# The Temple of the Ten/Chapter 10

pp. 157-160

### CHAPTER X
#### “SO TO FRONT DEATH, AS MEN MIGHT JUDGE US PAST IT.”—Jonson.

WHEN Day had cut the bound wrists and ankles and was carefully slitting the skin hood of that silent figure, his hand trembling as he worked, a voice issued from beneath the skin. This voice was calm, cool, imperturbable.
“Thanks very much,” it said.
“Oh, the devil!” exclaimed Day.
“Not at all,” returned the voice. “Kilgore.”
With a violent movement Kilgore flung off the stiffly clinging skin. Then, swiftly, he clapped both hands to his face. The brilliant sunlight was blinding.
“Quite all right in a moment or so,” he murmured.
Day stared at him with fallen jaw. The change in Kilgore was terrible beyond words; the trim Canadian was scarcely recognizable. Not by reason of the bearded face alone, but by the frightful pallor of the entire torso. Hooded from all touch of light and air, the man's skin had become livid, a dead and colorless white.
“That you, Day?” asked Kilgore, attempting to peep between his fingers. “I say, what's happened? Where are we?”
“Dashed if I know,” answered the American. “Somewhere near Esrun, I guess. Here, get up and take my arm! You get out of this sunlight, or you'll be parboiled in ten minutes.”
Kilgore nodded and rose. Day led him beneath the trees and halted in the shade. By degrees Kilgore was able to perceive their situation and to observe Day.
“You are a rum-looking beggar!” he said dryly. “I imagine I'm equally handsome, what? Hello, are we free?”
“Free among the dead,” grunted the other.
“Don't quote from Scripture—just yet,” and Kilgore chuckled. “You hit it right, old man—this is the lake of singing fishes, where Esrun lives. See here, what's become of Severn and Fandi Singh?”
“Ask Esrun, not me,” returned Day. “My late entertainers rode up and left me here beside you. I got one of 'em, at least! They had orders not to injure us.”
Kilgore rose to his feet, a trifle unsteadily.
“Come along,” he said, removing the few rags that clothed him and blinking at the water. “May as well die clean, eh?”
“Die?” exclaimed Day. “Why, they've turned us loose, man!”
The visage of Kilgore broke into a pallid caricature of his old smile.
“Come, come, my dear fellow!” he said gaily. “We're perfectly helpless and have been left here as a sacrifice to Esrun. We shall probably be tortured scientifically, and then dropped into a rift among the rocks—fire and brimstone and so forth.”
Day swore angrily and his eyes bit around the valley. already the strong soul of him was revived by this touch of freedom, this contact with Kilgore; his unquenchable spirit was surging pugnaciously.
“We're not lost!” he exclaimed. “There are dromedaries—we can——”
Kilgore clapped him on the shoulder with a ringing laugh.
“Guards at the entrance, and probably a rifle or two trained on us this moment! No, we must preserve our dignity, old chap——”
“—— dignity! I'd sooner preserve our lives!”
Kilgore burst out laughing.
“Come along, Yank! Let's bathe.”
Day followed him to the water's edge, comprehending, yet stubbornly contesting, the fact that there was no hope for them.
When they had bathed and returned to the shade of the trees, Kilgore was something more like himself again. He had noted the beds of saffron, which now were in full bloom, and he sent Day for a blossom. He examined the petal with keen interest.
“Saffron,” he said, a retrospective look in his sunken eyes. “comes from Kashmir—I was there as a child. My father was stationed there.”
“That's where you first knew Fandi Singh?” queried Day shrewdly.
Kilgore nodded.
“Quite so. He's a rajah, you know. We grew up together in the palace. My uncle. Sir Cecil Kilgore, had quite a bit to do with the Government in the old days. Ho, hum! It's a far cry to the waters of Kashmir!”
“There's a boat,” observed Day abruptly.
They fell silent, watching the lake. A few words from his companion had apprized Kilgore of the manner in which the Mongols had communed with Esrun. Knowing that he had destroyed the ten priests, that Fandi Singh had destroyed five of the novices, he could only conjecture why none of the remaining five were on hand. They had, in effect, been destroyed by Sheng Wu; but of this Kilgore knew nothing. Since the Mongols had communicated with Esrun, however, it was evident that Esrun still existed. Ergo, Severn had failed to kill the master of mystery.
The rude craft, with its single erect figure shrouded in faded yellow cloths, was an eery thing. It stole toward them in silence, and that silence was oppressive, awesome. To neither of the two white men did it occur that this figure was Esrun.
They both were keyed up to thoughts of torture, death, violence. Therefore, the appearance of this shrouded figure peacefully creeping to them was a decided shock; it shattered their initiative, left them hesitant and perplexed.
The boat touched the shore, halted. The erect figure stretched forth a shrouded, beckoning arm, and uttered a single word in English.
“Come!”
The two men looked at each other.
“Say the word,” growled Day, “and——”
Kilgore shook his head, shrugged slightly and walked to the boat. Day followed him, eying the saffron figure with suspicion. They entered the boat, sitting on a wide forward thwart. Without a word the shrouded figure shoved off, moving with a mechanical precision which impressed Kilgore as singular. He could not fathom the reason for this oddity, since he did not know that their guide was blind. Now Day touched his arm, and both men stared at the place to which they were going.
The opening among the crags on the right, into which the boat was slowly heading, gave access to a long and narrow cleft. At the head of this cleft appeared a sandy beach twenty feet wide and as many deep, ending in an ancient portal of stone, built against the solid cliff. This portal framed the black opening of a cavern.
When the prow of the boat touched the sand an inarticulate word came from the guide. Kilgore turned, to perceive something held out to him in a fold of the yellow cloth. It was a box of vestas. He took them mechanically—and was then handed his own cigaret-case.
“Upon my word!” he murmured, then collected himself.
He opened the case.
“I say, Day look here! After you.”
“Come!” growled the American, his face lighting up. “This doesn't look much like torture!”
Kilgore held a match with trembling fingers. They lighted cigarets and stepped from the boat. The shrouded figure followed them, advanced to the black portal and beckoned.
“Come!”
The crafty gift of cigarets had been well calculated. Neither man knew what to fear, what to expect; their fears were lessened, their expectations were increased. They advanced and stood in the dark doorway. Their guide turned and spoke again.
“Catch my robe, sahibs, and follow closely.”
At those words; which for the first time clearly defined the voice of this figure, Kilgore gave a slight start. One would have said that it was a start of recognition; and in truth that low, musical voice held a peculiar note, a singular throbbing vibrancy, which when once heard could never be forgotten.
“A woman!” muttered Day, catching a fold of the yellow cloth in one hand.
The unearthly pallor of Kilgore passed into a violent flush.
“Impossible!” he murmured, and set his hand against the shoulder of Day.
Their guide laughed—a low, vibrantly throbbing note of woman's music which faded into the darkness of the cavern. The three went forward and vanished; only the glowing tips of the lighted cigarets stood out from the darkness, paling and reddening again.
For some distance they advanced with impenetrable darkness shutting in on all sides. The cavern turned and twisted, the floor remaining level and sandy. Presently their guide turned a corner and halted. A light appeared.
They stood in a narrow throat of rock that rose to a roof twelve feet above. This narrow throat widened out rapidly into a great chamber which, at the rear, was a good thirty feet in width. The walls were of rock. Set against the long rear wall were two huge vessels with narrow lips, lighted wicks in the lips; lamps, these, which illumined this chamber.
It was less at the rock chamber, however, than at the things it held, that the two men stared in wonder. A number of great porcelanous jars, containing water, stood about. Near them, packets of food, which Kilgore recognized as taken from his own mess supplies. To the right hand, against the rear wall, were packs—the personal belongings of Day. To the left, at the other end of the chamber, were those of Kilgore.
“This is most amazing—extraordinary!” said Kilgore astoundedly.
“Our own stuff!” cried Day, starting forward.
The voice of their guide filled the cavern with its richly throbbing note.
“Wash,” it said. “Eat. Shave. Dress. Then—talk.”
The yellow figure vanished from sight.
Struck beyond speech, Kilgore walked forward to examine his own belongings, while Day strode toward the other side of that long chamber with the same intent. The feelings of the two men were unutterable. Kilgore knelt and tore open the nearest pack and stared down at the toilet kit which fell out at his knee. Tears sprang to his haggard, bearded cheeks at sight of the well-remembered thing.
“It's true, all right!” came the voice of Day, no longer sullen and growling. “By Heaven, it's true! This is our own stuff, Kilgore!”
At this instant came a most singular sound, which drew the attention of both men.
It appeared to come from overhead, in a queer squeaking and protesting of iron rubbed against iron. The stone roof of the chamber was rugged and uneven and badly lighted; they could make out little. But from this roof glided an object suddenly, shooting downward with incredible speed, until it plunged into the sanded floor with a loud clang.
This object was a grill of heavy iron, which began at the rear wall, separated the chamber into two parts, and protruded at a distance of ten feet from the wall.
While the two men were still staring open-mouthed at this apparition, a second grill came down with a shriek and a clash. This grill met the outer end of the first one at right angles, and then ran to the wall on one side. Before the noise of its fall had died, a third appeared, opposite the second, and came clanging to the floor. Each of these grills extended fully to the ceiling, and were formed of closely twisted iron.
Day and Kilgore were now separated and enclosed in iron cages.
“You are welcome, sahibs!” floated that peculiar voice, in queerly clipped English. “Be comfortable. Be happy, honorable nephew of Sir Cecil Kilgore!”
There was silence. Kilgore stood petrified, his face fixed into fines of spasmodic horror. A cold sweat had sprung out on his whole body.
He recognized the voice—too late.