A tall, dark figure stood before her. It was Moulla Khan; he had not been home for two days. His eyes were blood-shot, his turban disarranged. He stood over her, and looked down at her. She trembled a little; she feared him greatly. She stirred uneasily, but nevertheless met his look without flinching.

He only uttered one word, and that in a voice which drink had rendered hoa.r.s.e and thick.

"Money." He spoke in Hindustani.

"I have none," she answered him in the same tongue.

He gave a sort of gurgling laugh.

"Look you," he muttered, "I know there is money hidden somewhere--pice and annas and rupees--and I will have it; I know it, I tell you, I know it."

"There is none," the girl replied. She had risen; she had her back to the hole in the wall where the money was.

"Give it to me," he cried, in a voice of frantic rage.

"I do not know who has told you this thing," she said, "but it is not true."

She felt chilly with fright. She knew that, once his suspicion aroused, he would search till he found. She would be powerless to protect it.

Tears dimmed the fond eyes of the child. She knew, none better, all the toil, privations, and hopes that lay in that poor little box.

Yet what could she do? She was so small and her strength so puny. If he searched he would find it; its hiding-place was not so secure as to be proof against those cruel fingers.

Though all Mah Khine's future lay there, she gave no sign of fear. She kept her ground boldly. He shook her savagely, when she stood. She was wondering who could have told him. She watched him with a dull, throbbing brain move unsteadily round the wretched room, groping by the light of the moon; feeling, feeling everywhere along the wall for holes; turning over all the things; then, with a muttered word or two, out he went on to the rafters, made of mud, behind, into a little piece of ground; but there was nothing, nothing anywhere. Her breath came a little quicker, a little more freely. Perhaps, after all--but, with a bound, he was by her side. He nearly wrenched her slender, childish wrists off. "It is there!" he cried in triumph.

She set her strong white teeth in his black arm; but with a brutal gesture he flung her light weight from him. She fell with a dull, heavy thud. He did not heed her for awhile, searching eagerly, thirstily, his eyes glittering with cruel greed.

At last he drew it forth triumphantly, the poor little shabby treasure-house, and took the money, letting some drop in his haste, hiding it with trembling, feverish hands in his white linen jacket.

Then he put the box back, and turned to Mah May. He looked; she was very still; he crept nearer and nearer, and his cowardly soul shrank within him. The moonbeams had found her out and fell upon her thin, upturned face. He peered round, he held his very breath; no one was stirring, there was silence everywhere. His dark, acquiline face was as cunning as that of any fox cub. He paused for a second or two. Then, as if a sudden thought struck him, he gathered her up hastily in his arms.

She was a little heavy, but he was strong.

The river, that was drifting outward to the ocean, and the moon were the only things that shared the secret of that night with him.

And they guard their secrets well.

"If Mah May wanted the money, I would have given it to her, for I loved her; she need not have left me," Mah Khine said, with a great sorrow and sense of desolate despair in her heart, and tears in her honest eyes, when Moulla Khan told his tale.

She never learnt different--she never will--unless, indeed, the day dawns when the sea shall give up its dead.

[Ill.u.s.tration: THE KING'S PALACE.]

THE PEt.i.tION TO THE KING.

In the reign of King Mindoon, who was the father of King Theebaw, a servant sent a pet.i.tion to him in which he set forth that he had been his humble and faithful servitor before his accession to the throne, but now, although seven long years had gone by since then, he had remained forgotten and unnoticed. Continuing in this strain for a s.p.a.ce, he ended with the following parable:--

In the Zita country there lived a King who had a son named Padoma, whom he sent to Thakada to be educated, and with him he sent a young attendant called Thomana.

For three years they stayed at Thakada, at the end of which period the Prince, having completed his studies, prepared to return home; on their way, travelling by easy stages, they paused at a small village situated in deep-wooded lands, where a great feast was being held. Hundreds of people had gathered there from all parts. A large tent was erected in one part, where a banquet was spread, to partake of which they humbly begged the Prince.

And he willingly accepted.

On the ground had been spread matting, on a part of which a gorgeously embroidered scarlet cloth with a golden fringe was put for the Prince, and a white one, less magnificently worked and with a silver fringe, for his friend and attendant Thomana.

When they had seated themselves, the rest of the company did likewise, remaining, however, at a distance, and separated by a cord.

Now Thomana was very learned in astrology, having read and thought deeply on that subject, and he knew as soon as he saw the Prince seat himself on the red cloth that he would become King upon that very day.

It was a brilliant a.s.sembly, every one clad in delicate silks of all hues, and glittering with jewels. The feast lasted long, it seemed, indeed, as if the constant succession of dishes was to be an endless one. All were in the best of spirits, and laughed and talked greatly.

When the Prince had finished his repast, he was shown into an inner tent, where a couch of the same royal colour had been placed, and in front was a slightly raised platform of bamboo, draped with violet and rose-pink satin, richly worked and lighted with lamps, that shed a subdued radiance round and about the little graceful figures of several dancing girls who had been bidden to dance for his royal highness.

Their dresses were so formed as to represent armour, and on their heads were similar coverings. They performed peculiar, dreamy, kind of movements, amidst a mist of varying hues. The Prince was much interested, and postponed retiring until late.

Thomana, having bidden his royal master good-night, felt disinclined for sleep, so, strolling into a park-like demesne that was adjacent, he seated himself under a large tree, whose branches spread for a considerable way, and became lost in thought.

It was a glorious night, with not a sound in the air save the soft whirr of some purpled-eyed or golden-winged insect as it floated by in the darkness. As he sat there musing on the events of the evening and the future of the Prince, two large leaves fell from above into his hand: one was old and withered, the other was fresh and green. "Ah," he murmured, as he looked at them, "in the same way as an old and a young leaf drops from the tree, so may a man full of years and one who is in the morning of life die at the same time."

In the midst of his meditations, which lasted long, he became a rahan,[3] and was taken from the garden to the Gandremadana Mountains.

At the same time a chariot of pearl, drawn by four pure white horses with trappings of gold, was on its way to the Prince to carry him back, as his father had died that day. Following the chariot came four ministers and a train of Court officials, accompanied by soldiers.

[3] "Rahan," _i.e._, one possessed of supernatural powers.

They awakened the sleeping Prince and acquainted him with their news.

Then, when he was prepared, he stepped into the chariot that was waiting, and was borne with all speed to the palace, where he was proclaimed King the following day with the utmost pomp, ceremony, and rejoicings.

In his new life, and amidst his many duties and responsibilities, he entirely forgot the existence of his attendant, who had been his constant companion for three years; therefore his absence pa.s.sed unrecorded and unnoticed; for what the King forgets the courtiers must never be unwise enough to remember.

At the end of thirty years, when the King was getting old, he remembered Thomana, and wondered greatly where he might be. Whereupon he immediately caused it to be made known throughout his dominions that he would give a lac of rupees to any one who should give him any news of his lost servant.

Now Thomana, owing to his great piety and powers of clairvoyance, became aware immediately of the fact that his old master had recollected him, and desired his presence. Therefore he went at once to the garden where he had been seated before he attained his rahans.h.i.+p so many years before. Close by the tree, under whose branches he had sat, were four shepherd boys, their flocks grazing near, while they themselves talked together of the big reward that the King had offered for news of his old servant.

Thomana, coming through the leafy aisles, heard them, and accosted them, declaring that he was the person whom the King desired. They rose and glanced at him doubtingly.

"Let two of you," he said, "go to the palace and tell His Majesty, that I await him here." To which they a.s.sented.

A short while pa.s.sed, and then an immense carriage, glittering like gold and silver in the sun, and followed by others less imposing, could be seen coming rapidly along the white winding road. Pulling up at the entrance, the King himself alighted, and came through the gates, that were all brazen and blazoned, straight towards Thomana, his arms outstretched to embrace him; but he whom he would have greeted so cordially stopped him, saying--

"I am now a rahan; with men, their feelings, their pa.s.sions, their brief triumphs, and sorrows, likes and dislikes, I have no affinity." Then he folded his arms and stood in silence.

His face was very cold and still.