d keenly listening. Yes, a cry for
help, certainly, and a dog's strange, shrill bark, too--and both from
the far-off jungle. Maung Yet trembled. Was it the cry, perchance, of
some robber luring him to destruction, or was it really a
fellow-creature's cry for help?

The Burman, like all his race, was very superstitious, and avoided the
jungle as being haunted; but his heart was kind. Arming himself with his
primitive sickle, he beckoned to Lan Wee, his young brother, who was
squatting on the ground eating a huge mass of rice, and set off at full
speed towards the spot whence the cries proceeded, attracted onward
against his will by the voice of misery. The youth followed him closely,
his eyes wide open with fear, as they neared the dreaded jungle. In its
dark shadows who could say what dangers lurked? They pressed on,
however, through trails of prickly foliage, clinging undergrowth, and
fallen timber, which lay like so many traps for unwary feet. The cry had
sunk to a moan, but the dog's whine was shriller and more urgent as they
neared the end of their quest.

Both Burmen were tattooed over breast and shoulders with a glorious
blazonry of red--a decoration performed with religious rites as a
protection against 'evil spirits.' Few Burmen would face the jungle
unless thus fortified. Maung felt a few qualms even in spite of his
tattoo, but invoking the 'aing-sohn' (the good spirits), he and his
young companion, breathless and panting, struggled on, and came to what
they sought at last.

Half resting against a fallen tree-trunk lay an apparently dead native
woman, reduced to almost a skeleton. Her bare feet told of long, rough
journeying, and from wrist to elbow of the left arm was a half-healed
wound, such as Maung Yet knew well the keen 'dah' could leave. From her
neck was slung a baby, and standing fiercely on guard, a lean, whitish
dog.

With the curious canine instinct, divining rightly friend or foe, the
dog allowed the approach of the two Burmen. Maung knelt and raised the
prostrate woman; the weak head fell heavily on his shoulder, then
stirred uneasily, the eyes opened, and the dying lips tried again and
again to find utterance. Broken words at last whispered faintly over and
over again, 'Bebe Ingalay--Mah Kloo! Thakin Missee Bebe!' Then the
wasted hands tried to remove the baby. Maung understood, and signed to
the youth to lift it from her neck. The movement woke the child, and it
uttered a thin cry. The soun