Le Dluer yeu

Manchu
Abdullah
ROBERT J. SHORES, Publisher


KD400 (3





TO








THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU









SAVAS
BARN
S
ANA
VA
GOOOOOO
uth Kok Zoz
2


THE 1
BLUE-EYED
MANCHU
ACHMED ABDULLAH
(Author of "Bukigg the Tiger",
**The Craying kale" .)
NEW YORK
ROBERT J. SHORES
PUBLISHER





THE BLUE-EYED
MANCHU
BY
ACHMED ABDULLAH
(Author of "Bucking the Tiger",
“The Undying Race" etc.)
NEW YORK
ROBERT J. SHORES
PUBLISHER


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU


To
ROBERT H. DAVIS
who helped, advised, suggested,
corrected, and gave freely and
generously.


10
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
copies of "Le Vicomte de Bragelonne" and "Au-
cassin et Nicolette”; and for awhile at least I
was childishly, ridiculously happy. What if the
little hamlet where I lived was grey and drab and
prosaic? It was the very medicine for me. It
spelled forgetting-forgetting what had gone be-
fore—what had wound up with the cheerful mes-
sage quoted above.
Nothing remained to remind me of the whole
eighteen months—those months pregnant with
excitement, adventure, and forebodings—but Ca-
jetano Maria Mascasenhas, the Goanese half-
caste. I had taken him to America with me. In
the past the man had risked his life for me. He
had stuck by me through thick and thin. So now
I gave him asylum and bread. It was the least
I could do.
And he repaid me with a doglike devotion
which was a little embarrassing to me and which
at times brought a lump into my throat.
And then, overnight it seemed to me, a subtle
change crept into the manners and the behavior
of the Goanese.
He took to staring at me for long seconds in a
frightfully embarrassing, appealing manner, like
some dumb animal; his whole soul self-involved,


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 11
enigmatic, encircled by superstitious, sybilline
speculations.
At other times, chiefly when he imagined him-
self unobserved, his lips would straighten into
a thin, sneering line; a purple-black, opalescent
light would come into his deep-brown eyes; his
whole attitude, his carriage, the poise of his head,
the very gestures of his frail, high-veined hands
would give me a sudden impression of arrogance
and defiance; yes, and of hatred.
I could never nail him. For never did he speak
an arrogant word; never did he do anything which
he should not have done. But there was something
about him which I did not understand; and
which, therefore, I did not like.
But then I am a prosaic, matter-of-fact sort
of a chap. And so I decided to banish this im-
pression from my conscious memory as some-
thing altogether incredible, altogether ridiculous.
So matters drifted along for several sleepy
weeks.
Finally one night-and I shall never cease to
remember the drab, gray, inarticulate horror of
it-a strange thing happened.
I was reading Williams' Grammar, rubbing up
my Chinese a bit, when Mascasenhas came into


12
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
the library with some letters. He stepped directly
in front of me, bowing in his usual feline manner.
I took the letters. He straightened up, and as
he did so it seemed to me that there was a faint
smudge of scarlet on his forehead.
It was very strange. I can't quite express it
with the written word. But the smudge was faint,
very faint, very evasive; and yet it was starkly
vivid.
I spoke instinctively, without thinking:
"What's that scarlet mark on your forehead,
Mascasenhas?”
The Goanese looked at me. He shivered like
tree cut away from its supporting roots. His
olive skin turned a dull dead white.
"A scarlet mark, Mr. Vandewater?" His words
broke and splintered. "Surely—not a scarlet mark
surely not-"
His voice snapped off in mid air. He stepped
in front of a large Louis-Seize mirror which is
the pride of my library and looked at himself in a
searching, intent manner.
Then he turned to me again. His face had
regained its natural color. His voice was low and
steady.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 13
"No, master. You are mistaken. There is no
scarlet mark."
I looked at him again. And he was right. There
was no mark on his forehead. Not even the faint-
est trace. And yet, two minutes ago I could have
sworn that,
No, no, no! It must have been my wretched
imagination, perhaps an optic illusion, which had
been fooling me. For I could have sworn on a
stack of Bibles ten feet high that a scarlet mark
had been on the man's forehead; a scarlet mark
which, in its hazy outlines, resembled the dread
caste-mark of Doorgha, the black-faced Hindu
goddess of destruction.
I tried to steady my nerves. I poured myself
a stiff measure of bourbon. But the impression
refused to budge.
My nerves twitched and ached. Peace had
flown out of the window, and my little suburban
home had lost its charm—had lost the clean scent
of its sheltered security.


CHAPTER II
In a way, I was therefore glad when the sum-
mons came from Washington asking me to report
there at once to the chief of the Intelligence De-
partment.
Of course, I had followed current political
events in newspapers, magazines, and reviews. I
had read that Japan, callously and sneeringly dis-
regarding the protests of the West, had annexed
China, and had at once proceeded to introduce
military conscription into the Middle Kingdom.
And China was a nation of over four hundred
million!
But that was not the worst. The real danger
appeared with the reports from both missionaries
and travelers that the Chinese did not have to be
coerced at all; that there was not the slightest
dissatisfaction among them; that, on the contrary,
they were eager and willing to serve in the army
The Chief of the Intelligence Department in
Washington put it up to me straight. He was
closeted with Lord Northmere, the British ambas-
sador, who looked pale and worried.
14


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
“Of course these yellow devils mean war, Van,"
he said over and over again. "Of course they
mean war-war of conquest. But what can we
do? They point out that they have no more
soldiers pro ratio of their population than has
France, or Germany, or Austria. Still we kick-
and they promise to call a halt to their military
preparations. But they only mean to throw sand
into our eyes.” He smote the table with his
hairy fist. “Yes. They think we are purblind,
damned fools. And, by gad, they are right!”.
Lord Northmere rose. He paced up and down
the room, speaking in a nervous, halting manner.
"It's true, Vandewater. They say that they
have stopped their military preparations. But all
they have done is to shift their arsenals and their
concentration camps. They have shifted them
with marvelous speed and efficiency. And they
have shifted them far out”-he pointed out of the
window toward the setting sun—"to the west, to
outer Mongolia—to the far lands where European
influence is non-existing, where European travel-
ers are unknown, where even your wide-awake
Yankee reporters and correspondents never pene-
trate.”
I interrupted him. I was really thinking aloud.


16
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
"In Asia it is never a nation in turmoil, a nation
in ferment. In Asia it is always One Man-One
Man,"
There was a piercing look of rapid comprehen-
sion in the Englishman's steel-gray eyes.
"Exactly," he broke in. "One Man. Just as
you said. And that's why we want you I say
we. For, of course, you understand that my coun-
try and yours are working hand in hand in this
crisis. You must find that One Man, Vande-
water." He put his hands on my shoulders. "All
we know is that the man is somewhere in Central
Asia, that he is a genius at organizing, and that
he knows everything—yes everything Europe
and America can teach in the line of warfare."
There was a short, heavy pause. The Chief
came up close to me.
"When can you go, Van?”
“To-morrow. But there is one condition."
Lord Northmere laughed a thin, fine laugh.
"It has been complied with before you speak,
my friend. You want carte blanche, absolute
carte blanche. We have already prepared it.” He
took a heavy despatch-box from the table. "Here
are confidential instructions to every British and
American official of note in the Orient."


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
17
lon
I took up the despatch-box. There was a pause.
Then the Chief shook my hand.
"God bless you, Van! Come back safe."
Lord Northmere did not say a word. He just
gripped my hands with fingers of steel.
So I left them. And as I walked down the
street, a shapeless, brooding gray shadow seemed
to creep out of the western sky, and I shivered just
a little.
The next moment I was myself again. Fight
once more, I said to myself, and I would not shirk
the steely sharpness of it.
I returned to my house in Jersey on the next
train. I was not going to lose any time. The
stage was set, a vast stage which reached from
the Gobi clear through to the Mersey.
I smiled. I thought of the carte blanche in-
structions in my despatch-box which I was hug-
ging close. They were beautifully complete and
sweeping. It pleased me. Why not? We all have
our little pet vanities.
I reached my house. With my very first words
I ordered Mascasenhas to pack our trunks.
“We are off to San Francisco." I slapped him
on the shoulder, and I suppose my voice was buoy-
ant. "To San Francisco, my lad. To the Golden


18 THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
ce
West, and thence-westward ho!—to Hong-
Kong."
His voice came slow and halting.
'To-Hong-Kong?”
“Right-o.”
Again he asked:
"To Hong-Kong—to Asia,"
And his voice was pregnant with a moody un-
easiness.
Immediately I reacted to his mood. My buoy-
ancy left me. I looked at him with sharp, direct
intent. But his face was like a stone mask. He
was superbly calm, superbly collected. And if
my subconscious comprehension had half-formed,
half-shaped suspicions of sorts, they flew away
like rubbish in a typhoon, circling but never light-
ing.
Once more I regained confidence in myself and
trust in him.
After all, I said to myself, I was going to Asia;
and the Goanese was familiar with everything
which affects the great mother continent. He
knew the tortuous channels of the brooding, sin-
ister continent he knew the sharp-cutting minds
and ambitions of the handful of men who directed
its destinies. And he was loyal and faithful to


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
19
me; had always been loyal and faithful to me.
He was also grateful.
And so now he would be of immense help when
it was my duty to match my brain and my craft
against the brain and the craft of the Unknown
Man; the Unknown Asian who was drilling those
millions back yonder; who was pulling the sharp-
cutting wires of coming war in the heart of Outer
Mongolia.
I made up my mind to confide fully in the
Goanese. I have always despised half measures,
contemptible half confidences.
"I have a sort of roving commission, Mascasen-
has," I resumed. “There is the devil to pay out
there in Asia, and the powers that be have chosen
me to find out who is stirring the caldron. They
remember my little work in connection with Hus-
sain Khan ”
Something made me stop-made me look up;
and I gave a quickly suppressed cry of surprise
and horror.
For again, evasive and yet starkly vivid and
baleful, a smudge of scarlet seemed to appear on
the forehead of the Goanese. Again it seemed to
spread and sharpen into the contours of the caste-


20
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
mark of Doorgha. Again I tried to banish the
mad thought. But I could not.
This time I was convinced that it was not an
optic illusion that it was not the fault of my
own wretched imagination. The thing was there,
staring at me with an evil leer—with a dread
meaning; a deep scarlet mark—the mark of Door-
gha and the worshipers of Doorgha.
Mechanically I repeated the last words:
"Hussain Khan,"
And, even as I spoke, the confounded mark on
the forehead of the Goanese took on a deeper
shade of scarlet. The contours shone out more
distinctly. It glowed with an intense, unearthly
shimmer. It flickered and winked like a live
thing.
At the same time Mascasenhas took a step for-
ward in my direction. His body seemed to grow,
to expand, to strengthen. There was menace in
his poise. His lips curled back from his teeth in
a wolfish snarl. A strange, fanatical light gleamed
in the depths of his brown eyes.
I am not a coward. Yet, instinctively, I receded
a step or two.
But practically at once a quick thought came


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
to my rescue a quick, flashlike suggestion which
bubbled up from some back cell in my brain.
I spoke slowly, clearly, like a doctor addressing
a hypochondriac patient.
"We are going to China, Mascasenhas. There's
work out yonder for me and for you. Work for
the west, work for white men.” I raised my voice
a little. “And we be white men, you and I-yes,
you and I," I repeated with sharp emphasis.
Instantly, with harsh suddenness, the scarlet
mark on the man's forehead vanished into noth-
ingness. Once more his lips settled into their
usual soft fleshiness. The tight menace in his poise
and carriage gave way to a curve of utter ser-
vility.
Then he looked at me with that old, embar-
rassing appeal in his eye.
"Yes,” he answered; and there crept just a sus-
picion of conscious pride into his voice. “We be
white men, master.”
And again, with a little pathetic catch in his
throat:
“White men—you and I.”
He spread out his hands in a vast, circular
gesture, and, bowing, turned and walked to the
door.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
I whirled him about until he faced me. The
man was shaking like a jelly-fish on dry land.
"What's all this damned tommyrot, Mascasen-
has? What's the meaning of your enigmatic
warning?” I asked him sternly. "Blue eyes!
What in the name of Satan himself do you mean?
Come on! Let's hear the sound of your voice,
even if it does hurt you."
He did not answer; simply continued shaking
in a limp, disgusting manner.
Suddenly a thought came to me. I burst out
laughing and released him.
"So you are jealous, my friend! You think I
am going to fall for some nice, little, pink-and-
white, blue-eyed doll." I laughed again. “No fear,
my boy. I am a warranted, hors-de-concours, all-
wool, nickel-plated, diamond-edged bachelor."
I suppose I expected him to join in my jocular-
ity. I have always prided myself on my sense of
humor. And so I was a bit annoyed when Mas-
casenhas remained silent.
He looked at me. Again a change came into his
face. Again there was a suspicion of arrogance in
his voice as he answered. And the most discon-
certing thing was that he talked to me in Behari,
the language which, as a rule, he avoided scrup-


24
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
ulously, the language which Hussian Khan had
used when he had wished to be especially venom-
ous.
“Bhains," he said, and the words came with a
sharp, metallic clank. “Bhains ke age ben ba-
jame, bhaiti bhains paguray."
He walked away abruptly, leaving me deeply in
thought. For he had told me that a fool plays the
flute before the buffalo, but that the buffalo con-
tinues to sit and ruminate. Who was the fool, and
who was the buffalo? Either way, it was not very
flattering. Either way, it was arrogant.
For, in an Oriental manner, he had told me to
leave him alone to chase myself—if the vernacu-
lar is permissible.
Back in the sane, prosaic security of my library
I saw the whole affair in a different light.
Of course, the man had been arrogant. But a
Behari proverb quoted at random does not neces-
sarily constitute a capital crime; and even the
best of servants has moments when arrogance gets
the best of discretion. Further, the Goanese was
not exactly a servant. He was a gentleman in his
own country—an educated man who for two years


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
25
had been a friend and ally of mine. No use mak-
ing a mountain out of a mole-hill.
Red smudge? What infernal, driveling non-
sense! It must have been a reflecting glow from
the evening sky.
That night, at dinner, I was more certain than
ever that the whole thing had been but a foolish
mistake. For Mascasenhas was quite himself
again. He waited on me with the utmost punctili-
ousness. His attitude was deferential in the ex-
treme; and when once in a while I caught him
looking at me, there was nothing but deep devo-
tion and loyalty in the expression of his eyes.
When I ran over to New York late that even-
ing to say farewell to my married sister, I left
without the slightest misgivings. I had put the
despatch-box in my safe.
Just as I was leaving, Mascasenhas rushed up
to me.
"I love you, master,” he said without any spe-
cial reason or provocation. "I love you. I shall
always be faithful to you."
And then he kissed my hands again and again.


CHAPTER III
My brother-in-law is one of those ever-comfort-
able stock-broking chaps, famed for the potency
of his Bourbon and the black virility of his ci-
gars. So it was not altogether family affection
which made me remain later than I should, con-
sidering the fact that I was off for the Coast on the
morning train.
I took the last trolley back to Jersey.
When I reached my house I found it in com-
plete darkness. I did not want to awaken Mas-
casenhas; and so I took off my shoes, opened the
front door as quietly as possible, and pussy-footed
up the stairs without making the slightest noise.
I passed by the half-caste's bedroom. The door
was open, and I looked in.
He was sleeping the sleep of the just, breath-
ing rhythmically and peacefully, and the slanting
moon-rays brought out his face with startling
clearness. It was perfectly serene, perfectly un-
troubled, rather childlike in its olive smoothness.
So I smiled at the foolish suspicions I had had
26


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
27
in the afternoon, and proceeded to my bedroom in
a happy frame of mind.
I undressed very leisurely, slipped on my dress-
ing-gown, and then I decided that my happiness
would not be satiated without a farewell puff at
one of those sympathetic, long-tubed, blond ciga-
rettes with which my friend Dmitrieff, of the Rus-
sian embassy, keeps me supplied. I opened my
cigarette-case, but I discovered that I had smoked
the last.
So I walked down the stairs again, still in my
stocking feet. For I kept a box of the cigarettes
on my library table, handy to my elbow.
Very softly I opened the library door.
And then I choked back a cry of surprise, of
amazement, of rage. For, sharply silhouetted in
the fretful rays of the moon, I saw a man kneeling
in front of my safe, fingering the lock with quick,
knowing fingers.
I thought of what the Chief had told me in
Washington; of the colossal task with which I
had been entrusted; of the precious despatch-box
on the other side of the steel doors.
My nerves telegraphed to my muscles; and both
nerves and muscles acted at precisely the same
fraction of a second. I guess I must have cleared


28
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
the width of that room in two bounds. Before I
knew exactly what I was doing, and how and why
I was doing it, my hands were gripped around the
throat of the burglar.
I choked that soft, yielding, pulsing bit of flesh
under my fingers. I choked and pressed, ruthless-
ly, mercilessly, with every ounce of savage, exult-
ing strength in my body. And I am not exactly
weak.
The man gave a horrible, gurgling gasp. His
arms waved wildly up and down, trying to clutch
at me. Then they fell limply to his sides. One
second more and the man would have expired.
I let go with one hand, reaching round and turn-
ing on the electric switch, while with the other I
kept a firm grip on the burglar's throat.
I looked at the man whom I was killing. For I
was killing him.
He was a Hindu-dark-complexioned, square-
bearded, hook-nosed—evidently a high-caste, and
propably a Rajput. On his forehead was a paint-
ed caste-mark. I looked at it closely; it was the
scarlet mark of Doorgha.
When I saw that hated stain I gave a cry of rage
and hatred. I pressed his windpipe harder than
ever. Blood squirted between my fingers. I had
re-


30
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
have that old, atavistic Yankee trait: I always
want to know. And right then I wanted to know
if Mascasenhas was awake or asleep.
I listened. But not a sound came from the up-
per regions of the house. Creeping noiselessly up
the stairs, and looking into Mascasenhas's bed-
room, I learned that the man was still sleeping
peacefully, in spite of the fact that my tussle with
the Rajput must have caused a considerable com-
motion.
I looked at him very closely-keenly; and again
suspicions, hotly fermenting, ominously glooming,
were half shaping in my brain, rearing their ugly,
flat heads, sticking out their venomous forked
tongues.
Down-stairs was a Hindu, a Rajput, tainted
with the scarlet caste-mark of Doorgha. I had
caught him in the act of robbing my safe, and I
knew that it was not money that he was after.
High-caste Rajputs do not steal money. He had
been after bigger game; after the despatch-box
and the invaluable carte blanche instructions
which Lord Northmere had given to me.
And nobody knew about their existence except
the Chief of the Intelligence Department, Lord
Northmere, myself—and Mascasenhas.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
31
Where, then, was the leak? In Washington-or
here, under my own roof?
I looked at the sleeping man. Was he playing
false? His face was calm, serene, childlike. Only
a few hours back he had kissed my hand, and had
told me that he would always be faithful to me.
I thought deeply for a minute or two. Once or
twice I was on the point of taking him roughly by
the shoulder and shaking him into consciousness.
But I desisted, deciding to leave him to his
dreams. The man was innocent; the leak was
somewhere in Washington, and I did not need
him downstairs. That little intermezzo I would
play single-handed.
I returned to the library. The Rajput had come
out of his trance, but was still breathing laborious-
ly, as I had used him rather roughly.
Wondering what to do with him, I at first
thought of turning him over to the police; but
immediately afterward I knew that it was of vital
interest to me to question him myself. A police
investigation would mean a lot of mutton-headed,
long-winded red tape, and I had to start for San
Francisco on the morning's train. My commis-
sion was sharply urgent. It permitted of no de-
lay.


32
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
I walked over to the Rajput and slipped a pil-
low under his head, then searching him for weap-
ons, found a vicious-looking Scinde dagger, and
confiscated it; after which I eased the ropes which
bound his hands, and there came a gleam of grati-
tude into his immense opaque eyes.
I pointed at the safe, then at the ropes which
still held him.
“Why?" I remarked laconically.
He smiled a little, thin, bloodless smile.
"I tried to ride Fate with a bit and bridle of my
own fashioning—and, by Shiva, it broke!”
Again he smiled. The man's nerve was su-
perb.
But I had no time to exchange epigrams.
"Look here, my friend,” I said. “Your life is
mine. But I have decided to let you live, because
of the little bronze emblem which I wear in my
buttonhole because of the little sign you gave
me when you were about to die under my hands.
I have also decided to let this matter rest where
it stands, to keep you out of the hands of the
police-under one condition.”
He looked at me questioningly.
"Name it, sahib."
“Quite an easy one,” I paused; then continued


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
33
in a low, clear voice: "Tell me who you are in this
house. Tell me what you expected to find. Tell
me who sent you."
He looked at me stony-eyed; looked at me for
a minute, it seemed to me, without a flicker in his
eyes and said nothing.
Finaly I drew up my chair, and sitting down
close to him, I lighted a cigarette and inhaled
the scented smoke luxuriously. If patience was a
game, I thought, two could play at it.
I finished my first cigarette, smoking slowly;
then lighted another. Quite casually I addressed
him again, speaking in Urdu.
"Flavorless is a betel without lime, and insipid
the adornments of one without wealth. Taste-
less is a curry without salt, senseless the conver-
sation of one without knowledge” I pointed in
the direction of the safe—"and futile the crime
without cause."
There was a flicker of amusement on the Hin-
du's thin, bloodless lips.
"The sahib speaks well the Urdu," he replied.
“Also knows he the art of twisting metaphors.
Then let him ponder well the following: Expect
good from the wicked; drain the swallow's milk;
pluck a hog's soft wool; cause the sand to yield


34
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
pomegranates; fix a pump in the middle of the
sea; and put a male elephant into a kokilabird's
egg. Do all these things—then make the silent
talk.”
He laughed, and I joined in his laughter. He
had won first honors. But I returned to the at-
tack. I changed my tactics.
"I saved your life when it was mine to take.
I saved it because of the emblem and the sign.”
I paused significantly; then I bent down and
brought my face close up to his. “Once a man
told me that Rajputs are grateful. That man was
a liar."
The Rajput blushed a deep scarlet under his
bronzed skin. For his race is famed through the
breadth and width of Hindustan for their undying
gratitude.
A sad, far-away look came into his opaque eyes
which, somehow, made me think of a homing bird
rising from a marshy island, scenting the clean air
of the uplands.
"Two masters I serve," he spoke haltingly, with
a deep, metallic catch in his throat. “One is the
master who sent me here; one he who saved my
life when he had it in the grip of his fingers."


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 35
He paused; then continued in a lower key, as if
talking to himself:
"How, then, can I serve the one without being
faithless to the other? And I am a Rajput!”
He was silent and closed his eyes. Deep pain
was in the lineaments of his face.
I felt sorry for the man; couldn't help it.
Then he opened his eyes and looked straight at
me.
"Sahib, take warning. I came here to rob, per-
haps to kill. Take warning, sahib. It is said that
only a fool will grind pepper for the bird that is
still on the wing. It is said that only a fool will
lift his hands to snatch at time. Stay here, sahib,
and do not meddle with the destinies of Asia,
whatever happens.” A pause. "Whatever hap-
pens," he repeated with sharp-riveting empha-
sis, and then was silent.
I bent over still more closely, and when I
touched the scarlet caste-mark on his forehead
with my finger, he winced and shuddered. I was
defiling his caste; but I was doing it deliberately.
"My friend, I killed Hussain Khan. I killed
the master-ministrant of Doorgha.”
His eyes blazed at that. He did not like my
careless tone. But he controlled himself, and


36
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
spoke in a low, even voice, as passionless as fate.
"It is true that you killed Hussain Khan. But
what of it?" He smiled contemptuously. "Would
you measure your puny strength against the
strength of Asia, the mother? Would you sound
the ocean with a jackal's tail? Indeed you have
killed Hussain Khan. But in killing him you
have killed only the least of the great god's ser-
vants-only the least of his servants.”
Only the least of his servants?
Rather a staggering facer, that. I suppose my
face expresed the mixed feelings of rage and dis-
appointment which were searching my heart. For
the Rajput watched me closely.
He followed up his advantage.
"You have killed Hussain Khan. It is a true
thing. But tell me: how long did it take you?
Was it an easy matter? Did not your own life often
hang by a single thread? Yet I repeat that Hus-
sain Khan was only the least of the servants of
Doorgha. I speak the truth, being grateful to the
sahib. I ask you: do not play with the forces
which you can neither see nor hear nor under-
stand. Do not run a race with Fate. Even the
swiftest horse escapes not its own tail."
He was silent. There was a long, tense pause.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
37
ma
My mind was in a turmoil. My fate seemed
manacled by the strength of the yellow lands.
Here, on the very threshold, when I was about
to find the man who was pulling the wires of war
in the heart of Outer Mongolia, I was again face
to face with the blood-lusting specter of Doorgha;
with the mysterious, crass-brutal force which I
had fought for eighteen months; which, in my
white man's conceit, I had thought crushed and
killed.
I breathed deeply. And for a moment it seemed
as if a clammy hand were reaching out of the West
-squeezing my heart, squeezing, squeezing.
The Rajput's even voice cut into my thoughts
as a knife cuts into butter.
"You have decided, sahib.” Then, with a little
shudder of regret and resignation: “You have de
cided not to take warning.”
"You've read my thoughts correctly. I have
decided.”
I unfastened the ropes with which he was tied
and helped him to his feet. He stretched his
cramped limbs, drew himself up to his full, tower-
ing height-he was a giant in stature and looked
down at me.
His voice came sharp and cutting:


38
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
“Nami maralan nam la petu maralan pet la."
I smiled. In his native language he had told me
that an ambitious man dies for fame as a glutton
dies for his stomach. Sharp warning, indeed. But
I shook my head.
"I have decided.”
He came up close to me.
"Listen, sahib. I, also, have decided,” he said.
“The man who told you that Rajputs are faithful
until death spoke the truth. You know it. Thus
you cut my bonds. Thus you set me free."
• He raised his thin, brown hands in a sweeping,
majestic gesture. His words boomed out sono-
rously.
"By the light of the deity! By the war cry
of my tribe! By the peacock which is sacred
to my clan! The day will come when Krishna
Gose will pay in full his debt of gratitude.”
He came up still closer. He whispered into my
ear.
"Between you and death shall I stand as long
as I live as long as he will let me live” His
voice flickered and broke. "He"
“Who?"
Kishna Gose turned a grayish white. His voice


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
39
roof
was still lower, as if afraid that the shadows of
night could hear him.
· "He” Again he hesitated; then spoke rapid-
ly, as if the words were burning his lips: "He of
the Blue Eyes."
The next moment he had slipped out of the
room. I rushed after him. I called and called
and called. But there was no answer. The dark-
ness had swallowed him.
I returned to my room, shuddering a little.
I could not collect my thoughts. They were
madly tossing up and down like a drift-log on the
shoreless ocean of eternity. But ever above the
rushing and twirling came the thought of the
Rajput's last words. And Mascasenhas-he ,too,
had spoken of them—of the Blue Eyes!
Was it a coincidence? Was Mascasenhas a
traitor? There had been the scarlet caste-mark on
the forehead of the Rajput, and I had seen it on
the forehead of Mascasenhas!
I fell asleep; and it seemed only two seconds
later that I heard Mascasenhas's voice at my bed-
side.
I awakened with a start, and I stared at the
Goanese, afraid to see what I might see. But his
forehead was smooth. There was no stain on it.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
His eyes were calm and untroubled. He was smil-
ing at me as a woman smiles at the man whom she
loves.
"Six o'clock, Mr. Vandewater. Our train leaves
at half past eight."
And I smiled back.
That man was not a traitor. Not he.


CHAPTER IV
“Doorgha!"
"Hussain Kahn!”
"Hussain Kahn!"
“Doorgha!”
................ sang the crunching of the wheels, like
the response in some fantastic litany, as the train
rushed West—and my mind took a back leap.
I remembered—and I did not wish to remem-
ber. For, with Hussain Khan in his grave, what
was there to fear?
But there was Mascasenhas—and there was
the crunching of the wheels—there was the throb
of remembrance in a back cell of my brain.
Too, there was the memory of Hussain Khan's
last message to me:
"Even from beyond the grave I shall kill you!”
I recalled when I had met Hussain Khan a
little over eighteen months back.
At that time I was employed in the Foreign
Office in Washington, D. C.-a position which I


42
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
held thanks to my familiarity with the Orient and
my knowledge of Oriental languages, and it was
quite natural that I should come into frequent
contact with the Asiatic gentlemen who crowded
Washington that winter, amongst them Hussain
Khan, who had come to us with the best of intro-
ductions, and who became very much of a lion.
And deservedly so. For he was rich, well-bred,
a splendid linguist, a wonderful polo player, witty,
and as handsome as a tiger.
The Great War was over, and everything, in-
cluding world peace, world gushings, Washington,
the official society, the cave-dwelling society, my-
self, and Hussain Khan traveled along very
smoothly * * * until, over-night, the world
was startled by a series of murders-murders
which struck swiftly, mercilessly
which, in every single instance, removed some
Western man of high standing in his own country
and directly or indirectly interested in or con-
nected with the destinies of some Oriental country
* * which, moreover, forced me to believe
that one central intelligence, one central energy,
was the driving power behind all of them.
For, in every case, as attested by witnesses, the
murderer wore the red caste-mark of Doorgha,


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
43
the Indian goddess of destruction, on his fore-
head; in every single instance some prominent
Oriental resident was arrested as the culprit; every
bit of direct and circumstantial evidence pointed
to his guilt; and always at the end of the week
the accused man proved a perfect alibi, and had to
be released with profound apologies. But, to me
at least, it seemed that thus always time had
been gained for the real assassin to make good his
escape.
Coincidence? Oh, yes! It's a favorite word, a
regular creed with skepticists and mongers of
cheap philosophy. But when coincidence made it
a practice to murder prominent Americans and
Europeans and to smear on its forehead the un-
clean caste-mark of a Brahman vampire god, then
I thought it time to throttle that self-same coinci-
dence.
Years ago I had been in India. I had been in
Benares at the time of the Doorgha-Puja, the
great religious Hindu festival in honor of Doorgha,
the goddess of destruction. I knew that in former
centuries human beings were sacrificed in the
great temple there, and I had also been told by
Anglo-Indian friends of mine that, in spite of the
close supervision of the British authorities, even


44
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
to this day human sacrifices are made there from
time to time.
I also knew that, at least to the more militant
of the Brahmin castes, Doorgha had of recent
years assumed the spiritual position of India her-
self, of the Great Mother, to use sacerdotal Hindu
phraseology. I knew that these same Brahmin
castes were the leading factors in the national
Indian reaction against European civilization,
European influence, and European dominion. Fur-
thermore, the more modern among the Brahmins
had recently begun to substitute “Asia" for
"India”—and all the prominent Western men who
were being assassinated by these unknown Ori-
ental murderers who wore the scarlet mark of
Doorgha on their foreheads, were enemies of Asia,
from an Asiatic point of view, since they tried
to further Western interests.
One of the men murdered was Senator Kuhne,
of California, the leading anti-Japanese of the Pa-
cific slope. Hussain Khan was arrested as the
murderer, proved an alibi, and was released. But,
somehow, I was convinced that Hussain Khan
-while not perhaps actually the assassin--was
not altogether innocent.
Still, I was bothered by the fact that Hussain


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
Khan was a Central Asian Mohammedan. What
had he, being a Mohammedan, a believer in the
One-God faith, to do with the heathenish rites
of Puranic Hinduism, with sacrifices made to an
ancient, lust-scabbed Brahman god?
I decided to find out. I resigned my position
in the Foreign Office. I became a searcher after
uncanny and deadly mysteries, a searcher after an
awful Indian divinity whose many arms meant
death to the white men who crossed her path.
And so, when shortly after his arrest and sub-
sequent release, Hussain Khan went to Europe, I
followed him.
He went direct to Paris, and I decided to shadow
him until I discovered how and where he passed
his time there. I had no trouble in locating him,
as he was socially well known in the French capi-
tal. And so I spent a good deal of my time in a
little café across from his hotel.
And then, late one evening in April, I succeeded
in forging the first link in my chain of evidence. I
was sitting again in the little café across from his
hotel, carefully watching.
A few minutes later, Hussain Khan came out.
But instead of the high hat which he usually af-
fected, he wore a carefully-twisted, voluminous


46
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
as
muslin turban. He walked down the street, and
I followed. For the turban told me that he was
going to meet Orientals-countrymen of his
and I wondered who they were and why and
where they met.
At the Seine he boarded one of the steamers
which ply continuously up and down that river of
light. I followed aboard.
He--and I got off at Marly-le-Roi—it was
then nearly midnight-and turned north through
the sleeping streets of the little suburb. He stopped
in front of an old villa surrounded by a garden
wall about seven foot in height. The gate was
opened immediately—a sure sign that the lodge-
porter was on the lookout for them. The gate
closed behind them; I stepped quickly into the
inky shadow of the opposite villa as I heard
footsteps up the street. Half a dozen men were
approaching; I could see their features clearly
in the rays of the moon. They were Orientals,
all of them.
I didn't know what to make of the last man.
He was also an Asian. But there was something
about him which seemed less east of Suez, less
racially repellent and hostile—to call the child
by its proper name--than was the case with the


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
47
CSA
ese
others. Suddenly I new what he was a Eura-
sian, probably a Goanese of mixed Portuguese
and Hindu stock. They passed inside.
For an hour I waited in the shadow of the wall,
but no more came. Carefully I studied the house,
which was dark with the exception of a long,
thin slit of yellow light from a second-story win-
dow. The light broadened at the base like a
pointed finger. It was evident that a blind was
partly open, and that if I could get on a dead
line with it, I would be able to see the interior.
I made a quick decision. Just in front of the
window stood a gaunt pine-tree which planted
its black, lank arms sharp against the sky like a
herald of evil.
I am fairly athletic, so it didn't take me long
to get over the wall and up the tree. A stuut
branch projected at a convenient angle toward
the house. I sat down comfortably and looked.
There were a dozen men in the room beside
Hussain and those I had seen in the street. Some
looked like Hindu, Algerian, and Arab students.
Others I remembered as attachés of the various
Oriental embassies. They were conversing ani-
matedly. So far there was nothing strange about
the gathering. It seemed like a club. The only


48
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
odd thing was there were no tables, no chairs, not
even a divan. They were all standing up.
At the further end of the room a huge, black cur-
tain descended from ceiling to floor.
After sitting in the tree for several minutes I
was getting tired. Then that happened which
made me forget my stiff limbs. For from some-
where in the bowels of the house came the deep-
booming, ominous sound of a Chinese gong. At
once every man in the room * * * Hindu,
Moslem, Buddhist, Christian from Goa, and what-
not * * * dropped on his knees before that
infernal curtain and prostrated. The gong sounded
again, more strident, more ominus. A door
opened, and a tall, bearded man, dressed in long,
black robe and black turban, entered, followed by
two others, robed in scarlet. And scarlet also
were the caste-marks on their foreheads.
The high priest—for such he seemed to be
walked up to the curtain and drew it aside
And there, in that litte villa of peaceful Marly-
le-Roi, in the heart of civilized Europe, I beheld a
giant, black basalt statue of Doorgha, the dread
Indian goddess. There was no doubt of it. I had
seen its twin at Benares. Here were the same
thick, blood-red, sensuous lips, the same ghastly,


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
49
cruel smile, the same glaring, fiendish eyes, the
same choking, strangling fingers. Here was the
same beastly emblem of obscenity and lust and
destruction! Here was that unspeakable represen-
tation of the mysteries and the cruelties of life
which the Hindus are pleased to call religion-
religion!
I saw the lips of the priests move as in an incan-
tation. A shiver seemed to pass through the wor-
shiping crowd.
It was all over in a minute. The priest pulled
back the curtain, and the men filed out of the
room, their head on their breast as if in deep
meditation.
I sat there in my tree trying to believe that I
had seen this thing with my living, waking eyes
---that it was not a foul nightmare.
Had I really seen it?
Had I seen men from all Asia, of different reli-
gions and races—Moslem, Goanese Christian, and
Buddhist do worship in front of a heathen Hindu
goddess?
Was it possible?
Good Lord, was it possible?
Ultimately I solved the mystery. I found out
that here was an organization of Oriental assas-


50
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
sins-patriots they called themselves—waging
private warfare against the West-men of all
Asia's many races and creeds, and their central
symbol Doorgha, the goddess of destruction. I
solved the mystery, thanks largely to the help of
Mascasenhas, the Goanese half-caste Christian
whom I had seen make worship, together with the
other Asians, in the temple at Marly-el-Roi, and
who today was my servant in the little Jersey
house.
It is immaterial how I met him face to face,
how I persuaded him into a realization of what he
owed to his Portuguese name-his Christian faith
-his white blood.
But I did. He stood by my side throughout
the eighteen months during which I fought Hus-
sain Khan and Hussain Khan's organization, and
he gave me his supreme confidence; he told me
how it was that he, a Christian, a devout Catho-
lic, half white, had become linked to that organi-
zation in the first place.
"You called me a white man,” he said, "and you
are right. My father was a Mascasenhas—Leo-
pold Aloysius Mascasenhas. His mother's father
was a Mercado; my mother's father a Lyon-
d'Sousa-honorable old Portuguese names, every


52
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
Tonking and reaching over into China. There's
England in India, and Russia in Manchuria and
in the Khanates. But what of it? Presently we
shall wake up and kick them out, every one of
them. We-Tartars, Moors, Arabs, Osmanlis and
Turkswe've conquered them before, and we
shall conquer them again. We shall give them
a land hissing with blood, and the simitar when it
is black with gore.
"I remonstrated. I told him that I myself was
a white man, a Portuguese from Goa, a Christian.
But he roared with laughter.
“'You a white man?' he would ask me. “Then
why do the other whites here ostracize you? No,
my friend, you are an Asiatic-even if you are a
Christian!'
“Yes, he conquered me. He mastered all my
wishes, even my secret thoughts. There was only
my religion, my devout faith which stood between
me and complete subjugation to his will and his
nefarious schemes. For even in those days he
was dreaming of a war of revenge, a war of dagger
and rope and dynamite.
"It was at that time that he took a sudden
interest in hypnotism, and naturally he asked
me his friend to assist him with his experi-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
53
ments. I did. Why shouldn't I? You see, I
loved him. I never thought then that he would
use meas he has used me.
"I remember the first time he did it success-
fully. I had been very nervous all day. I had
swallowed a dose the doctor had given me—some
bromid preparation-but it had not helped me.
"Hussain laughed.
"You see, your western science is not good,'
he jeered. “Let me try the ancient Asian medi-
cine. Let me hypnotize you into well-being.'
"I was willing. He passed his hands before my
eyes, and presently-it did not seem very long-
the film of my unrest seemed to float away. My
nervousness left me, and then came peace, Leth-
ean peace and a deep, full, white sweetness. His
hypnotic cure was a success—and so I let him
do it often. I got used to it, as a man gets used
to the hypodermic needle.”
Mascasenhas went on to describe how, at the
end of the term, he returned to India, together
with Hussain Khan. They traveled all over India,
and it appeared that Hussain Khan had many
friends *
in all the cities he visited;
not only Moslems, but also Hindus and Jains and
Sikhs. They would whisper together for many


54
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
hours, and always the whisper was about War
War and Revenge against the West and Hussain
Khan was the leader. He would give orders and
they would be executed.
He tried to persuade Mascasenhas to help to
help actively. "Every prominent European or
American killed now, is an enemy the less at the
final Day of Reckoning," he would say, but the
Goanese, though he loved the other and though
he would not give him up to the English, to the
police, would on the other hand not help actively
-for he was a Christian, a White man.
At times Mascasenhas' old nervous headaches
came back to him. And every time Hussain Khan
cured him by hypnotizing him and taking away
the film of pain and unrest.
One evening Mascasenhas fell very sick. For
hours he was in a dead faint. And when finally
he came to, weak, dazed, in a dripping perspira-
tion. he found Hussain Khan standing by his bed-
side. Hussain Khan told him that the doctor
had only given him another half-hour to live.
Mascasenhas was afraid of death. He implored
Hussain Khan to send for another doctor, to tele-
graph for a specialist. But Hussain Khan shook
his head. Everything known to science had been


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
55
tried, he said, tried in vain. He walked to the
door, saying that he himself would go for the
spiritual adviser. At the threshold he turned.
He came back to Mascasenhas' bed.
"Mascasenhas," he said, "if I should know of
a cure to save you, to make you a present of that
life which the doctor says is forfeited, will you
swear to submit to whatever cure I prescribe re-
gardless of its nature? Will you bind yourself by
a solemn oath?"
But let me continue in Mascasenhas' own
words:
"I said that I would. Anything—anything at
all! Let him only save my life!
“And he dictated to me the form of the oath.
I have repented this oath with sobbings, with
horrors at myself, but in vain repented. An oath
should be the utterance of the truth of God; and
the oath he forced me to take was the utterance
of the truth of the pit. But did it hold me any
the less?
"So I swore. And then Hussain said to me:
“ 'See, my friend! Inside of a few minutes your
spirit will depart from your body. You will be
dying. You will be dead. Now, I have learned in
the dervish lodges of Sahara that even at that


56
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
supreme moment of death a strong mind, well
versed in the secret science of hypnotism and
soul-craft, can infiltrate part of his own strength
into the dead body, thus giving to it a semblance
of lifeno! An absolute reality of life—which
will last as long as he keeps the dead body under
his hypnotic trance. But as soon as the master
mind gives the word which breaks this trance,
then the strength of the living soul will once more
leave the body, and the body will once more lose
the senses and the sensations which are life.'
"He was beginning to pass his hands over my
forehead with soft, rhythmic gestures.
""See, Mascasenhas, even now you are dying,'
he crooned. Can you feel the icy hand of Az-
rael, the black-winged angel of death? It is the
final dissolution, my friend. You are dead-
dead.'
“His voice seemed to drone from across illimi-
table distances.
“And now I, the master mind, take part of
my mind, of my strength, of my soul, and I send
it into the empty husk which is the dead Mascas-
enhas.
“My body stiffened out. I was asleep. I was
dead. But still, as from behind a veil of mur-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
57
mured sounds, I could hear Hussain's voice. The
next moment the film of my physical reason de-
parted, and I was suddenly electrified into the
most vivid realization of existing, of living, of
knowing. It was at that moment that the spirit
of Hussain Khan passed into my dead body and
gave to it once more the semblance and sen-
sations of life.
"Ever since then, now four years ago, I have
been the slave of Hussain. Let him but break
the spell, let him but unchain the thunderbolt
which overhangs me, and then I am dead again.
"I am his instrument. I do what he bids me do.
I kill--at his bidding. I have killed-many-Eu-
ropeans-Americans!”
Thus Mascasenhas' tale.
I tried to talk sense to him. I tried to convince
him that he was his own, real self, and that Hus-
sain Khan had simply hypnotized him during a
moment of great illness, perhaps after drugging
him in the first place. At times I thought I had
convinced him—with how much success I was to
find out later on.
But, whatever his superstitious fear of Hus-
sain Khan, he became my close ally and remained
80 to the end to the end which came after
pam
e


58
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
eighteen months of plotting and counter-plotting,
of treachery and craft matched against treachery
and craft—the end which consisted in the death
of Hussain Khan at my hands, the burning of the
temple at Marly-el-Roi, and the arrest and impris-
onment of the many Orientals who had used the
temple as both their spiritual and secular head-
quarters, and who had waged secret warfare
against the West.
All these events are history—if forgotten his-
tory—and they can be looked up in the proper
places.
I had returned to America. And the only
thing which disturbed me at times was the warn-
ing which Hussain Khan gave me the last time I
saw him alive—a few days before I killed him:
"See,” he said. "It is indifferent what happens.
You may kill me, or I may kill you. What odds?
For this I know: Even if your hand should bring
death to my heart, even then I shall kill you. Even
from beyond the grave I shall kill you! It is an
assured thing."
And I remembered the prophecy, I remembered
Hussain, I remembered Doorgha, as the train clat-
tered west-toward the Golden Gate the Pacific
-and China brooding beyond.


CHAPTER V
We reached San Francisco on the following
Tuesday.
I had not been there since the fire, so I poked
all about the dear old streets, trying to reconstruct
the place as it had been in my imagination. And
it wasn't so much changed after all.
I booked passage for the two of us on the City
of Tokyo, one of the Nippon Yusen Kaisha steam-
ers, the Japanese transpacific line. The ship was
due to leave on the next day's noontide, and so I
devoted my last evening on dry land to sight-
seeing.
Chinatown had moved, I was told by the native
son in the cigar store; and, together with Mas-
casenhas I went in seach of it. I was off to Hong-
Kong and the interior of China the next day;
and I thought it particularly appropriate that I
should spend my last shore day among the Chinese
coolies who still crowd part of the Slope in spite
of Kearney's hallowed specter, in spite of the ora-
tors of the sand-lots school.
59


60
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
I always did like the warm, moldy scent which
is China; that queer mixture of sandalwood and
incense and opium and oil of geranium. And to-
night there was a prophetic tang to it.
We dined in a little Chinese restaurant on
O'Farrell, and then we strolled up the hill into
the heart of Chinatown. It was a corking night,
with a stiff, high breeze from the Gate which
swept the heavens clean; and the full moon was
leering down at us with that familiarity which is
peculiar to moons.
I was in a capital mood. But Mascasenhas
was nervous. The nearness of Asia seemed to
oppress him. Sniffing the air like a trailing otter-
hound, he kept close to my side; and every time a
son of Han passed him on noiseless, padded feet,
he gave a shudder and gasp.
I was getting angry at the man; at the silly,
painted, foolish devices of his diseased imagina-
tion.
"Stop making a damned ass of yourself,” I told
him. “These men are peaceful Chinese mer-
chants and artisans, with about as much harm il
them as a warrenful of tame, ruby-eyed rabbits."
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Vandewater."
He seemed to take my little curtain-lecture to


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
61
heart, and straightening up, commenced tallking
in an even voice. But there was something forced
and conventional about his conversation which
was worse than his former nervousness. He was
too composed, too quiet, and he uttered a stream
of verbose commonplaces with a pontifical unction
which drove me wild.
We were both getting nervous. That was the
long and short of it. We felt lonely among these
sad-faced, slant-eyed Mongolians. And I had
just decided that we'd be better off on Market
street, among white faces and white shops, when
we passed a particularly gaudy joss-house.
It was a perfect jewel; a shimmering, barbaric
mass of crimson, orange, electric-blue, and Nile-
green. It gleamed and twinkled like a live thing.
Instinctively I stopped and gazed. Mascasenhas
was plucking at my sleeves.
"Come, master, come,” he whispered again and
again.
But I paid no attention to him. Quick thoughts
were crossing my brain. It seemed strange to me
that Chinamen, crassly irreligious as they are,
should go to the expense and the trouble to erect
here, on the shores of the West, a building for
those gods whom their ancestors had argued into


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
63
He was straight as a lance, and robed in plum-
colored, embroidered garments which moved with
a heavy, silken swish. He had those marvelously
long, gold-encased finger-nails which are the sign
of the highest caste Mandarins and literati. His
creamy complexion had the minutely crackled
texture of ancient eggshell china; and there was
an expression on his fine thin lips which was
as old as hate and older than love, as old as sin
and older than virtue, as old as tears and older
than laughter. He wore huge, horn-rimmed spec-
tacles; but beneath the thick lenses I could sense
the steel of sharp-seeing eyes.
"Come in and see,” he said again.
Mascasenhas gripped my arm convulsively. He
whispered rapidly into my ear, speaking in Hindu.
"Come away, protector of the pitiful. Do not
go inside, for the love of the dear Saints. This
is not a good place."
But I cursed him for a fool and a coward. I
tore myself away from his nervous, clutching
hands, and followed the Chainaman across the
threshold. The Goanese trotted at my heels, still
muttering protests.
The heavy gates, sliding in well-oiled grooves,
closed behind us without a sound, shutting out the


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
outside world—the white world. It made me
just the least bit nervous; I had a quick im-
pression, as if I were suddenly caught up in the
tail-end of my life.
But the sensation passed quickly. I looked
about me.
Inside, the whole building was a crazy mass
of shimmering lights. A brand-new, particularly
hideous and therefore, I suppose, sacred joss was
squatting at the farther end in bronze stolidity,
leering at us like a monstrous beast out of the
Apocalypse. The atmosphere was choking.
Heavy incense-clouds were floating and twisting
about like a vaporous, gigantic furnace of opal
colors wreathing up to the painted ceiling; and
there was a diseased scent of hot, heavy, lascivious
flowers.
With a courtly gesture, the Chinaman asked
us to sit down. Then he clapped his hands to-
gether. A servant came through the door to the
right of the joss, bowed, received a rapid order,
and returned a minute later with steaming cups
of sun-dried, jessamine-flavored tea.
We drank in silence. Then my host turned to
me, and somehow his voice was like the rubbing
of a very ancient temple-gong.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
"You take an interest in China?”
"I do, indeed.”
"Ah, that is flattering to us—very flattering."
With a swift, gliding gesture he brought an
ivory-sticked fan from his voluminous sleeves and
began fanning himself slowly, rhythmically.
He smiled.
"You take an interest in us because of the
things we have done?” There was a sudden
quiver in the corners of his lips as of a high-
eddying flame. "Or because of the things we are
going to do?” A moment's pause as I drew a
sharp breath of surprise.
“We are going to do," he repeated on a slightly
lower key.
I was rather nonplussed, rather uncomfortable.
“What do you mean?”
"Nothing. Nothing at all,” the Chinaman an-
swered. "But indeed I have been told by one
who knows that it is dangerous for the yellow
man if the white man takes an interest in his
affairs. There is Hong-Kong; there is French
Indo-China; there are the Philippines—colonies
I believe you call them.” Again he laughed, and
then, quite suddenly, he was serious. "I have
also been told that—may I make a little pun in


66
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
vas
your own language? Yes, I have been told that
a white man's disinterested interest is as rare
as wings upon a cat, as flowers of air, as rabbits'
horns, as ropes of tortoise hair.”
He paused. Then he continued:
“But you must forgive me. I am rude, tactless.
For you yourself are a white man, an American.”
Suddenly he turned to Mascasenhas, who was
squirming and fidgeting on his chair.
"And you, my friend, what are you?”
The voice of the Goanese was proud and sharp-
defiant.
“I also am white."
There was a sardonic twitch on the thin lips
of the Chinaman. He played with his fan for a
second or two, crossed his legs, carefully arranging
the silken folds of his plum-colored robe. He
studied Mascasenhas as he would a new, exotic,
and rather disgusting variety of animal. Then
his face settled into its old, bland lineaments.
“And yet I would have sworn that you are not
all white.” He spoke slowly. "Yet I would have
sworn that the blood of darker races has tinged
your skin. Yet I would have sworn that Hindus
as well as Gulf Arabs have been among your an-
cestors."


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
67
He smiled again; then continued in a sharp-
cutting voice, rising as he spoke:
"Yet I would have sworn that there is a faint
scarlet spot upon your forehead."
The next few moments reeled off with the
quickness of a kaleidoscope.
I do not know which caused which. I do not
know if the whole thing was prearranged, or
simply the result of Mascasenhas's behavior. But
I remember a pantherlike spring on the part of
the Goanese. I remember seeing his fingers close
around the Chinaman's throat. And at the same
moment, from nowhere it seemed, half a dozen
stalwart Chinamen were swarming about us and
closing in.
I am afraid that during the next few minutes
I did not adhere exactly to either the rules in-
vented by the late lamented Marquis of Queens-
berry, or to the gentlemen's agreement known as
Graeco-Roman. My method of muscular pro-
cedure was a mixture of longshoreman, lumber-
jack, Cornish cousin-jack, with a bit of savate
and jiu-jitsu thrown in for good measure, and
two or three small inventions of my own. I re-
member distinctly, among other things, biting
through a soft, quivering ear.


68
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
But it was a good method.
And presently I found myself at the gate, Mas-
casenhas beside me, crazily tearing at the lock,
which refused to budge.
The coolies made another concerted rush. But
at the same moment I bethought me of a police
whistle which I always carry in my hip pocket. I
jerked it out, put it to my lips, pressed my face
as closely as possible to the tiny rift where the
sliding doors met; but as I was about to whistle,
the tall Manchu—for Manchu he doubtless was
stopped his retainers with an impetuous gesture.
A few purring, sing-song words, and the
hatchetmen disappeared as they had come.
The Manchu smiled. The lights in the temple
threw deep shadows which cut the pale-yellow,
silky sheen of his high-bred face as clean as with
a knife. For several dragging seconds he fanned
himself slowly. Then he shut the ivory sticks
with a little dry click of finality.
He smiled again; and there was that in his
smile which was very gentle, very patient and
very inhuman.
Taking a step forward, he spoke in a clear, un-
troubled voice:


70
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
which Sing Fat and Aoh Fong sell to their Ameri-
can customers.
This incense was just a hot, diseased, nameless
scent of heavy, lascivious flowers. And for days
afterward it seemed to cling to me.
I left the joss-house, followed by Mascasenhas.
I turned to have a last look. The Manchu was
still standing between the sliding doors. He waved
his long, thin hands in a gesture of farewell.
"Au revoir," he said mockingly, in perfect
French. "Au revoir, my friends."
The gates shut with a hard click. I walked
down the hill, followed by the half-caste. The
moon had sunk below a bank of clouds, and the
shadows of night were drifting and twisting,
shapeless, slimy, crawling.


CHAPTER VI
Noon found us on board the City of Tokyo.
"All ashore who're going ashore!” shrilled the
stewards.
Slowly the gangplanks were being drawn in;
and at the very last I had a fleeting impression
of a familiar figure rushing up the plank which
led to the Asiatic steerage. There was a flash
of hook nose and square-trimmed beard. Krishna
Gose, I said to myself. But a casual inquiry from
the diminutive Samurai who was my cabin stew-
ard elicited the information that there was no
Hindu on board the steamer. Of course, there
was an off chance that my little brown brother
was toying with the truth. But even so; even
suppose my eyes had registered correctly, and the
belated steerage passenger was Krishna Gose-
I knew India; I knew the Rajputs and their un-
dying gratitude. No danger in that quarter, I
said to myself.
The voyage passed without incident. There


72
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
were the usual games of shuffle-board; the usual
wordy jealousy between New York and the middle
West; the usual flirtatious California widow; the
usual recent university graduate holding forth
mellifluously on cabbages and kings, because there
was a sheepskin somewhere in his trunk, and be-
cause he knew the difference betwen Fabius Cunc-
tator and a safety razor.
I made a trip of investigation through the
steerage, but I saw no trace of the Rajput among
the huddled, blanketed Orientals who crowded
the narrow, fetid quarters.
Once I had a faint sensation of smelling the
heavy, sweet-diseased incense which, in my mind,
was so indissolubly associated with the joss-house
and the Manchu. But a casual inquiry elicited
the information from my cabin steward that the
gentleman in the cabin next to mine, whence the
smell seemed to drift, was an American gentle-
man, and sick on top of the bargain.
When I mentioned the scent of punk-sticks, the
young Nipponese smiled like a Cheshire cat and
sucked in his breath deeply in that manner which
is meant for the height of politeness in his native
land.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
73
"No, sar," he piped. "No incense American
gentleman-white-same as you—see?”
I can't exactly swear that I believed that
pocket-piece of nascent Yellow Peril. But I did
not think any more about the incident. It was
hardly possible that the Manchu would go to the
trouble and expense of following me across the
Pacific because of our little contretemps in the
joss-house. And at all events, I was safe on
board the steamer. Of course, it was a Japanese
ship; but the majority of the passengers were
white; also, the skipper was an Englishman, and
the chief engineer a Scot. I was all right.
Honolulu and Japan were only charming inci-
dents, glimpses of strange new color and strange
new life. They made no impression on me. It was
only when Hong-Kong loomed up that I realized
a little of the adventure for which I was bound.
Here was the first step. I knew all at once that
I was standing on the brink of the unknown, and
the thought rather pleased me.
Danger? Possibly.
But then I had lost the perspective of danger,
the crass realization of it. There had been too
much of it during the last few years in Europe
when I was fighting Hussain Khan. I was simply


74
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
doing my best for the pride of my race, the pride
of my land; and I had no time to think of the
personal side of it.
So, suddenly, I felt elated. America and the
peaceful Jersey shore seemed far away. For here
was China at my feet, yellow and brooding and
sinister-yes—and there were Japanese among
the crowd, walking and directing as masters do;
and the English, the whites, who still rule this
colony of Hong-Kong, they seemed to me to be
out of place; cut off; very, very lonely.
We landed.
Together with Mascasenhas, I drove direct to
the Royal Alexandra Hotel, that great new pile
on Victoria, right close to Johnny Butterfield's
palace.
Our drive took us through the heart of the Chi-
nese town. I am not racially prejudiced. But
here, surrounded on all sides by swarming thou-
sands of Japanese and Chinese and Koreans and
several unclassified varieties of the genus Mongol,
my heart was crystallizing all the hatred and con-
tempt and disgust the white and the yellow have
felt for each other since the world evolved from
a pellet of star-dust.
I devoted my afternoon to correspondence and


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
75
ren
preparations for my journey into the interior, and
then, following an urgent invitation, I dressed
to dine with Sir George Nathan, the governor of
Hong-Kong.
Mascasenhas came to the door wth me. He had
been very silent, very self-involved ever since we
had left San Franciso. But knowing his moody
nature, I had made no attempt to shake him out
of his shell.
He kissed my hand. There was entreaty and
appeal in his voice, and a strange, far-away look
which I was to remember for many a day to
come.
"Let me come with you, master."
“No, no, my boy. You've got to finish our
preparations. There are a dozen and one things
to do."
His hands twitched. The man was terribly in
earnest.
“Do not leave me alone. Take me with you."
I laughed.
"You are a silly fool. There's nothing to be
afraid of. Good Heavens, man, you're as safe in
the Royal Alexandra as you'd be in the Wal-
dorf!"
He reiterated his entreaties, but I cut him short.
ve 10


76
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
“So-long, my boy. Don't take any false money."
I was off.
Let me pass swiftly over the next few hours.
Sir George gave me a good dinner, and then pro-
ceeded to devil my soul with the things that were
happening in the interior.
"It's One Man," he repeated again and again.
“One Man—and you must find him. Find him
and kill him. Kill him out of hand. It's your
duty, Vandewater, your duty. And nobody else
can do it.”
I reached home shortly after midnight. I walked
up to my suite, which was on the third floor of the
hotel.
Mascasenhas met me at the door.
I looked at him, and was profoundly shocked.
The man was in a horrible, speechless state of
fear. He was completely unnerved. Twice he
tried to force the words out of his month, but they
refused to come.
Finally, still speechless, he pointed a shaking
hand in the direction of my bedroom.
Then he spoke:
"Five minutes was I gone—by the dear saints,
not over five minutes and this this happened


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 77
I rushed to my bedroom, opened the door, and
entered
Silhouetted in the fretful rays of the moon, I
saw the body of a man stretched out in the center
of the room. Rushing up to him, I bent over
him.
The man was bleeding to death from a dozen
knife-wounds. He was nearly in a state of coma.
The wounds had evidently been inflicted by a
savage and ruthless enemy. Part of his face, his
very lips, had been completely cut away. But
still I recognized him.
It was Krishna Gose, the Rajput.
I knelt down and lifted up the bleeding head.
Rapidly, feverishly, I asked him who had done it
—when, why, how?
The mutilated lips were trying to speak. A
horrible gurgle came from his throat. Finally a
few incoherent words came forth:
"Yuen-he-he”-
He was silent. Again he sank into coma. Pour-
ing water down his throat, I implored him to
speak; and suddenly he revived. A faint gleam
of intelligence came into his eyes; intelligence and
comprehension and gratitude.
He lifted his right hand in a supreme spasm


78
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
of energy; pointed at his eyes with a jerky, stab-
bing motion; and then, even while his body was
stiffening into final oblivion, he pointed at the
wall paper.
So he died.
I was deeply shocked, deeply grieved.
There was no doubt that the Rajput had kept
his word. Somebody had come into my room to
murder me. The Rajput had followed. There had
been a fight. And he had been killed.
"Between you and death shall I stand as long
as I live," he had told me that day back in New
Jersey. “As long as I live-as long as he will let
me he of the Blue Eyes"
Rapidly I considered. Krishna Gose had pointed
at his own eyes, and then at the wall paper.
The wall paper was blue.
The murderer, the unknown man whom the
Rajput had obeyed and feared during life, was
blue-eyed.
A European?
And then again I seemed to smell that hot,
sweet-diseased incense of the joss house. It
seemed to drift in from the open window.
I stepped up to it. There was a balcony outside


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
79
the window connecting my suite with the next.
A tall figure, robed in heavy, silken Chinese
garments, was sitting there, quietly smoking a
long, red-tasseled pipe.
I reached behind me and rapidly switched on
the electric light.
Instantly the man on the balcony turned
around. I got a clear view of his face.
It was the Manchu of the joss-house. But
this time he was without his spectacles.
"And his eyes were blue, bright blue!"


CHAPTER VII
A faint smile of recognition passed over the
Manchu's features. He rose, bowed, and walked
the length of the balcony, back to his rooms.
I closed the door and the windows. Then I
telephoned to the police. Using the carte blanche
instructions which Lord Northmere had given me,
I had the body of the Rajput removed and buried,
and I gave strict orders that no investigation of
any sort should be made. Police interference
would simply bungle things, instead of helping.
That much I knew. And I knew also that the
murderer who calmly sits, smoking his pipe, within
a few feet of the body of his victim, without trying
to make a get-away, is bound to have a bullet-
proof alibi.
So I sat there, smoking, thinking.
It was quite natural that my nerves should be
taut to the breaking-point. It was quite natural
that in that mixture of emotions and prejudices
which constitute the human soul, a certain un-
80


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
81
healthy, clammy expectancy should be first favor-
ite with me.
I tried everything, from whisky to "sheep jump-
ing over a stile,” to co-ordinate my twisting
thoughts, to banish the swinging, brooding fancies
of night. But I failed signally. Somehow, drawn
as by a magnet, my eyes would rivet themselves
on the darkening, acrid blotch which stained the
scented grass-mat in the center of my room.
That blotch was a live thing, reeking of threats.
The spreading edges kinked into the semblance of
a bestial maw; and there were two drops of crim-
son moisture standing out grim and crass-con-
toured, which seemed like eyes — eyes which
winked at me with an evil, sardonic leer.
The man who had died on that spot had been
a servant of Doorgha, a servant of Hussain Khan,
the master-ministrant of the grim goddess, whom
I had killed in Paris not so very long ago. He
had also been an emissary of that new, mysterious
Force which was grasping the reins of gathering
war in the heart of the yellow continent, to bring
strife and desolation and perhaps slavery to the
lands of the West, the white lands.
But he had been a Rajput; and, true to his
word, he had stood between death and me. He


82
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
had accepted death jestingly, as a light word
which a veiled woman whispers to her lover in
passing through a bazaar. But with his last ges-
ture, with his last spasm of energy, he had
warned me against his murderer, against the blue-
eyed Manchu.
I decided to leave Hong-Kong at once, the very
next day. For discretion is the better, saner, safer
part of valor the world over; but chiefly in China,
where revenge is inclined to be exquisitely slow
and exquisitely humorous from the other fellow's
point of view.
So, with the help of my half-caste servant Mas-
casenhas, I prepared everything for an early
start the next morning. I sent him off to bed.
But I could not sleep. I was nervous.
Pacing up and down the room, smoking and
thinking, I stopped at the window and looked
out.
It was a peaceul summer night, throbbing with
the low hum of a sleeping world. Not a breeze
was stirring. But peace was far from my soul.
I felt oppressed, uncomfortable, clammy, and very
lonely.
For starkly clogging my brain was the hard, dry
realization that I was playing a lone hand; playing


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
it for perhaps the biggest stake man ever played
for.
Of course, my own, as well as the British gov-
ernment, knew the aim of my mission. They had
sent me on it, in fact, on the strength of my
former record in dealing with the association of
Oriental assassins, who did worship at the feet
of Doorgha, the goddess of destruction. But they
could not help me, though my task seemed amaz-
ingly simple and clear: to find one man, and to
kill him.
But it so happened that this One Man was
the most dangerous, the most important, and the
most elusive man in Asia; that he was known to
thousands of close-mouthed Chinamen and Japa-
nese and Manchus and Central Asians, but that.
his very name and race and faith had remained
a profound mystery to the cleverest secret service
men of the West; that the peace of the world and
the destiny of the white man depended and trem-
bled on his will and strength.
It so happened that this unknown man could
strike at me when and where and how he pleased;
but that I could only strike into the dark, at ran-
dom, trusting to that blind goddess of gamblers
and fools which is called Chance,


84
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
All I knew was that he lived and worked some-
where in Outer Mongolia, and that he was thor-
oughly familiar with everything the West had
to teach; with everything the West, in its stupid
vanity, has taught the men of Asia since Perry
knocked at the feudal gates of Satsuma.
My life swung on the turn of a card; and I
knew that the card was marked.
And so I decided to shove in my stack, to play
va banque.
I had an idea that the very audacity of my
plunging straight into the interior might carry me
safely across and over the breakers. They would
not expect such a move. They would not be pre-
pared for it.
Once beyond the pale of civilization, I might
lose myself in the immensity of the hinterland.
I might gain enough leeway to find—and to kill.
But in Hong-Kong, even in Peking or Shanghai,
I would be a marked man, with every hand against
me.
No, no. There was no reason in the world why
I should stay on at the Coast and constitute my-
self a target for the informal vendetta of a blue-
eyed Manchu, to whom death and the thought
of death was as negligible a thing as autumn


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 85
leaves scattered from the lap of some vagabond
wind.
I am not a coward. But even so, I do not ex-
actly relish the idea of having to sleep every night
with my weather eye peeled for battle and sudden
death, and to walk about at day time panoplied
and caparisoned like a butcher with a penchant
for homicide.
I would welcome the morrow. I would welcome
the clank of action and the harsh jar of final deci-
sion which the morrow would bring.
So I needed rest. I needed a strong, refreshed
body and a mind free of fog. I needed long,
dreamless sleep. But it would not come to me.
The shadows of night played about me like gossa-
mer sprites, wagging at me with mocking fingers.
I walked out on the balcony, and looking over
the gray poetry of that huge, poignant Eastern
port—that market of the seven seas which the
English, with the stolid, plodding genius of their
race, have carved and hewn out of primordial
nothing—the thought came to me that to-day
this town of Hong-Kong was still Europe's win-
dow toward Asia—but that to-morrow, through
the intrigues of that One Man who was sitting
there in the heart of Outer Mongolia, like a fat


86
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
spider flinging forth its slimy, venomous net, it
would become Asia's window toward Europe and
toward America.
A clear summer night was humming above it,
white and peaceful. An early spring typhoon had
swept the heavens as with a broom, and there
was not a drop of moisture in the air. But to
me the atmosphere seemed viscous, sludgy, som-
brous. It seemed to clog the pores of my soul.
It seemed as if a gigantic, dead hand were clutch-
ing at me from beyond the grave, and hurling me
into a vast, wide-weltering chasm of ruin.
And I thought of Hussain Khan. I thought of
the last words I had heard him say, the day be-
fore my revolver bullet crashed through his skull,
blotting out forever the scarlet caste-mark of
Doorgha:
"Even from beyond the grave I shall kill you."
I tried to ridicule myself into a semblance of
prosy common-sense. I tried everything from
whisky to bromid of sodium. I picked up a be-
lated San Francisco weekly, and read all about the
actress who got herself arrested and dragged be-
fore the police magistrate of Coronado Beach
with the help of a press agent and an abbreviated
one-piece bathing suit; about the Denver black-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
87
smith who had rediscovered the forgotten craft
of tempering copper; and about the Arkansas jury
which, after being "hung" by one member for
twelve solid hours, had finally spun a coin to de-
cide the guilt or innocence of the peer whom they
were trying.
I forced my legs to fall asleep, and then kicked
them viciously against the sharp edges of the
carved teak-wood table which held my smoking
materials.
It was all to no avail. If I had been a cat, my
hair would have bristled, and I would have spat
at unseen, unseeable things. But being a mere
human, I returned to my routine of whisky, cigars,
and bromid of sodium.
And then, with a thump of utter suddenness,
a gust of cutting, ice-cold air blew into my face.


CHAPTER VIII
It was not my imagination. It was not a hal-
lucination due to the squirmy state of my nerves.
For it blew the ashes from my cigar, and scattered
them over my trousers and over the rug at my
feet. It picked them up again and whirled them
sportively over the shiny surface of the furni-
ture.
I walked over to the window to close it. And
then I stopped still and shuddered. For the gust
of ice-cold air was now striking me in the back.
There was not even a breath of air coming from
the outside. The scented night air was warm
and absolutely quiet, and the window curtains of
sleazy crape hung limp and motionless.
I turned and walked away from the window.
And again the cutting ice-cold gust of air struck
me square between the eyes. I say that it struck
me; and that is exactly what I mean to say. For
there was an actual physical impact, if such a
thing as a physical impact of air is conceivable.
88


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
89
I looked about me, slowly, cautiously.
Every door was closed.
Walking back to the window, I fastened the out-
side shutters, then the windows themselves, and
drew down the blinds. I examined the floor and
the ceiling; studied the wall inch by inch. But
there was no rift, no hole. There was no place
where even the weakest, gentlest breath of air
could blow thruogh.
Even as I walked about the room the gust of
wind seemed to follow me about, striking me in
the face; and again, as I turned, striking me in the
back. I ran up and down the length of the room;
but it followed. I entered the bathroom. But
even in that tiny, warm, hermetically sealed com-
partment the icy blast was following me.
And suddenly I had the sensation that the shaft
of cold air—for it was a shaft—was swinging clear
around and sweeping ahead of me with a whstling,
sucking noise, as if pointing the way—as if order-
ing me to follow!
And I did follow.
It led me through my bedroom, through my
dressing-room, across the width of the little pri-
vate dining-room straight up against the door of
Mascasenhas' bedroom.


90
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
Then, as startlingly sudden as it had come,
the cold air disappeared. Once more the night was
still and warm.
I shook myself into consciousness and looked
at the door. It was closed. Bending down and
pressing my ear to the keyhole, I listened intently,
hardly daring to breathe.
But not a sound came from within. It was evi-
dent that the half-caste, who had been utterly
terror-stricken by the sight of the Rajput's mu-
tilated, murdered body, was sleeping the sleep of
deepest nervous exhaustion, and I called myself
all sorts and varieties of donkey.
What a fool I was!
But was I?
My thoughts gyrated madly, fluttering up and
down, twisting and squirming, but never lighting,
never conclusively proving one thing or the other.
My hand gripped the door-knob. Should I open
it? Should I walk in and see-good Heavens!
What did I expect to see?
The half-caste had been a faithful servant, &
loyal and fearless ally in the past. In my fight
with Hussain Khan, his help had been absolutely
vital, absolutely invaluable. And here I was, sus-
pecting his loyalty because of some wild hallu-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
91
cination, some wild notion that a gust of wind had
led me up to the door of his bedroom.
Asia was getting on my nerves, I decided. My
American common sense was changing into an un-
clean, mephitic thing. I, of the West, Western,
was becoming as much of a superstitious lunatic
as some ruffianly, ash-smeared fakir who was bar-
ing his dirty limbs to the crunching wheels of Jag-
anath in the city of Puri.
I turned away from the door and essayed a laugh.
But it was a miserable fiasco. It snapped off in
mid air with a high-pitched pop; wrenched and
contorted itself into a ghastly, meaningless cackle.
Again I looked at the door. Again my hand closed
instinctively around the metal knob. Should I
go in?
On the other side of that door was Mascasenhas
--a white man, yes—but only half white. For he
was from Goa. Hindu and Persian and Gulf Arab
had mixed their blood with the strain of those
old piratical conquistadores who had sailed out of
Lisbon to help themselves to the world at large
Continuously my thoughts swung in a circle.
Once or twice during the past few months I
had caught a suspicion of arrogance and defiance
in his manner toward me. Again I had thought I


92
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
could see a gleam of fanatical ghoulish hatred in
his deep-burning, gold-flecked eyes. And on three
distinct occasions I had imagined that I could see
a scarlet smudge on his forehead; a scarlet
smudge which, in its hazy outlines, resembled the
caste-mark of those who do worship at the feet of
Doorgha, the black-faced goddess of destruction.
But what of it? These things were oily hallu-
cinations, only strange incidents out of life's grab-
bag. I could not let them tangle the skein of hard,
sensible facts. And the fact remained that he
had always been loyal to me; and also and more
particularly, that I needed him in my search
for the One Man. He knew Asia. He could and
would help me as long as he remained loyal. And
so it was up to me to keep him loyal in spite of
all my foolish, fancied imaginings.
For there was the close-knit duty to my race;
my atavistic pride of race; my ideal of what I
owed to the clarion blood-call of the white peoples
of the earth.
And I needed that man. I must watch him.
But I would defeat my own ends by suspecting
him needlessly. There was the danger that I
might suggest to him the very thing which I was
trying to avoid.


94
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
room, with the same startling suddenness the cold
gust of air piped up again from nowhere and
struck me squarely between the eyes.
This time I did not wait to reason or to think.
I did not allow my common sense to parley and
compromise with my imagination. I acted.
Whirling on my heels, I rushed back to Mas-
casenhas's bedroom and opened the door.
The room was in darkness.
For several slow-dragging seconds I peered into
it through half-closed eyelids. Finally I made out
the contours of the bed. It was smooth, tight,
undisturbed. The Goanese had not slept in it that
night.
I began to wonder, and walking forward a step
or two, I craned my neck so as to see better. And
the next moment I suppressed a cry of amazement
and surprise.
In the far corner of the room I could make
out the dim silhouette of a figure bending over a
trunk, busily fingering the contents of the top
layer with quick, agile, nervous movements
turning over things, dropping them negligently
onto the floor—but still fingering, as if searching
for something.
It was Mascasenhas.
e


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
95
There was no doubt about that. I could tell
by the narrow hips, by the feline curve of the
spine, by the angular, sloping shoulders.
But what was he doing there in the dark? What
could he be doing there in the dark?
I gathered my wits and my voice and called to
him:
"Mascasenhas! Hey, there, Mascasenhas! What
are you doing there?”.
The man did not answer by word or gesture. He
did not turn. It was evident that he had not
heard me, that he had not even noticed the fretful
shaft of yellow light which filtered in through the
half-open door of the dining-room, weaving fan-
tastic, trembling, ever-changing patterns on floor
and wall and ceiling.
He did not alter his position. Bending over
the trunk, his nervous fingers were buried in the
top tray-searching, searching-dropping things
on the ground in his mad haste, then searching
again.
I called once more, louder this time.
"Mascasenhas! What's the matter with you?
Why in the name of Satan can't you answer?”
But there was no sound. Only a faint rustling
and swishing and crackling as his fingers swept


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
97
could hear the feverish pounding and pumping
of his heart.
Suddenly he gave a short, suppressed cry. It
was not a cry of joy. It was not a cry of grief, or
even of astonishment. It was not a live cry. It
was an eery, unearthly sound; a dead cry with a
ghastly affectation of life; the cry of a slaugh-
tered soul.
My hair bristled. An ice-cold hand seemed to
touch my spine. For a mad moment I thought-
'Good Heavens! I knew that the wrath of Hus-
sain Khan was hovering about the room, mocking
me in death as he had mocked me in life.
I raised my hand, about to grip the Goanese
by the shoulders, to shake him savagely into con-
sciousness.
But my subconscious mind controlled my nerves
and my body before they had time to act. With
the instantaneous precision of a photographic
shutter, my hand dropped to my side and my body
regained its poise.
I decided that I would watch and observe. I
would not interfere.
Mascasenhas straightened himself. I saw that
his fingers were tightly clutched around some-
thing; around the object he had searched for and


98
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
found in the trunk. He drew it forth with a
sudden, tearing jerk, tumbling a dozen things pell-
mell on the floor as he dragged it out.
His fingers stiffened and his elbow straightened.
He held the thing at arm's length and stared at
it, while again from his throat came that eery,
dead sound.
At first my thoughts were confused, chaotically
whirled together. My eyes did not perceive clearly
what it was; and if they did, could not register
it on the dense of my brain. I had just an im-
pression of silken, shimmering colors—white and
magenta and royal purple, picked out with high-
lights of biting yellow and slashed with sharp,
cruel crimson.
The next moment the half-caste had flung the
thing across his shoulders. It fell in long, swish-
ing, graceful waves; folded and molded itself to
his slim figure like a garment which was his by
right of ancient possession and ancient usage.
It seemed to be part of himself.
I looked at it more closely.
It was a ceremonial robe, such as the priests of
Doorgha wear on occasions of high ceremony;
chiefly on those occasions when they sacrifice a


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
99
human body on the reeking altar of the black-
faced goddess.
I gave a cry of rage and hatred. Instinctively
my fingers clutched and made for the man's
throat. But again I controlled myself. For Mas-
casenhas had turned, and stood facing me.
And his eyes were tightly closed, so tightly
that little puckered lines ran from the sockets to-
ward the ears.
He walked past me, quite close to me, but he did
not touch me; and when he had traversed the
width of the room, carefully avoiding the sharp
edges of chairs and table, I realized that the man
could see. There was no doubt of it at all. But
he saw with that spiritual power which exists
apart from the limited bodily organs.
The man was a sleep-walker, I said to myself.
Again I raised my hands, about to touch him, to
shake him. And then I remembered having road
somewhere that it is a very dangerous thing to
awaken a somnambulist too suddenly.
So I kept my peace and watched more carefully
than ever.
All at once, Mascasenhas stopped in his tracks.
His body swayed forward, and his head dropped
a little to one side. His lips, the poise of his


100
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
shoulders, the tense clutching of his hands, the
intensified pucker of his tightly closed eyelids, his
whole attitude expressed the most intense listen-
ing. Instinctively, I caught my breath, bent for-
ward, and listened.
Then it came.
Gradually, imperceptibly, and very slowly, dull-
booming sound vibrations filled the room. They
drifted in from a far distance. They were not
palpable. I could not tell if they were the echo-
ing resonance of human voices or of instruments.
They were just droning waves, ascending and de-
scending, pitched in those broken, sighing, un-
earthly quarter and eighth notes which stamp the
music of Asia from the Caucasus to the Yellow
Sea. Somehow they reminded me of the soft
rubbing of an age-green bronze temple gong, cast
and carved in the far-off days when Kong-Fu-Tse
was young
But then I knew that it could not have been
the echo of a gong. For the nearest pagoda was
miles away, across the river in Kowloon, and there
were no Chinese temples in the European section
of Hong-Kong.
Suddenly the vibrations snapped off. There
was a second clogging of silence.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
101
I watched Mascasenhas in absolute fascination.
A smile came on his face which straightened
the fleshy curve of his lips into a thin, sardonic
line. The contour of his soft countenance seemed
to harden and stiffen; his rounded cheekbones
seemed to jut themselves into a bony Tartar
angle; his huge, oxlike eyes narrowed into Mon-
golian slits. The usual servility of his facial ex-
pression gave way to a wolflike snarl.
The whole face changed; changed right there,
in front of my eyes. It was not an hallucination.
It was real. The man was changing into a sem-
blance of Hussain Khan. Even his body grew,
filled out, and expanded in stature and massive-
ness. I saw it; and as I saw it, the marrow in
my bones seemed turned to jelly, and my heart
felt as still as freezing water.
But the next moment I gained control over my-
self. I watched.
Mascasenhas, his eyes still tightly closed,
walked past me again without sensing my pres-
ence. There was now a dignity and certain mas-
siveness in his carriage which he had never had
in his waking hours. He walked over to the dress-
ing table. I followed close behind, intent on ob-
serving his every act and gesture.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
103
table. With firm, deliberate gait he walked to
the door, opened it, and left the apartment. I
followed close at his heels.
We crossed the outer hall, the public corridor,
and descended the broad-sweeping stairs. We
paused by the sleepy Chinese house-boys. The
Eurasion night clerk, stealing forty winks in the
security of his wire cage in the lobby, did not
notice us; nor did the huge Manchu watchman
who was resting his fat-encased body against a
broken plinth in front of the hotel.
We walked into the street.
It was then a little after one o'clock in the
morning.
Godowns, as well as clubs, had sent forth the
last, lingering Englishman and American and
Portuguese. The gin bottles were corked for the
night. The market babble of tea and silk and
ginseng and cotton goods and steel rails was stilled
for the time being. The last yellow lights in the
private residences on Victoria Heights were gut-
tering out like candles in the wind. It was be-
coming very dark. A high wind had piped up
from the mainland, and was momentarily blinding
the face of the young moon with rolling cloud-
banks.


104
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
Mascasenhas walked along steadily with a long,
swinging step, like a man sure of the way and
the goal. As a rule, he walked with a sliding,
feline motion. But to-night there was a roistering
swagger about him that smacked of Central Asia.
At the corner of the Admiralty road a drunken
soldier from the Gunners' Barracks hove in sight.
He nearly collided with the Goanese. But the
latter side-stepped him easily. And even then,
in the flaring glare of an arc-light which swung
overhead, I could see that his eyes were tightly
closed.
The gunner was surprised. He was also alco-
holically indignant. He shouted after Mascasen-
has with a loud voice.
"Hey there, yer spotted swine, yer! Wot d’yer
think you are, yer cursed nigger, dressed up like
a monkey on a stick! Wot d'yer mean bumpin'
into gents wot's wearin' the king's coat? Come
back 'ere like a man, an' I gives yer a clout on
the side of yer 'ead. Stroike me pink! walkin'
along dressed up like a general—".
His voice quavered away in the distance. Mas-
casenhas did not hear. He quickly swung down
the length of the street and turned into the native
town. There, too, the streets were deserted. Not


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
105
a single coolie was roaming about. The houses
were shuttered. They were dead, massed to-
gether into a dim-gray, compendious unity.
Once Mascasenhas stopped in his tracks. Again
his body swayed forward. Again his head dropped
a little to one side. Again his whole attitude ex-
pressed intense listening.
And once more the hazy resonance of a temple
gong being rubbed and thumped drifted across
the distance. This time it seemed a little nearer.
It was whispering in a language of dread stillness
with dull, muffled beatings and thumpings.
Mascasenhas listened. Then he walked on, fol-
lowing the sound as he would a voiced direction.
I kept close behind.
So we walked to the very end of Hong-Kong
roads, and there, at the foot of Victoria, the sound
seemed nearer again. It was steadily becoming
more real, more palpable; and it came evidently
from the direction of the mainland of the Colony.
There is a little settlement of scraggly, rickety
huts there, inhabited by the very dregs of Canton,
with a sprinkling of Formosans, Koreans, and a
few Black Flag pirates in search of a temporary
asylum. The whole place was like a warren, with
crisscrossing streets and cul-de-sacs, strongly


106
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
savoring of murder and torture and similar small
social amenities of Mongol life. Even these streets
were practically deserted; except when, once in
a while, a blue-bloused coolie would come ambling
along on padded slippers, picking his way among
the reeking puddles and heaps of evil filth which
littered the streets.
Mascasenhas walked along with great swift-
ness, perfectly sure of his way. And I followed.
I was keyed up, expectant, eager; and I did not
mind the black shadows which seemed to wag
at me with mocking, threatening fingers.
So we reached the end of the island. The chan-
nel which separates it from the mainland reaches
here its narrowest point. The distance is hardly
a mile; and there is a little bay which provides
a safe anchorage for boats and small launches.
We walked swiftly down to the river-front. I
could see the distant sky-line of Kowloon. The
moon was sinking low; and nothing of color re-
mained save that white, milky haze, dull but glar-
ing, which is the peculiar dawn tint of those re-
gions.
· I saw a crouching figure detach itself from a
clump of black-shadowed rocks. Automatically
I ducked behind a thorn-bush.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
107
He was a typical low-class Hong-Kong river
rat, squat and bow-legged, with huge, rounded
shoulders and the curved, sweeping arms of a
male gorilla. It was evident that he had been
posted there as a sentinel, and that he was wait-
ing for the half-caste. For as soon as he saw him
he lifted his hands with a beckoning gesture and
purred a few sing-song gutturals.
Mascasenhas did not answer. He did not seem
to notice the other's presence. But he followed
him. They turned a little to the left. A sharp
moon-ray momentarily illuminated the half-
caste's face. His eyes were still tightly closed.
They reached the anchorage.
The Chinaman gave a long-drawn ,high-pitched,
quivering yell. Twice he repeated it; and im-
mediately the rubbings and thumpings which
had been steadily drifting over from the main-
laid ceased as if obeying a prearranged signal. The
boatman dropped into a rowboat. Mascasenhas
followed and sat down in the stern. Then the
Chinaman cast off, gripped the oars, and started
across toward Kowloon with massive, sweeping
strokes.
I waited for a few seconds and looked across
the river. It was a nocturne of drowsy murmurs


108
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
and fleeting, veiled shadows, with here and there a
little, trembling yellow gape.
When everything seemed safe I rushed down
to the anchorage. I jumped into the nearest
sampan I could lay my hands on, cut the lines
with my pocket knife, and was off.
The Chinaman was rowing at a good clip; the
green tail-light of his boat was rapidly disappear-
ing. So I put my shoulders to the oars with a
will and pulled after it with a long, feathery col-
lege stroke.
Twenty minutes later Mascasenhas's boat
bumped the opposite shore of Kowloon. The
coolie helped the Goanese ashore. Then he jumped
into his boat and rowed rapidly back toward
Victoria.
I had braked my oars and drifted on the stream
for a dozen feet or so to avoid discovery. Now
I rowed again toward shore, landed, jumped out,
and made my stolen sampan fast in the shelter of
a friendly bush.
For a moment Mascasenhas stood perfectly
still, a picture of indecision and expectancy. The
moon, a bloated thing of copper swinging among
the trees, threw down a single broad ray of orange
which slashed across his face.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
109
And again I saw that his eyes were tightly
closed. Again I caught the fleeting impression
that this man was not the mild-mannered Goanese
half-caste who, night after night, put the studs
into my dress shirt, but another man—a man
I had killed in Paris over two years ago—a man
of a sharper, fiercer, harder race.
Suddenly the sounds which had guided Mas-
casenhas all the way from our apartment in the
Hotel Alexandra boomed forth once more. This
time I made out distinctly the scientific rub-
bing of a temple gong. It came from a little
hill to the west of the Kowloon anchorage; and
it was pregnant with a nameless, sinister, brooding
message which swept through my soul on silent,
unclean feet.
For a moment I stood still. But I refused to
think. I followed the half-caste up the hill.


CHAPTER IX
At the very crest I could see the fantastic, ex-
aggerated contour of a pagoda roof. It was of
copper, burnished and in spots enameled, mirror-
ing the moon-rays a thousandfold like countless,
intersecting rainbows endless zigzag flashings of
Mascasenhas had not yet reached the main
electric blue and deep rose and keen, arrogant
emerald green, like the shooting of dragon-flies
and purple-winged tropical moths. From a win-
dow near the roof a shaft of light stretched out
like a long, osseous, yellow hand.
The rest of the pagoda was choked up by a
mass of ignoble buildings which criss-crossed up
and down the hill. Mascasenhas walked toward
it at a good clip. I followed, keeping in the dark-
ness of the trees and the houses. I was nervous.
But I was grimly determined to see the adventure
straight through to the end.
The Goanese stopped in front of the temple.
The rubbing of the gong snapped off suddenly.
110


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
111
The painted, carved teak-wood doors swung open,
and Mascasenhas crossed the threshold. Noise-
lessly the gates closed behind him.
I crept up to the building. There was a window
at just about the level of my eyes. I stepped
up to it and looked in. It was the hall in-
to which I was looking. I could hear his
footsteps echoing through a distant corridor. And
so I observed the scene before me at leisure.
The temple was in the shape of a parallelogram
with a spacious central area, surrounded by a
peristyle of numerous rows of pillars like the
colonnades of an Italian cloister. The pillars
were ugly, bulbous monstrosities made of coarse
red syenite; but the walls were of fine, polished
porphyry and covered half-way to the ceiling with
slabs of splendid green marble and exquisite mar-
quetry work of a forgotten century.
A huge screen cut off part of the central area.
It was of some light silken stuff, painted in ver-
milion and black and orange, in irregular patches
and broad streaks like the face of a clown in a
London Christmas pantomime. The room was
too full of ornaments that were not accessories,
and decorated with a tawdry, pauper splendor.
Somehow I got the impression that it was not
ea.


112
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
genuine, but that it had been patched and jerked
together on the spur of the moment, to serve a
certain aim which had to be achieved in a hurry.
The only thing of taste and value was an an-
cient temple gong of immense proportions on a
red-and-gold lacquer stand. A tall Manchu,
dressed in magnificent plum-colored robes, stood
beside it. The rubbing stick was swinging loosely
from a leather loop around his wrist, as if he had
just left off sounding the gong. His face, it seemed
to me, was strangely familiar, and a light gossa-
mer scrap of remembrance came to my mind. But
I had no time to finish and register my groping
thoughts.
For at that moment Mascasenhas stepped
through the colonnade to the left of the painted
screen which cut the hall in twain. He was pre-
ceded by a hideous Chinese dwarf whose bony
head dangled from a thin-sinewed neck, like an
evil flower on a rotten, slimy stalk.
My nerves were now like live wires, jarring,
tingling, burning.
The Manchu stepped up close to Mascasenhas.
Then he turned. Pointing at the screen without
uttering a word, he walked up to it, and the Goa-
nese followed. He passed directly on the other


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
113
side of the window through which I was watch-
ing, and he was still in a trance, his eyes still
tightly closed.
The Manchu stopped. He lifted his muscular
arms and nipped off the flimsy painted silk which
covered the wooden frame of the screen.
I looked, suppressing a cry of rage and hatred,
and for a moment I thought it was a hideous
dream. But it was a dream which did not fade,
a dream which passed over into waking con-
sciousness, into throbbing actuality.
For there in front of me, bared by the torn,
crumpled screen, I beheld once more the giant
black basalt statue of Doorgha, the dread Indian
goddess of destruction. It was the sister to the
statue I had seen at Benares, and to the one I
had seen in the temple of Marly-le-Roi. Here
were the thick, blood-red lips adrip with the quiv-
ering flesh of human sacrifices. Here were the
glaring, fiendish eyes, the choking, strangling fin-
gers, the whole hideous, bloated body in its stony
passion of hatred and destruction. Here was again
the beastly emblem of the mysteries and the cruel-
ties of life which spells religion to one-fourth of
Asia.
I shuddered as I thought of the things it had


114
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
stood for; the things it had ensouled through the
· 'swinging centuries—the unspeakable things, im-
measurable, dusky-glooming, born of foul ain-
bitions and cruel desires, of ensanguined murder
and gangrened superstition.
And at that moment I absolved Christianity
of all the injustice and intolerance it had been
· responsible for in the past.
Mascasenhas fell to his knees in front of the
black idol.
He rubbed his forehead in the dust; lifted his
arms in a supplicating gesture; gave a strange
strangled cry half fear and half deep fanatic joy;
kow-towed again and again, while the Manchu
stood like a statue, watching him, a fine, sardonic
smile playing about the corners of his thin lips.
• At first my knowledge of what was happening
there was rather hazy. Then, suddenly, I under-
stood the gist of the thing.
In there was Cajetano Maria Mascasenhas, a
Goanese, a half-caste, a nervous, superstitious
man, a neurotic, a mixture of strange and warring
bloods, soaked in the horrible belief that his soul
was part of the soul of Hussain Khan, the dead
master-ministrant of Doorgha.
It was clear to me that that sneering Manchu in


116
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
“Hail, Mother! Hail, three-eyed goddess of de-
structiveness, three-eyed goddess of horrid form!
Hail, malign image of death and hate! Listen,
thou, to my Matra!”
I have never been a very religious man. My
Christianity has always been Laodicæn. But I
suppose there is a certain residue of faith in my
psychic make-up; and when I saw this man, a
Christian and half-white, praying before a bestial
Hindu idol and breaking forth into foul hog-
squealings of blasphemy, something fiery and
sharp rose in my soul.
I acted without thinking. In there was a Man-
chu, working on my servant, my friend, my broth-
er-white, with the cold, inhuman deviltries of his
Mongolian brain. In there was an unclean thing,
noxious and mephitic. And here was I, a white
man, an American, strong and-
I struck the window with all my strength. The
glass shivered into a hundred jagged pieces. Hot
blood squirted from my lacerated hands. But I
did not feel it; had no time to feel it. I pulled
myself up with a tremendous effort.
Then I jumped through the window into the
temple. Landing on all fours, I picked myself up


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
117
and made for the Manchu with a rush, every
muscle of my body bunched for combat.
But the Manchu, in spite of his huge bulk, side-
stepped me gently without any apparent effort.
He fumbled in his voluminous sleeves for a second.
I turned and whirled. But before I could reach
him, he had me covered with a vicious automa-
tic.
I recognized him then. It was the same Man-
chu who, back in San Francisco, had lured me in-
to the joss-house and had attempted to assassin-
ate me there. Then his eyes had been hidden by
huge, shell-rimmed spectacles. Tonight they were
free of them.
And they were blue, bright blue!
I gave a cry of rage and despair. This man-
why—it was he who had entered my apartment in
the Hotel Alexandra-who had killed the Rajput
-who had
His voice came suave and silken.
"Be gentle, my friend. Be gentle in this gentle
land. Do not scratch your head with a firebrand.
Also, be pleased to consider the truth of the fol-
lowing little saying ".
I interrupted him savagely:
"To the devil with "


118
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
"Please, please.” His voice was more silken
than ever. He backed against the wall and sank
into a high-armed carved teak-wood chair, But
the hand which gripped the heavy revolver never
wavered. "No, no. You must not move. You
must not. For this little toy was made in Ameri-
ca, the land of efficiency, and so this little death-
toy is most efficient.”
I stood still and listened, waiting for my chance.
It was the only thing I could do.
The Manchu was arranging the folds of his
plum-colored robe with his left hand, while his
right kept me covered.
His voice was very low and gentle.
"This is the fable, my friend—a little fable in
three parts, and each of the three is true. So dis-
tressingly true! Listen.”
He paused. Then he continued in a contemp-
tuous drawl:
"On the egg combating with a stone, the yolk
came out. Do you not think that funny? No?
Then listen to the second and the third part. They
are both of an exquisite wit. The tit-mouse held
up its feet so that the sky might not fall upon it
and crush it. And the tailless ox attempted to


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 119 :
push the elephant away with the strength of its
back.
"You do not laugh? Yet I have heard tells
about the great American sense of humor. Can
it then be that you do not understand our simple
Oriental jests? Must I explain the point? : Lis-
ten. You are the egg you of the West, you white
men; and we, we of Asia, are the stone--hard
stone; and as to the yolk ”.
Something made me turn.
And in the flash of a second I saw that Mascas-
enhas had crept up close to me. His eyes blazed
with the most fiendish hatred and vindictiveness
I had ever seen on a human face. His hands
swung aloft a heavy teak-wood stool. I lifted
my hands to avert the blow. I cried out.
"Mascasenhas! Mascasenhas!",
Then everything was covered with a heavy,
clogging pall. The world seemed to swing past
me in huge, chaotic circles—a crazy mass of colors
whirled together by demons.
The floor seemed like jelly. It gave, I remember
crying out in rage and pain. I remember hear-
ing the Manchu's gentle laugh even as I lost con-
sciousness.


120
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
It seemed years later that I awakened.
I tried to move, but could not. My hands and
feet were tightly strapped to a string bedstead.
My tongue was swollen and terribly dry. I felt a
numbing pain in the back of my head, and mo-
mentarily I lost consciousness again. Somehow I
thought that I could feel a whirling sensation; the
whirling of a cloudy fog in the brain of a blind
world. I imagined that I was dying.
The next moment I was wide awake. Somebody
had dashed a glass of water into my face. I
looked. The Manchu was standing over me, with
the old bland smile on his thin lips.
I moved my head a little to the right. I dis-
covered that I was in a small room which was fit-
fully illuminated by a single oil-lamp. A whole
day must have passed since Mascasenhas had
made the murderous assault upon me. For a
young moon was in the skies, breaking into the
room through purple mists and weaving checkered
patterns on walls and floor.
The Goanese was sitting, crosslegged, beside the
bedstead on which I was strapped. His head was
turned away from me, and I caught a glimpse of
his profile only.
But even so, I had again the mad sensation that


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
121
his features had subtly changed into those of the
other man, the man whom I had killed two years
before.
I conquered my thoughts. Rot! This man was
my Goanese servant. In the past he had been
loyal and faithful. Heaven knew why he had
turned traitor. I must talk to him. I must per-
suade him. Unfeasible hope loomed up in pallid,
doubtful, bewildering glimmers.
I must try. I had no choice.
"Look here, Mascasenhas.” I kept my voice as
steady as possible. Purposely I chose negligent,
matter-of-fact words. “What's all this nonsense
about? What do you mean by dressing up in
these confounded heathenish masquerade clothes?
What do you mean by assaulting me?"
Mascasenhas turned. He looked me up and
down. There was that same keen look in his
purple-brown eyes that same calm, arrogant in-
souciance in the curve of his thin, contemptuous
lips, which my memory associated with the dead
Hussain Khan.
He answered, speaking in Arabic, the language
which had been as much mother tongue to Hus-
sain Khan as his own native Pukhtu, but which I
mer


122
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
was positive Mascasenhas had never had occasion
to learn.
“Tawakkal al Allah, ya Shaykh.”
A holy-sounding injunction meaning "Place
thy reliance upon God, oh Chief.” But in reality
it was only the slang of the Mecca bazaars, and
had the same meaning as our American "nothing
doing.” It seemed to amuse him. For he poked
me gently in the ribs and continued:
"Yah, Harikar al-Hakim," another Arab slang
word which has the exact significance of Mr. But-
tinski of comic supplement fame.
I was silent for a moment. I knew that it was
useless to hammer cold iron. But I must try
again. It was Hobson's choice.
"Listen, Mascasenhas. You're a white man-à
Christian,"
A sharp, mocking laugh made me stop. I looked
up. The Manchu was in convulsions of laughter,
howling at the top of his lungs, slapping his fat
knees in a paroxysm of glee.
“White man-Christian,” he mimicked me,
and then he burst into another gale of laughter.
He stepped up close to me and addressed me
with mock seriousness:
"White man, Christian, son of a superior race,


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
123
scion of a superior civilization! Has not your
matchless education taught you that it is useless
to quote the maxims of the Lord Gautama Budd-
ha to the wild buffalo who is about to gore you?
Have not your famed universities beyond the wa-
ter taught you the truth of the saying that every
man should sweep the snow in front of his own
door before busying himself with the frost on his
neighbor's tiles?
“A white man, are you-a Christian? Then
sweep your own snow. Stay among white men.
Do not meddle with the destinies of the brown
and the yellow. And when you do meddle, when
you are caught in the act of meddling, turn not
for help and sympathy to the inferior men, the
men of color. For this man"-he put his hand
on Mascasenhas' shoulder-"this man is Hussain
Khan, an Asian, an Afghan, a hater of the Cross."
Mascasenhas looked up. His voice was slow,
slightly bored.
"Of course, I am Hussain Khan."
Once more I tried to bore through his armor
of insanity.
"Mascasenhas, don't you remember Paris?
Don't you remember our peaceful little house in
Jersey,"


124
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
The Manchu laughed again.
“My friend, it is useless to plant sugar-cane on
your lips. It has also been said that an elephant
is an elephant on low ground as well as on high.
Why do you talk, talk, talk? What matters it?
If a jackal howls in the distance, will my old buf-
falo die?” He paused, then continued very gent-
ly:
"Pray! Pray instead of talking. For in an
hour's time Hussain Khan will kill you. A pain-
less death, my friend. Just a sharp knife drawn
gently across your throat.” He smiled, "I could
kill you now. But I am a Chinaman, an Asian.
I am just to everybody, but most just to you, be-
cause you are a white man, a Christian. One hour
I give you, that you may think of your past life
and the glories of the life to come. For death is
not such a mouthful that you should gulp it
whole. One hour, my friend, to think of the
might-have-been.”
He slid a fan from his voluminous sleeves and
began to fan himself slowly. He continued:
"May you think of your life, and also of Europe,
and of Asia. You came to find out, I believe.”
His voice was low and mocking. “You came to
find the One Man-perhaps to kill him. Is it not


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
125
so? Then ponder on the wisdom of the ancient
saying that the torrent passes while the sand re-
mains. You are the torrent, friend Vandewater.
And I”-he tapped his chest lightly with the fan,
"I am the sand. I remain, eh?”
Stepping up to the opposite wall, he drew aside
a heavy purple curtain which had been draping it.
The gold face of an ancient Chinese water-clock
shone out dully. He lit a small, red-shaded oil
lamp, and adjusted it in such a manner that the
face of the clock came into sharp relief. The hour
hand was of white, shimmering nacre, the minute
hand of some black metal.
"See, my friend," he purred, “it is now the
hour of eleven. I said that you would die after an
hour, at midnight precisely. But I have decided
to give you an extra ten minutes so that you may
praise my mercy and benevolence; the benevo-
lence of Yuan Kee, the Manchu. For I know
that on the threshold of death, every minute and
every second and every fleeting fraction of a sec-
ond seem like long, swinging, precious years."
He set the machinery of the clock into motion
and turned to me again.
"This is a very old clock, my friend, very old
and just a little tired. As old as Asia, as tired as


126
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
China. You must not jostle those who are old
and tired. For, though they be old, yet they may
strike-even as this clock strikes.”
He swung the weight into motion. The clock
struck the hour of eleven with dull-booming
sounds. He waited till the last stroke had passed.
Then he laughed lightly, and reaching up, pushed
back the minute hand until it pointed to ten min-
utes to eleven. He continued:
"Behold and give thanks! For I am giving you
ten extra minutes of life, my friend; six hundred
precious seconds!”
He tapped the face of the clock with his fan.
"You must watch the hands of this old and
tired clock. The black hand travels faster than
the white hand. And at midnight the black hand
will cover the white hand—the black hand which
is Asia—the white hand which is the West—the
white lands—you, my friend. It is then that
Hussain Khan will kill you."
He walked to the door and turned.
"Ten extra minutes I gave you. For I am be-
nevolent to all, being a Manchu, an Oriental. But
most benevolent am I to you--because you are
white and a Christian."


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
127
He left the room with a silken swish of his plum-
colored embroidered robe.
A heavy silence fell on the room, like a sodden
blanket. I decided to make one more bid, to make
one more attempt to save my life. I turned my
head as much as my bonds would let me.
"Mascasenhas!" I cried. "Mascasenhas! Are
you going to murder me in cold blood? I have
been your friend and benefactor. I have saved
you from Hussain Khan at the risk of my life.
Mascasenhas—for the love of Heaven"
The Goanese looked at me. A slow smile was
on his lips.
"Will the barking of a dog reach the high skies
of Allah's heaven? Do not waste thy breath in
futile whimperings, O thou dog and son of a dog.
Pray to thy false, maudlin gods. Perhaps they
will intercede for thee on the day of reckoning
Thou hast just an hour. Do not waste it. Pray!
Pray! For soon thy life will be like a candle in
the meeting of winds."
I knew then that it was useless to plead and beg
and urge. Death was near. And I wished that
it would come faster.
I cursed the devilish ingenuity of the Manchu
who had given me the extra ten minutes of life. I


128
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
cursed the clock which was ticking off the seconds
in front of my face. I cursed the lagging min-
utes which seemed like years. I cursed and
groaned as I saw the inexorable black hand move
closer and closer up to the white.
Black, white, black, white-I repeated over and
over again. I was half mad-counting, counting,
counting.
Finally I forced myself to look away from the
clock.
Directly to the left of it there was a heavy,
black-and-gold embroidery fastened against the
wall. I looked intently, until I could make out
the Chinese ideaographs with which it was em-
broidered.
And as I read and reread a great, white peace, a
deep sweetness stole over my soul. The quota-
tion was from the book of Lieh-Tzu, the book of
the unknown philosopher who lived many cen-
turies before Kong-Fu-Tse:
ness stole to of Liehond many
“There is a Life that is unrevealed ;
There is a Transformer who is changeless
The Uncreated alone can produce Life;
The Changeless alone can evolve Change."
I read the words again; memorized them;
meditated on them. “There is a Life that is un-
revealed-unrevealed—"


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
129
Suddenly I was resigned to my fate. I was even
happy. The hopes were over, the promise, the
ambition-but also the strife. Death would soon
come.
I looked at the clock. It was just ten minutes
to midnight. And at the same moment, with a
sweet, clear vibration, the great bell from the
cathedral across the river commenced tolling its
message of love and of sacrifice.
“Ave-Ave Maria—Ave Maria—"
I closed my eyes. To me the tolling of the bell
was a sacrament. The faith of my childhood
years came back. I prayed.
Then I shuddered a little. Midnight! That
meant death! I kept my eyes tightly closed and
waited for the knife. I waited, waited. Then I
remembered. Yuan Kee had put back the hands
of the clock by ten minutes—ten more minutes!
And those ten minutes which I owed to the be-
nevolence of Yuan Kee saved my life.
For with the last lingering vibration of the
church-bell a change came over the features of
Mascasenhas. He seemed to drink in the sounds.
He stared at the window whence the sounds were
drifting.
Instinctively he crossed himself,


130
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
His thin, sardonic lips relaxed and regained
their fleshy curve; the hard contour of the chin
softened, and the bony Tartar cheek rounded out.
The slanting Mongol eyes became once more large
and oxlike.
Hussain Khan had disappeared, and Mascasen-
has remained; the Goanese, the half-white, the
Christian; my faithful servant and loyal ally.
For several dragging seconds he looked at me.
Then understanding came into his eyes. He threw
himself on his knees before me, and kissed my
hands again and again.
Then he cut my bonds and helped me up. Once
more he fell on his knees. Tears rolled from his
eyes, and he prayed fervently.
When he rose he was calm and collected.
“Come, master," he said to me. “I know the
way. Trust me. Follow me.”
We walked out of the room, down a flight of
stairs, and out into the street. The temple was
deserted. Nobody met us. Nobody stopped us.
The night was black. A single glimmering star
was fading to the east in a milky haze.
Together, we walked toward the Kowloon an-
chorage. Hand in hand we walked, as friends
who had lost and had found each other again,


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
131
And as we walked, I thanked the benevolence
of Yuan Kee, the Manchu—who had given me ten
extra minutes!


CHAPTER X
The sampan was still where I had hidden it, in
the shelter of some bushes. I stepped into it, and
bent to the oars, while Mascasenhas took the til-
ler. I looked at him closely. He was my old Mas-
casenhas once more; and I blessed the great cath-
edral bell which had tolled the “Ave Maria” from
across the narrows, whose sweet, clear message of
love and sacrifice and everything else Christianity
stands for had awakened a responding chord in
the mad heart of the hypnotized half-caste.
I thanked fate which had sent the Eurasian
back to me. For I needed him in my search. He
was half Asian by blood, wholly Asian by tortu-
ous cunning, and he would be of invaluable help
to me in that far heart of Outer Mongolia where
the One Man was said to live and rule, waiting
calmly and patiently for the psychological moment
when he would deliver his blow against the West.
With renewed enthusiasm and energy I bent
my strength to the oars.
182


134
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
comes from the soul and not from the mind, and
which somehow reminded me of a Bodhisattva on
a conventionalized Tibetan cloister painting, bal-
ancing himself on a frail lotus-leaf and meditating
on the seven virtues of Ananda's Lord.
I looked at him intently. Yes, I said to my-
self; the evil spell was broken. From now on the
half-caste would be faithful to me; faithful unto
death as he had been in the past. Hand in hand
with him I would fight. And win?
Would we win?
I did not know.
But the Eurasian would stick by me. That
much I knew. And with added zest and confi-
dence I swung my arms to the heavy rhythm of
the blades away from Kowloon, and on toward
the friendly hills of Victoria.
"Karam bansao adhe adh."
The half-caste's voice cut the silene as cleanly
as with a dagger. I looked up and he flashed a
pleasant smile at me.
“Yes," he repeated translating his words into
English. “Fate and self-exertion are half-and-
half in power. It was fate which stayed my hand
with the tolling of the cathedral bell. And now"
- he touched my arm with his thin brown ner-
m


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
13)
vous fingers "now it is your self-exertion that is
doing the rest.”
He smiled and continued in a low intense voice:
"Your self-exertion, Heart of my Heart! And
may my feeble hand and feeble mind be permitted
to help the shadow of a trifle!"
Clearer and clearer the shore-line jumped into
sight. Glancing over my shoulder, I could see the
friendly contours of clubs and godowns and pri-
vate residences and, on a low hill above the an-
chorage, the huge arc-lights which marked the be-
ginning of Hong-Kong Roads. I smiled. Some-
how, a clean scent of home was in the morning
air; and I bent over the oars with greater enthus-
iasm.
Mascasenhas reacted to my mood. A smile
played about the corners of his lips and he com-
menced whistling softly and tunefully.
But the tune snapped off in mid-air. He turned
grayish-pale.
I looked at him in astonishment.
"What's the matter Mascasenhas?"
The next moment I knew. For from across the
river from Kowloon, a deep, gurgling tone-vibra-
tion floated into the night air.
It was a temple gong, scientifically rubbed and


136
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
thumped. It moaned and shrieked and sobbed.
It was like a human voice speaking-of what?
Mascasenhas clutched the tiller with both
hands.
"Listen, master! Listen, Protector of the Piti-
ful! Yuan Kee has found out our escape. The
ten minutes are over. He came to look. He is
sending the alarm!”
I motioned to him to be quiet. I rested at my
oars so as to hear the better.
Mascasenhas was right. Yuan Kee was giving
the alarm.
A second later other gongs took up the refrain.
Reed-pipes and drums and cymbals and tomtoms
joined in the harsh chorus. The tone-vibrations
whirled and twisted and shaped like thick, palp-
able, floating masses, sinking into low, growling
octaves, again rising into thin, quavering trem-
olos.
They shrilled to a ghastly, mind-freezing pitch;
then dropped into an inferno of unclean, moaning,
cruel sounds which were like the voices of all the
lost souls in the seventh hall of Gehenna.
Thump-thump-thump spoke the gongs; and it
seemed as if destiny was opening wide her scream-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
137
ing lungs of brass and was blaring at us with the
mad, crimson lust of killing.
I bent again to the swing of the oars, putting
every ounce of strength and energy and despair
into the bunched play of my muscles.
The light sampan jumped truly and speedily to
the strokes.
"Hong-Kong!”
I whispered to myself, and prayed for the clean,
white security of the European section, the friend-
ly red coat of Tommy Atkins, the pleasant gray of
British naval vessels riding in the bay!
I must hurry up to the Government House, re-
gardless of the hour, and make a full report to the
British governor.
Only two nights ago the big, burly Englishman
had paled and trembled as he told me how press-
ing matters were, as he implored me to make
haste, to find the One Man and to kill him.
With substantial detail he had related to me
how the whole of Asia was seething with the sup-
pressed fever of gathering war; how India was in
travail; how the flames had spread to Tonkin, to
the Philippines, and to Eastern Siberia.
He had told me shivering tales of great Euro-
pean and American colonial officials mysteriously


138
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
murdered; of a Japanese attempt to blow up the
defense works at San Francisco; of a regiment of
Brahman Sepoys, stationed on the border of the
Shan States, having killed their white and loyal
native officers, and of their having escaped into
the neighboring Chinese province of Amoy with
the help and connivance of the Manchu amban
who governed it.
And last, but not least, he had told me of the
mysterious wholesale purchases and manufactures
of the Chinese and Japanese governmentspow-
der and dynamite and chlorin and all the dead-
liest instruments of poison and gas which the
great European war had invented and developed
and used; which Asia would use with thousand-
fold strength and thousandfold cruelty.
The fact of the purchases and manufactures was
known. That much the American and English
secret service men had found out. But nobody
knew where they were stored.
"Imagine, Vandewater," the governor had con-
cluded, and he had clung to my hand like an hys-
terical woman, "imagine a new Attila, a new
Scourge of God; an Attila with all the science and
efficiency of European Attila who will use gas-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
139
bombs and dynamite and poison instead of lances
and spears and javelins!”.
I must hurry, hurry, hurry! I must tell the gov-
ernor of Yuan Kee, the blue-eyed Manchu, who
there in Kowloon, in an English colony, under the
very noses of the British authorities, was flinging
the iron nets of intrigue and murder.
With redoubled strength I bent to the oars.
But what could I do after all; I, a single man,
with only a half-caste to help me! Why, against
the steely cunning of Asia, my own cunning would
be as thin and flimsy as the tittering of sparrows
in the gutter. But I must try. I must not be
afraid; and first of all I must hurry to Hong-
Kong. I must report to the governor.
And again I increased my speed.
Suddenly the message of the gongs and the
tomtoms burst out with renewed vigor. The reed-
pipes shrieked and moaned. Then a new sound
floated on the breezea sound of far-away hu-
man voices, bellowing and cursing and yelling.
There was a momentary lull. Then came a glid-
ing, shifting, sucking noise, as of boats being
launched.
They were after us. I smiled to myself. All
right. Let them come. I was nearly there. An-


140. THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
other hundred yards and my sampan would bump
the friendly shore of Victoria.
I turned to Mascasenhas.
“We've beat them to it, old fellow," I said, with
a ringing laugh.
Mascasenhas looked at me. A change had come
over him. He was a servant no more. He spoke
rapidly, sharply, discouraging with his first words
the imagination of possible, hazy alternatives.
“We must turn down the river, master, and
away from the land. Quick!”.
He swung the tiller at right angle, and the
sampan obeyed with a protesting swish and gur-
gle. We were headed away from Hong-Kong.
Momentarily I thought again that he was a
traitor.
"Damn you!" I cried. "What the devil do you
mean by~"
He interrupted me with a low, steady voice.
"You cannot fight fire with fire, nor water with
water. Listen, master! They have launched
their boats. They are after us."
I was becoming impatient.
"Rot, man! We're nearly home.”
Mascasenhas laughed a cold, mirthless laugh.
"Home? Did you say home? Is Hong-Kong.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
141
home to you? Can it ever be home to you or to
me? Hong-Kong is Asia, though the Cross of St.
George flies from the top of the governor's palace.
And Asia can never be home to the white man.
For rivers do not drink up their water, nor do trees
eat their fruit."
Again he laughed; and the sound cut through
me like a knife.
"Home? Will a crow become a swan by bath-
ing in the Ganges? No, no, no! They would get
us over there though a million soldiers, horse, foot,
and the guns were camping in front of our hotel;
though a thousand dreadnoughts were swinging at
anchor in the bay, with decks cleared for action.
They would get us and kill us even if we went to
hide in the highest steeple of the English cathe-
dral, or in the lowest cellar of the gunners' bar-
racks.
"They would waita second, a minute, an
hour, a day, a week—they would wait slowly and
patiently, because they are Chinese and they
will not even have the mercy of the hooded cobra,
which hisses before it strikes. They will strike at
us suddenly, out of the dark, with weapons which
you do not know, which your white man's mind
has never dreamt of, will never dream of. We be


142
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
marked men, you and I. See!” He pointed to the
sky. "Already they are signalling from shore to
shore."
I looked.
A whirling column of smoke was rising from
the mainland in straight, silver-gray lines which-
melted slowly into the purplish sable of the night;
and, as I watched, other smoke-shafts took up the
message from Victoria, wavered, motioned, and
disappeared. A minute later a fire-signal blazed
up from a distant hill above Kowloon with a danc-
ing, glittering light that was like sunshine upon
running water.
The half-caste was right. And for the moment
I felt discouraged. A slime-cold hand seemed to
be reaching out from the yellow, brooding conti-
nent and clutching at my heart-strings.
My hands felt inert, nerveless. I dropped one
oar, and only a quick gesture of Mascasenhas kept
the blade from floating down the river. I pulled
myself together.
"You are right, Mascasenhas," I said. "But
what can we do? What's the medicine?"
For a moment he did not reply. He gave an-
other twist to the tiller which brought the sampan
farther away from the island, and on to the cen-


144
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
would never be such fools as to remain in Kow-
loon, on the mainland. But where can we go once
we make Hong-Kong, even if we escape the net
he is drawing around us, for a day or a week?
"We can take passage on board a steamer bound
for America or for Europe. What of it? His
henchmen will have searched the steamer and will
have killed us before the captain gets his clear-
ance papers. Yuan Kee will squat as a cat, and
jump as a tiger, as we say in Goa. What then can
we do, since both Kowloon and Hong-Kong are
barred? I will tell you.
"A Portuguese steamship-line plies between
here and Macao. Every night at midnight the lit-
tle boats leave the outer wharf. They pass the
narrows instead of taking the northern route, be-
cause thus they can do without a pilot, and can
therefore save money. I know the boats. I know
their skippers. Or, at least, they know me. At
least, they know my name.”
His voice throbbed with conscious pride.
"For the captains of these boats are Goanese.
So am I. But I am a gentleman and an aristocrat
in my own land. My father was Leopold Aloy-
sius Mascasenhas. His mother's father was a
Mercado. My mother's father was a Lyon-d'Sou-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
145
sa. There are no better names in Goa-no-nor
in Portugal. My name will be a passport and
you—you will also be made welcome, being my
friend."
"But you yourself said that we cannot go to
Hong-Kong, that—".
"Exactly," he interrupted. “That's why we are
making for the open sea. The ship is due on the
early morning tide. We shall signal it."
The man was right, of course. There lay our
only chance, in that little old Portuguese steam-
ship bound for Macao. And we had to take it.
What we'd do once we reached Macao? Well,
it was no use bothering about it right then and
there. First we had to draw our heads out of the
immediate noose Yuan Kee was throwing about
our necks.
I changed seats with Mascasenhas as my arms
were getting tired, and, taking the tiller, we went
straight along the central channel of the narrows.
Steadily the land to either side was slipping
away from us. We kept on our course, dead
toward a promontory which jutted out at a dis-
tance of a few miles. Beyond that promontory
lay the open sea. We would then cruise about and
wait for the Macao steamer.


146
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
Taking turns, we rowed for over two hours.
The lights of Hong-Kong had long faded away;
and so had the dull-booming gongs from Kowloon.
Steadily our progress was becoming more difficult.
For a wind had sprung up which moved heavily,
thickly against us, trailing gray sheets of rain-
laden clouds. It made the light sampan bob to
windward, and we had our work cut out to keep
her nose on a steady course. Once we passed a
black old tub of a steel freighter wheezing up
toward Hong-Kong. But we avoided her.
Finally we heard the shrill whistling which her-
alded the coming of the Portuguese boat. And a
moment later she rolled into sight with the gait of
a drunken sailor; a rotten, slow-pitching mass of
nautical iniquities, with dirty, patched funnels,
unpainted, weather-scarred upper works, and pre-
sumably the foulest bottom between Nagasaki
and Saigon.
But to me she looked like a fair imitation of
paradise.
We hailed her as loudly as we could. The cap-
tain was walking the bridge and, hearing our cry,
put a boat over the side. Five minutes later we
were aboard.
The captain awaited us at the top of the lad-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
147
der. He was a small, thin, gray man, neglected
and unpicturesque; dressed in a peculiar blending
of sea-boots and loose, greased-stained dressing-
robe, which was decidedly contrary to maritime
etiquette, and which would have been considered
disgraceful even by the skipper of the rottenest
old tramp steamer out of Hull.
He was in a decidedly ungracious mood.
"Damn!” he shrieked at us in high-pitched,
broken English as soon as he caught sight of us.
“What you mean by holding up my ship and
spoiling my run? Answer me that, you-you-"
He sputtered for a moment; then he continued
in an even shriller key: “H- and all the true
saints! What you mean by that, eh? You are
deserters from the English! Deserters! I ship you
back. 14"
"Silence!"
Mascasenhas was speaking. I turned, and it
did my heart good to look at him. He had drawn
himself up to his full, slim height, and he was
speaking in soft, purring Portuguese.
“Look here, captain-eh—what name did you
say?”
The captain sputtered again.
"Aroyo. That's my name, though it's none of


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
149
He proceeded to explain our wishes. And his
method reminded me of a Bedawi with whom,
years ago, I had had a small disagreement in Wes-
tern Arabia. That particular Bedawi had caught
me when I was not armed; had admired the cut
and colors of my coat, and had addressed me from
behind a vicious-looking, long-barreled jhezail ri-
fle. His words had been suave, but very much to
the point.
"Strip off that coat, О certain person,” he had
said to me. "Strip it off. For it is wanted by the
daughter of my maternal uncle.”
And I had obeyed. So did the Goanese skipper,
though not quite as promptly as I had done that
day, years ago.
Mascasenhas was at first quite gentle.
"I am the son of Leopold Aloysius Mascasen-
has, the governor of Goa. Remember that. Also
remember that the Aroyos have property in Goa,
and that my father adjusts and collects the taxes.
Is that understood? Good! I therefore ask you
to stop your steamer about three miles before
we reach the port of Macao. You will send us
ashore in a launch, very quietly, without at-
tracting the attention of the authorities ashore."
The captain shrugged his shoulders. He opened
nel


150
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
his dirty, brown fingers like the sticks of a fan in
an apologetic manner, and closed them again im-
mediately to show the futility of the demand.
“I cannot do it, my dear sir; I cannot. It is
against the law, against the port regulations.
There's the quarantine to be considered, and the
customs officials. I will be heavily fined if they
discover what I have done."
Mascasenhas's voice cut in sharply:
“Then don't let them discover. You will do
what you are told, you son of an illegitimate don-
key! Go, go, before I forget my manners.”
The captain trembled in every limb. Drops of
perspiration beaded his forehead. His voice was
very small:
"But I can't, my dear sir, 14"
"And I said that you will and must." Mascas-
enhas's voice dropped to a soft, low key. "For
remember—there is my father, Leopold Aloysius
Mascasenhas. He is the governor of Goa. And
there are Aroyos in Goa—they own land and
houses—they pay taxes, eh?” Suddenly he shout-
ed at the top of his lungs: "Begone, O He! Be-
gone, and do as you are told!”
That "O He!" did the trick. For the captain


162 THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
himself to speak about something of which he
was afraid.
"You remember Hussain Khan? Yes?”
He hesitated and paused. Then he continued
in a steady voice:
"For years I was his servant-his slave. For
years he worked on my mind as a potter works on
soft clay. For years he spoke to me of Asia, the
Great Mother, and of his plans to forge united
Asia into a great weapon of world-wide conquest.
And so he traveled with me through the length
and breadth of it. He showed me many strange
sights. And one was in China, not far from
Macao, on the mainland.
"There he showed me the great ruins of an
ancient, forgotten civilization - underground
caves and temples half buried in the drifting sand.
‘Look, Mascasenhas,' he said to me, 'this is Asia,
the Great Mother and this, all this'-he pointed
at the gigantic ruins—has been done by our
forefathers in the days when the whites, the
Europeans, were still blue-painted savages with
a penchant for human flesh. We studied the
ruins carefully. I know them as I know the
lines of my own hand. I know the way that
leads there. There we shall find a refuge."


CHAPTER XI
That evening we sighted the low, green ridge
of Macao, and beyond it the distant rocks of the
mainland of China piled on top of each other like
titanic walls.
They gave me the impression of a huge ancient
fortress, of lofty dungeons, tremendous, project-
And somehow my prescient soul drew bitter au-
guries for the future.
Our ship stopped within a few miles of the
port, softly rolling to both sea-anchors, while the
captain argued and whined once more.
“Gentlemen, gentlemen,” he pleaded, clutching
his grease-stained dressing-gown with a gesture
of despair, "I shall be fined, heavily fined.”
Mascasenhas cut him short.
"Be quiet, ignoble son of a hog! What will
not a goat eat or a fool say? For the love of the
dear saints, if you're so afraid of your precious
rupees, give us a lifeboat. We'll row her ashore
153


154
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
ourselves, and you can tell the commandante of
the port that the thing was washed overboard in a
gale.”
So it was done.
They put the boat over the side, and we pulled
out toward shore through a glassy sea running
amethyst and agate. We rowed steadily, taking
turns.
Late that night we landed on a little outlying
promontory of limestone rock, which seemed per-
fectly familiar to the half-caste. There were
coast-guards and sentinels of the Portuguese gar-
rison about; for the coast is a favorite rendezvous
for opium smugglers.
But a thick, mother-of-pearl mist came rolling
down from the mainland, cloking the hills and
the shore, and blotting out the jasper tints of the
sea. So we made our way across the promontory
and down into the town of Macao without being
challenged.
Half an hour's steady walk, and we turned into
the main street of the town. And a funny old
street it was, crooked like the market Suks of
Cairo, and framed on both sides by tiny houses
built of limestone and coraline, painted indigo,
cobalt, bister-brown, and a rosy pink more tender


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
155
than a maiden's blush, with huge, hanging win-
dows which reminded me of India.
I must have been a little nervous. For once
I imagined that I could smell the lascivious, in-
censelike odor which my mind had associated with
the blue-eyed Manchu.
It seemed to float through the still, night air,
envelop me, and then to drift gradually away. An-
other time we were crossing a narrow passage-
way which led to a gaudy Chinese pagoda-I
thought that a laugh was splitting the stillness;
a pointed, cackling, jarring laugh, which came
from nowhere, and snapped off in mid-air, and
which was followed immediately by a soft rub-
bing and thumping of age-green temple-gongs.
I turned to my companion with a whispered
question. But he had heard nothing.
"Perhaps the echo of our own voices, master,
of our own feet. For these are old streets, built
when America was but a prattling babe, and be-
low us are the catacombs of the dead. An old
town—a very old town.”
I subsided. But frequently I glanced over my
shoulder. And suddenly I imagined that a
blotched, gray shadow was following us from
house to house; an elusive shadow, without a


156
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
body, which had joined us unbidden. I stopped,
on the pretext of tying my shoe-laces, and at once
the shadow disappeared; it seemed to float up
the side of the nearest house and melt into the
velvet purple of the young night.
I was glad when at last we reached the house
of Mascasenhas' cousin.
It was a plain, substantial building, roofed and
timbered with age-polished saj-wood, which
doubtless had come from India. The doors were
of handsome, carved aloes-wood.
Mascasenhas knocked at the gate. For several
dragging seconds there was no answer. Again I
imagined that a harsh laugh was splitting the
air; again I imagined that an elusive shadow was
detaching itself from the houses across the street,
and I turned round with a sharp exclamation of
nervous rage.
But at the same moment the door opened. A
Eurasian servant stood framed between the posts,
in his right hand an ancient blunderbuss signifi-
cantly poised, in his left hand an oil-lamp.
The next moment the blunderbuss rattled on
the flags. The oil-lamp trembled perilously.
"Master, young master," the servant exclaimed


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
157
with an age-trembling voice. “Welcome in the
name of Our Lady of Guadalupe!”.
He bent down and kissed Mascasenhas' hand
again and again with the utmost fervor.
Mascasenhas kissed the old man on both
cheeks. Then he gave him a few hurried direc-
tions. The servant bowed and ran off, while we
stepped into the entrance-hall.
I looked about me. And I did not like the
look of it. For it was more in Gulf Arab than
in European taste. The flooring was composed
of slabs of fine, various-colored marbles disposed
checkerwise. The walls were of the same ma-
terial, and were engraved with long Koran quo-
tations in the Suls and other modern Arabic char-
acters.
It smacked altogether too much of Asia to feel
exactly safe as a place of refuge. Mascasenhas
read my thoughts, for he turned to me with a
smile.
"Arab, is it not? You see, master, my cousin's
mother came from the Gulf. She was a Bedawi of
the Benu Ali tribe, a pure-bred Hijazi. And he
himself—Manuel, my cousin-he looks more
Arab than Portuguese. But do not be nervous.
He is white for all that even as I am; a good


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
159
plant. It will make you sleep. In an hour I shall
call you."
We drank; and the narcotic qualities of the
asclepias sent us promptly into deep, dreamless
sleep. Our host called us an hour later. I felt
thoroughly rested.
“The boat is ready," he said. "May you find
safety! May all the dear saints protect you!" He
led the way to the door. There he turned. "Have
you weapons? No? Wait!”
He rushed off and returned a moment later
with a fine Webley automatic and a box of cart-
ridges, which he pressed into my hand. The
weapons which he gave to Mascashenas were evi-
dently Arab heirlooms which had come in his
mother's dower, for one was a genuine Gadaymi
from Al-Yaman - a long sword with tapering
blade and wooden handle; while the other was a
double-barreled gun, the sort which the Gulf
Arabs call bandukyah bi rulayn, or "two-mouthed
gun."
We left the house and stepped into the dark
streets, and our host came with us as far as the
anchorage.
I was still nervous, still expectant of something
which my common sense refused to formulate.


160
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
For again I imagined that a gliding, bodyless
shadow was following us from house to house;
again I imagined that I could smell the lascivious
odor of insence; again I imagined that a harsh,
jarring laugh was breaking the stillness of the
night.
But the two Eruasians did not hear or notice.
They were deep in a discussion of family affairs
and family pedigree.
At the anchorage our host bade use farewell.
He shook hands with me and kissed his cousin
with loud exclamations, quickly and apologeti-
cally stifled as I warned him:
"Be quiet, my dear sir; be quiet. The night
has ears in these latitudes."
"Yes,” he whispered, as he helped us into the
boat. "The night has ears. Be careful, my
friends. Use your own brain, Mr. Vandewater,
and the tongue of my cousin-for he has Arab
blood even as I have—and beware of the hands
of the Chinese. For truly spoke Mohammed el-
Damiri, that wisdom has alighted upon three
things—the brain of the Franks, the tongues of
the Arabs, and the hands of the Chinese."
We were off; off toward the mainland; off to-
ward the unknown.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
161
Our oars dipped gently into the narrow channel
which separates Macao from the mainland. Gos-
samer veils of lights and shadows floated about
us, enveloping sea and land. The sun crept slowly
from the horizon, and the first rays struck the
summits of the distant hills with an almost trans-
parent haze that mingled with the jasper tints of
the sky.
We landed and struck rapidly overland, leaving
villages and rice paddies to the left. Mascasenhas
led the way. He seemed perfectly familiar with
every stick and stone.
The country was deserted. For hours we tray-
eled over a flat, thinly dotted with desert vegeta-
tion, and, halting early in the morning, slept till
the late afternoon, taking turns in watching.
Then we were off again.
Late at night we passed a basaltic ridge, and
then, entering a long, depressed saucer, we de-
scended into a steaming valley, through which
we paced for five tedious hours.
We spoke little to each other. Mascasenhas
was intent on keeping on the right path, and I
was obsessed with the notion that we were fol-
lowed. Time and again I stopped, and, looking
over my shoulder, I turned and scanned the road


162
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
to all sides. But there was never a human being;
hardly an animal, except once in a while a kite or
& vulture flapping lazily overhead. The land was
a desert.
I was getting tired; tripping and tumbling and
tossing like a cock-boat in a short sea. But I kept
on. There was my duty blazing ahead of me like
a sacred Grail; not the thought of my own safety,
but the clarion-call of a greater, deeper duty—the
"call of my appointed task, which I must achieve!.
So I clenched my teeth and kept on.
We stopped to eat and rest, and I smoked my
"last cigar with lingering regret. Then we were off
again.
Our course lay now in a southerly direction,
along something which had once been a road, and
which was flanked by low, hog-backed hills of
'red sandstone and bright porphyry.
Once I thought that, a little to the west and
leading in the same direction which we were
taking, I could see deep ruts such as are made
by heavy wagons and huge caterpillar-wheeled
motor-trucks. I said something of the sort to the
half-caste.
But he smiled and forged on without turning
his head.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
163
"Just a shadow, master of mine. Perhaps the
mark of a dried river-bed. There are many such
coming down from the hills with the spring mon-
soons. They die when the sand-storms sweep
from the outer lands. But there can be no wagon-
ruts here. Why, there's been nobody here since
the days when Kublai Khan and his Tartars rode
their horses into the ships to subjugate the Sho-
guns of Japan; except, perhaps, once in a while a
Buddhist abbot or sage searching for the buried
shrines of his faith.”
I did not argue the point. I did not stop to
investigate. The half-caste knew the country,
I said to myself. But the impression refused to
budge.
About an hour afterward we came through a
basalt-field, across the rugged blocks of which we
treaded our way slowly and painfully. My shoes
were not meant for such sort of roughing, and my
feet were bruised and bleeding.
At dusk we stumbled over the dwarf dikes of
rice paddies; signs of habitation.
So we plunged again into the stoneland. It
was a typical Bad Lands; a desert peopled only
with echoes; a place of death for what little there
was to die in itma wilderness.


164
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
Mascasenhas had the right description for it.
"La Siwa Hu," he said, pointing at the naked
rock-ribs. Then he translated his words into Eng-
lish. "Yes, master; nobody lives here but God.”
We made camp on a small hill shadowed by
enormous, gnarled thorn-trees. Mascasenhas
pointed south.
"See, over yonder," he said. "We are nearly
at the place of our destination. By to-morrow
night we shall be there."
I rose and looked over the scene. Before me
stretched a huge, gray flat, with long lines of ba-
salt here and there seaming the surface, and with
wide sheets of tufaceous gypsum which shone like
mirrors in the russet frame of the desert.
A cool wind set in from the south. I opened
my lungs wide to drink in the air. And then I
gasped and shuddered a little. For on the wings
of the evening wind came a strange, acrid, fetid
odor.
It was an odor of neither man nor beast. Nor
was it the odor of plants. It was unlike anything
I had ever smelled, and I have smelled the forty-
seven distinct and unholy smells of Calcutta dur-
ing the hot season.
I could not make it out at all. But somehow


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
165
very vaguely and quite inexplicably it reminded
me of a day, years ago, which I had spent with a
friend of mine, a British army surgeon, on duty
in a cholera-camp in India, beyond Rawalpindi.
I spoke of it to the half-caste. But again he
smiled. He shook his head.
"Nobody lives here except the dead, master. No-
body will ever live here. Nobody will ever restore
it. It is yesterday, this gray land—the dead land
of yesterday. And you know the saying, that he
who is able to restore what was yesterday, will
plaster over the rays of the sun.
"It is but the smell of the sun steaming up de-
cayed plants. Once they grew rice and ginseng
and oil-beans in this valley, before the great river
burst its bed and swept north into the Yellow
Sea. The roots may be left, and now their smell
is in the air-like corpses."
Late the next day we reached the farther ridge.
The smell had become increasingly fetid and hot,
but I accepted the half-caste's explanation. He
knew the land.
On the right of us was a stony buttress, along
the base of which a thin, black stream was swing-
ing. On the left was a precipice; and opposite us
the way seemed barred by piles of hills, crest


166
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
rising above crest into the far, blue distance. Day
still smiled upon the upper peaks; but the lower
and the river-bed were already curtained with
gray shadows.
Mascasenhas led the way with the quick, swing-
ing step of the jungle-born, and I followed him
painfully, cursing my luck and cursing my shoe-
maker. We climbed steadily for about two hours;
then we descended. And suddenly, hidden away
in a curious, baylike depression between steep, red,
dunes, the ruins came into sight.
At first they were absolutely uninhabitable.
There was neither cave nor shelter; just a mass of
bleached fragments of carved timbers and small,
fissured fragments of stucco rilievos, probably
the relics from some ancient Buddhist burial-
place.
Then we came upon a bit of land where I could
still trace the ground-plan, marked by the remains
of walls made of plastered reed-matting. I could
also trace the position once occupied by large
pottery-jars sunk into the mud floor, and that of
similar appurtenances of light, Mongol house-
keeping. But all was half petrified, eroded away
by wind and water.
We walked on.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
167.
Suddenly I stumbled over something. Instinct-
ively I bent down and looked, and instantly gave
an exclamation of surprise.
"Mascasenhas!" I cried. "See here, this thing
is not of yesterday! It's of to-day!”
I handed him the thing I had found. It was
the red clay bowl of a Chinese pipe, recently used.
Mascasenhas examined it, sniffed it, then tossed it
among the basalt rocks with a light laugh.
"Some nomad Mongol shepherd may have
passed through here with his animals. You see,
there are grazing lands to the west of here. No,
no, master, we are safe.”
Of course, the man was right. I was seeing
specters in broad daylight, and the next moment
I laughed at my own silly apprehensions. We
walked steadily on, still in a southerly direction,
and stopped in front of a mawlike opening among
the ruins. Mascasenhas pointed down.
"We have arrived, Mr. Vandewater. Yuan Kee
will never find us here. And my cousin will send :
us provisions from time to time. In a week, or a
month, the Manchu will give up the search. He.
will think that our sampan overturned in the nar-
rows, and that we were drowned. And then
presently,"


168
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
He talked on. But I was not listening. I hesi-
tated at the entrance to the cave, and had all
I could do to keep myself from crying out. For
again the fetid, acrid, odor assailed and choked me,
and this time it came from below my feet, from
the very cave into which the half-caste was lead-
ing me.
At the same moment I imagined once more
that a faint, gray shadow was following me, glid-
ing batlike from boulder to boulder, but, cursing
myself for a fool and a coward, I followed the
half-caste.
The caves were in several rows, piled on top of
each other.
We approached the upper row by a rough stair-
case cut from the living rock. Then, crossing a
deep fissure of the rock by a rickety, time-worn
rope-bridge, we arrived at a series of cave-temples
communicating with each other.
Their walls were decorated with mural paint-
ings in ancient, cracked, and gangrened tempora.
A fretful shaft of light filtered through the fissures
of the rock, and I could see that the paintings were
very old and conventionalized, giving scenes from
the Buddhist heaven, and the familiar figure of
the Lord Gautama enthroned among Bodhisatt-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 169
vas, who were standing on lotus-leaves and pray-
ing.
I was in a peculiar state of mind. My feet
mechanically followed the half-caste. But my
mind was detached from my bodily organs. Some-
how, I felt that I had stepped into a hollow-
not a hollow of the earth, but one of time; a hol-
low of the night which the centuries had over-
looked, and where the powers of the unknown
were holding me and sucking me in deeper and
deeper in the stretch of their gigantic, changeless
hands.
I was a prey to enormous, voiceless excitement.
Yet my excitement was not tainted by the vicious
tang of fear; hardly of nervousness. It was not
located in my blood or my brain or my heart,
but was spread thinly over my entire psychic
being. It seemed to communicate itself to me from
some outside influence, human if you will, but
atrophied, amorphous, slimy; a network of feeling
which connected me with unseen beings.
I came to feel it gradually, as a man in certain
abnormal conditions feels the customary bodily
processes going on in himself without definitely
recognizing or locating them.
We walked on.


170
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
Mascasenhas knew his way perfectly. He swung
sharply to the left, entered another, larger temple-
cave, and then stopped short. He bumped against
me, and I could feel him tremble.
"What is it, Mascasenhas?” My voice sounded
hollow and unreal. He did not answer a word,
but pointed a shaky finger.
I looked. I shivered a little.
Dead ahead, from a crack in the wall, came a
light.
It was not the light of the sun filtering through
from cave to cave. It was a dancing, flickering
uncertain light--a light which spoke of lamps and
torches moving about.
At the same instant my senses registered two
distinct sensations which seemed to connect with
each other. One was again the oppressive, fetid
odor which I had smelled first, when I was within
sight of the ruins; the other was a sound a series
of sounds.
Mascasenhas, about to speak, opened his lips,
but, motioning him to be quiet, I listened.
Presently the sounds separated themselves from
each other. I caught their drift and meaning.
They were made by human mouths and throats;
by human voices.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
171
It was a shifting, twirling babel of many
tougues, echoed from rock to rock. I listened more
intently. I traced the different tongues to their
origin, and I thanked my youthful ambition which
had led me to make a thorough study of Oriental
languages.
The first distinct phrase I heard was spoken in
Behari:
“Mualo ghora ghans khala."
Then came spitting Armenian, soft, limpid Tur-
kish, Georgian, and Tcherkessian, halting, twangy
Chinese, sonorous Manchu, explosive phrases of
virile Arabic, softgliding Persian words, harsh,
Pukhtu, oily Japanese, and the sharp, guttural ex-
clamations of the bewildering, uncounted tribes
which roam the steppes of Central Asia from
Baikal to the Caspian.
The tongues strayed together, lost and bizarre,
like fragments from some distant or forgotten
world.
I motioned the halfcaste to follow me, and led
the way toward the fissure in the rock-wall whence
the light and the sounds were drifting.
I looked.
Below me, in a yet deeper and bigger cave, was
the strangest scene I had ever beheld.


172
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
It was a symphony of all the races and tribes
and faiths of Asia. Hundreds and hundreds of
men were rushing and jostling about, some direct-
ing, others loading boxes and bundles on wheel-
barrows, others again trundling them off through
a large opening cut into the opposite wall of the
cave; but all were working feverishly and hur-
riedly, as if their very life dependel on the task
which they were doing.
It was a gorgeous panorama of the Yellow
Continent. There were wild, barbaric Afghans,
white-skinned, hook-nosed, and bearded, with
flashing eyes, dressed in flowing, black-silk yalats.
There were broad, squat Turcomans, with cart-
ridge-belts of silver and ivory gleaming across
bulging chests, in the glare of the torches which
were held by rings in the wall. There were flat-
faced Kalmucks and Tchuktches, crowned with
bashliks of white and yellow fur; rascally Circas-
sians and Sarts, with evil-looking yataghans
stuck in rich shawl-belts, and long rifles slung
across supple shoulders; pale, furtive-eyed Per-
sians walking softly in leather slippers; hairy
Turks stepping like conquerors; countless Chinese
and Tartars from all the Middle Kingdom; small,
grinning Japanese; wiry Arabs from Yaman and


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
173
from Hijaz; and giant Uzbegs walking with a
swinging swagger and roaring barbaric songs as
they worked.
Mascasenhas gave a short cry; but I clapped
my hand roughly over his mouth, and looked more
intently.
I could not make out what they were doing.
They were just lifting and sorting and trundling
away boxes and bundles which seemed very
heavy; and they handled them with speed, but
with the utmost care, scrupulously avoiding the
vicinity of the torches.
And as they worked, that same heavy odor,
fetid and acrid and sickening, rose from the sway-
ing masses. Yet I knew they were all men of clean
races. I saw that there were many gentlemen,
many high-castes among them, who rigorously ob-
serve the three daily ablutions prescribed by their
faiths.
I looked more intently. And then quite sud-
denly I knew what the odor was. For I saw on
every face down there in that babel at my feet
blotches of scaly, silvery white. Some were but
small patches, others were spreading over half
the features, others again were blending into green


174
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
and purple, and covering necks and arms and bare
feet!
I gave a quickly stifled exclamation of horror
and disgust.
"Lepers, lepers, lepers." I whispered into the
ear of the half-caste. Then I clutched his arm
and ran rapidly away, back in the direction whence
we had come.
We ran at top speed, hardly noticing where we
were going.
Finally my breath gave out. I sat down in a
heap, and the Eurasian followed suit.
I closed my eyes for a moment; then I opened
them wide and looked about me. We were in
another cave, more roomy than all the others.
I turned to the half-caste.
"We looked for a safe place of refuge, for an
asylum, and we found"
“What, master?”
“Yes—what?" I repeated, and paused. Then
I continued:
"Let's figure this out. Of course these lepers have
been brought here from all over Asia. For they
are of a dozen races, a dozen castes. You saw
them. But tell me, what were they doing? What
is in the boxes and bundles? Why the speed and


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
175
hürry? And why lepers to do the work?”
Mascasenhas looked straight at me.
“Master; you ask what they were doing. I ask
--what are they guarding ?”
"Guarding?”
“Yes. For can there be a safer guard in all
the world than leprosy? It is the one thing you
dread and fear, you men of America and Europe.
But they, the men of Asia, they do not fear it.
You know that."
"I know."
We were silent. I thought deeply; and as I
thought I looked about me.
The walls of the cave in which we were, were
painted with a typical scene of Buddhist iconog-
raphy. On the left was Lord Gautama standing,
dressed in a simple robe of that dark, red-brown
color which Indian tradition since ancient times
prescribes for ascetics and saintly preachers of all
sects.
The halo and the characteristic topknot made
it certain to me that the teacher was meant for
Buddha. But then I noticed that the halo was
of silver, and I considered that the ancient reli-
gious painters did not use silver; they always
used gold. The painting was modern.


176
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
But the cave was old, very old. And I won-
dered. I looked more closely.
I saw that below the teacher the abbot-artist
who had executed the work had painted six Ar-
hats, or Buddhist saints, ranged in two rows,
and wearing robes in a variety of bright colors.
One, at the left end of the upper row, carried a
white fan, probably meant for a Chauri or yaktail,
the traditional emblem of sovereign power.
I scrutinized the figures of the Arhats intently.
But they were all conventionally correct.
So I walked up to the wall and studied once
more the figure of the Buddha himself. And then
I noticed something strange. For while the right
hand of the teacher was raised in the correct,
traditional pose, known as that of Abhaya or
Protection, the left, which should have been hang-
ing flat against the side, was lifted in a pointing
attitude.
Instinctively my eyes followed the direction in
which the hand was pointing.
I looked. There was a small opening in the
wall. I motioned to Mascasenhas to follow me,
and stepped through the opening.
I found myself in a still larger and higher cave.
But there were no paintings covering the walls.
ve


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
177
Instead there were tiers and tiers of boxes, thous-
ands and thousands of them. I walked up and
examined them. And I jumped back with a cry
of fear and surprise.
The boxes were plainly labeled in Chinese and
English. They contained dynamite and powder
and cordite and picric acid. They contained every
devilish explosive and material for the manufac-
ture of poison-gas and bombs which Europe and
America has ever thought of or has ever invented.
They contained enough death-giving qualities
to blow all the armies of the white lands into final
oblivion.
Suddenly I understood the whole infernal, dam-
nable riddle.
Here was the chief armory, the chief depot of
the Yellow Man. And he guarded it carefully.
He had buried it in a deserted ruin, and then he
had brought lepers from all over Asia to guard the
death-dealing treasure.
I understood the meaning of the wagon and
motor-truck ruts I had seen two days ago when
we were crossing the basalt lands. I understood
the meaning of the little clay pipe-bowl I had
found at the entrance to the caves. I understood
the feverish speed with which the lepers back


178
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
yonder were working. I understood what was con-
tained in the boxes and bundles which they were
lifting and trundling in their wheelbarrows.
I turned to Mascasenhas.
“Come, Mascasenhas. We must go away-
quick, quick-back to the coast-to Macao--to
Hong-Kong."
I stopped short. For suddenly, from nowhere in
particular, came again that lascivious insence-odor
which I had associated in my mind with Yuan
Kee, the blue-eyed Manchu. At the same time I
caught the sound of awful, low laughter; a laugh-
ter that brought with it a wave of sighing-of
deep, tired, old-world sighing.
The next moment Yuan Kee himself came
round the corner of the cave. He moved slowly
forward, his long, thin hands, which contrasted so
strangely with his huge, fat body, outstretched
in greeting; and on his bland, moonlike visage
was a shining smile of ironic welcome.
"Ah," he purred gently ir: his fautless English.
"Mr. Vandewater and Mr. Mascasenhas. So you
have come to visit us in our worthless home?
Welcome, my friends. It is yours-everything,
everything!” He pointed at the tiers of explosives
with a generous, circular gesture. "You must pay


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
179
us a long visit. Stay-ah, as long as you please.
No, stay forever. Stay until you die!"
I interrupted him with a cry of rage, and turned
to the half-caste.
"Let's try to get away from here. Let's make
a fight for it, anyway. Come on, old friend!”
The Chinaman laughed.
"My white friend, do not exert yourself. Do
not fight a torrent with the words of your tongue.
Tell me, will a dead horse eat grass? If the
naked dance can they tear their clothes? Will
the cock who has gone from home for four days
return as a peacock? Stay, my friends. You will
be well guarded. You will have company of
many races—the races of that great Asia which
you love so, and which you try to benefit. And if
they have the little scaly spots which you call lep-
rosy-remember the precepts of your Christian
faith—be kind to the sick and lowly!”
With another courtly wave of his hand, he
turned to go.
But I stopped him with a shout.
"I'm afraid, Yuan Kee, that we cannot accept
your charming hospitality. I think we will return
whence we came, and you yourself will show us the
way. We shall return to our own people,"


180
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
The Chinaman laughed.
“A little of your famed American bluff.”
I laughed in my turn.
"No, my friend. This isn't bluff. I'm holding
& pat hand. Four aces and" I pulled the big
Webley from my pocket and twirled the loaded
chambers significantly—“a joker.”
Yuan Kee paled. But at once he regained his
composure.
"Shoot! It will not save your life, nor the
lives of those for whom these little explosives are
meant."
He folded his arms across his huge chest and
smiled.
I spoke slowly, incisively.'
"I shall not shoot you, Yuan Kee," I swung
my weapon until I had a bead on a box containing
about five hundred pounds of picric acid. "I shall
fire into the arsenal!”.
I waited for the Manchu's answer. All eternity
seemed to roll by me in a whirling chaos.
Then the Chinaman bowed deeply..
“Yes, my friend,” he purred. “You have in-
deed an unbeatable hand-this time.”
He turned and motioned to me.
"Follow me.”


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
181
He led us up a rickety flight of stairs which
connected direct with the valley outside. I walked
backward all the way, covering the store of explo-
sives with my revolver, and stopped only when I
had arrived on level ground. Then I gave my
revolver to Mascasenhas.
“Keep that Chinaman covered for a few min-
utes."
Then I busied myself feverishly. Heaping up
a huge mass of dry wood and fragments of tim-
bers, I piled the mass against the entrance of
the cave and put a match to it.
It flared up in the still air with a whistling
roar.
"Hurry up, Yuan Kee, and call your guardians.
In fifteen minutes the flames will be in the cham-
ber of the explosives. Hurry!"
Yuan Kee rushed away as fast as his fat legs
would let him, while I took Mascasenhas by the
hand and ran with him up the hill, into God's
clean air.
On our way back from the temple ruins to the
coast we met the old half-caste servant of Manuel
Mercado, who had come after us with the pro-
visions for which we had arranged in Macao.
We told him of our grim plight, and he thought


182
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
rapidly. Then, with a shout of triumph, he asked
us to follow him.
Late that night we arived at a little wooden
Catholic church, not far from the Macao anchor-
age, but on the mainland, and under Chinese ju-
risdiction. He entered the priest's house, and
returned to us after a short colloquy.
“Come,” he said, ushering us into the house,
where we were cordially received by the aged,
white-haired Portuguese priest. "You will stay
with Father Jeronimo for a few days. You will
be safe here. The Chinese do not persecute the
holy men of other religions unless they try to
proselytize. And this good priest does not. He is
too old. He is past the years when one tries to
catch the air in a net and to make noises with
one's ears. He is much respected by the Chinese.
You will be safe in his house. See! It is quite
dark. Nobody has heard you come. Nobody has
seen you come.”
“And nobody will see us go," I interrupted with
a light-hearted laugh; and then I gave him a com-
mission to execute for me as soon as he reached
Macao.
"Make haste," I added, "and bring back every-
thing exactly as ordered. Senor Manuel Mercado


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
18
will know where to obtain the things. Make basto
and return."
"Yes, my master."
Two days later he came back, again in the dead
of night, and I proceeded at once to use the vari-
ous articles which, according to my orders, he had
brought back with him.
First of all I covered my face, my arms, hands,
and neck, and then, on second thoughts, my entire
body with a heavy walnut-dye.
I continued the beautifying process by blacken-
ing my hair and my beard with the well-known
mixture used by the courtezans of Cairo-sul-
phate of iron, ammoniure of iron, henna, and gall-
nuts, infused in distilled water. I surmounted my
now blackened scalp locks by a white cotton skull-
cap, and tied over it the kufyiah, a large square
silk kerchief of dull-red with a bright orange bor-
der, from which depended tassels and twists of
silk that reached my waist.
I fitted the kufyiah close to the back of my
head with the help of the aakal, or twisted rope
of hair, and projected it over my forehead so that
it shaded my eyes and gave to my countenance
that fierce and contemptuous expression on which
true Arabs pride themselves. I dressed my body


184
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
in a simple cotton shirt, tight-sleeved, open in
front, which covered me from head to foot, and
which was confined at the waist with a handsome
silk scarf supporting my silver-hilted, crooked
Jambyiah dagger. Over it all I threw the aba,
the long-skirted, sleeveless cloak of camels' hair,
and inserted my feet into yellow leather sandals.
Thus, after a long and careful transformation,
I changed into the Shaykh Moustaffa Ahmet, a
traveling Arab merchant, and cousin, on his
mother's side, to the Goanese Manuel Mercado.
A safe disguise, as there are many Muskat and
Sokotra Arabs at the Chinese coast, trading into
the interior. Mascasenhas had passed through a
similar metamorphosis, and was now my cousin,
philosopher and friend, the Egyptian, Mehmet
Nur.
At, once I felt myself thoroughly in the rôle I
was going to play for a time. I embraced and
kissed Mascasenhas with that exaggerated show
of affection which is so typically Arab, and with
loud shouts and thumpings on the back.
At first the half-caste was surprised. He had
always known me as a direct, matter-of-fact, and
slightly humorous American. Then he entered
into the spirit of the thing with enthusiasm..


186
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
cousin, Manuel Mercado, the Goanese merchant
whose mother had been an Hijazi Arab, and who
had lived a lifetime in Macao. He had helped
us at the time of our flight from Hong-Kong, and
he stood ready to help us again.
There were finally the American and British
governments at my back.
At least they should have been, for I was work-
ing for them.
They had given me carte blanche. They had
commissioned me to find and to kill the One
Man, the unknown man, who was residing some-
where in the heart of Outer Mongolia, and who
was the central and directing energy in that seeth-
ing caldron of Oriental intrigue.
But, as is their wont, the gentlemen of the
Foreign Office, snug and comfortable in their red-
plushed, wainscoted, cigar-flavored official atmos-
phere, drove me instead of supporting and assist-
ing me.
They were so infernally fond of compromise,
that fetish of Anglo-Saxon mediocrity, that they
refused to compromise a single hair on their sacred
official pelts. They were sacred of their own
shadows. They were forever telling me what I
should do; but their constructive adivce was of the


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
187
negative variety. It wasn't there. And when I
asked a categorical "How?" to their categorical
"Do!” they were as silent as clams on a rainy
day,
Yet, so far, my contest with Yuan Kee, and
with the mysterious forces which he represented,
had been a draw. At least, I had caused him to
fail in his repeated little homicidal advances
toward myself and Mascasenhas.
We lived and spoke and acted strictly in charac-
ter. Nobody suspected us. We were Arab mer-
chants, come to Macao to buy ginger and silk and
ginseng, and perhaps a little opium. And so it was
right and proper that to-day we should wend our
way toward the feast on the outskirts of the Chin-
ese settlement of Macao. For Arabs are of a race
of sightseers. They are devoured by curiosity.
They are the Yankees of Asia.


CHAPTER XII
to field Pring air
town, oh!a larea direction
We walked through the golden spring air of
Macao, which cried us out to field and garden.
We followed the direction of the sounds which
came from a large open lot on the outskirts of the
town, which had been prepared for the feast.
I felt like one of those specimens of homo sa-
piens whom, as a globe-trotting and sight-satiated
snob, I have always despised. Yes, I behaved ex-
actly like a tourist, gaping and joking and laugh-
ing, running to see and hear something which he
considers very outlandish and therefore very ridic-
ulous.
I laughed gleefully. And Mascasenhas was
swept away by my merriment.
“Yes, master, the Turks say that the consolation
of the poor is death. But here, among these yel-
low men of China, it seems that the consolation of
the poor is noise. And lots of it!"
“Yes."
We quickened our steps in the direction of the
188


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
189
sounds, and followed long strings of pussy-footed
Chinamen who were walking in Indian file, as is
their wont, toward the outskirts of the town, chat-
tering and shrilling and cackling.
But the next minute my sober mood returned.
My merriment sagged in the middle, and then
broke completely. The sounds became nearer;
and there was a strange tang to them.
It was like the sing-song cry the wind whistles
through a chimney; like the eery song of a spring
storm over a sweep of grassy hills; like the swish-
ing of the flood through the crannies of the Corn-
ish coast, tuneless and yet searching.
There was some accent in it of a secret, dread
sublimity, deeper than human ear could hear, than
human soul could perceive, than human brain
could classify and register, than human courage
could dismiss. The terror of a great freeing force
was behind it, a freedom awfully remote from
personal existence and individual ambition.
For it was China. The sounds came from a
gathering of Chinamen, making merry after the
manner of their race. But this was a new China,
a China in dim-groping travail, clenching and
stretching its ugly yellow claw toward a high goal
which meant destruction to the West,


190
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
And even the far-drifting sounds of their feast-
ing merriment suggested to me a kind of primitive
utterance which was before articulate speech was
developed, which was when the emotions-love
and friendship and hatred—were still too vague
and too mighty to be caught and expressed by
petty words and pettier phrases. The sounds ex-
pressed something enormous and uncomplex; a
dread thing which was a part of the earth, and yet
which was the throbbing whole of it.
Thus the message of my ears. But perhaps my
heart was playing "follow the leader" with them.
For I felt that the gathering, beneath the merri-
ment and jollity, was alive with a seethe of invisi-
ble forces, charging and twisting and shaping.
But I also knew that I must carry my head
above water. I knew that if I yielded for a mo-
ment to my nervousness I would be caught up and
away in a maelstrom of my own making, swept
from my moorings, and carried through high spac-
es into the feared and unknown.
And I could not afford that. For all my little,
negligible personal sensations and emotions had
to be tucked away and absorbed into the gigantic
task which I was serving. A high and proud task
if you will; since it permitted me to surprise his-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
191
tory in the making, to assist at the very clouting
of it. But not exactly an easy task.
Steadily the sounds were growing in volume and
nearness. Steadily the drifting, swaying crowds
increased. They passed us by with a broad, good-
humored jest or two.
"Ho, paper-tiger,” shrilled a little infant Yellow
Peril, in derision of my fierce Arab mien, and us-
ing the Chinese simile for a harmless blusterer.
A smiling, moon-faced coolie poked me in the
ribs, and compared me with a hunchback making
a bow, meaning in his refined Mongol way that
I was "rather overdoing things a bit,” as our Brit-
ish cousins have it.
A venerable old dame, who should have known
better, pointed at my gorgeous, silver-hilted dag-
ger, an remarked, a propos of nothing, that in the
estimation of some people the strings of their cot-
ton drawers were equivalent to a mandarin's glass-
button and peacock feather.
But the jesting was meant in a friendly spirit.
After all, the half-caste and I were Asians to them.
We were strangers, but not foreigners. For hun-
dreds and hundreds of years, long before the days
of the Dutch East Indies Company, long before
Marco Polo, long before Albuquerque sailed his


192
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
proud, high-prowed frigates out of Lisbon, Arab
merchants have traded with the Chinese littoral.
The burnoose and the kufyiah have become
more or less familiar to generations of Chinamen;
and now, since the Russian-Japanese war, but
chiefly since railroads, telegraph-lines, newspa-
pers, and improved postal facilities have set the
immensity of Asian distance at naught, the men
and women of China have begun to understand
vaguely the steely racial and geographical links
which bind all Asia into a whole.
No. We were not foreigners, Mascasenhas and
I. We were not "yellow-haired barbarians.” That
walnut-dye on my face was a pretty good one.
I was bewildered by the variety of sounds. Ev-
ery one talked; and talking in Asia is always done
in extremes, either in a cavernous whisper or in a
high-pitched, ear-splitting scream.
And then there was the street cries.
“In thy protection, O my Head, O my Eyes!”
shouted a blue-bloused peasant from the north to
a Chinese soldier who was flogging him down the
length of the street without any apparent reason.
"O Calamity, o Shame, O Dragon-Tooth, O
accursed and especially illegitimate Duck-Egg!"
shrieked a woman, as she yanked her tiny, pert-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
193
eyed girl-child from beneath the crimson-paper
partition of a sugar-candy booth which had opened
up for business. The next moment she fondled
and kissed her, "O Peace of my Soul,” she cooed.
"O Chief Pride of thy Father's Housethough a
girl!”
A high-caste mandarin, fat and leering and sta-
tuesque, moved through the crowd in state, pre-
ceded by half a dozen stalwart Tartar henchmen,
who were shouting insulting and defying words at
everybody, and belaboring with a beautiful, demo-
cratic impartiality the backs and thighs of mer-
chants and peasants alike.
"O, thy right!” they yelled as they brought
down their long, brass-tipped staves "O, thy left!
0, thy face! O, thy heel!”—suiting the swing of
their sticks to the part of Mongol anatomy which
they were striking. “O, thy back, thy back, thy
back! Give way, ignoble and unmentionable
ones!”
Then there were the vendors of food of all sorts
and of sugared drinks, clanging their metal cups
and plates together, and yelling out the nature
and quality and price of their respective wares.
I was getting more used to the sounds. All my
neryousness had disappeared. I was frankly


194: THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
amused, and beginning to enjoy myself thorough-
ly.
Together with the yellow press we pushed and
shoved and laughed our way toward the grassy
plot where the feast was in progress.
And then suddenly I drew back a step. Per-
spiration beaded my forehead. I swallowed nois-
ily, moistening my parched lips. Instinctively my
hand clutched the silver hilt of my Jambyiah dag-
ger.
For immediately in front of me I saw Yuan
Kee, the blue-eyed Manchu!
as c
His eyes were covered and shaded, as usual, by
huge, horn-rimmed spectacles. He was dressed
with his customary taste and nicety in gorgeously
embroidered, plum-colored silk robes. He was
surrounded by three or four elderly Manchus, evi-
dently of the same high social status, and was con-
versing with them volubly.
The same moment he saw me.
My heart sank. My soul was appalled. Yet I
was not afraid. My capacity for fear had been
overstrained. But my nerves felt stifled. That's ·
it. They were stifled.
Mascasenhas gave a low groan that quickly


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
195
brought me to my senses. I thought very rapidly
and very clearly.
Remembering that for weeks my disguise had
been a safe one, that all Macao had accepted me
as Shaykh Moustaffa Ahmet, the Arab cousin of
Manuel Mercado, I took my hand away from the
dagger slowly, leisurely, as if I had been toying
playfully with the hilt.
I lifted my hand to forehead and mouth in
Arab salute.
Yuan Kee bowed deeply, and a bland smile
overspread his features.
"It is a pleasure,” he said in Chinese, and in
that self-humbling manner which is considered
the acme of politeness in Pekin. "It is a pleasure
to see such distinguished and wealthy Arab traders
in our lowly midst on the days of our very poor
and miserable feasts. Partake freely of our
wretched hospitality! Grace our dirty and con-
temptible abodes with the august glamor of your
presence!”
He bowed again. Then he turned to his friends.
It was evident that he had not recognized me..
I felt thoroughly sure of that.
But I was nervous. The suddenness of the
meeting had broken something in my brain like a


196
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
globe of colored glass, and now the color-shooting
fragments seemed to taint and lascerate my vi-
sion.
I was safe, safe! And yet a light had flashed
down the subterranean passages of my inner con-
sciousness, and made visible to me for one passing
second something which I was too slow to grasp
and understand. A whisper had come to me from
beyond the knowable. It was dim, unintelligible,
quite inaudible. But somehow, it continued to
live in my mind, in spite of rational convictions of
a contrary nature.
Slowly I returned to my normal state, jerking
myself together with an effort, and turned to Mas-
casenhas who had gone gray under his coating of
walnut-dye.
"All right, my boy," I said to him in Arabic.
“There is nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all.
Our Manchu friend has not recognized us. If he
had, he would have spoken."
"Yes," the half-caste interrupted, "he would
have spoken. He would have spoken one little
word to these teeming yellow thousands-and
then-and then-" He gave a little groan and
clenched his fists in a gesture full of grim mean-
ing “Then there would have been seither you


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
197
nor I. There would only have been a crushed
semblance of two men oozing out their blood on
the dusty ground. Master, I shudder at the fate
which we have escaped."
"Well," I replied with a drawl, glad that the
other's fear had given me back all my careless
courage, "we did escape it. That's the main point,
isn't it?”
"Yes"-the Eurasian's voice dropped to its nor-
mal key"we did escape it-praised be the dear
Lady of Guadalupe!”
So we walked on, together with the press of
laughing, jostling Chinamen; and the next mo-
ment we had reached ous destination. The feast
was in full swing.
It was one of those feasts which Chinamen call
the Feast of Universal Rescue, and which they
give from time to time to hungry and destitute
ancestral spirits who have no near male relatives
surviving to make offering of food on their graves.
For the entertainment of the sainted vagabond
ghosts the usual Spirits' House had been built-a
rough structure about forty feet long and fifteen
feet broad.
We shoved our way to the front and looked.
It was the regulation plastered and timbered al-


198
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
fair, ornamented with a profusion of red paper
and tinsel, and divided into five apartments.
There was the room for the spirits of ladies, the
one for those of gentlemen, a bathroom for each
of the two sexes so that the weary, travel-stained
ghosts could rest and clean up after their journey,
and finally there was the middle-room, which the
thoughtful Chinese reserve for the king of the
spirits, and name after him.
In this room a ghost-king is supposed to be
present, whose duty it is to prevent the plain and
everyday spirits from quarreling over the good
things provided. And, of course, Chinamen being
Chinamen, and their sense of humor far outweigh-
ing their sense of pious and religious proprieties,
they had fastened over the curved entrance of the
building a huge red placard, covered with gold and
purple ideographs which invited the wandering
spirits to partake freely of all the food that had
been spread out, but admonishing them at the
same time to behave with decorum and not to
fight.
All my nervousness had disappeared. My Yan-
kee blood was up and screaming in curiosity. I
wanted to know. So I looked and observed, en-
joying myself thoroughly.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
199
I noticed that the house had been erected with
a proper regard for the science of Feng-shui, the
wind and water superstition which is the bane of
the European contractor in the Middle Kingdom,
and that everything had been provided with typ-
ically Chinese generosity and efficiency; but also
with their usual forethought.
For there were not only hundreds and thousands
of slices of fowl and fish and pork for the ordinary
ancestral ghosts; but, being a thoughtful race,
they had prepared even a species of salted paste
for those spirits whose bodies had left this world
by the process of having their heads cut off. Since
they have no teeth and no mouth to eat with,
they are supposed to be able to get this porridge
down their headless throats.
We pressed forward to look more closely.
Though the structure was rough, run up over-
night, the color scheme was worthy of Leon Bakst
himself. There were pinks and violets and blues
and tawny oranges which our painters have never
dreamed of. The artistry was supreme-being
Chinese. But Chinese, too, was the calm, bland
deceit which was being practised on the poor,
hungry ancestral spirits.
For the Chinamen, supremely indifferent to


200
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
"little bittie lie pidgin" in order to be polite, and
having evidently a low opinion of the intellectual
capacity of evil spirits, presently removed all the
fish and flesh and fowl with the exception of a thin
layer of food. This they heaped up artfully in
such a way over a stout framework of bamboo
that it gave the appearance of a solid mass.
Then, with laughter and shouts and horseplay
worthy of Coney Island, the living Chinamen be-
gan to help themselves to the things which had
been meant for the ancestral spirits.
We joined in the festivities.
I was still a little nervous, but I have never let
my nerves interfere with what is due to my inner
man, and so, true to the manners and characteris-
tics of the Arab Shaykh whom I was impersonat-
ing, I ejaculated a sonorous "Bismillah” or two,
and dipped my hands in the savory messes. Mas-
casenhas followed suit. There was enough real
Arab blood in him to prevent him from being out-
done by anybody in showy bravado. So he shout-
ed "Bismillah” even louder than I, and ate twice
as much.
Several times I saw Yuan Kee in the passing,
swaying crowd. Each time he greeted me courte-
ca


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
201
ously, and I replied with a ceremonious Arab sa-
lute.
We finished our meal and strolled about. Pass-
ing behind a grove of sycamore-trees I came again
upon the Manchu. But he had his back to me,
and did not see me. I stopped, and motioned
Mascasenhas to do likewise.
I looked and listened.
Yuan Kee was conversing with a magnificent
specimen of Tartar manhood, a man of over six
feet in height, broad in proportion, as straight as
a lance at rest, and with the arms and neck of a
Greek god. He was dressed with a certain degree
of Pekinese foppery. But yet he was not a town-
bred man. For he had a careless, free fling of the
shoulders that rejected the cramped streets and
the man-built houses.
The Manchu was speaking to him in a low, eag-
er voice. I did not hear the complete sentences.
Just a word or a combination of words here and
there. But the little which I heard palsied my
heart. A grim hand seemed to clutch my throat
and squeeze it. For a moment I stood upon the
borderland of madness, the frontier of dim, gib-
bering, mowing things. For this is what I heard:
"_both of them but not together-& charm-


202
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
ing little sacrifice to Doorgha--supreme ordeal of
torture-use one with the other—".
Here his voice was drowned in a wave of sounds
which came from the Spirits' House, where Chin-
ese musicians were beginning to tune their instru-
ments. But a moment later they were silent
again, and the Manchu's voice came more dis-
tinctly than before.
"_we must pander to them. We must pander
to their silly Hindu superstitions. It is indifferent
what you and I think of_"
Here again the instruments of the musicians
broke in, with a wailing, quivering note. Then I
heard the next words:
"I tell you, Sen Yat, I have always said that a
hair's breadth at the bow is a mile beside the butt.
I have lived up to it, have I not? Look at my work
in Outer Mongolia.”
The Tartar answered, speaking very low. I
could not catch a single word, though I strained
my ears to the utmost. But some unguessed in-
stinct of fear and divination swept the quickened
fringes of my subconscious personality.
Doorgha! The sacrifices to Doorgha and the
pandering to the Hindus! And then this talk
about the butt and the bow, about the Manchu


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
203
having lived up to it-the allusion to his work in
Outer Mongolia!
What did it all mean? Who was this blue-eyed
Manchu? What was the connection between
Doorgha and this present intrigue-between Yuan
Kee and the One Man I wished to find and kill?
I did not endeavor any marvelous deductions
after the manner of the writers of detective fiction.
I was never very good of torturing my logic into
straight channels. I have always depended more
on intuition. And my intuition was in travail. I
could sense its workings. One second more-and
I would see, and would understand.
"Come," I whispered to Mascasenhas. "Let us
get away from here at once.”
· At the same moment the Manchu turned around
and saw us. Not a muscle of his face quivered.
Again I was perfectly sure that he did not rec-
ognize us, and again my fears left me.
Whatever his talk about Doorgha and sacrifices,
it had nothing to do with the two Arabs whom he
was greeting. It had nothing to do with Mas-
casenhas and me. Perhaps I had even misunder-
stood his words. The modulations of the Chinese
language are so delicately attuned that it is easy
to make a mistake in listening.


204
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
The Manchu bowed deeply. He spread out his
hands so that the sunlight danced and glittered
on his marvelously long, gold-encased finger-nails.
He came toward us with a silken swish of his
heavy, embroidered robes.
Then he smiled at me. It was doubtless meant
to be a bland, kindly smile. But perhaps he was
overdoing it. For I had the passing sensation
that his smile contained the hereditary unctuous-
ness of a Hebrew usurer about to put the screw
on a Gentile creditor.
"Will you not accompany me and my friend
Sen Yat?” he asked, pointing to the gigantic Tar-
tar, who came forward and acknowledged the in-
troduction with a surly bow. “Will you not enter
the wretched Spirit House which has been erected
for our so silly festivities, together with your obe-
dient slaves. Come! Enter! Eat! I know that
the house is lowly, dirty, in execrable tastema
hovel not worthy of yourself and of your friend.
But do come! For you must remember, great
Shaykh, that the diamond fallen into the dunghill
is not the less precious, and that the dust raised
to the high heavens is not the less vile." He
smiled again and bunched all his Pekinese polite-
ness into one final, magnificent effort: “Come!


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
205
You are the diamond-and we-we are the dung-
hill.”
Calmly he turned and preceded us toward the
house, evidently quite sure that we would follow
him. For a moment I considered the advisability
of making a dash for liberty. But then I noticed
that the Tartar had unostentatiously dropped to
our rear, and that several of his countrymen, all
with the villainous features and the long, swing-
ing arms of professional hatchetmen, had joined
him.
I whispered to Mascasenhas:
“We're in for it. Might as well go without a
struggle. If he has recognized us, and if we re-
fuse to come along, those ruffians in back will cut
us down at once. And if he has not recognized us,
he will not harm us inside. For these people
know the Arabs and like them. And if they don't
suspect us, we'd be fools to refuse. Our refusal
would be the very thing to make them suspect
that something's wrong with us.”
Mascasenhas smiled calmly, bravely. My heart
went out to him. For I knew that he was con-
quering a horrible fear. I knew the curse of the
half-caste in moments of great stress, when a ca-
tastrophe is about to overpower him.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
207
sa.
which supported a dragon, enamel and gold of the
most exquisite workmanship of the Han period.
In the corners of the room were huge vases of the
same period, in the hues of the rainbow, but mel-
low, and blended to a degree of perfection com-
pared to which the finest products of Meissen and
Sèvres and Doulton seemed like crude ornaments
of the Stone Age. Strewn about the room was a
profusion of flowers. There were orange-flaming
lilies, deep-red damask roses, and masses of feath-
ery parrot-tulips of the most exotic shades, some
green, some purple, some white-spotted and
stained with crimson and violet, others so dark
that they seemed black.
At the farther end was a tall screen of carved
sandal-wood, with applique-work in nacre, silver,
enamel, and semiprecious stones.
Again I touched my forehead and mouth with
the tips of my fingers, after the manner of al-Hi-
jaz. I addressed the Manchu.
"Have I your permission to examine the
screen? It is a thing of beauty, such as we men
of the desert but seldom behold in our own rude
land.”
Something like a shadow seemed to pass over
the sneering, yellow face in front of me. But the.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
209
“Beautiful! Beautiful!" I exclaimed again and
again. “Allah Kureem! This is a thing of beau-
ty, indeed.”
Yuan Kee rose. He came up to me and put his
hand on my shoulder with a friendly gesture.
"It is a pleasing and fine thing,” he said smooth-
ly, "to see a man of Asia admire and like the pro-
ducts of Asia. Once I was in America. There
they had a slogan. They said, 'America for the
Americans.' You know? You have been there?
No? Ah, my friend, a great and wonderful race.
And they have taught me that little steely slogan
of theirs. Only I change it—the least little bit,
eh? I say, 'Asia for the Asians.' And see what
we can do." He tapped the screen gently with his
fan. "It is not badly done for a barbaric race.
You look surprised? But no, my friend, for we are
barbarians, undesirable barbarians. I was told
that we were in that great land of America which
you do not know."
He paused and offered me a cigarette. I lit it,
and observing my hand which held the match, saw
that it was steady.
"Come, Shaykh Moustaffa Ahmet," the Man-
chu continued; "you like the things of China. I
see that you do. You are also an artist and a


210 THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
we
craftsman. I shall show you more of them. Come
with me.”
He passed his arm through mine and led me
toward the entrance door. My feet seemed weight-
ed with lead. I made no reply. I glanced at Mas-
casenhas. He seemed turned into stone. His eyes
were stark, glassy, like those of an opium-smoker.
Then a fleeting expression came into his purple-
black eyes; it was only half perceptible, but it told
me as plainly as a spoken word that I must go,
that it could not be helped.
Yuan Kee saw the looks which passed between
me and the half-caste. He smiled his ghastly,
bland smile.
"Your friend? Ah, I forgot,” he purred. "But
it is evident that he does not take the interest in
the art of China that you do. It is, perhaps, be-
cause he is younger. We will not bore him with
our little carved and painted things. My friends
will entertain him until we return."
He looked at me. And I looked away. I found
myself unable to meet the glittering eyes, magni-
fied by his huge, horn-rimmed spectacles, which
gave him a grotesque beetle-like expression.
I followed him, my right hand clutched con-
vulsively around the silver hilt of my Jambyiah


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
211
dagger. I would at least kill that fat, sneering
Manchu, I said to myself—at least him!
My thoughts gyrated and whirled in a mad
chaos. I tried to straighten them into a semblance
of common sense. Perhaps there was no ulterior
meaning to all this. Perhaps he had not recog-
nized us, after all. Perhaps all these were only
crazy, incredible coincidences. Such things do hap-
pen. Once I had been witness at a murder trial.
I know how evidence can pile on evidence, clear,
startling, condemming-and yet demonstrate a lie
instead of the truth.
We crossed the threshold, walked through a
short, dark passage, and back into one of the
front rooms.
At once I felt relieved. My fears flew away
like rubbish in the meeting of winds. For sev-
eral Chinamen were assembled in the front room
around a small table, smoking and drinking tea.
I knew them as peaceful burgesses of Macao; and
at once they remembered me. They rose and
greeted me with simple, friendly words.
I decided that I wasn't going to be murdered
right then and there.
The Manchu showed me to a little table, and
walking over to a carved rosewood cabinet, opened


212
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
it, and returned to my side with a handful of min-
ute Chinese objects.
I examined them with real pleasure. Never
had I seen finer Chinese objects of vertu. They
were all very tiny and very exquisite. Some were
of jade, both green and cloudy-white, others of
soap stone, others again of ivory and nacre and
gold.
Yuan Kee explained them to me, piece by piece.
This man, whoever he was, was a great connois-
seur. He handled the little things with loving
care, and spoke about their fine points with an en-
thusiasm which fitted oddly with his bland feat-
ures.
"Beautiful, are they not?” he beamed at me.
“And now let us have a cup of tea and some
sweets."
He clapped his hands. A servant appeared,
bowed deeply, received his order, and returned
a minute later with tea and confections. The tea
was of the best Mandarin-blossom variety, mixed
with dried, powdered jessamin, and the little cakes
were the perfection of the Chinese cuisine.
My fears had completely disappeared. But, for
all that, I felt wretched and lonely. I cursed
China, including the Mandarin-blossom tea and


214
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
make a casual remark to my host. But my words
snapped off in mid-air. Again there was a faint
frenzied shriek. I broke into a cold perspiration.
My heart gave one wild leap; then suddenly it
turned into stone. Came another shriek, a little
louder, which struck me as an arrow might have
struck me.
I have never swooned in my life. But I came
near to it that day. I felt a horrible sensation of
nausea. A purple mist floated before my eyes.
The floor, the tables and the chairs rocked like
cockboats in a gale. A huge hammer seemed to
strike my lungs with rhythmic thumps.
Came again silence, sweeping through the room
like a gust of wind. Very faintly—the silhouette
of a voice-I could hear the Manchu's even, pas-
sionless words drifting as from a great distance.
I cursed myself for a gibbering, specterseeing
idiot. I was imagining things. Perhaps the tea
was drugged—perhaps
Another outcry trembled through the air. The
sounds of a body falling, falling. And then my
name shrieked out with an agony of despair and
entreaty:
“Master! Master! Oh, for the love of the
dear saints! Mas"
SO


216 THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
Whirling about, hand on dagger, I was about
to plunge it into that obese, sneering face. But in-
stinctively I resisted the impulse, and snapped the
dagger back into its metal scabbard. For the
Manchu was perfectly calm. He seemed neither
frightened nor nonplused, and looked at me with
a firm, steady-eyed impudence which seemed to
hold the threat of some abominable menace.
He spoke slowly, with a light laugh:
"Are these Arab manners, Shaykh? To rise in
the midst of a repast, without a 'By your leave,'
and to repay the bread that has been broken and
the salt that has been tasted with the swish of
the dagger?” Suddenly his physiognomy expressed
a somber and weary annoyance. His voice was
pregnant with bitter sarcasm. "Is treachery ac-
claimed as a virtue among the black tents of your
tribe? Why your excitement, primitive son of the
desert?"
I did not reply, and shaking off his detaining
hands, I opened the door and stepped into the
landing.
He kept step with me. Again be asked smoothly.
"Whither away, Shaykh ?”
My words came with a rush:


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
217
"To him—to my friend whom you are mur-
dering!”
The Manchu laughed.
"Murdering? Murdering? Do we of China
murder the honored guests of our houses? Have
you been dreaming? Has the slave put too much
of the hasheesh cake in your morning's pipe?"
By this time we had crossed the length of the
corridor and had reached the room of the spirit
king.
The Manchu himself opened the door. He
bowed and held it wide open with a courtly ges-
ture.
"Enter, Shaykh," he said, and there was a fine,
mocking irony in his voice. “Enter and see if a
hair has been harmed on the head of your friend."
I looked. Then I rubbed my eyes. I was ut-
terly bewildered, utterly amazed. Heaven only
knows what scene of torture and bloodshed I had
expected to find. But there was nothing—noth-
ing!
Mascasenhas was siting as I had left him, calm-
ly smoking a cigarette. The giant Tartar had
taken the Manchu's chair, and was talking af-
fably to my servant, who was perfectly at his
ease.


218
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
As soon as he saw me, he rose. He came to me
with outstretched hands, laid them against mine
in the Arab manner, palm to palm, and greeted me
after the custom of al-Islam.
"Alhamdulillah, yah Shaykh---you have been
long!”
For a moment I was speechless. I knew that
only a few minutes before I had heard his voice
raised in an agony of entreaty and despair. I
knew that he had called for help, that he had cried
out my name. I was positive of it. I was sane.
I had heard it. There could not have been a mis-
take.
Then a curious thing happened. It was one of
those moments, one of those thumping coinci-
dences, when brain and nerves and muscles work
at exactly the same instant, more quickly than it
can be written.
All his life Mascasenhas had worn a small gold
amulet around his neck. It contained, so he told
me, a splinter of the Real Cross on which Our
Savior had been crucified, and had been given
to him many years ago by his uncle, the Bishop
of Goa. Despite my entreaties, he insisted on
wearing it, even after he had assumed Arab garb
and speech.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
219
"I must wear it, master," he had told me. "It
has saved me in the past; it will save me again.
Somehow, I know that it will stand between me
and danger. It is a most precious and sacred
relic.” And then he had crossed himself.
And now I saw this little locket, the chain torn
and twisted, directly at the feet of the big Tartar,
while at the same moment I saw exactly the same
locket around the neck of Mascasenhas as he bent
forward, greeting me.
I said that my nerves and my muscles acted at
precisely the same moment. It was so. I shook
the half-caste's hands again and again with great
fervor, and at the same instant I covered the loc-
ket on the floor with my right foot, and a second
later, under a pretext of arranging my leather san-
dals, stooped and picked up the little glittering
thing.
The touch of it convinced me that it had not
been an hallucination of some sort. Again I looked
at Mascasenhas and saw the identical locket
around his neck. Then I acted.
I said to myself that two could play at the same
game. For I was convinced at once that the man
in front of me was an impostor, an impersonator,
who was like the real Mascasenhas in every re-


218
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
As soon as he saw me, he rose. He came to me
with outstretched hands, laid them against mine
in the Arab manner, palm to palm, and greeted me
after the custom of al-Islam.
“Alhamdulillah, yah Shaykh---you have been
long!”
For a moment I was speechless. I knew that
only a few minutes before I had heard his voice
raised in an agony of entreaty and despair. I
knew that he had called for help, that he had cried
out my name. I was positive of it. I was sane.
I had heard it. There could not have been a mis-
take.
Then a curious thing happened. It was one of
those moments, one of those thumping coinci-
dences, when brain and nerves and muscles work
at exactly the same instant, more quickly than it
can be written.
All his life Mascasenhas had worn a small gold
amulet around his neck. It contained, so he told
me, a splinter of the Real Cross on which Our
Savior had been crucified, and had been given
to him many years ago by his uncle, the Bishop
of Goa. Despite my entreaties, he insisted on
wearing it, even after he had assumed Arab garb
and speech.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
219
"I must wear it, master," he had told me. "It
has saved me in the past; it will save me again.
Somehow, I know that it will stand between me
and danger. It is a most precious and sacred
relic." And then he had crossed himself.
And now I saw this little locket, the chain torn
and twisted, directly at the feet of the big Tartar,
while at the same moment I saw exactly the same
locket around the neck of Mascasenhas as he bent
forward, greeting me.
I said that my nerves and my muscles acted at
precisely the same moment. It was so. I shook
the half-caste's hands again and again with great
fervor, and at the same instant I covered the loc-
ket on the floor with my right foot, and a second
later, under a pretext of arranging my leather san-
dals, stooped and picked up the little glittering
thing.
The touch of it convinced me that it had not
been an hallucination of some sort. Again I looked
at Mascasenhas and saw the identical locket
around his neck. Then I acted.
I said to myself that two could play at the same
game. For I was convinced at once that the man
in front of me was an impostor, an impersonator,
who was like the real Mascasenhas in every re-


CHAPTER XIII
I would do no good either to him who was dead,
nor to myself who was alive, by revenging his
death then and there with a thrust of the dagger.
I must save myself. Here was the main consider-
ation. For on my life, my energies, my strength
and cunning, depended the destiny of the West,
the destiny of Christianity. Mascasenhas had
been a friend of mine. But in the greater game
he had only been a pawn; and a master chess-
player had whisked him off the board. Here was
no time for grief. Only time for rapid, steely ac-
tion.
So I acted. I looked at the impostor, and there
was deep love and friendship in my look.
"But”-my voice was low and broken_“I heard
you cry—for help. I thought"
The other smiled gently.
"I cry for help? I do not understand you. You
must be mistaken."
I smiled to myself. All right, I thought, you
221


222
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
didn't cry; but you're going to cry presently.
Thinking rapidly, I pulled myself together and
turned to the Manchu.
"Forgive my rude manners. You were right.
It must have been the hasheesh in my morning's
pipe. I shall speak about it to my pipe-wallah.”
I touched forehead and mouth with the tips of my
fingers. “Peace on you."
The Manchu bowed. There was a strange smile
on his face. He swept his right hand around as if
to include the whole of the company.
"We thank you for the august honor you have
brought into this dirty hovel. Come again, my
friends!"
He saw us as far as the outer door. Again he
bowed, and again he gave us courteous words. We
left the place of the feast, and walked toward
Macao.
The sun was gaping in the west like a great, red
door. Everything was blotched with crimson and
purple.
I looked at the man beside me. An impostor, I
said to myself, but a brave man, a man who was
playing a sharp, steely game for the love of his
race and his land, as I was playing it for the love
of mine.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
223
It would not do to let him see that I was sus-
pecting him in the least. So I talked to him
affiably, as I would have talked to the real Mas.
casenhas.
It was late when we reached the house of Manu-
el Mercado. A cheerful moon shone out, with an
air of punctual and benign vigilance. I winked
back at the moon and laughed. I would play the
game, I thought, and I would play it with twice
the strength, with twice the skill, since now I
had to revenge the death of the half-caste, who
had been my friend and ally.
I told the whole story to Manuel Mercado and
to the old servant. They were for cutting the im-
postor's throat at once. But I pacified them.
"Your cousin is dead," I told Mercado. "But
do what he would have wished you to do-help
me. Treat the impostor as you would have treat-
ed Mascasenhas. You will not be cheated of your
revenge.”
There was an ugly smile on the lips of Manuel
Mercado.
"All right, Mr. Vandewater," he said. "I shall
do as you tell me to. But presently—presently—-"
And there was an expression in his black eyes
which did not bode well for the impostor.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
225
would give him carefully edited information that
was altogether false.
The impostor would also give me information,
true to his assumed role as the real Mascasenhas.
But I would turn it to good account by doing ex-
actly the opposite of what he told me. It was
thus, by going strictly contrary to his "advice,"
that I was able to warn the governor of Hong-
Kong that a flotilla of Black-Flag pirate junks,
acting under orders from the Central Simo-Jap-
anese authorities, were about to attack and cap-
ture a steamer of the British-Chinese Coast Navi-
gation Line, carrying among other valuable mer-
chandise two million pounds sterling in gold specie
for the Chartered Bank of Australia and China in
Shanghai.
I played a double game through it all. I was
watching the impostor as a cat watches a mouse,
knowing that he, on his side was watching me;
and I was also watching the trend of events in the
Far East.
I discovered that the organization of this new
Asia was a perfect machine, a machine that
worked with absolutely French efficiency and lo-
gic. And I did not wonder. I have never under-
rated the yellow man. I have never had much


226
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
use or much respect for the valor of ignorance. I
have never felt any sympathy with the ostrich,
who buries his head in the sand and pretends that
there is no danger because he cannot see it.
No. I did not wonder. I knew the Orient. I
knew that the Asian builders who built the Al-
hambra and the Taj Mahal, the temples above the
ghauts of Benares, the palaces of Jeypore, the
irrigation ditches of Central Asia and ancient
Mesopotamia, the waterworks of Damascus, and
the fantastic towers of Nankin, would, when the
need arose, show the same marvelous efficiency in
building barracks and arsenals and railway depots.
I knew that the Asian craftsmen who created
the minute exquisitenesses of Chinese porcelain,
of Japanese enamel, of Persian tiles, of Damas-
cene blades, of Tibetan soapstone puzzles, and of
Trichinopoly gold chains, would apply the same
minute details to the making of guns, or shrapnel
timelocks, or delicate, deadly explosives and pois-
on gases.
I have never believed with the cocky, self-satis-
fied Western tourist, who spends a week in Shang-
hai and two days in Calcutta, where he buys an-
cient Hindu gods made in Birmingham, that some
strange fiat of arrest, due to mental exhaustion,


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
227
has condemned Asia to eternal reproduction of old
ideas. I knew better than that. I had seen with
my own eyes, but lately, the ruined temples in the
desert flat near Macao the immense stores of ex-
plosives, the clock-like precision of work which
obtained there.
I mingled a good deal with the local colonies of
Central Asians, Punjaubis, Gulf Arabs, Bengali,
and Madrassi, and found a peculiar undercurrent
which seemed to weld together these widely separ-
ated races and faiths. There was something there
stronger than either race or faith, stronger than
the ancient enmity of the swinging centuries. I
knew what it was. It was a geographical fanatic-
ism; the fanaticism of a continent in the travail of
hate.
But I was positively shocked when I discovered
that some Ghuzzerati Hindus had recently erected
a temple in Macao, where they worshiped the
Hindu trinity, chiefly Doorgha, the malign god-
dess of destruction.
I spoke to the impostor about it quite casually,
but carefully watching the expression of his face
from under halfclosed eyelids.
"I know," he replied, and a shadow passed over
his statuesque features which momentarily ex-


228
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
posed the depths of an unfathomable, wicked
hatred. "I have heard.” He paused, then he add-
ed with a little unconscious bravado: "And I have
also heard that at the festival of the Doorgha-Pu- .
ja they will consecrate the temple with a great
human sacrifice_with the blood of a traitor."
The words haunted me for many a day, until
finally I solved the riddle of them.
Meanwhile, I was arranging for my chance to
make a getaway.
Sooner or later the impostor, whenever Yuan
Kee gave him the word, would kill me. It was my
plan to make a dash at the right moment, and I
must make that dash toward the interior.
But it was not my plan to leave Macao with-
out due and apparent reason. That would have
caused suspicion, since the Arab merchants seldom
leave the belt of the littoral; and all the articles
of merchandise which, according to my oft-repeat-
ed assertions, I had come to purchase-silk, tea,
ginseng, ginger, and opium-could easily be ob-
tained from the big wholesale houses of Macao in
any quantity
So, after long considering, I finally told my
friends that I expected to open up a market for


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
229
lichee-nuts in Arabia. They brought samples.
But I decided that I did not like them. I wanted
better fruit. I would go north and into the in-
terior and buy the nuts direct from the growers.
I wrote to the British authorities at Hong-Kong
to send me additional funds, as my own were run-
ning low, and I waited impatiently for their an-
swer and remittance.
The waiting made me nervous. I felt horribly
lonely, horribly cut-off. I was sick of being the
Arab Shaykh Moustaffa Ahmet. I wanted once
more to be Stuart Vandewater, of New York
and Washington, D. C., and to gorge my inner
man with the despised flesh of the pig and the
hated juice of the grape.
Whenever I caught sight of myself in the mir-
ror, I felt that an utter stranger was looking at
me, and at such moments I would imagine that I
was caught in the tail-end of my own life, like an
outsider, a mildly interested observer.
Also, at times, when I looked at the impostor
who was masquerading as my friend, the friend
who had been foully murdered, a wave of horrible
hatred would sweep over me. But I would con-
trol myself. I could not afford to have him suspect


230
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
that I knew. I had to play the game, regardless
of my personal emotions.
But my hatred seemed to develop in spite of my
brain, which tried to control it; it developed by its
own inherent viciousness. And so I made a point
of spending as much time away from the impostor
as possible.
Frequently I went for long walks by myself.
And it was this horrible, hidden hatred of the
man which caused me to go for a long stroll on
that memorable night-Monday, the third of
April—which I shall never forget.
The impostor had gone to bed, after asking me
with his usual consideration (for he played the
part of the real Mascasenhas with marvelous per-
fection), if there was aught he could do for me. I
had forced myself to give him a kindly reply. For
a while I smoked and read. I tried to close my
eyes; but I felt horribly wakeful. I dreaded fac-
ing the darkness and silence that would follow the
extinguishing of the lamp.
Finally I left the house.
It was a pinching, frosty night, the moon still
low and shining far to seaward. I walked steadily
westward, with no special aim or goal. The streets


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
231
were lonely and still. The air was clear and seemed
bathed in a sea of powdered old gold.
I swung along, deeply in thought, not caring
where I was going, and I was surprised when pre-
sently I found myself on the outskirts of the town,
at the very spot where a few weeks ago I had been
a spectator of the Feast of Universal Rescue.
The Spirits' House was still standing.
The scene which had taken place inside the
house came back to me with a seethe and rush.
In this house Mascasenhas had been killed. He
had been my friend, loyal and devoted. He had
been an invaluable ally. Now I was all alone in
my bitter, grim fight with the forces of unknown
Asia.
Instinctively I entered the house. The rooms
were empty, like hollow sockets from which the
eyes had been gouged out. But there was still a
faint odor about them-a perfume of lascivious
incense and rotting flowers; like the dead-sweet
scent of cold, burnt-out desire.
Suddenly I remembered the screen; I remem-
bered the trap which it had seemed to hide. Now
was my chance to satisfy my curiosity. I walked
into the center apartment. The moon had come
up clear and bloated-white. I could see distinct-


232
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
ly, and walked over to where the screen had stood.
But there was no trap. Only I noticed that
the flooring there was of a slightly different color,
as if recently put down. I knelt and examined it. I
tried to budge it. But it was perfectly smooth.
There was no place which would give me grip or
leverage.
Then I drew back, startled, frightened.
For from a very great distance, from a very
great depth, I seemed to hear a voice--thin, wheez-
ing, deadened, agonized, oppressed.
I bent still more closely to the flooring. I
shouted at the top of my lungs.
"Hello! Hello there!”
A moment's silence. Then the answering voice,
faint and thin.
"Help! Help!”
And the answering voice spoke in English.
It was the more frightful because it was muf-
fled; because though distant, it was thick, palpa-
ble, horrible, entreating. That voice was more
than a voice. It was akin to terror. It was terror
itself.
I rose.
A tremor ran through me, and my body, my


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
233
very soul was rigid and tense. My skin was wet
with cold perspiration. I ran to the window and
examined it eagerly. It was cut in half by a stout
steel rail, buried in the wood on either side, which
had once served as a curtain-rod. I wrenched at
it with a superhuman effort.
The wood gave and splintered and broke, and in
a second later I found myself in the possession of a
fine piece of metal which would do for a club.
Running back to the trap-door, I wheeled the
metal club in both hands-once, twice, thrice-I
crashed it down with all my might, and at every
blow the flooring sighed and yielded. A fourth
blow sent it rushing down the trap and far out in-
to some dark place beyond.
I did not wait to think or consider. I let myself
down, held on to the edge of the trap for a second,
felt with my feet, encountering nothing but space,
and then I let myself drop.
I did not drop very far. The voice sounded
nearer, and I followed it, and then fell over some-
thing soft which squirmed and whimpered. I lit
a match and looked, and just barely stifled a cry.
My hand shook like a leaf. I dropped the match.
Good Heavens, could it be possible! Why-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
235
sinking to his knees, kissed my hands again and
again.
"Master! Oh, my master!” he sobbed with a
broken, rasping voice.
I gave him a few moments to pull himself to-
gether. Then I asked the question which was
trembling on my lips.
"What happened? I thought they had killed
you."
His answer came hollowly and unsteadily.
“They-dragged me down here. I shouted-I
called—but you did not come--you did not hear.
And they—"
He shuddered and fell into another swoon. I
gave him a second opium-ball, and he revived a
little. Then I lifted him on my back, and, after a
half a dozen attempts, shoved him through the
trap into the room, and I followed.
It was half an hour before he could talk coher-
ently.
Then he told me. He had been a prisoner down
there since the day of the feast, and had been
given to understand that he was being reserved
as the chief human sacrifice for the coming Door-
gha-Puja festival, which would be given at the
Hindu temple in Macao.


236
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
He had been told, with savage beatings and in-
sults and indignities, that he had been a traitor to
Doorgha whom once he had served, and that his
sacrifice would be a slight atonement. The men
who had told him that, the men who had beaten
him, had not been Chinese, but Hindus. Some
of them had been priests, but all of them had been
marked with the crimson caste-mark.
"The caste-mark!” he repeated over and over
again. "The dread mark of Doorgha!"
A tremor ran through him, and he crossed him-
self. His hand felt for the amulet which contained
the splinter of the Real Cross that had been torn
from him in his struggle with the Tartars, and
which I had surreptitiously picked up at the time.
Ever since I had carried it in the folds of my
waist-band. Now I gave it to him, and the effect
was instantaneous.
He held it to his lips, and visibly, as through
the strength of faith, he became the old Mascasen-
has, speaking at once coherently, sensibly.
"It is fate," he said in a low voice. "The fate of
my faith, my race of myself. It is the ancient
creed of my ancestors which speaks in this little
precious amulet," he paused, then he turned to
the worldly matters of the moment.


238
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
no personal part in it. It went against my white
blood, against all my Caucasian instincts. Fool-
ish of me, I have no doubt. For, as Mascasenhas
says, with a laugh, whenever we speak of it:
"You cannot touch a scorpion with the hand of
compassion.”
But, then, I cannot help it. I suppose, as a
white man, I have always had an idealistic con-
ception of legality, wrapped up in scrupulous pre-
judices.
Suffice it to say that, with the savage and glee-
ful help of Manuel Mercado and the old servant,
the Goanese skilfully transformed the impostor in-
to an exact representation of himself. I kept my
hands to my ears while the transformation was go-
ing on in the next room. But every once in a
while I could hear the heavy swish of the whip as
it kissed the naked skin, and the terrible, hollow,
muffled sighs which forced themselves through
the gag.
At the end of an hour Mascasenhas came to my
room. He bowed deeply, deferentially. But in
his eyes was a glitter which was like a pool of wa-
ter in a dark forest.
"The servant has gone to the stable for the car-
riage. He will drive Manuel and I will take that


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
239
--that thing next door to the Spirits' House. We
shall take wood along, and make the trap smooth
as before-after we shall have tied that—that
thing to the post where you found me. Thus Yu-
an Kee and the priests will not know of my es-
cape. Thus you and I shall both be safe-doubly
safe.” He laughed. “And that dog in there will
be sacrificed in my stead on the night of Doorgha-
Puja.”
My voice was thin and trembling.
"But-but suppose he talks? Suppose he"
Mascasenhas looked at me. There was laughter
in his eyes, very gentle, very sweet and very in-
human.
“Ah, my master, he cannot talk. He will never
talk again.” He laughed out loud. "For behold ,
his tongue--it is not there!”
And he bowed once more and withdrew!


242
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
For a week Macao and the whole of Hiang-
shan Island had been raked by deluges of gray,
gaunt rain blowing in from the coast of Kwan-
tung. The roads had been sodden under their
brown mantle of mud.
The Hindu colony had been in brooding de-
spair. For the Doorgha-Puja festival was on,
the celebration of the Trimurti, the Hindu Trin-
ity of Brahma the Creator, Vishnu the Preserver,
Shiva the Destroyer-all reincarnated into the
wondrous birth of Pravati, the consort of Shiva,
who is also Doorgha, the black-faced, many-
armed goddess of dread form.
I had seen more than one old Hindu raise his
lean arms to heaven and abuse the very gods in
that childish rage which is so typical of their
race.
"Ho, rascally gods-rascally and accursed gods,
sending this rain to spoil the feast which we have
prepared in your honor!”
But the priests had continued their prepara-
tions undisturbed by the inclemency of the wea-
ther. They had worked and prayed with a grim,
sharp energy which somehow got beneath my
skin.
Rigorously they had observed the ancient ritual.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
243
The first four nights they had dedicated to the
decoration of the goddess—to the adornment of
her body. They had perfumed her stony limbs
with oil of geranium and of jasmine; they had
reddened her thick, lascivious lips; had heaped
marigold at her feet; and had given a fresh coat-
ing of crimson to the caste-mark on her forehead.
They had poured plentiful libations of clarified
butter on her lap.
On the fifth day they had prepared her dress.
They had robed her in shimmering black brocade
shot with gold and purple and scarlet. They had
fastened a brand-new necklace of human skulls
around her thick neck.
On the sixth day the goddess had been awak-
ened with savage glee. All night the tomtoms
had thumped and the reed-pipes had wailed and
shrieked. A heavy scen of marigold and jasmine
---the smell of all India—had floated over the
town like a sickening pall.
The noise of the awakening had made the night
hideous as far as the Portuguese quarter. The
very Chinamen, stoical and patient and sneering,
had been affected. Even the old priests of the
Collegiate Church of the Jesuits, who had known
Asia and Asia's charming "religious” festivals for
neck,


248
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
an indiscretion between the sun and the moon.
I had seen, driving though the streets of Macao,
a son of the Travancores, a clan with a pedigree
of four thousand years, who assert that they
sprang from the legendary Emperors of Malabar,
a family lost in the night of time; and by his side
had been the Maharaja of Calicut, a comparative
parvenu since he is only the eighty-eighth sover-
eign of his name and race.
Even if these men knew of the proposed human
sacrifice, I could not persuade myself that the
slaughter of a Goanese half-caste, though they
considered him a traitor to Doorgha, would be
sufficient reason to explain the arrival of these
great dignitaries of the Hindu church and state
There was something else in the wind. Of that
I was sure. I had become doubly sure of it the
night before. For I had received a cipher cable
from headquarters which informed me of a strange
happening that had occurred several weeks before,
but had only just come to the ears of the British
authorities.
According to this cable, a native Mohammedan
ruler of one of the greatest Indian states had dis-
appeared. This particular Raja, the descendant
of a Central Asian adventurer who had carved


248
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
vas
I sloughed for once my sober Saxon common sense
to give play to my imagination.
I convinced myself that Yuan Kee, the force
which constituted the connecting link between
the new Oriental intrigue and association of Hus-
sain Khan which I had fought in former years, was
at the bottom of the kidnapping. I did not then go
so far as to believe that the Raja would be sacri-
ficed on the altar of Doorgha; that this was the
real reason for the presence of the many Brah-
mans and high-caste Indian rulers in Macao. But
something was in the wind. And it was my duty
to find out what it was..
So the chief thing to do was to keep a careful
watch on the happenings in the Hindu quarter
during the Doorgha-Puja.
Thus, acompanied by the faithful Mascasenhas,
I followed the crowd to the Hindu town. To the
Chinese and half-castes and Portuguese the occa-
sion was one of gay curiosity. They thronged up
to the Indian quarter, laughing and chattering.
Even the Portuguese governor and his aids were
coming to see the celebration in the streets.
I saw them leave the governmental palace, that
strange old pile which looks like a Castilian castle


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
249
of romance with its deep-set windows, its corbels
and turrets and golden vanes.
Mascasenhas and I pushed along with the
crowd. We forced our way down the Amirante
Road and were soon in the heart of the Hindu
quarter. The scene there was one of jollity. Tents
and ambulant coffee-houses were filled with men
and women in their holiday best, listening to sin-
gers and musicians, smoking and chatting, and
looking at jugglers, sword-twirlers, snake-charm-
ers and dancing-boys in women's attire. There
were eating-stalls, candy-booths filled with the
nasty, greasy sweets which delight the palate of
the Indian, and lemonade-stands.
There were of course the many cries of the
street.
Friend would meet friend and greet each other
with all the extravagance of the East, throwing
themselves upon each other's breasts, placing right
arm over left shoulder, squeezing like wrestlers,
with intermittent hugs and caresses, then laying
cheek delicately against cheek and flat palm
against palm, at the same time making the loud,
smacking noise of many kisses in the air.
Mild-mannered, suave, and sleepy-eyed, they
would burst into torrents of rage at the next mo-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 251
"Ho, thy aunt had no nose, thou brother of a
naughty sister!"
Then a physical assault, an exchange of feeblo
blows, until the laughing, spitting Portuguese po-
liceman separated them and cuffed them both
with cheerful impartiality.
It seemed as if all Hindustan had come to Ma-
cao. For there were men from Bengal, black and
ungainly and oily with ghee, shuffling along on
patent-leather pumps.
There were bearded Rajputs, wide-shouldered,
wide-stepping. There were thick-chested, bow-
legged men from the Punjab, furtive-stepping men
from the Madras Presidency, with even here and
there a massive Sikh, conspicuous because of his
blue turban and the bit of cut steel which glim-
mered in its heavy folds.
There were red-faced, duffle-clad hillmen from
the north, contemptuous and sneering, who still
seemed scented with the acrid herbs of the hills.
There were desertmen from Bikaneer, stunted and
thin and chocolate-brown, with mops of coarse,
bushy hair burned red by the sun, with vicious
eyes, frowning brows, and screaming voices. There
were men from Hyderabad, mounted on lean, well-


252 THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
bred ponies, riding as hard as Sussex squires, with
a complete disregard for foot passengers.
Mascasenhas and I pushed into their very midst,
playing up to our disguise, exchanging jokes and
curses with the swaying, jostling crowd in Hindu
and Arabic. All around us was laughter and jol-
lity and excitement. But beneath it I sensed a
tremendous undercurrent of dread and cruelty.
I thought of the Babu Upendranath Chucker-
jee, maimed and speechless and waiting for his
doom. I thought of the loyal Mohammedan Ma-
haraja who had been kidnapped in far Amoy. I
thought of Yuan Kee, the fat, sardonic Manchu,
with his ancient eyes, his long, gold-incased finger-
nails, his yellow, crinkled skin, his soft, inhuman
voice which was like the rubbing of an age-green
temple gong.
But I banished the thoughts deliberately. I
knew that I must brush my mind clear of fantas-
tic cobwebs, of the dust of sympathy and fear, and
said to myself that there is always tremendous ex-
citement during Doorgha-Puja, during the cele-
bration of that day when Pravati, Shiva’s con-
sort, because she killed the giant Doorgha who
threatened the gods with destruction, had assumed


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
253
the giant's name in token of triumph and was ever
after herself known as Doorgha.
On every street corner a scarlet-marked priest
was reciting that chapter of the Vedas which
speaks of the wondrous happening. Wherever we
walked we could hear the ancient Sanskrit text
declaimed with the correct scansion and rhythm
of the ritual-rising and falling, gathering
strength again and dying in a thin, quavering fal-
setto:
-"and first Pravati sent Kalavatri, the Black
Night, to slay the giant and to restore everything
to the appointed order. But Kalavatri, cowardly
and__"
The crowd listened to the oft-told tale. It
shivered and moaned. A gaunt, red-turbaned
Punjaubi fell flat on his face.
"Wahuwa!" He screamed again and again, and
there was foam on his lips. “Wahuwa! Oh, the
blessed miracle!”
On another corner a Brahman on whose fore-
head was a caste-mark of diagonal stripes of black
and white was chanting the praises of Ganesha,
the elephant-headed god, first-born of the sons of
Shiva and Doorgha.
"Praise to thee!" chanted the priest. "Propi-


254
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
tious One, son of Shiva and Doorgha! Thou art
manifestly the Truth! Thou art doubtless the
Creator, Preserver, and Destroyer! Thou art the
Supreme Being, the King, the Eternal Spirit! We
acknowledge thy Divinity, O Ekedanta, and we
meditate on thy Countenance!"
And on the next corner a purple-marked priest
was holding a sort of opposition revival. For he
was droning the praises of the second son of Door-
gha, of Kratikeya, God of War, telling to all the
world how he was born on the banks of the Ganges
to slay the evil demon Tarika.
We passed from corner to corner, from street to
street. Finally, at the crossing of two streets,
Mascasenhas plucked at my burnoose. He stopped
and looked cautiously about him.
"See," he whispered, "over there you can see
the gilt roof of the Doorgha temple.” He crossed
himself surreptitiously. “And over there-no, a
little more to the left, is the Spirits' House dedi-
cated by the Chinese to the vagrant spirits of
their ancestors. I told you that an underground
passage connects the two buildings. It must run
underneath our very feet.”
“Yes?" I replied, and a hush fell on both of us.
We looked at each other.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
255
A peculiar sensation came over me. Again I
looked at the two buildings; at the high, golden
dome of the Hindu temple, and at the faint, gray
outlines of the Chinese Spirits' House. Asia, I
said to myself, Asia speaking to Asia, in the lan-
guage of Asia, the language of blood and supersti-
tion. It seemed to me that an icy hand was pluck-
ing my nerves from their fleshy covering, twisting
them this way and that, tying them into a hun-
dred knots, and then replacing them.
Yet it was not fear. For, after all, I was in no
immediate danger. I knew, of course, that Yuan
Kee had seen through my disguise, and that he
had dozens of watchers who were tracking me day
in and day out. But I also knew that Yuan Kee
and his confederates were convinced that Mas-
casenhas, the man at my side, was their spy and
emissary; that he was the Babu Upendranath
Chucker-jee.
I had figured out that they had therefore no in-
tention of assassinating me for a while. I was to
them a sort of involuntary, unconscious stool-pi-
geon. For they calculated that with one of their
own men in such close attendance to me, a man
whom I thought to be my old ally and servant,
Mascasenhas, they would receive timely warn-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
257
tween the temple and the Spirits' House. I looked
at it, and almost at once remembered.
It was the residence of Yuan Kee, the Manchu.
I walked up to the house as closely as I dared,
and to my surprise the Tartars made no objec-
tions. They made no attempt to keep me on the
move. But the next moment my surprise van-
ished. For I remembered that they thought Mas-
casenhas to be Chucker-jee, their spy and con-
federate.
Presently I felt sure of it. For, rising sharply
and suddenly from the babble of the street, I over-
heard the whispered greeting of a Tartar who was
brushing close to Mascasenhas.
“Ho, Babu-jee-ho, talker among talkers”; the
last word a nasty commentary on the notorious
loquacity of the Bengali.
Another time a Tartar, who was walking behind
us for several seconds, whispered a Mongol pro-
verb into the half-caste's ear, commenting upon
the disguise which he supposed the other to be
wearing.
"The crow went to learn the walk of the goose
but lost its own.”
Mascasenhas did not lose his nerve or his ready
wit for a moment. He acknowledged the greetings


260
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
brown, lethean pall. Then came a sobbing, a.
whispering, a moaning. A scarlet-marked Brah-
man priest fell on his knees with arms out-
stretched in a gesture of devotion and supplica-
tion. Another followed suit; still another-a doz-
en-then hundreds, until the street was a sea of
curved swaying backs, and of foreheads touching
the dust.
The carriage rolled swiftly past. It stopped at
the house of Yuan Kee. A tall, slim figure, all in
white, stepped from it and rapidly entered the
house. I tried to see, but did not recognize the
man.
I turned to Mascasenhas.
"Did you see him? Who is it?”
"I saw.” The Goanese shook with awe. His
voice was low and veiled. “It is her the Rana of
Oodeypore-Oodeypore himself.”
"Oodeypore?” I gave a gasp of incredulous sur-
prise. The Rana of Oodeypore, here, in Macao!
What did it portend?
Never before, since the beginning of time, had
a Rana of Oodeypore left the sacred soil of India;
for, be it understood, the Rana bears to the vast
organization called "Hinduism” a relation which
is absolutely unique in the history of the world.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
261
There is no equivalent to it in the long annals
of Europe, not even in those of Asia. To the three
hundred million Hindus he is more than the Aga
Khan to the majority of Indian Moslems; than
the Mikado to the people of Nippon; than the
Dalai Lama to the Northern Buddhists.
For he is the descendant and representative of
Rana, a king in whom Vishnu himself was incar-
nate and whose memory is so sacred that the mere
repetition of his name, whether by a Hindu or by
a trained parrot for him, is an act of merit and
purification. He is so exalted that an insult to
him would be a personal shock to three hundred
million Hindus. He is so high that he is above
caste. Compared to a Rana of Oodeypore, the
Guelphs are but parvenus, the Hohenzollerns are
nameless vagrants, the Cecils and Bourbons recent
adventurers; and that in spite of the fact that the
Rana rules a little principality which is hardly
larger than Lancashire, and that his subjects num-
ber less than two million.
And this man had come to Macao!


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
263
and dealt the cards. For the Manchu was the con-
necting link between the new, gigantic Sino-Jap-
anese intrigue, which was threatening all the West
with destruction and slavery, and Doorgha of the
many arms, kinswoman to this Raja who was the
descendant of the gods.
The unknown One Man in Outer Mongolia, who
was the center of this vast intrigue, knew that he
would need India's treasure and India's countless
millions before he could deal a crushing blow to
the West. He figured, and Heaven knows he fig-
ured rightly, that this sacrifice, which meant not
only the death of India's most loyal ruler, and
consequently the removal of one of the strongest
influences against Indian national aspirations, but
also showed to all India that the Rana of Oodey-
pore was giving his divine sanction to the scheme,
would be the crowning cornice on his building of
intrigue. Thus the thoughts of the One Man; and
there was no doubt that Yuan Kee was high up
in his councils.
My duty to stop it! My strength and cunning
against the strength and cunning of Asia; and
only a half-caste to help me.
Half a dozen wild ideas whirled in my brain.
But I dismissed them all as futile and useless. I


264
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
needed quiet. No use digging for the pot of gold
beneath the rainbow. I must think. And I must
think rapidly and constructively.
I turned to Mascasenhas with a whispered word.
"Let's get out of this.”
The half-caste bowed.
"Yes, master.”
He followed me down the street. The crowds
had become denser than ever. We pushed our way
through them with knee and elbow. They hardly
noticed. Their excitement had reached a pinnacle
where mere physical sensations passed by unno-
ticed.
Those Hindus knew. They knew, every one of
them. And every one of them was my enemy.
They had begun to drop their customary mask
of humility. It was clear that the Portuguese po-
licemen were becoming nervous and fidgety. The
Portuguese governor, discreet man, was directing
his coachman to drive back to the palace.
We passed rapidly down the street. At the cor-
ner of the Albuquerque Road a wild-eyed Brah-
man priest was delivering a spirited harangue. He
was as one inspired. And to me, at least, it seemed
that his words were prophetic.
"Ho, brothers," he cried. "Listen! For thirty


266
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
foreheads”—his voice rose to a high pitch—“fate
which strikes the low—and the high-the high!"
he repeated with a scream; and he pointed a
trembling finger in the direction of Yuan Kee's
house.
The Hindus were pressing more closely around
the priest. They were paying the strictest atten-
tion to his words, keeping up a Kentish-fire of
approving words.
They seemed to me to be a unit, a fighting, de-
structive unit, that could be handled like a sword
by the right man. There were millions and mil-
lions like them in far India, in Burmah, Central
Asia, the Straits, Ceylon.
And there was Yuan Kee. There was also the
One Man in Outer Mongolia, who would handle
this sword, who would wield it, and bring it down
with the crushing strength of Thor's Hammer.
Rapidly we passed by the crowd. The last I
saw was the figure of a Rajput, tall, gray-bearded,
onyx-eyed, sitting his thin, high-breasted Kabuli
mare as a piece of her, hands crossed on the pom-
mel. He was staring at the chanting priest with a
facial immobility that had in it something mona-
chal. A sword swung from his left side.


THE BLUE-EYE DMANCHU
267
There he was, sitting his horse; a grim outpost
of all Asia.
I was glad when we were once more in the Por-
tuguese part of the town. The streets were de-
serted, since all the world had gone to see the cele-
bration. There was hardly a sound; only once
in a while a noise drifted across from the Hindu
quarter-a curious noise of shouting, swaying
mobs, like the explosion of heavy guns, which fell
down with a great, flat blow of immense crunch-
ing power.
As we walked farther away, the booming noise
gradually changed into a low humming, like that
of thousands of angry bees. It became lower and
lower till finally it whispered in a language of
dread stillness, with dull, muffled beatings and
throbbings.
We crossed the little park in front of Mer-
cado's house, where we lived. A blue-winged bird
was fluttering in the branches of a sycamore tree.
It gave one sweet, long-drawn flute-cry.
A clean sound, I thought; a corking good omen;
and, together with Mascasenhas, I entered our
house.
I sat down in my room, carefully closing the
shutters of the window which gave toward the


268
THE BLUE-EYD MANCHU
street. For the picture of a grave Arab Shaykh,
with his feet crossed on the table in front of him,
and a fat, black cigar protruding at a truculent
angle from the left corner of his lips, would have
awakened suspicions even in the stoical breasts
of Chinamen, though they think all foreigners
crazy, anyway.
And I needed that cigar as a psychic sedative.
I needed three of them before I got through think-
ing.
I felt terribly sorry for the loyal Mohamme-
dan Maharajah back there in the house of Yuan
Kee. I would have saved his life if I could. But
that was not the main part of the game I was
playing; the game in which an individual life,
noble and exalted though it may be, was only a
negligible pawn.
I was playing for a bigger stake; one of the big-
gest man has ever played for. I was playing for
the destiny of my race, my faith, my civilization,
and I had to wrench my soul and my brain free
from all sentimental, pink-and-white fastenings. I
could not be mumming my strength and my ener-
gies in the speciosities of weak sympathy. I must
stick to my real task, and strip it bare to the
buff.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
269
And my real task was the "getting” of Yuan
Kee.
Of course, it was out of the question to use
force. The man was carefully guarded. I had seen
picked, stalwart Tartar ruffians patrolling the
streets, and the dense crowds of Hindus and Chi-
nese would fight for him at a word. I could not
even use ordinary cunning, for it was clear that
the Manchu had countliess spies in his employ,
who were watching my every footstep.
For a few minutes I felt rather dazed. The
stark immensity of my task was oppressing me.
Then suddenly I felt keyed up, out of my dazed
and negative state, to a positive state of crass ac-
tion. My will was stirring, and my nerves twitched
to obey the voice of my will.
Because my brain was sharply focused on one
fact-the fact that Yuan Kee believed Mascas-
enhas to be the Babu Upendranath Chucker-jee,
his trusted spy and emissary. Here was my
weapon; my one weapon forged ready to hand.
And I must use it. I must stand or fall by the
swish and sharpness and worth of it.
I had the fullest confidence in the half-caste's
loyalty. He had, it is true, passed through a pe-
culiar stage several weeks ago, when, the prey to


270
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
his own bizarre superstition and the devilish psy-
chic suggestions of the Manchu, he had for a
day and a night believed that his soul was the
soul of Hussain Khan, my dead enemy, and that
his body must do as the strange soul which it
harbored was commanding. But he got over his
mad hallucination. To-day he was sane and, as
I said, loyal to the very core. I had no fear on
that account.
But I had not the same trust in his nerve, his
cold, prosaic pluck. For the man was an Eura-
sian, of mixed European and Asian blood. His
was the curse of the half-caste, which often makes
a man lose his head in the midst of a nerve-test,
on the edge of a catastrophe.
But there was no other weapon. It was Hob-
son's choice, and I called to him:
"Yes, master,” he answered.
"Mascasenhas," I said, looking straight at him
and purposely choosing a simple phraseology,
"you are my friend. Would you help me? What
would you do for me?”
He fell at my feet and kissed my hands. A
light like a high-eddying flame came into his pur-
ple-black eyes. Suddenly the heat and stress of
his Asian blood came up with a roar, and he an-


272
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
easily enough. The Tartars will let you through.
There's no doubt of it. Very well. You go there.
At once. Immediately."
"But-but why—"
I cut short his objections.
"Because you are my friend. Because we are
both white, you and I. Because I need you."
I stopped, waiting for his answer, and it came
in just two words:
"All right." His voice was hollow.
"You tell Yuan Kee that I have framed-up
charges against him with the authorities at Macao,
and that they, acting under pressure from the
British Government, have decided to arrest him
to-night. Tell him that these charges have noth-
ing to do with the Doorgha-Puja, nor with the
kidnapping of the royal rajah. On the contrary,
they are a frame-up-such as running a gambling-
house. For if he got it into his head that we were
trying to interfere with the Doorgha-Puja he
might throw all precautions to the winds, and
brave the matter out.
"The Portuguese garrison is small and negligi-
ble, and, on the other hand, he needs the support
of the Brahmans, to whom he has promised this
sacrifice. But then, he is a Chinaman, slow and


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
273
patient. He will not strike without being com-
pletely prepared unless his hand is forced. And I
know that Asia is not yet completely prepared.
Therefore, he will choose the easier way; he will
make his escape, convinced that the celebration
of the Doorgha-Puja will go on without him. And
that's where you come in. You will tell him that
he must make his getaway to-night, after dark.
He must go alone, on foot, without any retainers,
so as not to attract attention. Tell him that
you will meet him at the little village of Fan-Wai,
to the west of Macao, and that you will have a
boat ready to take him over to the mainland. Tell
him that you will meet him there at eleven o'clock
sharp.”
"And you?”
I laughed.
"Don't be dense, Mascasenhas. I will be wait-
ing for him at Fan-Wai—I and not you. I will be
waiting, with a revolver, a gag, and a pair of hand-
cuffs."
There was a heavy silence. I watched the half-
cles quivered, his eyelids twitched, his hands
opened and closed spasmodically. He was a pic-
ture of abject fear.


274 THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
But gradually the fear that was paralyzing him
seemed to pile up until it reached a pinnacle be-
yond which it could not rise. He had come to the
point of saturation; the borderland of frenzied,
clanking heroism; and, numb through an excess
of fear, he was suddenly surprising himself and me
by acting and by striking out. It was the inevit-
able law of equal action and re-action. .
The color came back to his cheeks. His body
straightened and stiffened. He walked to the
door. There, he turned.
"You shall be obeyed, master."
The next moment he was gone.
I lit another cigar, and inhaled the mellow
smoke slowly, luxuriously. I had launched my
ship. It was beyond my control. All I could do
was to sit tight and to pray that it might return
safe to port. If all went well, my work would be-
gin that night at the village of Fan-Wai; and I
would need all my wits then, and all my nerve.
So, deliberately I set myself to cleanse my mind
of the impressions and experiences that had ac-
cumulated there during the day. I proceeded to
forget all about Yuan Kee, the One Man, and


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
275
Doorgha; turning on a sort of psychic vacuum
cleaner, and it worked.
I smoked and amused myself by building cas-
tles in Spain, by deciding what I would do once I
was safely back in America.
Never mind what I thought. But I sat there,
wallowing in sticky, potential ecstacies that would
have shamed a boy of twenty.
Finally I fell asleep.
It was late when I awakened, feeling thoroughly
rested and refreshed, and, walking over to the
window, I threw open the shutters and looked
out.
A cool, evening breeze was shivering and moan-
ing in the tamarisks; and, to the west, a film of sil-
very light was engrailing the shadowy lace of the
hills. I looked in the direction of the Hindu
quarter. It was a sea of red and golden lights,
shining like many-faceted jewels. There was the
dull, far-away noise of tomtoms and reed-pipes,
with once in a while a high-pitched, quavering
yell, which trembled on the wings of the breeze be-
fore it shot into space. There was a faint, sweet
scent of jasmine and marigold and incense pow-
der, and the acrid smell of smoking torches.
I closed the window and turned away from it.


276
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
The next moment Mascasenhas came silently in-
to the room.
"What luck?" I cried.
The answer was low.
“Luck-yesand yet.” He paused ominously,
I thought. "Listen, master. There is an ancient
saying in India which marks the difference be-
tween fools and wise men. I give it to you. You
must choose-folly or wisdom. We say that men
are four. He who knows not and knows not he
knows not; he is a fool, shun him. He who knows
not and knows he knows not; he is simple, teach
him. He who knows and knows not he knows; he
is blind, warn him. He who knows and knows he
knows; he is wise, follow him. Now, as to the
third—”
I interrupted him angrily.
“Cut out the metaphors and talk like a white
man. What happened?”
Mascasenhas bowed.
"I saw the Manchu. I spoke with him, and by
the favor of the Deity, he did not recognize me.
He thought me the Babu Chucker-jee. He re-
minded me how he had trained me to be like the
man whom he wanted me to impersonate. In me
he admired the result of his own patience, his own


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
277
ar
sharp cunning: 'Behold,' he said, and he laughed,
'the cock goes from home for only four days, and
returns a peacock. You are indeed the dead im-
age of that Goanese pig. You are indeed, he and
you, like twin babes rocked in the same cradle.'”
The half-caste paused. I hurried him up with
an impatient word.
"I gave him the message we agreed upon-con-
cerning the warning, the frame-up, the proposed
arrest; concerning also his escape this night and
the importance of his going on foot, by himself,
to the village of Fan-Wai, where I would meet
him with the boat so that he could reach the
mainland in safety. To all this he agreed. But
there was one condition.”
"Go on."
"He said: 'Ask your stepson to do the things
that hurt you, O, Babu-jee. I am the stepson. I
am the sacrifice to the wishes of one Vandewater
and those bleating, stinking goats of Portuguese.
Be it so. I escape. But what of Vandewater?' I
did not understand. So he explained. He said
that he was tired of having to watch you day and
night, tired of playing with you. He said that
alive you would be of no more use to him. He
said that a dead horse cannot eat grass, and that


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 279
was the real Mascasenhas, and not the Babu Up-
endranath Chucker-jee?
I was prey to a wilderness of sinister emotions
and premonitions. But I knew that it was up to
me to run the risk. So I smothered my nervous-
ness with hard, dry words:
"All right, Mascasenhas. We'll be there to-
night."
The Goanese looked at me. His hands shook.
Half-formed words trembled on his lips.
"But-but" Suddenly he burst into a shriek.
"Holy saints, do you guard me against the dark-
ness of the night when it overtaketh me!"
A tremor ran through his body. His mentality
seemed to sink into inarticulate inertness, and his
eyes were wide with fear and horror.
"I told you that we'll be there to-night," I re-
peated in a low, firm voice.
There was another long, clogging silence. Then
the Goanese drew himself up to his full, slim
height. A fanatic light came into his dark eyes.
His whole attitude became proud and defiant. I
smelled in it something like a musty odor of for-
gotten knight-errantry. The man was the descen-
dant of crusaders, after all, I thought.


280
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
He came up to me and took both my hands in
his.
"Master," he said, and there was a steely ring
in his voice, "we shall be there to-night. I will
be even as I used to be, before the poison of Hus-
sain Khan entered my soul. For once years ago
in Goa I was a man widewalking among men. Ai
ai! A brawler and a swashbuckler on the blue hills
of Goa was I!”
He raised his right arm and made a vicious
thrust at an imaginary enemy. , I smiled dryly to
myself. But I knew that the man was sincere.
I knew that I needed him, and that he would not
fail me in the hour of decision.
"All right, old top," I said. "We'll be there,
and, by gad, we are going to get Mr. Manchu as
sure as the Lord made little apples. Now go to
your room and sleep for a few hours. I'll call
you."


CHAPTER XVI
Late that night we left the house. I had slipped
revolver and handcuffs into my waistband.
We walked rapidly through the sleeping Por-
tuguese town, and skirted the Hindu quarter. The
celebration there was at its highest point. The
shrieking and yelling was continuous. Those
Hindus were having the time of their lives. They
were fraternizing with their beastly, obscene di-
vinities.
The priests were swaying them this way and
that with readings and sermons from that cheer-
ful faith of theirs which, instead of a sweet, golden
rule like the Christian creed; instead of a clean,
prosaic, man's law like the Mahommedan, is noth-
ing but a sensuous representation of the mysteries
and the cruelties of life.
We walked through Chinatown. It was quieter
there; just a nocturno of drowsy murmurs and
floating shadows, with here and there a yellow-
gaping window. On and on we walked toward the
281


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 285
not need your little parvenu toys, my white
friend."
He touched me on the cheek with a horribly
soft, caressing gesture, and tossed the revolver in-
to a corner, where it sank out of sight in a heap of
dust and rubbish which had been swept together
there.
Then he sat down comfortably in a carved teak-
wood chair, and looked at me.
“The end of the chapter, my friend,” he laughed.
"The end of the chapter, eh? Can you not an-
swer? Forgive me; I forgot.” He turned to
Mascasenhas. "Ho, Babu-jee, remove the gag
from between the lips of our American friend."
Mascasenhas did as he was told. As he bent
over me I looked straight into his eyes. And the
message which I read there was comforting. The
man had all his wits about him.
The Manchu smiled blandly.
"See, Vandewater," he said. “When I see the
sun and the moon delivered up by the eclipse to
the power of the demons; when I perceive the
bonds that fasten a serpent or an elephant; when
I behold a wise man dwelling in poverty, the
thought forces itself on me:
. "How mighty is the power of fate! Ah," he


286
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
sighed, "and now I behold you, a Christian, &
white man, a Caucasian, one of the greatest, clev-
erest, most sublime races on earth-far above us
poor Asiatics in civilization, in culture, in pro-
gress, in achievements, in the decencies of life
and then, when I think that in two days your
blood will redden the thick lips of Doorgha, I say
again: How great is the power of fate!
"But you do not answer, my friend. You, a
son of the American nation, so famed for their
ready wit and their ready tongue!"
He gave another little mocking sigh. Then he
continued with a gentle voice:
"Is it, perhaps, that you blame me? Can it be
that you harbor black thoughts against me in
your heart? Consider, my friend. It is not the
fault of the springtime that the leafless tree does
not bring forth leaves. It is not the fault of the
sun that the owl cannot see by daylight. It is not
the fault of the cloud that the rain does not drop
into the mouth of the cuckoo. For who can inter-
fere with what fate has written on the foreheads
of all of us? Not I, my friend. And most as-
suredly not you!”
He paused. Then he rose from his chair and
walked up to me. He looked at me for long,


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
287
dragging seconds. I caught, full in the center as
it were, the black stream of venomous hatred and
revenge that had been accumulating in his mind
for so many months. I caught it-held it for an
instant then shot it back into the Manchu's
brain with the added impetus of my own hatred
behind it. But I did not answer a word.
He laughed.
"You have gambled, my silent friend," he said,
"and you have lost. You have lost because of a
half-caste, a man of mixed blood. You thought
only of his white blood. But I remembered his
Asian blood. I remembered that a mule, when
asked who was his father, will always reply that
the horse was his maternal uncle. I remembered
that a blind man wants nothing but his two eyes.
I remembered that a rotten plow is of no avail to
a sound ox.
"So I played with you these long months, al-
ways remembering. Your life was mine all the
time. It was as I wished it; a flame shifting to
the breath of my nostrils; now flaring bright and
bold, now blowing thin and blue—as I wished
it; and presently, as I wish it, it will flicker out
altogether. For there is the half-caste!”
He drew his arm through that of Mascasenhas;


288
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
and suddenly I understood the game which he was
playing. He was toying with me with all the
cold, inhuman deviltries of his tortuous Mongol-
ian brain. Himself believing the other to be the
Babu Chucker-jee, he wished to poison my last
hours by forcing me to believe that he was Mas-
casenhas, and a traitor. The comedy of errors
amused me. I suppressed a smile.
My surmise was correct. The Manchu's next
words proved it.
"You heard me address this half-caste as Babu-
jee. Perhaps you wondered. But you must cease
to wonder. For once this man was Mascasenhas,
half white, half brown. You spoke to the white
in his soul, and it came up whistling to do your
bidding. Then, by the favor of the gods, his soul
became the soul of Hussain Khan. As such I
used it. But you beat me. You put the white
soul back into the brown body. But I am a pa-
tient man. I am of China. I worked—and final-
ly I won. For to-day the white soul of Mascasen-
has is dead for all time. He has a new soul, a
third soul, the soul of India, of all Asia, the soul
of Kali, the soul of the Avenger; and this third
soul is none other than the soul of the Babu Up-
endranath Chucker-jee, bater of the whites, hater
RAW


290
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
shook his head affirmatively, and then came a
sickening, shocking gurgle, formed with throat
and palatë and lips—the one hollow and unreal
word:
“Yes!"
The Manchu saw at once how he had been
fooled; and seeing that the game was up, he made
one jump for the door from which the under-
ground passage ran to the temple.
Mascasenhas and I sprang for him at the same
moment. We caught him, but we were too late.
For his hands had touched and jerked a rope
which was by the side of the door, and the next
instant a sharp clanging of bells echoed down
the passage.
I groped for my revolver, but I remembered
that Yuan Kee had tossed it into the rubbish-
heap in the corner, and I had no time to hunt
for it, guessing well enough that the bell would
bring the priests of Doorgha to the door in a
few seconds.
I had not even time to strangle the Manchu
with my bare fists, and I was at my wits end
when Mascasenhas saved the situation.
"Quick!” he cried. “Gag him!”
I obeyed, and none too soon. The next mo-


292
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
will be a sacrifice on the altar of Doorgha after
all."
He rapidly extinguished the lamps and took
his post by the door. The next moment footsteps
came again down the hall. A knock at the door.
“We have brought the Raja," said a voice.
Mascasenhas opened the door enough to give
passage to one man.
"Push him inside," he commanded. “Return
to the temple of Doorgha. Come back here in
an hour."
"Listen is obey," said the voice.
The next moment a man was pushed through
the half-open door. The footsteps disappeared
down the passage, and Mascasenhas closed the
door.
The man before us was the loyal Raja.
I spoke to him quickly, eagerly.
“You are with friends. I am an American,
and this man is a Goanese. Come, quick! Ask
no questions."
We rushed up to the trap-door, opened it, went
up the rope ladder, and rushed through the house
and out into the streets.
Outside everything was silent and deserted.
We returned to the house as fast as we could,


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 293
and began to think out our plans for the future.
We had to think rapidly, too.
"Listen," I began.
But Mascasenhas burst into a gale of laughter.
“Ho!” he roared, slapping his knees. “The
third soul of Mascasenhas! It has saved the day.
It has saved this Raja! And perhaps it has con-
demned Yuan Kee to a slow, agonized death!"
He seemed to get a vast amount of satisfaction
out of that.
"The third soul of Mascasenhas!” he repeated.
And he burst into another gale of laughter.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
297
ne
you from a certain and very painful death. You
will not be sacrificed on the last day of the Door-
gha-Puja. The scarlet-marked priests will be dis-
appointed, and—” he laughed "our blue-eyed
Manchu friend is in a pretty little predicament,
from which even Chinese ingeniousness and Chi-
nese patience will not free him.”
Again he laughed boisterously. After the anx-
ious strain and heave of the last few hours a re-
action had set in, and now he was as gay as a tit-
mouse.
I agreed with him.
"Perfectly right. Yuan Kee is not going to
hurt us-or anybody else, for that matter.”
"Yes, yes, Mr. Vandewater,” drawled the Raja
in his best Oxford manner. “The Manchu is down
there in the cave beneath the Spirit House, and
presently the priests will come through the tunnel
which connects the house with the temple of Door-
gha, and they will discover him. Perhaps they
have already discovered him."
He stopped for a moment; his slow, gray eyes
flashed, and as his excitement rose, a tiny metallic
accent crept into his faultless English; a subtle
Oriental twist came into his careful phraseology.
"They will find him tied and gagged, trussed


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
299
less for all time to come; that he was doomed.
And I proceeded to explain the reasons for my
belief to the young ruler of Hyderpore:
"When I accompanied Mascasenhas to his ren-
dezvoris with Yuan Kee in the cave beneath the
Spirits' House, the latter thought that our Goa-
nese friend was not what he proclaimed himself
to be. : He thought he was his spy, the Babu
Chucker-jee, whom he had trained into an exact
double of the real Mascasenhas.
"I seemed to be handcuffed, evidently quite
helpless, and so the Manchu hit upon the humane
young idea to turn me over to the Brahman
priests as an additional sacrifice for the last day
of the Doorgha-Puja—for to-morrow. He found
nut his mistake when it was too late. You know
all that.
"You know also how, just before we over-
powered and gagged him, he managed to pull the
bell-rope which connects the cave with the temple,
and how the priests came hurrying to the door.
You know, furthermore, how Mascasenhas, with
great presence of mind, imitated the Manchu's
voice, and ordered the priests to bring you to the
cave, because he wanted speech with you, and to
return in an hour. The priests obeyed. They


300
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
brought you, pushed you through the door, which
was open just enough to let you in, without ex-
posing the interior of the room. Well—and after-
ward we escaped, and here you are.”
“Right-o,” said that astoundingly Anglified
young Oriental. “Here we are. But what of it?
The priests have returned by this time. The
Manchu is alive. He will tell the priests what
happened.”
I smiled.
"Assuredly he will talk. But tell me will the
priests believe him? Can they believe him? A
likely tale, they will say. The priest who answered
the call of the bell-rope will swear that he heard
the Manchu's own voice commanding that you
be brought. You were brought, and you escaped.
Of course, they will find the Manchu tied and
gagged. But they will think it a put-up job. The
very first fact that we did not kill the Manchu
will convince the Brahmans that he was in our
pay; in other words, that he is a traitor."
“They will kill him, then?”
"Yes; and I will tell you how they will kill him.
Remember, this is the first time a Doorgha-Puja
festival is being celebrated outside of India. The
Hindu colony of Macao, of all the surrounding


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
301
part of China, are expecting an initiative cere-
mony worthy of the occasion. And the priests
have promised great things to them. They can-
not afford to disappoint them. The proper prepa-
ration have been made. The goddess is expecting
a sacrifice of human blood. Listen.”
Silently I pointed to the window.
Red and yellow lights were dazzling and danc-
ing on the panes, reflections from the torches
which were being carried about in the Hindu
quarter of Macao, and borne on the wings of the
night wind, like a roaring ocean of shoreless eter-
nity, came a sea of sounds-wailing, shrieking
voices, intoxicated with the hysterical cruelty of
Hindu faith, the sinister rubbing of tomtoms,
the ear-splitting shrill of the long, thin reed-
flutes.
"Listen well," I continued. “You know the
Hindus, you who rule a Hindu state, though you
are a Moslem. You know what they are like
when their religious fanaticism is roused.”
“Ay,” said the young Raja, and for the first
time he spoke in Urdu. "I know them-cursed,
infidel dogs, worshiping many and most power-
less deities. Phew!"
"All right, then. And you know that the priests


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
805
Grande, toward the palace of the Portuguese gov-
ernor.
The streets were silent and deserted. Only in
the distance were the crimson reflections of
torches, and, like the voice of chaos-doom, came
the thumping of tomtoms, the shrilling of reed-
pipes, the throaty, maddening yells of the Hin-
dus, intoxicated with the frenzy of their lust-
hungry faith.
A strange thing that, I said to myself; a Door-
gha-Puja, meant to be the revival of all Asia, to
be held here in Macao—that place forever asso-
ciated with the greatest period in the history of
the Occident; that place, redolent of the names of
Xavier and Camoens, which is all that now re-
mains to the Portuguese who first revealed to the
West the water highway of the Eastern world,
and whose influence was at one time paramount
from Mozambique to Japan.
When I reached the palace, the half-caste ser-
vants at first absolutely refused to awaken his ex-
cellency, the governor. That worthy official
seemed to have imbued his household with whole-
some fear and respect.
Never, they declared with Portuguese exagger-
ation, would they dare call the Senor Luiz d'Albu-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
307
ness crept into his manner, but still he refused to
listen to me.
finally I lost my patience.
"Listen, damn you," I said. "I do not need
your help. I do not want it. All I want is your
permission to use the official Portuguese wireless
station. I wish to send a word to the British
Chinese naval squadron. They are cruising some-
where along this coast. I want to ask them to
send a few marines ashore, that's all, in case there
should be any trouble about the escape or the
Raja; in case the Hindus and Chines bury their
differences and make a combined dash for the
white quarter."
He agreed to that, visibly relieved, and gave
me a line to the chief operator of the wireless
station. I lost no time in hurrying there.
Half an hour later I was in communication with
the Guerriere, the flagship of the British squad-
ron. It seemed that the ships were only a short
distance off shore; marines would be landed in a
few hours.


CHAPTER XVIII
It was nearly morning when I reached home
once more, and the sun was peeping over the
edge of the horizon with a first heralding ray of
gold and lavender.
The Maharajah of Hyderpore and Mascasenhas
were still up. They were both in the best of
humor, swapping tales of their homes in far-off
India.
That gay young Oriental prince amused me
greatly. His ancestors were illustrious men, who
had conquered and ruled by fear; but his sym-
pathies were democratic and unconventional to &
degree.
He had just finished a riotous Indian bazaar
tale when I entered the room.
"_and so my Goanese friend,” he was saying
while he slapped the other's knee. “I turned to
her and I said: 'Why, yes, my dear. But what
can a pig do with a rose-bottle? Clever of mo,
what?"
Wa


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 309
I cut into the laughter which followed the
tale.
"It's all arranged," I said. “The marines will
have landed by the time we have bathed and
breakfasted. By to-night you, my friend, will be
once more under the protection of the British flag,
none the worse for your experience. And twenty-
four hours later the Manchu will be about to
say his last prayers to whatever Chinese deity
he specially adores. And I—" suddenly I was
more serious; a weary note crept into my voice
"I will be on the go once more."
"Where to?" inquired the Raja.
"To hunt the One Man in Outer Mongolia
whom I was sent to find and kill. He controls
the whole situation. For the present his intrigues
have failed, thanks to the jealousies and discords
between the Hindu and Chinese parties. But what
of it? He will not think himself beaten. Not he.
He will”
The Raja interrupted me. He smiled. His
lean, high-veined hand shot out in a telling ges-
ture.
"He will be dead-to-morrow night!”
I stammered with surprise.
“What what do you mean?”.


310
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
"Just what I said, old chap. I said that the
One Man you speak of the One Man you were
sent to find and kill—will he dead to-morrow
night. Why, I thought you had known straight
along! Yuan Kee is that One Man!"
I was utterly amazed.
“Yuan Kee?” I shouted. “Yuan Kee? The
blue-eyed Manchu? It can't be true.”
Gravely the Raja inclined his head.
"It is true. I know.”
"But how do you know? Good Lord, tell me.
How do you know?”
The Raja put both his hands on my shoulders. .
“Remember, I was in prison, back there in
the temple of Doorgha, whence you freed me, you
and Mascasenhas.” Suddenly he continued in
Urdu, his native language. “Yes, sahib, you freed
me. Again I thank you for it. My life is yours,
by the face of the Prophet of the True God-
on whom Peace! At first when I understood
what death these infidel Brahman dogs reserved
me for; when I understood that I, a man, a Mo-
hammedan, a believer in the One God, would be
sacrificed on the altar of Doorgha to make sport
for those accursed Hindu pigs, I am afraid that


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 311
IV.
madness took me by the throat and squeezed me-
thus!”
He opened and closed his lean hands, as if
clutching the throat of an enemy.
"I raved; I beat my breast; tears came from
my eyes and rolled down my cheeks slowly, one
by onemlike nails driven into the coffin of the
beloved one. And I cursed myself. Also I cursed
the ninety-nine holy names of Allah, the King
of men-may the saints intercede on my behalf!
Ah, sahib, what does a blind man want but his
two eyes? What does a prisoner want but his
liberty?
"Then resignation came to me, like an Ifrit in
the black of night. I said to myself that life is
as uncertain as a Tartar's beard. I said to myself
that fate is a dirty feeder—she does not bite clean;
che mauls and scratches. What is written is writ-
ten. Rajas or peasants, alike we are the subjects
to the sports of destiny. Thus Islam came to
me. I was quiet and sane once more. I looked
about me. I listened.”
He lit a cigarette and, inhaling the smoke
slowly, continued:
"There is a statue of Doorgha in the temple,
and its pedestal is hollowed out. A small place,


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
313
It would be understanding the case to say
that I was relieved.
I felt like a man who, flung into vast, wide-
weltering chaos, is suddenly lifted up by his guar-
dian angel and put on a sweet, clean shore where
the sun is bright and smiling, the sky blue, and
the flowers misty and odorous.
The past months had been months of work
and worry and danger-often of despair. The
world to me had been a great, sinister, mysterious
house opened by countless doors which were con-
tinuously half ajar; and behind every door a
hateful, grinning specter which threatened me,
and which threatened my race, my land, my
faith.
I had been under a terrific mental and physical
strain. Every evening these past months, my
brain had expected and received a compendious
report of what I had heard and seen and said
and done and undone during the course of the
day, so that I could prepare for the morrow. And
now suddenly the gray burden was lifted from
my soul. The One Man whom I had been sent
to find and kill was doomed. I was a free man
once more. My work was finished. I could return
to America, to my own land, to plant my turnips


314
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
and radishes, to be bored by my brother-in-law,
end to spoil the young digestions of my nieces and
nephews with candy.
I looked out of the window. The morning had
come with a flood of pink and ochre. The crimson
light of the torches in the Hindu quarter had
nied. There were still faintly audible in the dis-
tance the shrieks and yells of the faith-maddened
Hindus, chanting obscene songs in honor of Kali,
the grinning goddess with outstretched tongue
who stands on the prostrate form of her husband
Shiva, and of Doorgha, the dread image of lust
and destruction.
Let them chant, I said to myself. Let them
yell with their bestial hymns. What were they to
me henceforth?
So I sat and smoked, happy satisfied, exchang-
ing an occasional remark with the Raja and with
my faithful Goanese. And when, half an hour
later, I heard martial feet clicking and stepping
in the distance, when I heard the excited shouts
of the Portuguese who were rushing from their
houses, crying: "The English! The marines, the
marinesm” I felt more happy and secure than
ever.
They marched down the Praya Grande, thence


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
315
deployed through the side streets, occupying
strategical positions. Half a battalion of them,
with a couple of dainty little screw-guns bumping
Tehind them on the cobblestones, marched nest
my windows to the sound of fife and drum and
the insolent chorus of "The Dashing White Ser-
geant."
A fem minutes later the British Admiral, Sir
Hector Cave-Brown, was ushered into my room.
A red-faced British knight he was, with bushy
sard-colored eyebrows, a deep-sea walk, an ex-
plosive temper, an angular, quarter-deck manner,
and full-flavored, nautical parlance. But he was
entirely efficient and ready to help.
In a few words I explained the situation to
him.
“All right,” he said. "I don't suppose there'll be
any trouble."
He pointed through the window at the marines.
"My leather-collars will come up to the scratch
if anything should happen. I shall leave the
Terror and the Advance riding at anchor in the
Inner Bay. Their guns can sweep anything on
this part of the island. I shall take my flagship
up to Hong-Kong." He turned to the Raja. "I


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
319
We had our work cut out pushing our way
through the crowds. The arrival of the British
cruiser squadron and the landing of the marines
had given additional zest to the excitement caused
by the Doorgha-Puja. A mob of idlers, Portu-
guese and Chinese and half-castes, was packing
the crooked, narrow streets; and toward the water-
front dozens of impromptu guides and rickshaw
men were offering their services to the sailors who
had shore-leave.
There were, of course, occasional rows between
competing guides, bad language, sharply facetious
insults, and, once in a while, a blow.
I noticed chiefly one young Tartar, a sturdy,
round-headed, big-limbed ruffian, who was for-
eier in our way, addressing sailors in pidgin-Eng-
nish and promising them new and strange sights
But though he shrieked and bargained and vocit-
erated with the vest, he never seemed able to come
to terms, and kept steadily in our wake.
He was a typical Central Asian Tartar, evi-
dently a Mohammedan, to judge by the string of
blue beads, protection against the evil eye, which
peeped from a fold in his blouse; and he had
the restless, frowning eye and the bilious complex-
ion of the hashshashiyum—the hemp-drinker. In


320
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
his belt, contrary to the municipal regulations of
Macao, there was stuck a cheray, the terrible knife
of Central Asia.
Twice he bumped against me without apolo-
gizing. When he did it the third time I lost my
patience, and turned on him with an oath.
"Where are thy manners, O he-goat, son of a
burnt father?” I shouted, speaking in his native
dialect.
The next moment I was sorry I had lost my
temper, for these fellows are not exactly safe to
meddle with and insult. I moved back a step,
ready for action. But, to my surprise, the Tartar
did not reach for the ever-ready cheray; instead
he bowed low, smiled, and said:
"Thy forgiveness, master! There is meekness
even in the son of a Tartar.” He stopped; then
he continued in a lower voice: "There is sense
even in the written babbling of priests, O Head of
Many Tongues.”
I was amazed. For, in the metaphorical par-
lance of the Tartar, the last appellation means
a polyglot—which I certainly am. But I had no
time to ask questions.
For the very next moment the Tartar winked


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 321
at me, meaningly, deliberately. In the faintest
whisper he said:
"To the right, O master."
And the same instant, to the right, from a little,
squat Buddhist temple for Chinese sailors which
huddled there, framed by go-downs and drinking-
shops, an old Chinese priest came out.
He stepped directly into my path, brushed
against me, and dropped his fan. I picked it up
and returned it to him. Our hands met for a frac-
tion of a moment, and in that infinitesimal space
of time I felt that the old man was pressing a
piece of paper into my hand.
I made no exclamation, no unnecessary gesture.
We were far away from the Hindu quarter. The
Manchu was out of the way, and there was strife
between the Brahmans and the Chinese. But
even so, there was a possibility that the Hindus
were watching me. So I kept my own council.
I kept my hand closed, and, without looking to
right or to left, continued with my friends to the
foot of the Praya Grande.
The water-front was astir. The spring typhoon
would soon be there, and so the Chinese were
making ready for their annual trip to Siam and
Burmah. Bales of silk and chests of tea were


322
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
heaped up house high. The harbor was crowded
with the strange craft of Asia. There were huge
Chinese junks with towering poops, constructed
so as to act as sails in a gale of wind. There were
needle-keeled sailing boats from Shanghai and
the north, with a single mast provided with a
huge triangular latine, very deep in the tack,
and typically Chinese in the utter absence of the
white man's nautical vademecums. For they had
no compass, no log, no sounding lines, no spare
ropes, not even the suspicion of a chart.
Dugouts, made from hollowed mango-trunks,
hurried through the sailing fleet.
A bustling scene! And far to the southeast, the
promontory beyond which the Guerriere was wait-
ing for us, flashed into view with a sort of bar-
barous splendor. There was no verdure on that flat
ledge. But under the purple and orange tints of
the sky the chalky rocks became heaps of topaz
and the sun-scorched ridges masses of amethyst.
The steam-launch belonging to the man-of-war
was waiting for us. We boarded it, and a few
minutes later we were chugging through the bay
on our way to the flagship.
Once seated comfortably in the admiral's saloon,
with a glass of "navy-red” at my elbow and a
W


326
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
Beside the merit of the mystic number Three, there is
also merit in the words of the blessed Lord Gautama,
Buddha.
Once, O learned priest, thou and I spent the month
of the plum-blossoms in the Such-zen Monastery.
In that monastery a Mi-Lei-Fo faces the outer uvur,
dost thou remember? And dost thou remember the
Sanskrit words graven on the pedestal? Aneka jati
sansarm. Those were the words, meaning in our language:
“Many are the births I have passed through."
Dost thou remember how thou didst explain to me
the miracles of the Lord Buddha ?
Listen. For I remember.
Came the paragraph itself:
There is one miracle. It is the fiame. Everything is
in flames. By what fire is it kindled? By the fire of
desire, the fire of infatuation, pain, lamentation, sorrow,
grief ,despair.
Let, then, this flame be quenched. For there is still
a second miracle, though often forgotten.
It is the miracle of water, the miracle of forgiveness
and mercy and compassion.
For water kills the flame, if directed by an unerring
hand. And great will be the reward.
For it is said that he who forgives and helps an enemy,
be his sins as black as night, will receive as a reward
the giving of many things, the telling of valuable secrets,
the warning against other enemies.
Meditate on this, O holy one!
I didn't have to meditate very long. The
meaning, though couched in religious and meta-
phorical terms, was quite clear. I was simply
promised as a reward for "the quenching of
flames," a "giving away of secrets," and a "warn-
ing against other enemies."


THE BLUE-EYED 327
MANCHU
MANCHU
Beautifully simple and beautifully to the point.
And the next paragraph elaborated on it.
The introduction was as follows:
Thus the words of the Lord Buddha:
Through the eternity of countless existence
I have performed in sorrow my pilgrimage,
Not discovering the Builder whom I seek.
Now, Artificer, Thou art found.
Thou shalt not build me another house.
My rafters are broken,
My roof-timbers scattered;
My mind is detached.
I have attained to the non-existence of desire.
Then came the paragraph itself:
Thus it is with me, blessed abbot of Such-zen. For
my life is ended. I shall never build me another house.
For I have been a traitor. I am an outcast from my own
land. If I should live, every hand would be against me.
If I should live, I would have to seek a refuge in the
house of the foreigner. My rafters are broken, my roof-
timbers are scattered, my honor is gone, my mind is
detached.
I shall die, and, dying, hless the Brahman priests who
will give me the death of flames.
This wasn't even metaphorical. It was a sim-
ple statement that the Manchu, for reasons of his
own, declared himself guilty of treachery—which
he was not. Otherwise it was a statement of facts.
For it was certain that, even if he could be
saved, he would ever after be an outcast in Asia,
with everybody's hand against him. The Brah-


328
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
mans would see to that. Therefore, nolens volens,
he would have to be loyal to me-provided I could
save him.
The final paragraph bore as a short, formal in-
troduction the few words which are said to con-
tain in themselves the essence of Northern Bud-
dhism:
Consider, blessed priest, the Dew on the Lotus Flower!
Then came the paragraph itself:
giver be sold the
Think, learned abbot, of the day when returning from
a feast given by the women and the little children to
Kwang-yin, the goddess of mercy and motherhood, we
stopped to pray at the famed monastery of Shao-lin in
the province of Honan.
Dost thou remember how together we looked at the
second tablet; how we meditated on the Sakyamuni, the
flaming aureole, and the sacred lotus flower?
Is, then, our faith, our birth, and our death even
as the mystery of the Buddha's flame? Does the fire
pass from the lotus flower up to the aureole above the
Buddha's head?
Oh, the Dew on the Lotus Flower! To be quenched ?
To save? To acquire merit by helping the enemy? Merit
and the giving away of secrets
Meditate, priest, for to-morrow night I die!
Thus the message ended, and I was puzzled
at the last paragraph. The final admonition was
easy enough to interpret. It simply repeated the
demand of the preceding paragraphs, asking me
to save Yuan Kee from a death of flames, and


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 329
thus to "acquire merit and the giving away of
secrets."
But I was bothered by the allusion to the famed
Monastery of Shao-lin. Years ago I had been
there. It is one of the sights of that part of
China. I remembered vaguely the two painted
and carved tablets which it contained, but I could
not remember them in detail.
I talked the whole thing over with Mascasen-
has, the Raja of Hyderpore, and Sir Hector Cave-
Browne. Finally the admiral, who had been on
the China station for years and who had taken a
great interest in everything connected with the
Middle Kingdom, bethought himself of his library.
It contained many works of travel and reference.
He looked through the shelves, and found M. de
Broglio's book about the province of Honan, which
gave pictures and descriptions of the Monastery
of Shao-lin.
We got the following information:
In the monastery are two ancient stone tablets
inscribed with pictorial statements of the triunity
doctrine of the so-called San-chiao; the three doc-
trinal systems of Buddhism, Confucianism, and
Taoism. The second tablet shows a representation
of the three faiths side by side, in a symbolio


330
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
and conventionalized manner. The place of honor
in the center is occupied by the Sakymuni Bud-
dha; to the left is Lao-chin, the legendary founder
of Taoism, and to his right is China's perfect sage,
Kong-fu-tse. Sakyamuni's head is surrounded by
an aureole from which issues an upward-pointing
stream of fire, while beneath his feet are lotus
blossoms bursting into bloom.
So far, so good. But what did Yuan Kee mean
by his cryptic allusion? He was too shrewd a
man to waste any words in useless, written bab-
bling.
We guessed all sorts of things. But they were
all fantastic, futile, useless.
Suddenly the young Raja rose with a shout of
triumph.
“My word, I've got it! I told you that after I
got over my fit of despair, back there in the Door-
gha temple, I used my eyes and my ears. There
are three statues in the temple. Get the parallel
with the three holy blighters in this picture?"
He pointed at the colored plate at which we
had been looking.
"But wait. There's more to it. The middle
statue is Doorgha herself. Kali is to the left,
and Shiva to the right. All clear so far, isn't it?
.


332
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
branch organizations. He knew all their secrets,
since he had been their creator and directing
genius. And he would be a safe enough man to
trust. For from now on, if I could save him, he
would be, as he said, an outcast in his own coun-
try, and everybody's hand would be against him.
But how could I save him?
I thought of a tijusand and one ways, but I
dismissed them all as foolish and impossible. Force
was out of the question. Even if I could persuade
the admiral to march against the temple with a
battalion of sailors and marines, the Brahmans
would be sure to cut Yuan Kee's throat before we
got there. Cunning was out of the question, too;
and the element of time-hardly thirty-six hours
-was all in favor of the Hindus.
There remained exactly one way. I had to
trade on the superstitions of the Hindus. I, or
one of my associates, had to get into the temple
of Doorgha somehow and perform a miracle
there.
It was the only way.
Finally, after a lengthy discussion with the
admiral, the ship's surgeon, and the chief engineer
of the Guerriere, I did succeed in conceiving the
germ of a miracle compared to which even the


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
333
many and wondrous miracles of Yama-of Shiva
himself-would fate into pale and inane mediocri-
ties.
There was a long search through the stores of
the ship. Followed two hours of solid work, and
then the chief engineer rose with a laugh.
"Here's your bloomin' miracle, Mr. Vande-
water," he said. “All cocked and primed!”
We retired early that night. For the next day
both Mascasenhas and I would need all our wits,
every nerve in working order, every last ounce
of pluck and presence of mind.
Mascasenhas left early in the morning. I said
au revoir to him as he was stepping down the
ladder. I felt for him. A half-caste he was, with
the curse of the half-caste. But he had come
up to the scratch without a whimper, without a
word of protest. To-day was the final test of
his loyalty and friendship.
Even at this distance a faint noise drifted over
from the Hindu quarter. For it was the last day
of the Doorgha-Puja. To-night the grim goddess
would get her beastly fill of sacrifices human
blood, human agony, human torture.
"Nerves in working shape?” I inquired as the
Goanese swung himself down the rope ladder.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
337
I made straight for the temple, unostenta-
tiously losing myself in the large retinue of a
Raja, come from far India for the festival, who
was mounted on an Arab stallion with splendid
trappings—a saddle with burnished, emerald-
encrusted gold peaks before and behind, covered
with sheepskin dyed scarlet, girthed over fine
Kashmere saddle-bags, whose enormous seed-
pearl tassels hung almost to the ground, and
which were doubtless filled with jewels and gold
for the priests of the temple.
A heavy, sickly-sweet scent of marigold and
jasmine hung over the town like a pall.
The throng got steadily denser. I found prog-
ress very hard, and I was still a goodly distance
from the temple when suddenly, from nowhere it
seemed, a whisper started. It passed from mouth
to mouth. It went through the crowd like wild-
fire:
"Into the temple! Into the temple! The sacri-
fice is about to begin!"
Pushing, fighting, kicking, I pressed on; and
finally I gained the entrance of the temple. It
had taken me a good many minutes to get there,
and the service was already in full swing.
At first I could see nothing. The crowd in front


338
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
of me was too dense. Only, wreathed in incense-
smoke, I saw, far in the interior of the temple, the
head of a gigantic statue of Doorgha, whose fiend-
ish eyes seemed to look straight into mine with
an expression of demoniac glee.
Nor could I hear distinctly. Only a confused
noise, like the roaring of the sea on a rocky
beach. But presently the sounds crystallized into
the dull, droning voice of a priest, chanting a
Mantra in honor of the gods. The words became
clearer and clearer:
"-thou who holdest a sword in thy lotuslike
hands; who art fearless; who art black as the
clouds; who wearest earrings consisting of two
dead bodies; whose form is terrible; who dwellest
in burning ground and standest on the breast of
thy husband, Shiva".
The crowd took up the last word in a ghastly,
swelling chorus:
"Shiva! Shiva! Shiva!"
And then, clearly from above the maddening
symphony, came the high-pitched voice of a faith-
crazed Punjaubi:
"Ho, Kali! Ho, Doorgha! Ho, Devi! Ho,
Shiva, Shiva, Shiva! Help me! Help me, for
I am dying for I cannot cross the Vaitarami, the
UNI.


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
339
dread stream of death, without thee! Help me
over the horrors of the utter darkness Tamisra,
across the sword-leafed forest of Usipatra Vana!”
His voice was drowned in a fresh chorus:
“Shiva! Shiva! Shiva!”
And then suddenly an utter breathless silence
succeeded to the uproar.
By this time, using old football tactics, I had
pushed my way up to the first row of the wor-
shipers, so that I stood directly in front of the
statue of Doorgha. The four-armed, three-eyed
idol was painted and dresed with barbarous splen-
dor. Around its body was a girdle of human
skulls. One of its hands held a sword; the second,
the blood-dripping head of a bearded man, while
its other two hands were empty, and raised to
bless the worshipers. Before the idol's feet lay
the utensils of worship-dishes for the offerings,
lamps, jugs, incense, copper cups, conches, gongs
and all of them smelled of blood.
There was a thumping of drums, a clash of cym-
bals, a shrilling of reed-pipes — and a troup of
nautch-girls swept to the center of the floor
bending, swaying, twisting—dancing before the
goddess with horrible gestures.
Came again silence. The nautch-girls disap-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 341
"A sacrifice, brothers! A sacrifice to Doorgha,
the Mother!"
Three times he bowed. Then another priest
handed him a human skull half filled with burning
embers. He blew upon them till they shot forth
tongues of crimson light. He bowed again, and,
like a herald, announced:
“The sacrifice!”
There was another wail of cymbals and tom-
toms, and two priests came from behind the statue
of Doorgha. Between them, his hands tied be-
hind his back, but erect and slightly smiling,
walked the blue-eyed Manchu.
At that moment I forgot my enmity, my bitter
hatred of the man. I admired him. In a strange,
inexplicable way I respected him. For he could
not have recognized me in the throng. He could
never have guessed that I had come to save him.
His message which had come to me through the
hands of the old Buddhist priest had only been
the last deserate throw of a gambler.
Yet he marched there to his doom; to a death
of flames, of unspeakable agony. But he marched
erect. A smile on his thin lips.
The man was fearless, fearless!


342 THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
The two priests and their captive stopped in
front of Doorgha.
The torches were extinguished one by one. Mo-
mentarily there was stygian darkness. Then a
huge, shaded lamp was lit, and swung in such a
position that all of its light was directed upon the
scene in front of the idol, while the walls, the
ceiling, all the other parts of the room were bathed
in purple shadow.
Once more the high-priest commenced his abom-
inable hymn, lifting his ash-smeared arms in an-
gular motions. The scarlet caste-mark on his
forehead seemd alive.
"Hail, Mother, Hail! Three-eyed goddes of
horrid form! Hail, malign image of destructive-
ness! May this sacrifice smell sweet in thy nos-
trils!”
The fervor of the Hindus seemed to swell and
bloat. It became a living, existing, pulsing thing
-an animal with a toothy, obscene maw; and I
hated it; I wanted to take it by the throat and
crush its life out.
Came silence, thick, palpable.
And suddenly, directly above the group in the
center, a faint sound—a sound inaudible except


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU 343
in such dead, clogging silence cold of a metal
door being opened.
I looked. I gave a low shriek, quickly sup-
pressed.
The body of the idol had opened like a fur-
nace. The next moment the two priests had lifted
the Manchu up and had pushed him through the
door into the body of the Doorgha.
A sharp, metallic click—and the door was shut.
The crowd shivered and moaned. Here and there
a long-drawn wail of "Doorgha! Doorgha!" quiv-
ered in the air.
Then two more Brahmans appeared, carrying
swinging incense-burners which poured out a
thick cloud of dead-sweet smoke, like an impal-
pable cloud of evil—the soul of their bestial faith
in scented, vapory form.
Another clash of cymbals and drums. Another
droned chant from the lips of the high-priest, and,
dressed in white, the brilliant sectarian mark of
Doorgha on their foreheads, six Brahmans of high
degree came from the left, walking with stiff
dignity. Each carried a heavy log of deodar-wood
on his shoulder.
Behind them, a flaming torch carried high in
his hands, walked Mascasenhas.


346
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
sel.
But the logs were as before-cold, gray. There
was neither flame nor flicker.
I smiled to myself. I thought of the heavy
package which Mascasenhas had carried beneath
the flowing folds of his robe. I thought of the
"miracle” which I had prepared, with the help
of the admiral, the ship's surgeon, and the chief
engineer. Sulphate of ammonia it was, mixed
with boric acid and borate of soda, and guaranteed
to make even sacred deodar logs non-inflammable.
Then I jumped up with a yell. Now or never, I
said to myself.
I lifted my hands high above my head.
"A miracle!” I shouted. “A miracle, brothers!
A miracle, by Kali and Devi!”
I swung myself up to the pedestal of the god-
dess. I kept my presence of mind. Quickly, even
as I turned to face the crowd once more, I located
the position of the metal door through which the
priests had pushed the Manchu.
"Behold the miracle!” I shouted at the top
of my voice. "Obey the command of the blessed
gods!” I bethought myself of the words which,
years ago, I had heard used by ash-smeared fakirs
in the towns of India. 'Obey the commands of the
many gods, the commands of the four-armed rev-


THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
347
erence! For the spirits are against you--Alays
and Gumas, Baitals and Yakshas!—Dahinis, Yo-
ginis, and Sharkinis of dreadful forms! Bless the
miracle of the gods! For Smashana Kali herself
has spoken!”
I jumped down again and tore the torch from
the hands of the Jat. I pushed it into the stoke-
hole.
"See!" I yelled. “The gods refuse the sacrifice.
It is a miracle!”
The crowd surged forward in a solid mass. They
took up the shout in a mad refrain:
"A miracle! A miracle! A miracle!"
They swept about the statue of Doorgha. They
pushed the priests to one side. A thousand hands
snatched at the deodar logs to break off a piece,
a splinter--a bit of the sacred wood as a memory
of the incredible miracle which they had beheld.
Pandemonium was loose. I pushed my way
through the crowd. With a well-directed kick I
upset the lamp which was still swinging from the
hands of a dazed priest.
Blackness fell over the temple.
I fought my way back to the statue of Doorgha,
climbing over bodies of hysterical, yelling men
and women. Once my foot ground into an up-


348
THE BLUE-EYED MAUCHU
turned face, and I had a quick, sickening sen-
sation; but I paid no attention to it.
I fought on, half feeling, half guesing my way.
Suddenly my hand touched cold metal. The
statue of Doorgha, I said to myself. I swung
myself up to the pedestal with superhuman ef-
fort. I wrenched open the furnace doors. My
hands trembled and groped. They touched a hu-
man form.
“Quick!” I said. "Quick! I'm Vandewater!"
I helped the Manchu out and away. Side by
side we fought our way through the maddened
crowd.
A few minutes later we were outside the temple.
Mascasenhas was already there, waiting for us,
with a smile on his honest face.
We made the water-front in record time. Once
more the launch chugged her way to the Guer-
riere.


CHAPTER XX
The Manchu kept his word.
Name by name, detail by detail, town by town,
he gave me the secrets of the organization which
he had started and directed in Europe, Asia, and
America. He had worked with marvelous effi-
ciency. Like an iron net he had flung his in-
trigues all over the world. He had worked with
threats and with bribery. Wherever articulate
speech was spoken, there he had a branch com-
mittee; there was one in New York, one in Berlin,
in Paris, in London, in Moscow, in Calcutta. There
were others in the smaller towns.
Calmly, patiently, he dictated, and I wrote.
He dictated for over an hour. Then he rose.
"It is finished. You know. I have told you
all,” he said with a weary smile.
"And you, Yuan Kee, where do you want
to go?"
"I am an outcast in my own land," he replied
slowly. "Everybody's hand is against me. If I
849


350
THE BLUE-EYED MANCHU
should follow the winds of dawn to their misty
home, yet they would follow me, they would track
me, they would find and kill me. There is only
one safe place for me."
"Where?”
"A prison,” he replied. “Solitary confinement
in an American or an English prison. You have
friends in exalted stations. Take me there, my
friend."
I was amazed. But I understood. The man
was right.
"You mean it?" I inquired.
“Yes, I mean it."
He looked at me out of his strange, cutting
blue eyes. He raised both hands to his forehead
with a nervous gesture, momentarily hiding from
view the long, black que which he wore twisted
around his head.
And suddenly his face assumed a different char-
acter.
I looked at him intently. A Manchu, I said
to myself; a Manchu with blue eyes! But was he
a Manchu?
For several seconds I stared at him.
Then a half-forgotten tale came to me of a
name great in England, a famous