Interior digressed at some length to recount with hideous detail what he had himself once done with a woodman’s axe to a wild boar—”but it is to the great nations of the West and North, and specially to their worthy representatives that are with us to-night, that we look as our natural leaders on the road of progress. Ladies and gentlemen we must be Modern, we must be refined in our Cruelty to Animals. That is the message of the New Age brought to us by our guests this evening. May I, in conclusion, raise my glass and ask you to join with me in wishing them old age and prolonged fecundity.’
The toast was drunk and the company sat down. Boaz’s neighbours congratulated him on his speech. There seemed no need for a reply and indeed Dame Mildred, rarely at a loss for telling phrases, would on this occasion have been hard put to it to acknowledge the welcome in suitable terms. Seth appeared not to have heard either version of the speech. He sat inattentive, his mind occupied with remote spec-225 ulation. Dame Mildred attempted two or three conversations.
“A very kindly meant speech, but he seems to misunderstand our mission…. It is so interesting to see your people in their own milieu. Do tell me who is who… Have they entirely abandoned native costume?…”
But she received only abstracted answers.
Finally she said, “I was so interested to learn about your uncle Achon.” The Emperor nodded. “I do hope they get him out of the monastery. Such a us-less life, I always think, and so selfish. It makes people introspective to think all the time about their own souls, don’t you think? So sensible of that Earl of wherever it is to go and look for him.’
But Seth had not heard a word.
March 16th.
Could not sleep late after party. Attempted to telephone legation. No reply. Attempted to see Mr. Seal. Said he was too busy. No sign of Sarah’s trunk. She keeps borrowing my things. Tried to pin down Emperor last night, no result. Went for walk in town. V. crowded, no one working. Apparently some trouble about currency. Saw man strike camel, would have reported him but no policeman about. Begin to feel I am wasting my time here.
The Monastery of St. Mark the Evangelist, though infected of late with the taint of heresy, was the centre of Azanian spiritual life. Here in remote times Nestorian missionaries from Mesopotamia had set up a church and here when the great Amurath proclaimed Christianity the official creed of the Empire, the old foundations had been un- earthed and a native community installed. A well substantiated tradition affirmed that the little river watering the estate was in fact the brook Kedron conveyed there subterraneously; its waters were in continual requisition for the relief of skin diseases and stubborn boils. Here too were preserved among other relics of less certain authenticity, David’s stone prised out of the forehead of Goliath (a boulder of astonishing dimensions), a leaf from the Barren Fig Tree, the rib from which Eve had been created, and a wooden cross which had fallen from heaven quite unexpectedly during Good Friday luncheon some years back. Architecturally, however, there was nothing very remarkable; no cloister or ambulatory, library, gallery, chapter house or groined refectory; a cluster of mud huts around a larger hut; a single stone building, the church dedicated to St. Mark by Amurath the Great. It could be descried from miles round, perched on a site of supreme beauty, a shelf of the great escarpment that overlooked the Wanda lowlands, and through it the brook Kedron, narrowed at this season to a single thread of silver, broke into innumerable iridescent cascades as it fell to join the sluggish Izol five thousand feet below. Great rocks of volcanic origin littered the fields. The hillside was full of unexplored caverns whence hyenas sallied out at night to exhume the corpses which it was a pious practice to transport from all over the Empire to await the last trump on that holy ground.
The Earl of Ngumo had made good time. The road lay through the Sakuyu cattle country, high plains, covered with brown and slippery grass. At first the way led along the caravan route to the royal cities of the north; a clearly defined track well frequented. They exchanged greetings with mule trains coming in to market and unusual bands of travellers, loping along on foot, drawn to the capital by the name of the great Gala and the magnetic excitement which all the last weeks had travelled on the ether, radiating in thrilling waves to bazaar, farm and jungle, gossiped about over camp fires, tapped out on hollow tree trunks in the swamplands, sniffed, as it were, on the breeze, sensed by sub-human facul-ties, that something was afoot.
Later they diverged into open country; only the heaps of stones bridging the water courses and an occasional wooden culvert told them they were still on the right road. On the first night they camped among shepherds. The simple men recognised a great nobleman and brought him their children to touch.
“We hear of changes in the great city.”
“There are changes.”
On the second night they reached a little town. The headman had been forwarned of their approach. He came out to meet them, prostrating himself and covering his head with dust.
“Peace be upon your house.”
“You come from the great city of changes. What is your purpose among my people?”
“I wish well to your people. It is not suitable for the low to babble of what the high ones do.”
They slept in and around the headman’s hut; in the morning he brought them honey and eggs, a trussed chicken, dark beer in a jug and a basket of flat bread: they gave him salt in bars, and continued their journey.
The third night they slept in the open; there was a picket of royal guards somewhere in that country. Late on the fourth day they reached the Monastery of St. Mark the Evangelist.
A monk watching on the hill top sighted them and fired a single musket shot into the still air; a troop of baboons scattered frightened into the rocks. In die church below the great bell was rung to summon the community. The Abbot under his yel-low sunshade stood in the enclosure to greet them; he wore steel rimmed spectacles. A little deacon be-side him plied a horse-hair fly whisk.
Obeisance and benediction. The Earl presented the Patriarch’s letter of commendation, which was slipped unopened into the folds of the Abbot’s bosom, for it is not etiquette to show any immediate curiosity about such documents. Official reception, in the twilit hut; the Earl seated on a chair hastily covered with carpet. The chief men of the monastery stood round the wall with folded hands. The Abbot opened the letter of introduction, spat and read it aloud amid grunts of approval; it was all preamble and titles of honour; no word of business. A visit to the shrine of the Barren Fig Tree; the Earl kissed the lintel of the door three times, laid his forehead against the steps of the sanctuary and made a present of a small bag of silver. Dinner in the Abbot’s lodging; it was one of the numerous fast days of the Nestorian Church; vegetable mashes in wooden bowls, one of bananas, one of beans; earthenware jugs and brown vessels of rough beer. Ponderous leave takings for the night. The Earl’s tent meanwhile had been pitched in the open space within the enclosure; his men squatted on guard; they had made a fire; two or three monks joined them; soon they began singing, wholly secular words in a monotonous cadence. Inside the tent a single small lamp with floating wick. The Earl squatted among his rugs, waiting for the Abbot who, he knew, would come that night. Presently through the flap of the tent appeared the bulky white turban and
