“Watch,” said the girl. “Out-watch the Yezidee. If there is no night-wind he may tire of waiting. Then you must shoot fast—very, very fast and straight. But if the night-wind comes, then we must hunt him in darkness.” Recklow, pistol in hand, stood straight and sturdy in the moonlight, gazing fixedly at the forest. Cleves sat down at his wife’s feet. She touched her moon-lute tranquilly and sang in her childish voice: “_Ring, ring, Buddha bells,_ _Gilded gods are listening._ _Swing, swing, lily bells,_ _In my garden glistening._ _Now I hear the Shaman drum;_ _Now the scarlet horsemen come;_ _Ding-dong!_ _Ding-dong!_ _Through the chanting of the throng_ _Thunders now the temple gong._ _Boom-boom!_ _Ding-dong!_ “_Let the gold gods listen!_ _In my garden; what care I_ _Where my lily bells hang mute!_ _Snowy-sweet they glisten_ _Where I’m singing to my lute._ _In my garden; what care I_ _Who is dead and who shall die?_ _Let the gold gods save or slay_ _Scented lilies bloom in May._ _Boom, boom, temple gong!_ _Ding-dong!_ _Ding-dong!_” “What are you singing?” whispered Cleves. “‘The Bells of Yian.’” “Is it old?” “Of the 13th century. There were few Buddhist bells in Yian then. It is Lamaism that has destroyed the Mongols and that has permitted the creed of the Assassins to spread—the devil worship of Erlik.” He looked at her, not understanding. And she, pale, slim prophetess, in the moonlight, gazed at him out of lost eyes—eyes which saw, perhaps, the bloody age of men when mankind took the devil by the throat and all Mount Alamout went up in smoking ruin; and the Eight Towers were dark as death and as silent before the blast of the silver clarions of Ghenghis Khan. “Something is stirring in the forest,” whispered Tressa, her fingers on her lips. “Damnation,” muttered Recklow, “it’s the wind!” They listened. Far in the forest they heard the clatter of palm-fronds. They waited. The ominous warning grew faint, then rose again,—a long, low rattle of palm-fronds which became a steady monotone. “We hunt,” said Recklow bluntly. “Come on!” But the girl sprang from the hammock and caught her husband’s arm and drew Recklow back from the hibiscus hedge. “Use me,” she said. “You could never find the Yezidee. Let me do the hunting; and then shoot very, very fast.” “We’ve got to take her,” said Recklow. “We dare not leave her.” “I can’t let her lead the way into those black woods,” muttered Cleves. “The wind is blowing in my face,” insisted Recklow. “We’d better hurry.” Tressa laid one hand on her husband’s arm. “I can find the Yezidee, I think. You never could find him before he finds you! Victor, let me use my own _knowledge_! Let me find the way. Please let me lead! Please, Victor. Because, if you don’t, I’m afraid we’ll all die here in the garden where we stand.” Cleves cast a haggard glance at Recklow, then looked at his wife. “All right,” he said. The girl opened the hedge gate. Both men followed with pistols lifted.