“My good man,” said he to Auberry, “let me take your knife.”  Auberry loosed the long hunting-knife at his belt and handed it to him.  Taking it, Orme seated himself cross-legged on a white blanket, which he spread out on the sandy soil.

All at once Orme looked up with an expression of surprise on his face.  “This was not the knife I wanted,” he said.  “I asked for a plain American hunting-knife, not this one.  See, you have given me a Malay kris!  I have not the slightest idea where you got it.”

We all looked intently at him.  There, held up in his hand, was full proof of what he had said—­a long blade of wavy steel, with a little crooked, carved handle.  From what I had read, I saw this to be a kris, a wavy bladed knife of the Malays.  It did not shine or gleam in the sun, but threw back a dull reflection from its gray steel, as though lead and silver mingled in its make.  The blade was about thirty inches long, whereas that of Auberry’s knife could not have exceeded eight inches at the most.

“We did not know you had that thing around you!” exclaimed Belknap.  “That is only sleight of hand.”

“Is it, indeed?” said Orme, smiling.  “I tell you, I did not have it with me.  After all, you see it is the same knife.”

We all gaped curiously, and there, as I am a living man, we saw that wavy kris, extended in his hand, turn back into the form of the plainsman’s hunting-knife!  A gasp of wonder and half terror came from the circle.  Some of the men drew back.  I heard an Irish private swear and saw him cross himself.  I do not explain these things, I only say I saw them.

“I was mistaken,” said Orme, politely, “in offering so simple a test as this; but now, if you still think I had the kris in my clothing—­how that could be, I don’t know, I’m sure—­and if you still wish to call my little performance sleight of hand, then I’ll do something to prove what I have said, and make it quite plain that all my friend here has said is true and more than true.  Watch now, and you will see blood drip from the point of this blade—­every drop of blood it ever drew, of man or animal.  Look, now—­watch it closely.”

We looked, and again, as I am a living man, and an honest one, I hope, I saw, as the others did, running from the point of the steel blade, a little trickling stream of red blood!  It dropped in a stream, I say, and fell on the white blanket upon which Orme was sitting.  It stained the blanket entirely red.  At this sight the entire group broke apart, only a few remaining to witness the rest of the scene.

I do not attempt to explain this illusion, or whatever it was.  I do not know how long it lasted; but presently, as I may testify, I saw Orme rise and kick at the wetted, bloodstained blanket.  He lifted it, heavy with dripping blood.  I saw the blood fall from its corners upon the ground.

“Ah,” he remarked, calmly, “it’s getting dry now.  Here is your knife, my good fellow.”