"Did you notice the bell on it?"

"Yes. What was that for?"

"So that her lord and master may know when she stops working."

"There was a funeral to-day," says Eleanor; "the guns have been going since morning in the jungle, to keep the spirits off. What a misery it must be to believe in 'Nats.'* That old woman there gave me a charm. I am always to wear it to keep the devils off. Do you think it will, Carol?" with a low laugh. "Or am I theirs already?"

"Don't, Eleanor," he cries, drawing her to him. "I cannot bear to hear you say such things."

She wriggles herself free, determined to tease him.

"But there are heaps of devils about," she declares, shaking her head; "or else why do they put up arches especially to keep them off--propitiate them, and prevent their entrance into the village?

They have little bamboo huts like dolls' houses, and place food inside, that the devils may lodge and eat. It seems that the corpse to-day had a good time of it. They gave him a month's food, new gong and gun, a complete set of new clothes, and two or three gourds of Zoo--they are always drunk with that stuff. It is an awfully strong drink, though made from rice, which sounds innocent, doesn't it? Rice always reminds me of my bib-and-tucker days."

"It is rather like English cider, with the strength of whisky. But what a lot of information you pick up, little woman, while I am out shooting!"

"It terrifies me when you are away all day," she declares. "Then I feel lonely--deserted--afraid. Tigers and bears are such alarming things to picture you chasing, though you are accompanied by a troop of negroes."

Eleanor leans back in a low chair, gazing wistfully across the wild country. She can see the course of the Irrawaddy river, with its numerous rapids and picturesque cascades. It seems only the other day that she and Carol steamed up it, past Mandalay, Bhanio, and Myitkyina.

She wishes they could travel on overland through the jade, amber, and ruby mines, but Carol fears for her, and prefers to stay in these more quasi-civilised regions.

A group of women and girls strikes her eye, carrying loads supported by a strap encircling their foreheads, after the curious fashion of Dundee fisherwomen.

The unmarried girls wear square-cut fringes and their hair hanging loosely at the sides to the shoulders, while the married women have it done up decorously on the head.

"I am glad I have not to carry loads like those poor creatures," says Eleanor softly; "yet perhaps an external load is better than an internal one. Sometimes, Carol, I remember that I once had a conscience. It just stirs and half wakes when I am quite alone. Often in the darkness I fancy I see Philip, or feel as if he were near me. I would sooner die a thousand deaths than meet his eye."

"Do not think of it, dearest; we have cut ourselves adrift from old a.s.sociations for that purpose. There is nothing to remind you or trouble you."

"Nothing," replied Eleanor, "I am content, Carol. We have discovered an Eden--after the fall."

Eleanor is in a roving mood, and while Carol is engaged in the mild sport of pheasant shooting for a change, she wanders alone into the jungle to watch the children playing with large beans like marbles.

Though she cannot understand what they say, she grasps the method of the game, watching it with amused interest. They are such queer little dusky creatures.

One boy among them especially attracts her attention. His face is strangely European, and his features noticeably different to those of his comrades. Yet his skin is dark and swarthy, there can be no mistaking the black blood in his veins.

Now and again Eleanor fancies she catches an English exclamation from his lips. She wishes she could join the children in their gambols, as in her girlhood at Copthorne. But they eye her suspiciously and sidle away when she approaches.

She wanders back disconsolately, wishing she knew more of the boy with the European face.

That very day her wish is satisfied. It is late in the afternoon, and Carol is still out. She is too blinded by love to resent his selfishness in leaving her so much alone, and wanders down to the river, singing from sheer lightness of heart.

She sees as she saunters along a trap set for a deer, and gives it a wide berth as she pa.s.ses.

It consists of a noose fastened to the top of a pliant tree, which is bent down and pegged across a path leading down to the water. Thus it serves to entrap prey on the way to drink.

She has scarcely gone a hundred yards when a shriek rends the air, and turning simultaneously Eleanor sees a small boy trip over the noose, which, released from the peg, flies back with the full force of the tree, carrying him into the air with it.

She rushes up terror-stricken at the horrible sight. The screaming child is suspended far above her head, the cruel thongs cutting deeply into his flesh.

The sight puts energy and cat-like agility into her limbs. She climbs the tree with all the daring of her orchard days, tearing great rents in her dress, spurred on by the cries of the helpless victim. She creeps on hands and knees along the willowly bough, upon which he hangs till her weight combined with his brings the inevitable result. A crack, a crash, and the two fall together to the ground. Unharmed herself save for a few bruises and scratches, Eleanor releases the unfortunate child, raising his bleeding body tenderly in her arms, binding up the wounds with her handkerchief, and soothing his groans with kisses.

"Oh! dear," she says, "I wish I knew where you lived, you poor little darling."

To her intense surprise the boy replies:

"Up there," pointing feebly with an injured arm.

Then she sees for the first time he is the child with the European features.

"Will it hurt you if I carry you back?" asks Eleanor.

"Best try," answers the boy abruptly.

He is heavy for his age, but she staggers forward manfully, while the little aching head drops confidingly on her shoulder.

"You're awful pretty," he gasps at last, "and I am dropping no end of blood off my arm on your bodice. Oh! how my leg hurts. Guess I have broken it clean in two."

At every step Eleanor fears she must give in, the perspiration is standing out on her forehead, while her own wounds smart and ache.

"I am afraid I shake you terribly up this hill; would you like me to rest a moment?"

Eleanor hopes he will say yes, for her strength is giving out.

"Sit on that stone, I'm just dying," moans the little lad.

Eleanor eagerly a.s.sents, and moves him into a more comfortable position.

"My mother is white like you," he says at last, raising his head.

"Is she, dear? Are you better? Shall we go on?"

"Yes, please. We may meet father, he is ever so big and dark. I shall be big and dark too, all the good men are black."

"And the good women?" asks Eleanor, smiling in spite of her load.

"Oh! white of course, white all over like you and mother, hands, feet, everything."

Eleanor staggers on breathlessly up the hill, the boy seems to grow heavier at every step. She is nearly exhausted. He is like the weight of her sin, which increases with time.

[Ill.u.s.tration: Eleanor staggers on breathlessly up the hill.]

One or twice she stumbles, the boy clutches her round the neck, fearing she will fall upon him, and his hands half choke her. She gasps for breath.

"Is it much farther?" she pants, turning sick and dizzy with the climb.