Waterbury evening Democrat., 1892-03-11
AN nYRLEss EDEN.

There were strange doings in that
chamber in the woods, Arthur Dunbar
thought, when he awolze the morning
after Aaron Cores untimely end; for
how could the corpse have been re-
moved without his awakening? And
where had the Cingalese girl betaken
herself? Yes, he was alone; and the
object of his sudden desertion filed him
with surprise. That his young nurse
had left him for good was self-apparent,
for she had tied the dog by piece Of
cord to the root of a tree at the entrance
of the rude apartment.
He was half glad to be alone, yet re-
gretful that the opportunity had been
denied him Of making her understand
how grateful he was for her tender
solicitude, especially when he saw that
to the last she had been mindful of his
interests; for his knapsack, rifle and
ammunition were placed ready to his
hand, and a skin bag lay beside them
filed with dried meat and the heavy,
sodden maize cakes, which did duty for
bread in that region. All these prepar-
ations spoke as plainly as words that
the unknown friends, who had been
playing special providence to him, meant
him to take his immediate departure.
His first act was to examine the out
side of the dwelling which had so long
afforded him shelter. He found 1t to
be simply cave in the solid rock,
partly natural, partly the work of man,
and doubtless one of the many little
temples Of Buddha, abandoned as a
place OF worship centuries ago, which
are to be found all over this interesting
country. His next task was to exam
inc Cores papers, the most valuable Of
which was chart and a long descrip-
ton of the country he would have to
travel. From this it appeared that he
was even now within few days march
of the place where Capt. Frank Archer
had carried the victim of his treachery.
This was described as a ruined city.
Arthur Dunbar had read enough to
know that there were hundreds Of such
mysterious ruins scattered over the face
of the country, even in neighborhoods
now almost inaccessible-cities Of re-
mote eras, displaying in their molder-
ing fragments relics of civilization far
in advance of the barbarian inhabitants
scattered over the miserable villages in
the present day.
Needless to relate Arthur's tramp
over the rough path through the woods,
of the risks he ran and the dangers he
encountered.
Behold him as he steps from the dark
shadows of the forest one moonlight
night into the broad expanse of a love-
ly plain, and gazes awestruck at the
ruins of city, once magnificent, whose
grandeur has vanished like tale that
is told. The palaces have fallen, the
walls have tottered to their foundation,
the leopard crouches in the porch of the
temple, the owl roosts in it's easements,
the jackal roams its deserted streets.
Only the great granite slabs of Buddha,
hooking time, stand perfect in their lone
ly grandeur. Gigantic idols, before whom
millions once bowed, vacantly stare at
the utter desolation. No man can say
what fate befen those hosts of heathens,
who, centuries before the time of
Christ trod the streets of this once fair
city.
Arthur Dunbar gazed OF the sight in
solemn awe; then, calling the dog to
his side, he sought shelter under q
ruined gateway, to await the dawn of
the day, which he knew would be so
| fateful to him.
His hours of precious sleep were
short. When the blazing sun dawned,
| Nc EOu1lh0o 4h4AJ VIC 1S6hty Va A4o
surroundings. He was on the verge of
q plum studded with beautiful trees,
among which tho palm lowered In
graceful majesty. PeRcocks spread
their gaudy plumGge as they strutted
over the green turf, pelicRnB hoated
like huge balls Of snow In the air, and
great white land cranes stood as still as
though they were carved in marble.
|
sounds of the bulbul and the grooming
melody of the jungle partridge.
But Dunbar's spirit was too vexed for
him to revel in the glory of beautiful
scenery; for he fully realized the dan
gers of his position.
Keeping under the shadows Of the
crumbling walls, he threaded his way
through the labyrinth Of ruins, his dog
1D ~