er another
half-hour's walk across a cultivated country, they entered a
forest. The ground now rose steadily and, after keeping on for two
miles, they emerged from the trees at the top of a hill. The space
had been cleared of timber, but it was nearly covered with bushes
and young trees. In the centre were the ruins of a temple, that had
evidently existed long before the Burmese dynasty occupied the
country, and had been erected by some older race. It was roofless;
the walls had, in places, fallen; and the ruins were covered with
vegetation.

The Burman ascended some broken steps, entered the temple, and
crossed to one of the opposite corners. A dim light was burning in
a small apartment, which had been roofed with thatch. A man was
lying, dressed, on a heap of leaves at one side. He started up as
the officer entered.

"Who is it who comes here at this hour?" he asked.

"Thekyn," the officer answered.

"I am glad to see you," the Phongee said, "whatever may bring you
here. You have not fallen into trouble, I hope?"

"In no way, good priest. I am starting, in two days, down the river
to fight the barbarians; but before I go, I want you to do me a
favour."

The Phongee smiled.

"Beyond naming you in my prayers, Thekyn, there is but little that
a hermit can do for any man."

"Not so, in this case," the officer said. "I have one here with me
who needs rest, and concealment. I would rather that you did not
ask who he is. He has done no crime, and yet he is in danger; and
for a month, maybe, he needs a shelter. Will you give it him, for
my sake?"

"Assuredly I will," the priest said. "Your father was one of my
dearest friends, in the days when I dwelt in the city. I would
gladly do all in my power for his son, and this is but a small
thing that you ask. Let him enter."

Stanley went in. The priest took down the little lamp, from a shelf
on which it stood, and held it near the lad's face. Then he turned,
with a smile, to Thekyn:

"The painting is but clumsily done," he said, "though maybe it
would pass without close examination. He is a stranger, and comes
of a race unknown to me but, as you said, it matters not to me who
he is; suffice that he is a friend of yours. He is welcome to a
share of my shelter, and my food; though the shelter is rough, and
the food somewhat scanty. Of late few, indeed, have sought me for,
as I hear, most of the men have gone down to the war."

"I have brought you some food," the o