“And do you mean to say that this book is written in an unknown language?” demanded Maurice, incredulously.
“By no means,” replied the Doctor. “All I assert is that the characters are unknown—the language may be English, for all I can tell.”
“May it not be written in cipher?”
“Certainly; and such I am inclined to think is actually the case. But there, examine it for yourselves, gentlemen. Wylde, I owe you an apology. I am sorry I opened the bag against your wishes, but having opened it, I was determined to see what it contained.”
I made no reply, for I was still angry. Taking the book from his hand almost rudely, I proceeded to make a more critical examination, half expecting, I am free to confess, to see Mr. Mirrikh suddenly appear among us and reproach me for what had been done.
But I could make nothing of it, nor could Maurice. The characters were most peculiar and seemed to be made up of simple strokes, dots and curves, arranged at different angles. They neither extended across the page, nor yet up and down in columns, as the Chinese write, but were arranged in little squares, or tablets, after the manner of those mysterious hieroglyphics found sculptured on the monuments of Palenque, Copan, Uxmal, and other ruined cities of Mexico and Central America, which, as is well known, have thus far defied the skill of the most noted antiquarians of the world.
But in a matter of this kind, description goes for nothing. I reproduce, above, three sample squares for the inspection of the reader. Let him judge of their peculiarity for himself.
Now this happened at the beginning of a day destined to become most notable among those spent at Angkor.
By noon we were at Ballambong, where lies concealed in the very heart of the forest a minature Nagkon Wat, not lacking interest to the professed antiquarian, but to us it seemed decidedly tame.
We had gone into the jungle accompanied only by one old priest whom we had taken pains to propitiate by frequent gifts of brandy and tobacco. Although only three miles distant from Angkor, the journey had been a hard one, since every step of the way took us through a dense tropical tangle, keeping me in momentary dread of dangling pythons, prowling tigers and other pleasing diversions.
Nevertheless the trip was not without enjoyment. The day was perfect, and as the rainy season was now close upon us, such days were not to be despised. Maurice was full of life and spirits, and Philpot certainly at his best. Jovial always, he seemed to surpass himself in joviality on that particular morning. Witty upon all occasions, he kept us in a constant roar of laughter by his quaint remarks and comical sayings. More than all this, it was a pleasure to listen as he unfolded his vast stores of knowledge. Not a plant, not a tree nor shrub, but he had the name, botanical and vulgar, at his tongue’s end, and as he rattled on, discoursing learnedly at one moment, telling a witty and often broad anecdote the next, I could not but wonder where and when the man had found time to learn all these things, and how it happened that one whose manners and acquirements certainly seemed to fit him for many elevated positions, had become so complete a nomad—a wanderer on the face of the earth.
We remained at the ruins three hours, during which time Philpot took a series of views of the temple and the most notable of the bas-reliefs.
I remember how he sang over his work, stopping only to light his pipe—the tobacco had been begged from Maurice—and to quiz the old priest, who followed us about like a dog, watching our operations with awe.
Meanwhile I kept myself busy studying inscriptions and dreaming over the lost glories of this wonderful land. I pondered upon the problems which Angkor and its environs offer to the antiquarian. I fancied these old temples in their glory, with a mighty city surrounding them.
“This very building may have been included within the limits,” I was reflecting, when all at once Philpot came bursting into the apartment where I stood before an inscribed tablet bearing a long history of the doings of some forgotten dignitary of the ancient Cambodian race.
“Look here, Wylde, we are in a precious pickle now!” he broke out.
“What is the trouble?” I inquired, turning with a start, for I had not been conscious of his approach.
“Why that wretched fraud of a priest refuses to go back with us. Says he is obliged to stay here to perform some heathen ceremony or another, and has just informed me that we can stay until morning or return to the Nagkon Wat as best we can.”
“Well, I don’t see anything so very terrible about that,” I answered. “It is scarcely past four o’clock, and the distance is only three miles. For my part I’d as soon be rid of the fellow—he’s only in the way.”
“Precisely, but suppose we miss the path?”
“No danger. It is a straight trail through the forest. We couldn’t miss it if we were to try.”
“Which only goes to show how little you comprehend the dangers of a Siamese forest,” he replied. “I tell you, my dear fellow, we are very likely to miss our way, and that means wandering in the jungle indefinitely, living on all sorts of unpleasant things, with the beautiful prospect of starving to death in the end.”
“Pshaw! You exaggerate. Have you tried all your powers of persuasion?”
“Aye, and of Maurice’s brandy flask and tobacco bag into the bargain. It’s no go. The old fanatic has got some crotchet into his head, and the devil himself couldn’t knock it out.”
I found Maurice less excited than the Doctor, but still anxious, and of the opinion that we ought to start back at once.
“Mr. Philpot is right, George, he said. “There is danger. We are without a compass and the jungle is full of wild beasts. It would be no joke to get lost in these woods.”
Meanwhile the priest had taken himself off and could not be found. Probably he was concealed somewhere among the ruins, but we made no attempt to look for him, simply bundling our traps together and starting off along the narrow trail in single file.
“Upon my word I'm sorry we ever ventured into this beastly hole,” grumbled Philpot, after we had advanced about a mile or so. “A night spent here would bring us all down with jungle fever—heavens! look there!”
He pointed toward a huge atap palm just in advance of us, from which a thick, brown tendril, as I supposed it to be, for I had seen it before, hung dangling. But, now, as I looked again, I saw the supposed tendril suddenly elevate itself; saw a well defined head, a pair of wicked beady eyes flash fire, and a forked tongue shoot out like lightning. It was a huge serpent, which in a moment more might have been twining its folds about the Doctor’s neck.
I started back in terror, but Maurice, always cool, raised his rifle and fired.
The snake drew back and disappeared among the palm leaves. Whether the shot took effect or not, I cannot say, for we did not pause to investigate.
“Now you see!” said the Doctor. “Pleasant prospect for the night if we should happen to miss our way. Once in India I spent three nights in the jungle. I tell you those nights will live in my memory until my dying day.”
“But we are not going to stay here all night,” answered Maurice.
Suddenly he paused. A puzzled expression passed over his face, for we had come to a division in the path.
“By Jove!” cried the Doctor. “What did I tell you?”
“We want to keep to the right,” I said emphatically, for I felt certain that I remembered the place.
“Are you sure?” asked Maurice.
“As certain