Boarding. The World Adventurers Club again bids you welcome. They convene once more in this comfortable club room to hear a story of high courage and sacrificial bravery in a remote outpost of civilization. Ladies and gentlemen, the World Adventurers Club. Welcome gentlemen. I am particularly delighted to see you all on this occasion because I am so sure of the quality of my speaker. Ronald Thurston, explorer extraordinary, has kindly consented to tell us of an expedition into the region of the forgotten ruins of Indochina. Give the floor Ronald old chap. Gentlemen, how many of you remember Marie Sayer, the famous French dancer of ten years ago? Wonderful dancer. I say Ronald, wasn't there a tremendous mystery surrounding Sayer's sudden retirement from a profession which was never explained? That's right. Well, I'm going to tell you why Marie Sayer, who had the soul of a truly great dancer, entertaining millions with her undeniable genius, gave up her work at the very height of success. This story will take us into the little known country of Cambodia in Indochina and concerns itself with the mad monk of Angkor Wat. On the occasion of which I speak, I was traveling in a steamer going up the Mekong River from Mitho to Phnom Penh, the capital of Cambodia. Mademoiselle Sayer. It has been the greatest honor for me to share your companionship on this voyage. Really, I regret that our little trip is drawing to an end. And I have found your company a great pleasure also, Monsieur. You know, there's one thing I can't understand. An explorer like myself ventures into the jungle seeking lost ruins, ancient temples, a forgotten civilization. But why should a famous dancer seek a vacation in this uncivilized spot? Personal reasons, Monsieur. Personal reasons entirely. Over a thousand pardons, Mademoiselle. Oh, no, you did not offend me. After all, why should I not tell you? It must certainly seem strange. It is even strange to me. Indeed? Wait. An irresistible influence has worked on me for months, drawing me to this place. It has hammered within my brain until I've been nearly mad. Go to Angkor. Go to Angkor. Go to Angkor. That is what it has said. Strange? Well, I deeply hope, Mademoiselle, that you will find heart's ease in these lovely forests and hills. Merci. Oh, it looks like we are preparing to land. Yes. You know, I'm very anxious to see the French consul. He's an old friend of mine. Oh, but I hope you will first permit me to escort you to your hotel. Merci. But really, I prefer to go alone. Au revoir, Monsieur. Farewell, dear lady. Come in. Well, Monsieur Thurston, the French consul of this rattle is not often honored with so distinguished a visitor. I haven't seen you since we met in Paris five years ago. Right you are, Monsieur. Well, how do you find life here in Nampen? Ah, trouble. Always trouble. Always the intense mystery of the jungle. Uncanny happenings that I, a Frenchman accustomed to the easy life of the Rue Royale, cannot understand. These disappearances, for example. What do you mean? For some ungodly reason, this center of a decayed and forgotten civilization exercises a powerful fascination for dancers. They come here, I suppose, to study their art, the dancing positions carved on the temple walls of Angkor Wat. At any rate, these dancers come, visit the temples, then disappear, never to be heard from again. Hmm, that's certainly a strange. Nevertheless, it is true. And you wonder, I'm getting gray-haired. Tell me, who lives in the vicinity of those ancient temples? One man, a Bonzi or priest, and his slaves, the mad monk of Angkor. He believes himself ruler of the ancient city located on the outskirts of the temple, and he's said to have an hypnotic eye. The monk teaches the better class of native girls, as well as visiting white dancers, the most beautiful and most beautiful dancers of the world. That sounds innocent to know. Yes, but here is the rub. Everything is all right while they are learning, but eventually they go into the forest and fail to return. It is as if they had vanished from the face of the earth. Hmm, that's certainly odd. Oh, say, this is terrible. I've completely forgotten her. Forgotten whom? Why, Marie Sayeur, the immortal French ballet dancer. She came up on the boat with me, headed for the temples. Oh, mon dieu, another one? Lava Sur. I must get to the vicinity of those temples immediately. Give me directions how to find the place at once. Oh, surely. I'll provide you with a small boat and some natives. It will be a three-day journey up the Mekong River. From there you will travel on foot into the dense jungle surrounding Angkor Wat, where the mad monk lives. Ah, but you are a superb dancer, the greatest whom my compelling mind has ever called to this holy place. Merci, Reveille de Bonnevue. You have learned six movements of the dance of Naga, the seven-headed cobra. Now comes the final interpretation, the seven so sacrificial dance. Already the pit before the idol of Naga has been fired with foggots. The courtyard is empty, the moon high and clear. Are you prepared? Dantely, Bonzey, how wicked and dissolute I have been to waste all these years dancing before men and the sons of men, when I might have whirled and peruted before the great gods and goddesses of this noble city of immortals. Eternal joy is Jesus who serves the great god Naga. Oh, I'm afraid I cannot do it. I am not good enough. But oh, I do want to dance for your great god Naga. And so you shall, my dear. And when you finish, your worldly goods will be sacrificed to the gods of Angkor, while you yourself shall join the sanctified spirit which hover eternally over this ancient and holy temple. Oh, saintly Bonzey, watch my every movement, for I want so much to please your great god Naga. Adieu. I dance the seventh dance now. The fire in the pit is crackling. Dance, fair one. Naga's looking down upon you. Dance, salvation is near. Dance, dance. I need a dip now. Hurry, you proud gentlemen. Hurry, the music's playing. She must be dancing. Lord, I hope we're not too late. If we are, I'll kill you. Open. My god, look at that woman dance. She's getting near the burning pit. No, no, stop. Out of here, infinite, from the evil thoughts of this holy temple. Go away, go away. You aren't clean. Your presence is polluting a holy ceremony. You are hypnotized, girl. As for you, you charlatan, take this. He's gone. That's it. He's gone, after him then. Oh, mademoiselle. Oh, why, where am I? Oh, it is you, monsieur first, then. Why, what is? Oh, there, there. The spell is broken. You're safe now, mademoiselle. But if I hadn't arrived just then, it would have been only a few seconds, and you would have been burning in that pit, a flaming self-sacrifice to Naga. Now, I'm going to have to go. I'm going to have to go. I'm going to have to go. I'm going to have to go. I'm going to have to go. I'm going to have to go. I'm going to have to go. I'm going to have to go. I'm going to have to go. Oh, it is terrible. Terrible. Yes, you're right. But this is one time the mad monk of Ancar Vos will not offer a living sacrifice. Well, that was a pleasant chore. But why hasn't Marie Sayer danced since? Somehow, it appears she left her artistic soul in the forests of Ancar Vos. She couldn't bear to dance before any mortal audience again. And the mad monk of Angkor? Well, when we got back to Nongpen, I organized a searching party and returned to the temple. We scoured the dead city of Angkor for days without seeing hide or hair of him. However, the natives report that they still see his fires burning in the ancient temples of his gods, and his wild maniacal laughter still rings madly up and down the avenues of trees in that forest of forgotten men. And so concludes another strange tale related by one of the hardy members of the World Adventurers Club. Don't fail to tune in on the next meeting of this famous group when you will hear an equally strange story of a strange land.
