inwards, and over these another
tier was laid to form a roof, and another and another,
crossing each other in every direction.  Before the
last corners were shut in the pitchforks were slowly
withdrawn, and young Fawnie was left unhurt to
examine the iron house which had been built over him.

One hurdle at the top was so placed that it could
be withdrawn a little way, like a window-shutter.
Gobur climbed up and let down a pail of water.

All the while the men were at work, Carl and the
wolfling were crying to each other.

The wolfling was not yet six months old, and had
not learned to be so wary as its mother.  Yet it was
strangely quieted when it found itself a prisoner.
Not so Carl: he stamped, and sobbed, and kicked in
an agony of distress, because he was shut out.

"Give him his liberty," said Mr. Desborough.  "Let
him run up to it if he likes."

Carl flew to the hurdles and tried to push between
their rails, whilst Fawnie, as Oliver called the wolfling,
worked at them from the inside.  But the iron walls
of his prison were too firmly built to be shaken.  A
frog leaped out of the grass.  Fawnie snapped it up,
and brought it to give to Carl through his prison bars.

Then Mrs. Desborough realized how her darling
had been fed and kept alive in the trackless jungle.

Oliver was telling her of the old gray wolf now
in Rattam's cage, and the Thibetan repeated her
story.

The mother's feelings can be better imagined than
described when she saw thus clearly that the love of
the wild wolves had saved her child.  Could she
doubt it?

"Ought we to think it impossible?" urged Oliver.
"In spite of all its savagery, the dog's nature is in
the wolf.  It is the strong family feeling amongst
them which makes the pack.  You see, I have heard
a great deal about them from Tara Ghur; and I shall
never forget that old wolf's face as she turned to Carl
in the pit."

Gobur and the gardener were cutting off some long
branches from the nearest trees, to thatch poor Fawnie's
pyramid and shelter him from the sun.

Oliver ran to help them, until Fawnie's den looked
like a gigantic heap of boughs.  Then Oliver fetched
the gardener's syringe and drenched it.

When Fawnie found it growing dark and cool as
the nest beneath the korinda bush, he laid himself
down and fell into the sound mid-day sleep of the
wild beast.

But nothing short of force could drag Carl away,
and that was not to be thought of.  Mr. Desborough
saw it would only embitter the child, and rouse and
exasperate the wolfling.  He was hoping that if Carl
were left to himself he too would fall asleep.  But
no; all sleep was gone.  Carl kept on raging round
and round the pyramid, tugging with all his might at
the boughs which hid his furry friend.

Mr. Desborough lifted Kathleen down from the
acacia.  Her presence had helped him so much in
getting Carl safely through his journey home.  But
her brave little heart was failing her; she had been
terribly frightened at the sight of Fawnie, and she
clung to her mother, trembling.

"Fetch Racy," said Mr. Desborough in despair.
"The sight of his twin-brother may draw the child
away.  We must try something."

Mrs. Desborough went herself, not daring to trust
any one else with the rebellious Racy in such
circumstances.

She soon reappeared, driving him before her on his
pretty bicycle-horse; while the ayah crept beside her,
her black face puckered with anxiety and fear as she
looked at the group on the lawn, and above all at the
portentous pyramid.

Horace, who could not understand what had happened,
flourished his whip and shouted to his heart's
content.  He was highly delighted at having got
mamma to be his syce.  She slowly drove him round
the lawn.  Of course, he wanted to gallop off at once
to his father and Kathleen; but Mrs. Desborough
turned him back, so that Carl might see him.  The
twins perceived each other at last, and drew together,
staring.

"Look, Racy, who is that sitting on the grass?
Can it be Carl—Racy's own lost Carl—come home at
last?"

Carl's eyes followed every movement of the pretty
brown horse with a strange bewilderment.

Kathleen, with her father's arm round her, felt
her courage revive.  She glanced up at him
inquiringly.  He nodded.  Away she ran to meet the
young equestrian, calling Carl to follow.  Again he
obeyed.

"O Racy!" she exclaimed, "we've found poor Carl.
Let us put him on your horse, and you and I will
drive him home, for fear we should lose him.  You
push, and I will hold him on.  Quick, dear, quick!"

"God bless her," said Mr. Desborough; "she has
done it again."

Racy tumbled out of his saddle.  Mrs. Desborough
and the ayah lifted Carl into his place.  He made no
resistance, but laid his face down and began to bite
the horse's ears.  Kathleen seized the bridle.  Racy
pushed manfully behind.  Mrs. Desborough held one
arm and the ayah the other.  Up ran the bhisti, who
stretched over Horace's head and lifted the horse and
its rider right up the veranda steps.  As usual, the
hall door stood wide; in rode Carl, and Mrs. Desborough
locked it behind him.

"What is up now?" exclaimed Major Iffley, as he
stopped at the familiar gate.  "You have found out
something wrong about the place?"

"Yes, an imperative necessity to leave it.  I want
to make over the indigo factory to you for at least a
twelvemonth, whilst I take holiday with my wife
and children.  We should never have rescued Carl if
he had not learned to obey, and now distance is our
best defence," said Mr. Desborough gravely.

"Done!" answered the major gaily.

"If you go," put in Oliver earnestly, "give Fawnie
over to me.  He is young enough to tame and train,
and I should be proud to own him.  With a stout
chain and collar he will prove a noble dog."

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   THE END.

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