Adventure Magazine, March 1916 — page 187: what you’re looking at

Machine-transcribed from the original scan — historical spelling and the odd misread are preserved.

— The Story of William Hyde “‘Nda, nda!” I whispered, “Let us go on. Let us hasten straight on through that field, get to the Dobo quickly, and be done!” Slowly, covertly, at the sound of my whisper, she looked about her, then started on, even as I had directed. Out into that field of opium poppies we flitted like two ghosts. And like the ghosts of blossoms were those opium poppies in that midnight gloom. ‘They all were white in color—a vague whiteness, which looked ghastly in the gloom; and all were motionless and dead as though from tropical lassitude. Here, out in that field of languorous white poppies, there was no sound soever. The poppies, like bits of down, bent aside before our progress with a noiselessness almost uncanny. Nothing had voice. The night was profound, utter. Every growing thing seemed fascinated, as though awaiting the end of our desperate errand. And then—and we no more than half-way through that field—arose in that profound stillness, the weird unearthly singing of the stones. Now, in all my fears of discovery, my fears of making sound, never had I thought of that singing of the stones; and moreover, I had not been long enough in the Jallan Batoe to be used to that eery species of phenomenon. [ halted dead; Golden Feath- er of Flame halted dead. Westood then like affrighted rabbits, like rabbits paralyzed with fright. _ And we were the only motionless things in a world that shook and boomed like a mighty hollow drum. Behind, the palm- fronds crackled and rattled metallically, as in a harsh wind; ahead, the slender stalks of the bamboo-clump swayed and whispered; and about and over all, the stupendous stone beasts shuddered and roared like real beasts in the throes of pain. - Upon me, those vibrations of sound charged like a host of shouting Poonan. I looked about; I looked fearfully about; and I saw that the poppies were nodding and ~ fluttering as if, through their ghostly white- ness, men were crawling on hands and knees! “Let us go back, Belun-Mea Poa-Poa!”’ I whispered hoarsely. ‘Let us go back!’ But she did not hear me. The singing of the stones drowned my hoarse whisper, and for that, a moment later, I was: thankful. For a moment later she turned back to me 185 and, her own soul disquieted by that uproar in the night, she grasped my hand. Then onward, scuttling beneath that awful over- tone of sound, glancing furtively to either side, through that field we went, hand in hand, like two frightened children. But once we had plunged into that brake of bamboo there was no more holding hands, The panicled knobby stalks of the bamboo, three or more inches in diameter and fully twenty feet tall, were set so incredibly close together that they were as the straws of a monstrous broom; and in order to break through them toward the Avenue of Palms and the Stone Dobo just beyond, we had to press them aside with our hands. What with the vibrations of sound in the air, that clump of bamboo was swaying with an undernote that was like a swishing whisper. We added to that whispering. As went aside the thin, elastic rattans, there was, close to our ears, a continuous whis- pering. That bamboo had a peculiar property— a property like that of hay released from the press of its baling wire. Like swimmers striking out into water, we would sweep to either side with our arms the bamboo stalks close about us; and those stalks would sweep against the stalks farther back; and then all would bend away and swish ‘back behind us. Thus, in a certain sequence, near and far away, the whole brake of bam- boo seemed to be swaying and swishing. It was very dark in that covert and yet, withal, I knew that continually my bride was pausing; looking to the right, to the left. I paused; continually I looked to the right, to the left. And still and tense of nerve and muscle, I listened. Far away from me, like the crackling of hay, would come to me, even then, the swishing whispers of the restless bamboo. I felt I knew the cause of those stealthy whispers, and yet I became very uneasy, all nerves. It seemed to me that the bamboo all aboutus was alive; it seemed to me as if we two could not make all that continuous whispering through the brake. Others must be in that brake, bending aside the stalks. And, indeed, some one might be close be- side me, stealing along right at my shoulder, and I would never know. Some one might be between Golden Feather of Flame and me; and I would never know. I pressed forward sharply. With my free Mi Eomicboo (¢ cS (E(0) ahs AA a Be aay AN