Ahead, above a sea of indigo poppies, rose the walls of Tali-fang. Blue poppies rippled eastward and north to the foot of blue mountains (the seamed, craggy wastes that bulwarked Tibet); rippled westward and south until they melted into the blue haze of uncertain distance. Thus the city, with its dun-colored walls, swam in the poppies like an island against whose battlemented shore blue waves surged and tossed.

The cavalcade that rode through the veritable tunnel under the ramparts was hardly one to arouse suspicion in the mind of the blear-eyed Yunnanese soldier who drowsed in the damp dismal shadow of this gateway that was almost as ancient as China itself and under which at least one fifth of the opium that finds its way mysteriously to the Coast, and thence over the rim of the earth, had passed. To him it was merely a string of burdened, tired-looking mules, four half-naked savages—yehjen, as the Chinese call the hill-folk of Upper Burma—and two swarthy, turbaned men that he could not immediately classify and was too indolent, too saturated with drugs, to conjecture about.

Tali-fang was small and sprawling. Flies swarmed over it, as over a corpse, and the odor of it was very like that of the dead. Misty-eyed, morbific beings—neither Trent nor Dana Charteris could call them human—lounged in the doorways of filthy houses: Mossos, Loutses, Chinese and Tibetans. City, inhabitants, all, seemed as old and iniquitous as sin itself.

After numerous inquiries they were directed to the yamen of the Tchentai, or military chief—a house with upcurling eaves, surrounded by a wall. A soldier informed them that his Excellency Fong Wa, the Tchentai, was at present indisposed, but if they would go to the inn he would send for them at the proper time.

The caravanserai was a mean, stinking place. If there was a khan-keeper he was nowhere in evidence. The hovel was deserted. Late in the afternoon two Mussulman soldiers appeared and told Trent that the Tchentai would receive him, and with Masein in tow (he left Dana Charteris, a slim, boyish figure, hair bound under a turban, sitting in a dejected heap in the courtyard) he followed them to the yamen of Fong Wa.

The mandarin was waiting in a court where orange-trees and pomegranates dappled the ground with shadow. From the manner in which he greeted Trent the latter suspected that the Chinaman knew he was white. His green eyes—vicious, cunning eyes—looked out from beneath puffed lids. As he talked a flat-breasted slattern attended him with a pipe and poppy treacle.

"I expected you many days before this," said his Excellency, through Masein. "I trust you have not been ill."

Trent replied that he had. After a few more courtesies, including gifts, the yellow man presented Trent with a wrapped packet.

"She who intrusted these papers into my keeping passed on the night of the new moon." Then, concluding the interview, he added: "Certain supplies and mules, together with a makotou and three mafus, will be sent to you some time to-morrow. You will then proceed as she directed."

"I wish to leave immediately," Trent told him. "I am late now."

"That is quite impossible," answered the mandarin, abruptly. "All is not ready."

"But if I was expected before this, then why aren't they ready?"

The Tchentai was not pleased with that question. The green eyes flickered.

"It is enough that I say it is impossible," he replied curtly. "I am military chief of Tali-fang. My word is law."

Trent suspected that the Chinaman, knowing he was white, was deliberately taking the opportunity to display his authority. He was muscle-sore and brain-tired, and the prospect of spending the night in this moribund city did not cheer him. With a slight movement he parted his jacket; the oval of coral lay against his stained skin.

"Tell his Excellency," he instructed Masein, noticing by Fong Wa's expression that he saw the pendant, "that I demand the supplies and pack-animals to-night, now; and if he refuses, I shall report it to one whose authority reaches many miles beyond Tali-fang."

Revolutions have been ignited by fewer and less veiled words than those.... The Chinaman's eyes burned like chrysoprase, and for a moment the Englishman thought he had lost. Then Fong Wa spoke and Masein translated.

"Your threats are useless, yet I will see what I can do." And Masein did not put into English the chu-kou, or pig-dog, that his Excellency added.

Trent left the yamen of the military chief in a very troubled state of mind. He knew he had struck flint—knew also that despite Fong Wa's evident fear of the "one whose authority reaches many miles beyond Tali-fang," there were ways and means of diverting circumstance to his cunning. For himself he had little fear; Dana Charteris was the source of concern.

A short distance away, one of the soldiers who had summoned Trent to the mandarin's house approached and addressed him in very bad English.

"Tajen," he began, "seven days ago a Buddhist priest passed this way and left a message for you with Fong Wa. Because the Tchentai was angry, he did not give it to you. For three taels I will steal it and bring it to you."

Trent considered a moment before he said—

"When you deliver the message to me, I will give you three taels."

This evidently satisfied the soldier, who grinned and hurried off toward the mandarin's residence.

"I think we'll leave Tali-fang to-night," Trent informed Dana Charteris when he reached the khan. "It's the wisest move—for more than one reason. Suppose you rest; we may have to ride into the night, or until morning."

The girl shook her head. "I am not tired."

He saw that the town had tainted her—that she was struggling with one of those rare moments when glamour tarnished and she was close to surrender to her feelings. She had shown fine courage during the journey, flexing herself to meet every circumstance. Pure metal was behind those eyes. And it amazed him that she could meet the tests of the wilds and lose none of the feminine. (A romanticist always, this Trent, seeking in woman those elements that keep her in the vestal niche.) At times the call of her vibrated through his every nerve—but he had not forgot the circlet of gold. "Bracelet-brother." That he would be until they returned to metaled roads and electric-tramways; then the lover, with the lover's message to deliver....

"Don't trouble about me," she said. "When we get into the open spaces again it will be different; there our lungs won't be poisoned."

While Masein was cooking the evening meal the soldier who told of the purloined message appeared and in exchange for three taels pressed a folded sheet of rice-paper into Trent's hand. By the firelight the Englishman inspected it. It was written in Urdu and ran:

They tell a tale of Chunda Ram, the juggler, who made two cobras dance; of a mongoose that entered a lair and instead of vipers found a fat-bellied spider; of a lioness that guarded her whelps. You shall hear it—this tale of tales—from Rabsang Lama, who has journeyed north, into the falcon's country.

That was all—no signature. Trent read it and reread it. A fourth time his eyes traveled over the cryptic lines before he mined their meaning. Then he chuckled. Kerth—Kerth of many identities—was the lama who had passed through Tali-fang seven days before, and it was he who arrested Da-yak and Tambusami. The spider was Li Kwai Kung; the lioness the British Empire. The message came as a rift in gloom.

Perceiving the soldier who had brought the missive still standing close by, he directed a questioning look at him.

"I would speak with you alone, Tajen," he said.

Trent started to rise, but Masein and the porters were not within earshot and he decided otherwise.

"Speak. This"—indicating the girl—"is my brother. What I know he knows."

Trent could have sworn that the soldier winked at him slyly as he said "brother," but it was too dark to be sure.

"Tajen, I came to warn you," he announced. "Fong Wa is not kindly disposed since your visit. He will send the mules and supplies, because he is a coward; but he has made it impossible for you to leave the city to-night. All gates close at sunset, and he has issued an order that no caravan pass in or out."

Trent thought for some time before he spoke. Finally:

"What reason has he to wish to prevent me from leaving to-night?"

The soldier shrugged.

"Ma-chai," he replied—which is the superlative of indifference.

That the Oriental had some ulterior motive Trent did not doubt for an instant. In a land where three thousand years of intrigue has bred a suspicious people, a kindly act is not the best symptom. He did not waste words, but asked:

"Why do you tell me this?"

Another shrug. "I am houi-houi," he explained, that is to say, a Chinese Mussulman. "Fong Wa is a Lamaist dog. He is a leech that sucks blood from the people. They hate him. He never pays the soldiers and many are deserting to go down the Yangtze, where a war is brewing."

Trent kept silent, waiting to hear the purpose behind this introductory talk. The soldier was a reckless-looking fellow. The edge of his scant turban touched eyes that gleamed with a light inherited from a succession of robber-ancestors. An amiable young villain, he imagined.

"My name is Kee Meng," the Oriental volunteered. "My father was Tibetan, my mother Mosso. But I am Yunnanese. Oh, I have traveled much! Chung-king—even Hankow! I was makotou for an English Tajenho who went from Liangchowfu to Urga. See,"—he drew a piece of paper from under his jacket—"this is a letter he wrote saying I was a very fine makotou—only he called me bashi—the very best in China. Read it, Tajen."

Trent took the paper; glanced over it; waited.

"I will tell you something else, Tajen," Kee Meng continued. "Your makotou and mafus are spies. She who passed on the night of the new moon told them to watch you and report to her at Shingtse-lunpo. I heard her. They are dogs and thieves, those muleteers." Then he bent closer, as though afraid he would be overheard. "Tajen, I know the road to Shingtse-lunpo—I and my three friends. We have been there often to deliver messages from Fong Wa to the Grand Lama. Fong Wa is a tool of the lamas. He is a fool. We are tired of Tali-fang, my friends and I. We will serve you well. We are cheap. Only twenty taels a month. And look, Tajen."

He turned and called a word, and three blue-jacketed, turbaned soldiers, each as reckless-looking as Kee Meng, entered and saluted Trent.

"See? Are they not fine muleteers?"

Instead of answering, Trent asked a question:

"What else do you know of her who passed on the night of the new moon—and a certain bird that roosts in Tibet?"

"She who passed on the night of the new moon?" the Oriental echoed. "Of her I know nothing, except that she would spy upon the Tajen, who, according to what she told Fong Wa, is Tajenho in his country. And the bird—" He looked genuinely puzzled. "There are many birds in Tibet—kites and vultures! There are yaks, too, if the Tajen wishes to shoot."

Satisfied on that score, Trent went on:

"But what of my muleteers? I can't dismiss them. And if it's impossible to leave the city to-night—"

"Tajen," Kee Meng broke in, "I know a way. Only speak the word and your four muleteers will disappear—like that!" And he made a gesture. "Then we, my friends and I, will lead you out of Tali-fang to-night; and Fong Wa will not know until it is too late. Once we are beyond the Yolon-noi, he has no power over us. He is Tchentai of only this district. By riding all night we would be in Tibet before sunrise—and there—" He made another gesture.

"How do I know you're telling the truth?" queried Trent, putting forth a feeler. A plan was shaping in his mind. He did not look at Dana Charteris, but he felt her eyes upon him, felt, too, that she read his thoughts.

"By Allah!" declared the Mussulman (and a Mussulman's oath to his God is not so flexible as that of a Buddhist or a Christian). "May I wither and turn black if I lie!"

"What of my muleteers?" Trent pursued.

Kee Meng winked. "Ah, that is easy!"

"You wouldn't—"

"Oh no, Tajen! We will not kill them!" the soldier exclaimed virtuously—but he smiled. "There is an unused house near the North Gate, and under the house is a cellar where opium is stored. We will hide them there, and they will not be found until morning."

"But how will we get out of the city?" Trent interrogated.

"Give me five taels and I will fix it. Mo-su, who guards the North Gate, is a poor man and a fool. Oh, it is easy if one is clever, as I am! Your mules and supplies are at the Tchentai's; to reach here they must pass through dark streets. We are strong.... Then we can take your caravan to the North Gate, while one of us returns for you. We each have a mule. Oh yes, it will be easy, Tajen!"

Trent knew Kee Meng's type. "He who would ride a wild camel must first teach him who is master," says a proverb. These villainous-looking young brigands could fight—if the proper inducement were provided. It would be reassuring to know he had allies, few though they were. As for Sarojini Nanjee—"Set a spy on the heels of a spy," runs another proverb. It was not breaking his word to her; there was nothing in the agreement to prevent him from exchanging caravan-men.... Too, he would feel safer beyond the reach of Fong Wa. He did not like those green eyes. Yet it was a desperate risk.

"What do you know of this city, this Shingtse-lunpo?"

"I know that there are many lamas there, Tajen—oh, many, like the blades of grass! There is a monastery called Lhakang-gompa, whose roofs are gold and whose walls are as white as the sky at midday! The holy city of Lhassa is an open book beside it. Soldiers of the Golden Army guard every approach. There dwells the High Lama of all lamas."

Trent credited the "roofs of gold" to the elasticity of the native mind.

"That is strange," he commented, baiting the Mussulman. "If it is so great a city, then why do not the English, who sent an army to Lhassa and routed the Dalai Lama, know of it? White men have been in Tibet. If there is such a city, why has no one heard of it?"

Kee Meng shrugged.

"White men have been in Tibet, yes—but not in that part.... Tibet has its secrets, Tajen; she guards them well. My father, who was a Tibetan, said so."

After a pause Trent went on:

"There's nothing to prevent you or your comrades from deserting me when we get under way. What assurance have I?"

"We swear by Allah to go with you to Shingtse-lunpo," said Kee Meng, "and from there wherever you wish to travel—so long as we receive twenty taels a month and half of the first month's pay in advance now!"

Accordingly, Kee Meng's comrades took oath.

"And obey me," Trent added.

"And obey you," the Mussulmen repeated.

Trent reached under his jacket, where his money-belt was concealed, and counted out twenty-five taels.

"Five for the guard at the gate," he explained, "and five apiece for the four of you. When we leave Tali-fang you will each receive the other five agreed upon."

"Cheulo!" agreed Kee Meng. Then he let his eyes rove over the packs and mules. "Have everything ready in an hour. Fong Wa expects you to try to leave to-night, so we will take your guides and mules to the gate and there transfer the packs to the fresh mules, sending back the men and old mules. If Fong Wa is watching, he will see them and believe you are returning to the inn. He will be very angry to-morrow, but he will not dare touch your porters, for they are yehjen. Remember—in an hour."

The villainous-looking quartet quitted the courtyard, and Trent, watching them go, wondered if he had acted wisely.

"Your bodyguards when we reach Shingtse-lunpo," he said, turning to Dana Charteris and smiling slightly; then, glancing at the rice-paper in his hand, he added: "From Euan Kerth.... He's on the way to the Falcon's city, as a lama."

2

At the appointed time Kee Meng returned.

"All is well, Tajen," he told Trent. "My friends are waiting at the gate, with the caravan."

The small pack-train was assembled, and they left the inn. Kee Meng walked beside Trent. The Englishman let one hand rest upon the revolver strapped to his thigh; the girl riding at his side nervously fingered a corrugated butt. The streets were dim and for the most part deserted. Now and then doors opened and eyes peered out, invisible but felt. Tali-fang lay in a sepulchral hush, its quiet only emphasized by jingling harness-chains and the dull, muffled beat of hoofs.

Trent's breathing quickened as they approached the walls. The tunnel leading to the gate yawned cavernously. In its gloom the pale eye of a lantern wavered. A mule brayed hideously as they rode into the foul artery. By the faint rays of the lantern Trent saw mules and ponies, packs and bulging saddle-bags; saw Kee Meng's villainous-looking comrades and a gaunt individual whom he imagined was the gateman. Kee Meng pressed him forward between the ill-smelling beasts. Dana Charteris was by his side. They dismounted.

There was a rasping sound and the ponderous gates swung apart. Starlight gleamed upon spiked panels. Framed in the archway were mountains and sky—dark loam smeared upon the firmament. A breath of clean air penetrated into the tunnel.

"Tajen, you and your brother get into the saddles," whispered Kee Meng. "I will tell your men to wait a few minutes before they go back to the inn."

Mule-harness rattled. One of the men uttered a sharp command, and a protesting quadruped moved through the gateway—another behind it. The mules were strung together, led by a man on foot. More jingling of harness; the soft pad-pad of hoofs.

Dana Charteris was trembling as Trent helped her upon her mount. The pony's coat was sleek and moist under his touch. He swung into his own saddle.... The gates closed behind him. A figure that looked like Kee Meng led the girl's pony forward, after the file of mules.

They were again in the clean temple of the open spaces.

... Tali-fang fell away in the rear—a pale blot on the dim shivering mass of the poppy-fields. They skirted a hamlet not far from the city's walls. Dogs snarled; once more doors opened.... The ground sloped ever upward, and from shadowy forests came the healing smell of pines. A buttressed range impended, its peaks virgin with snow—rugged mountains where in places the sides were sheer and rose to shuddersome heights. Toward this mighty chaos of rock—vomit of some earth-ailment—the road plunged.

Thus began the Yolon-noi Pass.

Loose stones rattled under the feet of the animals, and a wind, chilled in the cisterns of the night, swept down the caÑon, shaking the scraggly growths and animating the shadows. The pass had narrowed to a mere rift where not more than four men could ride abreast. It seemed a place of shrieking demons when a mule brayed, for the wind snatched up the sound and carried it from boulder to boulder, until it perished in a weird echo upon the serrated ridges.

Just before midnight the moon rose and sent the gloom scurrying, and jackals laughed as though to mock the terrors that a moment ago seemed so real. Moonlight shone on scintillant rock; the loftiest, snow-capped peaks gleamed like palest nacre.... Trent rode beside Dana Charteris. The caravan-men and the pack-animals were ahead, moving with a slow, uneven rhythm, the long line of laden beasts casting distorted shadows upon the road.

"O Arnold Trent, I could cry for sheer joy!" whispered the girl. "Can't you feel the night singing in your veins? Tibet! To think I should ever reach it!"

Trent's throat tightened, and the wind sang one word—Tibet! Tibet!—over and over in his ears. He rode on, so flooded with awe, with an overwhelming sense of majesty, that it was impossible to speak. Presently the girl, obeying an impulse, tore off her turban. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, and the wind caught truant strands and made sport of them.

Through the night they traveled; traveled until the high walls broke up into lower ridges and ravines; until the moon rolled over the peaks and into oblivion, and the stars passed, as tapers that grow dim and die. The gorge opened its mouth into a valley that lay between green, snow-tipped mountains. With dawn they came to a halt, and the muleteers set up the shelters. The girl, tired from the long ride, fell asleep almost instantly, but Trent sat in front of his tent for nearly an hour, smoking and gazing into the haze of ruddy gold that hid the City of the Falcon.

3

Looking back upon the journey to Shingtse-lunpo, Trent saw it in a series of pictures—the days painted with vivid, glaring pigments, the nights pasteled in blended hues. It was not the Tibet of his imagination, the Tibet of drear, waterless stretches shut in by bastioned mountains, unscalable, snow-helmeted guards. True, for two days after the passing of the Chino-Tibetan divide and the Mekong (they were swung across this great river, at a giddy height, on a rope bridge) bleak ranges lifted themselves in heaps of purple and dun, crowned with flame as the sun gilded their snowy ramparts; but after that the ground was mildly undulating—nullahs and hills and thin forests.

The fourth day marked their entrance into a country of little vegetation, a world of dull tints—those lifeless shades of brown found in a camel's coat. The earth was sterile; even the sky seemed unyielding, an aching womb of light. Fine dust settled upon the body and in the nostrils and throat.

Of people they saw comparatively little. The villages generally consisted of a huddle of houses close to a spur of ground, upon the highest point of which a lamasery perched, like a lÄmmergier hovering over mulch and decay. The lamas, Trent learned, were of the Yellow Cap Order—a sullen, suspicious lot.

Trent tried, whenever it was practicable, to avoid human beings; he was not so much afraid of the penetrability of his own disguise as that of the girl. The caravans they encountered now and then—strings of men and mules and yaks—were a constant dread to him; not the Tibetans (they were a careless, friendly type, these men and women of Kham), but the priests who usually accompanied them. In every instance the lamas inquired through Kee Meng the destination of the pack-train.

The wind was usually chilling, except at midday when the earth quivered behind a brassy curtain of mirage and the glare of sunlight on quartz-like rocks was blinding. Sunset—a phenomenon of Tibet—was a source of never-ending wonder to both Trent and Dana Charteris. It flared in five distinct bars, like a crimson aurora, and died away when dusk swept a mauve brush across the west. Nightfall brought bitter winds. Stars glittered coldly, points of whitest flame; and when the moon came out it glistened like an icy planet reeling through space.

Trent grew to trust Kee Meng and his comrades—to a degree. It was a common occurrence for him to catch one or the other stealing from the provisions, and more than once he discovered gold and turquoise ornaments filched from a temple in some village where they remained overnight. Twice Trent's electric pocket-lamp disappeared, only to be found each time among the possessions of Kee Meng, who burned with a steady passion to own it. Trent maintained rigid discipline over his quartet of genial young brigands, who would have been impossible to rule otherwise; and whereas they learned he was master of the caravan and to be obeyed at all times, he could not tear down the walls of instinct which generations of hung-hu-tzee ancestors had fixed so immovably in them.

... The journey wove into a tapestry of monotonous colors stretching over a loom of many days, and through it all, like a silver thread, ran his association with Dana Charteris. His every chord of feeling responded to the age-old symphony of a woman unfolding to a man (the glorious hymn of the universe).... He knew there were times, after he had wrapped himself in his blanket for the night, that she wept from sheer exhaustion, tortured physically by the hard travel and mentally by the ever-present portent of danger which the very atmosphere seemed to speak. But not once did he see evidence of it, nor did she complain. After a day of riding, himself sweaty and caked with dust, his every sinew strained to the utmost, the moral effect of her presence was a narcotic.

Despite the discomforts and the uncertainty of what lay ahead, something serene came to him out of the silence. He saw it in the girl's eyes, too—this intangible thing that the far spaces breed in the hearts of men and that lies slumbering until they have returned to civilization, where, in the midst of crowded, suffocating cities, it awakens suddenly, drawing them back to the trackless wastes they once had hated and cursed. The intense light on the hills; the glow of firelight in the dusk; the cry of a wolf wavering through the night—they were the small incidents that would cling to the memory and, later, seem the salient features of a weird, fascinating scroll of recollections.

Green-roofed temples and whitewashed lamaseries daily became more numerous. They squatted on every eminence and were habited by crimson-togaed monks—hundreds of men and boys who rattled prayer-wheels and muttered "Om mani Padme hums" before greasy idols. The presence of women in those lamaist communities ceased to be a novelty; rather, a question. They were not unlovely, in their loose garments and turquoise-studded bandeaus, but their instinctive hostility toward any form of ablution disqualified them from meeting Western standards of beauty.

Thus the journey wore on, and thus, on the evening of the seventh day, they camped on the edge of a marshy lake, within view of scarped hills behind which Shingtse-lunpo, the mysterious, lay.