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The beggar leaned back against the cool wall and laughed. McDermot turned on him in his fury, and would have kicked him, but Cumner’s Son, struck by some astute intelligence in the man’s look, said:

“What do you know of the Red Plague?”

Again the beggar laughed. “Once I saved the city of Nangoon from the plague, but they forgot me, and when I complained and in my anger went mad at the door of the Palace, the Rajah drove me from the country. That was in India, where I learned to speak English; and here am I at the door of a Palace again!”

“Can you save the city from the plague?” asked Cumner’s Son, coming closer and eagerly questioning. “Is the man dead?” asked the beggar.

“Not when I saw him–he had just been taken.”

“Good. The city may be saved if–” he looked at Cumner’s Son, “if thou wilt save him with me. If he be healed there is no danger; it is the odour of death from the Red Plague which carries death abroad.”

“Why do you ask this?” asked McDermot, nodding towards Cumner’s Son.

The beggar shrugged his shoulders. “That he may not do with me as did the Rajah of Nangoon.”

“He is not Dakoon,” said McDermot.

“Will the young man promise me?”

“Promise what?” asked Cumner’s Son.

“A mat to pray on, a house, a servant, and a loaf of bread, a bowl of goat’s milk, and a silver najil every day till I die.”

“I am not Dakoon,” said the lad, “but I promise for the Dakoon–he will do this thing to save the city.”

“And if thou shouldst break thy promise?”

“I keep my promises,” said the lad stoutly.

“But if not, wilt thou give thy life to redeem it?”

“Yes.”

The beggar laughed again and rose. “Come,” said he.

“Don’t go–it’s absurd!” said McDermot, laying a hand on the young man’s arm. “The plague cannot be cured.”

“Yes, I will go,” answered Cumner’s Son. “I believe he speaks the truth. Go you to Pango Dooni and tell him all.”

He spurred his horse and trotted away, the beggar running beside him. They passed out of the court-yard, and through the Gate by the Fountain of Sweet Waters.

They had not gone far when they saw Cumner, the Governor, and six men of the artillery riding towards them. The Governor stopped, and asked him where he was going.

The young man told him all.

The Colonel turned pale. “You would do this thing!” said he dumfounded. “Suppose this rascal,” nodding towards the beggar, “speaks the truth; and suppose that, after all, the sick man should die and–“

“Then the lad and myself would be the first to follow him,” interrupted the beggar, “and all the multitude would come after, from the babe on the mat to the old man by the Palace gates. But if the sick man lives–“

The Governor looked at his son partly in admiration, partly in pain, and maybe a little of anger.

“Is there no one else? I tell you I–“

“There is no one else; the lad or death for the city! I can believe the young; the old have deceived me,” interposed the beggar again.

“Time passes,” said Cumner’s Son anxiously. “The man may die. You say yes to my going, sir?” he asked his father.

The Governor frowned, and the skin of his cheeks tightened.

“Go-go, and good luck to you, boy.” He made as if to ride on, but stopped short, flung out his hand, and grasped the hand of his son. “God be with you, lad,” said he; then his jaws closed tightly, and he rode on. It was easier for the lad than for him.

When he told the story to Pango Dooni the chief was silent for a moment; then he said:

“Until we know whether it be death or life, whether Cumner’s Son save the city or lose his life for its sake, we will not call the people together in the Hall of the Heavenly Hours. I will send the heralds abroad, if it be thy pleasure, Cumner.”