the Mutiny, according to this. It says Probably dead,' but nothing more." "Not dead, not dead," whispered Bardur-din, excitedly. "Show me the piece of wood."

They put it in his hands.

"Look!" he cried. "Where did this come from?”

"Why, every house about here has one. They say that Mother Jumna brings them." "Does she bring them still?" There was life and death in the question.

"Yes, I believe so. The owner gave me this because he said that Mother Jumna had brought him a new one."

"Then he is alive. Listen."

They crowded about him now eagerly enough. The fetish was worth looking at, after all. The tension was telling on the old man, and he could hardly more than whisper brokenly.

"Sepoy Rebellion-sometimes officer captured-taken away, tortured, and killed." Gradually they drew from Bardur-din how that the regiment had made a system of signs whereby a captive might be traced. A scrap of paper, a rag torn from the clothing, a piece of knotted string, might be a clue to his whereabouts, and to this system many a man owed his rescue. The sign agreed upon by the Ninth Lancers was the shape of a diamond with the letter H in the center, and this was the fetish that Mother Jumna had been sending down the valley for nearly a quarter of a century.

"I promised him that I would watch the Jumna for the sign, and I did so for two months; but, unhappy man that I am, I gave him up too soon. Do not delay. Follow the lead of the Jumna, and she will tell you where he is.'

The officers looked at one another in amazement. Could it be possible that an officer of the Ninth Lancers could have lain for twenty-three years in a dungeon in India? Before two suns had set, a strong party of men were on their way up the valley. Bardur-din was too weak to accompany them, but he told them of the village to which he had traced the missing man, and they made this their first objective point. It was the village where Malden had found the path to Delgar Varg.

Men were placed along the river's bank to watch for the sign, and before many hours had passed it was found that it

came down a wild mountain stream from the west. Here was work indeed. It would take a better climber than the chamois or the wild mountain goat to follow that torrent to its icy birthplace; but the men were on a warm trail, and the thought that an officer of the Ninth-their regiment had been lying for over two decades in some loathsome dungeon or in one of the frost-bound caves of the upper Himalayas gave them the will and the determination to climb, if need be, to where, as the villager had told Malden so long ago, the eagle itself dared not soar.

The company consisted of nineteen men in all, six of whom were officers and the rest picked men whose faithfulness could be relied upon. When it became plain that the path lay straight up the side of the mountain, Lieutenant Archibald gathered the men about him and said:

"Of course, men, we cannot tell what is before us. There is no precedent to indicate what sort of reception we shall get up there, or at the hands of what sort of men. It may be an easy enterprise, it may be desperate. We must be sure of working together to the last gasp. If there is one here who has a family dependent on him or who shrinks in any measure from this work, he may go back; but as for me, I follow this trail to its end, though it lead me to the highest peak of the Himalayas. There is an Englishman and a comrade, an officer of the Ninth Yorkshire Lancers, at the other end of this, and I shall never leave this valley till I find him."

The answer to this appeal was more expressive than words. Each man glanced up the dizzy height, with its ragged gorges and its frowning precipices, and instinctively tightened his belt. There was not one that wished to go back till this disgrace to the regiment had been wiped out and their comrade had been brought in triumph to the old familiar mess-room.

Then they began the ascent. There could be no path, for even had they known of the Delgar Varg, they could not have been sure that the stream came from it. The water was their only guide, and by it they struggled up the mountain-side, now winding their way through gorges where they had to wade waist-deep in the chilly water, now making long detours in order to surmount lofty precipices over which the torrent poured. Night overtook them

half-way up the steep ascent. The violence of the exercise and the rarity of the air had begun to tell on all, but their resolution was as grim as ever. Dried grass supplied them with fuel for a fire, beside which they dried their sodden garments and then lay down to the sleep of exhaustion. Only Archibald sat all night with his hard, set face staring into the fire, his features now and then twitching with the motion of his thoughts. Ever and anon as he turned to heap another armful of grass upon the fire or glanced at the sky to note the progress of the night, he would murmur, "Twenty-three years-twenty-three years!"

As soon as it was light enough to proceed without stumbling, the party pushed on silently up the bed of the stream. They must be approaching the end of their climb, and so all unnecessary noise was forbidden. The men had no surplus breath to waste in speech, but each one had his senses on the alert to discover signs of human habitation. Obstacles were overcome which under ordinary circumstances would have daunted the bravest of them. They picked their way without fear or complaint along narrow ledges and up shelving reaches of bare rock where the rashest Alpine climber would have shuddered and where a false step would have been instant death. They were not mountaineering for pleasure; it was for human life, for British life, for the honor of the regiment and every man kept his mental eye on the goal of his intent, and steadied his nerve by contemplation of the greatness of the interests at stake.

So on and up they climbed, stopping to rest only when the fierce exertion in that rare atmosphere brought blood from their ears and noses. This they wiped away as if ashamed that any single fiber in them should rebel at such a time.

Soon they plunged into a thick cloud which enveloped the upper reaches of the mountain. This added greatly to the obstacles in their way, for they could see only a few feet in any direction. Fortunately, this did not last long, for they came abruptly against the face of a precipice from the foot of which the stream seemed to flow directly. Here they stood in silence, exhausted, chilled to the bone, without shelter, and far beyond all vegetation that would serve for fuel. Yet there was no

sign of weakness. Their faces were all upward. The rock before them was no sterner or more unyielding than their purpose. As they stood there panting from their violent exertion, and gazing into the waters of the stream, there floated out from the bowels of the earth another of those mute witnesses of Malden's faith in the regiment. The men looked at one another in silence, and blushed to think that the regiment had been thus late in proving itself worthy of his faith.

At this moment they were startled by a clear, long-drawn trumpet blast, which seemed so near that they could almost stretch out the hand into the mist and lay hold upon the one who blew it. Not a sound was made, but each man crouched as in the act to spring, and each hand sought its weapon. There was nothing to indicate whether this was a call to arms or whether their presence was as yet unknown. The sound put new life into the men. They were certainly upon the threshold of success or failure, which meant success or death. Removing their shoes, in order to preserve unbroken silence, they crept cautiously through the mist toward the point from which the sound had come. Almost before they were aware, they drew up against a wall built of massive stones overgrown with lichens and dripping with moisture. Not a sound was to be heard. They groped their way along beneath the wall till they came to the massive portal. The ponderous door was swinging partly open, and like ghosts the men slipped one by one into the darkness of the grim edifice.

A death-like stillness reigned. No being of human shape was to be seen. It might have been the house of the dead, so awful was the gloom, and so vainly did even imagination cope with the environment. Archibald and two of the other officers advanced slowly down the corridor, examining every side passage and every corner, for fear of a surprise or an ambush. The inner court showed no sign of human habitation. The men were summoned, and drew up in the court in perfect silence. The kitchen showed signs of human life. Various utensils lay about. The ashes of the fire beneath the great kettle in the fireplace were still glowing hot. Man had been here within an hour. A spasm of apprehension, not of fear, knocked at the heart of the

leader. His memory brought back to him all that his boyhood reading had said of invisible beings and occult powers, but he repressed his feelings and sternly continued the search. The place was manifestly deserted; but for what reason, to what end? An unknown danger that cannot by any possibility be anticipated is the hardest thing for a soldier to bear, but there was nothing to do but to wait. Time must solve the mystery.

The men were hungry and cold, and here were food and fuel. While some kept a sharp lookout, others piled the fireplace with dried grass, and before long cold and hunger, those two coadjutors of fear, had been banished, and the men stood about, wondering what was to come next. It is hard to say how long they could have endured the tension. It was worse than climbing the steep ascent; it was worse than cold and hunger; it was almost worse than fear. With the odds ten to one they would have grappled with an open foe and been happy; but here it was hard to tell what they had to deal with. Manifestly it was no ordinary enemy. Even at this moment they might be surrounded by a foe who could strike death into their ranks and still remain unseen and safe from attack. The very roof might fall and crush them; the floor might open beneath their feet and swallow them. The only thing to do was to wait.

Archibald was about to begin another and more thorough search, more for the purpose of keeping the men busy than with any hope of discovering anything, when a door leading to a rear inclosure opened slowly and a tall hooded monk entered, followed by another and a third. These weird figures had already set foot upon the kitchen threshold when they caught sight of the unwelcome visitors. For an instant they seemed paralyzed with astonishment and fear, but the next moment they leaped back with a piercing cry, only to fall into the hands of half a dozen men who had intercepted them from behind. They did not struggle to escape, but cried out with all their might, as if to some one at a distance. Archibald pushed open the door by which they had entered, and looked out into the dim inclosure. He was none too soon, for at that very instant he saw, through the mist, a dark orifice in the rock close as if by magic. By a strong effort of the will

he pulled himself together and hurried back to the kitchen, where the men saw by his pale face that something of moment had been discovered. He called the offi cers aside and told them what he had seen. The general opinion was that the secret door must be found and forced without delay. Every minute might mean death to the captive who was doubtless immured within. The men were hurried out into the rear inclosure, and there Archibald explained the situation and urged them to stand together like one man, whatever might happen. They needed no exhortation.

No beam of wood could be found to use as a battering-ram, so a huge stone was torn from a wall, and in the hands of six strong men was rushed across the inclosure and dashed against the face of the rock where Archibald had seen the opening. No effect was visible. Again and again the stone was hurled against the barrier, and still it stood firm. The men were beginning to show the effects of the terrible exertion. Their hands were torn and bleeding, and they were gasping for breath.

"One more, boys! One more, with a will; and if it does not work, we will try something else."

Again the boulder went crashing against the secret door with desperate force, and this time the blow told. The door had sunken in a full inch and was evidently about to give way. A few more blows sent it reeling in with a crash. Archibald, leaped to the orifice, but was driven back by a burst of flame and smoke. A raging fire had been built in the passage, and no man could pass it. As the smoke drifted out, they peered in and saw dim figures beyond the fire darting this way and that, and fuel was being constantly added to the fire.

It was a crisis that must be met instantly and unerringly, for every moment lessened the chance of rescuing the prisoner. But Archibald was equal to the test. The three monks who had been taken were swiftly brought and made by signs to understand that they must go first into the cavern. They must walk to their death through the flames unless they could induce their comrades to extinguish them. At first they stolidly refused; but when they were dragged to the opening and the fierce fire threw out live tongues at them, their

stolidity was melted, and they shouted piteously to those within and begged them to spare them. There was no response, and the determined men prepared to thrust one of the monks into the flames. They would surely have been sacrificed had not their comrades become assured that the threat was no vain one. A voice was heard from within, and the joy of the captives showed that their comrades had capitulated. The fire was quickly drawn back into the cavern. Through the hot embers and between the rocky walls, that almost glowed with the fierce heat, the officers rushed, closely followed by the men.

There they were brought face to face with a scene which branded itself deeply into the memory. In the center of the lofty cavern burned a fire, which lighted up every crack and crevice of their comrade's prison-house. Beyond it stood a line of figures, as motionless as if carved in stone. On a dais to one side stood the venerable abbot, holding in his hands a skin case. Anger, pity, sorrow, joy, triumph, despair grappled with one another for the possession of his features. But over it all there brooded the spirit of calm determination. It was a scene from the "Inferno," so weird were the shrouded shapes that waited their leader's commands, so high, so stern, so malignant was the face of him who was their master.

But the picture did not end here. To one side, beside a pool of water that glowed like the jewel eye of a god in the light of the fire, stood a man. Ah! was it a man indeed, or was it a spirit upon whom these fiends were wreaking vengeance, so still he stood, so white, so transparent, so wildly he looked out from beneath his long elflocks? There was the lofty brow, the strong aquiline nose, the deep gray eye like that of a falcon sweeping to his prey. It was no youthful enthusiast in search of sacred lore, no dashing young officer. He had been all this, but now he was a decrepit old man who had forgotten the light of God's sun, but who had never lost faith in his fellow- Englishmen. Years might come and go, sorrow might shrink his hand to the thinness of paper, but it was the same free mind, the same unsullied temper, the same high faith in God.

It took a full moment for the rescuing

party to take in this wild scene. Before that moment had expired the abbot rushed toward the fire and hurled the case and its contents into the flames. At sight of this the captive leaped forward. Lifting his clenched fist, he cried :

"No, you cannot save it from me, for I have its contents here in my brain, every word and syllable of it."

He began chanting passages from it in a wild, high voice. It was true. They had lost the document, and he had committed it to memory. He alone had it in his grasp. As the monks realized this, they made a rush at him as if to tear him to pieces; but they were too late. The band of rescuers were before them, and surrounded the person of the captive and drove back the rabble with their swordpoints. Archibald with a single stroke of his blade broke one of the links of the chain, and Malden was a free man once more. How changed he was in a moment! He was no longer the frenzied captive chanting a heathen psalm : he was an English gentleman.

He turned to Archibald, shook him by the hand, and said:

"I have overstepped my furlough. I trust you will be able to make it right with the colonel."

Ah, how Archibald wanted to take him in his arms and hug him! How the men wanted to lift him on high and carry him in triumph from his living tomb! During all those years he had remembered that he was on furlough. He must be exonerated. Not a word against the regiment; not a breath of suspicion that during all those long years it had forgotten his name.

How they brought Malden down that mountain-side they were never able coherently to tell, but five days later they came into cantonments bearing in a roughly improvised litter no other than James Malden, subaltern of the Ninth Yorkshire Lancers.

In the deepest archives of the British Museum library you may find the record of a remarkable discovery in the line of Oriental literature and of the light it shed upon that fascinating subject. This you may find; but search as they may, James Malden and Elsie Farnham will never find those lost years again.

I

BRASSID

HEY tell yet, on the porches of the Crazy-Quilt House, -though it is two years, how savage Brassid met the laughing Sea-Lady, and how, at last, he adored her laughter more the more she laughed at him, and how she loved his savagery more the more savage he was to her.

And, then, on to the consequences of that laughter and that savagery, which you are to know at the end.

Mrs. Mouthon-she is the lady who uses snuff-insists that it is all pretense: that Brassid was not savage in his room, and that Miss Princeps never laughed in her room. Mrs. Mouthon's was between theirs.

Nevertheless, Miss Carat, who has the one deaf ear, contends that it is absurd, absolutely absurd. For, she argues, why should they pretend, in the first place, and why should they not, if they liked, in the last place? But, then, Miss Carat, the other five whisper, always opposes anything which proceeds from Mrs. Mouthon.

It seems that Brassid, weary and seeking seclusion, arrived on the last train of a Wednesday night. The man who carried. his bag up from the little station told him that the Crazy-Quilt House was a sanatorium for women. It appeared that Brassid and the porter, who was also many other things at the hotel, would be the only men in the house-a state of affairs which immediately created a subtle camaraderie between the two men, though the porter was colored.

"Please call me in time for the first train up to-morrow morning," said Brassid, as the friendly porter dragged himself out of his room.

"It goes at six o'clock, sir," warned the porter, perhaps wishing to detain him a little longer, for already the porter liked. Brassid amazingly. Did I mention that every one did this, in spite of his ferocity?

"No matter," said Brassid, shivering at the thought of the unearthly hour-Brassid, who composed poems in bed until ten in the morning!

"All right, sir," said the porter, as if warning Brassid that he would regret it.

However, that was why Brassid appeared at the dinner-table in a dinner-coat - because he knew that the invalid ladies would be there.

There were six, and one vacant placeopposite. The lady on his left put up her lorgnon in haste. The one at the top of the table put something like a pepper-box into her ear and leaned to listen.

"Lovely weather!" said Brassid. "Rheumatic weather!" said the lady with the pepper-box.

"It's no such thing!" said the lady who took snuff. "It's asthmatic!"

Something dropped with a small clatter into Brassid's plate. The lady on his left flung her lorgnon to her eyes. Miss Carat jammed her pepper-box to her ear. Some one laughed, then checked it.

An old locket, in the fashion of a heart, lay in Brassid's plate. A bit of ribbon gave evidence of some severed attachment. Brassid was hopelessly fitting back to its place a flake of blue enamel.

He tried to discourage the interest in his keepsake by covering it with his napkin. Then he looked up. The vacant seat was occupied, and the lady was trying to smother her laughter.

Brassid got red and crunched the napkin in a way which said plainly: "So it was you who laughed!"