IN

N all corners of the civilized world where men have lived, built, and died, for two thousand years or more, there are but few that show traces of the successive "race generations" so clearly as does that section of Poland, watered by the upper courses of the Vistula River where it bends from west to north, leaving the former Russian plains and whirling in a mighty torrent to the Baltic.

The under soil of this district holds the masonry and mounds of the Slavonic ancestors of the Lechs, the fathers of the Poles, who came there from some region unknown to historians. Upon this there has been much speculation, some saying that the original Slavs came from Asia, others declaring that the founders of the race lived in the fertile valleys of the Oder and Warthe. In the upper soil are the monuments of stone, reminiscent of the days when men built high altars to the Unknown God, in all parts of Europe, from Stonehenge in England, and Carnac in France, to the forest regions of Lithuania.

Vandals and early Goths left legends but few monuments, for they were wanderers who mingled but little with the permanent residents. But when the Lechs overcame the Roman legions in a three-days' battle to the south, there came the beginning of a Roman culture. Roman towers rose overnight along the courses of the river. The eagle as an emblem found its sculptured niche in every castle, and the captured Roman standards bearing the imperial eagle became the standards of royal houses in Russia, Poland, Austria, Germany, and Bohemia.

Most southern of these cities is Torun, called by the Prussians Thorn; to the north on the east bank, is Malborg. Farther north is Grudziadz known to the Germans as Graudenz. Still to the north, though on the west bank is Tcheff, which Teutons mention as Dirzchau, and higher still, where one stream of the sundering Vistula pours into the gulf through a network of canals, stands the city of Gdansk, which the merchants of the Hanse League named Danzig.

Time has done little to injure these cities. Rather it has made them more beautiful, for the brilliant sun, tempered by Baltic mists, has transformed their walls, cathedrals, and castles into buildings of high-shaded

red. For miles about, this coloring is visible, and as the traveler from Western Europe approaches these towns he is amazed at the first sight of masses of red stone reflected in the blue and green of the river.

Into the city of Grudziadz, on a rich sunny morning in May in one of the middle years of the fifteenth century, a great company was pouring. There were peasants from the land of the Mazurs from the south, there were woodsmen from the East Prussak lands riding on high horses, there were even men, women, and children from the distant Lithuanian border; on the river there were myriads of flat-bottomed boats propelled by pole-oars, which carried the ever-increasing throng of farmers and their families from the region of Bydgosc and Poznan.

It might have been an emigration cityward which always took place when enemies threatened, but there was no war; it might have been a great service in the Cathedral, but Easter came early that year; it might have been Fair Day for the people were in good humor and wore their best raiment, but Fair Day was still three months away.

family was one of the most popular in Poland. In the days when its members had been the chiefs of Grudziadz there had been much public spirit, universal freedom, and actual affection between noble and peasant, such as one finds in a number of instances in the old feudal system, and which, though seemingly ideal, was the spirit of Chivalry.

And now, young Stefan Charnietski, the last of the family, whom none of them had ever seen, was returning to his land, and the country was out to meet and bless him.

It was a purely spontaneous welcome, for he was popular not only by association, but by report. He had taken part in wars with the Tartars, and was known as the Friend of the People in the Polish Diet.

The land was full of stories about him. It was said that he was the first noble to call himself a "man," for in those days a noble in Poland called himself a "Pan," and a "man" was one who served him. Eut young Stefan had arisen in the Diet and proclaimed himself a "man of Poland," and for this simple distinction the people loved him.

He was due in the city early in the What was this attraction in the city afternoon, but the peasants had been of red walls? on the march for days, in order to be there in time to kiss his hands.

In brief it was this: After a long period of dispute, the King of Poland had assigned to Stefan Charnietski and his heirs, the overlordship of the city of Grudziadz and the villages and towns about; by doing so he ended a long controversy and suitat-law begun many years before when the family of Duke Karl claimed right of residence and power there. Their rights were mostly those of forces and arms, and under their rule the country bled and suffered. Taxes had been imposed until peasant and tradesman hid in their cellars when collectors came; levies for foreign wars had taken away the young men from each generation; serfdom had increased to such a point that the majority of farmers were deprived of their rights, being unable to meet the exorbitant taxes. Lines were drawn sharply between noble and workman, and the old Polish free man who had always boasted of his rights and his power in the state, was compelled to eat his pride with scant black bread and beans, which were all the high taxes left him.

The East Prussak hills lay green and verdant in the golden light of morning. A breeze from the river carrying the coolness of its ripples fanned every cheek. Flowers had burst into bloom overnight in the path of the people, as if nature were adding its delicate tribute to that of its human children.

Conspicuous among a group of laughing men and women in peasant dress, who had come up from Plock, far distant down the river, were two young men dressed in holiday attire. One of them was of medium height, perhaps eighteen years of age, wearing blouse and knee-trousers of heavy cloth striped in black and yellow. On his head lay a flat cloth cap, in which he had thrust the feather of an eagle. At his waist he carried a short peasant-knife, and in his hands was a slender reed pipe, with which he entertained the marching crowd.

The other was noticeable in that he was a veritable giant, powerful in arm, back, and leg, and towering above the heads of the other men. He wore a close-fitting suit of green, On the other hand the Charnietski with cap similar to that of his com

a

panion, and at his waist was half-length, flat sword, like that of a soldier who fights at close quarters. But though he had the strength of four men he possessed the happy disposition of a child. All the young peasant women looked at him out of the corners of their eyes, and were mightily pleased when he turned the sunshine of his glance in their direction. When the company rested he was continually performing tricks; when, despite his bulk, he danced as cleverly as the trimmest master of ceremonies, the children rushed to take his hand; and a pretty figure they made whether it was the steps of Mazur, Rhinelander, or Krakoviak -all together while his companion made music upon the reed pipe. He could throw his legs into the air and snap his feet together three times before he came to earth again; alternating this process to right and left to the measure of the music. He could kick, front and back and to the side so that both feet, far apart, left the ground. He could glide on his heels, back and forth like the Muscovites, until one near split for laughing.

At length the gates of the city stood open before them. Above the town, which sloped up to a wide moat, a kind of inner fortification, rose the watch-tower which the Teutonic knights had erected for purpose of spying up and down the river. However, so gradual was the rise of land to this place, that it was difficult to tell where the city ended and the fortress began.

They passed in among scenes of rejoicing and splendor. Pointed pennons and flags hung in every conceivable house-nook; wreaths of flowers, colored ribbons, bits of red and blue glass strung together hung from all the windows. Triumphal arches, gaudy enough for a Cæsar, straddled the main street, and scraps of paper flung down by watchers on the housetops floated and turned in the air like bits of feathery gold and silver. In the streets were men, women, and children thronging about, jostling, laughing, fighting, struggling for places of advantage where they might see the new chief. Here and there were soldiers in shining armor, from the fortress, keeping the crowds in order, or forcing lanes through the throng whenever one of the Pans or members of his family passed through.

At noon-time the group of travelers from Plock, with the flute-player and the young man of prodigious strength, took their places in the upper square on the road from the gate to the fortress, where a great crowd was already waiting. As there was yet

some two hours before the arrival of Stefan Charnietski, the flute-player and the dancer selected a small space near the street edge where they might entertain the waiting ones, and at the same time collect a small bit of money for their pains. The time hanging heavy at just that moment, the sound of the flute and the antics of the dancer had the desired effect and the crowd came eagerly.

They paid too, for when the dancing ceased, the piper passed his cap about and the copper coins poured

Then suddenly came an interruption, a burst of music, at which the spectators turned to the street. There were rumors that Pan Stefan was coming; some said that he had entered at the gate, unexpectedly, but an appearance of soldiers from the opposite direction, that in which the fortress lay, put an end to these rumors. It was not Stefan, but a cavalcade from the fort, on the way to welcome the incomers; in the front came the musicians, all in blue cloth, with tall hats and gray feathers; then, held in check, prancing, snorting, swerving to right and left, came the horses of the magnificent bodyguard. Behind them were custodians, secretaries, chamberlains, seneschals, and the like, then the counselors, and finally a thick-set man on a huge, white horse.

This horse seemed ill at ease, perhaps because of the constraint placed upon him by the crowd and the slow pace of the procession; when shortly above the square where the piper and dancer were counting their pennies, it reared in fright at something in the crowd, threw out its nostrils and gripped the rider's bit in its teeth; then doubling for a spring it shot like an arrow straight toward the cavalcade, amidst great shouting, while the riders opened their ranks to let it through.

And then in another flash, something white and small shot out from the narrow sidewalk opposite the square directly into the path of the frightened steed. Quickly it had happened, so quickly that not a bystander had the opportunity to interpose; there stood the tiny figure, momentarily unaware of its own peril, a child, a little girl in white dress, glancing up with a smile into the eyes of helpless hundreds.

The rider made no attempt to check or swerve his horse; he was apparently concerned only with his own safety, but another brain in the crowd had planned, settled, and executed a scheme in that brief moment. With one bound the young giant swept a clear track through the

spectators between him and the street, and threw himself with all his force into the animal's flank.

There was an impact like the crashing of two boats, and for a moment both man and horse staggered; then turning aside as if quivering with pain and partly stunned, the steed wobbled and sank full length on the dusty road, breathing in shrieks, snorting, and with eyes pulsating from the shock. The rider, grasping madly at the horse's mane, and tearing his feet from the stirrups, managed to spring clear as the animal lunged forward, but the force of the collision and his own leap sent him headlong into the dirt.

An instantaneous silence fell upon the throng. When since the days of heroes was such a deed seen? The silence gave place, however, to a hearty cheer, as the young man, a bit pale and unsteady, picked up the child and placed her in her mother's

arms.

But there was no commendation from the rider. He sprang to his feet, wiping the grime from his eyes, and endeavoring to smooth down his velvet coat. It was rich with embroidered figures, reinforced here and there with plates of shining steel, but was ripped clear across the back. The leg-coverings had also suffered. As he approached the giant his right hand reached for his sword, but he restrained the impulse and did not draw.

"Why did you do do that?" he screamed in rage, his little mustached mouth appearing to dance up and down with his words.

"I beg your Excellency's pardon," answered the young man, bowing, and the crowd, wholly in sympathy with him, noticed that the unhorsed one's head scarcely reached his bowed shoulders. "I am sorry if I have caused you any distress. My own strength and bulk often put me to shame in many such awkward predicaments."

It was said so politely and so kindly that even the rider's retainers, crowding about, felt their hearts swelling a generous response of emotion.

Not so the rider. "Do you know who I am?" he demanded. "Do you know whom you have tossed from a horse as if it were a mere peasant from a cart? I am Duke Karl, guardian of the city of Grudziadz.”

The young man looked steadily and it seemed, a bit curiously, at the hard face.

As a matter of fact the duke was on fire with anger. This was merely the point at which his wrath burst. He had seen his abused privileges

taken away by the court and king; he had seen the hidden exultation of his people at this discomfiture; he had been sensitive to the gradual withdrawal of most of his friends as the approach of the new chief came closer. And now, in the very midst of these people whom he had wronged in every way that pleased him, he was rolled from his horse and from his dignity by a lout of a dancer.

"I will teach you," he screamed. "I will teach you how to carry that vile carcass of yours."

"But the child" began the young man.

"It had no business in the road," snapped the cruel mouth. And at the look in his face even his own retainers shuddered. "Here, Stanislaus," he shouted to one of them, "call your fellows and set this fellow in the pillory for me. Here in this very square," he commanded, "where all the people may see. And leave him there for one hour."

The young man straightened his shoulders, and was dumb, but whether from surprise or consternation, he could not himself tell

will hear me," he pleaded, "I think, your Excellency, that it will be but for your own benefit-" but the duke, springing on a fresh horse, nigh trampled him under foot.

Meantime they led the young man to the very middle of the square where upon a high platform stood that instrument of shame of former days-the pillory. He made no pro

grooves, into which the neck and wrists of a prisoner might fit. When the condemned man stood in position with his head and hands across this cross-piece, another piece of wood also grooved in the same manner was fitted down from above, and locked. Thus the unfortunate dancer stood, locked in this wooden frame, his face and hands visible to

the crowd, his legs and body hidden behind the pillory support.

Standing in the pillory of itself caused no immediate pain, but when a prisoner had remained there for any length of time his neck and arms became terribly cramped. An hour in such a position was terrible, two hours were hideous, and three hours were more than flesh and blood could stand. In addition, too, there was the shame of such public exposure, and the law allowed passers-by to pelt the unfortunate with stones or vegetables.

this man. Pan Stefan will be here in scarce an hour's time and a pilloried man in the public square is not the style of welcome which I think he might desire."

The noble could hardly hear him out. "I will have my way," he exclaimed. "See that you execute my orders." At that he turned away to return to the castle to fit himself in fresh costume against Stefan's arrival.

One man further accosted him. It was the piper who had been always close at the dancer's heels. "If you

test, though indeed his good heart was heavy with sorrow; by his side went the piper striving to get the ears of the retainers who did this shameful thing, but they paid him no heed; in truth they were heartily ashamed of this work, and had no small fear of the crowd, for sentiments of sympathy for the prisoner began to arise on all sides.

The pillory, which was fixed to the raised platform, consisted of an upright which reached to the shoulders of a man of ordinary height, with a cross-piece in which were

Had the dancer chosen he could have overthrown his guards at the moment he was placed on the platform, and the crowd would probably have aided him to escape. But he remained remarkably, nay, curiously gentle and docile, as if his faculties were paralyzed at such treatment.

There was deep silence in the crowd for at least ten minutes, as every eye sought his with a message of sympathy.

"God bless you, sir," came one voice ringing up from below. The changing sun shifted, and fell directly upon his face. He closed his eyes, but his lips were soon dry. Some one lifted up to him a little child, it was the tiny girl whose life he had saved,and she kissed his parched mouth.

For nigh an hour he perched there, and said not a word, but near him on the ground squatted the piper, and the woman with the girl in her

arms.

At length there came another shout. "Pan Stefan! Pan Stefan!" ran through the crowd, for those below (Continued on page 420)

I

CHAPTER III

THE MAN-KILLER

T was the evening after the hunt on the plain. All through the long, hot hours when the sun's rays poured down like molten lava upon the land, the travelers had slept in darkened rooms at the palace, swinging in cool hammocks and fanned with long punkas worked by drowsy boys seated cross-legged in the corridors. Not until the sun had dropped like a vast red coal behind the greenery of the jungle which marked the horizon on every side of the village, did they awake to bathe and dress.

That evening they attended a banquet given by the sultan in their honor. At the head of the low table, upon a pile of silken rugs, sat their host, surrounded by his retinue. Next to him was Rahman, a prince of the blood royal and, except for old Dato, his most trusted counselor. Rahman, although younger than the sultan, was a vast, rotund figure with a jolly, moonlike face from which his bright eyes gleamed like crumbs of black glass. Incorruptible, sincere, and generous, he was one of the most popular men in the little kingdom, and had charge of all the sultan's revenues and expenses; and from the first he had taken a great liking to the three boys and to that imperturbable officer, Captain Vincton.

The dinner was a delicious one. There were ducks, spitted on strips of sugar-cane and broiled over charcoal fires by skilled native cooks, and various savory combinations of rice, spices, and fish. For dessert there was fruit of all kinds, including durians which Will and Fred and Jud welcomed eagerly, for they had learned to like that worst-smelling, best-tasting fruit on earth, above all others, during their quest after the Red Diamond.

On teak-wood trays the durians looked like green pineapples covered with sharp spikes. Each fruit was divided by the servants into four sections containing large seeds surrounded by the white pulp which tastes like a mixture of rich cream, chocolate, almonds, and bananas, with a flavor of garlic and a touch of tabasco an indescribable soothing, satisfying, stimulating taste which leaves the one eating a durian with a sensation of well-being such as per

haps no other food in the world provides.

All of these excellencies, however, were lost upon Joe. When the severed sections of the durian nearest to him fell apart, he clasped both hands tightly over his nose with a prolonged and expressive grunt, as a wave of the devastating smell of the fruit reached him.

A little gasp ran through the room among the priests and princes who made up the sultan's retinue. In Jahore, where the tiger is a sacred animal, it is unlucky even to call him by name, while to speak of killing one, and especially a white one, seemed to most of the natives present nothing less than sacrilege.

"I never forget it now," objected Joe, in muffled tones as he started for the window. Jud and Fred pushed him back into his seat by main force, and Will inserted a section of the delicious pulp into his reluctant mouth, while the sultan and his suite watched them, astonished that anybody would refuse to eat the most wonderful food in the world. As the taste of the magic fruit reached Joe's palate a pleased expression came over his puckered face, his eyes, which had been closed tightly, opened with a look of surprise, and the next moment he was reaching for the rest of his durian.

Finally the flute-players and native singers who, throughout the meal, had been discoursing music which the hardened Jud described as "squealin' an' squawkin'," slipped away, and the silent servants passed tiny cups of inky, fragrant coffee. When that had been sipped the sultan began to speak. "After men have shared dangers and eaten food with each other," he said, "their hearts are opened. Two there be here who have saved my life and whom I would reward. What is it that I can do for thee, old friend," he went on, looking at Captain Vincton, "and for thee, new friend?" he finished, turning to Jud.

The eyes of all present were fixed upon the two, and many there envied them their opportunity to claim wealth and honor from the ruler of Jahore. It was the captain who spoke first.

"I don't expect any reward for helping my friends," he said slowly, while old Jud nodded his approval. "If you wish to show me and my friends a favor, however," he continued, "help us to hunt in thy jungles for the strange beast which we seek."

"Yes, your Honorable Majesty," chimed in Jud, before the Captain could stop him. "Help us get a white tiger, and we'll call it square."

It was Rahman who saved the situation. Although younger than the sultan, he had traveled far more and had lived for some time at Singapore among Europeans and was, therefore, freer from native superstitions than any of those present.

There

"The favor that thy friend asks, O heaven-born," he said, "will be a blessing for thee and thy people, if it be granted. Already the striped ones lord it over thy land, and man-eaters devour thy people like bread. are to-day many villages in the jungle which have been forsaken because of them. The White One himself hath shed enough blood of men and women and children to make him red as the sun at dawn. Perchance the gods have sent these men to free our land from the power of the beast."

There was a pause after this speech, and the young ruler turned to his prime minister.

"What knowest thou of this?" he inquired.

"He speaketh what is so," old Dato replied. "There is a man-killer preying upon thy people here even within sight of thy palace, nor do any dare to oppose him."

The young ruler's face flushed angrily.

"No one hath told me of this before," he said indignantly. "I, the Sultan of Jahore, fear neither man nor beast, and thou mayest hunt where thou wilt and Rahman shall help thee. Yet have a care, Tuan," he went on, "lest the demons of the jungle be too strong for thee."

A smile showed for an instant on Captain Vincton's face. "I wear a charm which protects me against man, beast, ghost, or devil," he said slowly, touching his cartridge-belt as he spoke.

"Aha, daredevil, that was always thy way," returned the sultan. "Tomorrow Rahman shall provide thee