Chapter One.

Hot Work in the Soudan.

The False Step.

There is a dividing ridge in the great northern wilderness of America, whereon lies a lakelet of not more than twenty yards in diameter. It is of crystal clearness and profound depth, and on the still evenings of the Indian summer its surface forms a perfect mirror, which might serve as a toilet-glass for a Redskin princess.

We have stood by the side of that lakelet and failed to note the slightest symptom of motion in it, yet somewhere in its centre there was going on a constant and mysterious division of watery particles, and those of them which glided imperceptibly to the right flowed southward to the Atlantic, while those that trembled to the left found a resting-place by the frozen shores of Hudson’s Bay.

As it is with the flow and final exit of those waters, so is it, sometimes, if not always, with the spirit and destiny of man.

Miles Milton, our hero, at the age of nineteen, stood at the dividing ridge of his life. If the oscillating spirit, trembling between right and wrong, had decided to lean to the right, what might have been his fate no one can tell. He paused on the balance a short time, then he leaned over to the left, and what his fate was it is the purpose of this volume to disclose. At the outset, we may remark that it was not unmixed good. Neither was it unmitigated evil.

Miles had a strong body, a strong will, and a somewhat passionate temper: a compound which is closely allied to dynamite!

His father, unfortunately, was composed of much the same materials. The consequences were sometimes explosive. It might have profited the son much had he studied the Scripture lesson, “Children, obey your parents in the Lord.” Not less might it have benefited the father to have pondered the words, “Fathers, provoke not your children to wrath.”

Young Milton had set his heart on going into the army. Old Milton had resolved to thwart the desire of his son. The mother Milton, a meek and loving soul, experienced some hard times between the two. Both loved her intensely, and each loved himself, not better perhaps, but too much!

It is a sad task to have to recount the disputes between a father and a son. We shrink from it and turn away. Suffice it to say that one day Miles and his father had a Vesuvian meeting on the subject of the army. The son became petulant and unreasonable; the father fierce and tyrannical. The end was that they parted in anger.

“Go, sir,” cried the father sternly; “when you are in a better frame of mind you may return.”

“Yes, father, I will go,” cried the son, starting up, “and I will never return.”

Poor youth! He was both right and wrong in this prophetic speech. He did return home, but he did not return to his father.

With fevered pulse and throbbing heart he rushed into a plantation that lay at the back of his father’s house. He had no definite intention save to relieve his feelings by violent action. Running at full speed, he came suddenly to a disused quarry that was full of water. It had long been a familiar haunt as a bathing-pool. Many a time in years past had he leaped off its precipitous margin into the deep water, and wantoned there in all the abandonment of exuberant youth. The leap was about thirty feet, the depth of water probably greater. Constant practice had rendered Miles so expert at diving and swimming that he had come to feel as much at home in the water as a New-Zealander.

Casting off his garments, he took the accustomed plunge by way of cooling his heart and brain. He came up from the depths refreshed, but not restored to equanimity. While dressing, the sense of injustice returned as strongly as before, and, with it, the hot indignation, so that on afterwards reaching the highway he paused only for a few moments. This was the critical point. Slowly but decidedly he leaned to the left. He turned his back on his father’s house, and caused the stones to spurt from under his heels as he walked rapidly away.

If Miles Milton had thought of his mother at that time he might have escaped many a day of bitter repentance, for she was as gentle as her husband was harsh; but the angry youth either forgot her at the moment, or, more probably, thrust the thought of her away.

Poor mother! if she had only known what a conflict between good and evil was going on in the breast of her boy, how she would have agonised in prayer for him! But she did not know. There was, however, One who did know, who loved him better even than his mother, and who watched and guarded him throughout all his chequered career.

It is not improbable that in spite of his resolves Miles would have relented before night and returned home had not a very singular incident intervened and closed the door behind him.

That day a notorious swindler had been tracked by a red-haired detective to the manufacturing city to which Miles first directed his steps. The bills describing the swindler set forth that he was quite young, tall, handsome, broad-shouldered, with black curling hair, and a budding moustache; that he was dressed in grey tweeds, and had a prepossessing manner. Now this chanced to be in some respects an exact description of Miles Milton!

The budding moustache, to be sure, was barely discernible, still it was sufficiently so for a detective to found on. His dress, too, was brown tweed, not grey; but of course dresses can be changed; and as to his manner, there could not be two opinions about that.

Now it chanced to be past one o’clock when Miles entered the town and felt himself impelled by familiar sensations to pause in front of an eating-house. It was a poor eating-house in a low district, but Miles was not particular; still further, it was a temperance coffee-house, but Miles cared nothing for strong drink. Strong health and spirits had served his purpose admirably up to that date.

Inside the eating-house there sat several men of the artisan class, and a few of the nondescript variety. Among the latter was the red-haired detective. He was engaged with a solid beef-steak.

“Oho!” escaped softly from his lips, when his sharp eyes caught sight of our hero. So softly did he utter the exclamation that it might have been a mere remark of appreciation addressed to the steak, from which he did not again raise his eyes for a considerable time.

The place was very full of people—so full that there seemed scarcely room for another guest; but by some almost imperceptible motion the red-haired man made a little space close to himself. The man next to him, with a hook-nose, widened the space by similar action, and Miles, perceiving that there was room, sat down.

“Bread and cheese,” he said to the waiter.

“Bread an’ cheese, sir? Yessir.”

Miles was soon actively engaged in mechanically feeding, while his mind was busy as to future plans.

Presently he became aware that the men on either side of him were scanning his features and person with peculiar attention.

“Coldish weather,” remarked the red-haired man, looking at him in a friendly way.

“It is,” replied Miles, civilly enough.

“Rather cold for bathin’, ain’t it, sir?” continued the detective carelessly, picking his teeth with a quill.

“How did you know that I’ve been bathing?” demanded Miles in surprise.

“I didn’t know it.”

“How did you guess it then?”

“Vell, it ain’t difficult to guess that a young feller ’as bin ’avin’ a swim w’en you see the ’air of ’is ’ead hall vet, an’ ’is pocket-’ankercher lookin’ as if it ’ad done dooty for a towel, not to mention ’is veskit ’avin’ bin putt on in a ’urry, so as the buttons ain’t got into the right ’oles, you see!”

Miles laughed, and resumed his bread and cheese.

“You are observant, I perceive,” he said.

“Not wery partiklarly so,” returned Redhair; “but I do obsarve that your boots tell of country roads. Was it a long way hout of town as you was bathin’ this forenoon, now?”

There was a free and easy familiarity about the man’s tone which Miles resented, but, not wishing to run the risk of a disagreement in such company, he answered quietly— “Yes, a considerable distance; it was in an old quarry where I often bathe, close to my father’s house.”

“Ha! jest so, about ’alf-way to the willage of Ramplin’, w’ere you slep’ last night, if report speaks true, an’ w’ere you left the grey tweeds, unless, p’r’aps, you sunk ’em in the old quarry.”

“Why, what on earth do you mean?” asked Miles, with a look of such genuine surprise that Redhair was puzzled, and the man with the hooked nose, who had been listening attentively, looked slightly confused.

“Read that, sir,” said the detective, extracting a newspaper cutting from his pocket and laying it on the table before Miles.

While he read, the two men watched him with interest, so did some of those who sat near, for they began to perceive that something was “in the wind.”

The tell-tale blood sprang to the youth’s brow as he read and perceived the meaning of the man’s remarks. At this Redhair and Hook-nose nodded to each other significantly.

“You don’t mean to say,” exclaimed Miles, in a tone of grand indignation which confirmed the men in their suspicion, “that you think this description applies to me?”

“I wouldn’t insinivate too much, sir, though I have got my suspicions,” said Redhair blandly; “but of course that’s easy settled, for if your father’s ’ouse is anyw’ere hereabouts, your father won’t object to identify his son.”

“Ridiculous!” exclaimed Miles, rising angrily at this interruption to his plans. The two men rose promptly at the same moment. “Of course my father will prove that you have made a mistake, but—”

He hesitated in some confusion, for the idea of re-appearing before his father so soon, and in such company, after so stoutly asserting that he would never more return, was humiliating. The detective observed the hesitation and became jocose.

“If you’d rather not trouble your parent,” said Redhair, “you’ve got no call to do it. The station ain’t far off, and the sooner we get there the better for all parties.”

A slight clink of metal at this point made Miles aware of the fact that Hook-nose was drawing a pair of handcuffs from one of his pockets.

The full significance of his position suddenly burst upon him. The thought of being led home a prisoner, or conveyed to the police-station handcuffed, maddened him; and the idea of being thus unjustly checked at the very outset of his independent career made him furious. For a few moments he stood so perfectly still and quiet that the detectives were thrown slightly off their guard. Then there was an explosion of some sort within the breast of Miles Milton. It expended itself in a sudden impulse, which sent Redhead flat on the table among the crockery, and drove Hook-nose into the fireplace among the fire-irons. A fat little man chanced to be standing in the door-way. The same impulse, modified, shot that little man into the street like a cork out of a bottle, and next moment Miles was flying along the pavement at racing speed, horrified at what he had done, but utterly reckless as to what might follow!

Hearing the shouts of pursuers behind him, and being incommoded by passers-by in the crowded thoroughfare, Miles turned sharply into a by-street, and would have easily made his escape—being uncommonly swift of foot—had he not been observed by an active little man of supple frame and presumptuous tendencies. Unlike the mass of mankind around him—who stared and wondered—the active little man took in the situation at a glance, joined in the pursuit, kept well up, thus forming a sort of connecting-link between the fugitive and pursuers, and even took upon himself to shout “Stop thief!” as he ran. Miles endeavoured to throw him off by putting on, as schoolboys have it, “a spurt.” But the active little man also spurted and did not fall far behind. Then Miles tried a second double, and got into a narrow street, which a single glance showed him was a blind alley! Disappointment and anger hereupon took possession of him, and he turned at bay with the tiger-like resolve to run a-muck!

Fortunately for himself he observed a pot of whitewash standing near a half-whitened wall, with a dirty canvas frock and a soiled billycock lying beside it. The owner of the property had left it inopportunely, for, quick as thought, Miles wriggled into the frock, flung on the billycock, seized the pot, and walked in a leisurely way to the head of the alley. He reached it just as the active little man turned into it, at the rate of ten miles an hour. A yell of “Stop thief!” issued from the man’s presumptuous lips at the moment.

His injunction was obeyed to the letter, for the would-be thief of an honest man’s character on insufficient evidence was stopped by Miles’s bulky person so violently that the whitewash was scattered all about, and part of it went into the active man’s eyes.

To squash the large brush into the little man’s face, and thus effectually complete what his own recklessness had begun, was the work of an instant. As he did it, Miles assumed the rôle of the injured party, suiting his language to his condition.

“What d’ee mean by that, you houtrageous willain?” he cried savagely, to the great amusement of the bystanders, who instantly formed a crowd round them. “Look wot a mess you’ve bin an’ made o’ my clean frock! Don’t you see?”

The poor little man could not see. He could only cough and gasp and wipe his face with his coat-tails.

“I’d give you in charge o’ the pleece, I would, if it wasn’t that you’ve pretty well punished yourself a’ready,” continued Miles. “Take ’im to a pump some o’ you, ’cause I ain’t got time. Good-day, spider-legs, an’ don’t go for to run into a hartist again, with a paint-pot in ’is ’and.”

So saying, Miles pushed through the laughing crowd and sauntered away. He turned into the first street he came to, and then went forward as fast as was consistent with the idea of an artisan in a hurry. Being utterly ignorant of the particular locality into which he had penetrated—though well enough acquainted with the main thoroughfares of the city—his only care was to put as many intricate streets and lanes as possible between himself and the detectives. This was soon done, and thereafter, turning into a darkish passage, he got rid of the paint-pot and borrowed costume.

Fortunately he had thrust his own soft helmet-shaped cap into his breast at the time he put on the billycock, and was thus enabled to issue from the dark passage very much like his former self, with the exception of a few spots of whitewash, which were soon removed.

Feeling now pretty safe, our hero walked a considerable distance through the unknown parts of the city before he ventured to inquire the way to thoroughfares with which he was familiar. Once in these, he proceeded at a smart pace to one of the railway stations, intending to leave town, though as yet he had formed no definite plan of action. In truth, his mind was much troubled and confused by the action of his conscience, for when the thought of leaving home and entering the army as a private soldier, against his father’s wishes, crossed his mind, Conscience faithfully shook his head; and when softer feelings prevailed, and the question arose irresistibly, “Shall I return home?” the same faithful friend whispered, “Yes.”

In a state of indecision, Miles found himself borne along by a human stream to the booking-office. Immediately in front of him were two soldiers,—one a sergeant, and the other a private of the line.

Both were tall handsome men, straight as arrows, and with that air of self-sufficient power which is as far removed from arrogance as it is from cowardice, and is by no means an uncommon feature in men of the British army.

Miles felt a strong, unaccountable attraction towards the young private. He had not yet heard his voice nor encountered his eye; indeed, being behind him, he had only seen his side-face, and as the expression on it was that of stern gravity, the attractive power could not have lain in that. It might have lain in the youthful look of the lad, for albeit a goodly man in person, he was almost a boy in countenance, being apparently not yet twenty years of age.

Miles was at last roused to the necessity for prompt and decisive action by the voice of the sergeant saying in tones of authority—

“Portsmouth—third—two—single.”

“That’s the way to go it, lobster!” remarked a shabby man, next in the line behind Miles.

The grave sergeant paid no more regard to this remark than if it had been the squeak of a mouse.

“Now, then, sir, your carridge stops the way. ’Eave a’ead. Shall I ’elp you?” said the shabby man.

Thus admonished, Miles, scarce knowing what he said, repeated the sergeant’s words—

“Portsmouth—third—two—single.”

“Vy, you ain’t agoin’ to pay for me, are you?” exclaimed the shabby man in smiling surprise.

“Oh! beg pardon. I mean one,” said Miles to the clerk, quickly.

The clerk retracted the second ticket with stolid indifference, and Miles, hastening to the platform, sat down on a seat, deeply and uncomfortably impressed with the fact that he possessed little or no money! This unsatisfactory state of things had suddenly burst upon him while in the act of paying for his ticket. He now made a careful examination of his purse, and found its contents to be exactly seven shillings and sixpence, besides a few coppers in his trousers-pocket.

Again indecision assailed him. Should he return? It was not too late. “Yes,” said Conscience, with emphasis. “No,” said Shame. False pride echoed the word, and Self-will re-echoed it. Still our hero hesitated, and there is no saying what the upshot might have been if the bell had not rung at the moment, and, “Now, then, take your seats!” put an end to the controversy.

Another minute, and Miles Milton was seated opposite the two soldiers, rushing towards our great southern seaport at the rate of forty miles an hour.

Chapter Two.

Shows some of the Consequences of the False Step, and introduces the Reader to Peculiar Company.

Our hero soon discovered that the sergeant was an old campaigner, having been out in Egypt at the beginning of the war, and fought at the famous battle of Tel-el-Kebir.

In his grave and undemonstrative way and quiet voice, this man related some of his experiences, so as not only to gain the attention of his companion in arms, but to fascinate all who chanced to be within earshot of him—not the least interested among whom, of course, was our friend Miles.

As the sergeant continued to expatiate on those incidents of the war which had come under his own observation, three points impressed themselves on our hero: first, that the sergeant was evidently a man of serious, if not religious, spirit; second, that while he gave all due credit to his comrades for their bravery in action, he dwelt chiefly on those incidents which brought out the higher qualities of the men, such as uncomplaining endurance, forbearance, etcetera, and he never boasted of having given “a thorough licking” to the Egyptians, nor spoke disparagingly of the native troops; lastly, that he seemed to lay himself out with a special view to the unflagging entertainment of his young comrade.

The reason for this last purpose he learned during a short halt at one of the stations. Seeing the sergeant standing alone there, Miles, after accosting him with the inevitable references to the state of the weather, remarked that his comrade seemed to be almost too young for the rough work of soldiering.

“Yes, he is young enough, but older than he looks,” answered the sergeant. “Poor lad! I’m sorry for him.”

“Indeed! He does not seem to me a fit subject for pity. Young, strong, handsome, intelligent, he seems pretty well furnished to begin the battle of life—especially in the army.”

“‘Things are not what they seem,’” returned the soldier, regarding his young questioner with something between a compassionate and an amused look. “‘All is not gold that glitters.’ Soldiering is not made up of brass bands, swords, and red coats!”

“Having read a good deal of history I am well aware of that,” retorted Miles, who was somewhat offended by the implication contained in the sergeant’s remarks.

“Well, then, you see,” continued the sergeant, “all the advantages that you have mentioned, and which my comrade certainly possesses, weigh nothing with him at all just now, because this sudden call to the wars separates him from his poor young wife.”

“Wife!” exclaimed Miles; “why, he seems to me little more than a boy—except in size, and perhaps in gravity.”

“He is over twenty, and, as to gravity—well, most young fellows would be grave enough if they had to leave a pretty young wife after six months of wedded life. You see, he married without leave, and so, even if it were a time of peace, his wife would not be recognised by the service. In wartime he must of course leave her behind him. It has been a hard job to prevent him from deserting, and now it’s all I can do to divert his attention from his sorrow by stirring him up with tales of the recent wars.”

At this point the inexorable bell rang, doors were banged, whistles sounded, and the journey was resumed.

Arrived at Portsmouth, Miles was quickly involved in the bustle of the platform. He had made up his mind to have some private conversation with the sergeant as to the possibility of entering her Majesty’s service as a private soldier, and was on the point of accompanying his military travelling companions into the comparative quiet of the street when a porter touched his cap—

“Any luggage, sir?”

“Luggage?—a—no—no luggage!”

It was the first moment since leaving home that the thought of luggage had entered into his brain! That thought naturally aroused other thoughts, such as lodgings, food, friends, funds, and the like. On turning to the spot where his military companions had stood, he discovered that they were gone. Running to the nearest door-way he found it to be the wrong one, and before he found the right one and reached the street the two soldiers had vanished from the scene.

“You seem to be a stranger here, sir. Can I direct you?” said an insinuating voice at his elbow.

The speaker was an elderly man of shabby-genteel appearance and polite address. Miles did not quite like the look of him. In the circumstances, however, and with a strangely desolate feeling of loneliness creeping over him, he did not see his way to reject a civil offer.

“Thank you. I am indeed a stranger, and happen to have neither friend nor acquaintance in the town, so if you can put me in the way of finding a respectable lodging—a—a cheap one, you will greatly oblige me.”

“With pleasure,” said the man, “if you will accompany—”

“Stay, don’t trouble yourself to show me the way,” interrupted Miles; “just name a house and the street, that will—”

“No trouble at all, sir,” said the man. “I happen to be going in the direction of the docks, and know of excellent as well as cheap lodgings there.”

Making no further objection, Miles followed his new friend into the street. For some time, the crowd being considerable and noisy, they walked in silence.

At the time we write of, Portsmouth was ringing with martial music and preparations for war.

At all times the red-coats and the blue-jackets are prominent in the streets of that seaport; for almost the whole of our army passes through it at one period or another, either in going to or returning from “foreign parts.” But at this time there was the additional bustle resulting from the Egyptian war. Exceptional activity prevailed in its yards, and hurry in its streets. Recruits, recently enlisted, flocked into it from all quarters, while on its jetties were frequently landed the sad fruits of war in the form of wounded men.

“Have you ever been in Portsmouth before?” asked the shabby-genteel man, on reaching a part of the town which was more open and less crowded.

“Never. I had no idea it was so large and bustling,” said Miles.

“The crowding and bustling is largely increased just now, of course, in consequence of the war in Egypt,” returned the man. “Troops are constantly embarking, and others returning. It is a noble service! Men start in thousands from this port young, hearty, healthy, and full of spirit; they return—those of them who return at all—sickly, broken-down, and with no spirit at all except what they soon get poured into them by the publicans. Yes; commend me to the service of my Queen and country!”

There was a sneering tone in the man’s voice which fired his companion’s easily roused indignation.

“Mind what you say about our Queen while in my company,” said Miles sternly, stopping short and looking the man full in the face. “I am a loyal subject, and will listen to nothing said in disparagement of the Queen or of her Majesty’s forces.”

“Bless you, sir,” said the man quickly, “I’m a loyal subject myself, and wouldn’t for the world say a word against her Majesty. No more would I disparage her troops; but, after all, the army ain’t perfect, you know. Even you must admit that, sir. With all its noble qualities there’s room for improvement.”

There was such an air of sincerity—or at least of assumed humility—in the man’s tone and manner that Miles felt it unjustifiable to retain his indignation. At the same time, he could not all at once repress it, and was hesitating whether to fling off from the man or to forgive him, when the sound of many voices, and of feet tramping in regular time, struck his ear and diverted his attention. Next moment the head of a regiment, accompanied by a crowd of juvenile admirers, swept round the corner of the street. At the same instant a forest of bayonets gleamed upon the youth’s vision, and a brass band burst with crashing grandeur upon his ear, sending a quiver of enthusiasm into the deepest recesses of his soul, and stirring the very marrow in his bones!

Miles stood entranced until the regiment had passed, and the martial strains were softened by distance; then he looked up and perceived that his shabby companion was regarding him with a peculiar smile.

“I think you’ve a notion of being a soldier,” he said, with a smile.

“Where is that regiment going?” asked Miles, instead of answering the question.

“To barracks at present; to Egypt in a few days. There’ll be more followin’ it before long.”

It was a distracting as well as an exciting walk that Miles had through the town, for at every turn he passed couples or groups of soldiers, or sailors, or marines, and innumerable questions sprang into and jostled each other in his mind, while, at the same moment, his thoughts and feelings were busy with his present circumstances and future prospects. The distraction was increased by the remarks and comments of his guide, and he would fain have got rid of him; but good-feeling, as well as common-sense, forbade his casting him off without sufficient reason.

Presently he stopped, without very well knowing why, in front of a large imposing edifice. Looking up, he observed the words Soldiers’ Institute in large letters on the front of it.

“What sort of an Institute is that?” he asked.

“Oh! it’s a miserable affair, where soldiers are taken in cheap, as they say, an’ done for,” returned the shabby man hurriedly, as if the subject were distasteful to him. “Come along with me and I’ll show you places where soldiers—ay, and civilians too—can enjoy themselves like gentlemen, an’ get value for their money.”

As he spoke, two fine-looking men issued from a small street close to them, and crossed the road—one a soldier of the line, the other a marine.

“Here it is, Jack,” exclaimed the soldier to his friend; “Miss Sarah Robinson’s Institoot, that you’ve heard so much about. Come an’ I’ll show you where you can write your letter in peace—”

Thus much was overheard by Miles as they turned into a side-street, and entered what was obviously one of the poorer districts of the town.

“Evidently that soldier’s opinion does not agree with yours,” remarked Miles, as they walked along.

“More’s the pity!” returned the shabby man, whose name he had informed his companion was Sloper. “Now we are getting among places, you see, where there’s a good deal of drinking going on.”

“I scarcely require to be told that,” returned Miles, curtly; for he was beginning to feel his original dislike to Mister Sloper intensified.

It did not indeed require any better instructor than eyes and ears to inform our hero that the grog-shops around him were full, and that a large proportion of the shouting and swearing revellers inside were soldiers and seamen.

By this time it was growing dark, and most of the gin-palaces were beginning to send forth that glare of intense and warm light with which they so knowingly attract the human moths that constitute their prey.

“Here we are,” said Sloper, stopping in front of a public-house in a narrow street. “This is one o’ the respectable lodgin’s. Most o’ the others are disreputable. It’s not much of a neighbourhood, I admit.”

“It certainly is not very attractive,” said Miles, hesitating.

“You said you wanted a cheap one,” returned Sloper, “and you can’t expect to have it cheap and fashionable, you know. You’ve no occasion to be afraid. Come in.”

The arguments of Mr Sloper might have failed to move Miles, but the idea of his being afraid to go anywhere was too much for him.

“Go in, then,” he said, firmly, and followed.

The room into which he was ushered was a moderately large public-house, with a bar and a number of tables round the room, at which many men and a few women were seated; some gambling, others singing or disputing, and all drinking and smoking. It is only right to say that Miles was shocked. Hitherto he had lived a quiet and comparatively innocent country life. He knew of such places chiefly from books or hearsay, or had gathered merely the superficial knowledge that comes through the opening of a swing-door. For the first time in his life he stood inside a low drinking-shop, breathing its polluted atmosphere and listening to its foul language. His first impulse was to retreat, but false shame, the knowledge that he had no friend in Portsmouth, or place to go to, that the state of his purse forbade his indulging in more suitable accommodation, and a certain pride of character which made him always determine to carry out what he had resolved to do—all these considerations and facts combined to prevent his acting on the better impulse. He doggedly followed his guide to a small round table and sat down.

Prudence, however, began to operate within him. He felt that he had done wrong; but it was too late now, he thought, to retrace his steps. He would, however, be on his guard; would not encourage the slightest familiarity on the part of any one, and would keep his eyes open. For a youth who had seen nothing of the world this was a highly commendable resolve.

“What’ll you drink?” asked Mr Sloper.

Miles was on the point of saying “Coffee,” but, reflecting that the beverage might not be readily obtainable in such a place, he substituted “Beer.”

Instead of calling the waiter, Mr Sloper went himself to the bar to fetch the liquor. While he was thus engaged, Miles glanced round the room, and was particularly struck with the appearance of a large, fine-looking sailor who sat at the small table next to him, with hands thrust deep into his trousers-pockets, his chin resting on his broad chest, and a solemn, owlish stare in his semi-drunken yet manly countenance. He sat alone, and was obviously in a very sulky frame of mind—a condition which he occasionally indicated through a growl of dissatisfaction.

As Miles sat wondering what could have upset the temper of a tar whose visage was marked by the unmistakable lines and dimples of good-humour, he overheard part of the conversation that passed between the barman and Mr Sloper.

“What! have they got hold o’ Rattling Bill?” asked the former, as he drew the beer.

“Ay, worse luck,” returned Sloper. “I saw the sergeant as I came along lead him over to Miss Robinson’s trap—confound her!”

“Don’t you go fur to say anything agin Miss Robinson, old man,” suddenly growled the big sailor, in a voice so deep and strong that it silenced for a moment the rest of the company. “Leastways, you may if you like, but if you do, I’ll knock in your daylights, an’ polish up your figur’-head so as your own mother would mistake you fur a battered saucepan!”

The seaman did not move from his semi-recumbent position as he uttered this alarming threat, but he accompanied it with a portentous frown and an owlish wink of both eyes.

“What! have you joined the Blue Lights?” asked Sloper, with a smile, referring to the name by which the religious and temperance men of the army were known.

“No, I ha’n’t. Better for me, p’r’aps, if I had. Here, waiter, fetch me another gin-an’-warer. An’ more o’ the gin than the warer, mind. Heave ahead or I’ll sink you!”

Having been supplied with a fresh dose of gin and water, the seaman appeared to go to sleep, and Miles, for want of anything better to do, accepted Sloper’s invitation to play a game of dominoes.

“Are the beds here pretty good?” he asked, as they were about to begin.

“Yes, first-rate—for the money,” answered Sloper.

“That’s a lie!” growled the big sailor. “They’re bad at any price—stuffed wi’ cocoa-nuts and marline-spikes.”

Mr Sloper received this observation with the smiling urbanity of a man who eschews war at all costs.

“You don’t drink,” he said after a time, referring to Miles’s pot of beer, which he had not yet touched.

Miles made no reply, but by way of answer took up the pot and put it to his lips.

He had not drunk much of it when the big seaman rose hurriedly and staggered between the two tables. In doing so, he accidentally knocked the pot out of the youth’s hand, and sent the contents into Mr Sloper’s face and down into his bosom, to the immense amusement of the company.

That man of peace accepted the baptism meekly, but Miles sprang up in sudden anger.

The seaman turned to him, however, with a benignantly apologetic smile.

“Hallo! messmate. I ax your parding. They don’t leave room even for a scarecrow to go about in this here cabin. I’ll stand you another glass. Give us your flipper!”

There was no resisting this, it was said so heartily. Miles grasped the huge hand that was extended and shook it warmly.

“All right,” he said, laughing. “I don’t mind the beer, and there’s plenty more where that came from, but I fear you have done some damage to my fr—”

“Your friend. Out with it, sir. Never be ashamed to acknowledge your friends,” exclaimed the shabby man, as he wiped his face. “Hold on a bit,” he added, rising; “I’ll have to change my shirt. Won’t keep you waitin’ long.”

“Another pot o’ beer for this ’ere gen’lem’n,” said the sailor to the barman as Sloper left the room.

Paying for the drink, he returned and put the pot on the table. Then, turning to Miles, he said in a low voice and with an intelligent look—

“Come outside for a bit, messmate. I wants to speak to ’ee.”

Miles rose and followed the man in much surprise.

“You’ll excuse me, sir,” he said, when a few yards away from the door; “but I see that you’re green, an’ don’t know what a rascally place you’ve got into. I’ve been fleeced there myself, and yet I’m fool enough to go back! Most o’ the parties there—except the sailors an’ sodgers—are thieves an’ blackguards. They’ve drugged your beer, I know; that’s why I capsized it for you, and the feller that has got hold o’ you is a well-known decoy-duck. I don’t know how much of the ready you may have about you, but this I does know, whether it be much or little, you wouldn’t have a rap of it in the mornin’ if you stayed the night in this here house.”

“Are you sure of this, friend?” asked Miles, eyeing his companion doubtfully.

“Ay, as sure as I am that my name’s Jack Molloy.”

“But you’ve been shamming drunk all this time. How am I to know that you are not shamming friendship now?”

“No, young man,” returned the seaman with blinking solemnity. “I’m not shammin’ drunk. I on’y wish I was, for I’m three sheets in the wind at this minute, an’ I’ve a splittin’ headache due i’ the mornin’. The way as you’ve got to find out whether I’m fair an’ above-board is to look me straight in the face an’ don’t wink. If that don’t settle the question, p’r’aps it’ll convince you w’en I tells you that I don’t care a rap whether you go back to that there grog-shop or not. Only I’ll clear my conscience—leastways, wot’s left of it—by tellin’ ye that if you do—you—you’ll wish as how you hadn’t—supposin’ they leave you the power to wish anything at all.”

“Well, I believe you are a true man, Mister Molloy—”

“Don’t Mister me, mate,” interrupted the seaman.

“My name’s Jack Molloy, at your service, an’ that name don’t require no handle—either Mister or Esquire—to prop it up.”

The way in which the sailor squared his broad shoulders when he said this rendered it necessary to prop himself up. Seeing which, Miles afforded the needful aid by taking his arm in a friendly way.

“But come, let us go back,” he said. “I must pay for my beer, you know.”

“Your beer is paid for, young man,” said Molloy, stopping and refusing to move. “I paid for it, so you’ve on’y got to settle with me. Besides, if you go back you’re done for. And you’ve no call to go back to say farewell to your dear friend Sloper, for he’ll on’y grieve over the loss of your tin. As to the unpurliteness o’ the partin’—he won’t break his heart over that. No—you’ll come wi’ me down to the Sailors’ Welcome near the dock-gates, where you can get a good bed for sixpence a night, a heavy blow-out for tenpence, with a splendid readin’-room, full o’ rockin’ chairs, an’ all the rest of it for nothin’. An there’s a lavatory—that’s the name that they give to a place for cleanin’ of yourself up—a lavatory—where you can wash yourself, if you like, till your skin comes off! W’en I first putt up at the Welcome, the messmate as took me there said to me, says he, ‘Jack,’ says he, ‘you was always fond o’ water.’ ‘Right you are,’ says I. ‘Well,’ says he, ‘there’s a place in the Sailors’ Welcome where you can wash yourself all day, if you like, for nothing!’

“I do b’lieve it was that as indooced me to give in. I went an’ saw this lavatory, an’ I was so took up with it that I washed my hands in every bason in the place—one arter the other—an’ used up ever so much soap, an’—would you believe it?—my hands wasn’t clean after all! Yes, it’s one the wery best things in Portsm’uth, is Miss Robinson’s Welcome—”

“Miss Robinson again!” exclaimed Miles.

“Ay—wot have you got to find fault wi’ Miss Robinson?” demanded the sailor sternly.

“No fault to find at all,” replied Miles, suffering himself to be hurried away by his new friend; “but wherever I have gone since arriving in Portsmouth her name has cropped up!”

“In Portsmouth!” echoed the sailor. “Let me tell you, young man, that wherever you go all over the world, if there’s a British soldier there, Miss Sarah Robinson’s name will be sure to crop up. Why, don’t you know that she’s ‘The Soldiers’ Friend’?”

“I’m afraid I must confess to ignorance on the point—yet, stay, now you couple her name with ‘The Soldier’s Friend,’ I have got a faint remembrance of having heard it before. Have I not heard of a Miss Weston, too, in connection with a work of some sort among sailors?”

“Ay, no doubt ye have. She has a grand Institoot in Portsm’uth too, but she goes in for sailors only—all over the kingdom—w’ereas Miss Robinson goes in for soldiers an’ sailors both, though mainly for the soldiers. She set agoin’ the Sailors’ Welcome before Miss Weston began in Portsm’uth, an’ so she keeps it up, but there ain’t no opposition or rivalry. Their aims is pretty much alike, an’ so they keep stroke together wi’ the oars. But I’ll tell you more about that when you get inside. Here we are! There’s the dock-gates, you see, and that’s Queen Street, an’ the Welcome’s close at hand. It’s a teetotal house, you know. All Miss Robinson’s Institoots is that.”

“Indeed! How comes it, then, that a man—excuse me—‘three sheets in the wind,’ can gain admittance?”

“Oh! as to that, any sailor or soldier may get admittance, even if he’s as drunk as a fiddler, if he on’y behaves his-self. But they won’t supply drink on the premises, or allow it to be brought in—’cept inside o’ you, of coorse. Cause why? you can’t help that—leastwise not without the help of a stomach-pump. Plenty o’ men who ain’t abstainers go to sleep every night at the Welcome, ’cause they find the beds and other things so comfortable. In fact, some hard topers have been indooced to take the pledge in consekince o’ what they’ve heard an’ seen in this Welcome, though they came at first only for the readin’-room an’ beds. Here, let me look at you under this here lamp. Yes. You’ll do. You’re something like a sea-dog already. You won’t object to change hats wi’ me?”

“Why?” asked Miles, somewhat amused.

“Never you mind that, mate. You just putt yourself under my orders if you’d sail comfortably before the wind. I’ll arrange matters, an’ you can square up in the morning.”

As Miles saw no particular reason for objecting to this fancy of his eccentric friend, he exchanged his soft cap for the sailor’s straw hat, and they entered the Welcome together.

Chapter Three.

The “Sailors’ Welcome”—Miles has a Night of it and Enlists—His Friend Armstrong has an Agreeable Surprise at the Soldiers’ Institute.

It was not long before our hero discovered the reason of Jack Molloy’s solicitude about his appearance. It was that he, Miles, should pass for a sailor, and thus be in a position to claim the hospitality of the Sailors’ Welcome,—to the inner life of which civilians were not admitted, though they were privileged, with the public in general, to the use of the outer refreshment-room.

“Come here, Jack Molloy,” he said, leading his friend aside, when he made this discovery. “You pride yourself on being a true-blue British tar, don’t you?”

“I does,” said Jack, with a profound solemnity of decision that comported well with his character and condition.

“And you would scorn to serve under the French flag, or the Turkish flag, or the Black flag, or any flag but the Union Jack, wouldn’t you?”

“Right you are, mate; them’s my sentiments to a tee!”

“Well, then, you can’t expect me to sail under false colours any more than yourself,” continued Miles. “I scorn to sail into this port under your straw hat, so I’ll strike these colours, bid you good-bye, and make sail for another port where a civilian will be welcome.”

Molloy frowned at the floor for some moments in stern perplexity.

“You’ve took the wind out o’ my sails entirely, you have,” he replied at last; “an’ you’re right, young man, but I’m troubled about you. If you don’t run into this here port you’ll have to beat about in the offing all night, or cast anchor in the streets, for I don’t know of another lodgin’ in Portsm’uth w’ere you could hang out except them disrepitible grog-shops. In coorse, there’s the big hotels; but I heerd you say to Sloper that you was bound to do things cheap, bein’ hard up.”

“Never mind, my friend,” said Miles quickly. “I will manage somehow; so good-night, and many thanks to you for the interest you have taken in—”

“Avast, mate! there’s no call to go into action in sitch a hurry. This here Sailors’ Welcome opens the doors of its bar an’ refreshment-room, an’ spreads its purvisions before all an’ sundry as can afford to pay its moderate demands. It’s on’y the after-cabin you’re not free to. So you’ll have a bit supper wi’ me before you set sail on your night cruise.”

Being by that time rather hungry as well as fatigued, Miles agreed to remain for supper. While they were engaged with it, he was greatly impressed with the number of sailors and marines who passed into the reading-room beyond the bar, or who sat down at the numerous tables around to have a hearty supper, which they washed down with tea and coffee instead of beer or gin—apparently with tremendous appetite and much satisfaction.

“Look ye here,” said Jack Molloy, rising when their “feed” was about concluded, “I’ve no doubt they won’t object to your taking a squint at the readin’-room, though they won’t let you use it.” Following his companion, Miles passed by a glass double door into an enormous well-lighted, warm room, seventy feet long, and of proportionate width and height, in which a goodly number of men of the sea were busy as bees—some of them reading books or turning over illustrated papers and magazines, others smoking their pipes, and enjoying themselves in rocking-chairs in front of the glowing fire, chatting, laughing, and yarning as free-and-easily as if in their native fo’c’s’ls, while a few were examining the pictures on the walls, or the large models of ships which stood at one side of the room. At the upper end a full-sized billiard-table afforded amusement to several players, and profound interest to a number of spectators, who passed their comments on the play with that off-hand freedom which seems to be a product of fresh gales and salt-water. A door standing partly open at the upper end of this apartment revealed a large hall, from which issued faintly the sound of soft music.

“Ain’t it snug? and there’s no gamblin’ agoin’ on there,” remarked Molloy, as they returned to their table; “that’s not allowed—nor drinkin’, nor card-playin’, but that’s all they putt a stop to. She’s a wise woman is Miss Robinson. She don’t hamper us wi’ no rules. Why, bless you, Jack ashore would never submit to rules! He gits more than enough o’ them afloat. No; it’s liberty hall here. We may come an’ go as we like, at all hours o’ the day and night, an’ do exactly as we please, so long as we don’t smash up the furnitur’, or feed without payin’, or make ourselves a gineral noosance. They don’t even forbid swearin’. They say they leave the matter o’ lingo to our own good taste and good sense. An’ d’you know, it’s wonderful what an’ amount o’ both we’ve got w’en we ain’t worried about it! You’ll scarce hear an oath in this house from mornin’ to evenin’, though you’ll hear a deal o’ snorin’ doorin’ the night! That’s how the place takes so well, d’ee see?”

“Then the Welcome is well patronised, I suppose?”

“Patronised!” exclaimed the seaman; “that’s so, an’ no mistake. Why, mate—But what’s your name? I’ve forgot to ax you that all this time!”

“Call me Miles,” said our hero, with some hesitation.

“Call you Miles! Ain’t you Miles?”

“Well, yes, I am; only there’s more of my name than that, but that’s enough for your purpose, I daresay.”

“All right. Well, Miles, you was askin’ how the house is patronised. I’ll tell ’ee. They make up about two hundred an’ twenty beds in it altogether, an’ these are chock-full a’most every night. One way or another they had forty-four thousand men, more or less, as slep’ under this roof last year—so I’ve bin told. That’s patronisin’, ain’t it? To say nothin’ o’ the fellers as comes for—grub, which, as you’ve found, is good for the money, and the attendants is civil. You see, they’re always kind an’ attentive here, ’cause they professes to think more of our souls than our bodies—which we’ve no objection to, d’ee see, for the lookin’ arter our souls includes the lookin’ arter our bodies! An’ they don’t bother us in no way to attend their Bible-readin’s an’ sitchlike. There they are in separate rooms; if you want ’em you may go; if you don’t, you can let ’em alone. No compulsion, which comes quite handy to some on us, for I don’t myself care much about sitchlike things. So long’s my body’s all right, I leaves my soul to look arter itself.”

As the seaman said this with a good-natured smile of indifference, there sprang to the mind of his young companion words that had often been impressed on him by his mother: “What shall it profit a man if he should gain the whole world, and lose his own soul?” but he made no reference to this at the time.

“Hows’ever,” continued Molloy, “as they don’t worrit us about religion, except to give us a good word an’ a blessin’ now an’ again, and may-hap a little book to read, we all patronises the house; an it’s my opinion if it was twice as big as it is we’d fill it chock-full. I would board as well as sleep in it myself—for it’s full o’ conveniences, sitch as lockers to putt our things in, an’ baths, and what not, besides all the other things I’ve mentioned—but the want o’ drink staggers me. I can’t git along without a drop o’ drink.”

Miles thought that his nautical friend appeared to be unable to get along without a good many drops of drink, but he was too polite to say so.

“Man alive!” continued Jack Molloy, striking his huge fist on his thigh with emphasis; “it’s a wonderful place is this Welcome! An’ it’s a lively place too. Why, a fellow hanged his-self in one o’ the bunks overhead not long ago.”

“You don’t mean that?” exclaimed Miles, rather shocked.

“In course I does. But they heard ’im gaspin’, an cut him down in time to save him. It was drink they say as made him do it, and they got him to sign the pledge arterwards. I believe he’s kep’ it too. Leastwise I know many a hard drinker as have bin indooced to give it up and stuck to it—all through comin’ here to have a snooze in a comfortable hunk. They give the bunks names—cubicles they calls ’em in the lump. Separately, there’s the ‘Commodore Goodenough Cot,’ an’ the ‘Little Nellie Cot,’ an’ the ‘Sunshine Cot’—so called ’cause it hain’t got a port-hole to let in the daylight at all; and the ‘Billy Rough ’un’—”

“The what?”

“‘The Billy Rough ’un’—arter the ship o’ that name, you know—”

“Oh! you mean the Bellerophon.”

“Well, young man, an’ didn’t I say the ‘Billy Rough ’un’? Then there’s the— But what’s your hurry?” said the seaman, as Miles rose.

“It’s getting late now, friend. If I’m to find another lodging I must be off. Doubtless, I’ll find some respectable house to take me in for the night.” Miles suppressed a yawn as he put on his cap.

“I don’t believe you will,” returned Molloy, also rising, and giving full vent to a sympathetic and vociferous yawn. “Hows’ever, w’en a young feller insists on havin’ his way, it’s best to give him plenty of cable and let him swing. He’s sure to find out his mistake by experience. But look ye here, Miles, I’ve took a fancy to you, an’ I’d be sorry to think you was in difficulties. If,” he continued, thrusting a hand into his breeches-pocket, and bringing up therefrom a mass of mixed gold, silver, and copper—“if you don’t objec’ to accep’ of a loan of—”

“Thank you—no, my friend. It is very kind of you,” said Miles quickly; “but I have quite enough for present necessities. So good-night.”

“All right,” returned the sailor, thrusting the money back into his pocket. “But if you should ever want a jaw with Jack Molloy while you’re in this here port you’ve only got to hail him at the Sailors’ Welcome, an’ if he should happen to be out, they always can tell you where he’s cruisin’. Good-night, an’ luck go wi’ ye!”

Another tremendous yawn finished the speech, and next moment Miles found himself in the street, oppressed with a strange and miserable sensation which he had never before experienced. Indeed, he had to lean against the house for a few minutes after coming out into the fresh air, and felt as if the power of connected thought was leaving him.

He was aroused from this condition by the flashing of a light in his eyes. Opening them wide, he beheld a policeman looking at him earnestly.

“Now, then, young fellow,” said the guardian of the night; “d’you think you can take care of yourself?”

“Oh! yes, quite well. It’s only a giddy feeling that came over me. I’m all right,” said Miles, rousing himself and passing on.

He staggered slightly, however, and a short “Humph!” from the policeman showed that he believed the youth to be something more than giddy.

Ashamed to be even unjustly supposed to be intoxicated, Miles hurried away, wondering very much what could be the matter with him, for he had not tasted a drop of strong drink, except the half-glass of beer he had swallowed before Molloy chanced to knock it out of his hand. Suddenly he remembered that the sailor had said the beer was drugged. If he could have asked the barman who had served him, that worthy could have told him that this was true; that the whole glassful, if swallowed, would, ere long, have rendered him insensible, and that what he had already taken was enough to do him considerable damage.

As he walked onward, he became rapidly worse; the people and the streets seemed to swim before him; an intense desire to sleep overpowered every other feeling, and at last, turning into a dark entry, he lay down and pillowed his head on a door-step. Here he was found by a policeman; a stretcher was fetched, and he was conveyed to the station as “drunk and incapable!”

When brought before the Inspector the following morning, shame and reckless despair were the tenants of his breast. Those tenants were not expelled, but rather confirmed in possession, when the Inspector—after numerous questions, to which Miles returned vague unsatisfactory replies—adopted the rôle of the faithful friend, and gave him a great deal of paternal advice, especially with reference to the avoidance of strong drink and bad companions.

Miles had the wisdom, however, to conceal his feelings, and to take the reproof and advice in good part. Afterwards, on being set free, he met a recruiting sergeant, who, regarding him as a suitable subject for the service of her Majesty, immediately laid siege to him. In his then state of mind the siege was an easy one. In short, he capitulated at once and entered the Queen’s service, under the name of John Miles.

We need scarcely say that his heart misgave him, that his conscience condemned him, and that, do what he would, he could not shut out the fact that his taking so hasty and irrevocable a step was a poor return for all the care and anxiety of his parents in years gone by. But, as we have said, or hinted, Miles was one of those youths who, when they have once made up their minds to a certain course of action, fancy that they are bound to pursue it to the end. Hence it was that he gave his name as John Miles instead of Miles Milton, so that he might baffle any inquiries as to what had become of him.

Once enlisted, he soon began to realise the fact that he was no longer a free agent—at least not in the sense in which he had been so up to that period of his life. Constant drill was the order of the day for some weeks; for there was a demand for more troops for Egypt at the time, and regiments were being made up to their full strength as fast as possible.

During this period Miles saw little of his companions in arms personally, save that group of recruits who were being “licked into shape” along with him. At first he was disappointed with these, for most of them were shy, unlettered men; some, raw lads from the country; and others, men who seemed to have been loafers before joining, and were by no means attractive.

The drill-sergeant, however, was a good, though stern man, and soon recognised the differences in character, aptitude, and willingness among his raw recruits. This man, whose name was Hardy, made a powerful impression on our hero from the first; there was something so quiet and even gentle about him, in spite of his firm and inflexible demands in regard to the matters of drill and duty. To please this man, Miles gave himself heart and soul to his work, and was soon so efficient as to be allowed to join the regiment.

And here he found, to his surprise and satisfaction, that the sergeant and young soldier with whom he had travelled to Portsmouth were members of the company to which he was attached. As we have said, Miles had taken a great fancy at first sight to the young private, whose name was William Armstrong. Our hero was of an affectionate disposition, and would have allowed his warm feelings to expend themselves on a dog rather than have denied them free play. No wonder, then, that he was attracted by the handsome manly countenance and deferential manner of Armstrong, who, although an uneducated youth, and reared in the lower ranks of life, was gifted with those qualities of the true gentleman which mere social position can neither bestow nor take away. His intellect also was of that active and vigorous fibre which cannot be entirely repressed by the want of scholastic training.

The affection was mutual, for the contrasts and similarities of the two men were alike calculated to draw them together. Both were tall, broad, square-shouldered, erect, and soldierly, yet, withal, modest as well in demeanour as in feeling, and so exactly like to each other in size and figure, and in the quiet gravity of their expressions, that they might well have been taken for twin brothers. When, in uniform, the two strode along the streets of Portsmouth, people were apt to turn and look at them, and think, no doubt, that with many such men in the British army it would go hard with the foes of Old England!

The bond of union was still further strengthened by the fact that while the comparatively learned Miles was enthusiastic and communicative, the unlettered Armstrong was inquisitive and receptive, fond of prying into the nature of things, and always ready as well as competent to discuss—not merely to argue. Observe the distinction, good reader. Discussion means the shaking of any subject into its component parts with a desire to understand it. Argument has come very much to signify the enravelment of any subject with a view to the confusion and conquest of an opponent. Both young men abhorred the latter and liked the former. Hence much of their harmony and friendship.

“Will you come with me up town?” said Armstrong to Miles one day, as he was about to quit the barrack-room. “I’m going to see if there’s any news of my Emmy.”

“I did not know you expected her,” said Miles. “Come along, I’m ready.”

“I don’t expect her yet,” returned Armstrong, as they left the barracks; “I only look for a letter, because it was on Wednesday that I wrote telling her of my going to Egypt, and she can scarce have had time to get ready to come down, poor girl! In fact I am going to engage a room for her. By the way, I heard this morning that there’s to be another draft for Egypt, so you’ll have a chance to go.”

“I’m rejoiced to hear it,” returned Miles; “for, to say the truth, I had been growing envious of your good fortune in being ordered on active service.”

“Hooroo, Armstrong, where away now?” cried an unmistakably Irish voice, as a smart little soldier crossed the street to them, and was introduced to Miles as Corporal Flynn, belonging to another company in his own regiment.

“My blissin’ on ye, Miles. John, is it?”

“Yes, John,” replied our hero, much amused at the free-and-easy address of the little corporal.

“Well, John Miles,” he said, “I don’t know whether ye’ll laugh or cry whin I tell ye that you’ll likely be warned this evenin’ for the draft that’s goin’ to Aigypt.”

“I certainly won’t cry,” returned Miles, with a laugh. Yet the news brought a sudden feeling into his breast which was strongly allied to the opposite of laughter, for the thought of parting from father and mother without bidding them farewell fell upon his spirit with crushing weight; but, like too many men who know they are about to do wrong, Miles hardened his heart with the delusive argument that, having fairly taken the step, it was impossible for him now to retrace it. He knew—at least he thought—that there was still the possibility of being bought off, and that his stern father would only be too glad to help him. He also knew that at least he had time to write and let them know his circumstances, so that they might run down to Portsmouth and bid him good-bye; but he had taken the bit in his teeth, and now he resolved to abide the consequences.

Turning from his companions while they conversed, he looked into a shop-window.

“Your chum’s in the blues,” said the lively corporal, in a lower voice.

“Young fellows are often in that state after joining, ain’t they?” returned Armstrong.

“True for ye—an’ more shame to them, whin they ought to be as proud as paycocks at wearin’ her gracious Majesty’s uniform. But good luck to ’ee! I must be off, for I’m bound for Aigypt mesilf.”

“I am glad that I shall have the chance of seeing your wife, for I’ve been much interested in her since your friend Sergeant Gilroy told me about her,” said Miles, as they resumed their walk. “Surely it is hard of them to refuse to let her go with the regiment.”

“Well, it is hard,” returned the young soldier; “but after all I cannot find fault with the powers that be, for I married with my eyes open. I knew the rule that those who marry without leave must leave their wives at home, for only a certain number of families can go abroad with a regiment—and that only in peace-time.”

“It might have been well,” continued Armstrong, slowly, while a sad expression clouded his face for a few moments, “if I had waited, and many a time has my conscience smitten me for my haste. But what could I do? Emmy most unaccountably fell in love wi’ me—thank God! for I do think that the greatest earthly blessing that can be given to mortal man is the love of a gentle, true-hearted girl. The wealth of the Indies cannot purchase that, and nothing else in life can supply the want of it. Can you wonder that I grasped the treasure when within my reach?”

“I certainly cannot; and as certainly I do not blame you,” returned the sympathetic Miles.

“Of course I fell in love with Emmy,” continued the soldier, with a slightly confused look. “I could no more help that than I could help growing up. Could I?”

“Certainly not,” said Miles.

“Well, you see,” continued his friend, “as the affair was arranged in heaven, according to general belief, what was I that I should resist? You see, Emmy’s father, who’s a well-to-do farmer, was willing, and we never gave a thought to Egypt or the war at the time. She will be well looked after while I’m away, and I’ll send her every penny of my pay that I can spare, but—”

He stopped abruptly, and Miles, respecting his feelings, remarked, by way of changing the subject, that the pay of a private soldier being so small very little could be saved out of that.

“Not much,” assented his comrade; “but, little as it is, we can increase it in various ways. For one thing, I have given up smoking. That will save a little; though, to say truth, I have never expended much on baccy. Then I have joined Miss Robinson’s Temperance Band—”

“Strange how often that lady’s name has been in my ears since I came to Portsmouth!” said Miles.

“Not so strange after all,” returned Armstrong, “when one reflects that she has been the means of almost changing the character of the town within the last few years—as far at least as concerns the condition of soldiers, as well as many of the poorer classes among its inhabitants—so Sergeant Gilroy tells me.”

As some of the information given by Sergeant Gilroy to the young soldier may be interesting to many readers, we quote a few of his own words.

“Why, some years ago,” he said, “the soldiers’ wives, mothers, and sisters who came down here to see the poor fellows set sail for foreign parts found it almost impossible to obtain lodgings, except in drinking-houses which no respectable woman could enter. Some poor women even preferred to spend a winter night under railway arches, or some such shelter, rather than enter these places. And soldiers out of barracks had nowhere else to go to for amusement, while sailors on leave had to spend their nights in them or walk the streets. Now all that is changed. The Soldiers’ Institute supplies 140 beds, and furnishes board and lodging to our sisters and wives at the lowest possible rates, besides reception-rooms where we can meet our friends; a splendid reading-room, where we find newspapers and magazines, and can write our letters, if we like, in peace and quiet; a bar where tea and coffee, bread and butter, buns, etcetera, can be had at all reasonable hours for a mere trifle; a coffee and smoking room, opening out of which are two billiard-rooms, and beyond these a garden, where we can get on the flat roof of a house and watch the arrival and departure of shipping. There is a small charge to billiard-players, which pays all expenses of the tables, so that not a penny of the Institute funds is spent on the games. Of course no gambling is allowed in any of Miss Robinson’s Institutes. Then there are Bible-class rooms, and women’s work-rooms, and a lending library, and bathrooms, and a great hall, big enough to hold a thousand people, where there are held temperance meetings, lectures with dissolving views, entertainments, and ‘tea-fights,’ and Sunday services. No wonder that, with such an agency at work for the glory of God and the good of men, Portsmouth is almost a new place. Indeed, although Miss Robinson met with powerful opposition at first from the powers that be, her Institute is now heartily recognised and encouraged in every way at the Horse Guards. Indeed, it has recently been visited by the Prince of Wales and the Duke of Cambridge, and highly approved of by these and other grandees.”

While the two soldiers were chatting about the past and present of the Institute they arrived at its door.

“Here we are. Come into the reception-room, Miles, while I make inquiry about my letters.”

They entered the house as he spoke. The reception-room is on the right of the passage. Armstrong opened the door and looked in, but, instead of advancing, he stood transfixed, gazing before him open-mouthed as though he had seen a spectre, for there, in front of the fire, sat a beautiful, refined-looking girl, with golden hair and blue eyes, gazing pensively at the flickering flames.

Miles was not kept long in suspense as to who she was.

“Emmy!”

“Oh, Willie!”

These were exclamations which would have revealed all in a moment, even though Emmy had not sprung up and rushed into Willie’s open arms. How she ever emerged from the embrace of those arms with unbroken bones is a mystery which cannot be solved, but she did emerge in safety, and with some confusion on observing that Miles had witnessed the incident with admiring gaze!

“Never mind him, Emmy,” said the young soldier, laughing; “he’s a good friend, a comrade. Shake hands with him.”

The action, and the ease of manner with which Emmy obeyed, proved that grace and small hands are not altogether dependent on rank or station.

“Excuse me,” said Miles, after a few words of salutation; “I’ll go and have a look at the library.”

So saying he quitted the room, leaving the young couple alone; for there chanced to be no other visitors to the reception-room at the time. In the lobby he found several soldiers and a couple of sailors enjoying coffee at the bar, and was about to join them when a man came forward whose dress was that of a civilian, though his bearing proclaimed him a soldier.

“Hallo, Brown,” exclaimed one of the soldiers, “d’ye know that a troop-ship has just come in!”

“Know it? of course I do; you may trust the people of this house to be first in hearing such news.”

“Mr Tufnell told me of it. I’m just going down to the jetty to boil the kettle for them.”

As he spoke, two ladies of the Institute descended the broad staircase, each with a basket on her arm.

They entered into conversation for a few minutes with the soldiers at the bar, and it was abundantly evident to Miles, from the kindly tone of the former and the respectful air of the latter, that they were familiar acquaintances, and on the best of terms.

“Are you all ready, Brown?” asked one of the ladies of the soldier-like civilian, whom we have already mentioned.

“All ready, Miss; a man has already gone to order the bread and butter and light the fire. I hear the vessel is crowded, so we may expect a full house to-night.”

Miles pricked up his ears on hearing this, and when Brown went out, leaving the two ladies to finish their conversation with the soldiers, he followed him.

“Pardon me,” he said, on overtaking the man. “Did I understand correctly that a troop-ship has just arrived?”

“Right,” said Brown. “I am just going down to the embarkation jetty to get coffee ready for the men. You seem to have joined but a short time, apparently, for though I am familiar with your uniform I have not seen yourself before.”

“True, it is not long since I joined, and this is my first visit to the Institute.”

“I hope it won’t be the last, friend,” returned Brown heartily. “Every soldier is welcome there, and, for the matter of that, so is every sailor and marine.”

“I have heard as much. May I accompany you to this jetty to see the troops arrive, and this coffee business that you speak of?”

“You may, and welcome,” said Brown, leading his companion through the town in the direction of the docks, and chatting, as they walked along, about the army and navy; about his own experiences in the former; and about the condition of soldiers at the present time as contrasted with that of the days gone by.

Chapter Four.

The Embarkation Jetty—And Nipped in the Bud.

Bronzed faces under white helmets crowded the ports and bulwarks of the great white leviathan of the deep—the troop-ship Orontes—as she steamed slowly and cautiously up to the embarkation jetty in Portsmouth harbour.

On the jetty itself a few anxious wives, mothers, and sisters stood eagerly scanning the sea of faces in the almost hopeless endeavour to distinguish those for which they sought. Yet ever and anon an exclamation on the jetty, and an answering wave of an arm on the troop-ship, told that some at least of the anxious ones had been successful in the search.

“Don’t they look weather-beaten?” remarked Miles to his companion.

“Sure it’s more like sun-dried they are,” answered a voice at his side. Brown had gone to the shed to prepare his coffee and bread against the landing of the troops, and a stout Irishwoman had taken his place. Close to her stood the two ladies from the Institute with baskets on their arms.

“You are right,” returned Miles, with a smile; “they look like men who have seen service. Is your husband among them?”

“Faix, I’d be sorprised if he was,” returned the woman; “for I left him in owld Ireland, in the only landed property he iver held in this world—six futt by two, an’ five deep. He’s been in possession six years now, an’ it wouldn’t be aisy to drive him out o’ that, anyhow. No, it’s my son Terence I’ve come to look afther. Och! there he is! Look, look, that’s him close by the funnel! Don’t ye see ’im? Blissins on his good-lookin’ face! Hooroo! Terence—Terence Flynn, don’t ye recognise yer owld mother? Sure an’ he does, though we haven’t met for tin year. My! hasn’t he got the hair on his lips too—an’ his cheeks are like shoe-leather—my darlint!”

As the enthusiastic mother spoke in the tones of a public orator, there was a general laugh among those who were nearest to her; but she was forgotten immediately, for all were too deeply intent on their own interests to pay much regard to each other just then.

The great vessel was slow in getting alongside and making fast to the jetty—slow at least in the estimation of the impatient—for although she might leap and career grandly in wanton playfulness while on her native billows, in port a careless touch from her ponderous sides would have crushed part of the jetty into fragments. Miles therefore had ample time to look about him at the various groups around.

One young woman specially attracted his attention, for she stood apart from every one, and seemed scarcely able to stand because of weakness. She was young and good-looking. Her face, which was deadly pale, contrasted strongly with her glossy raven-black hair, and the character of her dress denoted extreme poverty.

The ladies from the Institute had also observed this poor girl, and one of them, going to her side, quietly addressed her. Miles, from the position in which he stood, could not avoid overhearing what was said.

“Yes, Miss, I expect my husband,” said the woman in answer to a question. “He’s coming home on sick-leave. I had a letter from him a good while ago saying he was coming home in the Orontes.”

“I hope you will find that the sea air has done him good,” said the lady, in that tone of unobtrusive sympathy which is so powerfully attractive,—especially to those who are in trouble. “A sea voyage frequently has a wonderful effect in restoring invalids. What is his name?”

“Martin—Fred Martin. He’s a corporal now.”

“You have not recognised him yet, I suppose?”

“Not yet, Miss,” answered Mrs Martin, with an anxious look, and shivering slightly as she drew a thin worn shawl of many patches closer round her shoulders. “But he wouldn’t expect me to meet him, you see, knowing that I’m so poor, and live far from Portsmouth. But I was so anxious, you see, Miss, that our kind Vicar gave me enough money to come down.”

“Where did you spend the night?” asked the lady, quickly.

The poor woman hesitated, and at last said she had spent the night walking about the streets.

“You see, Miss,” she explained apologetically, “I didn’t know a soul in the town, and I couldn’t a-bear to go into any o’ the public-houses; besides, I had no money, for the journey down took nearly all of it.”

“Oh, I am so sorry that you didn’t know of our Institute,” said the lady, with much sympathy in voice and look; “for we provide accommodation for soldiers’ wives who come, like you, to meet their husbands returning from abroad, and we charge little, or even nothing, if they are too poor to pay.”

“Indeed, Miss! I wish I had known of it. But in the morning I had the luck to meet a policeman who directed me to a coffee-tavern in a place called Nobbs Lane—you’ll not know it, Miss, for it’s in a very poor part o’ the town—where I got a breakfast of as much hot pea-soup and bread as I could eat for three-ha’pence, an’ had a good rest beside the fire too. They told me it was kept by a Miss Robinson. God bless her whoever she is! for I do believe I should have been dead by now if I hadn’t got the rest and the breakfast.”

The woman shivered again as she spoke, and drew the thin shawl still closer, for a sharp east wind was blowing over the jetty at the time.

“Come with me; you are cold. I know Nobbs Lane well. We have a shed and fire here on the jetty to shelter people while waiting. There, you need not fear to miss your husband, for the men won’t land for a long time yet.”

“May I follow you, madam?” said Miles, stepping forward and touching his cap in what he supposed to be the deferential manner of a private soldier. “I am interested in your work, and would like to see the shed you speak of.”

The lady looked up quickly at the tall young soldier who thus addressed her.

“I saw you in the lobby of the Institute this morning, did I not?”

“You did, madam. I was waiting for a friend who is a frequenter of the Institute. One of your own people brought me down here to see the arrival of the Orontes, and the coffee-shed; but I have lost him in the crowd, and know not where the shed is.”

“Here it is,” returned the lady, pointing to an iron structure just behind them. “You will find Mr Brown there busy with the coffee, and that small shed beside it is the shelter-room. You are welcome to inspect all our buildings at any time.”

So saying, the lady led Mrs Martin into the shed last referred to, and Miles followed her.

There was a small stove, in the solitary iron room of which the shed consisted, which diffused a genial warmth around. Several soldiers’ wives and female relatives were seated beside it, engaged in quieting refractory infants, or fitting a few woollen garments on children of various ages. These garments had been brought from the Institute, chiefly for the purpose of supplying the wives and children returning from warmer climes to England; and one of them, a thick knitted shawl, was immediately presented to Mrs Martin as a gift, and placed round her shoulders by the lady’s own hands.

“You are very kind, Miss,” she said, an unbidden tear rolling down her cheek as she surveyed the garment and folded it over her breast.

“Have you any children?” asked the lady.

“None. We had one—a dear baby boy,” answered the young wife sadly, “born after his father left England. God took him home when he was two years old. His father never saw him; but we shall all meet again,” she added, brightly, “in the better land.”

“Ah! it makes me glad to hear you say that God took him home. Only the spirit of Jesus could make you regard heaven as the home where you are all to meet again. Now I would advise you to sit here and keep warm till I go and make inquiry about your husband. It is quite possible, you know, that he may be in the sick bay, and they won’t let any one on board till the vessel is made fast. You are quite sure, I suppose, that it was the Orontes in which your husband said he was coming?”

“Yes, quite sure.”

The lady had asked the question because a vague fear possessed her regarding the cause of the soldier’s not having been seen looking eagerly over the side like the other men.

Hurrying from the shed, with her basket on her arm, she made for the gangway, which had just been placed in position. She was accompanied by her companion, also carrying her basket. Miles took the liberty of following them closely, but not obviously, for he formed only one of a stream of men and women who pushed on board the instant that permission was given.

While one of the ladies went in search of one of the chief officers, the other quietly and unobtrusively advanced among the returning warriors, and, opening her basket, drew therefrom and offered to each soldier an envelope containing one or two booklets and texts, and a hearty invitation to make free use of the Soldiers’ Institute during their stay in Portsmouth.

A most bewildering scene was presented on the deck of that great white vessel. There were hundreds of soldiers in her, returning home after longer or shorter absences in China, India, the Cape, and other far-away parts of the earth. Some were stalwart and bronzed by the southern sun; others were gaunt, weak, and cadaverous, from the effect of sickness, exposure, or wounds; but all were more or less excited at having once again set eyes on Old England, and at the near prospect of once more embracing wives, mothers, and sweethearts, and meeting with old friends. The continual noise of manly voices hailing, exclaiming, chaffing, or conversing, and the general babel of sounds is indescribable. To Miles Milton, who had never before even imagined anything of the sort, it seemed more like a vivid dream than a reality. He became so bewildered with trying to attend to everything at once that he lost sight of the shorter of the ladies, whom he was following, but, pushing ahead, soon found her again in the midst of a group of old friends—though still young soldiers—who had known the Institute before leaving for foreign service, and were eagerly inquiring after the health of Miss Robinson, and Tufnell the manager, and others.

During his progress through this bustling scene, Miles observed that the soldiers invariably received the gifts from the lady with respect, and, many of them, with hearty expressions of thanks, while a few stopped her to speak about the contents of the envelopes. So numerous were the men that the work had to be done with business-like celerity, but the visitor was experienced. While wasting no time in useless delay, she never hurried her movements, or refused to stop and speak, or forced her way through the moving throng. Almost unobserved, save by the men who chanced to be next to her, she glided in and out amongst them like a spirit of light—which, in the highest sense, she was—intent on her beneficent mission. Her sole aim was to save the men from the tremendous dangers that awaited them on landing in Portsmouth, and bring them under Christian influence.

Those dangers may be imagined when it is told that soldiers returning from abroad are often in possession of large sums of money, and that harpies of all kinds are eagerly waiting to plunder them on their arrival. On one occasion a regiment came home, and in a few days squandered three thousand pounds in Portsmouth. Much more might be said on this point, but enough has been indicated to move thoughtful minds—and our story waits.

Suddenly the attention of Miles, and every one near him, was attracted by the loud Hibernian yell of a female voice exclaiming—

“Oh, Terence, me darlin’ son, here ye are; an’ is it yersilf lookin’ purtier a long way than the day ye left me; an’ niver so much as a scratch on yer face for all the wars ye’ve bin in—bad luck to thim!”

Need we say that this was Mrs Flynn? In her anxiety to meet her son she had run against innumerable men and women, who remonstrated with her variously, according to temperament, without, however, the slightest effect. Her wild career was not checked until she had flung herself into the arms of a tall, stalwart trooper with drooping moustache, who would have done credit to any nationality under the sun, and whose enthusiasm at the happy meeting with his mother was almost as demonstrative as her own, but more dignified.

Others there were, however, whose case was very different. One who came there to meet the strong healthy man to whom she had said good-bye at the same spot several years before, received him back a worn and wasted invalid, upright still with the martial air of discipline, but feeble, and with something like the stamp of death upon his brow. Another woman found her son, strong indeed and healthy, as of yore, but with an empty sleeve where his right arm should have been—his days of warfare over before his earthly sun had reached the zenith!

Whilst Miles was taking note of these things, and moralising in spite of his distaste just then to that phase of mental occupation, the other lady of the Institute appeared and spoke hurriedly to her companion.

“Go,” she said, “tell Mrs Martin that her husband is not on board the Orontes. Let Tufnell, if he is at the shed, or our missionary, take her up to the Institute without delay. Let them take this note to Miss Robinson at the same time.”

The younger lady looked inquiringly at her companion, but the latter pushed on hurriedly and was soon lost in the crowd, so she went at once on shore to obey her instructions.

Being thus left to look after himself, Miles went about gazing at the varied, interesting, and curious scenes that the vessel presented. No one took any notice of him, for he was only one soldier among hundreds, and so many people from the shore had been admitted by that time that strange faces attracted no attention.

We have referred chiefly to soldiers’ friends, but these, after all, formed a small minority of the visitors, many of whom were tradesmen of the town—tailors, shoemakers, and vendors of fancy articles—who had come down with their wares to tempt the returning voyagers to part with their superfluous cash. Even in the midst of all the pushing and confusion, one man was seen trying on a pair of boots; near to him was a sailor, carefully inspecting a tailor’s book of patterns with a view to shore-going clothes; while another, more prompt in action, was already being measured for a suit of the same.

Descending to the ’tween-decks, our hero found that the confusion and noise there were naturally greater, the space being more limited and the noise confined. There was the addition of bad air and disagreeable smells here; and Miles could not help reflecting on the prospect before him of long voyages under cramped circumstances, in the midst of similar surroundings. But, being young and enthusiastic, he whispered to himself that he was not particular, and was ready to “rough it” in his country’s cause!

In a remarkably dark region to which he penetrated, he found himself in the women’s quarters, the disagreeables of which were increased by the cries of discontented children, and the yells of inconsolable infants—some of whom had first seen the light of this world in the sad twilight of ’tween-decks! Shrinking from that locality, Miles pursued his investigations, and gradually became aware that sundry parrots and other pets which the soldiers and sailors had brought home were adding their notes of discord to the chorus of sounds.

While he was looking at, and attempting to pat, a small monkey, which received his advances with looks of astonished indignation, he became conscious of the fact that a number of eyes were looking down on him through a crevice at the top of a partition close to his side.

“Who are these?” he asked of a sailor, who stood near him.

“Why, them are the long-term men.”

“I suppose you mean prisoners?”

“Yes; that’s about it,” replied the tar. “Soldiers as has committed murder—or suthin’ o’ that sort—an’ got twenty year or more for all I knows. The other fellers further on there, in chains, is short-term men. Bin an’ done suthin’ or other not quite so bad, I suppose.”

Miles advanced “further on,” and found eight men seated on the deck and leaning against the bulkhead. If his attention had not been drawn to them, he might have supposed they were merely resting, but a closer glance showed that they were all chained to an iron bar. They did not seem very different from the other men around them, save that they were, most of them, stern and silent.

A powerful feeling of compassion rose in our hero’s breast as he looked at these moral wrecks of humanity; for their characters and prospects were ruined, though their physique was not much impaired. It seemed to him such an awful home-coming, after, perhaps, long years of absence, thus, in the midst of all the bustle and joy of meetings and of pleasant anticipations, to be waiting there for the arrival of the prison-van, and looking forward to years of imprisonment instead of reunion with friends and kindred.

At sight of them a thought sprang irresistibly into our hero’s mind, “This is the result of wrong-doing!”

His conscience was uncomfortably active and faithful that morning. Somehow it pointed out to him that wrong-doing was a long ladder; that the chained criminals before him had reached the foot; and that he stood on the topmost rung. That was all the difference between them and himself—a difference of degree, not of principle.

Pushing his way a little closer to these men, he found that his was not the only heart that pitied them. His friend, the younger lady, was there speaking to them. He could not hear what she said, for the noise drowned her voice; but her earnest, eager look and her gesticulations told well enough that she was pointing them to the Saviour of sinners—with what effect, of course, he could not tell, but it was evident that the prisoners at least gave her their attention.

Leaving her thus engaged, Miles continued for a considerable time his progress through the ship. Afterwards he observed, by a movement among the men, that a detachment was about to land. Indeed he found that some of the soldiers had already landed, and were making their way to the coffee-shed.

Following these quickly to the same place, he found that innumerable cups of hot coffee and solid slices of bread and butter were being served out as fast as they could be filled and cut. A large hole or window opened in the side of the shed, the shutter of which was hinged at the bottom, and when let down formed a convenient counter.

Behind this counter stood the two ubiquitous ladies of the Institute acting the part of barmaids, as if to the manner born, and with the same business-like, active, yet modest, ready-for-anything air which marked all their proceedings.

And truly their post was no sinecure. To supply the demands of hundreds of hungry and thirsty warriors was not child’s-play. Inside the shed, Miles found his friend Brown busy with a mighty caldron of hot water, numerous packets of coffee, and immense quantities of sugar and preserved milk. Brown was the fountain-head. The ladies were the distributing pipes—if we may say so; and although the fountain produced can after can of the coveted liquid with amazing rapidity, and with a prodigality of material that would have made the hair of a private housewife stand on end, it was barely possible to keep pace with the demand.

At a large table one of the missionaries of the Institute cut up and buttered loaves at a rate which gave the impression that he was a conjurer engaged in a species of sleight-of-hand. The butter, however, troubled him, for, the weather being cold, it was hard, and would not spread easily. To overcome this he put a pound or so of it on a plate beside the boiler-fire to soften. Unfortunately, he temporarily forgot it, and on afterwards going for it, found that it had been reduced to a yellow liquid. However, hungry soldiers, rejoicing in the fact of having at last reached home, are not particular. Some of them, unaccustomed, no doubt, to be served by ladies, asked for their supply deferentially, accepted it politely, and drank it with additional appreciation.

“We want more, Brown,” said one of the ladies, glancing back over her shoulder as she poured out the last drop from her large jug; “and more buns and bread, please.”

“Here you are, Miss,” cried Brown, who was warm by that time in spite of the weather, as he bore his brimming and steaming pitcher to the window—or hole in the wall—and replenished the jugs. “The buns are all done, an’ the bread won’t hold out long, but I’ve sent for more; it won’t be long. I see we shall need several more brews,” he added, as he turned again towards the inexhaustible boiler.

“Shall I assist you?” said Miles, stepping into the shed and seizing a loaf and a knife.

“Thank you. Go ahead,” said Brown.

“Put another lump of butter near the fire,” said the missionary to our hero; “not too close. I melted the last lump altogether.”

“A cup o’ coffee for my Terence, an’ wan for mesilf, my dear,” exclaimed a loud voice outside.

There was no mistaking the speaker. Some of the men who crowded round the counter laughed, others partially choked, when the strapping Terence said in a hoarse whisper, “Whist, mother, be civil; don’t ye see that it’s ladies, no less, is sarvin’ of us?”

“Please, ma’am, can I ’ave some coffee?” asked a modest soldier’s wife, who looked pale and weary after the long voyage, with three children to look after.

A cup was promptly supplied, and three of the newly-arrived buns stopped the mouths of her clamorous offspring.

“Can ye give me a cup o’ tea?” demanded another soldier’s wife, who was neither so polite nor so young as the previous applicant.

It is probable that the ladies did not observe the nature of her demand, else they would doubtless have explained that they had no tea, but a cup of coffee was silently handed to her.

“Ah! this is real home-tea, this is,” she said, smacking her lips after the first sip. “A mighty difference ’tween this an’ what we’ve bin used to in the ship.”

“Yes, indeed,” assented her companion. Whether it was tea she had been accustomed to drink on board the troop-ship we cannot tell, but probably she was correct as to the “mighty difference.” It may be that the beverages supplied in foreign lands had somewhat damaged the power of discrimination as to matters of taste in these soldiers’ wives. At all events an incident which occurred about the same time justifies this belief.

“Mr Miles,” said the missionary, pausing a moment to wipe his brow in the midst of his labours, “will you fetch the butter now?”

Miles turned to obey with alacrity—with too much alacrity, indeed, for in his haste he knocked the plate over, and sent the lump of butter into the last prepared “brew” of coffee!

“Hallo! I say!” exclaimed Brown, in consternation. “More coffee, Brown,” demanded the ladies simultaneously, at that inauspicious moment.

“Yes, Miss, I—I’m coming—directly,” cried Brown.

“Do be quick, please!”

“What’s to be done?” said Brown, making futile endeavours to fish out the slippery mass with the stirring-stick.

“Shove it down and stir it well about,” suggested Miles.

Whether conscience was inoperative at that moment we know not, but Brown acted on the suggestion, and briskly amalgamated the butter with the coffee, while the crowd at the port-hole politely but continuously demanded more.

“Don’t be in a ’urry, Tom,” cried a corporal, removing his pith helmet in order to run his fingers through his hair; “it’s a ’eavenly state o’ things now to what it was a few years ago, w’en we an’ our poor wives ’ad to sit ’ere for hours in the heat or cold, wet or dry, without shelter, or a morsel to eat, or a drop to drink, till we got away up town to the grog-shops.”

“Well, this is civilisation at last!” remarked a handsome and hearty young fellow, who had apparently been ignorant of the treat in store for him, and who sauntered up to the shed just as the butter-brew was beginning to be served out.

“Why, I declare, it’s chocolate!” exclaimed one of the women, who had been already served with a cup, and had resolved to “go in,” as she said, for another pennyworth.

“So it is. My! ain’t it nice?” said her companion, smacking her lips.

Whether the soldiers fell into the same mistake, or were too polite to take notice of it, we cannot tell, for they drank it without comment, and with evident satisfaction, like men of simple tastes and uncritical minds.

We turn now to a very different scene.

In one of the private sitting-rooms of the Institute sat poor young Mrs Martin, the very embodiment of blank despair. The terrible truth that her husband had died, and been buried at sea, had been gently and tenderly broken to her by Miss Robinson.

At first the poor girl could not—would not—believe it. Then, as the truth gradually forced itself into her brain, she subsided into a tearless, expressionless, state of quiescence that seemed to indicate a mind unhinged. In this state she remained for some time, apparently unconscious of the kind words of Christian love that were addressed to her.

At last she seemed to rouse herself and gazed wildly round the room.

“Let me go,” she said. “I will find him somewhere. Don’t hinder me, please.”

“But you cannot go anywhere till you have had food and rest, dear child,” said her sympathetic comforter, laying her hand gently on the girl’s arm. “Come with me.”

She sought to lead her away, but the girl shook her off.

“No,” she exclaimed, starting up hastily, so that the mass of her dark hair fell loose upon her shoulders, contrasting forcibly with the dead whiteness of her face and lips. “No. I cannot go with you. Fred will be getting impatient. D’you think I’ll ever believe it? Dead and buried in the sea? Never!”

Even while she spoke, the gasp in her voice, and the pressure of both hands on her poor heart, told very plainly that the young widow did indeed believe it.

“Oh! may God Himself comfort you, dear child,” said the lady, taking her softly by the hand. “Come—come with me.”

Mrs Martin no longer refused. Her spirit, which had flashed up for a moment, seemed to collapse, and without another word of remonstrance she meekly suffered herself to be guided to a private room, where she was put to bed.

She never rose from that bed. Friendless, and without means, she would probably have perished in the streets, or in one of the dens of Portsmouth, had she not been led to this refuge. As it was, they nursed her there, and did all that human skill and Christian love could devise; but her heart was broken. Towards the end she told them, in a faint voice, that her Fred had been stationed at Alexandria, and that while there he had been led to put his trust in the Saviour. She knew nothing of the details. All these, and much more, she had expected to hear from his own lips.

“But he will tell me all about it soon, thank God!” were the last words she uttered as she turned her eyes gratefully on the loving strangers who had found and cared for her in the dark day of her calamity.

Chapter Five.

Difficulties met and overcome.

Miles and his friend Brown, after their work at the jetty, had chanced to return to the Institute at the moment referred to in the last chapter, when the poor young widow, having become resigned, had been led through the passage to her bedroom. Our hero happened to catch sight of her face, and it made a very powerful impression on him—an impression which was greatly deepened afterwards on hearing of her death.

In the reception-room he found Armstrong still in earnest conversation with his wife.

“Hallo, Armstrong! still here? Have you been sitting there since I left you?” he asked, with a smile and look of surprise.

“Oh no!” answered his friend; “not all the time. We have been out walking about town, and we have had dinner here—an excellent feed, let me tell you, and cheap too. But where did you run off to?”

“Sit down and I’ll tell you,” said Miles.

Thereupon he related all about his day’s experiences. When he had finished, Armstrong told him that his own prospect of testing the merits of a troop-ship were pretty fair, as he was ordered for inspection on the following day.

“So you see,” continued the young soldier, “if you are accepted—as you are sure to be—you and I will go out together in the same vessel.”

“I’m glad to hear that, anyhow,” returned Miles.

“And I am very glad too,” said little Emily, with a beaming smile, “for Willie has told me about you, Mr Miles; and how you first met and took a fancy to each other; and it will be so nice to think that there’s somebody to care about my Willie when he is far away from me.”

The little woman blushed and half-laughed, and nearly cried as she said this, for she felt that it was rather a bold thing to say to a stranger, and yet she had such a strong desire to mitigate her husband’s desolation when absent from her that she forcibly overcame her modesty. “And I want you to do me a favour, Mr Miles,” she added.

“I’ll do it with pleasure,” returned our gallant hero.

“I want you to call him Willie,” said the little woman, blushing and looking down.

“Certainly I will—if your husband permits me.”

“You see,” she continued, “I want him to keep familiar with the name I’ve been used to call him—for comrades will call him Armstrong, I suppose, and—”

“Oh! Emmy,” interrupted the soldier reproachfully, “do you think I require to be kept in remembrance of that name? Won’t your voice, repeating it, haunt me day and night till the happy day when I meet you again on the Portsmouth jetty, or may-hap in this very room?”

Miles thought, when he heard this speech, of the hoped-for meeting between poor Mrs Martin and her Fred; and a feeling of profound sadness crept over him as he reflected how many chances there were against their ever again meeting in this world. Naturally these thoughts turned his mind to his own case. His sinful haste in quitting home, and the agony of his mother on finding that he was really gone, were more than ever impressed on him, but again the fatal idea that what was done could not be undone, coupled with pride and false shame, kept him firm to his purpose.

That evening, in barracks, Miles was told by his company sergeant to hold himself in readiness to appear before the doctor next morning for inspection as to his physical fitness for active service in Egypt.

Our hero was by this time beginning to find out that the life of a private soldier, into which he had rushed, was a very different thing indeed from that of an officer—to which he had aspired. Here again pride came to his aid—in a certain sense,—for if it could not reconcile him to his position, it at all events closed his mouth, and made him resolve to bear the consequences of his act like a man.

In the morning he had to turn out before daylight, and with a small band of men similarly situated, to muster in the drill-shed a little after eight. Thence they marched to the doctor’s quarters.

It was an anxious ordeal for all of them; for, like most young soldiers, they were enthusiastically anxious to go on active service, and there was, of course, some uncertainty as to their passing the examination.

The first man called came out of the inspection room with a beaming countenance, saying that he was “all right,” which raised the hopes and spirits of the rest; but the second appeared after inspection with a woe-begone countenance which required no interpretation. No reason was given for his rejection; he was simply told that it would be better for him not to go.

Miles was the third called.

As he presented himself, the doctor yawned vociferously, as if he felt that the hour for such work was unreasonably early. Then he looked at his subject with the critical air of a farmer inspecting a prize ox.

“How old are you?” he asked.

“Nineteen, sir.”

“Are you married?”

Miles smiled.

“Did you hear me?” asked the doctor sharply. “You don’t need to smile. Many a boy as long-legged and as young as you is fool enough to marry. Are you married?”

Miles flushed, looked suddenly stern, squared his shoulders, drew himself up with an air that implied, “You won’t catch me tripping again;” and said firmly, yet quite respectfully—

“No, sir.”

The doctor here took another good look at his subject, with a meaning twinkle in his eye, as if he felt that he had touched a tender point. Then he felt his victim’s pulse, sounded his chest, and ordered him to strip. Being apparently satisfied with the result of his examination, he asked him if he “felt all right.”

Reflecting that his mother had often told him he was made up of body, soul, and spirit, and that in regard to the latter two he was rather hazy, Miles felt strongly inclined for a moment to say, “Certainly not,” but, thinking better of it, he answered, “Yes, sir,” with decision.

“Have you anything to complain of?” asked the doctor.

The mind of our hero was what we may style rapidly reflective. In regard to the decrees of Fate, things in general, and his father’s conduct in particular, he had a decided wish to complain, but again he laid restraint on himself and said, “No, sir.”

“And do you wish to go to Egypt?”

“Yes, sir!” was answered with prompt decision.

“Then you may go,” said the doctor, turning away with an air of a man who dismisses a subject from his mind.

When all the men had thus passed the medical examination, those of them who were accepted mustered their bags and kits before Captain Lacey, commander of the company to which they were attached, and those who wanted anything were allowed to draw it from the stores.

Captain Lacey was a fine specimen of a British soldier—grave, but kind in expression and in heart; tall, handsome, powerful, about thirty years of age, with that urbanity of manner which wins affection at first sight, and that cool, quiet decision of character which inspires unlimited confidence.

As the troop-ship which was to convey them to Egypt was to start sooner than had been intended, there was little time for thought during the few hours in England that remained to the regiment. The men had to draw their pith helmets, and fit the ornaments thereon; then go the quartermaster’s stores to be fitted with white clothing, after which they had to parade before the Colonel, fully arrayed in the martial habiliments which were needful in tropical climes. Besides these matters there were friends to be seen, in some cases relatives to be parted from, and letters innumerable to be written. Miles Milton was among those who, on the last day in Portsmouth, attempted to write home. He had been taken by Sergeant Gilroy the previous night to one of the Institute entertainments in the great hall. The Sergeant had tried to induce him to go to the Bible-class with him, but Miles was in no mood for that at the time, and he was greatly relieved to find that neither the Sergeant nor any of the people of the Institute annoyed him by thrusting religious matters on his attention. Food, lodging, games, library, baths, Bible-classes, prayer-meetings, entertainments were all there to be used or let alone as he chose; perfect freedom of action being one of the methods by which it was sought to render the place attractive to the soldiers.

But although Miles at once refused to go to the class, he had no objection to go to the entertainment.

It was a curious mixture of song, recitation, addresses, and readings, in which many noble sentiments were uttered, and not a few humorous anecdotes and incidents related. It was presided over by Tufnell, the manager, a soldierly-looking man, who had himself originally been in the army, and who had, for many years, been Miss Robinson’s right-hand man. There could not have been fewer than a thousand people in the hall, a large proportion of whom were red-coats and blue-jackets, the rest being civilians; and the way in which these applauded the sentiments, laughed at the humour, and rejoiced in the music, showed that the provision for their amusement was thoroughly appreciated.

Whether it was the feeling of good-fellowship and sympathy that pervaded the meeting, or some word that was dropped at a venture and found root in his heart, Miles could not tell, but certain it is that at that entertainment he formed the resolution to write home before leaving. Not that he had yet repented of the step he had taken, but he was sorry for the manner in which he had done so, and for allowing so much time to elapse that now the opportunity of seeing his parents before starting was lost.

As it was impossible for him to write his letter in the noise of the barrack-room, he went off next day to the reading-room of the Institute, and there, with no other sounds to disturb him than the deep breathing of some studious red-coats, and the chirping pen of a comrade engaged like himself, he began to write.

But his thoughts somehow would not work. His pen would not write. He even fancied that it had a sort of objection to spell. So it had, when not properly guided by his hesitating hand. The first part went swimmingly enough:—

“DEAREST MOTHER,

I’m so sorry—”

But here he stopped, for the memory of his father’s severity re-aroused his indignation, and he felt some doubt as to whether he really was sorry. Then, under the impulse of this doubt, he wrote a long letter, in imagination, in which he defended his conduct pretty warmly, on the ground that he had been driven to it.

“Driven to what?” asked Something within him. “To the course which I have taken and am now defending,” replied Something-else within him hotly.

“Then the course was a wrong one, else you wouldn’t have to defend it!” rejoined the first Something.

“Well—yes—n–no, it wasn’t,” returned the second Something doggedly.

Before this internal dispute could be carried further, Miles was aroused by a sudden burst of noisy voices, as if a lunatic asylum had been let loose into the hall below. Rising quickly, he hurried down with his studious comrades to see what it could be all about.

“It’s only another troop-ship come in, and they’ve all come up here without giving us warning to get ready,” said Tufnell, as he bustled about, endeavouring to introduce order into what appeared to Miles to be the reproduction of Babel, minus the bricks.

The fact was that a troop-ship having arrived rather suddenly, a sergeant had driven up in hot haste from the docks to make arrangements for the reception of the soldiers’ wives and children!

“Look sharp!” he cried, on entering the hall abruptly; “sixteen families are on their way to you.”

“All right; we can take ’em in,” was the prompt reply; and orders were given to set the food-producing machinery of the establishment instantly in motion. But almost before the preparation had fairly begun, the advance-guard of the army, largely composed of infantry, burst upon them like a thunder-clap, and continued to pour in like a torrent. There were men shouting, women chattering, tired children whining, and excited children laughing; babies yelling or crowing miscellaneously; parrots screaming; people running up and down stairs in search of dormitories; plates and cups clattering at the bar, as the overwhelmed barmaids did their best to appease the impatient and supply the hungry; while the rumbling of control-wagons bringing up the baggage formed a sort of bass accompaniment to the concert.

“You see, it varies with us a good deal,” remarked Brown to Miles, during a lucid interval, “Sometimes we are almost empty, a few hours later we are overflowing. It comes hard on the housekeeper, of course. But we lay our account wi’ that, and, do you know, it is wonderful what can be done in trying circumstances, when we lay our account wi’ them!—Yes, Miss, it’s all ready!” shouted the speaker, in reply to a soft female voice that came down the wide staircase, as it were, over the heads of the turbulent crowd.

In a moment he disappeared, and Tufnell stood, as if by magic, in his place.

“Yes,” said the manager, taking up his discourse where the other had left off; “and in a few minutes you’ll see that most of these wives and children of the soldiers will be distributed through the house in their bed-rooms, when our ladies will set to work to make acquaintance with them; and then we’ll open our stores of warm clothing, of which the poor things, coming as they do from warm climates, are often nearly or quite destitute.”

“But where do you get these supplies from?” asked Miles.

“From kind-hearted Christians throughout the country, who send us gifts of old and new garments, boots and shoes, shawls and socks, etcetera, which we have always in readiness to meet sudden demands; and I may add that the demands are pretty constant. Brown told you just now that we have varied experience. I remember once we got a message from the Assistant Quartermaster-General’s office to ask how many women and children we could accommodate, as a shipful was expected. We replied that we could take 140, and set to work with preparations. After all, only one woman came! To-day we expected nobody, and—you see what we have got!”

The genial countenance of the manager beamed with satisfaction. It was evident that “what he had got” did not at all discompose him, as he hurried away to look after his flock, while the originator—the heart and soul of all this—although confined to her room at that time with spine complaint, and unable to take part in the active work, as she had been wont to do in years gone by, heard in her chamber the softened sound of the human storm, and was able to thank God that her Soldiers’ Institute was fulfilling its destiny.

“Hallo! Miles!” exclaimed Armstrong, over the heads of the crowd; “I’ve been looking for you everywhere. D’you know we run a chance of being late? Come along, quick!”

Our hero, who, in his interest in the scene, had forgotten the flight of time, hurried out after his comrade as the band struck up “Home, sweet Home,” and returned to barracks, utterly oblivious of the fact that he had left the unfinished letter to his mother on the table in the reading-room.

Chapter Six.

The Unfinished Letter—Too Late!

Next morning young Milton—or, as he was called by his comrades, John Miles—rose with the depressing thought that it was to be his last day in England. As he was dressing, it flashed across him that he had left his unfinished letter on the reading-room table, and, concluding that it would be swept away in the rush of people there—at all events that, not having been folded or addressed, it could not be posted—his depression was deepened.

The first thing that roused him to a better frame of mind was the smell of tea!

Most people are more or less familiar with teapots; with the few teaspoonfuls of the precious leaf which thrifty housekeepers put into these pots, and the fragrant liquid that results. But who among civilians, (save the informed), can imagine a barrack-room teapot?

Open your ears, O ye thrifty ones! while we state a few facts, and there will be no need to tell you to open your eyes.

Into the teapot which supplied Miles with his morning cup there was put, for one making, eight pounds of tea!—not ounces, observe, but pounds,—twenty-nine pounds of sugar, and six gallons—an absolute cowful—of milk! The pot itself consisted of eight enormous coppers, which were filled with boiling water to the brim.

“Yes, sir,” remarked the military cook, who concocted the beverage, to a speechless visitor one day; “it is a pretty extensive brew; but then, you see, we have a large family!”

A considerable portion of this large family was soon actively engaged in preparation for immediate embarkation for Egypt. Then the General made the men a farewell speech. It was a peculiar speech—not altogether suited to cheer timid hearts, had any such been there, but admirably adapted to British soldiers.

“Men,” said he, “I am very glad to see you parade looking so well and clean and comfortable and ready for active service. You will be dirty enough, sometimes, where you are going, for the country is hot and unhealthy, and not over clean. You will have hardships, hard times, and plenty of hard work, as well as hard beds now and then, and very likely the most of you will never come back again; but you would be unworthy of the name of British soldiers if you allowed such thoughts to trouble your minds. I sincerely express the hope, however, that you will all come home again safe and sound. I have not the slightest doubt that every man of you will do his duty in the field faithfully and well; but I’m not so sure of your wisdom in camp and barracks, so I will give you a word of advice. There is far more danger in getting drunk in hot countries than in England. Let me advise you, then, not to get drunk; and I would warn you particularly against the vile stuff they will offer for sale in Egypt. It is rank poison. If you had stomachs lined with brass you might perhaps stand it—not otherwise. Then I would warn you against the sun. In Egypt the sun is sometimes like a fiery furnace. Never expose yourself when you can avoid doing so, and, above all, never go outside your tents without your helmets on. If you do, you’ll repent it, and repentance will probably come too late. I wish you all a prosperous voyage, and may God keep you all!”

Delivered in a sharp, stern, unsentimental tone, this brief speech had probably a much more powerful effect on the men than a more elaborate exhortation would have had. The impression was deepened by the remarks of an old officer, who made a very brief, soldierly speech after the General, winding up with the information that he had himself been in Egypt, and assuring them that if they did not take care of themselves there was little chance of a man of them returning alive!

“May you have a pleasant passage out,” he said, in conclusion; “and, in the name of the Portsmouth Division, I wish you victory in all your battles, and a hearty good-bye.”

The men who were not going away were then called on to give their departing friends three cheers, which they did with right good-will. Captain Lacey, who was in charge of the detachment, stepped to the front, drew his sword, gave the order to shoulder arms, form fours, right turn, quick march, and away they went with the united bands of two regiments playing “The girl I left behind me!”

The girls they were about to leave behind them were awaiting them at the barrack-gates, with a considerable sprinkling of somewhat older girls to keep them company. Many of the poor creatures were in tears for the men whom they might never see again, and lumps in several manly throats rather interfered with the parting cheer delivered by the detachment at the gate. Most of them accompanied the soldiers as far as the Dockyard gates. Emily Armstrong was not among them. She had parted the previous night from her husband at his earnest request, and returned by rail to her father’s house, there to await, as patiently as she might, the return of her “Willie.”

“Noble defenders of our country!” observed an enthusiastic citizen, as they passed through the gates.

“Food for powder,” remarked a sarcastic publican, as he turned away to resume his special work of robbing powder of its food and his country of its defenders.

Proceeding to the Embarkation Jetty, the detachment was marched on board the troop-ship, where the men were at once told off to their respective messes, and proceeded without delay to make themselves at home by taking possession of their allotted portion of the huge white-painted fabric that was to bear them over the waves to distant lands.

Taking off their belts and stowing them overhead, they got hold of their bags, exchanged their smart uniforms for old suits of clothes, and otherwise prepared themselves for the endurance of life on board a transport.

To his great satisfaction, Miles found that several of the comrades for whom he had by that time acquired a special liking were appointed to the same mess with himself. Among these were his friend Willie Armstrong, Sergeants Gilroy and Hardy, Corporal Flynn, a private named Gaspard Redgrave, who was a capital musician, and had a magnificent tenor voice, Robert Macleod, a big-boned Scotsman, and Moses Pyne, a long-legged, cadaverous nondescript, who was generally credited with being half-mad, though with a good deal of method in his madness, and who was possessed of gentleness of spirit, and a cheerful readiness to oblige, which seemed a flat contradiction of his personal appearance, and rendered him a general favourite.

While these were busy arranging their quarters a soldier passed with several books in his hand, which he had just received from one of the ladies from the Institute.

“Hallo, Jack!” cried Moses Pyne; “have the ladies been aboard?”

“Of course they have. They’ve been all over the ship already distributin’ books an’ good-byes. If you want to see ’em you’ll have to look sharp, Moses, for they’re just goin’ on shore.”

“See ’em!” echoed Moses; “of course I wants to see ’em. But for them, I’d be—”

The rest of the sentence was lost in the clatter of Moses’ feet as he stumbled up the ladder-way. Remembering his letter at that moment, Miles followed him, and reached the gangway just as the visitors were leaving.

“Excuse me,” he said to one of them, stopping her.

“Oh! I’m so glad to have found you,” she said.

“I have been looking for you everywhere. Miss Robinson sent you this little parcel of books, with her best wishes, and hopes that you will read them.”

“Thanks, very much. I will, with pleasure. And will you do me a favour? I left a letter on the reading-room table—”

A sudden and peremptory order of some sort caused a rush which separated Miles from the visitor and cut short the sentence, and the necessity for the immediate departure of all visitors rendered its being finished impossible.

But Miss Robinson’s representative did not require to be told that a forgotten letter could only want posting. On returning, therefore, to the Institute, she went at once to the reading-room, where she found no letter! Making inquiry, she learned from one of the maids that a sheet of paper had been found with nothing on it but the words, “Dearest mother, I’m so sorry”; and that the same had been duly conveyed to Miss Robinson’s room. Hasting to the apartment of her friend, she knocked, and was bidden enter.

“You have got an unfinished letter, it seems?” she began.

“Yes; here it is,” interrupted Miss Robinson, handing the sheet to her assistant. “What a pity that it gives no clew to the writer—no address!”

“I am pretty sure as to the writer,” returned the other. “It must have been that fine-looking young soldier, John Miles, of whom we have seen a little and heard so much from Sergeant Gilroy.”

Hereupon an account was given of the hurried and interrupted meeting on board the troop-ship; and the two ladies came to the conclusion that as nothing was known about the parents or former residence of John Miles no steps of any kind were possible. The letter was therefore carefully put by.

That same evening there alighted at the railway station in Portsmouth an elderly lady with an expression of great anxiety on her countenance, and much perturbation in her manner.

“Any luggage, ma’am?” asked a sympathetic porter—for railway porters are sometimes more sympathetic than might be expected of men so much accustomed to witness abrupt and tender partings.

“No; no luggage. Yes—a small valise—in the carriage. That’s it.”

“Four-wheeler, ma’am?”

“Eh! no—yes—yes.”

“Where to, ma’am?” asked the sympathetic porter, after the lady was seated in the cab.

“Where to?” echoed Mrs Milton, (for it was she), in great distress. “Oh! where—where shall I drive to?”

“Really, ma’am, I couldn’t say,” answered the porter, with a modest look.

“I’ve—I—my son! My dear boy! Where shall I go to inquire? Oh! what shall I do?”

These would have been perplexing utterances even to an unsympathetic man.

Turning away from the window, and looking up at the driver, the porter said solemnly—

“To the best ’otel you know of, cabby, that’s not too dear. An’ if you’ve bin gifted with compassion, cabby, don’t overcharge your fare.”

Accepting the direction, and exercising his discretion as well as his compassion, that intelligent cabby drove, strange to say, straight to an hotel styled the “Officers’ House,” which is an offshoot of Miss Robinson’s Institute, and stands close beside it!

“A hofficer’s lady,” said the inventive cabby to the boy who opened the door. “Wants to putt up in this ’ere ’ouse.”

When poor Mrs Milton had calmed her feelings sufficiently to admit of her talking with some degree of coherence, she rang the bell and sent for the landlord.

Mr Tufnell, who was landlord of the Officers’ House, as well as manager of the Institute, soon presented himself, and to him the poor lady confided her sorrows.

“You see, landlord,” she said, whimpering, “I don’t know a soul in Portsmouth; and—and—in fact I don’t even know how I came to your hotel, for I never heard of it before; but I think I must have been sent here, for I see from your looks that you will help me.”

“You may depend on my helping you to the best of my power, madam. May I ask what you would have me do?”

With much earnestness, and not a few tears, poor Mrs Milton related as much of her son’s story as she thought necessary.

“Well, you could not have come to a better place,” said Tufnell, “for Miss Robinson and all her helpers sympathise deeply with soldiers. If any one can find out about your son, they can. How were you led to suspect that he had come to Portsmouth?”

“A friend suggested that he might possibly have done so. Indeed, it seems natural, considering my dear boy’s desire to enter the army, and the number of soldiers, who are always passing through this town.”

“Well, I will go at once and make inquiry. The name Milton is not familiar to me, but so many come and go that we sometimes forget names.”

When poor Mrs Milton was afterwards introduced to Miss Robinson, she found her both sympathetic and anxious to do her utmost to gain information about her missing son, but the mother’s graphic descriptions of him did not avail much. The fact that he was young, tall, handsome, curly-haired, etcetera, applied to so many of the defenders of the country as to be scarcely distinctive enough; but when she spoke of “My dear Miles,” a new light was thrown on the matter. She was told that a young soldier answering to the description of her son had been there recently, but that his surname—not his Christian name—was Miles. Would she recognise his handwriting?

“Recognise it?” exclaimed Mrs Milton, in a blaze of sudden hope. “Ay, that I would; didn’t I teach him every letter myself? Didn’t he insist on making his down-strokes crooked? and wasn’t my heart almost broken over his square O’s?”

While the poor mother was speaking, the unfinished letter was laid before her, and the handwriting at once recognised.

“That’s his! Bless him! And he’s sorry. Didn’t I say he would be sorry? Didn’t I tell his father so? Darling Miles, I—”

Here the poor creature broke down, and wept at the thought of her repentant son. It was well, perhaps, that the blow was thus softened, for she almost fell on the floor when her new friend told her, in the gentlest possible manner, that Miles had that very day set sail for Egypt.

They kept her at the Institute that night, however, and consoled her much, as well as aroused her gratitude, by telling of the good men who formed part of her son’s regiment; and of the books and kind words that had been bestowed on him at parting; and by making the most they could of the good hope that the fighting in Egypt would soon be over, and that her son would ere long return to her, God willing, sound and well.

Chapter Seven.

Miles begins to discover himself—Has a few Rough Experiences—And falls into Pea-Soup, Salt-Water, and Love.

While his mother was hunting for him in Portsmouth, Miles Milton was cleaving his way through the watery highway of the world, at the rate of fifteen knots.

He was at the time in that lowest condition of misery, mental and physical, which is not unfrequently the result of “a chopping sea in the Channel.” It seemed to him, just then, an unbelievable mystery how he could, at any time, have experienced pleasure at the contemplation of food! The heaving of the great white ship was nothing to the heaving—well, it may perhaps be wiser to refrain from particulars; but he felt that the beating of the two thousand horse-power engines—more or less—was child’s-play to the throbbing of his brain!

“And this,” he thought, in the bitterness of his soul, “this is what I have sacrificed home, friends, position, prospects in life for! This is—soldiering!”

The merest shadow of the power to reason—if such a shadow had been left—might have convinced him that that was not soldiering; that, as far as it went, it was not even sailoring!

“You’re very bad, I fear,” remarked a gentle voice at the side of his hammock.

Miles looked round. It was good-natured, lanky, cadaverous Moses Pyne.

“Who told you I was bad?” asked Miles savagely, putting a wrong—but too true—interpretation on the word.

“The colour of your cheeks tells me, poor fellow!”

“Bah!” exclaimed Miles. He was too sick to say more. He might have said less with advantage.

“Shall I fetch you some soup?” asked Moses, in the kindness of his heart. Moses, you see, was one of those lucky individuals who are born with an incapacity to be sick at sea, and was utterly ignorant of the cruelty he perpetrated. “Or some lobscouse?” he added.

“Go away!” gasped Miles.

“A basin of—”

Miles exploded, literally as well as metaphorically, and Moses retired.

“Strange,” thought that healthy soldier, as he stalked away on further errands of mercy, stooping as he went to avoid beams—“strange that Miles is so changeable in character. I had come to think him a steady, reliable sort of chap.”

Puzzling over this difficulty, he advanced to the side of another hammock, from which heavy groans were issuing.

“Are you very bad, corporal?” he asked in his usual tone of sympathy.

“Bad is it?” said Flynn. “Och! it’s worse nor bad I am! Couldn’t ye ax the captin to heave-to for a—”

The suggestive influence of heaving-to was too much for Flynn. He pulled up dead. After a few moments he groaned—

“Arrah! be off, Moses, av ye don’t want my fist on yer nose.”

“Extraordinary!” murmured the kindly man, as he removed to another hammock, the occupant of which was differently constituted.

“Moses,” he said, as the visitant approached.

“Yes, Gaspard,” was the eager reply, “can I do anything for you?”

“Yes; if you’d go on deck, refresh yourself with a walk, and leave us all alone, you’ll con—fer—on—”

Gaspard ceased to speak; he had already spoken too much; and Moses Pyne, still wondering, quietly took his advice.

But if the Channel was bad, the Bay of Biscay was, according to Flynn, “far badder.”

Before reaching that celebrated bay, however, most of the men had recovered, and, with more or less lugubrious aspects and yellow-green complexions, were staggering about, attending to their various duties. No doubt their movements about the vessel were for some time characterised by that disagreement between action and will which is sometimes observed in feeble chickens during a high wind, but, on the whole, activity and cheerfulness soon began to re-animate the frames and spirits of Britain’s warriors.

And now Miles Milton began to find out, as well as to fix, in some degree, his natural character. Up to this period in his life, a mild existence in a quiet home, under a fairly good though irascible father and a loving Christian mother, had not afforded him much opportunity of discovering what he was made of. Recent events had taught him pretty sharply that there was much room for improvement. He also discovered that he possessed a very determined will in the carrying out of his intentions, especially when those intentions were based upon his desires. Whether he would be equally resolute in carrying out intentions that did not harmonise with his desires remained to be seen.

His mother, among her other teachings, had often tried to impress on his young mind the difference between obstinacy and firmness.

“My boy,” she was wont to say, while smoothing his curly head, “don’t mistake obstinacy for firmness. A man who says ‘I will do this or that in spite of all the world,’ against advice, and simply because he wants to do it, is obstinate. A man who says, ‘I will do this or that in spite of all the world,’ against advice, against his own desires, and simply because it is the right thing to do, is firm.”

Remembering this, and repenting bitterly his having so cruelly forsaken his mother, our hero cast about in his mind how best he could put some of her precepts into practice, as being the only consolation that was now possible to him. You see, the good seed sown in those early days was beginning to spring up in unlikely circumstances. Of course the habit of prayer, and reading a few verses from the Bible night and morning, recurred to him. This had been given up since he left home. He now resumed it, though, for convenience, he prayed while stretched in his hammock!

But this did not satisfy him. He must needs undertake some disagreeable work, and carry it out with that degree of obstinacy which would amount to firmness. After mature consideration, he sought and obtained permission to become one of the two cooks to his mess. Moses Pyne was the other.

Nothing, he felt, could be more alien to his nature, more disgusting in every way to his feelings—and he was right. His dislike to the duties seemed rather to increase than to diminish day by day. Bitterly did he repent of having undertaken the duty, and earnestly did he consider whether there might not be some possible and honourable way of drawing back, but he discovered none; and soon he proved—to himself as well as to others—that he did indeed possess, at least in some degree, firmness of character.

The duties that devolved on him were trying. He had to scrub and keep the mess clean and tidy; to draw all the provisions and prepare them for cooking; then, to take them to the galley, and fetch them when cooked. That this last was no simple matter, such as any shore-going tail-coated waiter might undertake, was brought forcibly out one day during what seamen style dirty weather.

It was raining at the time. The sea was grey, the sky was greyer, and as the steamer itself was whitey-grey, it was a grave business altogether.

“Is the soup ready, Moses?” asked Miles, as he ascended towards the deck and met his confrère coming down.

“I don’t know. Shall I go an’ see?”

“No; you can go and look after the table. I will fetch the soup.”

“A nasty sea on,” remarked a voice, which sounded familiar in Miles’s ears as he stepped on deck.

“Hallo! Jack Molloy!” he exclaimed, catching hold of a stanchion to steady himself, as a tremendous roll of the vessel caused a sea to flash over the side and send a shower-bath in his face. “What part of the sky did you drop from? I thought I had left you snug in the Sailors’ Welcome.”

“Werry likely you did, John Miles,” answered the tar, balancing himself with perfect ease, and caring no more for spray than if he had been a dolphin; “but I’m here for all that—one o’ the crew o’ this here transport, though I means to wolunteer for active sarvice when I gets out. An’ no wonder we didn’t come across each other sooner! In sitch a enormous tubful o’ lobsters, etceterer, it’s a wonder we’ve met at all. An’ p’r’aps you’ve bin a good deal under hatches since you come a-boord?”

Molloy said this with a knowing look and a grin. Miles met the remark in a similar spirit.

“Yes, Jack, I’ve been paying tribute to Neptune lately.”

“You looks like it, Miles, judgin’ by the colour o’ your jib. Where away now?”

“Going for our soup.”

“What! made you cook o’ the mess?”

“Ay; don’t you wish you were me?”

Another roll and flash of spray ended the conversation and separated the friends.

The pea-soup was ready when our hero reached the galley. Having filled the mess-tureen with the appetising mixture, he commenced the return journey with great care, for he was now dependent entirely on his legs, both hands being engaged. Miles was handy, if we may say so, with his legs. Once or twice he had to rush and thrust a shoulder against the bulwarks, and a dash of spray served for salt to the soup; but he was progressing favourably and had traversed full three-quarters of the distance to the hatch when a loud “Hooroo!” caused him to look round smartly.

He had just time to see Corporal Flynn, who had slipped and fallen, come rolling towards him like a sack of flour. Next moment he was swept off his legs, and went into the lee scuppers with his comrade in a bath of pea-soup and salt-water!

Fortunately, the obliging wave which came in-board at the same moment mingled with the soup, and saved both men from a scalding.

Such mishaps, however, were rare, and they served rather to enliven the voyage than otherwise.

Besides the duties already mentioned, our hero had to wash up all the dishes and other things at meal-hours; to polish up the mess-kettles and tin dishes; and, generally, to put things away in their places, and keep things in apple-pie order. Recollecting another of his mother’s teachings—“Whatever is worth doing at all is worth doing well”—he tried his best, and was so ably seconded by the amiable Moses, that the Miles-Moses mess came to be at last regarded as the best-kept one on board.

One morning, after clearing up the dishes and putting things in order, Miles went on deck for a little fresh air. On the way up he met an elderly gentleman whose dress proclaimed him a clergyman.

He looked earnestly at our hero, and, nodding kindly, spoke a few words to him in passing. Miles had been aware that there was a clergyman on board going out to Egypt with his family—whether in connection with the troops or for health he did not know. He was much impressed with the looks and expression of this man. It seemed to him as if there were some sort of attractive power about him which was unaccountably strong, and he felt quite interested in the prospect of hearing him preach on the following Sunday.

While on deck the previous day, he had seen the figures of two ladies, whom he rightly judged to be the family above referred to, but as there was nearly the whole distance of the ship’s length between them, he could not distinguish their faces.

On taking his place when Sunday came, he observed that the family were present, seated, however, in such a position that he could only see their backs. Speculating in a listless way as to what sort of faces they had, he whiled away the few minutes before the service began.

He was recalled from this condition by the tones of the clergyman’s voice, which seemed to have the same effect on him as his look and manner had the day they first met. During the sermon Miles’s attention was riveted, insomuch that he almost forgot where he was. The text was a familiar one—“God is Love,”—but the treatment of it seemed entirely new: the boundless nature of that love; its incomprehensible and almighty force; its enduring certainty and its overwhelming immensity, embracing, as it did, the whole universe in Christ, were themes on which the preacher expatiated in a way that Miles had never before dreamed of.

“All subordinate love,” said the preacher, in concluding, “has its source in this. No wonder, then, that it is spoken of in Scripture as a love ‘which passeth knowledge.’”

When the men rose to leave, it could be easily seen that they were deeply impressed. As they went out slowly, Miles passed close to the place where the ladies sat. The slighter of the two was talking in a low tone to her companion, and the young soldier was struck with the wonderful resemblance in her tone to that of the preacher. He wondered if her face also resembled his in any degree, and glanced back, but the head was turned away.

“I like that parson. He has got brains,” remarked Sergeant Hardy, as he walked along the deck with Sergeant Gilroy and Corporal Flynn.

“Sur’ an’ I like him too,” said the corporal, “for he’s got heart!”

“Heart and brains,” returned Gilroy: “a grand combination! What more could we want?”

“Don’t you think that tongue is also essential?” asked Miles. “But for the preacher’s eloquence his heart and brain would have worked in vain.”

“Come now, John Miles, don’t you be risin’ up into poethry. It’s not yer natur—though ye think it is. Besides, av a man’s heart an’ brains is all right, he can make good use of ’em widout much tongue. Me own notion is that it’s thim as hasn’t got much to spake of, aither of heart or brain, as is over-fond o’ waggin’ the tongue.”

“That’s so, Flynn. You’re a living example of the truth of your own opinion,” retorted Miles.

“Och! is it angered ye are at gittin’ the worst o’ the argiment?” rejoined the corporal. “Niver mind, boy, you’ll do better by and by—”

As Flynn descended the ladder while he spoke, the sense of what he said was lost, but the truth of his opinion still continued to receive illustration from the rumbling of his voice, until it was swallowed up in the depths of the vessel.

Next day our hero received a shock from which he never finally recovered!

Be not alarmed, reader; it was not paralytic in its nature. It happened on this wise:

Miles had occasion to go to the fore part of the ship on some culinary business, without his coat, and with his sleeves rolled up above his elbows. Arrived there, he found that the captain was taking the ladies round the ship to point out some of its interesting details. As Miles came up, the younger lady turned round so as to present her full face to him. It was then that poor Miles received the shock above referred to. At that moment a little boy with wings and a bow stepped right in front of the young lady and shot straight at Miles Milton! The arrow entered his heart, and he—no, he did not fall; true men in such circumstances never fall! They stand transfixed, sometimes, or stupefied. Thus stood Miles and stared. Yes, though naturally modest and polite, he stood and stared!

And small blame to him, as Flynn might have said, for before him stood his ideal of a fairy, an angel, a sylph—or anything beautiful that best suits your fancy, reader! Sunny hair, sunny eyes—earnest and inquiring eyes—sunny smiles, and eyebrows to match. Yes, she had eyebrows distinctly darker than her hair, and well-defined over a pair of large brown eyes.

Poor Miles was stricken, as we have said; but—would you believe it?—there were men there looking at that girl at that time who, to use their own phraseology, would not have accepted a dozen of her for the girls they had left behind them! One young fellow in particular murmured to himself as follows—“Yes, very well in her way, no doubt, but she couldn’t hold a candle to my Emmy!” Perhaps the most cutting remark of all—made mentally, of course—was that of Sergeant Grady, who, for reasons best known to himself, had left a wife, describable as a stout well-favoured girl of forty, behind him.

“In twenty years or so,” he thought, “she may perhaps be near as good-lookin’ as my Susy, but she’ll never come quite up to her—never!”

“Come this way, Mrs Drew,” said the captain. “I will show you the men’s quarters. Out of the way, my man!”

Flushing to the roots of his hair, Miles stepped hastily aside.

As he did so there was heard an awful rend of a sort that tests the temper of women! It was followed by a musical scream. The girl’s dress had caught on a block tackle.

Miles leaped forward and unhooked it. He was rewarded with a smiling “Thank you,” which was followed by a blush of confusion as Miss Drew’s mother exclaimed, “Oh! Marion—how could you?” by way of making things easier for her, no doubt!

“You did that, young man, about as smart as I could a’ done it myself,” growled a voice behind him.

The speaker was Jack Molloy, and a general titter followed Miles as he hurried away.

As we have said, the weather became much worse when the troop-ship drew near to the Bay of Biscay; and it soon became evident that they were not to cross that famous portion of the Atlantic without experiencing some of the violent action for which it is famed. But by that time most of the soldiers, according to Molloy, had got their sea-legs on, and rather enjoyed the tossing than otherwise.

“I do like this sort o’ thing,” said a beardless young fellow, as a number of the men sat on camp-stools, or stood on the weather-side of the deck, chatting together about past times and future prospects.

“Ha!” exclaimed a seaman, who stood near them coiling up a rope; “hold on till you’ve got a taste o’ the Bay. This is a mill-pond to that. And you’ll have the chance to-night. If you don’t, I’m a Dutchman.”

“If I do, you’ll have a taste of it too, old salt-water, for we’re in the same boat,” retorted the young red-coat.

“True, but we ain’t in the same body;” returned the sailor. “I should just like to see your four-futt legs wobblin’ about in a nor’-west gale. You’d sing another song.”

“Come, Macleod,” cried Moses Pyne, “tip us a Gaelic song.”

“Hoots, man, wull ye be wantin’ to be made sea-seek?—for that’s what’ll do it,” said the big Scotsman. “Na, na, let Gaspard sing us ‘The Bay o’ Biscay O!’ That’ll be mair appropriate.”

There was a general chorus of assent to this; and as Gaspard Redgrave was an obliging man, untroubled by false modesty, he cleared his throat and began. His voice, being a really splendid one, attracted all the men who chanced to be within range of it: among others, Miles, who was passing at the moment with a bag of biscuits in one hand and a meat-can in the other. He leaned up against one of those funnels which send fresh air down to the stokers of steam-ships. He had listened only a few moments when Marion Drew glided amongst the men, and seemed to stand as if entranced with delight in front of him, steadying herself by a rope, for the vessel was pitching a good deal as well as rolling considerably.

At the first chorus the crowd burst forth with wild enthusiasm—

“As we lay, on that day,

In the Bay of Biscay O!”

Dwelling with unnecessary length and emphasis on the “O!”

At the close of the second verse the men were preparing to burst forth again when Miles observed an approaching billow which caused him to start in alarm. Although unused to the aspect of waves, he had an instinctive feeling that there was danger approaching. Voices of warning were promptly raised from different parts of the vessel, but already the loud chorus had begun and drowned every other sound. Miles dropped his biscuits and sprang towards Marion, who, with flashing eyes and parted lips, was gazing at Gaspard. He just reached her when the wave burst over the side, and, catching most of the men quite unprepared, swept them with terrible violence towards the lee-side of the deck.

Marion was standing directly in the line of this human cataract, but Miles swung her deftly round into the lee of the funnel, a handle of which she happily caught, and clung to it like a limpet.

Her preserver was not so fortunate. The edge of the cataract struck him, swept him off his legs, and hurled him with many comrades against the lee bulwarks, where he lay stunned and helpless in the swishing water.

Of course soldiers and sailors ran from all parts of the vessel to the rescue, and soon the injured men were carried below and attended to by the doctors; and, considering the nature of the accident, it was matter for surprise that the result was no worse than some pretty severe contusions and a few broken ribs.

When Miles recovered consciousness, he found himself in his hammock, with considerable pain in various parts of his body, and the Reverend James Drew bending over him.

“You’re all right now, my fine fellow,” he said, in a low comforting voice. “No bones broken, so the doctors say. Only a little bruised.”

“Tell me, sir,” said Miles, rousing himself, “is—is your daughter safe?”

“Yes, thanks be to God, and to your prompt assistance, she is none the worse—save the fright and a wetting.”

Miles sank back on his pillows with a feeling of profound satisfaction.

“Now, you must try to sleep if you can,” said the clergyman; “it will do you good.”

But Miles did not want anything to do him good. He was quite content to lie still and enjoy the simple fact that he had rescued Marion, perhaps from death—at all events from serious injury! As for pain—what was that to him? was he not a soldier—one whose profession requires him to suffer anything cheerfully in the discharge of duty! And was not love the highest duty?

On the strength of some such thoughts he forgot his pain and calmly went to sleep.

Chapter Eight.

Has Reference to many Things connected with Mind, Matter, and Affections.

The wave which had burst with such disastrous effect on the deck of the troop-ship was but the herald of one of those short, wild storms which occasionally sweep with desolating violence over the Atlantic Ocean, and too frequently strew with wreck the western shores of Europe.

In the Bay of Biscay, as usual, the power of the gale was felt more severely than elsewhere.

“There’s some sort o’ mystery about the matter,” said Jack Molloy to William Armstrong, as they cowered together under the shelter of the bridge. “Why the Atlantic should tumble into this ’ere bay with greater wiolence than elsewhere is beyond my comprehension. But any man wi’ half an eye can see that it do do it! Jist look at that!”

There was something indeed to look at, for, even while he spoke, a mighty wave tumbled on board of the vessel, rushed over the fore deck like Niagara rapids in miniature, and slushed wildly about for a considerable time before it found its way through the scuppers into the grey wilderness of heaving billows from which it sprang.

The great ship quivered, and seemed for a moment to stagger under the blow, while the wind shrieked through the rigging as if laughing at the success of its efforts, but the whitey-grey hull rose heavily, yet steadily, out of the churning foam, rode triumphant over the broad-backed billow that had struck her, and dived ponderously into the valley of waters beyond.

“Don’t you think,” said the young soldier, whose general knowledge was a little more extensive than that of the seaman, “that the Gulf Stream may have something to do with it?”

Molloy looked at the deck with philosophically solemn countenance. Deriving no apparent inspiration from that quarter, he gazed on the tumultuous chaos of salt-water with a perplexed expression. Finally and gravely he shook his weather-beaten head—

“Can’t see that nohow,” he said. “In course I knows that the Gulf Stream comes out the Gulf o’ Mexico, cuts across the Atlantic in a nor’-easterly direction, goes slap agin the west of England, Ireland, and Scotland, and then scurries away up the coast o’ Norway—though why it should do so is best known to itself; p’r’aps it’s arter the fashion of an angry woman, accordin’ to its own sweet will; but what has that got for to do wi’ the Bay of Biscay O? That’s wot I wants to know.”

“More to do with it than you think, Jack,” answered the soldier. “In the first place, you’re not quite, though partly, correct about the Gulf Stream—”

“Well, I ain’t zactly a scienkrific stoodent, you know. Don’t purfess to be.”

“Just so, Jack. Neither am I, but I have inquired into this matter in a general way, an’ here’s my notions about it.”

“Draw it fine, Willum; don’t be flowery,” said the sailor, renewing his quid. “Moreover, if you’ll take the advice of an old salt you’ll keep a tighter grip o’ that belayin’-pin you’ve got hold of, unless you wants to be washed overboard. Now then, fire away! I’m all attention, as the cat said at the mouth o’ the mouse-hole.”

“Well, then,” began Armstrong, with the slightly conscious air of superior knowledge, “the Gulf Stream does not rise in the Gulf of Mexico—”

“Did I say that it did, Willum?”

“Well, you said that it came out of the Gulf of Mexico—and, no doubt, so far you are right, but what I mean is that it does not originate there.”

“W’y don’t you say what you mean, then, Willum, instead o’ pitchin’ into a poor chap as makes no pretence to be a purfessor? Heave ahead!”

“Well, Jack,” continued the soldier, with more care as to his statements, “I believe, on the best authority, that the Gulf Stream is only part of a great ocean current which originates at the equator, and a small bit of which flows north into the Atlantic, where it drives into the Gulf of Mexico. Finding no outlet there it rushes violently round the gulf—”

“Gits angry, no doubt, an’ that’s what makes it hot?” suggested the sailor.

“Perhaps! Anyhow, it then flows, as you say, in a nor’-easterly direction to the coasts of Great Britain and Ireland. But it does more than that. It spreads as it goes, and also rushes straight at the coasts of France and Spain. Here, however, it meets a strong counter current running south along these same coasts of France an’ Spain. That is difficulty number one. It has to do battle wi’ that current, and you know, Jack, wherever there’s a battle there’s apt to be convulsions of some sort. Well, then, a nor’-westerly gale comes on and rolls the whole o’ the North Atlantic Ocean against these coasts. So here you have this part of the Gulf Stream caught in another direction—on the port quarter, as you sailors might call it—”

“Never mind wot us sailors might call it, Willum. Wotever you say on that pint you’re sure to be wrong. Heave ahead!”

“Well, then,” continued Armstrong, with a laugh, “that’s trouble number two; and these troubles, you’ll observe, apply to the whole west coast of both countries; but in the Bay of Biscay there is still another difficulty, for when these rushing and tormented waters try to escape, they are met fair in the face by the whole north coast of Spain, and thus—”

“I sees it!” exclaimed Molloy, with a sudden beam of intelligence, “you’ve hit the nail on the head, Willum. Gulf Stream flies at France in a hot rage, finds a cool current, or customer, flowin’ down south that shouts ‘Belay there!’ At it they go, tooth an’ nail, when down comes a nor’-wester like a wolf on the fold, takes the Stream on the port quarter, as you say, an’ drives both it an’ the cool customer into the bay, where the north o’ Spain cries ‘Avast heavin’, both o’ you!’ an’ drives ’em back to where the nor’-wester’s drivin’ ’em on! No wonder there’s a mortal hullaballoo in the Bay o’ Biscay! Why, mate, where got ye all that larnin’?”

Before his friend could reply, a terrific plunge of the vessel, a vicious shriek of the wind, and the entrance of another tremendous sea, suggested that the elements were roused to unusual fury at having the secrets of their operations thus ruthlessly revealed, and also suggested the propriety of the two friends seeking better shelter down below.

While this storm was raging, Miles lay in his hammock, subjected to storms of the bosom with occasional calms between. He was enjoying one of the calms when Armstrong passed his hammock and asked how he was getting on.

“Very well, Willie. Soon be all right, I think,” he replied, with a contented smile.

For at that moment he had been dwelling on the agreeable fact that he had really rescued Marion Drew from probable death, and that her parents gratefully recognised the service—as he learned from the clergyman himself, who expressed his gratitude in the form of frequent visits to and pleasant chats with the invalid.

The interest and sympathy which Miles had felt on first seeing this man naturally increased, and at last he ventured to confide to him the story of his departure from home, but said nothing about the changed name. It is needless to relate all that was said on the occasion. One can easily imagine the bearing of a good deal of it. The result on Miles was not very obvious at the time, but it bore fruit after many days.

The calm in our hero’s breast was not, however, of long duration. The thought that, as a private in a marching regiment, he had not the means to maintain Marion in the social position to which she had been accustomed, was a very bitter thought, and ruffled the sea of his feelings with a stiff breeze. This freshened to something like a gale of rebellion when he reflected that his case was all but hopeless; for, whatever might have been the truth of the statement regarding the French army under Napoleon, that “every soldier carried a marshal’s baton in his knapsack,” it did not follow that soldiers in the British army of the present day carried commissions in their knapsacks. Indeed, he knew it was by no means a common thing for men to rise from the ranks, and he was well aware that those who did so were elevated in virtue of qualities which he did not possess.

He was in the midst of one of his bosom storms when Sergeant Hardy came to inquire how he did.

Somehow the quiet, grave, manly nature of that sergeant had a powerful effect, not only on Miles but on every one with whom he came in contact. It was not so much his words as his manner that commended him. He was curiously contradictory, so to speak, in character and appearance. The stern gravity of his countenance suggested a hard nature, but lines of good-humour lurking about the eyes and mouth put to flight the suggestion, and acts of womanly tenderness on many occasions turned the scale the other way. A strong, tall, stiffly upright and slow-moving frame, led one to look only for elephantine force, but when circumstances required prompt action our sergeant displayed powers of cat-like activity, which were all the more tremendous that they seemed incongruous and were unexpected. From his lips you looked for a voice of thunder—and at drill you were not disappointed—but on ordinary occasions his speech was soft and low; bass indeed as to its quality, but never harsh or loud.

“A gale is brewing up from the nor’-west, so Jack Molloy says,” remarked Hardy, as he was about to pass on.

“Why, I thought it was blowing a gale now!” returned Miles. “At least it seems so, if we may judge from the pitching and plunging.”

“Ah, lad, you are judging from the landlubber’s view-point,” returned the sergeant. “Wait a bit, and you will understand better what Molloy means when he calls this only a ‘capful of wind.’”

Miles had not to wait long. The gale when fully “brewed up” proved to be no mean descendant of the family of storms which have tormented the celebrated bay since the present economy of nature began; and many of those who were on board of the troop-ship at that time had their eyes opened and their minds enlarged as to the nature of a thorough gale; when hatches have to be battened down, and the dead-lights closed; when steersmen have to be fastened in their places, and the maddened sea seems to roar defiance to the howling blast, and all things movable on deck are swept away as if they were straws, and many things not meant to be movable are wrenched from their fastenings with a violence that nothing formed by man can resist, and timbers creak and groan, and loose furniture gyrates about until smashed to pieces, and well-guarded glass and crockery leap out of bounds to irrecoverable ruin, and even the seamen plunge about and stagger, and landsmen hold on to ring-bolts and belaying-pins, or cling to bulkheads for dear life, while mighty billows, thundering in-board, hiss along the decks, and everything, above, below, and around, seems being swept into eternity by the besom of destruction!

But the troop-ship weathered the storm nobly; and the good Lord sent fine weather and moderate winds thereafter; and ere long the soldiers were enjoying the sunshine, the sparkling waters, and the sight of the lovely shores of the blue Mediterranean.

Soon after that broken bones began to mend, and bruises to disappear; and our hero, thoroughly recovered from his accident, as well as greatly improved in general health, returned to his duties.

But Miles was not a happy man, for day by day he felt more and more severely that he had put himself in a false position. Besides the ever-increasing regret for having hastily forsaken home, he had now the bitter reflection that he had voluntarily thrown away the right to address Marion Drew as an equal.

During the whole voyage he had scarcely an opportunity of speaking a word to her. Of course the warm-hearted girl did not forget the important service that had been rendered to her by the young soldier, and she took more than one occasion to visit the fore part of the vessel for the purpose of expressing her gratitude and asking about his health, after he was able to come on deck; but as her father accompanied her on these occasions, the conversation was conducted chiefly between him and the reverend gentleman. Still, it was some comfort to hear her voice and see her eyes beaming kindly on him.

Once the youth inadvertently expressed his feelings in his look, so that Marion’s eye-lids dropped, and a blush suffused her face, to hide which she instantly became unreasonably interested in the steam-winch beside which they were standing, and wanted to understand principles of engineering which had never troubled her before!

“What is the use of that curious machine?” she asked, turning towards it quickly.

“W’y, Miss,” answered Jack Molloy, who chanced to be sitting on a spare yard close at hand working a Turk’s head on a manrope, “that’s the steam-winch, that is the thing wot we uses w’en we wants to hoist things out o’ the hold, or lower ’em into it.”

“Come, Marion, we must not keep our friend from his duties,” said Mr Drew, nodding pleasantly to Miles as he turned away.

The remark was called forth by the fact that Miles had been arrested while on his way to the galley with a dish of salt pork, and with his shirt-sleeves, as usual, tucked up!

Only once during the voyage did our hero get the chance of talking with Marion alone. The opportunity, like most pieces of good fortune, came unexpectedly. It was on a magnificent night, just after the troop-ship had left Malta. The sea was perfectly calm, yet affected by that oily motion which has the effect of breaking a reflected moon into a million fragments. All nature appeared to be hushed, and the stars were resplendent. It was enough, as Jack Molloy said, to make even a bad man feel good!

“Do ’ee speak from personal experience, Jack?” asked a comrade on that occasion.

“I might, Jim, if you wasn’t here,” retorted Molloy; “but it’s not easy to feel bad alongside o’ you.”

“That’s like a double-edged sword, Jack—cuts two ways. W’ich way d’ee mean it?”

“‘W’ichever way you please,’ as the man said w’en the alligator axed ’im w’ether he’d prefer to be chawed up or bolted whole.”

Concluding that, on the whole, the conversation of his friends did not tend to edification, Miles left them and went to one of the starboard gangways, from which he could take a contemplative view of Nature in her beautiful robe of night. Curiously enough, Marion chanced to saunter towards the same gangway, and unexpectedly found him there.

“A lovely night, Mr Miles,” she remarked.

Miles started, and turned with slight confusion in his face, which, happily, the imperfect light concealed.

“Beautiful indeed!” he exclaimed, thinking of the face before him—not of the night!

“A cool, beautiful night like this,” continued the girl—who was of the romantic age of sixteen—“will remain long, I should think, in your memory, and perhaps mitigate, in some degree, the hardships that are before you on the burning sand of Egypt.”

“The memory of this night,” returned Miles, with fervour, “will remain with me for ever! It will not only mitigate what you are pleased to call hardships, but will cause me to forget them altogether—forget everything!”

“Nay, that were impossible,” rejoined Marion, with a slight laugh; “for a true soldier cannot forget Duty!”

“True, true,” said Miles dubiously; “at least it ought to be true; and I have no doubt is so in many cases, but—”

What more he might have said cannot now be told, for they were interrupted at the moment by Captain Lacey, who, happening to walk in that direction, stopped and directed Miss Drew’s attention to a picturesque craft, with high lateen sails, which had just entered into the silver pathway of the moon on the water.

Miles felt that it would be inappropriate in him to remain or to join in the conversation. With a heart full of disappointment and indignation he retired, and sought refuge in the darkest recesses of the pantry, to which he was welcome at all times, being a great favourite with the steward.

Whether it was the smell of the cheese or the ketchup we know not, but here better thoughts came over our hero. Insignificant causes often produce tremendous effects. The touching of a trigger is but a small matter; the effects of such a touch are sometimes deadly as well as touching. Possibly the sugar, if not the cinnamon, may have been an element in his change of mind. At all events it is safe to say that the general smell of groceries was associated with it.

Under the benign influence of this change he betook himself to the berth of the chief ship’s-carpenter, with whom also he was a favourite. Finding the berth empty, and a light burning in it, he sat down to wait for his friend. The place was comparatively quiet and retired. Bethinking himself of the little packet which he had received at Portsmouth, and which still lay unopened in the breast-pocket of his shell-jacket, he pulled it out. Besides a Testament, it contained sundry prettily covered booklets written by Miss Robinson and others to interest the public in our soldiers, as well as to amuse the soldiers themselves. In glancing through “Our Soldiers and Sailors,” “Institute Memories,” “Our Warfare,” “The Victory,” “Heaven’s Light our Guide,” “Good-bye,” and similar works, two facts were suddenly impressed upon his mind, and strongly illuminated—namely, that there is such a thing as living for the good of others, and that up to that time he had lived simply and solely for himself!

The last sentence that had fallen from the lips of Marion that night was also strongly impressed upon him:— “a true soldier cannot forget Duty!” and he resolved that “Duty” should be his life’s watchword thenceforward. Such is the influence that a noble-minded woman may unconsciously have over even an unsteady man!

Soon after this the troop-ship reached the end of her voyage, and cast anchor off the coast of Egypt, near the far-famed city of Alexandria.

Chapter Nine.

Our Hero meets a Friend unexpectedly in Peculiar Circumstances, and has a very Strange Encounter.

Miles Milton’s first experience in Alexandria was rather curious, and, like most surprising things, quite unlooked for.

The troops were not permitted to land immediately on arrival, but of course no such prohibition lay on the passengers, who went off immediately. In the hurry of doing so, the clergyman and his family missed saying good-bye to Miles, who happened to be on duty in some remote part of the vessel at the time, and the shore-boat could not be delayed. This caused Mr and Mrs Drew much regret, but we cannot add that it caused the same to Miss Drew, because that young lady possessed considerable command of feature, and revealed no feeling at all on the occasion.

Miles was greatly disappointed when he found that they had gone, but consoled himself with the hope that he could make use of his first day’s leave to find them out in the town and say good-bye.

“But why encourage hope?” thought Miles to himself, with bitterness in his heart; “I’m only a private. Marion will never condescend to think of me. What have I to offer her except my worthless self?” (you see Miles was beginning to see through himself faintly.) “Even if my father were a rich man, able to buy me out of the army and leave me a fortune—which he is not—what right have I to expect that a girl like Marion would risk her happiness with a fellow who has no profession, no means of subsistence, and who has left home without money and without leave? Bah! Miles, you are about the greatest goose that ever put on a red coat!”

He was getting on, you see! If he had put “sinner” for “goose,” his shot would have been nearer the mark; as it was, all things considered, it was not a miss. He smarted considerably under the self-condemnation. If a comrade had said as much he would have resented it hotly, but a man is wonderfully lenient to himself!

Under the impulse of these feelings he sought and obtained leave to go into the town. He wished to see how the new Soldiers’ Institute being set up there was getting along. He had promised Miss Robinson to pay it a visit. That was his plea. He did not feel called upon to inform his officer of his intention to visit the Drews! That was quite a private matter—yet it was the main matter; for, on landing, instead of inquiring for the spot where the new Institute was being erected, he began a search among the various hotels where English visitors were wont to put up. The search was successful. He found the hotel, but the family had gone out, he was told, and were not expected back till evening.

Disappointment, of course, was the result; but he would wait. It is amazing what an amount of patience even impatient men will exercise when under the influence of hope! There was plenty of time to run down and see the Institute, but he might miss his friends if they should chance to come in and go out again during his absence. What should he do?

“Bother the Institute!” he muttered to himself. “It’s only bricks an’ mortar after all, and I don’t know a soul there.”

He was wrong on both of these points, as we shall see.

“What’s the use of my going?” he murmured, after a reflective pause.

“You promised the ladies of the Portsmouth Institute that you’d go to see it, and report progress,” said that extraordinary Something inside of him, which had a most uncomfortable way of starting up and whispering when least expected to do so.

“And,” added Something, “every gentleman should keep his word.”

“True,” replied Miles, almost angrily, though inaudibly; “but I’m not a gentleman, I’m only a private!”

“Goose!” retorted that pertinacious Something; “is not every private a gentleman who acts like one? And is not every gentleman a blackguard who behaves as such?”

Miles was silenced. He gave in, and went off at once to visit the Institute.

As he walked down the long straight street leading to the Grand Square, which had been almost destroyed by the bombardment, he passed numerous dirty drinking-shops, and wondered that English soldiers would condescend to enter such disgusting places. He was but a young soldier, and had yet to learn that, to men who have been fairly overcome by the power of the fiend Strong Drink, no place is too disgusting, and no action too mean, so that it but leads to the gratification of their intolerable craving. It is said that in two streets only there were 500 of these disreputable drinking-shops.

All sorts and conditions of men passed him as he went along: Turks, Greeks, Arabs, Negroes, Frenchmen, Italians, and Englishmen, the gay colours of whose picturesque costumes lent additional brilliancy to the sunny scene. The sight of the dark-skinned men and veiled women of the Arab quarter did more, however, than anything else to convince our hero that he had at last really reached the “East”—the land of the ancient Pharaohs, the Pyramids, the Arabian Nights’ Entertainments, and of modern contention!

Presently he came upon the piece of waste ground which had been chosen as the site of the new Institute. It was covered with the ruins—shattered cement, glass, tiles, and general wreckage—of the buildings that had stood there before the bombardment, and on three sides it was surrounded by heaps of stones, shattered walls, and rubbish, some acres in extent. But the place had the great advantage of being close to the old harbour, not far from the spot where ancient Alexandria stood, and was open to the fresh, cooling breezes that came in from the sea.

Arab workmen were busily employed at the time on the foundations of the building, under the superintendence of an unmistakable and soldierly-looking Englishman, whose broad back was presented to Miles as he approached. Turning suddenly round, Mr Tufnell, the manager of the Portsmouth Institute, confronted the visitor with a stern but perspiring visage, which instantly became illuminated with a beaming smile.

“What! Tufnell!” exclaimed our hero, in amazement.

“Ay, Miles; as large as life.”

“Larger than life, if anything,” said Miles, grasping the proffered hand, and shaking it warmly. “Why, man, the air of Egypt seems to magnify you.”

“More likely that the heat of Egypt is making me grow. What are you rubbing your eyes for?”

“To make sure that they do not deceive,” answered Miles. “Did I not leave you behind me at Portsmouth?”

“So you did, friend; but the voyage in a troop-ship is not the fastest method of reaching Egypt. As you see, I’ve overshot you in the race. I have come to put up the new building. But come to my palace here and have a talk and a cup of coffee. Glad to see that the voyage has agreed with you.”

They reached the palace to which the manager referred, and found it to be a cottage of corrugated iron amidst the rubbish.

“Here,” said Tufnell, offering his friend a chair, “I spend all my time and reign supreme—monarch of all I survey. These are my subjects,” he added, pointing to the Arab workmen; “that wilderness of rubbish is my kingdom; and yon heap of iron and stone is the material out of which we mean to construct our Alexandria Institute. To save time, (the most valuable article in the world, if you’ll believe me), Miss Robinson, as, perhaps, you may have heard, bought an old iron edifice in London, known as the Brompton Oratory, and sent it out here—like a convict—at Government expense. You see, not only the public, but Government, have now come to recognise the value of her work for soldiers.”

“And your subjects, the Arabs—are they obedient and loyal?” asked Miles.

“Pretty well; but they give me some trouble now and then. The other day, for instance, we had a sad accident, which at one time I feared would land us in serious difficulties. It is necessary, you must know, in laying foundations here, to dig through the sand some twelve to fifteen feet till water is reached, and then we lay a solid stone foundation about nine feet wide. Well, while digging this foundation, the sand fell in on one of the workmen. I off coat at once and set to work with a shovel, shouting to the fellows to help me. Instead of helping, they rushed at me in a body to prevent my interfering in the matter. Then they quarrelled among themselves as to the best way of getting the man out, and the result was that the poor fellow was suffocated, though he might easily have been rescued by prompt action. But that was not the end of it! The relations and friends of the man came down, made Eastern howling and lamentation over him, and laid his corpse at the door of my cottage, holding me responsible for his life, and demanding compensation! And it was not till I had paid a few francs to every brother and cousin and relative belonging to him that their grief was appeased and the dead body carried away.

“Still the matter did not end here, for next day the workmen said the accident was owing to the omission of a sacrifice at the commencement of the work, and they must have a lamb to kill on the ground, or more lives would certainly be lost. So I bought them a lamb, which they duly killed, cooked, and ate, after sprinkling its blood on the four corners of the foundation and on the walls. I had the skin of this lamb dressed and sent home as a curiosity.” (See note 1.)

“You appear to have pretty rough times of it then, on the whole,” said Miles.

“I never counted on smooth times,” returned Tufnell; “besides, being used to roughing it, I am always glad to do so in a good cause. My palace, as you see, is not a bad one, though small. It is pretty hot too, as you seem to feel; and they tell me there will be some interesting variety in my experiences when the rainy season sets in! I wouldn’t mind it so much if I could only be left to sleep in peace at nights. I stay here, you see, night and day, and what wi’ the Arabs prowling around, whispering and trying to get in, and the wild dogs makin’ the neighbourhood a place o’ public meeting—barking, howling, and quarrelling over their sorrows like human bein’s, they don’t give me much rest.”

“I have read of these dogs before,” said Miles. “Are they really as wild and dangerous as they get credit for?”

“If you’d seen the fight I had wi’ them the other night you’d have no doubt on that point. Why, a gang of ’em made a regular attack on me, and if it hadn’t been that I was pretty active with my sword-stick, they’d have torn me in bits. Let me advise you never to go out after nightfall without one. Is that one in your hand?”

“No, it is merely a cane.”

“Well, exchange with me. There’s no saying when you may want it.”

Tufnell took a light sword-stick which lay on the table and handed it to Miles, who accepted it laughingly, and without the slightest belief that he should ever have occasion to use it.

In chatting about the plans of the building and the prospects of success, our hero became at last so deeply interested—partly, no doubt, because of his friend’s enthusiasm—that he forgot the flight of time, and the evening was advancing before he rose to leave.

“Now, Tufnell,” he said suddenly, “I must be off, I have another call of importance to make.”

“What! won’t you stop and have a cup of coffee with me?”

“Impossible. My business is urgent. I want to see friends whom I may not have the chance of seeing again. Good-night.”

“Good-night, then, and have a care of the dogs, specially after nightfall.”

On returning to the hotel shortly after sunset, Miles came to the conclusion that his love must certainly be “true,” for its course was not running “smooth.” His friends had not yet returned. Mrs Drew had indeed come back, alone in a cab, but she had “von headik an’ vas go to the bed.”

Waiting about in front of the hotel for an hoar or two proved to be too much for our hero’s nerves; he therefore made up his mind to exhaust his nervous system by means of a smart walk. Soon he found himself in a lonely place, half-way between the Grand Square and the Ramleh Gate, with a deliciously cool breeze playing on his brow, and a full moon sailing overhead.

No one was moving about on the road along which he walked. He had it all to himself at first, and the evening would have been quiet as well as beautiful but for the yelping dogs which had, by that time, come out of their day-dens to search and fight for food and hold their nightly revels.

All round him were the heaps of rubbish caused by bombardment, and the ruined houses which war had rendered tenantless, though here and there the uprising of new buildings proved that the indomitable energy of man was not to be quelled by war or anything else. A flickering oil-lamp placed here and there at intervals threw a sickly yellow light into dark recesses which the moonbeams failed to reach. Intermingled with these were a few date-palms and bananas. After a time he observed a couple of figures in advance of him—a man and woman—walking slowly in the same direction.

Not wishing to have his thoughts disturbed, he pushed on, intending to pass the wayfarers. He had got to within a hundred paces of them when he became aware of a violent pattering sound behind him. Stopping and looking back he saw a pack of eight or nine of the wild, half-famished dogs of the place coming along the road at full gallop. He was quite aware that they were the savage, masterless creatures which keep close in hiding during the day, and come out at night to search for something to devour, but he could not bring himself to believe that any sort of dog was a dangerous animal. He therefore merely looked at them with interest as being natives of the place!

They passed without taking notice of him—as ugly and wolfish a pack as one could wish to see—led by a big fellow like a ragged disreputable collie. They also passed, with apparent indifference, the wayfarers in advance, who had stopped to look at them.

Suddenly, and without a note of warning, the whole pack turned and rushed back, yelling fiercely, towards the man and woman. The latter clung to the left arm of the former, who raised his stick, and brought it down with such good-will on the skull of the foremost dog that it reeled back with an angry howl. It was not cowed, however, for it came on again, but the man, instead of striking it, thrust the end of his stick down its throat and checked it a second time. Still unsubdued, the fierce animal flew at him once more, and would certainly have overcome him if Miles had not run to the rescue at the first sign of attack. Coming up quickly, he brought his cane down on the dog’s head with all his might, having quite forgotten the sword in the excitement of the moment! The blow did nothing to the dog, but it shattered the cane, leaving the sword exposed! This was fortunate. A quick thrust sent the dog flying away with yells of pain and fear, followed by all his companions, who seemed to take their cue entirely from their leader.

Turning to congratulate the wayfarers on their escape, Miles confronted Mr Drew and his daughter Marion!

If he had encountered the glare of the great sea-serpent he could scarcely have been taken more completely aback.

“My dear young friend,” said the clergyman, recovering himself and grasping the passive hand of the young soldier with enthusiasm, though he could not help smiling at his obvious embarrassment, “you seem to have been raised up to be our rescuer!”

“I hope I have been raised up for something even more satisfactory than that,” thought Miles, but he did not say so! What he did say—in a stammering fashion—was to the effect that he hoped he might be called on to—to—render many more such trifling services—no—he did not quite mean that, but if they should ever again be in danger, he hoped they would call on him to—to—that is—

“But I hope sincerely,” he added, changing the subject abruptly, “that you are not hurt, Miss Drew?”

“Oh dear no; only a little frightened. But, father, are you sure that you are not hurt?”

“Quite sure; only a little sprain, I think, or twist in my right ankle. The attack was so sudden, you see, that in the hurry to meet it my foot turned over. Give me your arm, my young friend. There; it will be all right in a few minutes. How you tremble, Marion! Your nerves have received a greater shock than you imagine, and a lame man is but a poor support. Give her your other arm, Mr Miles. You are stout enough to support us both.”

Stout enough to support them both! Ay, at that moment Miles felt stout enough to support the entire world, like Atlas, on his own broad shoulders! With a blush, that the moon generously refused to reveal, Marion laid her hand lightly on the soldier’s arm. It was much too light a touch, and did not distribute with fairness the weight of his burden, for the old gentleman hung heavily on the other arm. Mr Drew walked very slowly, and with evident pain, for the twist of the ankle had been much more severe than he at first imagined.

“You will come in and sup with us,” said Mr Drew, on at last reaching the hotel door.

“Impossible. I am exceedingly sorry, but my time has almost expired. Indeed, I fear it has expired already, and duty comes before everything else. Your daughter taught me that lesson, sir, on board ship!”

“Oh you hypocrite!” remarked his familiar and plain-spoken internal friend; “where was this grand sense of duty when you left home in a rage without ‘by your leave’ to father or mother?” Miles could make no reply. He had a tendency to silence when this friend spoke, and returned to barracks in a pensive mood, just in time, as Armstrong said, to save his bacon.

Chapter Ten.

Off to the Wars.

The troops sent out to Egypt at that time were much wanted to reinforce the southern frontier and defend it from the attacks of Osman Digna, who, with a large host of the dusky warriors of the Soudan, was giving the defenders much trouble, and keeping them incessantly on the qui vive.

Miles Milton had no time while in Alexandria for anything but duty. He saw Marion only once again before leaving, but did not find an opportunity to converse with her alone. To do him justice, he had not the most distant intention of declaring the state of his feelings, even if the opportunity had been given. He merely desired to be in her company for a little on any terms whatever!

On that occasion, however, he contrived to scorch his heart with a double dose of jealousy, for he found two young men visiting the clergyman, each of whom seemed to be a friend of the family. One was a spendthrift named Rentworth—a young traveller of that loose, easy-going type which is occasionally met with in foreign parts, squandering the money of a rich father. He was a decidedly handsome young fellow, but with the stamp of dissipation already on his countenance. The other was a telegraph engineer, with honesty and good-nature in every line of his plain countenance.

Both of these youths paid marked attention to Marion—at least Miles thought so—and he hated them both accordingly; all the more that he felt their eyes to be fixed upon him while he was bidding her “farewell.” He did not say “Good-bye.” That was too commonplace—in the circumstances almost childish.

There was one gleam of comfort in the fact, however, that Marion echoed the word, and that he thought—indeed he was sure—her hand trembled slightly as she returned, or rather received, his squeeze. Miles was very stern of countenance and remarkably upright in figure while these adieux were being said—for the glare of his rivals, he thought, was upon him.

How the poor fellow got through the preparations and packing and parades that were necessary when the order came abruptly for the regiment to start for Suez we cannot tell. He went about everything mechanically, or like a man in a dream. And it was not till they had fairly started in the railway train that he became alive to the serious fact that he was actually off to the wars!

The accommodation for passengers in that train was not good. Distinctly bad, indeed, would be the proper term to apply to the kind of cattle-truck in which Miles found himself with a detachment of the gallant 310th Infantry; and soon the blinding dust of Egypt reminded our young soldier that the real battle of life had fairly begun.

“You’ll get over it in time, my poor fellow,” said his friend Armstrong, who sat beside him.

“You need the same consolation yourself, friend Willie,” retorted Miles, wiping the dust out of the corners of his eyes.

“I didn’t mean that,” returned his friend. “You know what I mean! But cheer up; absence makes the heart grow fonder—at the same time it makes a fellow fit for duty. I have gone through it myself, and know all about it.”

Miles flushed and felt inclined at first to resent this allusion to the state of his affections, but he was fortunately saved from taking any notice of it by a sudden burst of laughter among the men at a remark from Corporal Flynn, who, although this was his first visit to Egypt, had undertaken to point out to his comrades the various localities which he chose to assume were more or less connected with Scripture history!

The first part of the journey was not particularly interesting, and what with the fine sand and the great heat the men began to experience the discomforts of an Eastern climate, and to make frequent application to their water-bottles. It would have been well if they had contented themselves with water, and with the cold tea which some of them had been provident enough to save up at breakfast; but when they reached the first station where there was a five minutes’ halt, some of them managed to smuggle strong drink into the train. One immediate result was that the men became more noisy.

“Come, give us a song, Gaspard,” cried several voices, apparently inspired at the same moment with the same idea and desire.

“Wan wid a rousin’ chorus, boy,” cried Flynn.

Gaspard complied, being ever ready to oblige, but whether it was the heat, or the dust, or the “rousin’” chorus, or the drink, the song was a partial failure. Perhaps it was the excess of tremulo induced by the motion of the train! At all events it fell flat, and, when finished, a hilarious loud-voiced man named Simkin, or Rattling Bill, struck up “Rule Britannia,” which more than made amends for the other, and was sung with intense vigour till the next station was reached.

Here more drink was smuggled on board the train, and, as a natural consequence, men became troublesome. A morose man named Sutherland, who was apt to grow argumentative and quarrelsome in his cups, made an assertion in reference to something terrestrial, which had no particular interest for any mortal man. Simkin contradicted it. Sutherland repeated it. Simkin knocked Sutherland’s helmet overboard. Sutherland returned the compliment in kind, and their comrades had to quell an intestine war, while the lost head-pieces were left on the arid plain, where they were last seen surrounded by wonder-stricken and long-legged natives of the Flamingo tribe.

This loss was a serious one, for exposure of the head to the sun in such a climate is exceedingly dangerous, and the old hands had great difficulty in impressing the fact on Rattling Bill and Sutherland, who, with the obstinacy of “greenhorns,” made light of the danger, and expressed disbelief in sunstroke.

Of course considerable interest was manifested when the station of Tel-el-Kebir was reached.

“It’s two mile from this, I’ve bin towld,” said Flynn, “where the great battle was fowt.”

“How d’ee know that, Flynn?” asked one.

“How do I know anything I’m towld but by belaivin’ it?” returned the corporal.

“It’s my opeenion,” said the big Scotsman Macleod, “that if there had been ony better troops than Egeeptians to fecht wi’, oor men an’ my Lord Wolseley wadna hae fund it sic an easy job.”

“But it is said that the Egyptians were brave enough, and fought and died like men till they were fairly overpowered,” said Moses Pyne, who, being young and ardent, besides just, felt bound to stand up for dead foes.

“I’m no objeckin’ to their bravery,” returned the Scot. “They did the best they could; but what was to be expeckit o’ a wheen men that was dragged to the field against their wull, an’ made to fecht afore they weel kent hoo to use their airms?”

“Anyhow they gave us a chance to show what British soldiers can do,” said Rattling Bill.

“An’ sure there’s plenty more where they came from to give us another chance,” said Flynn.

“That’s true, boys. Three cheers for the heroes of Tel-el-Kebir, dead and livin’!” cried Armstrong, setting the example.

The response was prompt and hearty, and for a few moments a forest of white helmets waved in the air.

The enthusiasm was not allowed to cool, for the next station was Kassassin, where the Life Guards and our cavalry made their midnight charges; and where there occurred, perhaps, one of the longest day’s fighting in the war of 1882. Here, also, they saw the graves of the poor fellows who fell at that time, but the sight did not depress the men much. The somewhat lugubrious Sutherland alone seemed to take a serious view of such matters.

“It’s a’ vera weel for licht-hearted lads like you to laugh an’ cheer,” he said, “but there’s naething mair certain than that some o’ you that’s laughin’ an’ cheerin’ yenoo, an’ boastin’ o’ lickin’ the Soudan neegers, ’ll fill sandy graves afore lang.”

“You don’t know that, Scotty. Pr’a’ps we’ll all escape and return to old England together,” said one of his comrades.

“Arrah! if I did git into wan o’ the sandy graves ye spake of,” remarked Flynn, “I do belaive I’d rise out of it just for the pleasure o’ contradictin’ you, Sutherland.”

“H’m! nae doot. Contradictiousness whiles maks fowk lively that wad be dull an’ deed eneuch withoot it. But did onybody iver hear o’ a reg’ment gaun’ oot to the wars an’ comin’ back jist as it went? That’s the question—”

“As Hamlet’s ghost said when he was takin’ a night-walk to cool his-self,” interposed Simkin.

“It wasna his ghost; it was his faither’s ghost,” cried Sutherland; “an’ I’m no’ sure that—”

“Howld yer tongues, both o’ ye!” cried Flynn; “sure the loss o’ yer helmets is beginning to tell on yer heads already. What can the line be I see in the distance over there? I do belaive it’s another o’ thim broad rivers that seem to cut up this land all into stripes.”

“Why, it’s the canal, man,” cried Moses Pyne, who was more or less enthusiastic about all the sights and scenes they were passing. “Don’t ye see the ships?”

“Sure enough, you’re right, Moses, as ye ginerally are whin you’re not wrong. There’s some ships comin’ wan way, an’ some goin’ the other. Och! but he is a great jainius that Frenchman as tied the two says togither—Lips—Lisps—what is it they calls him? I’ve clane forgot.”

“Lesseps,” said Miles, as he gazed with unusual interest on this wonderful highway of nations.

The troops reached Suez after a ten hours’ journey, the distance being about 230 miles. Our hero made the acquaintance here of a private of marines named Stevenson, with whom he afterwards served in the Soudan, and with whom he became very friendly, not only because their spirits were sympathetic, but because, having been brought up in the same part of England, they had similar memories and associations in regard to “home.” Only those who have wandered long and far from their native land can understand the attractive influence that arises between men who meet abroad, and find that they can chat about the same places and persons in the “old country.”

It was Saturday when the troops arrived at Suez, and the heavy dew that fell rendered the night bitterly cold, and felt to be so all the more because of the intense heat of the day. Sunday began with “rousing out” at six, breakfast at seven, parade at eight, and “divine service” thereafter. As there was no clergyman at the place at the time, the duty was performed by one of the officers. Doubtless among the officers there are men who not only can “read prayers” well, but who have the spirit of prayer in them. That such, however, is not always the case may be gathered from the remark of one of the men upon this occasion.

“W’y, you know, Tom,” said this rather severe critic to his comrade confidentially, “there’s one advantage in fast readin’, that it gets the business soon over, which is some sort o’ comfort to fellows that has got to attend whether they like it or not, hot or cold, fresh or tired, unless dooty prevents. But the hofficer that did dooty to-day seemed to me to ’ave made a wager to read the prayers against time, an’ that can do no good at all to any one, you know. Far better, in my opinion, to ’ave no service at all. No wonder men won’t listen. Why, it’s a mockery—that’s what it is.”

A walk round Suez with Armstrong and Stevenson till tattoo at 9:30 finished the day, and convinced Miles and his friends that the sooner they bade adieu to that place the better for all of them.

Their wishes were gratified almost sooner than they wished!

Chapter Eleven.

New and Sad mingled with Curious Experiences.

At Suez Miles Milton first made acquaintance with the shady side of war.

Before the commanding officer, after parade next morning, they received marching orders, and kit-muster followed. In the afternoon the Loch-Ard steamer came in from Suakim, with sick, wounded, and invalids, and a large party was told off to assist in landing them and their baggage. Miles was one of the party. The dock where the vessel lay was three miles off, and the greater part of this distance the invalids were brought by train; but the latter part of the journey had to be done on foot by those who could walk, and on stretchers by those who could not.

Oh! it was pitiful to see those battered, sunburnt, bloodless young men, with deep lines of suffering on their faces, aged before their time, and the mere wrecks of what they once were. Men who had gone to that region strong, active, ruddy, enthusiastic, and who, after a few months, returned thus feeble and shattered—some irreparably so; others with perhaps years of joyless life before them; a few with the unmistakable stamp of death already on their brows.

There were about forty altogether. Some, as we have said, were carried from the vessel, and not one of the forlorn band could get on without the assistance of their fresh comrades from England.

One tall, deep-chested young soldier, who must have been a splendid specimen of manhood when he landed in Egypt, was supported on one side by Miles, and on the other by Stevenson.

“Halt a moment,” said the invalid, in a weak voice and with an apologetic smile. “I—I can’t get along quite as fast as I used to.”

His trembling legs and bowed back did not require the tongue or the large sunken eyes to confirm that obvious truth.

“Poor fellow!” said Miles—with difficulty, owing to the lump in his throat—“you ought to have had a stretcher. Here, sit down a bit on this stone. Have you been wounded?”

“Ay,” returned the man with a look of quiet resignation that seemed to have become habitual to him, “I have been wounded, but not by spear or bullet. It’s the climate that has done for me. I used to think that nothing under the sun could quell me, but the Lord has seen fit to bring down my pride in that matter. At the same time, it’s only fair to say that He has also raised me up, and given me greater blessings than He has taken away. They told me in Portsmouth that He would, and it has come true.”

“At the Institute?” asked Stevenson, eagerly.

“Ay—the Soldiers’ Institute,” answered the invalid.

“God bless you!” returned the marine, grasping his hand. “It was there I was brought to God myself. Cheer up, brother! You’ll soon be in hospital, where good food an’ physic an’ nursing will bring you round, may-hap, an’ make you as ship-shape as ever.”

“It may be so, if He wills it so,” returned the trooper softly; “but I have a little book called ‘Our Warfare,’ and a letter from the ‘Soldier’s Friend’ in my pocket, which has done me more good than all the hospitals and physic in Egypt can do. Come, let us go on. I’m better now.”

Rising and putting a long arm round the shoulders of each of his new friends, the trooper slowly brought up the rear of the touching procession which had already passed them on its way to Suez.

In the vessel which had brought those unfortunate men from Suakim, Miles and his comrades soon found themselves advancing down that region of sweltering heat called the Red Sea. The sight of the disabled men had naturally, at first, a depressing effect on the men; but the influence of robust health, youth, strong hope, and that light-hearted courage which makes the British soldier so formidable to his foes, soon restored to most of them their wonted free-and-easy enjoyment of the present and disregard for the future. Even the serving out of cholera-belts and pocket-filters failed to allay their exuberant spirits.

The Loch-Ard, although doubtless a good ship for carrying coals, was very ill-suited to convey troops. But in times of war, and in distant lands, soldiers lay their account with roughing it.

They soon found that a little of the physic which is supposed to be “rough on rats” would have been of advantage; for the very first night many of the men were awakened by those creatures nibbling at their toes! Everything on board was dirty: the tin pannikins were rusty, the biscuit was mouldy and full of creatures that the captain called weevils and Macleod styled wee-deevils. Some of the biscuit was so bad that it had to be thrown away, and the remainder eaten, as Moses said, with closed eyes!

“It’s an ill wind that blaws naebody guid,” said Macleod to Moses Pyne, as he came on deck to enjoy a pipe after their first dinner on board. “What d’ee think that queer cratur Flynn is doin’ doon below?”

“Nothing very useful, I daresay,” said Moses.

“Ye’re wrang for ance. He’s lyin’ in ambush there, makin’ war on the rats—ay, an’ he’s killed twa or three a’ready!”

“You don’t say so! I’ll go and see the fun.”

So saying Moses went below, but had just reached the foot of the ladder when a boot caught him violently on the shins.

“Hi! hallo! ho!” shouted Moses.

“Och! git out o’ the line o’ fire wid ye! There’s another!” growled Flynn, as he fired a second boot, which whizzed past the intruder, and a sharp squeak told that it had not been fired in vain!

Moses beat a hasty retreat, and the Irishman continued the fight with that indomitable perseverance for which his countrymen are famous. There is no saying how long the action would have lasted, but in his energy he knocked away the support of a shelf behind him and a small cask of large nails, taking him in rear, sent him sprawling on the deck and routed him.

This misadventure did not, however, terminate the war. On the contrary, rat-hunting became a favourite pastime during the voyage down the Red Sea. Our hero, of course, took his turn at the fighting, but we believe that he never received a medal for his share in that war.

They spent one Sunday on the deep, but the only record made of it in the journal of the soldier from which most of our facts are gathered is that they “had prayers in racing style—against time!”

As if to cleanse themselves from the impropriety of this act the soldiers had a grand washing of clothes on the following day, and the day after that they arrived at Suakim.

“It is what I call a dreary, dismal-looking town,” said Miles to Armstrong, as they approached.

“Might be worse,” replied his friend.

“Ye aye tak a cheery view o’ things, Airmstrong.”

“An’ what for no?” asked Sutherland.

“You may well ask why not,” said Sergeant Hardy. “I think it wisest to look always on the bright side of things.”

“Whether it’s dreary or pleasant we’ll have to make the best we can of it, boys,” said Stevenson; “for this is to be our home for some time to come.”

“Horrible!” growled Simkin, whose spirit was essentially rebellious.

“Ochone!” sighed Flynn, who, we need scarcely say, was essentially jolly.

Further remark was cut short by the voice of Captain Lacey ordering the men to fall in, as the colonel in command was coming on board to inspect them.

The night of the arrival of the 310th was dreadfully hot, insomuch that many of the men found it impossible to sleep. But in the silence of that night food for reflection was supplied to the wakeful, in the form of sounds that were new to many, but soon became familiar to all—namely, the boom of big guns and the rattle of musketry. Osman Digna was making one of his customary attacks on the town, and the defenders were repelling him. Of course the sanguine among the new arrivals were much excited, and eager to join in the fray; but their services were not required that night. Osman and his dusky hordes were being repulsed as usual, and the reinforcements were obliged to content themselves with merely listening to the sounds of war.

Chapter Twelve.

In Action at last.

No time was lost in sending the newly-arrived troops to their sphere of duty.

There was something appropriate in their landing on that day of gunpowdery memories, the 5th of November. It was four o’clock when they disembarked. By four-thirty they were drawn up and inspected by the General, and immediately thereafter marched off in detachments to their respective stations—to Sphinx Redoubt, Fort Commodore, Bulimba, and other points of defence.

The detachment in which Miles Milton found himself was led by Captain Lacey to Sphinx Redoubt, where he was greatly pleased to find that his new friend, private Stevenson of the marines, was also stationed with some of his comrades.

There are probably times in the experiences of most of us when we seem to awake out of a long dream and begin to appreciate fully that the circumstances in which we are placed are stern realities after all. Such a time of awakening came to our hero when he and his comrades each received fifty rounds of ball-cartridge, and stood ready to repel assault on the defences of Suakim.

Hitherto drill and reviews had seemed to him a good deal like playing at soldiers. Even when the distant sound of the big guns and the rattle of small arms touched his ear, the slumber of unbelief was only broken—not quite dispelled. But now, weighted with the deadly missiles, with rifle in hand, with ears alert to every sound, and eyes open to every object that might present itself on the sandy waste beyond the redoubt, and a general feeling of expectancy pervading his thoughts and feelings, he became clearly convinced that the recent past was no flight of the imagination—that he was in very truth a soldier, and that his fighting career had in reality begun!

Now, it may not be out of place here to state that our hero was not by nature a combative man. We think it necessary to point this out, because the somewhat pugnacious introduction of Miles into our story may have misled the reader on this point. His desire for a soldier’s life was founded on a notion that it would prove to be a roving, jovial, hilarious sort of life, with plenty of sport and adventure in foreign lands. Of course he knew that it implied fighting also, and he was quite ready for that when it should be required of him; but it did not occur to him to reflect very profoundly that soldiering also meant, in some instances, exposure to withering heat during the day and stifling heat during the night; to thirst that seems unquenchable, and fatigue from prolonged duty that seems irreparable; to fits of sickness that appear to eliminate from stalwart frames all the strength they had ever possessed; and fits of the “blues” that render the termination of life a subject of rather pleasant contemplation than otherwise. But all these things he found out at Suakim!

Moreover, it had not occurred to him to think deeply on the fact that fighting meant rushing at a fellow-man whose acquaintance he had not made before; against whom he had not the slightest feeling of ill-will, and skewering him with a bayonet, or sending a bullet into him which would terminate his career in mid-life, and leave a wife and children—perhaps a mother also—disconsolate. But he also found that out at Suakim!

We repeat that Miles had no desire to fight, though, of course, he had no objection. When the officer in command sent him and his comrades to their station—after the ball-cartridge supply just referred to—and told them to keep a sharp look-out, for Osman Digna was giving them a great deal of trouble at the time, and pointed out where they were to go if attacked, and warned them to be ready to turn out on the instant that the bugle should sound the alarm, Miles was as full of energy and determination to fight and die for his country as the best of his comrades, though he did not express so strong a wish for a “brush with the enemy,” as some of them did, or sympathise much with Corporal Flynn when he said—

“It’s wishin’ I am that Osman an’ his dirty naygurs would come down on us this night, for we’re fresh an’ hearty, just off the say, burnin’ for fame an’ glory, ivery mother’s son of us, an’ fit to cut the black bastes up into mince-meat. Och! but it’s thirsty I am!”

“If ye spoke less an’ thocht mair ye wadna be sae dry, maybe,” remarked Saunders, in a cynical tone.

“Hoots, man, let the cratur alane,” said Macleod, as he busied himself polishing up some dim parts of his rifle. “It’s no muckle pleesure we’re like to hae in this het place. Let the puir thing enjoy his boastin’ while he may.”

“Sure an’ we’re not widout consolation anyhow,” retorted the corporal; “for as long as we’ve got you, Mac, and your countryman, to cheer us wid your wise an’ lively talk we’ll niver die o’ the blues.”

As he spoke a tremendous explosion not far off caused the redoubt to tremble to its foundations. At the same moment the alarm sounded, the men sprang up, seized their arms, and stood ready for an attack; but to their surprise no attack was made.

“Surely it must have been one of the mines you were telling me about,” said Miles, in a low voice to Sergeant Gilroy, who stood near to him.

“It was one of them unquestionably, for a corporal of the Berkshire regiment told me Lieutenant Young placed the mine there yesterday.”

While Gilroy was speaking, Lieutenant Young himself came along, engaged in earnest conversation with Captain Lacey, and stood still close beside Miles.

“What puzzles me, is that they have not followed it up with a few volleys, according to their usual custom,” said the former, in a low voice. “Luckily they seldom do any harm, for they are uncommonly bad shots, but they generally try their best to do us mischief, and always make a good deal of noise about it.”

“Perhaps,” suggested Captain Lacey, “your mine has done so much execution this time, and killed so many men, that they’ve got a fright and run away.”

“It may be so, but I think not. The Soudanese are not easily frightened, as we have some cause to know.”

“Have you many mines about?” asked the captain.

“Yes, we have a good many. And they form a most important part of our defence, for we are not very well supplied with men, and the Egyptian troops are not to be depended on unless backed up by ours. These mines require to be carefully handled, however, for our shepherds take the cattle out to graze every day, so that if I were to fail to disconnect any of them in the mornings, we should have some of our cattle blown up; and if I failed to connect them again at night, the enemy would attack us more vigorously. As it is, they are very nervous about the mines. They have pluck to face any foe that they can see, but the idea of an unseen foe, who lurks underground anywhere, and may suddenly send them into the sky like rockets, daunts them a bit.”

“And little wonder!” returned the captain. “From what you say I judge that you have the management of most of the mines.”

“Of all of them,” answered the lieutenant, with a modest look.

There was more than modesty in this young officer of Engineers; there was heroism also. He might have added, (though he did not), that this duty of connecting and disconnecting the mines each night and morning was such a dangerous service that he declined to take men out with him, and invariably did the work personally and alone.

The mystery of the explosion on the night we write of was explained next morning when a party sallied forth to see what damage had been done. They found, instead of dismembered men, the remnants of a poor little hare which had strayed across the fatal line of danger and been blown to atoms. Thus do the lives of the innocent too often fall a sacrifice to the misdeeds of the guilty!

Next night, however, the defenders were roused by a real attack.

The day had been one of the most trying that the new arrivals had yet experienced. The seasoned men, who had been formed by Nature, apparently, of indestructible material, said it was awful. The thermometer stood at above 110 degrees in the shade; there was not a breath of air moving; the men were panting, almost choking. Even the negroes groaned, and, drawing brackish water from a well in the fort, poured it over their heads and bodies—but with little benefit, for the water itself was between 95 and 100 degrees!

“It’ll try some o’ the new-comers to-night, if I’m not mistaken,” remarked one of the indestructible men above referred to, as he rose from dinner and proceeded to fill his pipe.

“Why d’you think so?” asked Sergeant Hardy, whose name was appropriate, for he continued for a long time to be one of the indestructibles.

“’Cause it’s always like this when we’re goin’ to have a horrible night.”

“Do the nights vary much?” asked Armstrong, who was still busy with his knife and fork.

“Of course they do,” returned the man. “Sometimes you have it quite chilly after a hot day. Other times you have it suffocatin’—like the Black Hole of Calcutta—as it’ll be to-night.”

“What sort o’ hole was that?” asked Simkin, whose knowledge of history was not extensive.

“It was a small room or prison into which they stuffed a lot of our men once, in India, in awful hot weather, an’ kep’ them there waitin’ till the Great Mogul, or some chap o’ that sort, should say what was to be done wi’ them. But his Majesty was asleep at the time, an’ it was as much as their lives was worth to waken him. So they had to wait, an’ afore he awakened out o’ that sleep most o’ the men was dead—suffocated for want o’ fresh air.”

“I say, Mac, pass the water,” said Moses Pyne. “It makes a feller feel quite gaspy to think of.”

The weather-prophet proved to be right. That night no one could sleep a wink, except the big Scotsman Macleod. To make matters worse, the insects of the place were unusually active. One of them especially, not much bigger than a pin-point, was irritating out of all proportion to its size, and it kept up, during the night, the warfare which the innumerable flies had waged during the day.

“It’s no use trying to sleep, Willie,” said Miles to Armstrong, who was next to him, as they lay on the flat roof of the redoubt, with their rifles resting on the sandbags which formed a slight protection from the enemy’s fire when one of the frequent attacks was made on the town.

“So I find,” returned his friend. “I have tried everything. Counting up to hundreds of thousands has made me rather more wakeful. I find that thinking of Emmy does me most good, but even that won’t produce sleep.”

“Strange!” remarked Miles. “I have been trying the same sort of thing—without success. And I’ve had an unusually hard day of it, so that I ought to be ready for sleep. You were in luck, being on police-duty.”

“H’m! I don’t think much of my luck. But let’s hear what you have been up to all day.”

“Well, first, I began by turning out at 5:30 a.m.,” said Miles, rolling with a sigh on his other side, for a uniform, cross-belts, boots, ammunition, etcetera, don’t, after all, form an easy night-dress. “After a cup of coffee I fell in with a lot of our fellows, and was told off for fatigue-duty. Worked away till 7:30. Then breakfast. After that I had to clear up the mess; then got ready for inspection parade at 9:30, after which I had to scrub belts, and clean up generally. Dinner over, I was warned to go on night-guard; but, for some reason which was not stated to me, that was changed, and I’m not sorry for it, because the heat has taken a good deal out of me, and I prefer lying here beside you, Willie, to standing sentry, blinking at the desert, and fancying every bush and stone to be a dusky skirmisher of Osman Digna. By the way, if that mountain range where the enemy lies is twelve or fourteen miles distant from the town, they have a long way to come when they take a fancy to attack us—which is pretty often too. They say he has got two hundred thousand men with him. D’you think that can be true?”

A gentle trumpet-note from his friend’s nose told Miles that he had brought about what thoughts of Emmy had failed to accomplish!

Thoughts of Marion had very nearly brought himself to a similar condition, when a trumpet-blast, the reverse of gentle, roused the whole line of defence, and, immediately after, sharp firing was heard in the direction of the right Water fort, which was manned by marines with two Krupp guns and a Gardner. A few rounds from the big guns drove the enemy back in that direction.

Miles and those around him, however, had not to turn out. Owing to their position on the roof of the Sphinx Redoubt, they had only to roll on their fronts, rest their rifles on the sandbags, and they were at once ready for action.

Round the various forts and redoubts deep and broad trenches had been dug, and they were rendered otherwise as strong as possible. The right and left Water forts formed the first line of defence. The latter fort, being manned by Egyptian troops, was more frequently favoured with the attentions of Osman than the others, for the marines were splendid men, and the native chief was well aware of that. All the places around, which offered the slightest shelter to the enemy, had been carefully measured as to distance, so that the exact range could be fixed at a moment’s notice. Then the war-vessels and one of the forts were furnished with electric lights, so that by bringing these to bear on the foe, as well as the big and little guns—not to mention mines and rifles—the attacking host had always a warm reception when they paid a visit to the town, and never stayed long!

The defenders required all these aids, however; for, besides a regiment of Egyptian infantry, a company of Royal Engineers, and about 500 marines, there was only one small battalion of British troops and a regiment of Egyptian cavalry. These last were extremely useful. Every day they went out scouting and clearing around Suakim, and had frequent skirmishes with the enemy, in all of which they were said to have behaved very well indeed.

Our party on the redoubt had not lain there long when a sheet of flame seemed to flash out of the darkness in front of them. It was followed by the rattle of small arms. Instantly the redoubt replied; bullets whizzed overhead, and our hero received what has of late been called a “baptism of fire.”

But he was so busy plying his own weapon that he scarcely realised the fact that death was ever and anon within a few inches of him, until a bullet ripped the sandbag on which his rifle rested and drove the sand into his face. He became a wiser man from that hour, and soon acquired the art of performing his duty with the least possible exposure of his person, and that for the briefest possible space of time!

Like a first-rate detective, the electric light sought out and exposed their foes; then withering volleys sent them scurrying across the country back to their native hills.

“Sure it’s wid wan eye open we’ve got to slape whin the murtherin’ rascals come down on us like that,” observed Corporal Flynn, when the firing had slackened to a few dropping shots on both sides.

“Av they’d only stand fornint us in the open, it’s short work we’d make o’ them. There’s no more pluck in them than in my smallest finger.”

It seemed as if righteous retribution were being meted out that night, for a spent ball entered the fort at that moment and, strange to say, hit the extreme tip of the corporal’s little finger!

A howl, as much of surprise as pain, apprised his comrades of the fact, and a hearty laugh followed when the trifling extent of the injury was ascertained.

“Serves you right, Flynn, for boasting,” said Armstrong, with a grim smile, as he stretched himself out and rested his head on a sandbag. “Moreover, you are unjust, for these black fellows are as brave a lot o’ men as British troops have ever had to face. Good-night, boys, I’m off to the land of Nod!”

Chapter Thirteen.

Tells of some of the Trials, Uncertainties, Dangers, and Disasters of War.

Uncertain moonlight, with a multitude of cloudlets drifting slowly across the sky so as to reveal, veil, partially obscure, or sometimes totally blot out the orb of night, may be a somewhat romantic, but is not a desirable, state of things in an enemy’s country, especially when that enemy is prowling among the bushes.

But such was the state of things one very sultry night when our hero found himself standing in the open alone, and with thoughts of a varied and not wholly agreeable nature for his companions.

He was on sentry duty.

It was intensely dark when the clouds partially veiled the moon, for she was juvenile at the time—in her first quarter; and when the veil was partially removed, the desert, for it was little better, assumed an indistinct and ghostly-grey appearance.

Sombre thoughts naturally filled the mind of our young soldier as he stood there, alert, watchful, with weapons ready, ears open to the slightest sound, and eyes glancing sharply at the perplexing shadows that chased each other over the ground like wanton Soudanese at play. His faculties were intensely strung at what may well be styled “attention,” and riveted on that desert land to which Fate—as he called his own conduct—had driven him. Yet, strange to say, his mysterious spirit found leisure to fly back to old England and revisit the scenes of childhood. But he had robbed himself of pleasure in that usually pleasant retrospect. He could see only the mild, sorrowful, slightly reproachful, yet always loving face of his mother when in imagination he returned home. It was more than he could bear. He turned to pleasanter memories. He was back again at Portsmouth, in the reading-room of the Soldiers’ Institute, with red-coated comrades around him, busy with newspaper and illustrated magazine, while the sweet sound of familiar music came from the adjoining rooms, where a number of Blue Lights, or rather red-coats, who were not ashamed to own and serve their Maker, were engaged with songs of praise.

Suddenly he was back in Egypt with his heart thumping at his ribs. An object seemed to move on the plain in front of him. The ready bayonet was lowered, the trigger was touched. Only for a moment, however. The shadow of a cloud had passed from behind a bush—that was all; yet it was strange how very like to a real object it seemed to his highly-strung vision. A bright moonbeam next moment showed him that nothing to cause alarm was visible.

Mind is not so easily controlled as matter. Like a statue he stood there in body, but in mind he had again deserted his post. Yet not to so great a distance as before. He only went the length of Alexandria, and thought of Marion! The thought produced a glow, not of physical heat—that was impossible to one whose temperature had already risen to the utmost attainable height—but a glow of soul. He became heroic! He remembered Marion’s burning words, and resolved that Duty should henceforth be his guiding-star!

Duty! His heart sank as he thought of the word, for the Something within him became suddenly active, and whispered, “How about your duty to parents? You left them in a rage. You spent some time in Portsmouth, surrounded by good influences, and might have written home, but you didn’t. You made some feeble attempts, indeed, but failed. You might have done it several times since you landed in this country, but you haven’t. You know quite well that you have not fully repented even yet!”

While the whispering was going on, the active fancy of the youth saw the lovely face of Marion looking at him with mournful interest, as it had been the face of an angel, and then there came to his memory words which had been spoken to him that very day by his earnest friend Stevenson the marine: “No man can fully do his duty to his fellows until he has begun to do his duty to God.”

The words had not been used in reference to himself but in connection with a discussion as to the motives generally which influence men. But the words were made use of by the Spirit as arrows to pierce the youth’s heart.

“Guilty!” he exclaimed aloud, and almost involuntary followed, “God forgive me!”

Again the watchful ear distinguished unwonted sounds, and the sharp eye—wonderfully sharpened by frequent danger—perceived objects in motion on the plain. This time the objects were real. They approached. It was “the rounds” who visited the sentries six times during each night.

In another part of the ground, at a considerable distance from the spot where our hero mounted guard, stood a youthful soldier, also on guard, and thinking, no doubt, of home. He was much too young for service in such a climate—almost a boy. He was a ruddy, healthy lad, with plenty of courage and high spirit, who was willing to encounter anything cheerfully, so long as, in so doing, he could serve his Queen and country. But he was careless of his own comfort and safety. Several times he had been found fault with for going out in the sun without his white helmet. Miles had taken a fancy to the lad, and had spoken seriously but very kindly to him that very day about the folly of exposing himself in a way that had already cost so many men their lives.

But young Lewis laughed good-naturedly, and said that he was too tough to be killed by the sun.

The suffocating heat of that night told upon him, however, severely—tough though he was or supposed himself to be—while he kept his lonely watch on the sandy plain.

Presently a dark figure was seen approaching. The sentinel at once challenged, and brought his rifle to the “ready.” The man, who was a native, gave the password all right, and made some apparently commonplace remark as he passed, which, coupled with his easy manner and the correct countersign, threw the young soldier off his guard. Suddenly a long sharp knife gleamed in the faint light and was drawn across the body of Lewis before he could raise a hand to defend himself. He fell instantly, mortally wounded, with his entrails cut open. At the same moment the tramp of the rounds was heard, and the native glided back into the darkness from which he had so recently emerged.

When the soldiers came to the post they found the poor young soldier dying. He was able to tell what had occurred while they were making preparations to carry him away, but when they reached the fort they found that his brief career had ended.

A damp was cast on the spirits of the men of his company when they learned next day what had occurred, for the lad had been a great favourite; but soldiers in time of war are too much accustomed to look upon death in every form to be deeply or for long affected by incidents of the kind. Only the comrades who had become unusually attached to this poor youth mourned his death as if he had been a brother in the flesh as well as in the ranks.

“He was a good lad,” said Sergeant Gilroy, as they kept watch on the roof of the fort that night. “Since we came here he has never missed writing to his mother a single mail. It is true, being an amiable lad, and easily led through his affections, he had given way to drink to some extent, but no later than yesterday I prevailed upon him to join our temperance band—”

“What? become a Blue Light!” exclaimed Sutherland, with something of a sneer in his tone.

“Ah, comrade; and I hope to live to see you join our band also, and become one of the bluest lights among us,” returned the sergeant good-humouredly.

“Never!” replied Sutherland, with emphasis; “you’ll never live to see that.”

“Perhaps not, but if I don’t live to see it some one else will,” rejoined the sergeant, laying his hand gently on the man’s shoulder.

“Is that you again? It’s wishin’ I am that I had you in ould Ireland,” growled Corporal Flynn, referring to Osman Digna, whose men had opened fire on the neighbouring fort, and again roused the whole garrison. “Slape is out o’ the question wi’ such a muskitos buzzin’ about. Bad luck to ’ee!”

“What good would it do to send him to Ireland?” asked Simkin, as he yawned, rolled over, and, like the rest of his comrades, loaded his rifle.

“Why, man, don’t ye see, av he was in ould Ireland he couldn’t be disturbin’ our night’s rest here. Moreover, they’d make a dacent man of ’im there in no time. It’s always the way; if an English blackguard goes over to Ireland he’s almost sure to return home more or less of a gintleman. That’s why I’ve always advised you to go over, boy. An’ maybe if Osman wint he’d— Hallo!”

A flash of light and whistling of bullets overhead effectually stopped the Irishman’s discourse. Not that he was at all alarmed by the familiar incident, but being a change of subject it became more absorbingly interesting than the conversation, besides necessitating some active precautions.

The firing seemed to indicate an attack in several places along the line of defence. At one of the posts called the New House the attack was very sharp. The enemy could not have been much, if at all, over three hundred yards distant in the shelter of three large pits. Of course the fire was vigorously returned. A colonel and major were there on the redoubt, with powerful field-glasses, and directed the men where to fire until the General himself appeared on the scene and took command. On the left, from Quarantine Island, the Royal Engineers kept up a heavy cross-fire, and on the right they were helped by a fort which was manned by Egyptian troops. From these three points a heavy fire was kept up, and continued till six o’clock in the morning.

By that time, the enemy having been finally driven out of the pits, a party was sent across to see what execution had been done. It was wonderfully little, considering the amount of ammunition and energy expended. In the first pit one man was found dead; a bullet had entered his forehead and come out at the back of his head. Moving him a little on one side they found another man under him, shot in the same way. All round the pit inside were large pools of blood, but no bodies, for the natives invariably dragged or carried away their dead when that was possible. In the other two pits large pools of blood were also found, but no bodies. Beyond them, however, one man was discovered shot through the heart. He had evidently been dragged along the sand, but the tremendous fire of the defenders had compelled the enemy to drop him. Still further on they found twelve more corpses which had been dragged a short way and then left.

Close to these they observed that the sand had been disturbed, and on turning it up found that a dozen of bodies had been hastily buried there. Altogether they calculated that at least fifty of the enemy had been killed on that occasion—a calculation which was curiously verified by the friendly tribes asking permission to bury the dead according to the Soudanese custom. This was granted, of course, and thus the exact number killed was ascertained, but how many had been wounded no one could tell.

“Fifty desolated homes!” remarked one of the men, when the number of killed was announced at mess that day. He was a cynical, sour-visaged man, who had just come out of hospital after a pretty severe illness. “Fifty widows, may-hap,” he continued, “to say nothin’ o’ child’n—that are just as fond o’ husbands an’ fathers as ours are!”

“Why, Jack Hall, if these are your sentiments you should never have enlisted,” cried Simkin, with a laugh.

“I ’listed when I was drunk,” returned Hall savagely.

“Och, then, it sarves ye right!” said Flynn. “Even a pig would be ashamed to do anythin’ whin it was in liquor.”

The corporal’s remark prevented the conversation taking a lugubrious turn, to the satisfaction of a few of the men who could not endure to look at anything from a serious point of view.

“What’s the use,” one of them asked, “of pullin’ a long face over what you can’t change? Here we are, boys, to kill or be killed. My creed is, ‘Take things as they come, and be jolly!’ It won’t mend matters to think about wives and child’n.”

“Won’t it?” cried Armstrong, looking up with a bright expression from a sheet of paper on which he had just been writing. “Here am I writin’ home to my wife—in a hurry too, for I’ve only just heard that word has been passed, the mail for England goes to-day. I’m warned for guard to-night, too; an’ if the night takes after the day we’re in for a chance o’ suffocation, to say nothing o’ insects—as you all know. Now, won’t it mend matters that I’ve got a dear girl over the sea to think about, and to say ‘God bless her, body and soul?’”

“No doubt,” retorted the take-things-as-they-come-and-be-jolly man, “but—but—”

“But,” cried Hall, coming promptly to his rescue, “have not the Soudanese got wives an’ children as well as us?”

“I daresay they have—some of ’em.”

“Well, does the thought of your respective wives an’ children prevent your shooting or sticking each other when you get the chance?”

“Of course it don’t!” returned Armstrong, with a laugh as he resumed his pencil. “What would be the use o’ comin’ here if we didn’t do that? But I haven’t time to argue with you just now, Hall. All I know is that it’s my duty to write to my wife, an’ I won’t let the chance slip when I’ve got it.”

“Bah!” exclaimed the cynic, relighting his pipe, which in the heat of debate he had allowed to go out.

Several of the other men, having been reminded of the mail by the conversation, also betook themselves to pen and pencil, though their hands were more familiar with rifle and bayonet. Among these was Miles Milton. Mindful of his recent thoughts, and re-impressed with the word Duty, which his friend had just emphasised, he sat down and wrote a distinctly self-condemnatory letter home. There was not a word of excuse, explanation, or palliation in it from beginning to end. In short, it expressed one idea throughout, and that was—Guilty! and of course this was followed by his asking forgiveness. He had forgiveness—though he knew it not—long before he asked it. His broken-hearted father and his ever-hopeful mother had forgiven him in their hearts long before—even before they received that treasured fragment from Portsmouth, which began and ended with:

“Dearest Mother, I am sorry—”

After finishing and despatching the letter, Miles went out with a feeling of lightness about his heart that he had not felt since that wretched day when he forsook his father’s house.

As it was still early in the afternoon he resolved to take a ramble in the town, but, seeing Sergeant Gilroy and another man busy with the Gardner gun on the roof of the redoubt, he turned aside to ask the sergeant to accompany him; for Gilroy was a very genial Christian, and Miles had lately begun to relish his earnest, intelligent talk, dashed as it was with many a touch of humour.

The gun they were working with at the time had been used the day before in ascertaining the exact range of several objects on the ground in front.

“I’ll be happy to go with you, Miles, after I’ve given this gun a clean-out,” said Gilroy. “Turn the handle, Sutherland.”

“I’ll turn the handle if it’s a’ richt,” said the cautious Scot, with some hesitation.

“It is all right,” returned the sergeant. “We ran the feeder out last night, you know, and I want to have the barrels cleaned. Turn away.”

Thus ordered a second time, Sutherland obeyed and turned the handle. The gun went off, and its contents passed through the sergeant’s groin, making a hole through which a man could have passed his arm.

He dropped at once, and while some ran for the doctor, and some for water, others brought a stretcher to carry the poor fellow to hospital. Meanwhile Miles, going down on his knees beside him, raised his head and moistened his pale lips with water. He could hardly speak, but a smile passed over his face as he said faintly, “She’ll get my presents by this mail. Write, Miles—break it to her—we’ll meet again—by the side of Jesus—God be praised!”

He ceased, and never spoke again.

Gilroy was a married man, with five children. Just before the accident he had written to his wife enclosing gifts for his little ones, and telling, in a thankful spirit, of continued health and safety. Before the mail-steamer with his letter on board was out of sight he was dead!

Chapter Fourteen.

Describes some of Osman Digna’s Eccentricities and Other Matters.

One day Miles and his friend Armstrong went to have a ramble in the town of Suakim, and were proceeding through the bazaar when they encountered Simkin hurrying towards them with a much too serious expression on his face!

“Have you heard the n–news?” he asked, on coming up.

“No; what’s up?”

“The old shep–shepherd’s bin killed; all the c–cattle c–captured, an’ the Egyptian c–cavalry’s bin sent out after them.”

“Nonsense! You’re dreaming, or you’ve bin drinking,” said Miles.

“Neither dreamin’ nor drinkin’,” returned Simkin, with indignation, as he suddenly delivered a blow at our hero’s face. Miles stopped it, however, gave him a playful punch in the chest, and passed on.

At first Simkin seemed inclined to resent this, but, while he swayed about in frowning indecision, his comrades left him; shaking his head, therefore, with intense gravity, he walked away muttering, “Not a bad fellow Miles, after all, if he w–wasn’t so fond o’ the b–bottle!”

Miles was at the same moment making the same remark to his friend in reference to Simkin, and with greater truth.

“But I don’t wonder that the men who drink go in for it harder than ever here,” continued Miles. “There is such hard work, and constant exposure, and so little recreation of any sort. Yet it is a pity that men should give way to it, for too many of our comrades are on the sick-list because of it, and some under the sod.”

“It is far more than a pity,” returned Armstrong, with unwonted energy. “Drink with its attendant evils is one of the great curses of the army. I have been told, and I can well believe it, that drink causes more loss to an army than war, the dangers of foreign service, and unhealthy climates, all put together.”

“That’s a strong statement, Willie, and would need to be founded on good authority. Who told you?”

“Our new parson told me, and he is in my opinion a good authority, because he is a Christian, if ever a man was; and he is an elderly man, besides being uncommonly clever and well informed. He told us a great many strong facts at the temperance meeting we held last night. I wish you had been there, Miles. It would have warmed your heart, I think.”

“Have you joined them, Willie?”

“Yes, I have; and, God helping me, I mean to stick by them!”

“I would have gone to the meeting myself,” said Miles thoughtfully, “if I had been asked.”

“Strange,” returned Armstrong, “that Sergeant Hardy said to me he thought of asking you to accompany us, but had an idea that you wouldn’t care to go. Now, just look at that lot there beside the grog-shop door. What a commentary on the evils of drink!”

The lot to which he referred consisted of a group of miserable loungers in filthy garments and fez-caps, who, in monkey-like excitement, or solemn stupidity, stood squabbling in front of one of the many Greek drinking-shops with which the town was cursed.

Passing by at the moment, with the stately contempt engendered by a splendid physique and a red coat, strode a trooper—one of the defenders of the town. His gait was steady enough, but there was that unmistakable something in the expression of his face which told that he was in the grip of the same fiend that had captured the men round the grog-shop door. He was well-known to both Armstrong and Miles.

“Hallo! Johnson,” cried the latter. “Is there any truth in the—”

He stopped, and looked steadily in the trooper’s eyes without speaking.

“Oh yes, I know what you mean,” said Johnson, with a reckless air. “I know that I’m drunk.”

“I wouldn’t say exactly that of you,” returned Miles; “but—”

“Well, well, I say it of myself,” continued the trooper. “It’s no use humbuggin’ about it. I’m swimmin’ wi’ the current. Goin’ to the dogs like a runaway locomotive. Of course I see well enough that men like Sergeant Hardy, an’ Stevenson of the Marines, who have been temperance men all their lives, enjoy good health—would to God I was like ’em! And I know that drinkers are dyin’ off like sheep, but that makes it all the worse for me, for, to tell you the honest truth, boys—an’ I don’t care who knows it—I can’t leave off drinkin’. It’s killin’ me by inches. I know, likewise, that all the old hard drinkers here are soon sent home ruined for life—such of ’em at least as don’t leave their miserable bones in the sand, and I know that I’m on the road to destruction, but I can’t—I won’t give it up!”

“Ha! Johnson,” said Armstrong, “these are the very words quoted by the new parson at the temperance meetin’ last night—an’ he’s a splendid fellow with his tongue. ‘Hard drinker,’ says he, ‘you are humbuggin’ yourself. You say you can’t give up the drink. The real truth is, my man, that you won’t give it up. If only I could persuade you, in God’s strength, to say “I will,” you’d soon come all right.’ Now, Johnson, if you’ll come with me to the next meetin’—”

“What! me go to a temperance meetin’?” cried the trooper with something of scorn in his laugh. “You might as well ask the devil to go to church! No, no, Armstrong, I’m past prayin’ for—thank you all the same for invitin’ me. But what was you askin’ about news bein’ true? What news?”

“Why, that the old shepherd has been killed, and all our cattle are captured, and the Egyptian cavalry sent after them.”

“You don’t say so!” cried the trooper, with the air of a man who suddenly shakes off a heavy burden. “If that’s so, they’ll be wantin’ us also, no doubt.”

Without another word he turned and strode away as fast as his long legs could carry him.

Although there might possibly be a call for infantry to follow, Miles and his friend did not see that it was needful to make for their fort at more than their ordinary pace.

It was a curious and crowded scene they had to traverse. Besides the grog-shops already mentioned there were numerous coffee-houses, where, from diminutive cups, natives of temperate habits slaked their thirst and discussed the news—of which, by the way, there was no lack at the time; for, besides the activity of Osman Digna and his hordes, there were frequent arrivals of mails, and sometimes of reinforcements, from Lower Egypt. In the side-streets were many smithies, where lance-heads and knives were being forged by men who had not the most distant belief that such weapons would ever be turned into pruning-hooks. There were also workers in leather, who sewed up passages of the Koran in leathern cases and sold them as amulets to be worn on necks and arms. Elsewhere, hairdressers were busy greasing and powdering with the dust of red-wood the bushy locks of Hadendoa dandies. In short, all the activities of Eastern city life were being carried on as energetically as if the place were in perfect security, though the only bulwark that preserved it, hour by hour, from being swept by the innumerable hordes of Soudan savagery, consisted of a few hundreds of British and Egyptian soldiers!

Arrived at the Sphinx Fort, the friends found that the news was only too true.

The stolen cattle belonged to the people of Suakim. Every morning at six o’clock it was the custom of the shepherds to go out with their herds and flocks to graze, there being no forage in or near the town. All had to be back by sunset, when the gates were locked, and no one was allowed out or in till six the next morning. The women, who carried all the water used in the waterless town, had of course to conform to the same rule. Like most men who are constantly exposed to danger, the shepherds became careless or foolhardy, and wandered rather far with their herds. Osman was too astute to neglect his opportunities. On this occasion an old shepherd, who was well-known at Sphinx Redoubt, had strayed too far. The Soudanese swept down, cut off his retreat, killed him, and, as we have said, carried off his cattle.

It was to retrieve, if possible, or avenge this disaster that the Egyptian cavalry sallied forth. They were seen galloping after the foe when Miles reached the roof of the redoubt, where some of his comrades were on duty, while Captain Lacey and several officers were looking on with field-glasses.

“They are too late, I fear, to do much good,” remarked one of the officers.

“Don’t I wish I was goin’ wid them!” whispered Corporal Flynn to a comrade.

“Ye wad be a queer objec’ on the ootside o’ a horse,” remarked Macleod cynically.

“Why, Mac, ye wouldn’t have me go inside of a horse, would ye?”

“It wad be much the same which way ye went,” returned the Scot.

“Ah, thin, the horse wouldn’t think so, unless he was a donkey!”

“Well done!” exclaimed Captain Lacey at that moment, as the cavalry cut off and succeeded in recapturing a few of the cattle, and gave the enemy several volleys, which caused them to beat a hasty retreat. This, however, turned out to be a ruse on the part of Osman, who had his men concealed in strong force there. He tried to draw the cavalry away from Suakim, and was very nearly successful. In the ardour of pursuit the Egyptians failed to observe that the Soudanese were creeping round their rear to cut off retreat. On discovering their mistake, and finding that their small force of two hundred men was being surrounded by thousands of Arab warriors, it was almost too late. Turning at once, they galloped back, and could be seen, through the field-glasses, turning now and then gallantly to engage the pursuing foe.

No help could be rendered them at first, as they were beyond the range of all the forts; nevertheless, they got in safely, with little injury to man or beast, and driving before them the animals that had been recovered.

Next day the body of the poor old shepherd was brought in and buried, without a coffin, by his relations.

Miles, being off duty at the time, went to see the funeral, and found that Eastern and Western ideas on this point, as on many others, are wide as the poles asunder. No doubt the grief of the near relations was as real as it was demonstrative, but it required more credulity than he possessed to enable him to believe that the howling, shouting, and singing of many mourners was indicative of genuine feeling. The creation of noise, indeed, seemed to be their chief method of paying respect to the dead.

As deaths in Suakim were very numerous at this time, owing to much sickness among natives as well as troops, the sounds of mourning, whether by volley or voice, became so frequent that orders were at last given to cease firing over the soldiers’ graves when they were buried.

Just ahead of the shepherd’s body came some poor women, who were weeping, falling down at intervals, and kissing the ground. On reaching the wall round the land side of the town these women stopped, formed a circle, and kneeled on the sand while the body was passing them, then they leaned forward and kissed the ground, continuing in that position till all the procession had passed. There the women remained, not being allowed to go to the grave, and the singing and shouting were continued by boys, who kept running round the bier as it was borne along. On reaching the grave the body was put in with the face toward the east, and covered up with stones and mortar. Then the grave was filled up with sand, a brief prayer was offered—the mourners kneeling—after which the people went home.

Sad thoughts filled the mind of our young soldier as he returned to the fort, but the sadness was soon turned to indignation when he got there.

For some time past a Soudanese youth of about seventeen or eighteen years of age had been coming about the Sphinx Redoubt and ingratiating himself with the men, who took a great fancy to him, because he was amiable in disposition, somewhat humorous as well as lively, and handsome, though black! They used to give him something to eat every time he came, and made quite a pet of him. One day while he was out in the open country, Osman’s men captured this youth and took him at once before their leader, who, probably regarding him as a deserter, ordered both his hands to be cut off close to the wrists. The cruel deed was done, and the poor lad was sent back to Suakim. It was this that roused the wrath of Miles as well as that of his comrades. When they saw the raw stumps and the haggard look of the poor fellow, who had suffered much from loss of blood, they got into a state of mind that would have made them ready to sally forth, if so required, and assault the entire Soudan in arms!

“Och! av I only had ’im here,” said Flynn, clenching his teeth and fists at the same time. “It’s—it’s—it’s—”

“Mince-meat you’d make of him,” said Moses.

“No—it’s cat’s mate—the baste!”

The others were equally angry, though not quite so emphatic, but they did not waste their time in useless regrets. They hurried the young Soudanese to the doctor, who carefully dressed his wounds, and every care was thereafter taken of him by the men, until completely restored to health.

It may interest the reader to know that this poor fellow was afterwards well looked after. Some sort of employment in the garrison was obtained for him, and he was found to be a useful and willing servant, despite the absence of his hands.

That night a furious sand-storm burst upon the town, accompanied by oppressive heat.

“It always seems to me,” said Miles to Gaspard Redgrave, who lay next him, “that mosquitoes and sand-flies, cats and dogs, and in fact the whole brute creation, becomes more lively when the weather is unusually hot. Just listen to these cats!”

“Like a colony of small children being murdered,” said Gaspard.

“It’s awfu’,” observed Saunders, in a kind of solemn astonishment as a frightful caterwaul burst upon their ears. “I wadna like to hear teegers in the same state o’ mind.”

“Or elephants,” murmured Moses Pyne, who was more than half asleep.

The cats were indeed a great nuisance, for, not satisfied with getting on the flat roofs of the houses at nights, and keeping up a species of war-dance there, they invaded the soldiers’ quarters, upsetting things in the dark—thus demonstrating the absurdity of the proverb that cats see best in the dark—stealing whatever they could lay hold of, and inducing half-slumbering men to fling boots and shoes, or whatever came most handy, at them.

Rats also were innumerable, and, to the great surprise—not to say indignation—of the men, neither dogs nor cats paid the least attention to the rats!

After a time the storm, both of animate and inanimate nature, began to abate, and the weary overworked soldiers were dropping off to sleep when a tremendous explosion effectually roused them.

“There goes another mine!” cried Armstrong, starting up.

“It don’t require a prophet to tell us that,” growled Gaspard, as he yawned and slowly picked up his rifle.

Explosions were of quite common occurrence at that time, but had to be attended to nevertheless.

That Osman had taken advantage of the very dark night to make an earlier attack than usual was evident, for shots were fired immediately after the explosion occurred, as usual. These were replied to, but the effect of the explosion, it was supposed, must have been unusually severe, for the enemy withdrew after exchanging only a few shots.

This surmise was afterwards proved to be correct. On going to the spot the following morning, they found that at least a dozen of their foes must have been blown up, for legs and arms and other human remains were picked up in all directions. These the soldiers gathered, with the aid of the friendly natives, and burned.

No attack was made for four days after that, but then the untiring enemy became as troublesome as ever.

Spies afterwards said that when Osman heard of this incident, and of the number of men killed, he said, “it served them right. They had no business to go touching things that did not belong to them!”

Chapter Fifteen.

Athletics—A New Acquaintance turns up—An Expedition undertaken, followed by a Race for Life.

Energetic and exhilarating exercise has sometimes the effect of driving away sickness which doctors’ stuff and treatment fail to cope with successfully. In saying this we intend no slight either to doctors’ stuff or treatment!

After the troops had been some time at Suakim the effect of the climate began to tell on them so severely that a very large proportion of Europeans were in hospital, and many who strove hard to brave it out were scarcely fit for duty.

Great heat did not, however, interfere with Miles Milton’s health. He was one of those fortunates who seem to have been made of tougher clay than the average of humanity. But his friend Armstrong was laid up for a considerable time. Even Robert Macleod was knocked over for a brief period, and the lively Corporal Flynn succumbed at last. Moses Pyne, however, stood the test of hard work and bad climate well, and so, for a time, did Sergeant Hardy. It was found generally that the abstainers from strong drink suffered less from bad health and unwholesome surroundings than their fellows, and as there were a good many in the regiment, who were constantly endeavouring to convince their comrades of the advantages of total-abstinence, things were not so bad as they might have been.

It was about this time that one of the generals who visited Suakim instituted athletic games, thereby vastly improving the health and spirits of the men. And now Miles Milton learned, for the first time, what an immense power there lies in “scientific training!”

One evening, when out walking with Stevenson, he took it into his head to race with him, and, having been a crack runner at school, he beat him easily.

“Why, Miles,” said his friend, when the short race was over, “I had no idea you could run so well. If you choose I will put you in training for the coming sports. You must know that I have run and walked and competed in the track many a time at home, and have trained and brought out runners who had no notion of what was in them till I proved it to them by training. Will you go in for it, and promise to do as I bid you?”

“I have no objection,” replied Miles, with a light laugh.

If he had known what his friend intended to do he might not have agreed so readily, for, from that hour till the day of the sports, Stevenson made him go through an amount of running—even after being made stiff by previous runs—that he would never have agreed to undertake unless forced to do so. We say forced, because our hero regarded a promise once given as sacred. His was a curiously compound nature, so that while in some points of conduct he was lax—as we have seen—in others he was very strict. He was peculiarly so in regard to promises. His comrades soon came to know this, and ultimately came to consider him a very reliable man.

Having, then, promised his friend to keep sternly to his work, he did so, with the result that his strength increased wonderfully. Another result was that he carried off the first prize in all the races.

In order to make the most of time and avoid the evils of noonday heat, it was arranged that the races, etcetera, for the Egyptian soldiers and natives in Government employ should come off in the morning, and that the British troops should run in the later and cooler parts of the day. With the temperature at 120 degrees in the shade it would have been dangerous for Europeans to compete. The sports, including our familiar cricket, were greatly enjoyed, and the result was a decided improvement in the health of the whole force.

Boat-races were also included in these sports. At the conclusion of one of these, Miles, to his great surprise, encountered his old acquaintance of the Sailors’ Welcome, big Jack Molloy.

“Why, Jack!” exclaimed Miles, as the hearty tar wrung his hand, “who’d have expected to see you here?”

“Ah, who indeed? an’ I may say ditto.”

“I’m very glad to see you, Molloy, for, to say truth, I thought I had seen the last of you when we parted in the troop-ship. I’ve often thought of you since, and of our first evening together in the—the—what was its name?”

“The Sailors’ Welcome—man alive! I wonder you’ve forgot it. Blessin’s on it! I ain’t likely to forget it. Why, it was there, (did I ever tell you?) the wery night arter I met you, that a messmate took me to the big hall, back o’ the readin’-room. It’s no use me tryin’ fur to tell you all I heard in that there big hall, but when I come out—blow’d if I didn’t sign the pledge right away, an’ I ain’t took a drop o’ grog since!”

“Glad to hear it, Jack, for, to say truth, I never saw the evil of grog so clearly as I have since coming out here and seeing strong stout men cast down by it in dozens,—many of them kind-hearted, right-thinking men, whom I would have thought safe from such a thing. Indeed I have more than half a mind to join the Good Templars myself.”

“Young man,” said Molloy, sternly, “if it takes the death of dozens o’ stout kind-hearted men to force you to make up half your mind, how many d’ee want to die before you make up the whole of it?”

“But I said that my mind was more than half made up,” returned Miles, with a smile.

“Now lookee here,” rejoined the sailor earnestly, “it’s all wery well for milksops an’ nincompoops and landlubbers to go in for half-an’-half work like that, but you’re not the man I takes you for if you ain’t game for more than that, so I ax you to promise me that you’ll sign the pledge right off, as I did, first time you gits the chance.”

“But you forget I’m only a landlubber who, according to you, is fit for only half-an-half measures,” said Miles, who, not being addicted to much wine, felt disinclined to bind himself.

“No matter,” returned the sailor, with deepening earnestness, “if you go in fur it you’ll never repent it! Take my word for that. Now, I ax ye to promise.”

“Well, I do promise—the very first time I get the chance; and that will be to-morrow night, for our new parson has started temperance meetings, and he is a great teetotaller.”

“An’ you promise to stick to it?” added Molloy.

“When I give a promise I always stick to it!” returned Miles gravely.

“Right you are, lad. Give us your flipper!”

The foregoing conversation took place at the harbour, a little apart from the noisy group of soldiers and sailors who were discussing the circumstances of the recent boat-race.

Immediately after it Molloy returned to his ship in the harbour, and our hero to his post in the line of defence.

One of those who had been conspicuous that day in arranging and starting the races, acting as umpire at the cricket, and, generally, putting heart and spirit into everything by his quiet good-nature and self-denying activity, was the young officer of Engineers, who has been already mentioned as the manager of the mines that were laid around Suakim. Poor fellow! little did he imagine that that was to be his last day on earth!

Every morning, as before mentioned, this young officer went out alone to perform the dangerous work of disconnecting the mines, so that the inhabitants of the town might go out and in and move about during the day-time in safety. Again, a little before sunset every evening, he went out and reconnected them, so that the enemy could not approach the place without the risk of being blown to pieces. At the same time the gates were closed, and no one was allowed to leave or enter the town.

On this particular evening the lieutenant went out as usual on his dangerous mission just after six o’clock. He had not been long gone when a loud explosion was heard, and a cloud of smoke was seen where one of the mines had been laid down. A party at once sallied out, and found, as they had feared, that the brave young fellow had perished. He had been literally blown to pieces, his head being found in one place, while other portions of his body were scattered around.

This melancholy incident cast a gloom over the whole place. The remains of the heroic young engineer were buried next day with military honours. The garrison was not, however, left long in peace to think over his sad fate, for the very next night a determined attack was made all along the line. The annoying persistency of these attacks seemed to have stirred the indignation of the general in command, for he ordered out a small force of cavalry to carry the war into the enemy’s country.

Critics say that this act was ill advised, and that the cavalry should not have been despatched without the support of infantry. Critics are not always or necessarily right. Indeed, we may venture to say that they are often wrong! We do not pretend to judge, but, be this as it may, the cavalry was ordered to destroy the village of Handoub about fifteen miles inland on the caravan route to Berber, and to blow up the enemy’s magazine there.

The force consisted of a troop of the 19th Hussars, and another of Egyptian cavalry—about fifty men all told—under command of Captain Apthorp. Our intemperate friend Johnson was one of the little band. He was sober then, however, as he sat bolt upright on his powerful steed, with a very stern and grave visage, for he had a strong impression that the duty before them was no child’s-play.

A four hours’ ride brought them to the village. The few Arabs who dwelt in it fled at once on their approach, and in a very short time the place was effectually destroyed, along with a large quantity of ammunition.

But no sooner had the soldiers finished the work, and begun to prepare for their return, than they discovered that a large force of the enemy was assembling to cut off their retreat.

No time for thought after that! At least six thousand of the foe, having heard of the expedition, had crept down through the thick bush from the direction of Hasheen, thirsting for vengeance. Two miles on the Suakim side of Handoub they formed a line and opened fire on the leading cavalry scouts.

Seeing that the Arabs were in such force, Captain Apthorp at once made for their flank, in the direction of the sea-coast. At full speed, with horses fatigued by a fifteen miles’ journey, they had to ride for life. It was neck or nothing now! The Egyptian cavalry, under Captain Gregorie, and accompanied by Captain Stopford of the Grenadier Guards and other officers, followed closely.

As they went along at racing speed, with more than a dozen miles of wilderness to traverse, and death behind them, Private King of the Hussars fell from his horse wounded. Captain Gregorie came up with him, stopped, and took the wounded man up behind him. It was a generous but desperate act, for what could be expected of a double-weighted horse in such a region and with such a race before it?

For about half a mile he carried the wounded trooper, who then swooned and fell off, dragging the captain along with him, the freed horse rejoining its troop, while the Arabs came yelling on not a hundred and fifty yards behind.

There would have been but little chance for Captain Gregorie at that terrible crisis if self-denying courage equal to his own had not dwelt in the breast of Private Baker of the Hussars. Seeing what had occurred, this hero coolly rode back, took the captain up behind him, (see frontispiece,) and, regaining his troop, enabled the latter to capture and remount his own steed. Of course poor King—whether dead or alive they could not tell—had to be left to his fate.

Heroism would seem to feed upon itself and multiply, for this same Private Baker, soon afterwards, saw two more troopers, and shouted to a comrade to turn back with him to their rescue. The comrade, however, did not see his way to do so. Perchance he did not hear! Anyhow he galloped on, but Captain Gregorie hearing the summons, at once answered it, turned, and galloped back with Baker.

They were only just in time to take up and rescue the two men. At the same time Captain Stopford performed a similar gallant act in rescuing a dismounted trooper.

It is deeds of self-sacrifice and heroism such as these—not the storming of a breach, or the fighting against overwhelming odds—that bring out the noblest qualities of our soldiers, and arouse the admiration of mankind!

The race for life was so close run that when the force at last reached the sea-shore it was little more than sixty yards in advance of the foe, and so exhausted were the horses that eight of them fell, and their riders were captured—four being Englishmen and four Egyptians. It is right to add that one of the Egyptians also displayed conspicuous courage in rescuing a comrade.

While these stirring incidents were taking place on the plain, Miles and some of his comrades were seated on the roof of the redoubt, looking out anxiously for the return of the cavalry. At last, in the afternoon, a cloud of dust was seen on the horizon, and the officers who had glasses could soon make out that the men appeared to be racing towards the town at full speed, while the enemy, on camels and horses, and on foot, were racing down to the sea to cut off their retreat. No sooner was this understood than our men rose with an uncontrollable burst, seized their rifles, flung on ammunition-belts, and rushed out to the rescue, regardless for the moment of the officers shouting to them to come back. The news spread like wildfire, and the men ran out just as they were—some in white jackets, some in red, others in blue; many in their shirts, with their sleeves rolled up; cavalry, artillery, marines, infantry—all going helter-skelter towards the enemy. Fortunately they saw from the ships what was going on, and quickly got their guns to bear, so that the moment our men had escaped clear of the enemy they opened fire. But for this more men would certainly have been lost, for the overtaxed horses were beginning to give in and lose ground. Had they been a few minutes later in reaching the sea, it is probable that not a man of that force would have returned to Suakim.

As it was, the men came in pale and terribly fatigued. The horses could scarcely walk, and two of them died on the following day.

Note.—Since the foregoing was written, we have learned, with profound regret, that the gallant Captain Gregorie was killed by his horse falling with him in 1886.

Chapter Sixteen.

Letters from Home—Flynn is Exalted and brought Low—Rumours of War in the Air.

Events in life sometimes ripple along like the waters of a little stream in summer. At other times they rush with the wild impetuosity of a hill-torrent in winter.

For some time after the incidents just narrated the life of our hero rippled—but of course it must be clearly understood that a Suakim ripple bore some resemblance to a respectable freshet elsewhere! Osman Digna either waited for reinforcements before delivering a grand assault, or found sufficient entertainment to his mind, and satisfaction to his ambition, in acting the part of a mosquito, by almost nightly harassment of the garrison, which was thus kept continually on the alert.

But there came a time at length when a change occurred in the soldier-life at Suakim. Events began to evolve themselves in rapid succession, as well as in magnified intensity, until, on one particular day, there came—metaphorically speaking—what is known among the Scottish hills as a spate.

It began with the arrival of a mail from England. This was not indeed a matter of rare occurrence, but it was one of those incidents of the campaign which never lost its freshness, and always sent a thrill of pleasure to the hearts of the men—powerfully in the case of those who received letters and packets; sympathetically in those who got none.

“At long last!” exclaimed Corporal Flynn, who was observed by his comrades, after the delivery of the mail, to be tenderly struggling with the complicated folds of a remarkable letter—remarkable for its crookedness, size, dirt, and hieroglyphic superscription.

“What is it, Flynn?” asked Moses—one of the unfortunates who had received no letter by that mail.

“A letter, sure. Haven’t ye got eyes, Moses?”

“From your wife, corporal?”

“Wife!” exclaimed Flynn, with scorn; “no! It’s mesilf wouldn’t take the gift of a wife gratis. The letter is from me owld grandmother, an’ she’s better to me than a dozen wives rowled into wan. It’s hard work the writin’ of it cost her too—poor owld sowl! But she’d tear her eyes out to plaze me, she would. ‘Corporal, darlint,’—that’s always the way she begins her letters now; she’s that proud o’ me since I got the stripes. I thowt me mother or brother would have writ me too, but they’re not half as proud of me as my—”

“Shut up, Flynn!” cried one of the men, who was trying to decipher a letter, the penmanship of which was obviously the work of an unaccustomed hand.

“Howld it upside down; sometimes they’re easier to read that way—more sinsible-like,” retorted the corporal.

“Blessin’s on your sweet face!” exclaimed Armstrong, looking at a photograph which he had just extracted from his letter.

“Hallo, Bill! that your sweetheart?” asked Sergeant Hardy, who was busy untying a parcel.

“Ay, sweetheart an’ wife too,” answered the young soldier, with animation.

“Let me see it, Willie,” said Miles, who was also one of the disconsolate non-receivers, disconsolate because he had fully expected a reply to the penitent letter which he had written to his mother.

“First-rate, that’s Emmy to a tee. A splendid likeness!” exclaimed Miles, holding the photograph to the light.

“Arrah! then, it’s dead he must be!”

The extreme perplexity displayed in Flynn’s face as he said this and scratched his head produced a hearty laugh.

“It’s no laughin’ matter, boys,” cried the corporal, looking up with an expression so solemn that his comrades almost believed it to be genuine. “There’s my owld uncle Macgrath gone to his long home, an’ he was the support o’ me grandmother. Och! what’ll she do now wid him gone an’ me away at the wars?”

“Won’t some other relation look after her, Flynn?” suggested Moses.

“Other relation!” exclaimed the corporal; “I’ve got no other relations, an’ them that I have are as poor as rats. No, uncle Macgrath was the only wan wid a kind heart an’ a big purse. You see, boys, he was rich—for an Irishman. He had a grand farm, an’ a beautiful bit o’ bog. Och! it’ll go hard wid—”

“Read on, Flynn, and hold your tongue,” cried one of his comrades; “p–r–aps he’s left the old woman a legacy.”

The corporal did read on, and during the perusal of the letter the change in his visage was marvellous, exhibiting as it did an almost magical transition from profound woe, through abrupt gradations of surprise, to intense joy.

“Hooray!” he shouted, leaping up and bestowing a vigorous slap on his thigh. “He’s gone an’ left the whole farm an’ the beautiful bog to me!”

“What hae ye got there, sergeant?” asked Saunders, refolding the letter he had been quietly perusing without paying any regard to the Irishman’s good news.

“A parcel of booklets from the Institute,” answered Hardy, turning over the leaves of one of the pamphlets. “Ain’t it good of ’em?”

“Right you are, Hardy! The ladies there never forget us,” said Moses Pyne. “Hand ’em round, sergeant. It does a fellow’s heart good to get a bit o’ readin’ in an out-o’-the-way place like this.”

“Comes like light in a dark place, don’t it, comrade?” said Stevenson, the marine, who paid them a visit at that moment, bringing a letter which had been carried to the wrong quarter by mistake. It was for Miles Milton. “I know’d you expected it, an’ would be awfully disappointed at finding nothing, so I brought it over at once.”

“You come like a gleam of sunshine in a dark place. Thanks, Stevenson, many thanks,” said Miles, springing up and opening the letter eagerly.

The first words sent a chill to his heart, for it told of his father having been very ill, but words of comfort immediately followed—he was getting slowly but surely better, and his own letter had done the old man more good in a few days than all the doctor’s physic had done in many weeks. Forgiveness was freely granted, and unalterable love breathed in every line. With a relieved and thankful heart he went on reading, when he was arrested by a sudden summons of his company to fall in. Grasping his rifle he ran out with the rest.

“What is it?” he whispered to a sergeant, as he took his place in the ranks. “Osman again?”

“No, he’s too sly a fox to show face in the day-time. It’s a steamer coming with troops aboard. We’re goin’ down to receive them, I believe.”

Soon after, the overworked garrison had the immense satisfaction and excitement of bidding welcome to reinforcements with a stirring British cheer.

These formed only the advance-guard. For some time after that troops were landed at Suakim every day. Among them the 15th Sikhs, a splendid body of men, with grand physique and fierce aspect, like men who “meant business.” Then came the Coldstream Guards, the Scots and the Grenadier Guards, closely followed by the Engineers and Hospital and Transport Corps, the Shropshire Regiment, and many others. The desire of these fresh troops to meet the enemy was naturally strong, and the earnest hope of every one was that they would soon sally forth and “have a go,” as Corporal Flynn expressed it, “at Osman Digna on his own ground.”

Poor Corporal Flynn! His days of soldiering were nearly over!

Whether it was the excess of strong feeling raised in the poor fellow’s breast by the news of the grand and unexpected legacy, or the excitement caused by the arrival of so many splendid troops and the prospect of immediate action—or all put together—we cannot say, but certain it is that the corporal fell sick, and when the doctors examined the men with a view to decide who should march to the front, and who should remain to guard the town, he was pronounced unfit for active service. Worse than that, he was reported to have entered upon that journey from which no traveller returns.

But poor Flynn would not admit it, though he grew weaker from day to day. At last it was reported that he was dying, and Sergeant Hardy got leave to go off to the hospital ship to see him, and convey to him many a kind message from his sorrowful comrades, who felt that the regiment could ill spare his lively, humorous spirit.

The sergeant found him the picture of death, and almost too weak to speak.

“My dear fellow,” said Hardy, sitting down by his cot and gently taking his hand, “I’m sorry to see you like this. I’m afraid you are goin’ to leave us.”

The corporal made a slight motion with his head, as if of dissent, and his lips moved.

Hardy bent his ear over them.

“Niver a bit, owld man,” whispered Flynn.

“Shall I read the Bible to you, lad?” inquired the sergeant.

The corporal smiled faintly, and nodded.

After reading a few verses Hardy began to talk kindly and earnestly to the dying man, who lay with his eyes closed.

When he was about to leave, Flynn looked up, and, giving his comrade’s hand a gentle squeeze, said, in a stronger whisper than before—

“Thankee, sergeant. It’s kind o’ ye to be so consarned about my sowl, and I agrees wid ivery word ye say; but I’m not goin’ away yit, av ye plaze.”

He ceased to speak, and again closed his eyes. The doctor and the chaplain chanced to enter the hospital together as Hardy retired. The result of their visit was that they said the corporal was dead, and orders were given to make his coffin. A firing party was also told off to bury him the next morning with military honours. Early next morning, accordingly, the firing party started for the hospital ship with the coffin, but, before getting half-way to it, they were signalled to go back, for the man was not yet dead!

In short, Corporal Flynn had begun to talk in a wild way about his estate in Ireland, and his owld grandmother; and either the influence of these thoughts, or Hardy’s visit, had given him such a fillip that from that day he began to revive. Nevertheless he had received a very severe shake, and, not very long after, was invalided home. Meanwhile, as we have said, busy preparations were being made by General Graham—who had arrived and taken command of the forces—to offer battle to Osman’s troops.

In the midst of all the excitement and turmoil, however, the new chaplain, who turned out to be “a trump,” managed to hold a temperance meeting; and the men who desired to serve God as well as their Queen and country became more energetic than ever in trying to influence their fellows and save themselves from the curse of strong drink, which had already played such havoc among the troops at Suakim.

Miles attended the meeting, and, according to promise, signed the total-abstinence pledge. Owing to the postponement of meetings and the press of duty he had not been able to do it sooner.

Shortly after that he was passed by the doctors as fit for duty in the field. So were Armstrong, Moses Pyne, and most of those strong and healthy men whose fortunes we have followed thus far.

Then came the bustle and excitement of preparation to go out and attack the enemy, and in the midst of it all the air was full of conflicting rumours—to the effect that Osman Digna was about to surrender unconditionally; that he would attack the town in force; that he was dead; or that he had been summoned to a conference by the Mahdi!

“You may rest assured,” said Sergeant Hardy one day to his comrades, as they were smoking their pipes after dinner, “that nobody knows anything at all for certain about the rebel chief.”

“I heard that a spy has just come in with the information that he has determined not to wait for our attack, if we go out, but to attack us in our zereba,” said Miles. “He is evidently resolved not to commit the same mistake he made last year of letting us attack him.”

“He has pluck for anything,” remarked Moses.

Osman proved, that same evening, that he had at least pluck enough to send a pithy defiance to his foes, for an insulting letter was received by General Graham, in which Osman, recounting the victories he had gained over Hicks and Baker Pasha, boasted of his having destroyed their armies, and dared the general to come out and fight him. To this the British General replied, reminding Osman of our victories of El-Teb and Tamai, and advising him to surrender unless he wanted a worse beating than he had got before!

Mutual defiance having been thus comfortably hurled, the troops were at once detailed for service in the field, and the very next day set forth. As our hero did not, however, accompany that expedition, and as it returned to Suakim without doing anything remarkable—except some energetic and even heroic fighting, which is by no means remarkable in British troops,—we will pass on to the expedition which was sent out immediately after it, and in which Miles Milton not only took an active part, but distinguished himself. With several of his comrades he also entered on a new and somewhat unusual phase of a soldier’s career.

Chapter Seventeen.

The Expedition—Enemy reported—Miles in a Dilemma.

Every one has heard of the expedition, sent out under Sir John McNeill, in which that gallant general and his brave troops fought with indomitable heroism, not only against courageous foes, but against errors which, as a civilian, we will not presume to criticise, and against local difficulties which were said to be absolutely insurmountable.

Blame was due somewhere in connection with that expedition. Wherever it lay, we have a strong conviction—founded on the opinion of one who was present—that it did not rest with the commander of the force. It is not, however, our part to comment, but to describe those events which bore upon the fortunes of our hero and his immediate friends and comrades.

It was about four o’clock on an uncommonly hot morning that the bugle sounded in Suakim, and soon the place was alive with men of all arms, devouring a hasty breakfast and mustering eagerly, for they were elated at the near prospect of having “another slap at Osman!”

Strange, the unaccountably exultant joy which so many men experience at the prospect of killing each other! No doubt the Briton maintains that it is all in defence of Queen and country, hearth and home. An excellent reason, of course! But may not the Soudanese claim that the defence of chief and country, tent and home, is an equally good reason—especially when he rises to defend himself from the exactions and cruelty of those superlative tyrants, the Turks, or rather, the Turkish Pashas?—for we verily believe that the rank and file of all civilised nations would gladly live at peace if their rulers would deal in arbitration instead of war! We almost feel that an apology is due for introducing such a remark in a book about soldiers, for their duty is clear as well as hard, and bravely is it done too. Moreover, they are in no way responsible for the deeds of those:

“Fine old English gentlemen

Who sit at home at ease,

And send them forth to fight and die

Beyond the stormy seas!”

The troops composing this expedition consisted of one squadron of the 5th Lancers, one battalion Berkshire Regiment, one battalion of Marines, one Field Company Royal Engineers, a detachment of the Royal Navy in charge of four Gardner guns, a regiment of Sikhs, Bengal Native Infantry, Bombay Native Infantry, and a body of Madras Sappers. Along with these was sent an immense convoy of 1500 camels, besides a large number of mules with carts bearing iron water-tanks.

The orders for the expedition were that they should proceed eight miles into the bush, and there make three zerebas, or defensive enclosures of bushes, capable of sheltering the entire force.

The march was begun by McNeill moving off with his European troops in square formation. The Indian contingent, under General Hudson, followed, also in square, and in charge of the transport.

“A goodly force!” remarked Armstrong, in a low tone to Miles, as they stepped off, shoulder to shoulder, for, being both about the same size, and unusually tall, they marched together on the right flank of their company.

“Don’t speak in the ranks, Willie,” returned Miles, with a slight smile, for he could not shut his eyes to the fact that this strict regard for orders was due more to Marion Drew’s remarks about a soldier’s duty than to principle.

“H’m!” grunted Robert Macleod, who marched next to them, and had no conscientious scruples about talking, “we may mairch oot smert eneugh, but some o’ us’ll no’ come back sae hearty.”

“Some of us will never come back at all,” replied Armstrong, gravely.

By six o’clock the rear-guard had left Suakim, and the whole of the force moved across the plain, in parts of which the men and carts sank deep in the soft sand, while in other parts the formations were partly broken by thick bush, in which the force became somewhat entangled. The cavalry went in advance as scouts. The guns, water-carts, and ammunition-wagons were in the centre, and the Indian Brigade came last, surrounding the unwieldy mass of baggage-animals. Last of all came the telegraph detachment, unrolling as they went the wire that kept open communication with head-quarters.

That a mistake had been made somewhere was obvious; but as the soul of military discipline is obedience without question, the gallant leader pressed forward, silently and steadily, whatever he may have thought.

Soon the force became so hopelessly entangled in the difficulties of the way, that the rate of advance dwindled down to little more than one mile an hour.

Not long after starting a trooper was seen galloping back, and Miles, who marched at the right corner of his square, observed that it was his friend Johnson, looking very stern indeed. Their eyes met.

“Not half enough of cavalry,” he growled, as he flew past to report, “The enemy in sight—retiring in small parties in the direction of Tamai.”

In returning, Johnson again rode close past the same corner of the square, and, bending low in his saddle for a moment, said to Miles, “I have signed the pledge, my boy.”

A slight laugh from several of those who heard him greeted the information, but he probably did not hear it, for next moment his charger cleared a low bush in a magnificent stride, and in a few seconds man and horse were lost to sight in the bush.

“More need to sign his will,” remarked Simkin, in a somewhat cynical tone.

“He has done that too,” said Armstrong. “I heard him say so before we started.”

The troops were halted to enable the two generals to consult at this point.

While the men stood at ease, enjoying the brief rest from severe toil under such a burning sun, our hero heard a low voice at his elbow say—

“Have you signed your will, John Miles?” It was a startling, as well as a sudden, question!

Miles turned quickly and found that it was Captain Lacey who had put it.

The feeling of dislike with which our young soldier had regarded the captain ever since his interruption of the conversation between himself and Marion, on board ship, had abated, but had not by any means disappeared. He had too much sense, however, to allow the state of his feelings to influence his looks or bearing.

“Yes, sir,” he replied; “I made it out last night, as you advised me, in the service form. It was witnessed by our colonel and Captain Smart and the doctor. To say truth, I thought it absurd for a man who has nothing to leave to make his will, but as you said, sir, I should like my dear mother to get my kit and any arrears of pay that may be due to me after I’m gone.”

“I did not mean you to take such a gloomy view of your prospects,” said Captain Lacey, with a laugh. “But you know in our profession we always carry our lives in our hands, and it would be foolish not to take ordinary precautions—”

The order to resume the march here cut short the conversation, and the force continued its slow and all but impossible advance. Indeed it was soon seen that to reach the distance of eight miles out, in the circumstances, was quite beyond the power of the troops, willing, anxious, and vigorous though they were, for the bush became closer and higher as they advanced, so that a mounted man could not see over it, and so dense that the squares, though only a short distance apart, could not see each other. This state of things rendered the management of the baggage-animals extremely difficult, for mules are proverbially intractable, and camels—so meek in pictures!—are perhaps the most snarling, biting, kicking, ill-tempered animals in the world.

The day was advancing and the heat increasing, while the dust raised by the passage of such a host caused so much distress to man and beast that the general began to fear that, if an attack should be made by the enemy at that time, the greater part of the transport would have to be sacrificed. The force was therefore halted a second time, and the generals again met to consult.

They were very unwilling to give in. Another effort to advance was made, but things grew worse and worse. The day, as Moses remarked, was boiling red-hot! The carts with the heavy water-tanks sank deep in the soft sand; many of the camels’ loads fell off, and these had to be replaced. Replacing a camel’s load implies prevailing on a hideously tall and horribly stubborn creature to kneel, and this in the centre of a square which was already blocked up with carts and animals, as well as shouting, angry, and exhausted drivers!

At last it became evident that further progress that day was out of the question. The rear face of Hudson’s square was obliterated by the straggling and struggling multitude; camels and loads were down in all directions, and despair of maintaining their formation was settling down on all ranks.

In these circumstances it became absolutely necessary to halt and form their zerebas where they stood—and that without delay. The best place they could find was selected. The European square formed a guard, while the rest threw off jackets, and, with axes and choppers, went to work with a will. Some cut down bushes, some filled sandbags to form a breastwork for guns and ammunition, and others erected the bushy walls of their woodland fortification. The Lancers covered about three miles of country as scouts. Hudson—who had to return to Suakim that night before dark—was ordered, with three regiments in line and advanced files, to cover McNeill and the working-party, while the commander himself went about encouraging the tired men, and urging them to increased exertion.

While the soldiers of all arms were thus busily engaged, a body of sailors was ordered to run one of their Gardner guns up to the corner of the square where Miles and Armstrong stood. They halted close to them, and then Miles became aware that one of the nautical gunners was no other than Jack Molloy.

“Hallo, Jack! Why, you’ve got a knack of turning up unexpectedly everywhere!” he exclaimed, when his friend was at leisure.

“That’s wery much your own case,” retorted the seaman heartily. “What brought you here?”

Miles slapped one of his legs by way of indicating the mode of conveyance.

“Ay, lad, and they’d need to be stout timbers too, to make headway through such a sea of sand,” returned Molloy, feeling his own limbs with tenderness. “D’ee think we’re in for a brush to-night, lad?”

Before the latter could reply, an aide-de-camp ran up and spoke a few hurried words to Captain Lacey, who turned to his company and called them to attention.

“Fours, right—quick march!” he said, and away they went, past the flank of Hudson’s men, to guard a hollow which left that part of the square somewhat exposed. When halted and drawn up in line several files were thrown out in advance. Miles and Sutherland formed the flanking file on the right, the latter being rear-rank man to the former.

“It’s a grand hiding-hole,” observed Sutherland, as he peered cautiously over the edge of a low bank into a hollow where rocks and undergrowth were thickly intermingled.

“Keep a sharp look-out on your left, Sutherland,” said Miles, “I will guard the right—”

He stopped abruptly and threw forward his rifle, for at that moment he observed a swarthy, black-bearded Arab, of large proportions and muscular frame, creeping forward a short distance below him. Evidently he had not heard or seen the approach of the two soldiers, for he was gazing in a different direction from them.

Miles raised his rifle and took aim at the man, but he felt an unconquerable repugnance to shoot. He had never yet met the enemy hand-to-hand. His experience heretofore had been confined to long-range firing at men who were firing at himself and his comrades, and in which, of course, he could not be sure that his bullets took effect. But now he was within fifty yards of a splendid-looking man who did not see him, who was, at the moment, innocent of any intention of injuring him, and whose expressive side-face he could clearly distinguish as he crept along with great caution towards a rock which hid the zereba of the Europeans from his view.

Miles was a good rifle-shot. A touch of the trigger he knew would be certain death to the Arab.

“I cannot do it!” he muttered, as he lowered his weapon and looked back over his shoulder at his comrade. The Scot, who was something of a naturalist, was engrossed at the moment in the contemplation of a little bird which was twittering on a twig in quite an opposite direction.

Miles glanced again at the Arab in a flutter of agitation as to what was his duty. The man might be one of the friendly natives! He could not tell.

At that moment another man appeared on the scene. He was a thin but powerful native, and armed with a short spear, such as is used when fighting at close quarters. He obviously was not troubled with scruples about committing murder, and Miles soon became aware that the thin man was “stalking” the big Arab—with what intent, of course, our soldier could only guess, but the malignant expression of the savage’s countenance left little doubt on that point.

Here was a complication! Our hero was on the point of calling Sutherland from the contemplation of his little bird when he saw the thin native pounce on the Arab, who was still creeping on hands and knees. He turned just in time to divert the first spear-thrust, but not in time to draw his own long knife from its sheath as he fell. The thin savage holding him down, and having him at terrible disadvantage on his back, raised his spear, and was about to repeat the deadly thrust when Miles fired and shot him in the head.

The Arab rose, shook himself clear of the dying man, and, with astounding coolness, walked calmly towards a large rock, though Miles was reloading in haste, and Sutherland was taking steady aim at him. He looked at the soldiers and held up his hand with something like a smile of remonstrance, as Sutherland pulled the trigger. At the same moment Miles struck up the muzzle, and the ball whizzed over the Arab’s head as he passed behind the rock and disappeared.

“What for did ye that?” demanded the Scot fiercely.

“Would you kill a man that was smiling at you?” retorted Miles.

The two men ran back to report to their company what they had seen. At the same moment, the company, being recalled, doubled back to its position in the square.

Here they found the defence work so far advanced that the generals were beginning to feel some confidence in their being able to repel any attack. At the same time the men were working with tremendous energy, for news had just come in that the enemy was advancing in strong force.

Chapter Eighteen.

Wherein are described an Assault, a Furious Fight, and some Strange Personal Encounters.

It was nearly two o’clock in the afternoon when Captain Lacey and his company resumed their place in the square.

About that time an officer of the Berkshire Regiment represented the condition of his men as requiring attention. They certainly did require it, for they had been without food since four o’clock that morning, and were consequently in urgent need of provender as well as rest and water—the last having been all consumed.

As it was imperative that the work should go on, it was found necessary to serve out food by wings.

Accordingly, the men of one half-battalion received rations and water, and were then sent to their zereba with the Gardner guns, while the other half, still lying in reserve by their piled arms, received their rations.

The marines also sat down for brief rest and refreshment. Among them was our sedate friend Stevenson, who invariably carried his small Bible with him in all his campaigns. After quickly consuming his allowance, and while waiting for water, he sat down to read a few verses of the 23rd Psalm,—for Stevenson was one of those quiet, fearless men who cannot be laughed out of doing right, and who have no fear of the face of man, whether scowling in anger or sneering in contempt.

“Hallo, Tom!” said a light-hearted comrade near him, “this is a queer time to be readin’ your Bible. We’ll be havin’ you sayin’ your prayers next!”

“I’ve said them already, Fred,” replied the marine, replacing the book in his pouch. “As you say, it is a queer time to be readin’ the Word, but not an unsuitable time, for this may be the last chance that you and I will ever have of readin’ it. Our next orders may be to meet God face to face.”

Stevenson was yet speaking when a Lancer was seen approaching at a wild gallop. He dashed up to the generals and informed them that the enemy was gathering in front.

The message was barely delivered when another Lancer rode up and reported the enemy close at hand.

The order, “Stand to your arms!” was promptly given and as promptly obeyed, without flurry or disorder.

Next minute a wild uproar was heard, and the Lancers were seen galloping towards the square with thousands of the swarthy warriors of the desert at their heels—nay, even mixed up with them!

On they came, a dark, frantic, yelling host, with irresistible fury, and, perchance, patriotism! Shall we deny to those men what we claim for ourselves—love of hearth and home, of country, of freedom? Can we not sympathise with men who groaned under an insolent and tyrannical yoke, and who, failing to understand or appreciate the purity of the motives by which we British were actuated, could see nothing in us except the supporters of their enemies?

They hurled themselves on that part of the large zereba which was defended by the Bengal Native Infantry. These fired a volley, but failed to check the impetuous rush. Everything went down before the savages, and the Native Infantry broke and fled, throwing into dire confusion the transport animals which stood in their immediate rear.

General McNeill himself dashed in among the panic-stricken men and sought to arrest them. He succeeded for a time in rallying some of them in Number 1 zereba, but another rush of the Arabs sent them flying a second time, and some of the enemy got into the square, it is said, to the number of 112. The Berkshire men, however, stood fast, and not a soul who got into that square ever got out of it alive. In this wretched affair the 17th Bengal Native Infantry lost their brave commander. He was killed while trying to rally them.

The confusion was now increased by the enemy driving the baggage-animals hither and thither, especially on to another half-battalion square of the Berkshire Regiment. Here, however, they were effectually checked. As the Atlantic billows burst in impotent turmoil on the cliffs of Cornwall, so the enemy fell upon and were hurled back by the steadfast Berkshire Regiment, which scarcely lost a man, while over two hundred of their opponents lay dead around them.

The Bombay Regiment also stood fast, and redeemed, to some extent, the credit of their country; while the Sikhs, as might have been expected of them, never flinched for a moment, but strewed the plain around them with dead and dying men.

There was horrible carnage for some time—unflinching valour being opposed to desperate courage; and while a burning sense of injury, with a resolve to conquer or die, was the motive power, no doubt, on one side, on the other there was the high sense of duty to Queen and country, and the pride of historical renown.

Owing to the suddenness of the attack, and the occupation of the troops at the moment, there was some mixing up of men of different regiments. One company of Sikhs, who were helping to unload the camels when the fight began, having been prevented from joining their own regiment, cast in their lot with the marines. The better to help their European comrades these vigorous fellows leaped outside the zereba and lay down in front of it, and the two bodies together gave the charging foe such a warm reception that they never got within twenty yards of them.

But there was a fearful scene of butchery among the baggage-animals, and many unequal hand-to-hand conflicts. There was terrible slaughter also among the working parties that had gone out to cut bushes with which to finish the zerebas, with coats off and away from their arms. Some individuals of the marines, who, as a body, suffered severely, were surrounded by a dozen Arabs, and their bodies were afterwards found covered with spear-wounds. This was the case with a sergeant named Mitchel, who had charge of a wood-cutting party and had been quietly chatting with our friend Stevenson just before the attack. Another case was that of Private Stanton, who had been through the Egyptian campaign of 1882, had fought at Kassassin, Tel-el-Kebir, El-Teb, and Tamai. When this expedition of which we write was arranged, he was one of the first to volunteer. He chanced to be outside the zereba when the attack was made, and failed to appear at muster. Next day he was found dead, with many spear-wounds, at some distance from the force. Poor fellow! he had not been killed outright, and had attempted to crawl towards the zerebas, but in his confusion had crept away in the wrong direction, and had slowly bled to death on the sands of the desert.

During the rapid progress of this terrible scene of bloodshed, Miles and his friend Armstrong stood and fought shoulder to shoulder in the front rank at their allotted corner of the square—chiefly with bullet, but also, on several occasions, with bayonet, when the rush of the enemy threatened to break through all barriers, and drive in the line of defenders. They would certainly have succeeded, had these defenders been less powerful and resolute.

“Well done!” exclaimed a deep bass voice, in evident enthusiasm, close to Miles.

The latter glanced round. It was the voice of his friend Jack Molloy, who helped to work the Gardner gun, and who was at the moment admiring the daring act of an officer of Sikhs.

Two men of the Berkshire Regiment, who had been employed outside the zereba, were pursued by several Arabs, and it was evident that their death was almost certain, when the Sikh officer referred to rushed out to the rescue, sprang between the men and their pursuers, killed three of the latter in succession with three rapid sword-cuts, and enabled the soldiers to escape, besides which, he checked the rush at that part of the square, and returned to his post in safety.

The cheer of the Berkshire men and others who witnessed this feat was heard to rise above even the yells of combatants, the shrieks of the wounded, the rattle and crash of fire-arms, and the general turmoil and din of war.

In one of the working parties that were out when the assault began was our friend Moses Pyne and his comrade Rattling Bill Simkin. These had been separated from the rest of their party when the first wild rush was made by the foe. The formation of the ground favoured their dropping into a place of concealment, thus for the moment saving them from the fate of being surrounded and cut to pieces, like too many of their straggling comrades. For a few seconds they lay close while the enemy rushed past like a torrent, to the assault just described.

Then Moses uprose, with an expression of stern resolve on his usually meek countenance.

“Simkin,” he said, as his comrade also got up, “I’m not goin’ to lie hidin’ here while our boys are engaged wi’ the savages.”

“No more am I, Moses,” returned Rattling Bill, with something of the jovially reckless air still lingering on his solemnised visage. “But we’ve not much chance of getting back to the zerebas without arms.”

“What d’ee call that?” asked Moses, holding out his chopper.

“A very good weapon to fight the bush with,” answered Simkin, “but not worth much against Arab spears. However, comrade, choppers are all we have got, so we must make the most of ’em. They say a good workman can work with any tools. What d’ee propose to try? I’ll put myself under your orders, Moses; for, although you are a meekish sort of a fellow, I really believe you have a better headpiece than most of us.”

“I propose that we simply go at ’em,” said Moses. “Take ’em in rear, cut our way through, and get into the zereba—that’s all. It don’t take much of a headpiece to think that out.”

“Go ahead, then! I’ll back you,” said Rattling Bill, without the least touch of bravado, as he bared his right arm to the shoulder. Both men were in shirts and trousers, with sleeves tucked up and their brawny arms exposed—Arabesquely brown up to the elbow, and infantinely white above that!

The intended rush might have been successful, but for a change in the tactics of the enemy. Seeing that they were severely repulsed at the corner of the square, where Molloy and his tars worked the Gardner gun, while Miles and his comrades plied bullet and bayonet, the Arab chief sent a body of his followers to reinforce this point. It was just at the moment that Moses and Simkin made the dash from their place of concealment, so that they actually leaped, without having intended it, into the very midst of the reinforcements!

Two of the Arabs went down before the choppers instantly, and the others—almost panic-stricken by the suddenness and severity of the assault—turned to fly, supposing, no doubt, that an ambush had caught them. But seeing only two men they ran back, and would certainly have made short work of them if rescuers had not come up.

And at this point in the fight there was exhibited a curious instance of the power of friendship to render steady men reckless. The incident we have just described was witnessed by the troops, for, the moment the two soldiers left their place of concealment they were in full view of the large zereba.

“That’s Moses!” exclaimed Armstrong excitedly.

Without a moment’s hesitation he sprang over the defence-works and ran to the rescue, clubbing his rifle as he went and felling two Arabs therewith.

“You shan’t die alone, Willie!” muttered our hero, as he also leaped the fence and followed his friend, just in time to save him from three Arabs who made at him simultaneously. Two of these Miles knocked down; his comrade felled the other. Then they turned back to back; Moses and Simkin did the same, and thus formed a little impromptu rallying square. This delayed the catastrophe, which seemed, however, inevitable. The brave little quartette, being surrounded by foes, could do nothing but parry with almost lightning speed the spear-thrusts that were made at them continually.

Seeing this, the heart of Jack Molloy bounded within him, and friendship for the moment overcame the sense of duty.

“You can only die once, Jack!” he exclaimed, drew his cutlass, leaped out of the zereba, and went at the foe with a thunderous roar, which, for a moment, actually made them quail.

Infected with a similar spirit, Stevenson, the marine, also lost his head, if we may say so. Resolving to run a-muck for friendship’s sake, he followed the sailor, and increased the rallying square to five, while Molloy skirmished round it, parrying spear-thrusts, at once with left arm and cutlass, in quite a miraculous manner, roaring all the time like an infuriated lion, and causing the enemy to give back in horror wherever he made a rush.

A root, however, tripped him up at last, and he fell forward headlong to the ground. A dozen spears were pointed at his broad back, when a tall majestic Arab sprang forward and held up one hand, while with the other he waved a sword.

At that moment a strong force of the enemy came down with an impetuous rush on that corner of the zereba, and, coming between it and the little knot of combatants, hid them from view.

The attack at this point was very determined, and for a few moments the issue seemed doubtful, for although the enemy fell in heaps they came on in such numbers that the defenders were almost overwhelmed. Steadiness, however, combined with indomitable courage, prevailed. Everywhere they were repulsed with tremendous loss. Many instances of personal bravery occurred, of course, besides those we have described, but we may not pause to enumerate these. Tenacity of life, also, was curiously exhibited in the case of some of the desperately wounded.

One man in charge of two mules outside the zereba was trying to bring them in when he was attacked, and received three terrible spear-wounds in the back and one in the arm, which cut all the muscles and sinews. Yet this man ultimately recovered, though, of course, with the loss of his arm.

Another man lost a leg and an arm, and was badly wounded in the other leg and in the hand, and, lastly, he was shot in the jaw. After being operated on, and having his wounds dressed, the doctor asked him how he felt.

“All right, sir,” he answered. “They’ve crippled me in arms and legs, and they’ve broke my jaw, but, thank God, they have not broke my heart yet!”

It was eight minutes to three when the Arabs made their first rush, and it was just ten minutes past three when the enemy was finally repelled and the bugle sounded “Cease firing.” Yet into these pregnant eighteen minutes all that we have described, and a vast deal more, was crowded. Nearly four hundred of our men were killed and wounded, while the enemy, it is believed, lost over two thousand.

It is said by those who were present at the engagement that the officers of the 17th Bengal Infantry were heard to say that if their men had not given way, there would have been no “disaster” at all, and General McNeill instead of being accused of permitting himself to be surprised, would have got credit for a heroic defence against overwhelming odds. If he had carried out his instructions, and pressed on to the end of eight miles, instead of prudently halting when he did, there can be no doubt that the force would have been surprised and absolutely cut to pieces.

Chapter Nineteen.

Refers to Sergeant Hardy, Amytoor-Lawyer Sutherland, and other Matters.

Among the wounded in the great fight which we have just described was Hardy the sergeant.

His position at the time the Arabs broke into the square was close to the right flank of the Indian Native Regiment, which gave way, so that it was he and a number of the flank men of his company who had to do most of the hand-to-hand fighting necessary to repair the disaster and drive back the enemy. Of course every soldier engaged in that part of the fight was, for a time, almost overwhelmed in the confusion, and many of them were surrounded and severely wounded.

When the Native Infantry broke, Hardy’s captain sprang to the front, sword in hand, and cut down two of the foe. As he did so, he was, for a moment, separated from his company and surrounded. A powerful Arab was on the point of thrusting his spear into the captain’s back when Hardy observed his danger, bayoneted the Arab, and saved the officer. But it was almost at the cost of his own life, for another Arab, with whom he had been fighting at the moment, took advantage of the opportunity to thrust his spear into the chest of the sergeant, who fell, as was thought, mortally wounded.

This, however, was not the case, for when the fight was over, his wound, although dangerous, was not supposed to be fatal, and he went into hospital on returning to Suakim. He was a Blue Light, and his temperance habits told in his favour. So did his religion, for the calm equanimity with which he submitted to the will of God, and bore his sufferings, went far to assist the doctor in grappling with his wound. But his religion did more than that, for when he thought of the heaven that awaited him, if he should die, and of being “for ever with the Lord,” his heart was filled with joy; and joy not only “does not kill,”—it is absolutely a source of life. In the sergeant’s case it formed an important factor in restoring him to partial health.

One evening, some time after the battle of McNeill’s zereba, Sutherland and Gaspard Redgrave were seated beside the sergeant’s bed—cheering him up a bit, as they said—and chatting about the details of the recent fight. Once or twice the sergeant had tried to lead the conversation to religious subjects, but without success, for neither Sutherland nor Gaspard were seriously disposed, and both fought shy of such matters.

“Well, it’s very kind of you to come an’ cheer me up, lads,” said Hardy at last; “and I hope I may live to do the same for you, if either of you ever gets knocked over. Now, I want each of you to do me a favour. Will you promise?”

“Of course we will,” said Gaspard quickly.

“If we can,” said the more cautious Scot.

“Well, then, Gaspard, will you sing me a song? I think it would do me good.”

“With the greatest pleasure,” answered the soldier; “but,” he added, looking round doubtfully, “I don’t know how they might like it here.”

“They’ll not object; besides, you can sing low. You’ve got the knack of singin’ soft—better than any man I ever heard.”

“Well, what shall it be?” returned the gratified Gaspard.

“One of Sankey’s hymns,” said the sergeant, with the remotest semblance of a twinkle in his eye, as he took a small hymn-book from under his pillow and gave it to his friend.

Gaspard did not seem to relish the idea of singing hymns, but he had often heard the Blue Lights sing them, and could not plead ignorance of the tunes; besides, being a man of his word, he would not refuse to fulfil his promise.

“Sing Number 68, ‘Shall we gather at the river?’ I’m very fond of that hymn.”

In a sweet, soft, mellow voice, that charmed all who were within hearing, Gaspard began the hymn, and when he had finished there was heard more than one “Amen” and “Thank God” from the neighbouring beds.

“Yes, comrades, we shall gather there,” said the sergeant, after a brief pause, “for the same Almighty Saviour who saved me died for you as well. I ain’t used to wettin’ my cheeks, as you know, lads, but I s’pose my wound has weakened me a bit! Now Sutherland, the favour I have to ask of—”

“If ye’re thinkin’ o’ askin’ me to pray,” broke in the alarmed Scotsman, “ye may save your breath. When I promised, I said, ‘if I can.’ Noo, I can not pray, an’ it’s nae use askin’ me to try. Whatever I may come to in this warld, I’ll no be a heepycrit for ony leevin’ man.”

“Quite right, Sutherland—quite right. I had no intention of asking you to pray,” replied Hardy, with a faint smile. “What I want you to do is to draw out my will for me.”

“Oh! I’m quite willin’ to do that,” returned the relieved Scot.

“You see,” continued the sergeant, “one never knows what may be the result of a bad wound in a climate like this, and if it pleases my Father in heaven to call me home, I should like the few trifles I possess to go in the right direction.”

“That’s a wise-like sentiment,” returned his friend, with an approving nod and thoughtful frown.

“Now, as you write a capital hand, and know how to express yourself on paper,” continued Hardy, “it strikes me that you will do the job better than any one else; and, being a friend, I feel that I can talk freely to you on my private affairs. So you’ll help me?”

“I’m wullin’ to try, serjint, and ac’ the legal adviser—amytoor-like, ye ken.”

“Thank you. Can you come to-morrow morning?”

“No, serjint, I canna, because I’ve to start airly the morn’s mornin’ wi’ a pairty to meet the Scots Gairds comin’ back frae Tamai, but the moment I come back I’ll come to ye.”

“That will do—thank you. And now, Gaspard, what’s the news from England? I hear that a mail has just come in.”

“News that will make your blood boil,” said Gaspard sternly.

“It would take a good deal of powerful news to boil the little blood that is left in me,” said Hardy, languidly.

“Well, I don’t know. Anyhow it makes mine boil. What d’you think of McNeill’s brave defence being represented in the papers as a disaster?”

“You don’t mean that!”

“Indeed I do. They say that it was a disaster! whereas it was a splendid defence under singularly adverse circumstances! They say that General McNeill permitted himself to be surprised! If he had tried to carry out his instructions to the full extent, it would indeed have been such a surprise that the surprising thing would have been if a single man of us had returned alive to tell the tale—as you and I know full well. The truth is, it was the fault of the Intelligence Department that nearly wrecked us, and it was McNeill’s prudence and our pluck that saved us, and yet these quill-drivers at home—bah!”

The soldier rose in hot indignation and strode from the room.

“He’s a wee thing roosed!” remarked Sutherland, with a good-humoured yet slightly cynical grin. “But guid-nicht to ye, ma man. Keep up hert an’ I’ll come an’ draft yer wull i’ the mornin’.”

So saying the “amytoor” lawyer took his departure, and was soon tramping over the desert sands with a band of his comrades.

They were not, however, permitted to tramp in peace, for their indefatigable foe hung on their skirts and annoyed them the greater part of the way. Toward evening they met the Guards, and as it was too late to return to Suakim the force bivouacked in McNeill’s deserted zereba, surrounded by graves and scarcely buried corpses.

Only those who were there can fully understand what that meant. All round the zereba, and for three miles on the Suakim side of it, the ground was strewn thickly with the graves of Europeans, Indians, and Arabs, and so shallow were these that from each of them there oozed a dark, dreadful stain. To add to the horrors of the scene, portions of mangled and putrefying corpses protruded from many of them—ghastly skulls, from the sockets of which the eyes had been picked by vultures and other obscene birds. Limbs of brave men upon which the hyena had already begun his dreadful work, and half-skeleton hands, with fingers spread and bent as if still clutching the foe in death-agony, protruded above the surface; mixed with these, and unburied, were the putrefying carcases of camels and mules—the whole filling the air with a horrible stench, and the soul with a fearful loathing, which ordinary language is powerless to describe, and the inexperienced imagination cannot conceive.

Oh! it is terrible to think that from the Fall till now man has gone on continually producing and reproducing scenes like this—sometimes, no doubt, unavoidably; but often, too often, because of some trifling error, or insult, on the part of statesmen, or some paltry dispute about a boundary, or, not infrequently, on grounds so shadowy and complex that succeeding historians have found it almost impossible to convey the meaning thereof to the intellects of average men!

Amid these dreadful memorials of the recent fight the party bivouacked!

Next day the troops returned to Suakim, and Sutherland, after breakfast, and what he called a wash-up, went to see his friend Sergeant Hardy, with pen, ink, and paper.

“Weel, serjint, hoo are ye the day?”

“Pretty well, thank you—pretty well. Ah! Sutherland, I have been thinking what an important thing it is for men to come to Jesus for salvation while in their health and strength; for now, instead of being anxious about my soul, as so many are when the end approaches, I am rejoicing in the thought of soon meeting God—my Father! Sutherland, my good fellow, it is foolish as well as wrong to think only of this life. Of all men in the world we soldiers ought to know this.”

The sergeant spoke so earnestly, and his eyes withal looked so solemnly from their sunken sockets, that his friend could not help being impressed.

“I believe ye’re no’ far wrang, serjint, an’ I tak’ shame to mysel’ that I’ve been sic a harum-scarum sinner up to this time.”

Sutherland said this with a look so honest that Hardy was moved to put out his large wasted hand and grasp that of his friend.

“Comrade,” he said, “God is waiting to be gracious. Jesus is ever ready and willing to save.”

Sutherland returned the pressure but made no reply; and Hardy, praying for a blessing on the little that had been said, changed the subject by saying—

“You have brought paper and ink, I see.”

“Ay, but, man, ye mauna be speakin’ o’ takin’ yer depairture yet. This draftin’ o’ yer wull is only a precaution.”

“Quite right, lad. I mean it only as a precaution,” returned Hardy, in a cheerful tone. “But you seem to have caught a cold—eh? What makes you cough and clear your throat so?”

“A cauld! I wush it was only a cauld! Man, it’s the stink o’ thae corps that I canna get oot o’ my nose an’ thrapple.”

Hereupon Sutherland, by way of entertaining his invalid friend, launched out into a graphic account of the scene he had so recently witnessed at McNeill’s zereba. When that subject was exhausted, he arranged his writing materials and began with all the solemnity of a lawyer.

“Noo, serjeant, what div ye want me to pit doon?”

“Well, I must explain first that I have very little to leave, and no one to leave it to.”

“What! Nae frien’s ava?”

“Not one. I have neither wife nor child, brother nor sister. I have indeed one old cousin, but he is rich, and would not be benefited by my poor little possessions; besides, he’s a cross-grained old fellow, and does not deserve anything, even though I had something worth leaving. However, I bear him no ill-will, poor man, only I don’t want what I do leave to go to him, which it would if I were to die without a will; because, of course, he is my natural heir, and—”

“Haud ye there, man,” said the Scot abruptly but slowly. “If he’s your nait’ral heir, ye’re his nait’ral heir tae, ye ken.”

“Of course, I am aware of that,” returned the sergeant with an amused look; “but the old man is eccentric, and has always boasted that he means to leave his wealth to some charity. Indeed, I know that he has already made his will, leaving his money to build an hospital—for incurables of some sort, I believe.”

“Ma certy! If I was his lawyer,” said Sutherland, with ineffable scorn, “I wad advise him to erec’ an hospital in his lifetime for incurable eediots, an’ to gang in himsel’ as the first patient. But, come awa wi’ yer wull, serjint.”

“Get ready, then, my lawyer, and see that you put it down all ship-shape, as poor Molloy would have said.”

“Oh, ye needna fear,” said the Scot, “I’m no’ sic an ass as to trust to my ain legal knowledge. But jist you say what ye want an’ I’ll pit it doon, and then write it into a form in the reg’lar way.”

After mentioning a few trifling legacies to various comrades, Hardy said that he had managed to save a hundred pounds during his career, which he wished to divide between his two comrades, John Miles and Willie Armstrong, for whom he expressed strong regard.

Sutherland, instead of noting this down, looked at his friend in sad surprise, thinking that weakness had caused his mind to wander.

“Ye forget, serjint,” he said softly, “that Miles an’ Airmstrang are baith deed.”

“No, lad; no one can say they are certainly dead.”

“Aweel—we canna exactly say it, but when ye consider o’ the born deevils that have gotten haud o’ them, we are entitled to think them deed ony way.”

“They are reported as ‘missing,’ that is all, and that is enough for me. You write down what I tell you, lad. Now, have you got it down?”

“Ay, fifty to each.”

“There may be some interest due on the account,” said the sergeant thoughtfully; “besides, there may be a few things in my kit that I have forgotten—and it’s not worth while dividing such trifles between them.”

“Weel, weel, ye’ve only to mak yin o’ them yer residooary legitee, an’ that’ll pit it a’ richt.”

“True, my lawyer. Let it be so,” said Hardy, with a short laugh at the thought of making so much ado about nothing. “Make Miles my residuary legatee. And now, be off, draw it out fair, an’ leave me to rest, for I’m a trifle tired after all this legal work.”

The will thus carefully considered was duly made out, signed, and witnessed, after which Sergeant Hardy awaited with cheerful resignation whatever fate should be appointed to him.

His strong frame and constitution, undamaged by youthful excess, fought a vigorous battle for life, and he began slowly to mend; but the climate of Suakim was so bad for him that he was finally sent down to the hospital at Alexandria, where, under much more favourable circumstances, he began to recover rapidly.

One of the nurses there was very kind to him. Finding that the sergeant was an earnest Christian, she had many interesting talks with him on the subject nearest his heart.

One day she said to him with unusual animation:

“The doctor says you may go down to the Soldiers’ Institute that has recently been set up here, and stay for some time to recruit. It is not intended for invalids, you know, but the ladies in charge are intimate friends of mine, and have agreed to let you have a room. The Institute stands on a very pleasant part of the shore, exposed to the fresh sea-breezes; and there are lots of books and newspapers and games, as well as lectures, concerts, prayer-meetings, Bible-readings, and—”

“Ay, just like Miss Robinson’s Institute at Portsmouth,” interrupted Hardy. “I know the sort o’ thing well.”

“The Alexandrian Soldiers’ Institute is also Miss Robinson’s,” returned the nurse, with a pleased look; “so if you know the one at Portsmouth, there is no need for my describing the other to you. The change will do you more good in a week than months at this place. And I’ll come to see you frequently. There is a widow lady staying there just now to whom I will introduce you. She has been helping us to nurse here, for she has great regard for soldiers; but her health having broken-down somewhat, she has transferred her services to the Institute for a time. She is the widow of a clergyman who came out here not long ago and died suddenly. You will find her a very sympathetic soul.”

Chapter Twenty.

Old Friends in New Aspects.

On the evening of the third day after the conversation narrated in the last chapter, Sergeant Hardy sat in an easy-chair on the verandah of the Soldiers’ Institute at Alexandria, in the enjoyment of a refreshing breeze, which, after ruffling the blue waters of the Mediterranean, came like a cool hand on a hot brow, to bless for a short time the land of Egypt.

Like one of Aladdin’s palaces the Institute had sprung up—not exactly in a night, but in a marvellously short space of time. There was more of interest about it, too, than about the Aladdin buildings; for whereas the latter were evolved magically out of that mysterious and undefinable region termed Nowhere, the Miss Robinson edifice came direct from smoky, romantic London, without the advantage of supernatural assistance.

When Miss Robinson’s soldier friends were leaving for the seat of war in Egypt, some of them had said to her, “Three thousand miles from home are three thousand good reasons why you should think of us!” The “Soldiers’ Friend” took these words to heart—also to God. She did think of them, and she persuaded other friends to think of them, to such good purpose that she soon found herself in possession of funds sufficient to begin the work.

As we have seen, her energetic servant and fellow-worker, Mr Thomas Tufnell, was sent out to Egypt to select a site for the building. The old iron and wood Oratory at Brompton was bought, and sent out at Government expense—a fact which speaks volumes for the Government opinion of the value of Miss Robinson’s work among soldiers.

In putting up the old Oratory, Tufnell had transformed it to an extent that might almost have made Aladdin’s Slave of the Lamp jealous. Certainly, those who were wont to “orate” in the building when it stood in Brompton would have failed to recognise the edifice as it arose in Egypt on the Boulevard Ramleh, between the Grand Square of Alexandria and the sea.

The nave of the old Oratory had been converted into a room, ninety-nine feet long, with couches and tables running down both sides, a billiard-table in the centre, writing materials in abundance, and pictures on the walls. At one end of the room stood a pianoforte, couches, and easy-chairs, and a door opened into a garden facing the sea. Over the door were arranged several flags, and above these, in large letters, the appropriate words, “In the name of the Lord will we set up our banners.” At the other end was a temperance refreshment bar. On a verandah facing the sea men could repose on easy-chairs and smoke their pipes or cigars, while contemplating the peculiarities of an Eastern climate.

It was here that our friend Sergeant Hardy was enjoying that blessed state of convalescence which may be described as gazing straight forward and thinking of nothing!

Of course there were all the other appliances of a well-equipped Institute—such as sleeping-cabins, manager’s room, Bible-class room, lavatory, and all the rest of it, while a handsome new stone building close beside it contained sitting-rooms, bed-rooms, club-room for officers, kitchens, and, by no means least, though last, a large lecture-hall.

But to these and many other things we must not devote too much space, for old friends in new aspects claim our attention. Only, in passing from such details, it may not be out of place to say that it has been remarked that the sight of Miss Robinson’s buildings, steadily rising from the midst of acres of ruins, while men’s minds were agitated by the bombardment and its results, produced a sense of security which had a most beneficial and quietening effect on the town! Indeed, one officer of high rank went so far as to say that the Institute scheme had given the inhabitants more confidence in the intentions of England than anything yet done or promised by Government!

In a rocking-chair beside the sergeant reclined a shadow in loose—remarkably loose—fitting soldier’s costume.

“What a blessed place to sit in and rest after the toils and sufferings of war,” said Hardy, to the shadow, “and how thankful I am to God for bringing me here!”

“It’s a hivenly place intirely,” responded the shadow, “an’ ’tis mesilf as is thankful too—what’s left o’ me anyhow, an’ that’s not much. Sure I’ve had some quare thoughts in me mind since I come here. Wan o’ them was—what is the smallest amount o’ skin an’ bone that’s capable of howldin’ a thankful spirit?”

“I never studied algebra, Flynn, so it’s of no use puttin’ the question to me,” said Hardy; “besides, I’m not well enough yet to tackle difficult questions, but I’m real glad to see you, my boy, though there is so little of you to see.”

“That’s it, sarjint; that’s just where it lies,” returned Flynn, in a slow, weak voice. “I’ve bin occupied wi’ that question too—namely, how thin may a man git widout losin’ the power to howld up his clo’es?”

“You needn’t be uneasy on that score,” said Hardy, casting an amused glance at his companion, “for there’s plenty o’ flesh left yet to keep ye goin’ till you get to old Ireland. It rejoices my heart to see you beside me, thin though you are, for the report up country was that you had died on the way to Suez.”

“Bad luck to their reports! That’s always the way of it. I do think the best way to take reports is to belaive the exact opposite o’ what’s towld ye, an’ so ye’ll come nearest the truth. It’s thrue I had a close shave. Wan day I felt a sort o’ light-hiddedness—as if I was a kind o’ livin’ balloon—and was floatin’ away, whin the doctor came an’ looked at me.

“‘He’s gone,’ says he.

“‘That’s a lie!’ says I, with more truth than purliteness, maybe.

“An’ would ye belave it?—I began to mind from that hour! It was the doctor saved me widout intindin’ to—good luck to him! Anyhow he kep’ me from slippin’ my cable that time, but it was the good nursin’ as brought me back—my blissin’ on the dear ladies as give their hearts to this work all for love! By the way,” continued Flynn, coughing and looking very stern, for he was ashamed of a tear or two which would rise and almost overflow in spite of his efforts to restrain them—but then, you see, he was very weak! “By the way,” he said, “you’ll niver guess who wan o’ the nurses is. Who d’ee think?—guess!”

“I never could guess right, Flynn.”

“Try.”

“Well, little Mrs Armstrong.”

“Nonsense, man! Why, she’s nursin’ her old father in England, I s’pose.”

“Miss Robinson, then?”

“H’m! You might as well say the Prime Minister. How d’ee s’pose the Portsmuth Institute could git along widout her? No, it’s our friend Mrs Drew!”

“What! The wife o’ the reverend gentleman as came out with us in the troop-ship?”

“That same—though she’s no longer the wife of the riverend gintleman, for he’s dead—good man,” said Flynn, in a sad voice.

“I’m grieved to hear that, for he was a good man. And the pretty daughter, what of her?”

“That’s more nor I can tell ye, boy. Sometimes her mother brings her to the hospital to let her see how they manage, but I fancy she thinks her too young yet to go in for sitch work by hersilf. Anyhow I’ve seen her only now an’ then; but the poor widdy comes rig’lar—though I do belave she does it widout pay. The husband died of a flyer caught in the hospital a good while since. They say that lots o’ young fellows are afther the daughter, for though the Drews are as poor as church rats, she’s got such a swate purty face, and such innocent ways wid her, that I’d try for her mesilf av it wasn’t that I’ve swore niver to forsake me owld grandmother.”

Chatting thus about times past and present, while they watched the soldiers and seamen who passed continuously in and out of the Institute—intent on a game, or some non-intoxicant refreshment, or a lounge, a look at the papers, a confab with a comrade, or a bit of reading—the two invalids enjoyed their rest to the full, and frequently blessed the lady who provided such a retreat, as well as her warm-hearted assistants, who, for the love of Christ and human souls, had devoted themselves to carry on the work in that far-off land.

“I often think—” said Hardy.

But what he thought was never revealed; for at that moment two ladies in deep mourning approached, whom the sergeant recognised at a glance as Mrs Drew and her daughter Marion. The faces of both were pale and sorrowful; but the beauty of the younger was rather enhanced than otherwise by this, and by contrast with her sombre garments.

They both recognised the sergeant at once, and, hastening forward, so as to prevent his rising, greeted him with the kindly warmth of old friends.

“It seems such a long time since we met,” said the elder lady, “but we have never forgotten you or the comrades with whom we used to have such pleasant talks in the troop-ship.”

“Sure am I, madam,” said the sergeant, “that they have never forgotten you and your kind—kind—”

“Yes, my husband was very kind to you all,” said the widow, observing the delicacy of feeling which stopped the soldier’s utterance; “he was kind to every one. But we have heard some rumours that have made me and my daughter very sad. Is it true that a great many men of your regiment were killed and wounded at the battle fought by General McNeill?”

“Quite true, madam,” answered the sergeant, glancing at the daughter with some surprise; for Marion was gazing at him with an intensely anxious look and parted lips. “But, thank God, many were spared!”

“And—and—how are the two fine-looking young men that were so fond of each other—like twins almost—”

“Sure, didn’t I tell ye, misthress, that they was both ki—”

“Hold your tongue, Flynn,” interrupted the widow, with a forced smile. “You are one of my most talkative patients! I want to hear the truth of this matter from a man who has come more recently from the scene of action than yourself. What do you think, Mr Hardy?”

“You refer to John Miles and William Armstrong, no doubt, madam,” said the sergeant, in a somewhat encouraging tone. “Well, if Flynn says they were killed he has no ground whatever for saying so. They are only reported missing. Of course that is bad enough, but as long as a man is only missing there is plenty of room for hope. You see, they may have managed to hide, or been carried off as prisoners into the interior; and you may be sure the Arabs would not be such fools as to kill two men like Miles and Armstrong; they’d rather make slaves of ’em, in which case there will be a chance of their escaping, or, if we should become friendly again wi’ these fellows, they’d be set free.”

“I’m so glad to hear you say so, and I felt sure that my desponding patient here was taking too gloomy a view of the matter,” said Mrs Drew, with a significant glance at Marion, who seemed to breathe more freely and to lose some of her anxious expression after the sergeant’s remarks.

Perhaps at this point a little conversation that took place between Mrs Drew and her daughter that same evening may not be out of place.

“Dear May,” said the former, “did I not tell you that Flynn took too gloomy a view of the case of these young soldiers, in whom your dear father was so much interested? But, darling, is it not foolish in you to think so much about Miles?”

“It may be foolish, mother, but I cannot help it,” said Marion, blushing deeply; for she was very modest as well as simple.

“May, dear, I wonder that you can make such an admission!” said the mother remonstratively.

“Is it wrong to make such an admission to one’s own mother, when it is true?” asked Marion, still blushing, but looking straight in her mother’s eyes; for she was very straightforward as well as modest and simple!

“Of course not, dear, but—but—in short, Miles is only a—a—soldier, you know, and—”

“Only a soldier!” interrupted Marion, with a flash from her soft brown eyes; for she was an enthusiast as well as straightforward, modest, and simple! “I suppose you mean that he is only a private, but what then? May not the poorest private in the army rise, if he be but noble-minded and worthy and capable, to the rank of a general, or higher—if there is anything higher? Possibly the Commander-in-Chief-ship may be open to him!”

“True, my love, but in the meantime his social position is—”

“Is quite as good as our own,” interrupted Marion; for she was a desperate little radical as well as an enthusiast, straightforward, modest, and simple!

“You know he let out something about his parents and position, and of course he told the truth. Besides, I repeat that I cannot help loving him, and surely we are not responsible for our affections. We cannot love and hate to order. I might fall in love with—with—well, it’s no good talking; but, anyhow, I could not help it. I could be silent if you like, but I could not help myself.”

Mrs Drew seemed a little puzzled how to deal with her impetuous daughter, and had begun to reply, when May interrupted her. Flushing deeply, for she was very sensitive, and with a feeling that amounted almost to indignation, she continued—

“I wonder at you, mother—it’s so unlike you; as if those unworthy considerations of difference of rank and station could influence, or ought to influence, one in such a question as this!”

Mrs Drew paused for a moment. She knew that her daughter gave expression to the views that had marked the dealings of the husband and father, so lately lost to them, in every action of his life. Marion’s happiness, too, during the remainder of her days, might be involved in the result of the present conversation, and she was moved to say—

“My dear, has John Miles ever spoken to you?”

“Oh! mother, how can you ask me? If he had done so, would I have delayed one minute in letting you know?”

“Forgive me, dearest. I did you wrong in admitting the thought even for a moment. But you spoke so earnestly—as if you might have some reason for thinking that he cared for you.”

“Don’t you know,” answered Marion, looking down, and a little confused, “that men can speak with their eyes as well as their lips? I not only feel sure that he cares for me, but I feel sure, from the sentiments he expressed to me on the voyage, that nothing would induce him to talk to me of love while in his present position.”

“How does all this consist, my love,” asked Mrs Drew, “with your knowledge of the fact that he left home in anger, and would not be persuaded, even by your dear father, to write home a penitent letter?”

Marion was silent. This had not occurred to her before. But love is not to be turned from its object by trifles. She was all that we have more than once described her to be; but she was not a meta-physician or a philosopher, capable of comprehending and explaining occult mysteries. Enough for her if she loved Miles and Miles loved her, and then, even if he did not deserve her love, she would remain true—secretly but unalterably true—to him as the needle is to the pole!

“Has it not occurred to you, dear,” said her mother, pursuing her advantage in a meditative tone, “that if Miles has been so plain-spoken and eloquent with his blue eye, that your pretty brown ones may have said something to him?”

“Never!” exclaimed the girl, with an indignant flash. “Oh! mother, can you believe me capable of—of—no, I never looked at him except with the air of a perfect stranger—at least of a—a—but why should I try to deny what could not possibly be true?”

Mrs Drew felt that nothing was to be gained from pursuing the subject—or one aspect of it—further.

“At any rate,” she said, “I am glad, for his own sake, poor young fellow, that Sergeant Hardy spoke so hopefully.”

“And for his comrades’ sakes as well,” said Marion. “You know, mother, that his friend Armstrong is also reported as missing, and Stevenson the marine, as well as that dear big bluff sailor, Jack Molloy. By the way, do you feel well enough to go to the lecture to-night? It is to be a very interesting one, I am told, with magic-lantern illustrations, and I don’t like to go alone.”

“I am going to-night, so you may make your mind easy,” said her mother. “I would not miss this lecturer, because I am told that he is a remarkably good one, and the hall is likely to be quite full.”

In regard to this lecture and some other things connected with the Alexandrian Institute, our friend Sergeant Hardy learned a good deal from the lady at the head of it, not long after the time that Mrs Drew had the foregoing conversation with Marion.

It is scarcely needful to say that the Lady-Superintendent was a capable Christian as well as an enthusiast in her work.

“Come to my room, Sergeant Hardy, and I’ll tell you all about it,” she said, leading the way to her apartment, where the sergeant placed himself upon a chair, bolt upright, as if he were going to have a tooth drawn, or were about to illustrate some new species of sitting-drill.

Chapter Twenty One.

Shows how the Lady of the Institute discourses to the Sergeant, how Jack-Tars go out on the Spree, and how Music Conquers Warriors.

“It seems wonderful to me, madam,” said Sergeant Hardy, looking round the lady’s room with an admiring gaze, “how quickly you have got things into working order here. When I remember that last year this place was a heap of rubbish, it seems like magic.”

“Ah! the work of God on earth seems magical the more we reflect on it,” returned the lady. “The fact that our Institute was conceived, planned, and carried into successful operation by an invalid lady, in spite of discouragement, and, at first, with inadequate means, is itself little short of miraculous, but what is even more surprising is the fact that the Government, which began by throwing cold water on her Portsmouth work, has ended by recognising it and by affording us every facility here in Alexandria.”

“Well, you see, madam, I suppose it’s because they see that we soldiers and sailors likes it, an’ it does a power o’ good—don’t you think?”

“No doubt, but whatever may be the reason, Sergeant, we are very thankful for the encouragement. I suppose you have heard what a grand occasion our opening day was?”

“No, madam, I haven’t. You see, away at Suakim we was so constantly taken up with the attentions of Osman Digna that we had little time for anything but eatin’ and sleepin’ when we wasn’t on sentry an’ fightin’, so that we often missed bits of news. Was there a great turn-out o’ men?”

“Indeed there was,” returned the lady, with animation; “and not only of men, but of all the Alexandrian notables. It was on the 23rd of February last (1885) that our Institute was opened by Major-General Lennox, V.C., C.B., who was in command of the garrison. This was not the first time by any means that the soldiers had paid us a visit. A number of men, who, like yourself, Sergeant Hardy, sympathise with our work in its spiritual aspects, had been frequently coming to see how we were getting on, and many a pleasant hour’s prayer and singing we had enjoyed with them, accompanied by our little harmonium, which had been sent to us by kind friends in England; and every Sunday evening we had had a little service in the midst of the shavings and carpenters’ benches.

“But on this grand opening day the men came down in hundreds, and a great surprise some of them got—especially the sceptical among them. The entrance was decorated with palms. At the further end of the reading-room the trophy of Union Jacks and the Royal Standard, which you see there now, was put up by a band of Jack-tars who had come to help us as well as to see the fun. Over the trophy was our text, ‘In the name of the Lord will we set up our banners,’ for we liked to feel that we had taken possession of this little spot in Egypt for God—and we believe that it will always be His.

“Everything was bright and hearty. There were about five hundred soldiers and sailors, and between two and three hundred officers and civilians of all nationalities. On the platform we had Osman Pasha—”

“Ha!” interrupted the sympathetic sergeant, “I only wish we could have had Osman Digna there too! It would do more to pacify the Soudan than killing his men does!”

“I daresay it would,” responded the lady with a laugh, “but have patience, Hardy; we shall have him there yet, and perhaps the Mahdi too—or some future grand occasion. Well, as I was saying, we had Osman, the Governor of Alexandria, on our platform, and a lot of big-wigs that you know nothing about, but whose influence was of importance, and whose appearance went far to make the place look gay. Of course we had music, beginning with ‘God save the Queen,’ and speeches—brilliant as well as heavy; sententious and comic—like all other similar gatherings, and the enthusiasm was unbounded. How could it be otherwise with sailors to cheer and soldiers to back them up? And you may be sure that in such a meeting the enthusiasm about the undertaking did not fail to extend to the ‘Soldiers’ Friend’ who had originated the whole. In short, it was a splendid success.”

“Of course it was,” said the sergeant, with emphasis; “first, because of God’s blessing, an’, second, because the Institoot was greatly needed. Why, madam, if it wasn’t for this place the thousands of soldiers stationed here, not to mention the sailors, would have no place to go to spend their leave and leisure time but the drinkin’ dens o’ the town; an you know well, though p’r’aps not so well as I do, what terrible places these are, where men are tempted, fleeced, debauched, and sometimes murdered.”

“Quite true, Hardy. Did you hear of the case that occurred just two days ago? A sergeant of one of the regiments, I forget which, after paying his fare to a donkey-boy, turned quietly to walk away, when the scoundrel felled him with a stick and robbed him of one pound 10 shillings. The case is before the law-court now, and no doubt the robber will receive a just reward.

“Well, as I was remarking, the opening day carried us to high tide, so to speak, and there has been no ebb from that day to this. One comical incident, however, occurred just at the beginning, which might have done us damage. The day after the opening all was prepared for the reception of our soldier and sailor friends. The tables were arranged with books and games, the writing-table with pens, ink, and blotting-paper, and the bar with all sorts of eatables, magnificent urns, coloured glass, etcetera. About one o’clock William, our barman, tasted the coffee. His usual expression of self-satisfaction gave place to one of horror. He tasted the coffee again. The look of horror deepened. He ran to the boiler, and the mystery was cleared up. The boiler had been filled with salt-water! Our Arab, Ibraim, who carries up seawater daily to fill our baths, had filled the boiler with the same. Luckily there was time to correct the mistake, and when our friends came trooping in at four o’clock they found the coffee quite to their taste.

“You know very well,” continued the superintendent, “our rules never to force religion on any of our customers, our object being to attract by all the legitimate means in our power. We have our Bible-classes, prayer-meetings, temperance soirees, and the like, distinct—as at Portsmouth—from the other advantages of the Institute; and are quite content if some, who come at first from mere curiosity or for the enjoyment of temporal good things, should afterwards continue to come from higher and spiritual motives. But if our military friends prefer to read our papers and books, and play our games, and use our bar, they are at perfect liberty to do so, without what I may style religious interference. It’s all fair and above-board, you see. We fully recognise the freedom of will that God has bestowed on man. If you don’t care for our spiritual fare you may let it alone. If you relish it—there it is, and you are welcome. Yet we hold by our right to win men if we can. In point of fact, we have been very successful already in this way, for our motive power from beginning to end is Love.

“One of our most helpful soldier friends—a sergeant—has brought several men to the Saviour, who are now our steady supporters. One of these men, whom our sergeant was the means of bringing in, was a professed unbeliever of good standing and ability. The first time he was prevailed on to come to a prayer-meeting, he sat bolt upright while we knelt, being a straightforward sort of man who refused to pretend when he could not really pray. He is now a happy follower of Jesus.

“Our large rooms are constantly filled with soldiers, some chatting, some making up for past privations by having a good English meal, and others reading or playing games. Just now happens to be our quietest hour, but it won’t be long before we have a bustling scene.”

As if to verify the lady’s words there came through the doorways at that moment a sound of shouting and cheering, which caused all the staff of the Institute to start into active life.

“There they come!” exclaimed the lady, with an intelligent smile, as she hurried from the room, leaving Hardy to follow at a pace that was more consistent with his dignity—and, we may add, his physical weakness.

The shouts proceeded from a party of sailors on leave from one of the ironclads lying in the harbour. These, being out for the day—on a spree as some of them styled it—had hired donkeys, and come in a body to the Institute, where they knew that food of the best, dressed in British fashion, and familiar games, were to be had, along with British cheer and sympathy.

When Hardy reached the door he found the place swarming with blue-jackets, trooping up at intervals on various animals, but none on foot, save those who had fallen off their mounts and were trying to get on again.

“They’re all donkeyfied together,” remarked a sarcastic old salt—not one of the party—who stood beside Hardy, looking complacently on, and smoking his pipe.

“They don’t steer as well on land as on sea,” replied Hardy.

“’Cause they ain’t used to such craft, you see—that’s w’ere it is, sarjint,” said the old salt, removing his pipe for a moment. “Just look at ’em—some comin’ along sidewise like crabs, others stern foremost. W’y, there’s that grey craft wi’ the broad little man holdin’ on to its tail to prevent his slidin’ over its head. I’ve watched that grey craft for some minutes, and its hind propellers have bin so often in the air that it do seem as if it was walkin’ upon its front legs. Hallo! I was sure he’d go down by the head at last.”

The donkey in question had indeed gone down by the head, and rolled over, pitching its rider on his broad shoulders, which, however, seemed none the worse for the fall.

“Ketch hold of his tail, Bill,” cried another man, “and hold his stern down—see if that won’t cure his plungin’. He’s like a Dutchman in a cross sea.”

“Keep clear o’ this fellow’s heels, Jack, he’s agoin’ to fire another broadside.”

“If he does he’ll unship you,” cried Jack, who was himself at the same moment unshipped, while the owner of the donkey, and of the other donkeys, shouted advice, if nothing worse, in Arabic and broken English.

In a few minutes the sailors “boarded” the Institute, and drew the whole force of the establishment to the bar in order to supply the demand.

“Ah! thin, ye’ve got Irish whisky, haven’t ye?” demanded a facetious seaman.

“Yes, plenty, but we call it coffee here!” answered the equally facetious barman, whose satellites were distributing hot and cold drinks with a degree of speed that could only be the fruit of much practice.

“You’ll have to be jolly on mild swipes,” said one; “no tostikatin’ liquors allowed, Dick.”

“H’m!” growled Dick.

“Got any wittles here?” demanded another man, wiping his lips with his sleeve.

“Yes, plenty. Sit down and order what you want.”

“For nothin’?” asked the tar.

“For next to nothing!” was the prompt reply. Meanwhile, those whose appetites were not quite so urgent had distributed themselves about the place, and were already busy with draughts, billiards, etcetera, while those who were of more sedate and inquiring temperament were deep in the columns of the English papers and magazines.

“I say, Fred Thorley, ain’t it bang up?” remarked a sturdy little man, through a huge slice of cake, with which he had just filled his mouth.

“Fuss-rate!” responded Fred, as he finished a cup of coffee at a draught and called for more. “Didn’t I tell you, Sam, that you’d like it better than the native grog-shops?”

“If they’d on’y got bitter beer!” sighed Sam.

“They’ve got better beer,” said his friend; “try some ginger-pop.”

“No thankee. If I can’t git it strong, let’s at least have it hot. But, I say, what’s come o’ the lobsters? Don’t seem to be many about. I thought this here Institoot was got up a-purpose for them.

“So it was, lad, includin’ us; but you don’t suppose that because you are out on the spree, everybody else is. They’re on dooty just now. Wait a bit an’ you’ll see plenty of ’em afore long.”

“Are all that come here Blue Lights?” asked Sam, with a somewhat doleful visage.

“By no manner o’ means,” returned his friend, with a laugh; “tho’ for the matter o’ that they wouldn’t be worse men if they was, but many of ’em are no better than they should be, an’ d’ee know, Sam, there are some of ’em actually as great blackguards a’most as yourself!”

“There’s some comfort in that anyhow,” returned Sam, with a pleasant smile, “for I hates to be pecooliar. By the way, Fred, p’r’aps they may be able to give you some noos here, if you ax ’em, about your friend Jack Molloy. He was a Blue Light, wasn’t he?”

“Not w’en I know’d ’im, but he was a fuss-rate seaman an’ a good friend, though he was fond of his glass, like yourself, Sam.”

It chanced that at this point Sergeant Hardy, in moving about the place, taking profound interest in all that he saw, came within earshot of the two friends, to whom he at once went up and introduced himself as a friend of Jack Molloy.

“Indeed,” said he, “Molloy and I fought pretty near to each other in that last affair under General McNeill, so I can give you the latest news of him.”

“Can you, old man? Come, sit down here, an’ let’s have it then,” said Thorley. “Jack was an old messmate o’ mine. What’ll you take to drink, mate?”

“Nothing, thankee. I’m allowanced by the doctor even in the matter o’ tea and coffee,” said the sergeant. “As to bein’ an’ old man—well, I ain’t much older than yourself, I daresay, though wounds and sickness and physic are apt to age a man in looks.”

Sitting down beside the sailors, Hardy told of the great fight at McNeill’s zereba, and how Molloy and others of his friends had gone to rescue a comrade and been cut off. He relieved Fred’s mind, however, by taking the most hopeful view of the matter, as he had previously relieved the feelings of Marion. And then the three fell to chatting on things in general and the war in particular.

“Now don’t this feel homelike?” said Sam, looking round the room with great satisfaction. “If it wasn’t for the heat I’d a’most think we was in a temperance coffee-house in old England.”

“Or owld Ireland,” chimed in a sailor at the neighbouring table.

“To say naething o’ auld Scotland,” added a rugged man in red hair, who sat beside him.

“Well, messmate,” assented Fred, “it do feel homelike, an’ no mistake. Why, what ever is that?”

The sailor paused, and held up a finger as if to impose silence while he listened, but there was no need to enforce silence, for at that moment the sweet strains of a harmonium were heard at the other end of the long room, and quietude profound descended on the company as a rich baritone voice sang, with wonderful pathos, the familiar notes and words of “Home, Sweet Home!”

Before that song was finished many a warrior there had to fight desperately with his own spirit to conceal the fact that his eyes were full of tears. Indeed, not a few of them refused to fight at all, but, ingloriously lowering their colours, allowed the tell-tale drops to course over their bronzed faces, as they thought of sweethearts and wives and friends and home circles and “the light of other days.”

Chapter Twenty Two.

Led into Captivity.

We turn once more to the Nubian desert, where, it will be remembered, we left several of our friends, cut off from McNeill’s zereba at a critical moment when they were all but overwhelmed by a host of foes.

The grand-looking Arab who had so opportunely appeared on the scene and arrested the spears which were about to finish the career of Jack Molloy was no other than the man who had been saved by Miles from the bullet of his comrade Rattling Bill. A kind act had in this case received its appropriate reward, for a brief though slight glance, and a gracious inclination of the Arab’s head, convinced our hero that the whole party owed their lives to this man’s gratitude.

They were not however exempt from indignity, for at the moment when Jack Molloy fell they were overwhelmed by numbers, their arms were wrenched from their grasp, and their hands were bound behind their backs. Thus they were led, the reverse of gently, into the thick bush by a strong party of natives, while the others, headed by the black-bearded chief, continued their attack on the zereba.

It soon became evident that the men who had charge of the prisoners did not share, or sympathise with, the feelings of the chief who had spared their lives, for they not only forced them to hurry forward as fast as they could go, but gave them occasional pricks with their spear-points when any of them chanced to trip or stumble. One of the warriors in particular—a fiery man—sometimes struck them with the shaft of his spear and otherwise maltreated them. It may be easily understood that men with unbroken spirits and high courage did not submit to this treatment with a good grace!

Miles was the first to be tested in this way. On reaching a piece of broken ground his foot caught in something and he stumbled forward. His hands being bound behind him he could not protect his head, and the result was that he plunged into a prickly shrub, out of which he arose with flushed and bleeding countenance. This was bad enough, but when the fiery Arab brought a lance down heavily on his shoulders his temper gave way, and he rushed at the man in a towering rage, striving at the same time, with intense violence, to burst his bonds. Of course he failed, and was rewarded by a blow on the head, which for a moment or two stunned him.

Seeing this, Armstrong’s power of restraint gave way, and he sprang to the rescue of his friend, but only to meet the same fate at the hands of the fiery Arab.

Stunned and bleeding, though not subdued, they were compelled to move on again at the head of the party—spurred on now and then by a touch from the point of the fiery man’s lance. Indeed it seemed as if this man’s passionate nature would induce him ere long to risk his chief’s wrath by disobeying orders and stabbing the prisoners!

Stevenson, the marine, was the next to suffer, for his foot slipped on a stone, and he fell with such violence as to be unable to rise for a few minutes. Impatient of the delay, the fiery man struck him so savagely with the spear-shaft that even his own comrades remonstrated.

“If I could only burst this cord!” growled Simkin between his teeth, “I’d—”

He stopped, for he felt that it was unmanly, as well as idle, to boast in the circumstances.

“We must have patience, comrade,” said Stevenson, as he rose pale and bloodstained from the ground. “Our Great Captain sometimes gives us the order to submit and suffer and—”

A prick in the fleshy part of his thigh caused him to stop abruptly.

At this point the endurance of Jack Molloy failed him, and he also “went in” for violent action! But Jack was a genius as well as a sailor, and profited by the failures of his comrades. Instead of making futile efforts to break his bonds like them, he lowered his hairy head, and, with a howl and a tremendous rush, like a fish-torpedo, launched himself, or, as it were, took “a header,” into the fiery man!

“No fellow,” as Jack himself afterwards remarked, “could receive fifteen stone ten into his bread-basket and go on smiling!” On the contrary, he went down like a nine-pin, and remained where he fell, for his comrades—who evidently did not love him—merely laughed and went on their way, leaving him to revive at his leisure.

The prisoners advanced somewhat more cheerfully after this event, for, besides being freed from pricks of the spear-point, there was that feeling of elation which usually arises in every well-balanced mind from the sight of demerit meeting with its appropriate reward.

The region over which they were thus led, or driven, was rather more varied than the level country behind them, and towards evening it changed still further, becoming more decidedly hill-country. At night the party found themselves in the neighbourhood of one of the all-important wells of the land, beside which they encamped under a small tree.

Here the prisoners were allowed to sit down on the ground, with one man to guard them, while the others kindled a fire and otherwise arranged the encampment.

Supper—consisting of a small quantity of boiled corn and dried flesh—was given to the prisoners, whose hands were set free, though their elbows were loosely lashed together, and their feet tied to prevent their escape. No such idea, however, entered into the heads of any of them, for they were by that time in the heart of an unknown range of hills, in a country which swarmed with foes, besides which, they would not have known in what direction to fly had they been free to do so; they possessed neither arms, ammunition, nor provisions, and were at the time greatly exhausted by their forced march.

Perhaps Jack Molloy was the only man of the unfortunate party who at that moment retained either the wish or the power to make a dash for freedom. But then Jack was an eccentric and exceptional man in every respect. Nothing could quell his spirit, and it was all but impossible to subdue his body. He was what we may term a composite character. His frame was a mixture of gutta-percha, leather, and brass. His brain was a compound of vivid fancy and slow perception. His heart was a union of highly inflammable oil and deeply impressible butter, with something remarkably tough in the centre of it. Had he been a Red Indian he would have been a chief. If born a nigger he would have been a king. In the tenth century he might have been a Sea-king or something similar. Born as he was in the nineteenth century, he was only a Jack-tar and a hero!

It is safe to conclude that if Molloy had been set free that evening with a cutlass in his hand he would—after supper of course—have attacked single-handed the united band of forty Arabs, killed at least ten of them, and left the remaining thirty to mourn over their mangled bodies and the loss of numerous thumbs and noses, to say nothing of other wounds and bruises.

Luckily for his comrades he was not free that night.

“Boys,” said he, after finishing his scanty meal, and resting on an elbow as he looked contemplatively up at the stars which were beginning to twinkle in the darkening sky, “it do seem to me, now that I’ve had time to think over it quietly, that our only chance o’ gittin’ out o’ this here scrape is to keep quiet, an’ pretend that we’re uncommon fond of our dear Arab friends, till we throws ’em off their guard, an’ then, some fine night, give ’em the slip an’ make sail across the desert for Suakim.”

“No doubt you’re right,” answered Miles, with a sigh, for, being tired and sleepy just then, he was not nearly as sanguine as the seaman, “but I have not much hope of gaining their confidence—especially after your acting the thunderbolt so effectively on one of them.”

“Why, man alive! they won’t mind that. It was all in the way of fair fight,” said Molloy; “an’ the rascal was no favourite, I could see that.”

“It’s a wonder to me you could see anything at all after such a ram!” remarked Moses Pyne, with a yawn, as he lay back and rested his head on a tuft of grass. “The shock seemed to me fit to sink an iron-clad.”

“But why pretend to be fond of the Arabs?” asked Stevenson. “Don’t you think it would be sufficient that we should obey orders quietly without any humbug or pretence at all about it, till a chance to escape shall come in our way?”

“Don’t you think, Stevenson,” said Miles, “that there’s a certain amount of humbug and pretence even in quiet obedience to orders, when such obedience is not the result of submission, but of a desire to throw people off their guard?”

“But my obedience is the result of submission,” returned the marine stoutly. “I do really submit—first, because it is God’s will, for I cannot help it; second, because it is the only course that will enable me to escape bad treatment; third, because I wish to gain the good-will of the men who have me in their power whether I escape or not; and, fourth—”

“Hallo! old man, how many heads are you goin’ to give us in that there sermon?” asked Moses.

“This is the last head, Moses, and you needn’t be anxious, for I ain’t going to enlarge on any of ’em. My fourth reason is, that by doing as common-sense bids me, our foes will be brought thereby to that state of mind which will be favourable to everything—our escape included—and I can’t help that, you know. It ain’t my fault if they become trustful, is it?”

“No, nor it ain’t no part o’ your dooty to spoil their trustfulness by failin’ to take advantage of it,” said Molloy, with a grin; “but it do seem to me, Stevenson, as if there wor a strong smack o’ the Jesuit in what you say.”

“I hope not,” replied the marine. “Anyhow, no one would expect me, surely, to go an’ say straight out to these fellows, ‘I’m goin’ to obey orders an’ be as meek as a lamb, in order to throw you off your guard an’ bolt when I get the chance!’”

“Cer’nly not. ’Cause why? Firstly, you couldn’t say it at all till you’d learned Arabic,” returned Molloy; “secondly—if I may be allowed for to follow suit an’ sermonise—’cause you shouldn’t say it if you could; an’, thirdly, ’cause you’d be a most awful Jack-ass to say it if you did. Now, it’s my advice, boys, that we go to sleep, for we won’t have an easy day of it to-morrow, if I may judge from to-day.”

Having delivered this piece of advice with much decision, the seaman extended himself at full length on the ground, and went to sleep with a pleased smile on his face, as if the desert sand had been his familiar couch from infancy.

Some of the other members of the unfortunate party were not, however, quite so ready for sleep. Miles and his friend Armstrong sat long talking over their fate—which they mutually agreed was a very sad one; but at last, overcome by exhaustion, if not anxiety, they sank into much-needed repose, and the only sound that broke the stillness of the night was the tread of the Arab sentinel as he paced slowly to and fro.

The country, as they advanced, became more and more rugged, until they found themselves at last in the midst of a hill region, in the valleys of which there grew a considerable amount of herbage and underwood. The journey here became very severe to the captives, for, although they did not suffer from thirst so much as on the plains, the difficulty of ascending steep and rugged paths with their hands bound was very great. It is true the position of the hands was changed, for after the second day they had been bound in front of them, but this did not render their toil easy, though it was thereby made a little less laborious.

By this time the captives had learned from experience that if they wished to avoid the spear-points they must walk in advance of their captors at a very smart pace. Fortunately, being all strong and healthy men, they were well able to do so.

Rattling Bill, perhaps, suffered most, although, after Molloy, he was physically one of the strongest of the party.

Observing that he lagged behind a little on one occasion while they were traversing a somewhat level valley, Stevenson offered him his arm.

“Don’t be ashamed to take it, old boy,” said the marine kindly, as his comrade hesitated. “You know, a fellow sometimes feels out o’ sorts, and not up to much, however stout he may be when well, so just you lay hold, for somehow I happen to feel as strong as an elephant to-day.”

“But I ain’t ill,” returned Simkin, still declining, “and I don’t see why I shouldn’t be as able as you are to carry my own weight.”

“Of course you are better able to do it than I am, in a general way,” returned his friend, “but I said that sometimes, you know, a fellow gives in, he don’t well know why or how, an’ then, of course, his comrades that are still strong are bound to help him. Here, hook on and pocket your pride. You’ll have to do the same thing for me to-morrow, may-hap, when I give in. And if it does come to that I’ll lean heavy, I promise you.”

“You’re a good fellow, Stevenson, even though you are a Blue Light,” said Simkin, taking the proffered arm.

“Perhaps it’s because I am a Blue Light,” returned the marine, with a laugh. “At all events, it is certain that whatever good there may be about me at all is the result of that Light which is as free to you as to me.”

For some minutes the couple walked along in silence. At last Rattling Bill spoke.

“I wonder,” he said, “why it is that a young and healthy fellow like me should break down sooner than you, Stevenson, for I’m both bigger and stronger—and yet, look at us new. Ain’t it strange! I wonder why it is.”

“It is strange, indeed,” returned the marine quietly. “P’r’aps the climate suits me better than you.”

“I know what you’re thinkin’,” said Simkin, almost testily. “Why don’t you say that drink is the cause of it—straight out, like a man?”

“Because I knew you were saying that to yourself, lad, so there was no need for me to say it,” returned his friend, with a side-glance and a twinkle of the eyes.

“Well, whoever says it, it’s a fact,” continued Simkin, almost sternly, “an’ I make no bones of admitting it. I have bin soakin’ away, right and left, since I came to this country, in spite o’ warnin’s from you and other men like you, and now I feel as if all my boasted strength was goin’ out at my heels.”

Stevenson was silent.

“Why don’t you say ‘I told you so?’” asked Simkin, sharply.

“Because I never say that! It only riles people; besides,” continued the marine, earnestly, “I was asking God at the moment to enable me to answer you wisely. You see, I think it only fair to reveal some of my private thoughts to you, since you are making a father-confessor of me. But as you admit that drink has done you damage, my dear fellow, there is no need for me to say anything more on that subject. What you want now is encouragement as to the future and advice as to the present. Shall I give you both just now, or shall I wait?”

“‘Commence firing!’” replied Simkin, with a half-jesting smile.

“Well, then, as to encouragement,” said Stevenson. “A point of vital importance with men who have gone in for drink as much as you have, is total-abstinence; and I regard it as an evidence of God’s love to you that He has brought you here—”

“God’s love that brought me here!” exclaimed the soldier in surprise. “Well, that is a view o’ the case that don’t seem quite plain.”

“Plain enough if you open your eyes wide enough. See here: If you was in camp now, with your present notions, and was to determine to give up drink, you’d have to face and fight two most tremendous devils. One devil is called Craving, the other is called Temptation, and all the Arabs in the Soudan rolled into one are not so terrible or so strong as these two when a man is left to fight them by himself. Now, is it not a sign of our Father’s love that he has, by bringing you here, removed the devil Temptation entirely out of your way, for you can’t get strong drink here for love or money. So, you see, you have only got Craving to fight, and that’s encouraging, ain’t it?”

“D’ye know, I believe you are not far wrong,” said Simkin, gravely; “and it is encouraging to know that Temptation’s out o’ the way, for I feel that the other devil has got me by the throat even now, and that it’s him as has weakened me so much.”

“That’s it, friend. You’ve got the truth by the tail now, so hold on; but, at the same time, don’t be too hard on Craving. It’s not his fault that he’s here. You have poured liquor down your throat to him daily, and cultivated his acquaintance, and helped him to increase his strength regularly, for many months—it may be for years. I don’t want to be hard on you, lad, but it’s of no use shiftin’ the burden on to the wrong shoulders. It is not Craving but you who are the sinner. Now, as to advice: do you really want it?”

“Well,” replied Simkin, with a “humph!” “it will be time enough for you to shut up when I sound the ‘cease firing!’”

“My advice, then, is that you go down on your knees, plead guilty straight off, and ask for grace to help you in your time of need.”

“What! go down on my knees here before all them Arabs? If I did, they’d not only laugh at me, but they’d soon rouse me up with their spears.”

“I’m not so sure about that, Simkin. Arabs are accustomed to go on their own knees a good deal in public. It is chiefly Christians who, strange to say, are ashamed to be caught in that position at odd times. But I speak not of ceremonies, but of realities. A man may go on his knees, without bending a joint, any time and everywhere. Now, listen: there is this difference between the courts of men and the court of heaven, that in the former, when a man pleads guilty, his sentence is only modified and softened, but in the latter, the man who pleads guilty receives a free pardon and ultimate deliverance from all sin for the sake of Jesus Christ. Will you accept this deliverance, my friend?”

What the soldier replied in his heart we cannot tell, for his voice was silent. Before the conversation could be resumed a halt was called, to partake of the midday meal and rest.

That evening the party came upon a strange and animated scene. It was one of the mountain camps of Osman Digna, where men were assembling from all quarters to swell the hordes with which their chief hoped to drive the hated Europeans into the Red Sea. Camels and other beasts of burden were bringing in supplies for the vast army, and to this spot had been brought the poor fellows who had been wounded in recent battles.

Here the captives were thrust into a small dark hut and left to their meditations, while a couple of Arab sentries guarded the door.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Shows that Suffering tends to draw out Sympathy.

The word captivity, even when it refers to civilised lands and peoples, conveys, we suspect, but a feeble and incorrect idea to the minds of those who have never been in a state of personal bondage. Still less do we fully appreciate its dread significance when it refers to foreign lands and barbarous people.

It was not so much the indignities to which the captive Britons were subjected that told upon them ultimately, as the hard, grinding, restless toil, and the insufficient food and rest—sometimes accompanied with absolute corporeal pain.

“A merciful man is merciful to his beast.” There is not much of mercy to his beast in an Arab. We have seen an Arab, in Algiers, who made use of a sore on his donkey’s back as a sort of convenient spur! It is exhausting to belabour a thick-skinned and obstinate animal with a stick. It is much easier, and much more effective, to tickle up a sore, kept open for the purpose, with a little bit of stick, while comfortably seated on the creature’s back. The fellow we refer to did that. We do not say or think that all Arabs are cruel; very far from it, but we hold that, as a race, they are so. Their great prophet taught them cruelty by example and precept, and the records of history, as well as of the African slave-trade, bear witness to the fact that their “tender mercies” are not and never have been conspicuous!

At first, as we have shown, indignities told pretty severely on the unfortunate Englishmen. But, as time went on, and they were taken further and further into the interior, and heavy burdens were daily bound on their shoulders, and the lash was frequently applied to urge them on, the keen sense of insult which had at first stirred them into wild anger became blunted, and at last they reached that condition of partial apathy which renders men almost indifferent to everything save rest and food. Even the submissive Stevenson was growing callous. In short, that process had begun which usually ends in making men either brutes or martyrs.

As before, we must remark that Jack Molloy was to some extent an exception. It did seem as if nothing but death itself could subdue that remarkable man. His huge frame was so powerful that he seemed to be capable of sustaining any weight his tyrants chose to put upon him. And the influence of hope was so strong within him that it raised him almost entirely above the region of despondency.

This was fortunate for his comrades in misfortune, for it served to keep up their less vigorous spirits.

There was one thing about the seaman, however, which they could not quite reconcile with his known character. This was a tendency to groan heavily when he was being loaded. To be sure, there was not much reason for wonder, seeing that the Arabs forced the Herculean man to carry nearly double the weight borne by any of his companions, but then, as Miles once confidentially remarked to Armstrong, “I thought that Jack Molloy would rather have died than have groaned on account of the weight of his burden; but, after all, it is a tremendously heavy one—poor fellow!”

One day the Arabs seemed to be filled with an unusual desire to torment their victims. A man had passed the band that day on a fast dromedary, and the prisoners conjectured that he might have brought news of some defeat of their friends, which would account for their increased cruelty. They were particularly hard on Molloy that day, as if they regarded him as typical of British strength, and, therefore, an appropriate object of revenge. After the midday rest, they not only put on him his ordinary burden, but added to the enormous weight considerably, so that the poor fellow staggered under it, and finally fell down beneath it, with a very dismal groan indeed!

Of course the lash was at once applied, and under its influence the sailor rose with great difficulty, and staggered forward a few paces, but only to fall again. This time, however, he did not wait for the lash, but made very determined efforts of his own accord to rise and advance, without showing the smallest sign of resentment. Even his captors seemed touched, for one of them removed a small portion of his burden, so that, thereafter, the poor fellow proceeded with less difficulty, though still with a little staggering and an occasional groan.

That night they reached a village near the banks of a broad river, where they put up for the night. After their usual not too heavy supper was over, the prisoners were thrust into a sort of hut or cattle-shed, and left to make themselves as comfortable as they could on the bare floor.

“I don’t feel quite so much inclined for sleep to-night,” said Miles to Molloy.

“No more do I,” remarked the sailor, stretching himself like a wearied Goliath on the earthen floor, and placing his arms under his head for a pillow.

“I feel pretty well used up too,” said Simkin, throwing himself down with a sigh that was more eloquent than his tongue. He was indeed anything but Rattling Bill by that time.

Moses Pyne being, like his great namesake, a meek man, sympathised with the others, but said nothing about himself, though his looks betrayed him. Armstrong and Stevenson were silent. They seemed too much exhausted to indulge in speech.

“Poor fellow!” said Moses to Molloy, “I don’t wonder you are tired, for you not only carried twice as much as any of us, but you took part of my load. Indeed he did, comrades,” added Moses, turning to his friends with an apologetic air. “I didn’t want him to do it, but he jerked part o’ my load suddenly out o’ my hand an’ wouldn’t give it up again; an’, you know, I didn’t dare to make a row, for that would have brought the lash down on both of us. But I didn’t want him to carry so much, an’ him so tired.”

“Tired!” exclaimed the sailor, with a loud laugh. “Why, I warn’t tired a bit. An’, you know, you’d have dropped down, Moses, if I hadn’t helped ye at that time.”

“Well, I confess I was ready to drop,” returned Moses, with a humbled look; “but I would much rather have dropped than have added to your burden. How can you say you wasn’t tired when you had fallen down only five minutes before, an’ groaned heavily when you rose, and your legs trembled so? I could see it!”

To this the seaman’s only reply was the expansion of his huge but handsome mouth, the display of magnificent teeth, the disappearance of both eyes, and a prolonged quiet chuckle.

“Why, what’s the matter with you, Jack?” asked Stevenson.

“Nothin’s the matter wi’ me, old man—’cept—”

Here he indulged in another chuckle.

“Goin’ mad, with over-fatigue,” said Simkin, looking suspiciously at him.

“Ay, that’s it, messmate, clean mad wi’ over-fatigue.”

He wiped his eyes with the hairy back of his hand, for the chuckling, being hearty, had produced a few tears.

“No, but really, Jack, what is it you’re laughing at?” asked Armstrong. “If there is a joke you might as well let us have the benefit of laughing along wi’ you, for we stand much in need of something to cheer us here.”

“Well, Billy boy, I may as well make a clean breast of it,” said Molloy, raising himself on one elbow and becoming grave. “I do confess to feelin’ raither ashamed o’ myself, but you mustn’t be hard on me, lads, for circumstances alters cases, you know, as Solomon said—leastwise if it warn’t him it was Job or somebody else. The fact is, I’ve bin shammin’, mates!”

“Shamming!”

“Ay, shammin’ weak. Purtendin’ that I was shaky on the legs, an’ so not quite up to the cargo they were puttin’ aboard o’ me.”

“If what you’ve been doing means shamming weak, I’d like to see you coming out strong,” observed Miles, with a short laugh.

“Well, p’r’aps you’ll see that too some day,” returned the sailor, with an amiable look.

“But do you really mean that all that groaning—which I confess to have been surprised at—was mere pretence?”

“All sham. Downright sneakin’!” said Molloy. “The short an’ the long of it is, that I see’d from the first the on’y way to humbug them yellow-faced baboons was to circumwent ’em. So I set to work at the wery beginnin’.”

“Ah, by takin’ a header,” said Simkin, “into one o’ their bread-baskets!”

“No, no!” returned the seaman, “that, I confess, was a mistake. But you’ll admit, I’ve made no more mistakes o’ the same sort since then. You see, I perceived that, as my strength is considerable above the average, the baboons would be likely to overload me, so, arter profound excogitation wi’ myself, I made up my mind what to do, an’ when they had clapped on a little more than the rest o’ you carried I began to groan, then I began to shake a bit in my timbers, an’ look as if I was agoin’ to founder. It didn’t check ’em much, for they’re awful cruel, so I went fairly down by the head. I had a pretty fair guess that this would bring the lash about my shoulders, an’ I was right, but I got up wery slowly an’ broken-down-like, so that the baboons was fairly humbugged, and stopped loadin’ of me long afore I’d taken in a full cargo—so, you see, boys, I’ve bin sailin’ raither light than otherwise.”

“But do you mean to tell me that the load you’ve bin carryin’ is not too heavy for you?” asked Moses.

“That’s just what I does mean to tell you, lad. I could carry a good deal more, an’ dance with it. You see, they ain’t used to men o’ my size, so I was able to humbug ’em into a miscalkilation. I on’y wish I could have helped you all to do the same, but they’re too ’cute, as the Yankees say. Anyway, Moses, you don’t need to trouble your head when I gives you a helpin’ hand again.”

“Ah, that expression, ‘a helping hand,’ sounds familiar in my ears,” said Stevenson, in a sad tone.

“Yes, what do it recall, lad?” asked Molloy, extending himself again on his broad back.

“It recalls places and friends in Portsmouth, Jack, that we may never again set eyes on. You remember the Institoot? Well, they’ve got a new branch o’ the work there for the surrounding civilian poor, called the Helping Hand. You see, Miss Robinson understands us soldiers out and out. She knew that those among us who gave up drink and sin, and put on the blue-ribbon, were not goin’ to keep all the benefit to ourselves. She knew that we understood the meaning of the word ‘enlist’ That we’d think very little o’ the poor-spirited fellow who’d take the Queen’s shillin’ and put on her uniform, and then shirk fightin’ her battles and honouring her flag. So when some of us put on the Lord’s uniform—which, like that of the Austrians, is white—and unfurled His flag, she knew we’d soon be wantin’ to fight His battles against sin—especially against drink; so instead of lookin’ after our welfare alone, she encouraged us to hold out a helpin’ hand to the poorest and most miserable people in Portsmouth, an’ she found us ready to answer to the call.”

“Ah, they was grand times, these,” continued the marine, with kindly enthusiasm, as he observed that his comrades in sorrow were becoming interested, and forgetting for the moment their own sorrows and sufferings. “The Blue-Ribbon move was strong in Portsmouth at the time, and many of the soldiers and sailors joined it. Some time after we had held out a helping hand to the poor civilians, we took it into our heads to invite some of ’em to a grand tea-fight in the big hall, so we asked a lot o’ the poorest who had faithfully kept the pledge through their first teetotal Christmas; and it was a scrimmage, I can tell you. We got together more than forty of ’em, men and women, and there were about three hundred soldiers and sailors, and their wives to wait on ’em an’ keep ’em company!”

“Capital!” exclaimed Miles, who had a sympathetic spirit—especially for the poor.

“Good—good!” said Molloy, nodding his head. “That was the right thing to do, an’ I suppose they enjoyed theirselves?”

“Enjoyed themselves!” exclaimed the marine, with a laugh. “I should just think they did. Trust Miss Robinson for knowin’ how to make poor folk enjoy themselves—and, for the matter of that, rich folk too! How they did stuff, to be sure! Many of ’em, poor things, hadn’t got such a blow-out in all their lives before. You see, they was the very poorest of the poor. You may believe what I say, for I went round myself with one o’ the Institoot ladies to invite ’em, and I do declare to you that I never saw even pigs or dogs in such a state of destitootion—nothin’ whatever to lie on but the bare boards.”

“You don’t say so?” murmured Moses, with deep commiseration, and seemingly oblivious of the fact that he was himself pretty much in similar destitution at that moment.

“Indeed I do. Look here,” continued the marine, becoming more earnest as he went on; “thousands of people don’t know—can’t understand—what misery and want and suffering is going on around ’em. City missionaries and the like tell ’em about it, and write about it, but telling and writin’ don’t make people know some things. They must see, ay, sometimes they must feel, before they can rightly understand.

“One of the rooms we visited,” continued Stevenson, in pathetic tones, “belonged to a poor old couple who had been great drinkers, but had been induced to put on the blue-ribbon. It was a pigeon-hole of a room, narrow, up a dark stair. They had no means of support. The room was empty. Everything had been pawned. The last thing given up was the woman’s shawl to pay the rent, and they were starving.”

“Why didn’t they go to the work’us?” asked Simkin.

“’Cause the workhouse separates man and wife, in defiance of the Divine law—‘Whom God hath joined together let no man put asunder.’ They was fond of each other, was that old man and woman, and had lived long together, an’ didn’t want to part till death. So they had managed to stick to the old home, ay, and they had stuck to their colours, for the bit o’ blue was still pinned to the tattered coat o’ the man and the thin gown o’ the woman, (neither coat nor gown would fetch anything at the pawn-shop!) and there was no smell o’ drink in the room. Well, that old couple went to the tea-fight. It was a bitter cold night, but they came all the same, with nothing to cover the woman’s thin old arms.

“The moment they appeared, away went one o’ Miss Robinson’s workers to the room where they keep chests full of clothes sent by charitable folk to the Institoot, an’ you should have seen that old woman’s wrinkled face when the worker returned wi’ the thickest worsted shawl she could lay hold of, an’ put it on her shoulders as tenderly as if the old woman had been her own mother! At the same time they gave a big-coat to the old man.”

“But, I say,” interrupted Simkin, “that Christmas feed an’ shawl an’ coat wouldn’t keep the couple for a twel’month, if they was sent home to starve as before, would it?”

“Of course not,” returned the marine, “but they wasn’t sent off to starve; they was looked after. Ay, an’ the people o’ the whole neighbourhood are now looked after, for Miss Robinson has bought up a grog-shop in Nobbs Lane—one o’ the worst places in Portsmouth—an’ converted it into a temperance coffee-house, wi’ lots of beds to send people to when the Institoot overflows, an’ a soup-kitchen for the destitoot poor, an’ a wash’us for them and the soldiers’ wives, an’, in short, it has changed the whole place; but if I go on like this I’ll send Moses to sleep, for I’ve heard ’im smotherin’ his yawns more than once a’ready!”

“It’s not for want of interest in what you’re sayin’ though, old man,” returned Moses, with a tremendous unsmothered yawn, which of course set all his comrades off, and confirmed them in the belief that it was time to seek repose.

Scarcely a single comment was made on the narrative, as each laid his weary head on his arm or on a folded garment, and stretched himself out on the hard ground, in nearly as destitute a condition as the poor folk about whom they had been hearing; for while their bed was as hard as theirs, and the covering as scant, the meal they had recently consumed was by no means what hungry men would call satisfying.

There is reason to believe, however, that their consideration of the sad lot of “the poor” at home did not render less profound or sweet that night’s repose in the great African wilderness.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Adventures among the Soudanese, and Strange Meeting with the Mahdi.

Day after day, for many days, our captives were thus driven over the burning desert, suffering intensely from heat and thirst and hunger, as well as from fatigue, and treated with more or less cruelty according to the varying moods of their guards.

At last one afternoon they arrived at a city of considerable size, through the streets of which they were driven with unusual harshness by the Arab soldiers, who seemed to take pleasure in thus publicly heaping contempt on Christian captives in the sight of the Mohammedan population.

Their case seemed truly desperate to Miles, as he and his comrades passed through the narrow streets, for no pitying eye, but many a frown, was cast on them by the crowds who stopped to gaze and scoff.

What city they had reached they had no means of finding out, being ignorant of Arabic. Indeed, even though they had been able to converse with their guards, it is probable that these would have refused to hold communication with them.

Turning out of what appeared to be a sort of market-place, they were driven, rather than conducted, to a whitewashed building, into which they entered through a low strong door, studded with large iron-headed nails. As they entered a dark passage, the door was slammed and locked behind them. At first, owing to their sudden entrance out of intensely bright day, they seemed to be in profound darkness, but when they became accustomed to the dim light, they found that they were in the presence of several powerful men, who carried long Eastern-like pistols in their girdles, and curved naked swords in their hands. These stood like statues against the wall of the small room, silently awaiting the orders of one whose dress betokened him of superior rank, and who was engaged in writing with a reed in Persian characters. A tall, very black-skinned negro stood beside this officer.

After a few minutes the latter laid down the reed, rose up, and confronted the prisoners, at the same time addressing some remark to his attendant.

“Who is you, an’ where you come fro?” asked the negro, addressing himself to Miles, whom he seemed intuitively to recognise as the chief of his party.

“We are British soldiers!” said Miles, drawing himself up with an air of dignity that would have done credit to the Emperor of China. You see, at that moment he felt himself to be the spokesman for, and, with his comrades, the representative of, the entire British army, and was put upon his mettle accordingly. “We come from Suakim—”

“Ay, black-face!” broke in Jack Molloy at that moment, “and you may tell him that if he has the pluck to go to Suakim, he’ll see plenty more British soldiers—an’ British seamen too—who’ll give him an’ his friends a hot and hearty welcome wi’ bullet, bayonet, and cutlash whenever he feels inclined.”

“Are you officer?” asked the negro of Miles, and not paying the smallest attention to Molloy’s warlike invitation.

“No, I am not.”

Turning to the armed men, the officer gave them an order which caused them to advance and stand close to the Englishmen—two beside each prisoner—with drawn swords. An extra man took up his position behind Molloy, evidently having regard to his superior size! Then two men, who looked like jailers, advanced to Stevenson, cut the cords that bound his arms, and proceeded to put iron fetters on his wrists.

“Comrades,” said Molloy, in a low voice, when he perceived that his turn was coming, “shall we make a burst for it—kill them all, get out into street, cut and slash through the town, and make a grand run for it—or die like men?”

“Die like fools!” growled Simkin, as he suffered his hands to be manacled.

“No, no, Jack,” said Armstrong; “don’t be rash. Let’s bide our time. There’s no sayin’ what’ll turn up.”

“Well, well,” sighed Molloy, resigning himself to his fate, “there’s only one thing now that’s sartin sure to turn up, an’ that is the sod that’ll cover our graves.”

“You’re not sure even of that, man,” said Moses Pyne, who was beginning to give way to despair, “for may-hap they’ll only dig a hole in the sand, an’ shove us in.”

“More likely to leave the dogs an’ vultures to clear us out o’ the way,” said Simkin, whose powers of hope were being tested almost beyond endurance.

While the prisoners indulged in these gloomy anticipations, the operation of fixing their irons was finished, after which they were taken across an inner court which was open to the sky. At the other side of this they came to another heavy iron-studded door, which, when opened, disclosed a flight of steps descending into profound darkness.

“Go in!” said the negro, who had accompanied them.

Molloy, who was first, hesitated, and the tremendous flush on his face, and frown on his shaggy brows, seemed to indicate that even yet he meditated attempting his favourite “burst”! But Stevenson, pushing past him, at once descended, saying, as he went, “Don’t be foolish, Jack; we must learn to submit.”

There were only three steps, and at the bottom a room about fifteen feet square, to enlighten which there was a small hole high up in one of the walls. It did little more, however, than render darkness visible.

“God help us!” exclaimed Miles, with a sensation of sinking at the heart which he had never felt before.

And little wonder, for, as their eyes became accustomed to the dim light, it was seen that the walls were blank, with nothing on them to relieve the eye save the little hole or window just mentioned; that the floor was of hard earth, and that there was not a scrap of furniture in the room—not even a stool, or a bundle of straw on which to lie down.

“‘I will trust, and not be afraid,’” said Stevenson, in a low voice.

“Who will you trust?” asked Simkin, who was not aware that his comrade had quoted Scripture.

“I will trust God,” answered the marine.

“I wouldn’t give much for your trust, then,” returned Simkin bitterly, as well as contemptuously, for he had given way to despair. “You Blue Lights and Christians think yourselves so much better than everybody else, because you make so much talk about prayin’ an’ singin’, an’ doin’ your duty, an’ servin’ God, an’ submitting. It’s all hypocrisy.”

“Don’t you believe that Sergeant Hardy is a good soldier?” asked Stevenson.

“Of course I do,” replied Simkin, in some surprise at the question.

“An’ he doesn’t think much of himself, does he?” continued the marine.

“Certainly not. He’s one o’ the kindest an’ humblest men in the regiment, as I have good reason to know.”

“Yet he frequently talks to us of attendin’ to our duty, an’ doin’ credit to the British Flag, an’ faithfully serving the Queen. If this is praiseworthy in the sergeant, why should the talk of duty an’ service an’ honour to God be hypocrisy in the Christian? Does it not seem strange that we Blue Lights—who have discovered ourselves to be much worse than we thought ourselves, an’ gladly accept Jesus as our Saviour from sin—should be charged with thinkin’ ourselves ‘better than other people’!”

“Come now,” cried Jack Molloy, seating himself on the floor, and leaning his back against the wall; “it do seem to me, as you putt it, Stevenson, that the charge ought to be all the other way; for we, who make no purfession of religion at all, thinks ourselves so far righteous that we’ve got no need of a Saviour. Suppose, now, as we’ve got to as low a state o’ the dumps as men can well come to, we all sits down in a row an’ have a palaver about this matter—Parson Stevenson bein’ the chief spokesman.”

They all readily agreed to this proposal. Indeed, in the circumstances, any proposal that offered the faintest hope of diverting their minds from present trouble would have been welcome to them at that moment. The marine was nothing loath to fall in with the fancy of his irrepressible comrade, but we do not propose to follow them in the talk that ensued. We will rather turn at once to those events which affected more immediately the fortunes of the captives.

On the morning after their arrival in the city there was assembled in the principal square a considerable concourse of Soudan warriors. They stood chatting together in various groups in front of a public building, as if awaiting some chief or great man, whose richly caparisoned steed stood in front of the main entrance, with its out-runner standing before it.

This runner was a splendid specimen of physical manhood. He was as black as coal, as graceful as Apollo, and apparently as powerful as Hercules,—if one might judge from the great muscles which stood out prominently on all his limbs, he wore but little clothing—merely a pair of short Arab drawers of white cotton, a red fez on his head, and a small tippet on his shoulders. Unlike negroes in general, his features were cast in a mould which one is more accustomed to see in the Caucasian race of mankind—the nose being straight, the lips comparatively thin, and the face oval, while his bearing was that of a man accustomed to command.

The appearance of a few soldiers traversing the square drew the eyes of all in their direction, and caused a brief pause in the hum of conversation. Our friends, the captives, were in the midst of these soldiers, and beside them marched the negro interpreter whom they had first met with in the prison.

At the door of the public building the soldiers drew up and allowed the captives to pass in, guarded by two officers and the interpreter. Inside they found a number of military men and dignitaries grouped around, conversing with a stern man of strongly marked features. This man—towards whom all of them showed great deference—was engaged when the captives entered; they were therefore obliged to stand aside for a few minutes.

“Who is he?” asked Molloy of the negro interpreter.

“Our great leader,” said the negro, “the Mahdi.”

“What! the scoundrel that’s bin the cause o’ all this kick-up?” asked Jack Molloy, in surprise.

The interpreter did not quite understand the seaman’s peculiar language, but he seemed to have some idea of the drift of it, for he turned up his up-turned nose in scorn and made no reply.

In a few minutes an officer led the captives before the Mahdi, who regarded them with a dark frown, directing his attention particularly to Jack Molloy, as being the most conspicuous member of the party, perhaps, also, because Molloy looked at him with an air and expression of stern defiance.

Selecting him as a spokesman for the others, the Mahdi, using the negro as an interpreter, put him through the following examination:—

“Where do you come from?” he asked, sternly.

“From Suakim,” answered Molloy, quite as sternly.

“What brought you here?”

“Your dirty-faced baboons!”

It is probable that the negro used some discretion in translating this reply, for the chief did not seem at all offended, but with the same manner and tone continued—

“Do you know the number of men in Suakim?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me—how many?”

To this Molloy answered slowly, “Quite enough—if you had only the pluck to come out into the open an’ fight like men—to give you such a lickin’ that there wouldn’t be a baboon o’ you left in the whole Soudan!”

Again it is probable that the interpreter did not give this speech verbatim, for while he was delivering it the Mahdi was scanning the features of the group of prisoners with a calm but keen eye.

Making a sign to one of his attendants to lead Molloy to one side, he said a few words to another, who thereupon placed Miles in front of his master.

“Are you an officer?” was the first question put.

“No,” answered our hero, with quiet dignity, but without the slightest tinge of defiance either in tone or look.

“Will you tell me how many men you have in Suakim?”

“No.”

“Dare you refuse?”

“Yes; it is against the principles of a British soldier to give information to an enemy.”

“That’s right, John Miles,” said Molloy, in an encouraging tone; “give it ’im hot! They can only kill us once, an’—”

“Silence!” hissed the Mahdi between his teeth.

“Silence!” echoed the interpreter.

“All right, you nigger! Tell the baboon to go on. I won’t run foul of him again; he ain’t worth it.”

This was said with free-and-easy contempt.

“Do you not know,” resumed the Mahdi, turning again to Miles with a fierce expression, “that I have power to take your life?”

“You have no power at all beyond what God gives to you,” said Miles quietly.

Even the angry Mahdi was impressed with the obvious truth of this statement, but his anger was not much allayed by it.

“Know you not,” he continued, “that I have the power to torture you to death?”

Our hero did not at once reply. He felt that a grand crisis in his life had arrived, that he stood there before an assemblage of “unbelievers,” and that, to some extent, the credit of his countrymen for courage, fidelity, and Christianity was placed in his hands.

“Mahdi,” he said, impressively, as he drew himself up, “you have indeed the power to torture and kill me, but you have not the power to open my lips, or cause me to bring dishonour on my country!”

“Brayvo, Johnny! Pitch into him!” cried the delighted Molloy.

“Fool!” exclaimed the Mahdi, whose ire was rekindled as much by the seaman’s uncomprehended comment as by our hero’s fearless look and tone, “you cannot bring dishonour on a country which is already dishonoured. What dishonour can exceed that of being leagued with the oppressor against the oppressed? Go! You shall be taught to sympathise with the oppressed by suffering oppression!”

He waved his hand, and, quickly leaving the court, walked towards his horse, where the fine-looking negro runner stood and held his stirrup, while he prepared to mount. Instead of mounting, however, he stood for a few seconds looking thoughtfully at the ground. Then he spoke a few words to the runner, who bowed his head slightly as his master mounted and rode away.

Grasping a small lance and flag, which seemed to be the emblems of his office, he ran off at full speed in front of the horse to clear the way for his master.

At the entrance to the building an official of some sort took hold of Miles’s arm and led him away. He glanced back and observed that two armed men followed. At the same time he saw Molloy’s head towering above the surrounding crowd, as he and his comrades were led away in another direction. That was the last he saw of some at least, of his friends for a considerable time.

Poor Miles was too much distressed at this sudden and unexpected separation to take much note of the things around him. He was brought back to a somewhat anxious consideration of his own affairs by being halted at the gate of a building which was more imposing, both in size and appearance, than the houses around it. Entering at the bidding of his conductors, he found himself in an open court, and heard the heavy door closed and bolted behind him.

Thereafter he was conducted to a small chamber, which, although extremely simple, and almost devoid of furniture, was both cleaner and lighter than that in which he and his comrades had been at first immured. He observed, however, with a feeling of despondency, that it was lighted only by small square holes in the roof, and that the door was very substantial!

Here his conductor left him without saying a word and bolted the door. As he listened to the retreating steps of his jailer echoing on the marble pavement of the court, a feeling of profound dejection fell upon our hero’s spirit, and he experienced an almost irresistible tendency to give way to unmanly tears. Shame, however, came to his aid and enabled him to restrain them.

In one corner of the little room there was a piece of thick matting. Sitting down on it with his back against the wall, the poor youth laid his face in his hands and began to think and to pray. But the prayer was not audible; and who can describe the wide range of thought—the grief, the anxiety for comrades as well as for himself, the remorse, the intense longing to recall the past, the wish that he might awake and find that it was only a wild dream, and, above all, the bitter—almost vengeful—self-condemnation!

He was aroused from this condition by the entrance of a slave bearing a round wooden tray, on which were a bowl of food and a jug of water.

Placing these before him, the slave retired without speaking, though he bestowed a glance of curiosity on the “white infidel dog,” before closing the door.

Appetite had ever been a staunch friend to Miles Milton. It did not fail him now. Soldier-life has usually the effect of making its devotees acutely careful to take advantage of all opportunities! He set to work on the bowlful of food with a will, and was not solicitous to ascertain what it consisted of until it was safely washed down with a draught from the jug. Being then too late to enter on an inquiry as to its nature, he contented himself with a pleasing recollection that the main body of the compost was rice, one of the constituents oil, and that the whole was by no means bad. He also wished that there had been more of it, and then resumed his previous—and only possible—amusement of meditation.

Thinking, like fighting, is better done on a full stomach! He had gradually thought himself into a more hopeful state of mind, when he was again interrupted by the entrance of visitors—two armed men, and the magnificent negro runner whom he had observed holding the Mahdi’s horse. One of the armed men carried a small bundle, which he deposited on the ground, and then stood beside his companion. Both stood like sentinels with drawn swords, ready, apparently, to obey the commands of the runner.

Advancing to the captive, the latter, producing a key, unlocked and removed his manacles. These he handed to one of the men, and, turning again to Miles, said, to his great surprise, in English—

“Undress, and put on de t’ings in bundle.”

We may here observe that up to this time Miles and his comrades in adversity had worn, day and night, the garments in which they had been captured. Our hero was not sorry, therefore, at the prospect of a change. Untying the bundle to see what substitute was given for his uniform, he found that it contained only a pair of loose cotton drawers and a red fez.

“Is this all?” he asked, in surprise.

“All,” answered the negro.

“And what if I refuse to undress?” asked Miles.

“Your clo’es will be tore off your back and you be bastinado!”

This was said so calmly, and the three grave, powerful men seemed so thoroughly capable of performing the deed, that our hero wisely submitted to the inevitable and took off his uniform, which one of the guards gathered up piece by piece as it was removed. Then he pulled on the drawers, which covered him from the waist to a little below the knees. When he had put on the red fez he found himself clothed in exactly the same costume as the runner, with the exception of a small green tippet which barely covered the top of his shoulders, and seemed to be worn rather as an ornament than a piece of clothing, though perhaps it formed a slight protection from the sun.

In this cool costume they left him, carrying away his uniform, as if more thoroughly to impress on him what uncommonly cool things they were capable of doing in the hot regions of the Soudan!

Chapter Twenty Five.

Miles is promoted—Molloy overthrows the Mahdi, and is elevated for so doing.

Next day Miles Milton became painfully aware of the fact that his life in captivity was not to be one of ease or idleness.

Soon after daybreak the door of his prison creaked on its ponderous hinges, and he started up from the mat on which he had slept without covering of any kind. His visitor was the Mahdi’s runner, who, after closing the door, came and sat down beside him, cross legged à la Turk and tailor.

For a brief space the handsome black stared steadily at Miles, who returned the compliment as steadily, not being sure whether curiosity or insolence lay at the foundation of the stare.

“Englishmin,” said the runner at last, “you is unfortnit.”

“I am indeed,” returned Miles; “at the same time I am fortunate in so unexpectedly finding one who recognises the fact, and who can tell me so in my own tongue. May I venture to hope that you are friendly towards me?”

“Yes; I am your friend, but my friendness can do for you not’ing. Like youself, I am captive—slave. But in my own land I was a chief, and friend of the great and good Gordon, so I is friend to all Englishmin. Once I was ’terpreter to Gordon, but the Mahdi came. I fell into his hands, and now I do run befront his horse, an’ hold de stirrup! I comes to you from the Mahdi wid bad news.”

“Indeed! But I need not wonder. You could scarcely come from him with good news. What have you to tell?”

“The Mahdi has made you his runner,” answered the negro.

“That is strange news rather than bad, is it not?”

“No; it is bad. He do dis ’cause he hate you. Somehow you has anger him. He say he will tame you. He try to tame me,” said the negro, with sudden and tremendous ferocity, “an’ him t’ink he do it! But I only waits my chance to kill him.

“Now he send me again to dirty work, an’ put you in my place to humble you—to insult you before every one, who will say, ‘Look! de bold Christin dog lick de dust now, an’ hold de Mahdi’s stirrup.’”

“This is indeed bad news. But how is it that you, who seem to be free, do not use your opportunity to escape? I saw you holding the Mahdi’s horse. It seems to be a splendid one. Why did you not jump on its back and fly?”

The runner frowned, and then, changing his mood, smiled sadly.

“You is young,” he said, “and knows not’ing. At night I am locked up like yourself. In de day-time de city is full of enemies, who all knows me. Do you t’ink dey will salute, and say, ‘Go in peace,’ to de runner of de Mahdi when he is running away with his best horse?”

“Perhaps not,” said Miles, “but I would try if I were you.”

“You will be me very soon,” returned the runner, “and you can try. I did try—twice. I was caught both times and beat near to death. But I did not die! I learn wisdom; and now I submit and wait my chance to kill him. If you is wise you begin at once to submit and wait too.”

“There is truth in what you say,” rejoined Miles, after a few minutes’ thought. “I will take your advice and submit and wait, but only till the opportunity to escape offers. I would not murder the man even if I had the chance.”

“Your words remind me of de good Gordon. He was not vengeful. He loved God,” said the runner, in a low and very different tone. “But,” he added, “Gordon was a white man. He did not—could notunderstand de feelings of de black chief.”

As the last remark opened up ground which Miles was not prepared to traverse, he made no rejoinder but asked the runner what the Mahdi required of him in his new capacity.

“He require you to learn de city, so as you know how to run when you is told—an’ I is to teach you, so you come wid me,” said the runner, rising.

“But am I to go in this costume, or rather in this half-naked state?” asked Miles, rising and spreading out his hands as he looked down at his unclothed chest and lower limbs.

“You not cause for be ashamed,” replied the runner, with a nod.

This was true, for the hard travelling which Miles had recently endured, and the heavy burdens which he had borne, had developed his muscles to such an extent that his frame was almost equal to that of the negro, and a fit subject for the sculptor’s chisel.

“Your white skin will p’r’aps blister at first,” continued the runner, “but your master will be glad for dat. Here is a t’ing, however, will save you shoulders. Now, you makes fuss-rate runner.”

He took the little green tippet off his own shoulders and fastened it on those of his successor.

“Come now,” he added, “let us see how you can run.”

They passed out into the street together, and then poor Miles felt the full sense of his degradation, when he saw some of the passers-by stop to gaze with looks of hatred or contempt or amusement at the “Christian captive.”

But he had not much leisure to think or feel, for the negro ran him down one street and up another at a pace which would soon have exhausted him if, besides being a naturally good runner, he had not recently been forced to undergo such severe training. During the run his guide pointed out and named most of the chief places, buildings, and mosques.

“You will do,” said the negro, pausing at length and turning towards his companion with a look of approval, “You a’most so good as myself!”

With this compliment he proceeded to instruct the new runner in his duties, and at night Miles found himself again in his prison, ready to do full justice to his bowl of rice-compost, and to enjoy his blanket-less mat bed—if a man can be said to enjoy anything about which he is profoundly unconscious during the time of its enjoyment!

Next morning he awoke with a sensation that led him for a moment to fancy he must have gone supper-less to bed. While he was waiting impatiently for breakfast he revolved several ideas in his mind, one of which was that, come what might, he would not suffer any indignity, however gross, to get the better of him. He would take a leaf out of his friend Stevenson’s book, and bear patiently whatever was sent to him, in the hope that by so doing he might gain the good-will of his captors, and thus, perhaps, be in a better position to take advantage of any opportunity to escape that might occur.

He was very confident of his power of self-restraint, and trusted a good deal to that determination of will which we have before referred to as being one of his characteristics. That same day his powers were severely tested.

All the morning he was left in his prison to fret in idleness, but towards the afternoon he was called by his friend the ex-runner to go out to his work.

“Do what you is told an’ hold you tongue, an’ keep your eyes on de ground. Dems my advice,” said the negro, as he resigned the bridle of the Mahdi’s steed to his successor, and placed the lance of office in his hand.

Just as he did so the Mahdi came out of a door-way and advanced towards them, while the negro retired and mingled with the crowd which had assembled to see the chief mount his horse.

Miles tried faithfully to attend to his friend’s injunctions, but could not resist one glance at his new master, which showed him that a cynical smile rested on his swarthy countenance, a smile which he also observed was copied by those of the crowd who did not prefer to regard him with scowling looks—for the people of the Soudan were, naturally enough, filled with indignation against all Europeans, and especially against the British, at that time.

The glance did not improve Miles’s state of mind, nevertheless he forced himself to look at the ground with an utterly expressionless face, as he held the Mahdi’s stirrup. He received a slight push from his master’s foot instead of thanks when he had mounted, but Miles resolutely kept his eyes on the ground and restrained his rising wrath, ignorant of the fact that the Mahdi wished to point out the direction in which he was to run.

A smart blow from the riding-switch on his naked back aroused him to his duty, and caused a slight laugh among the onlookers.

Never before, perhaps, was the Mahdi so near his end as at that moment, for, as our hero felt the sting, and heard the low laugh, all the blood in his body seemed to leap into his brow, and the lance of office quivered as his hand tightened on it. The fact that two guards with drawn swords stood at his side, and that their weapons would have been in his heart before he could have accomplished the deed, would probably have failed to restrain him had not his pride of purpose, as we may style it, come to his aid. He looked up, with a frown indeed, but without uttering a word. The Mahdi pointed along one of the streets, and Miles instantly bounded away—heartily glad to be able to let off his superfluous feeling in violent action.

For several hours his master kept him running—evidently on purpose to try his powers, as a jockey might test the qualities of a new horse, and, strong though he was, the poor youth began at last to feel greatly distressed, and to pant a good deal. Still his pride and a determination not to be beaten sustained him.

At one point of his course he was passing a band of slaves who were labouring to lift a large beam of wood, when the sound of a familiar voice caused him to look up, and then he saw his friend Jack Molloy, in costume like his own, minus the fez and tippet, with one of his great shoulders under the beam, and the sweat pouring down his face.

“Hallo, Miles!” exclaimed the seaman.

But our hero did not dare to pause, and could not speak. His glancing aside, however, had the effect of causing him to stumble, and, being too much exhausted at the time to recover himself, he fell heavily to the ground. As he slowly rose up, half-stunned, the Mahdi could scarcely avoid riding him down. As it was, he stooped, and, a second time laid his riding-switch smartly on the poor youth’s naked shoulders.

Jack Molloy, who saw the cruel act, lost all control of himself, uttered one of his leonine roars, sprang into the middle of the road, and seized the reins of the Mahdi’s horse. The startled animal reared and attempted to swerve. Molloy assisted the swerve by a violent side-pull at the reins. At the same time he caught one of the upraised forelegs, and, with an almost superhuman exertion of strength hurled both horse and rider to the ground!

A very howl of consternation and amazement burst from the populace as they beheld their Mahdi lying flat and motionless on his back as if dead!

Of course Jack Molloy was instantly seized by an overpowering number of soldiers, bound hand and foot, and carried back to his dungeon, while the Mahdi was tenderly raised and conveyed to the house which he inhabited at that time.

Miles had also been seized and dragged somewhat violently back to his prison. As for the other members of the captive band, none of them were there at the time. They were all separated at the time our hero was taken from them, and each remained for a considerable time in ignorance of the fate of his fellows. We may say at once here that they were all put to severe and menial labour. Each also had his uniform exchanged for a pair of Arabian drawers, and a felt cap or a fez, so that they were little better than naked. This would have mattered little—the weather being very warm—if their skins had been accustomed to the powerful rays of a tropical sun. But the effect on them was so severe that their taskmasters, in an unwonted gush of pity, at last gave them each a loose garment of sacking, which served as a partial protection.

After the incident which has just been related, Miles was permitted to remain during the rest of that day and night in his room. Not so Jack Molloy. The anger of the populace was so powerfully aroused against the impetuous sailor that they clamoured for his instant execution, and at last, unable or unwilling to resist the pressure of public opinion, the officers in charge of him gave in. They put a rope round his neck, and led him to a spot where criminals were wont to be executed.

As he went along and saw only scowling faces whenever he looked round in the hope of meeting some pitying eye, the poor man began to feel convinced that his last hour had in very truth arrived.

“Well, well, who’d ha’ thowt it would ever come to this?” he sighed, shaking his head mournfully as he came in sight of the place of execution. “But, after all, ye richly desarve it, John Molloy, for you’ve bin a bad lot the greater part o’ your life!”

Again he looked on either side of him, for hope was strongly enshrined in his broad bosom, but not a friendly or even pitiful face could he see among all the hundreds that surrounded him.

Arrived at the place, he glanced up at the beam over his head, and for one moment thought of trying, like Samson, to burst the bonds that held him; but it was only for a moment. The impossibility of freeing himself was too obvious. He meekly bowed his head. Another instant and the rope tightened round his neck, and he felt himself swinging in the air.

Before his senses had quite left him, however, he felt his feet again touch the ground. The choking sensation passed away, and he found himself supported by two men. A burst of mocking laughter then proved to the wretched man that his tormentors had practised on him the refined cruelty of half-hanging him. If he had had any doubt on this subject, the remark of the interpreter, as he afterwards left him in his cell to recover as best he might, would have dispelled it—

“We will ’ang you dead de nex’ time!”

Chapter Twenty Six.

Cruel Treatment—Despair Followed by Hope and a Joyful Discovery.

After the rough treatment he had received, the Mahdi, as we may well believe, did not feel more amiably disposed towards his prisoners.

Of course he had no reason for blaming Miles for what had occurred, nevertheless he vented his wrath against white men in general on him, by keeping him constantly on the move, and enforcing prolonged and unusual speed while running, besides subjecting him publicly to many insults.

It was a strange school in which to learn self-restraint and humility. But our hero profited by the schooling. Necessity is a stern teacher, and she was the head-mistress of that school. Among other things she taught Miles to reason extensively—not very profoundly, perhaps, nor always correctly, but at all events in a way that he never reasoned before. The best way to convey to the reader the state of his mind will be to let him speak for himself. As he had a habit of thinking aloud—for sociability, as it were—in the dark cell to which he had been relegated, we have only to bend down our ear and listen.

One night, about a week after the overthrow of his tyrant master, Miles was seated on the hard floor of his cell, leaning against the wall, with his knees drawn up and his face in his hands—his usual attitude when engaged in meditation after a hard day’s work.

“I wouldn’t mind so much,” he murmured, “if I only saw the faintest prospect of its coming to an end, but to go on thus from day to day, perhaps year to year, is terrible. No, that cannot be; if we cannot escape it won’t be long till the end comes. (A pause.) The end!—the end of a rope with a noose on it is likely to be my end, unless I burst up and run a-muck. No, no, Miles Milton, don’t you think of that! What good would it do to kill half-a-dozen Arabs to accompany you into the next world? The poor wretches are only defending their country after all. (Another pause.) Besides, you deserve what you’ve got for so meanly forsaking your poor mother; think o’ that, Miles, when you feel tempted to stick your lance into the Mahdi’s gizzard, as Molloy would have said. Ah! poor Molloy! I fear that I shall never see you again in this life. After giving the Mahdi and his steed such a tremendous heave they would be sure to kill you; perhaps they tortured you to—”

He stopped at this point with an involuntary shudder.

“I hope not,” he resumed, after another pause. “I hope we may yet meet and devise some means of escape. God grant it! True, the desert is vast and scorching and almost waterless—I may as well say foodless too! And it swarms with foes, but what then? Have not most of the great deeds of earth been accomplished in the face of what seemed insurmountable difficulties? Besides—”

He paused again here, and for a longer time, because there came suddenly into his mind words that had been spoken to him long ago by his mother: “With God all things are possible.”

“Yes, Miles,” he continued, “you must make up your mind to restrain your anger and indignation, because it is useless to give vent to them. That’s but a low motive after all. Is it worthy of an intelligent man? I get a slap in the face, and bear it patiently, because I can’t help myself. I get the same slap in the face in circumstances where I can help myself, and I resent it fiercely. Humble when I must be so; fierce when I’ve got the power. Is not this unmanly—childish—humbug? There is no principle here. Principle! I do believe I never had any principle in me worthy of the name. I have been drifting, up to this time, before the winds of caprice and selfish inclination. (A long pause here.) Well, it just comes to this, that whatever happens I must submit with a good grace—at least, as good grace as I can—and hope that an opportunity to escape may occur before long. I have made up my mind to do it—and when I once make up my mind, I—”

He paused once more at this point, and the pause was so long that he turned it into a full stop by laying his head on the block of wood which formed his pillow and going to sleep.

It will be seen from the above candid remarks that our hero was not quite as confident of his power of will as he used to be,—also, that he was learning a few useful facts in the school of adversity.

One evening, after a harder day than usual, Miles was conducted to the prison in which he and his companions had been confined on the day of their arrival.

Looking round the cell, he observed, on becoming accustomed to the dim light, that only one other prisoner was there. He was lying on the bare ground in a corner, coiled up like a dog, and with his face to the wall. Relieved to find that he was not to be altogether alone, Miles sat down with his back against the opposite wall, and awaited the waking of his companion with some interest, for although his face was not visible, and his body was clothed in a sort of sacking, his neck and lower limbs showed that he was a white man. But the sleeper did not seem inclined to waken just then. On the contrary, he began, ere long, to snore heavily.

Miles gradually fell into a train of thought that seemed to bring back reminiscences of a vague, indefinable sort. Then he suddenly became aware that the snore of the snorer was not unfamiliar. He was on the point of rising to investigate this when the sleeper awoke with a start, sat bolt upright with a look of owlish gravity, and presented the features of Jack Molloy.

“Miles, my lad!” cried Jack, springing up to greet his friend warmly, “I thought you was dead.”

“And, Jack, my dear friend,” returned Miles, “I thought—at least I feared—that you must have been tortured to death.”

“An’ you wasn’t far wrong, my boy. Stand close to me, and look me straight in the eyes. D’ee think I’m any taller?”

“Not much—at least, not to my perception. Why?”

“I wonder at that, now,” said Molloy, “for I’ve bin hanged three times, an’ should have bin pulled out a bit by this time, considering my weight.”

His friend smiled incredulously.

“You may laugh, lad, but it’s no laughin’ matter,” said Molloy, feeling his neck tenderly. “The last time, I really thought it was all up wi’ me, for the knot somehow got agin my windpipe an’ I was all but choked. If they had kep’ me up half a minute longer it would have bin all over: I a’most wished they had, for though I never was much troubled wi’ the narves, I’m beginnin’ now to have a little fellow-feelin’ for the sufferin’s o’ the narvish.”

“Do you really mean, my dear fellow, that the monsters have been torturing you in this way?” asked Miles, with looks of sympathy.

“Ay, John Miles, that’s just what I does mean,” returned the seaman, with an anxious and startled look at the door, on the other side of which a slight noise was heard at the moment. “They’ve half-hanged me three times already. The last time was only yesterday, an’ at any moment they may come to give me another turn. It’s the uncertainty o’ the thing that tries my narves. I used to boast that I hadn’t got none once, but the Arabs know how to take the boastin’ out of a fellow. If they’d only take me out to be hanged right off an’ done with it, I wouldn’t mind it so much, but it’s the constant tenter-hooks of uncertainty that floors me. Hows’ever, I ain’t quite floored yet. But let’s hear about yourself, Miles. Come, sit down. I gets tired sooner than I used to do since they took to hangin’ me. How have they bin sarvin’ you out since I last saw ye?”

“Not near so badly as they have been serving you, old boy,” said Miles, as he sat down and began to detail his own experiences.

“But tell me,” he added, “have you heard anything of our unfortunate comrades since we parted?”

“Nothing—at least nothing that I can trust to. I did hear that poor Moses Pyne is dead; that they had treated him the same as me, and that his narves couldn’t stand it; that he broke down under the strain an’ died. But I don’t believe it. Not that these Arabs wouldn’t kill him that way, but the interpreter who told me has got falsehood so plainly writ in his ugly face that I would fain hope our kind-hearted friend is yet alive.”

“God grant it may be so!” said Miles fervently. “And I scarcely think that even the cruellest of men would persevere in torturing such a gentle fellow as Moses.”

“May-hap you’re right,” returned Molloy; “anyhow, we’ll take what comfort we can out o’ the hope. Talkin’ o’ comfort, what d’ee think has bin comfortin’ me in a most wonderful way? You’ll never guess.”

“What is it, then?”

“One o’ them little books as Miss Robinson writes, and gives to soldiers and sailors—‘The Victory’ it’s called, havin’ a good deal in it about Nelson’s flagship and Nelson himself; but there’s a deal more than that in it—words that has gone straight to my heart, and made me see God’s love in Christ as I never saw it before. Our comrade Stevenson gave it to me before we was nabbed by the Arabs, an’ I’ve kep’ it in the linin’ o’ my straw hat ever since. You see it’s a thin little thing—though there’s oceans o’ truth in it—an’ it’s easy stowed away.

“I forgot all about it till I was left alone in this place, and then I got it out, an’ God in his marcy made it like a light in the dark to me.

“Stevenson came by it in a strange way. He told me he was goin’ over a battle-field after a scrimmage near Suakim, lookin’ out for the wounded, when he noticed somethin’ clasped in a dead man’s hand. The hand gripped it tight, as if unwillin’ to part with it, an’ when Stevenson got it he found that it was this little book, ‘The Victory.’ Here it is. I wouldn’t change it for a golden sov, to every page.”

As he spoke, footsteps were heard approaching the door. With a startled air Molloy thrust the book into its place and sprang up.

“See there, now!” he said remonstratively, “who’d ever ha’ thowt that I’d come to jerk about like that?”

Before the door opened, however, the momentary weakness had passed away, and our seaman stood upright, with stern brow and compressed lips, presenting to those who entered as firm and self-possessed a man of courage as one could wish to see.

“I knowed it!” he said in a quiet voice to his friend, as two strong armed men advanced and seized him, while two with drawn swords stood behind him. At the same time, two others stood guard over Miles. “They’re goin’ to give me another turn. God grant that it may be the last!”

“Yes—de last. You be surely dead dis time,” said the interpreter, with a malignant smile.

“If you hadn’t said it, I would have had some hope that the end was come!” said Molloy, as they put a rope round his neck and led him away.

“Good-bye, Miles,” he added, looking over his shoulder; “if I never come back, an’ you ever gets home again, give my kind regards to Miss Robinson—God bless her!”

Next moment the door closed, and Miles was left alone.

It is impossible to describe the state of mind in which our hero paced his cell during the next hour. The intense pity, mingled with anxiety and fierce indignation, that burned in his bosom were almost unbearable. “Oh!” he thought, “if I were only once more free, for one moment, with a weapon in my hand, I’d—”

He wisely checked himself in the train of useless thought at this point. Then he sat down on the floor, covered his face with his hands, and tried to pray, but could not. Starting up, he again paced wildly about the cell like a caged tiger. After what seemed to him an age he heard footsteps in the outer court. The door opened, and the sailor was thrust in. Staggering forward a step or two, he was on the point of falling when Miles caught him in his arms, and let him sink gently on the ground, and, sitting down beside him, laid his head upon his knee. From the inflamed red mark which encircled the seaman’s powerful neck, it was obvious enough that the cruel monsters had again put him to the tremendous mental agony of supposing that his last hour had come.

“Help me up, lad, and set my back agin the wall,” he said, in a low voice.

As Miles complied, one or two tears that would not be repressed fell from his eyes on the sailor’s cheek.

“You’re a good fellow,” said Molloy, looking up. “I thank the Lord for sendin’ you to comfort me, and I do need comfort a bit just now, d’ee know. There—I’m better a’ready, an’ I’ll be upside wi’ them next time, for I feels, somehow, that I couldn’t stand another turn. Poor Moses! I do hope that the interpreter is the liar he looks, and that they haven’t treated the poor fellow to this sort o’ thing.”

Even while he spoke, the door of the cell again opened and armed men entered.

“Ay, here you are,” cried the sailor, rising quickly and attempting to draw himself up and show a bold front. “Come away an’ welcome. I’m ready for ’ee.”

But the men had not come for Molloy. They wanted Miles, over whom there came a sudden and dreadful feeling of horror, as he thought they were perhaps going to subject him to the same ordeal as his friend.

“Keep up heart, lad, and trust in the Lord,” said the sailor, in an encouraging tone as they led our hero away.

The words were fitly spoken, and went far to restore to the poor youth the courage that for a moment had forsaken him. As he emerged into the bright light, which dazzled him after the darkness of his prison-house, he thought of the Sun of Righteousness, and of the dear mother who had sought so earnestly to lead him to God in his boyhood.

One thing that greatly encouraged him was the fact that no rope had been put round his neck, as had been done to Molloy, and he also observed that his guards did not treat him roughly. Moreover, they led him in quite a different direction from the open place where he well knew that criminals were executed. He glanced at the interpreter who marched beside him, and thought for a moment of asking him what might be his impending fate, but the man’s look was so forbidding that he forbore to speak.

Presently they stopped before a door, which was opened by a negro slave, and the guards remained outside while Miles and the interpreter entered. The court into which they were ushered was open to the sky, and contained a fountain in the centre, with boxes of flowers and shrubs around it. At the inner end of it stood a tall powerful Arab, leaning on a curved sword.

Miles saw at a glance that he was the same man whose life he had saved, and who had come so opportunely to the rescue of his friend Molloy. But the Arab gave him no sign of recognition. On the contrary, the glance which he bestowed on him was one of calm, stern indifference.

“Ask him,” he said at once to the interpreter, “where are the Christian dogs who were captured with him?”

“Tell him,” replied Miles, when this was translated, “that I know nothing about the fate of any of them except one.”

“Which one is that?”

“The sailor,” answered Miles.

“Where is he?”

“In the prison I have just left.”

“And you know nothing about the others?”

“Nothing whatever.”

The Arab seemed to ponder these replies for a few minutes. Then, turning to the interpreter, he spoke in a tone that seemed to Miles to imply the giving of some strict orders, after which, with a wave of his hand, and a majestic inclination of the head, he dismissed them.

Although there was little in the interview to afford encouragement, Miles nevertheless was rendered much more hopeful by it, all the more that he observed a distinct difference in the bearing of the interpreter towards him as they went out.

“Who is that?” he ventured to ask as he walked back to the prison.

“That is Mohammed, the Mahdi’s cousin,” answered the interpreter.

Miles was about to put some more questions when he was brought to a sudden stand, and rendered for the moment speechless by the sight of Moses Pyne—not bearing heavy burdens, or labouring in chains, as might have been expected, but standing in a shallow recess or niche in the wall of a house, busily engaged over a small brazier, cooking beans in oil, and selling the same to the passers-by!

“What you see?” demanded the interpreter.

“I see an old friend and comrade. May I speak to him?” asked Miles, eagerly.

You may,” answered the interpreter.

The surprise and joy of Moses when his friend slapped him on the shoulder and saluted him by name is not easily described.

“I am so glad to see you, old fellow!” he said, with sparkling eyes. “I thought you must be dead, for I’ve tried so often to find out what had become of you. Have some beans and oil?”

He dipped a huge ladleful out of the pot, as if he were going to administer a dose on the spot.

“No, thank you, Moses, I’m a prisoner. These are my guards. I wonder they have allowed me even to exchange a word with you. Must be quick. They told us you had been half-hanged till you were frightened to death.”

“They told you lies, then. I’ve been very well treated, but what troubles me is I can’t find out where any of our comrades have gone to.”

“I can tell only of one. Molloy is alive. I wish I could say he’s well. Of the others I’m as ignorant as yourself. But I’ve seen a friend who—”

At this point he was interrupted by the interpreter and told to move on, which he was fain to do with a cheery good-bye to Moses and a wave of the hand.

Arrived at the prison, he found that Molloy had been removed to a more comfortable room, into which he was also ushered, and there they were left alone together.

“D’you feel better now, my poor fellow?” asked Miles, when the door was shut.

“Better, bless you, yes! I feels far too well. They’ve given me a rare blow-out of beans an’ oil since you were taken off to be hanged, and I feels so strong that the next turn off won’t finish me! I could never have eaten ’em, thinkin’ of you, but, d’ee know, I was quite sure, from the way they treated you as you went out, that it warn’t to be hangin’ wi’ you this time. An’ when they putt me into this here room, an’ produced the beans an’ oil, I began to feel quite easy in my mind about you. It was the man that brought your marchin’ orders that told ’em to putt me here. D’ee know, lad, I can’t help feelin’ that a friend o’ some sort must have bin raised up to us.”

“You’re right, Jack, I have just seen the Arab whose life I saved and who saved yours! It’s very strange, too, that beans and oil should have been your fare to-day, for I have also seen Moses Pyne in the street, not half-an-hour since, cooking and selling beans and oil!”

“You don’t mean that?”

“Indeed I do. I’ve spoken to him.”

Sitting down on a stool—for they were promoted to a furnished apartment—Miles entered into an elaborate account of all that had befallen him since the hour that he had been taken out, as they both thought, to be hanged!

Chapter Twenty Seven.

In which Hopes and Fears rise and fall.

“There is a tide in the affairs of men,” undoubtedly, and the tide in the affairs of Miles Milton and his comrades appeared to have reached low-water at this time, for, on the day mentioned in the last chapter, it began to turn, and continued for a considerable time to rise.

The first clear evidence of the change was the “blow-out” of beans and oil, coupled with the change of prison. The next was the sudden appearance of the beans-and-oil-man himself.

“Why, I do believe—it’s—it’s Moses,” exclaimed Molloy, as his old comrade entered the prison. “Give us your flipper. Man alive! but I’m right glad to see you. We thought you was—let’s have a look at your neck. No; nothing there. I knowed as that interpreter was a liar. But what brings you here, lad? What mischief have ’ee bin up to?”

“That’s what puzzles myself, Jack,” said Moses, shaking hands warmly with Miles. “I’ve done nothing that I know of except sell beans and oil. It’s true I burned ’em sometimes a bit, but they’d hardly put a fellow in jail for that—would they? However, I’m glad they’ve done it, whatever the reason, seeing that it has brought us three together again. But, I say,” continued Moses, while a look of anxiety came over his innocent face, “what can have become of our other comrades?”

“You may well ask that, lad. I’ve asked the same question of myself for many a day, but have never bin able to get from myself a satisfactory answer. I’m wery much afeared that we’ll never see ’em again.”

It seemed almost to be a spring-tide in the affairs of the trio at that time, for while the seaman was speaking—as if to rebuke his want of faith—the door opened and their comrade Armstrong walked in.

For a few moments they were all rendered speechless! Then Miles sprang up, seized his friend by both shoulders, and gazed into his face; it was a very thin and careworn face at that time, as if much of the bloom of youth had been wiped from it for ever.

“Willie! Am I dreaming?” exclaimed Miles.

“If you are, so must I be,” replied his friend, “for when I saw you last you had not taken to half-nakedness as a costume!”

“Come now,” retorted Miles, “you have not much to boast of in that way yourself.”

“There you are wrong, Miles, for I have to boast that I made my garment myself. True, it’s only a sack, but I cut the hole in the bottom of it for my head with my own hand, and stitched on the short sleeves with a packing-needle. But, I say, what’s been the matter with Molloy? Have they been working you too hard, Jack?”

“No, Willum, no, I can’t exactly say that, but they’ve bin hangin’ me too hard. I’ll tell ’ee all about it in coorse o’ time. Man alive! but they have took the flesh off your bones somehow; let’s see—no, your neck’s all right. Must have bin some other way.”

“The way was simple enough,” returned the other. “When they separated us all at first, they set me to the hardest work they could find—to dig, draw water, carry burdens that a horse might object to, sweep, and clean up; in fact, everything and anything, and they’ve kep’ us hard at it ever since. I say us, because Rattlin’ Bill Simkin was set to help me after the first day, an’ we’ve worked all along together. Poor Simkin, there ain’t much rattle in him now, except his bones. I don’t know why they sent me here and not him. And I can’t well make out whether I’m sent here for extra punishment or as a favour!”

“Have you seen or heard anything of Stevenson?” asked Moses.

“I saw him once, about a week ago, staggering under a great log—whether in connection with house-builders or not I can’t tell. It was only for a minute, and I got a tremendous cut across the back with a cane for merely trying to attract his attention.”

The tide, it will be seen, had been rising pretty fast that afternoon. It may be said to have come in with a rush, when, towards evening, the door of their prison once more opened and Simkin with Stevenson were ushered in together, both clothed alike in an extemporised sack-garment and short drawers, with this difference, that the one wore a species of felt hat, the other a fez.

They were still in the midst of delighted surprise at the turn events seemed to be taking, when two men entered bearing trays, on which were six smoking bowls of beans and oil!

“Hallo! Moses, your business follows you even to prison,” exclaimed Molloy.

“True, Jack, and I’ll follow my business up!” returned Moses, sitting down on the ground, which formed their convenient table, and going to work.

We need scarcely say that his comrades were not slow to follow his example.

The tide may be said to have reached at least half-flood, if not more, when, on the following morning, the captives were brought out and told by the interpreter that they were to accompany a body of troops which were about to quit the place under the command of Mohammed, the Mahdi’s cousin.

“Does the Mahdi accompany us?” Miles ventured to ask.

“No. The Mahdi has gone to Khartoum,” returned the interpreter, who then walked away as if he objected to be further questioned.

The hopes which had been recently raised in the breasts of the captives to a rather high pitch were, however, somewhat reduced when they found that their supposed friend Mohammed treated them with cool indifference, did not even recognise them, and the disappointment was deepened still more when all of them, except Miles, were loaded with heavy burdens, and made to march among the baggage-animals as if they were mere beasts of burden. The savage warriors also treated them with great rudeness and contempt.

Miles soon found that he was destined to fill his old post of runner in front of Mohammed, his new master. This seemed to him unaccountable, for runners, he understood, were required only in towns and cities, not on a march. But the hardships attendant on the post, and the indignities to which he was subjected, at last convinced him that the Mahdi must have set the mind of his kinsman against him, and that he was now undergoing extra punishment as well as unique degradation.

The force that took the field on this occasion was a very considerable one—with what precise object in view was of course unknown to all except its chiefs, but the fact that it marched towards the frontiers of Egypt left no doubt in the mind of any one. It was a wild barbaric host, badly armed and worse drilled, but fired with a hatred of all Europeans and a burning sense of wrong.

“What think ye now, Miles?” asked Armstrong, as the captives sat grouped together in the midst of the host on the first night of their camping out in the desert.

“I think that everything seems to be going wrong,” answered Miles, in a desponding tone. “At first I thought that Mohammed was our friend, but he has treated me so badly that I can think so no longer.”

“Don’t you think he may be doing that to blind his followers as to his friendship?” said Moses; “for myself, I can’t help thinkin’ he must be grateful for what you did, Miles.”

“I only wish you had not touched my rifle that day,” said Rattling Bill, fiercely—being fatigued and out of temper—“for the blackguard would have bin in ‘Kingdom come’ by this time. There’s no gratitude in an Arab. I have no hope at all now.”

“My hope is in God,” said Stevenson.

“Well, mate, common-sense tells me that that should be our best ground of hope,” observed Molloy; “but common experience tells me that the Almighty often lets His own people come to grief.”

“God never lets ’em come to grief in the sense that you mean,” returned the marine. “If He kills His people, He takes them away from the evil to come, and death is but a door-way into glory. If he sends grief and suffering, it is that they may at last reach a higher state of joy.”

“Pooh! according to that view, nothing can go wrong with them that you call His people,” said Simkin, with contempt.

“Right you are, comrade,” rejoined Stevenson; “nothing can go wrong with us; nothing can separate us from the love of God which is in Christ Jesus our lord; and you may be one of ‘us’ this minute if you will accept God’s offer of free salvation in Christ.”

Silence followed, for Simkin was too angry, as well as worn out, to give his mind seriously to anything at that time, and the others were more or less uncertain as to the truth of what was advanced.

Sleep, profound and dreamless, soon banished these and all other subjects from their minds. Blessed sleep! so aptly as well as beautifully styled, “Tired Nature’s sweet restorer.” That great host of dusky warriors—some unquestionably devout, many cruel and relentless, not a few, probably, indifferent to everything except self, and all bent on the extermination of their white-skinned foes,—lay down beside their weapons, and shared in that rest which is sent alike to the just and to the unjust, through the grand impartiality, forbearance, and love of a God whom many people apparently believe to be a “respecter of persons!”

A few days later the little army came to the edge of a range of hills, beyond which lay the plains of the vast Nubian desert. At night they encamped at the base of the hill-country, through which they had been travelling, and the captives were directed to take up their position in front of an old ruined hut, where masses of broken stones and rubbish made the ground unsuitable for camping on.

“Just like them!” growled Simkin, looking about for a fairly level spot. “There’s not a place big enough for a dog to lie on!”

Supper made Rattling Bill a little more amiable, though not much more forgiving to his foes. A three-quarters moon soon afterwards shed a faint light on the host, which, except the sentries, was sound asleep.

Towards midnight a solitary figure moved slowly towards the place where the captives lay and awakened Miles, who sat up, stared, winked, and rubbed his eyes two or three times before he could bring himself to believe that his visitor was no other than the chief of the host—Mohammed!

“Rise. Com. I speak small Engleesh.”

Miles rose at once and followed the chief into the ruined hut.

“Clear de ground,” he said, pointing to the centre of the floor.

Our hero obeyed, and, when the loose rubbish was cleared away, the moonbeams, shining through the ruined roof, fell on a ring bolt. Being ordered to pull it, he raised a cover or trap-door, and discovered beneath what appeared to be a cellar.

“Now,” said Mohammed, “listen: you an’ friends go down—all. I shut door and cover up—rubsh. When we all go ’way, com out and go home. See, yonder is home.”

He pointed to the north-eastward, where a glowing star seemed to hang over the margin of the great level desert.

“You are generous—you are kind!” exclaimed Miles, with a burst of enthusiasm.

“Me grateful,” said Mohammed, extending his hand in European fashion, which Miles grasped warmly. “Go, wake you comerads. Tell what me say, and com quick!”

Miles was much too well-disciplined a soldier to hesitate, though he would have liked much to suggest that some of the troops might, before starting, take a fancy to explore the ruin, and to ask how long they should remain in the cellar before venturing out. Quietly awaking all his comrades, and drawing their surprised heads together, he whispered his tale in their wondering ears. After that they were quite prepared to act, and accompanied him noiselessly into the ruin.

“Is the cellar deep?” asked Miles, as he was about to descend.

“No; not deep.”

“But what about grub—whittles, meat, an’ water—you know,” said Molloy, with difficulty accommodating his words to a foreigner. “We’ll starve if we go adrift on the desert with nothin’ to eat or drink.”

“Here—food,” said Mohammed, unslinging a well-filled haversack from his shoulders and transferring it to those of the sailor. “Stop there,” he continued, pointing to the cellar, “till you hears guns—shoot—noise. I have make prep’rations! After that, silence. Then, com out, an’ go home.” Once again he pointed towards the glowing star in the north-east.

“Mohammed,” exclaimed Molloy, becoming suddenly impressed with the generous nature of the Arab’s action, “I don’t know as you’re a descendant o’ the Prophet, but I do know that you’re a brick. Give us your flipper before we part!”

With a grave expression of kindliness and humour the chief shook hands with the seaman. Then the captives all descended into the hole, which was not more than four feet deep, after which the Arab shut the trap, covered it as before with a little rubbish, and went away.

“Suppose he has bolted the door!” suggested Moses.

“Hold your tongue, man, and listen for the signal,” said Miles.

“I forget what he said the signal was to be,” observed Simkin.

“Guns—shoot—noise—after that silence!” said Armstrong. “It’s a queer signal.”

“But not difficult to recognise when we hear it,” remarked Miles.

The time seemed tremendously long as they sat there listening—the cellar was too low for them to stand—and they began to fancy that all kinds of horrible shapes and faces appeared in the intense darkness around them. When they listened intensely, kept silent, and held their breath, their hearts took to beating the drums of their ears, and when a sudden breath or sigh escaped it seemed as if some African monster were approaching from the surrounding gloom.

“Is that you, Simkin, that’s breathin’ like a grampus?” asked Molloy, after a long pause.

“I was just goin’ to ask you to stop snorin’,” retorted the soldier.

“Hush! There’s a shot!”

It was indeed a distant shot, followed immediately by several more. Then a rattle of musketry followed—nearer at hand.

Instantly, as if the earth had just given birth to them, the host of dusky warriors sprang up with yells of surprise and defiance, and, spear in hand, rushed in the direction of the firing. For a few minutes the listeners in the cellar heard as it had been a mighty torrent surging past the ruined hut. Gradually the force of the rush began to abate, while the yells and firing became more distant; at last all sounds ceased, and the listeners were again oppressed by the beating on the drums of their ears.

“They’re all gone—every mother’s son,” said Molloy at last, breaking the oppressive silence.

“That’s so,” said Rattling Bill; “up wi’ the trap, Miles. You’re under it, ain’t you? I’m suffocating in this hole.”

“I’m not under it. Molloy came down last,” said Miles.

“What if we can’t find it?” suggested Stevenson.

“Horrible!” said Moses, in a hoarse whisper, “and this may be a huge cavern, with miles of space around us, instead of a small cellar!”

“Here it is!” cried the sailor, making a heave with his broad back. “I say—it won’t move! Ah, I wasn’t rightly under it. Yo! heave-o!” Up went the door with a crash, and the soft moonlight streamed in upon them.

A few seconds more and they stood outside the hut—apparently the only living beings in all that region, which had been so full of human life but a few minutes before.

“Now we must lose no time in getting away from this place, and covering as much of the desert as we can during the night,” said Miles, “for it strikes me that we’ll have to lie quiet during the day, for fear of being seen and chased.”

They spoke together in whispers for a few minutes, deciding the course they meant to pursue. Then Molloy shouldered the provision bag, Miles grasped his official lance—the only weapon they had among them,—and off they set on their journey across the desert, like a ship entering on an unknown sea, without the smallest idea of how far they were from the frontier of Egypt, and but a vague notion of the direction in which they ought to go.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

A Horrible Situation.

All that night our fugitives walked steadily in the direction of their guiding-star, until the dawn of day began to absorb its light. Then they selected a couple of prominent bushes on the horizon, and, by keeping these always in their relative positions, were enabled to shape their course in what they believed to be the right direction. By repeating the process continuously they were enabled to advance in a fairly straight line.

Molloy, as we have said, carried the provision bag, and, although it was a very heavy one, he refused to let his comrades relieve him of it until breakfast-time. Then it was discovered that inside of the large bag there were rolled tight up four smaller bags with shoulder-straps to them.

“A knowin’ feller that Mohammed is,” said Jack Molloy, as he handed a bag to each; “he understands how to manage things. Let’s see what sort o’ grub he has. Corn-cakes, I do believe, an’ dates, or some sort o’ dried fruit, an’—water-bottles! well, that is a comfort. Now then, boys, go ahead. We can’t afford to waste time over our meals.”

The others so thoroughly agreed with their friend on this point that they began to eat forthwith, almost in silence. Then, the provisions having been distributed, they resumed their march, which was almost a forced one, so anxious were they to get as far away as possible from the Arab army.

Coming to a large mimosa bush in the course of the morning they halted and sat down to rest a little, and hold what the sailor called a “palaver.”

“You see, boys,” he said, “it’ll be of no manner of use our scuddin’ away before the wind under a press o’ canvas like this, without some settled plan—”

“Ain’t our plan to git away from the Arabs as fast as we can?” said Moses Pyne, who sat on a stone at the sailor’s feet.

“Yes, Moses, but that’s only part of it,” returned Molloy. “We must keep away as well as get away—an’ that won’t be quite so easy, for the country is swarmin’ wi’ the dark-skinned rascals, as the many tracks we have already passed shows us. If we was to fall in wi’ a band of ’em—even a small one—we would be took again for sartin’, for we’ve got nothin’ to fight wi’ but our fists.”

“These would offer but poor resistance to bullet and steel,” said Armstrong, “and that lance you’re so fond of, Miles, wouldn’t be worth much.”

“Not much,” admitted Miles, surveying the badge of his late office, “but better than nothing.”

“What if the Arabs should change their course and fall in with us again?” asked Moses.

“No fear o’ that, seein’ that Mohammed himself gave us our sailin’ orders, an’ laid our course for us; but it would never do to fall in wi’ other bands, so I proposes that we cast anchor where we are, for there’s pretty good holdin’ ground among them bushes, keep quiet all day, an’ travel only at night. I’ve got the krect bearin’s just now, so w’en the stars come out we’ll be able to fix on one layin’ in the right direction, and clap on all sail, slow and aloft—stu’n s’ls, sky-scrapers, an’ all the rest on it.”

“A good plan, Jack,” said Armstrong, “but what if it should come cloudy and blot out the stars?”

“Besides,” added Miles, “you forget that men of the desert are skilled in observing signs and in following tracks. Should any of them pass near this little clump of bushes, and observe our footsteps going towards it, they will at once come to see if we are still here.”

Molloy put his head on one side and looked perplexed for a moment.

“Never mind. Let ’em come,” he said, with a sudden look of sagacity, “we’ll circumwent ’em. There’s nothin’ like circumwention w’en you’ve got into a fix. See here. We’ll dig a hole in a sandbank big enough to hold us all, an’ we’ll cut a big bush an’ stick it in front of the hole so as they’ll never see it. We can keep a bright look-out, you know, an’ if anything heaves in sight on the horizon, down we go into the hole, stick up the bush, an there you are—all safe under hatches till the enemy clears off.”

“But they will trace our footsteps up to the hole or the bush,” said Miles, “and wonder why they can trace them no further. What then?”

Again the seaman fell into perplexed meditation, out of which he emerged with a beaming smile.

“Why, then, my lad, we’ll bamboozle ’em. There’s nothin’ like bamboozlement w’en circumwention fails. Putt the two together an’ they’re like a hurricane in the tropics, carries all before it! We’ll bamboozle ’em by runnin’ for an hour or two all over the place, so as no mortal man seein’ our footprints will be able to tell where we comed from, or what we’ve bin a-doin’ of.”

“You don’t know the men of the desert, Jack,” rejoined Miles, with a laugh. “They’d just walk in a circle round the place where you propose to run about and bamboozle them, till they found where our tracks entered this bit of bush. Then, as they’d see no tracks leaving it, of course they’d know that we were still there. D’you see?”

“That’s a puzzler for you, Jack,” remarked Moses, as he watched the perplexed expression looming up again like a cloud on the sailor’s face.

“By no manner o’ means,” retorted Molloy, with sudden gravity. “I sees my way quite clear out o’ that. You remember the broad track, not half a mile off from where we now sit?”

“Yes; made I suppose by a pretty big band o’ some sort crossin’ the desert,” said Moses.

“Well, lad, arter runnin’ about in the bush to bamboozle of ’em, as aforesaid, we’ll march back to that track on the sou’-west’ard—as it may be—an’ then do the same on the nor’-west’ard—so to speak—an’ so lead ’em to suppose we was a small party as broke off, or was sent off, from the main body to reconnoitre the bit o’ bush, an’ had rejoined the main body further on. That’s what I call circumwentin’, d’ee see?”

While this palaver was going on, Stevenson and Bill Simkin were standing a short way off taking observation of something in the far distance. In a few minutes they ran towards their comrades with the information that a band of men were visible on the horizon, moving, they thought, in an opposite direction to their line of march.

“It may be so,” said Miles, after a brief survey, “but we can’t be sure. We must put part of your plan in force anyhow, Jack Molloy. Away into the scrub all of you, and stoop as you go.”

In saying this, our hero, almost unintentionally, took command of the little party, which at once tacitly accorded him the position. Leading them—as every leader ought—he proceeded to the centre of the clump of bushes, where, finding a natural hollow or hole in the sand, at the root of a mimosa bush, three of them went down on hands and knees to scoop it out deeper, while the others cut branches with Molloy’s clasp-knife.

Using flat stones, chips of wood, and hands as shovels, they managed to dig out a hole big enough to conceal them all, the opening to which was easily covered by a mass of branches.

It is doubtful whether this ingenious contrivance would have availed them, if “men of the desert” had passed that way, but fortune favoured them. The band, whether friends or foes, passed far off to the westward, leaving them to enjoy their place of fancied security.

To pass the first day there was not difficult. The novelty of the position was great; the interest of the thing immense. Indefinite hopes of the future were strong, and they had plenty to say and speculate about during the passing hours. When night came, preparation was made for departure. The provision bags were slung, a moderate sip of water indulged in, and they set forth, after a very brief prayer by Stevenson, that God would guide them safely on their way. There was no formality in that prayer. The marine did not ask his comrades to kneel or to agree with him. He offered it aloud, in a few seconds, in the name of Jesus, leaving his hearers to join him or not as they pleased.

“See that you lay your course fair now, Molloy,” said Miles, as they sallied out upon the darkening plain.

“Trust me, lad, I’ve taken my bearin’s.”

It was very dark the first part of the night, as the moon did not rise till late, but there was quite enough light to enable them to proceed with caution, though not enough to prevent their taking an occasional bush or stump for an advancing foe. All went well, however, until dawn the following morning, when they began to look about for a suitable clump of bushes in which to conceal themselves. No such spot could they find.

“Never mind, lads,” said the inexhaustible Molloy, “we’ll just go on till we find a place. We’re pretty tough just now, that’s one comfort.”

They were indeed so tough that they went the whole of that day, with only one or two brief halts to feed. Towards evening, however, they began to feel wearied, and, with one consent, determined to encamp on a slight eminence a short way in advance, the sides of which were covered with low scrub.

As they approached the spot an unpleasant odour reached them. It became worse as they advanced. At last, on arriving, they found to their surprise and horror that the spot had been a recent battle-field, and was strewn with corpses and broken weapons. Some days must have elapsed since the fight which strewed them there, for the bodies had been all stripped, and many of them were partially buried, while others had been hauled half out of their graves by those scavengers of the desert, hyenas and vultures.

“Impossible to halt here,” said Armstrong. “I never witness a sight like this that it does not force on me the madness of warfare! What territorial gain can make up for these lost lives—the flower of the manhood of both parties?”

“But what are we to do?” objected Molloy. “Men must defend their rights!”

“Not necessarily so,” said Stevenson. “Men have to learn to bear and forbear.”

“I have learned to take advantage of what luck throws in my way,” said Rattling Bill, picking up a rifle which must have escaped the observation of the plunderers who had followed the army.

The body of the poor fellow who had owned it was found concealed under a bush not far off. He was an English soldier, and a very brief inspection showed that the battle had been fought by a party of British and Egyptian troops against the Soudanese.

It seemed as if the plunderers had on this occasion been scared from their horrible work before completing it, for after a careful search they found rifles with bayonets, and pouches full of ammunition, more than sufficient to arm the whole party.

“There are uniforms enough, too, to fit us all out,” said Simkin, as they were about to leave the scene of slaughter.

“No dead men’s clo’es for me,” said Moses Pyne, with a shrug of disgust.

Jack Molloy declared that he had become so used to loose cotton drawers, and an easy-fittin’ sack, that for his part he had no desire to go back to civilised costume! and as the rest were of much the same opinion, no change was made in the habiliments of the party, except that each appropriated a pair of boots, and Miles exchanged his green tippet for a flannel shirt and a pith helmet. He also took a revolver, with some difficulty, from the dead hand of a soldier, and stuck it in his belt.

Thus improved in circumstances, they gladly quitted the ghastly scene, and made for a bushy hillock a few hundred yards in advance.

On the way they were arrested by the sound of distant firing.

“Mohammed must have met our countrymen!” exclaimed Molloy, with excited looks, as they halted to listen.

“It may be so, but there are other bands about besides his,” said Miles. “What’s that? a cheer?”

“Ay, a British cheer in the far distance, replied to by yells of defiance.” Molloy echoed the cheer in spite of his better judgment.

“Let’s run an’ jine ’em!” he exclaimed.

“Come along, then!” cried Miles, with the ardour of inexperienced youth.

“Stop! are ye mad?” cried Stevenson. “Don’t it stand to reason that the enemy must be between us an’ Suakim? and that’s the same as sayin’ they’re between us an’ our friends. Moreover, the cheerin’ proves that our side must be gettin’ the best of it, an’ are drivin’ the enemy this way, so all we’ve got to do is to hide on that hillock an’ bide our time.”

“Right you are, comrade,” cried Rattling Bill, examining his cartridges, and asserting with an oath that nothing would afford him greater pleasure than a good hand-to-hand fight with the black, (and something worse), scoundrels.

“Don’t swear at your enemies, Simkin,” said the marine quietly; “but when you get the chance fire low!”

Agreeing with Stevenson’s advice to “bide their time,” the little band was soon on the top of the hillock, and took up the best position for defending the place, also for observing the fight, which, they could now see, was drawing gradually nearer to them.

They were not kept waiting long, for the natives were in full flight, hotly pursued by the English and Indian cavalry. A slight breeze blowing from the north carried not only the noise, but soon the smoke of the combat towards them. As they drew nearer a large detachment of native spearmen was seen to make for the hillock, evidently intending to make a stand there.

“Now comes our turn,” said Armstrong, examining the lock of his rifle to see that all was right.

“‘England expec’s every man,’ etceterer,” said Molloy, with a glance at Miles. “Capting, you may as well let us know your plans, so as we may work together.”

Miles was not long in making up his mind.

“You’ll fire at first by command,” he said quickly, but decidedly; “then down on your faces flat, and load. After that wait for orders. When it comes to the push—as it’s sure to do at last—we’ll stand back to back and do our best. God help us to do it well! Don’t hurry, boys—especially in square. Let every shot tell.”

He had barely concluded this brief address when the yelling savages reached the hillock. Miles could even see the gleaming of their teeth and eyes, and the blood of the slightly wounded coursing down their black skins as they rushed panting towards the place where he and his little party were crouching. Then he gave the word: “Ready—present!”

The smoke, fire, and death to the leading men, which belched from the bushes, did not check the rush for more than a moment. And even that check was the result of surprise more than fear. A party of those Arabs who were armed with rifles instantly replied, but the bullets passed harmlessly over the prostrate men.

Again the voice of Miles was heard: “Ready—present!” and again the leading men of the enemy fell, but the rushing host only divided, and swept round the hillock, so as to take it on both sides at once.

“Now—form square! and pick each man,” cried Miles, springing up and standing back to back with Armstrong. Molloy stood shoulder to shoulder with him and backed Bill Simkin, while Stevenson did the same for Moses Pyne. The bushes did not rise much above their waists, and as the dusky host suddenly beheld the knot of strange-looking men, whose bristling bayonets glistened in the setting sunshine, and whose active rifles were still dealing death among their ranks, they dashed at the hill-top with a yell of mingled rage and surprise. Another moment and spearmen were dancing round the little square like incarnate fiends, but the white men made no sound. Each confined himself to two acts—namely, load and fire—and at every shot a foremost savage fell, until the square became encircled with dead men.

Another moment and a party of Arab riflemen ran to the front and took aim. Just then a tremendous cheer was heard. The defenders of the hillock made a wild reply, which was drowned in a furious fusillade. The entire savage host seemed to rush over the spot, sweeping all before it, while smoke rolled after them as well as lead and fire. In the midst of the hideous turmoil, Miles received a blow which shattered his left wrist. Grasping his rifle with his right hand he laid about him as best he could. Next moment a blow on the head from behind stretched him senseless on the ground.

The return of our hero to consciousness revealed to him that he was still lying on the battle-field, that it was night, and that an intolerable weight oppressed his chest. This last was caused by a dead native having fallen across him. On trying to get rid of the corpse he made the further discovery that nearly all his strength was gone, and that he could scarcely move his right arm, although it was free, and, as far as he could make out, unwounded. Making a desperate effort, he partially relieved himself, and, raising his head, tried to look round. His ears had already told him that near to him wounded men were groaning away the little of life that remained to them; he now saw that he was surrounded by heaps of dead men. Excepting the groans referred to, the night was silent, and the moon shone down on hundreds of up-turned faces—the bloodless grey of the black men contrasting strangely with the deadly pallor of the white, all quiet and passionless enough now—here and there the head of a warrior resting peacefully on the bosom or shoulder of the foe who had killed him!

A slight noise on his right caused Miles to turn his head in that direction, where he saw a wounded comrade make feeble efforts to raise himself, and then fall back with a deep groan. In other circumstances our hero would have sprung to his assistance, but at that moment he felt as if absolutely helpless; indeed, he was nearly so from loss of blood. He made one or two efforts to rise, but the weight of the dead man held him down, and after a few brief attempts he fainted.

Recovering again, he looked round, attracted by the sound of a struggle on his right. One of those fiends in human form, the plunderers of a battle-field, had, in his ghoulish progress, come across the wounded man who lay close to Miles, and the man was resisting him. The other put a quick end to the strife by drawing a knife across the throat of the poor fellow. A horror of great darkness seemed to overwhelm Miles as he saw the blood gush in a deluge from the gaping wound. He tried to shout, but, as in a nightmare, he could neither speak nor move.

As the murderer went on rifling his victim, Miles partially recovered from his trance of horror, and anxiety for his own life nerved him to attempt action of some sort. He thought of the revolver for the first time at that moment, and the remembrance seemed to infuse new life into him. Putting his right hand to his belt, he found it there, but drew it with difficulty. Doubting his power to discharge it by means of the trigger alone, he made a desperate effort and cocked it.

The click made the murderer start. He raised himself and looked round. Our hero shut his eyes and lay perfectly still. Supposing probably that he must have been mistaken, the man resumed his work. Miles could have easily shot him where he kneeled if he had retained power to lift his arm and take an aim. As it was, he had strength only to retain the weapon in his grasp.

After a short time, that seemed an age to the helpless watcher, the murderer rose and turned his attention to another dead man, but passing him, came towards Miles, whose spirit turned for one moment to God in an agonising prayer for help. The help came in the form of revived courage. Calm, cool, firm self-possession seemed to overbear all other feelings. He half closed his eyes as the murderer approached, and gently turned the muzzle of the revolver upwards. He even let the man bend over him and look close into his face to see if he were dead, then he pulled the trigger.

Miles had aimed, he thought, at the man’s breast, but the bullet entered under his chin and went crashing into his brain. A gush of warm blood spouted over Miles’s face as the wretch plunged over him, head first, and fell close by his side. He did not die at once. The nature of the ground prevented Miles from seeing him, but he could hear him gradually gasp his life away.

A few minutes later and footsteps were heard ascending the hillock. Miles grasped his revolver with a hand that now trembled from increasing weakness, but he was by that time unable to put the weapon on full cock. Despair had well-nigh seized him, when a familiar voice was heard.

“This way, lads. I’m sure it was hereabouts that I saw the flash.”

“Macleod!” gasped Miles, as the big Scotsman was about to pass.

“Losh me! John Miles, is that you? Are ye leevin?”

“Scarcely!” was all that the poor youth could utter ere he became again insensible.

A fatigue party tramped up with a stretcher at the moment. Macleod with a handkerchief checked the ebbing tide of life, and they bore away from the bloody field what seemed little more than the mortal remains of poor Miles Milton.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Describes a few Meetings and several Surprises.

The fight described in the last chapter was only one of the numerous skirmishes that were taking place almost daily near Suakim at that time. But it turned out to be a serious occasion to our hero, for it cost him one of his hands, and put an end to his soldiering days for ever.

On being taken to the British lines the surgeons saw at once that amputation a little above the wrist was absolutely necessary. Of course Miles—although overwhelmed with dismay on hearing the fiat of the doctors—could offer no objection. With the informal celerity of surgical operations as practised in the field, the shattered limb was removed, and almost before he could realise the full significance of what was being done our poor hero was minus his left hand! Besides this, he was so cut and battered about, that most of his hair had to be cut off, and his head bandaged and plastered so that those of his old comrades who chanced to be with the troops at the time could recognise him only by his voice. Even that was scarcely audible when he was carried into Suakim.

At this time the hospitals at Suakim were overcrowded to such an extent that many of the wounded and invalids had to be sent on by sea to Suez and the hospitals at Ramleh. Miles was sent on along with these, and finally found rest at Alexandria.

And great was the poor fellow’s need of rest, for, besides the terrible sufferings and hardships he had endured while in captivity, the wounds and bruises, the loss of blood and of his left hand, and the fatigue of the voyage, his mind was overwhelmed by the consideration that even if he should recover he was seriously maimed for life. In addition to all this suffering, Miles, while at Suakim, had received a blow which well-nigh killed him. A letter came informing him of the sudden death of his father, and bitter remorse was added to his misery as he lay helpless in his cot on the Red Sea.

The consequent depression, acting on his already exhausted powers after he reached Alexandria, brought him to the verge of the grave. Indeed, one of the nurses said one day to one of her fellows, with a shake of her head, “Ah! poor fellow, he won’t last long!”

“Won’t he!” thought Miles, with a feeling of strong indignation. “Much you know about it!”

You see Miles possessed a tendency to abstract reasoning, and could meditate upon his own case without, so to speak, much reference to himself! His indignation was roused by the fact that any one, calling herself a nurse, should be so stupid as to whisper beside a patient words that he should not hear. He did not know that the nurse in question was a new one—not thoroughly alive to her duties and responsibilities. Strange to say, her stupidity helped to render her own prophecy incorrect, for the indignation quickened the soldier’s feeble pulse, and that gave him a fillip in the right direction.

The prostration, however, was very great, and for some time the life of our hero seemed to hang by a thread. During this dark period the value of a godly mother’s teaching became deeply impressed on him, by the fact that texts from God’s Word, which had been taught him in childhood, and which he seemed to have quite forgotten, came trooping into his mind, and went a long way to calm and comfort him. He dwelt with special pleasure on those that told of love and mercy in Jesus to the thankless and undeserving; for, now that strength, health, and the high hopes of a brilliant career were shattered at one blow, his eyes were cleared of life’s glamour to see that in his existence hitherto he had been ungodly—not in the sense of his being much worse than ordinary people, but in the sense of his being quite indifferent to his Maker, and that his fancied condition of not-so-badness would not stand the test of a dying hour.

About this time, too, he became desperately anxious to write to his mother, not by dictation, but with his own hand. This being impossible in the circumstances, he began to fret, and his power to sleep at length failed him. Then a strange desire to possess a rose seized him—perhaps because he knew it to be his mother’s favourite flower. Whatever the cause, the longing increased his insomnia, and as he did not say, perhaps did not know, that the want of a rose had anything to do with his complaint, no one at first thought of procuring one for him.

He was lying meditating, wakefully, about many things one day when one of the nurses approached his bed. He did not see her at first, because his head was so swathed in bandages that only one eye was permitted to do duty, and that, as Molloy might have said, was on the lee-side of his nose—supposing the side next the nurse to represent the wind’ard side!

“I have been laid up a long time,” said a lady, who accompanied the nurse, “and have been longing to resume my visits here, as one or two patients whom I used to nurse are still in hospital.”

The heart of Miles gave a bound such as it had not attempted since the night he witnessed the murder on the battle-field, for the voice was that of Mrs Drew.

“This is one of our latest arrivals,” remarked the nurse, lowering her voice as they advanced. “A poor young soldier—lost a hand and badly wounded—can’t sleep. He has taken a strange longing of late for a rose, and I have asked a friend to fetch one for him.”

“How lucky that we happen to have one with us!” said Mrs Drew, looking back over her shoulder where her daughter stood, concealed from view by her ample person. “Marion, dear, will you part with your rose-bud to a wounded soldier?”

“Certainly, mother, I will give it him myself.”

She stepped quickly forward, and looked sadly at the solitary, glowing eye which gazed at her, as she unfastened a rose-bud from her bosom. It was evident that she did not recognise Miles, and no wonder, for, besides the mass of bandages from out of which his one eye glowed, there was a strip of plaster across the bridge of his nose, a puffy swelling in one of the cheeks, and the handsome mouth and chin were somewhat veiled by a rapidly developing moustache and beard.

Miles did not speak—he could not speak; he scarcely dared to breathe as the girl placed a red rose-bud in his thin hand. His trembling fingers not only took the rose, but the hand that gave it, and pressed it feebly to his lips.

With a few words of comfort and good wishes the ladies passed on. Then Miles drew the rose down under the bed-clothes, put it to his lips, and, with a fervently thankful mind, fell into the first profound slumber that he had enjoyed for many days.

This was a turning-point. From that day Miles began to mend. He did not see Marion again for some time, for her visit had been quite incidental, but he was satisfied to learn that she was staying at the Institute with her mother, assisting the workers there. He wisely resolved to do and say nothing at that time, but patiently to wait and get well, for he had a shrewd suspicion that to present himself to Marion under existing circumstances would be, to say the least, injudicious.

Meanwhile, time, which “waits for no man,” passed on. As Miles became stronger he began to go about the hospital, chatting with the convalescent patients and trying to make himself generally useful. On one of these occasions he met with a man who gave him the sorrowful news that Sergeant Hardy was dead, leaving Miles his executor and residuary legatee. He also learned, to his joy, that his five comrades, Armstrong, Molloy, Stevenson, Moses, and Simkin, had escaped with their lives from the fight on the hillock where he fell, and that, though all were more or less severely wounded, they were doing well at Suakim. “Moreover,” continued his informant, “I expect to hear more about ’em to-night, for the mail is due, and I’ve got a brother in Suakim.”

That night not only brought news of the five heroes, but also brought themselves, for, having all been wounded at the same time, all had been sent to Alexandria together. As they were informed at Suakim that their comrade Miles had been invalided home, they did not, of course, make further inquiry about him there.

While they stayed there, awaiting the troop-ship which was to take them home, they made Miss Robinson’s Institute their constant rendezvous, for there they not only found all the comforts of English life, but the joy of meeting with many old comrades, not a few of whom were either drawn, or being drawn, to God by the influences of the place.

It chanced that at the time of their arrival Mrs Drew and her daughter had gone to visit an English family living in the city, and did not for several days return to the Institute; thus the invalids failed to meet their lady friends at first. But about this time there was announced a source of attraction in the large hall which brought them together. This attraction—which unites all creeds and classes and nationalities in one great bond of sympathy—we need hardly say was music! A concert was to take place in the great hall of the Institute for some local charity, we believe, but are not sure, at which the élite of Alexandria was expected, and the musical talent of Alexandria was to perform—among others the band of the somethingth Regiment. And let us impress on you, reader, that the band of the somethingth Regiment was something to be proud of!

This brought numerous friends to the “Officers’ House,” and great numbers of soldiers and Jack-tars to the various rooms of the Institute.

In one of these rooms, towards evening, our friend Stevenson was engaged, at the request of the Superintendent, in relating to a number of earnest-minded men a brief account of the wonderful experiences that he and his comrades had recently had in the Soudan, and Jack Molloy sat near him, emphasising with a nod of his shaggy head, or a “Right you are, messmate,” or a slap on his thigh, all the marine’s points, especially those in which his friend, passing over second causes, referred all their blessings and deliverances direct to his loving God and Father. In another room a Bible-reading was going on, accompanied by prayer and praise. In the larger rooms, tea, coffee, etcetera, were being consumed to an extent that “no fellow can understand,” except those who did it! Games and newspapers and illustrated magazines, etcetera, were rife elsewhere, while a continuous roar, rather the conventional “buzz,” of conversation was going on everywhere. But, apparently, not a single oath in the midst of it all! The moral atmosphere of the place was so pure that even bad men respected—perhaps approved—it.

Just before the hour of the concert our friends, the five invalids, sat grouped round a table near the door. They were drinking tea, and most of them talking with tremendous animation—for not one of them had been wounded in the tongue! Indeed it did not appear that any of them had been very seriously wounded anywhere.

While they were yet in the midst of their talk two lady-workers came down the long room, followed by two other ladies in deep mourning, the younger of whom suddenly sprang towards our quintet, and, clasping her hands, stood speechless before them, staring particularly at Jack Molloy, who returned the gaze with interest.

“Beg pard’n, Miss Drew,” exclaimed the sailor, starting up in confusion, and pulling his forelock, “but you’ve hove me all aback!”

“Mr Molloy!” gasped Marion, grasping his hand and looking furtively round, “is it possible? Have you all escaped? Is—is—”

“Yes, Miss, we’ve all escaped, thank God, an’ we’re all here—’cept John Miles, in coorse, for he’s bin invalided home—”

“He’s no more invalided home than yourself, Jack,” said a seaman, who was enjoying his coffee at a neighbouring table; “leastwise I seed John Miles myself yesterday in hospital wi’ my own two eyes, as isn’t apt to deceive me.”

“Are ye sure o’ that, mate?” cried Molloy, turning in excitement to the man, and totally forgetting Marion.

“Mother, let us go out!” whispered the latter, leaning heavily on Mrs Drew’s arm.

They passed out to the verandah—scarcely observed, owing to the excitement of the quintet at the sailor’s news—and there she would have fallen down if she had not been caught in the arms of a soldier who was advancing towards the door.

“Mr Miles!” exclaimed Mrs Drew, as she looked up in amazement at the scarred and worn face.

“Ay, Mrs Drew, through God’s mercy I am here. But help me: I have not strength to carry her now.”

Marion had nearly fainted, and was led with the assistance of her mother to a retired part of the garden, and placed in an easy-chair. Seeing that the girl was recovering, the other ladies judiciously left them, and Miles explained to the mother, while she applied smelling-salts to Marion, that he had come on purpose to meet them, hoping and expecting that they would be attracted to the concert, like all the rest of the world, though he had scarcely looked for so peculiar a meeting!

“But how did you know we were here at all?” asked Mrs Drew in surprise.

“I saw you in the hospital,” replied Miles, with a peculiar look. “Your kind daughter gave me a rose!”

He pointed as he spoke to a withered bud which was fastened to his coat.

“But—but—that young man had lost his hand; the nurse told us so,” exclaimed Mrs Drew, with a puzzled look.

Miles silently pointed to the handless arm which hung at his left side.

Marion had turned towards him with a half-frightened look. She now leaned back in her chair and covered her face with both hands.

“Mr Miles,” said the wise old lady, with a sudden and violent change of subject, “your friends Armstrong and Molloy are in the Institute at this moment waiting for you!”

Our hero needed no second hint. Next minute he dashed into the entrance hall, with wonderful vigour for an invalid, for he heard the bass voice of Molloy exclaiming—

“I don’t care a button, leave or no leave, I’ll make my way to John Mi— Hallo!”

The “Hallo!” was caused by his being rushed into by the impetuous Miles with such force that they both staggered.

“Why, John, you’re like the ram of an iron-clad! Is it really yourself? Give us your flipper, my boy!”

But the flipper was already in that of Willie Armstrong, while the others crowded round him with congratulations.

“Wot on airth’s all the noise about in that there corner?” exclaimed a Jack-tar, who was trying hard to tell an interminable story to a quiet shipmate in spite of the din.

“It’s only that we’ve diskivered our captin,” cried Molloy, eager to get any one to sympathise.

“Wot captin’s that?” growled the Jack-tar.

“Why, him as led us on the hillock, to be sure, at Suakim.”

When acts of heroism and personal prowess are of frequent occurrence, deeds of daring are not apt to draw general attention, unless they rise above the average. The “affair of the hillock,” however, as it got to be called, although unnoticed in despatches, or the public prints, was well-known among the rank and file who did the work in those hot regions. When, therefore, it became known that the six heroes, who had distinguished themselves on that hillock, were present, a great deal of interest was exhibited. This culminated when a little man rushed suddenly into the room, and, with a wild “hooroo!” seized Molloy round the waist—he wasn’t tall enough to get him comfortably by the neck—and appeared to wrestle with him.

“It’s Corporal Flynn—or his ghost!” exclaimed Molloy.

“Sure an’ it’s both him an’ his ghost togither!” exclaimed the corporal, shaking hands violently all round.

“I thought ye was sent home,” said Moses.

“Niver a bit, man; they tell awful lies where you’ve come from. I wouldn’t take their consciences as a gift. I’m as well as iver, and better; but I’m goin’ home for all that, to see me owld grandmother. Ye needn’t laugh, you spalpeens. Come, three cheers, boys, for the ‘heroes o’ the hillock!’”

Most heartily did the men there assembled respond to this call, and then the entire assembly cleared off to the concert, with the exception of Miles Milton. “He,” as Corporal Flynn knowingly observed, “had other fish to fry.” He fried these fish in company with Mrs and Marion Drew; but as the details of this culinary proceeding were related to us in strict confidence, we refuse to divulge them, and now draw the curtain down on the ancient land of Egypt.

Chapter Thirty.

Conclusion.

Once more we return to the embarkation jetty at Portsmouth.

There, as of old, we find a huge, white-painted troop-ship warping slowly in, her bulwarks and ports crowded with white helmets, and eager faces gazing at the equally eager but anxious faces on shore.

Miss Robinson’s coffee-shed shows signs of life! Our friend Brown is stimulating the boiler. The great solitary port-hole has been opened, and the never-failing lady-workers are there, preparing their ammunition and getting ready for action, for every troop-ship that comes to Portsmouth from foreign shores, laden with the bronzed warriors of Britain, has to face the certainty of going into action with that unconquerable little coffee-shed!

We do not, however, mean to draw the reader again through the old scene, further than to point out that, among the many faces that loom over these bulwarks, five are familiar, namely, those of our friends Miles Milton, William Armstrong, Moses Pyne, Stevenson, and Simkin. Jack Molloy is not with them, because he has preferred to remain in Egypt, believing himself to be capable of still further service to Queen and country.

A feeling of great disappointment oppresses Miles and his friend Armstrong, for they fail to recognise in the eager crowd those whom they had expected to see.

“My mother must be ill,” muttered Miles.

“So must my Emmy,” murmured his friend.

There was a very anxious little widow on the jetty who could not manage to distinguish individuals in the sea of brown faces and white helmets, because the tears in her eyes mixed them all up most perplexingly. It is not surprising that Miles had totally failed to recognise the mother of old in the unfamiliar widow’s weeds—especially when it is considered that his was a shrinking, timid mother, who kept well in the background of the demonstrative crowd. Their eyes met at last, however, and those of the widow opened wide with surprise at the change in the son, while those of the son were suddenly blinded with tears at the change in the mother.

Then they met—and such a meeting!—in the midst of men and women, elbowing, crowding, embracing, exclaiming, rejoicing, chaffing, weeping! It was an awkward state of things, but as every one else was in the same predicament, and as all were more or less swallowed up in their own affairs, Miles and his mother were fain to make the best of it. They retired under the partial shelter of a bulkhead, where block-tackles and nautical débris interfered with their footing, and tarry odours regaled their noses, and there, in semi-publicity, they interchanged their first confidences.

Suddenly Mrs Milton observed a tall young fellow standing not far off, looking wistfully at the bewildering scene, apparently in deep dejection.

“Who is that, Miles?” she asked.

“Why, that’s my comrade, chum, and friend, whom I have so often written about, Willie Armstrong. Come. I will introduce you.”

“Oh! how selfish of me!” cried the widow, starting forward and not waiting for the introduction; “Mr Armstrong—I’m so sorry; forgive me! I promised to let you know that your wife waits to meet you at the Soldiers’ Institute.”

The difference between darkness and light seemed to pass over the soldier’s face, then a slight shade of anxiety clouded it. “She is not ill, is she?”

“No, no, quite well,” said Mrs Milton, with a peculiar smile; “but she thought it wiser not to risk a meeting on the jetty as the east wind is sharp. I’m so sorry I did not tell you at once, but I selfishly thought only—”

“Pray make no apology, madam,” interrupted Armstrong. “I’m so thankful that all is well. I had begun to fear that something must be wrong, for my Emmy never disappoints me. If she thinks it wiser not to meet on the jetty, it is wiser!”

A crowd of men pushed between them at this moment. Immediately after, a female shout was heard, followed by the words, “There he is! Och, it’s himsilf—the darlint!”

Mrs Flynn had discovered the little corporal, and her trooper son, Terence, who had come down with her, stood by to see fair-play while the two embraced.

Drifting with a rather rapid tide of mingled human beings, Miles and his mother soon found themselves stranded beside the coffee-shed. Retiring behind this they continued their conference there, disturbed only by wind and weather, while the distribution of hot coffee was going on in front.

Meanwhile, when leave was obtained, Armstrong made his way to the Institute, where the old scene of bustle and hilarity on the arrival of a troop-ship was going on. Here, in a private room, he discovered Emmy and the cause of her not appearing on the jetty.

“Look at him—Willie the second!” cried the little woman, holding up a bundle of some sort. The soldier was staggered for a moment—the only infantry that had ever staggered him!—for his wife had said nothing about this bundle in her letters. He recovered, however, and striding across the room embraced the wife and the bundle in one tremendous hug!

The wife did not object, but the bundle did, and instantly set up a howl that quite alarmed the father, and was sweetest music in the mother’s ears!

“Now tell me,” said the little woman, after calming the baby and putting it in a crib; “have you brought Miles Milton home all safe?”

“Yes, all right, Emmy.”

“And is he married to that dear girl you wrote about?”

“No, not yet—of course.”

“But are they engaged?”

“No. Miles told me that he would not presume to ask her while he had no home to offer her.”

“Pooh! He’s a goose! He ought to make sure of her, and let the home look after itself. He may lose her. Girls, you know, are changeable, giddy things!”

“I know nothing of the sort, Emmy.”

The young wife laughed, and—well, there is no need to say what else she did.

About the same time, Mrs Milton and her son were seated in another private room of the Institute finishing off that interchange of confidences which had begun in such confusion. As it happened, they were conversing on the same subject that occupied Emmy and her husband.

“You have acted rightly, Miles,” said the mother, “for it would have been unfair and selfish to have induced the poor girl to accept you until you had some prospect of a home to give her. God will bless you for doing the right, and trusting to Him. And now, dear boy, are you prepared for bad news?”

“Prepared for anything!” answered Miles, pressing his mother’s hand, “but I hope the bad news does not affect you, mother.”

“It does. Your dear father died a bankrupt. I shrank from telling you this when you were wounded and ill. So you have to begin again the battle of life with only one hand, my poor boy, for the annuity I have of twenty pounds a year will not go far to keep us both.”

Mrs Milton tried to speak lightly on this point, by way of breaking it to her son, but she nearly broke down, for she had already begun to feel the pinch of extreme poverty, and knew it to be very, very different from what “well-off” people fancy. The grave manner in which her son received this news filled her with anxiety.

“Mother,” he said, after pondering in silence for a few moments, and taking her hand in his while he slipped the handless arm round her waist, “the news is indeed serious, but our Father whom you have trusted so long will not fail us now. Happily it is my right hand that has been spared, and wonders, you know, may be wrought with a strong right hand, especially if assisted by a strong left stump, into which spoons, forks, hooks, and all manner of ingenious contrivances can be fitted. Now, cheer up, little mother, and I’ll tell you what we will do. But first, is there nothing left? Do the creditors take everything?”

“All, I believe, except some of the furniture which has been kindly left for us to start afresh with. But we must quit the old home next month. At least, so I am told by my kind little lawyer, who looks after everything, for I understand nothing.”

“Your mention of a lawyer reminds me, mother, that a poor sergeant, who died a short time ago in Egypt, made me his executor, and as I am painfully ignorant of the duties of an executor I’ll go and see this ‘kind little lawyer’ if you will give me his address.”

Leaving Miles to consult his lawyer, we will now turn to a meeting—a grand tea-fight—in the great hall of the Institute, that took place a few days after the return of the troop-ship which brought our hero and his friends to England. Some telling incidents occurred at this fight which render it worthy of notice.

First, Miss Robinson herself presided and gave a stirring address, which, if not of much interest to readers who did not hear it, was a point of immense attraction to the hundreds of soldiers, sailors, and civilians to whom it was delivered, for it was full of sympathy, and information, and humour, and encouragement, and, above all, of the Gospel.

Everybody worth mentioning was there—that is, everybody connected with our tale who was in England at the time. Miles and his mother of course were there, and Armstrong with Emmy—ay, and with Willie the second too—who was pronounced on all hands to be the born image of his father. Alas for his father, if that had been true! A round piece of dough with three holes punched in it and a little knot in the midst would have borne as strong a resemblance to Miles as that baby did. Nevertheless, it was a “magnificent” baby! and “so good,” undeniably good, for it slept soundly in its little mother’s lap the whole evening!

Stevenson was also there, you may be sure; and so were Moses and Sutherland, and Rattling Bill Simkin and Corporal Flynn, with his mother and Terence the Irish trooper, who fraternised with Johnson the English trooper, who was also home on the sick-list—though he seemed to have a marvellous colour and appetite for a sick man.

“Is that the ‘Soldiers Friend?’” asked Simkin, in a whisper, of a man who stood near him, as a lady came on the platform and took the chair.

“Ay, that’s her,” answered the man—and the speaker was Thomas Tufnell, the ex-trooper of the Queen’s Bays, and the present manager of the Institute—“Ay, that’s the ‘Soldier’s Friend.’”

“Well, I might have guessed it,” returned Simkin, “from the kindly way in which she shook hands with a lot of soldiers just now.”

“Yes, she has shook hands with a good many red-coats in her day, has the ‘Soldier’s Friend,’” returned the manager. “Why, I remember on one occasion when she was giving a lecture to soldiers, and so many men came forward to shake hands with her that, as she told me herself, her hand was stiff and swelled all night after it!”

“But it’s not so much for what she has done for ourselves that we’re grateful to her,” remarked a corporal, who sat on Simkin’s right, “as for what she has done for our wives, widows, and children, through the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Wives’ Aid Association. Lookin’ arter them when we’re away fightin’ our country’s battles has endeared her to us more than anything else.”

Thus favourably predisposed, Simkin was open to good impressions that night. But, indeed, there was an atmosphere—a spirit of good-will—in the hall that night which rendered many others besides Simkin open to good impressions. Among the civilians there was a man named Sloper, who had for some time past been carefully fished for by an enthusiastic young red-coat whom he had basely misled and swindled. He had been at last hooked by the young red-coat, played, and finally landed in the hall, with his captor beside him to keep him there—for Sloper was a slippery fish, with much of the eel in his nature.

Perhaps the most unexpected visitors to the hall were two ladies in mourning, who had just arrived from Egypt by way of Brindisi. Mrs and Miss Drew, having occasion to pass through Portsmouth on their way home, learned that there was to be a tea-fight at the Institute, and Marion immediately said, “I should like so much to see it!”

However much “so much” was, Mrs Drew said she would like to see it as much, so away they went, and were conducted to the front row. There Miles saw them! With his heart in his mouth, and his head in confusion, he quietly rose, bade his wondering mother get up; conducted her to the front seat, and, setting her down beside the Drews, introduced them. Then, sitting down beside Marion, he went in for a pleasant evening.

And it was a pleasant evening! Besides preliminary tea and buns, there were speeches, songs, recitations, etcetera,—all being received with immense satisfaction by a crowded house, which had not yet risen to the unenviable heights of classical taste and blaséism. As for Miles and Marion, nothing came amiss to them! If a singer had put B flat in the place of A natural they would have accepted it as quite natural. If a humourist had said the circle was a square, they would have believed it—in a sense—and tried to square their reason accordingly.

But nothing is without alloy in this life. To the surprise of Miles and his mother, their “kind little lawyer” also made his appearance in the hall. More than that, he insisted, by signs, that Miles should go out and speak with him. But Miles was obdurate. He was anchored, and nothing but cutting the cable could move him from his anchorage.

At last the “kind little man” pushed his way through the crowd.

“I must have a word with you, my dear sir. It is of importance,” he said.

Thus adjured, Miles unwillingly cut the cable, and drifted into a passage.

“My dear sir,” said the little man, seizing his hand, “I congratulate you.”

“You’re very kind, but pray, explain why.”

“I find that you are heir to a considerable fortune.”

Miles was somewhat interested in this, and asked, “How’s that?”

“Well, you remember Hardy’s will, which you put into my hands a few days ago?”

“Yes; what then? That can’t be the fortune!”

“Indeed it is. Hardy, you remember, made you his residuary legatee. I find, on inquiry, that the old cousin you told me about, who meant to leave all his money to build a hospital, changed his mind at the last and made out a will in favour of Hardy, who was his only relative. So, you see, you, being Hardy’s heir, have come into possession of something like two thousand a year.”

To this Miles replied by a whistle of surprise, and then said, “Is that all?”

“Upon my word, sir,” said the ‘kind little lawyer,’ in a blaze of astonishment, “you appear to take this communication in a peculiar manner!”

“You mistake me,” returned Miles, with a laugh. “I don’t mean ‘is that all the fortune?’ but ‘is that all you have to say?’”

“It is, and to my mind I have said a good deal.”

“You certainly have. And, believe me, I am not indifferent or unthankful, but—but—the fact is, that at present I am particularly engaged. Good-bye, and thank you.”

So saying, Miles shook the puzzled old gentleman heartily by the hand, and hurried back to his anchorage in the hall.

“I’ve done it, mother!” whispered Miles, two days thereafter, in the privacy of the Institute reading-room.

“Miles!” said the startled lady, with a reproachful look, “I thought you said that nothing would induce you—”

“Circumstances have altered, mother. I have had a long consultation with your ‘kind little lawyer,’ and he has related some interesting facts to me.”

Here followed a detailed account of the facts.

“So, you see, I went and proposed at once—not to the lawyer—to Marion.”

“And was accepted?”

“Well—yes. I could hardly believe it at the time. I scarcely believe it now, so I’m going back this afternoon to make quite sure.”

“I congratulate you, my darling boy, for a good wife is God’s best gift to man.”

“How do you know she is good, mother?”

“I know it, because—I know it! Anybody looking in her face can see it. And with two thousand a year, why—”

“One thousand, mother.”

“I thought you said two, my son.”

“So I did. That is the amount of the fortune left by the eccentric old hospital-for-incurables founder. When poor Hardy made out his will he made me residuary legatee because the trifle he had to leave—his kit, etcetera,—was not worth dividing between me and Armstrong. If it had been worth much he would have divided it. It is therefore my duty now to divide it with my friend.”

But in our anxiety to tell you these interesting facts, dear reader, we have run ahead of the tea-fight! To detail all its incidents, all its bearings, all its grand issues and blessed influences, would require a whole volume. We return to it only to mention one or two gratifying facts.

It was essentially a temperance—that is, a total-abstinence, a blue-ribbon—meeting, and, at the end, the “Soldiers’ Friend” earnestly invited all who felt so disposed to come forward and sign the pledge. At the same time, medals and prizes were presented to those among the civilians who had loyally kept their pledge intact for certain periods of time. On an average, over a thousand pledges a year are taken at the Institute, and we cannot help thinking that the year we are writing of must have exceeded the average—to judge from the numbers that pressed forward on this particular night.

There were soldiers, sailors, and civilians; men, women, and children. Amongst the first, Rattling Bill Simkin walked to the front—his moral courage restored to an equality with his physical heroism—and put down his name. So did Johnson and Sutherland—the former as timid before the audience as he had been plucky before the Soudanese, but walking erect, nevertheless, as men do when conscious that they are in the right; the latter “as bold as brass”—as if to defy the world in arms to make him ever again drink another drop of anything stronger than tea.

Moses Pyne also “put on the blue,” although, to do him justice, he required no protection of that sort, and so did Corporal Flynn and Terence and their mother—which last, if truth must be told, stood more in need of the pledge than her stout sons.

Among the civilians several noted personages were influenced in the right direction. Chief among these was sodden, blear-eyed, disreputable Sloper, whose trembling hand scrawled a hieroglyphic, supposed to represent his name, which began indeed with an S, but ended in a mysterious prolongation, and was further rendered indecipherable by a penitent tear which fell upon it from the point of his red, red nose!

Some people laughed, and said that there was no use in getting Sloper to put on the blue-ribbon, that he was an utterly demoralised man, that he had no strength of character, that no power on earth could save him! They were right. No power on earth could save him—or them! These people forgot that it is not the righteous but sinners who are called to repentance.

Time passed away and wrought its wonted changes. Among other things, it brought back to Portsmouth big, burly Jack Molloy, as hearty and vigorous as he was when being half-hanged in the Soudan, but—minus a leg! Poor Jack! a spent cannon-ball—would that it had been spent in vain!—removed it, below the knee, much more promptly than it could have been taken off by the surgeon’s knife. But what was loss to the Royal Navy was gain to Portsmouth, for Jack Molloy came home and devoted himself, heart and soul, to the lending of “a helping hand” to his fellow-creatures in distress—devoting his attentions chiefly to the region lying round Nobbs Lane, and causing himself to be adored principally by old women and children. And there and thus he probably works to this day—at least, some very like him do.

When not thus engaged he is prone to take a cruise to a certain rural district in the south of England, where he finds congenial company in two very tall, erect, moustached, dignified gentlemen, who have a tendency to keep step as they walk, one of whom has lost his left hand, and who dwell in two farm-houses close together.

These two gentlemen have remarkably pretty wives, and wonderfully boisterous children, and the uproar which these children make when Molloy comes to cast anchor among them, is stupendous! As for the appearance of the brood, and of Jack after a spree among the hay, the word has yet to be invented which will correctly describe it.

The two military-looking farmers are spoken of by the people around as philanthropists. Like true philanthropists, whose foundation-motive is love to God, they do not limit their attentions to their own little neighbourhood, but allow their sympathies and their benefactions to run riot round the world—wheresoever there is anything that is true, honourable, just, pure, lovely, or of good report to be thought of, or done, or assisted.

Only one of these acts of sympathy and benefaction we will mention. Every Christmas there is received by Miss Robinson at the Soldiers’ Institute, Portsmouth, a huge hamper full of old and new garments of all kinds—shoes, boots, gowns, frocks, trousers, shawls, comforters, etcetera,—with the words written inside the lid—“Blessed are they that consider the poor.” And on the same day come two cheques in a letter. We refuse, for the best of all reasons, to divulge the amount of those cheques, but we consider it no breach of confidence to reveal the fact that the letter containing them is signed by two old and grateful Blue Lights.

The End.

ENDNOTE

Note 1. This fleece is now, among other curiosities, at the Portsmouth Institute.

The Fugitives

R.M. Ballantyne

Table Of Contents

1. Preface.

2. Chapter One.

3. Chapter Two.

4. Chapter Three.

5. Chapter Four.

6. Chapter Five.

7. Chapter Six.

8. Chapter Seven.

9. Chapter Eight.

10. Chapter Nine.

11. Chapter Ten.

12. Chapter Eleven.

13. Chapter Twelve.

14. Chapter Thirteen.

15. Chapter Fourteen.

16. Chapter Fifteen.

17. Chapter Sixteen.

18. Chapter Seventeen.

19. Chapter Eighteen.

20. Chapter Nineteen.

21. Chapter Twenty.

22. Chapter Twenty One.

23. Chapter Twenty Two.

24. Chapter Twenty Three.

25. Chapter Twenty Four.

26. Chapter Twenty Five.

27. Chapter Twenty Six.

28. Chapter Twenty Seven.

29. Chapter Twenty Eight.

30. Chapter Twenty Nine.

31. Chapter Thirty.

Preface.

It is almost allowable, I think, to say that this is a true story, for fiction has only been introduced for the purpose of piecing together and making a symmetrical whole of a number of most interesting facts in regard to Madagascar and the terrible persecutions that took place there in the early part and middle of the present century.

I have ventured to modify time and place somewhat, as well as to mix my characters and their deeds a little, in order to suit the conditions of my tale; but in doing so I have striven to avoid exaggeration and to produce a true picture of the state of affairs, at the period treated of, in what may be styled one of the most interesting and progressive islands of the world.

I take this opportunity of thanking the Rev. George Cousins, of the London Missionary Society, and formerly of Madagascar, for kindly supplying me with much valuable information, and of acknowledging myself indebted, among others, to the works of Messrs. Sibree, Ellis, and Shaw.

R M Ballantyne.

Harrow-on-the-Hill, 1887.

Chapter One.

Introduces the Chief Actors and a Few Mysteries.

Intense action is at all times an interesting object of contemplation to mankind. We therefore make no apology to the reader for dragging him unceremoniously into the middle of a grand primeval forest, and presenting to his view the curious and stirring spectacle of two white men and a negro running at their utmost possible speed, with flashing eyes and labouring chests—evidently running for their lives.

Though very different in aspect and condition, those men were pretty equally matched as runners, for there was no apparent difference in the vigour with which they maintained the pace.

The track or footpath along which they ran was so narrow as to compel them to advance in single file. He who led was a tall agile youth of nineteen or thereabouts, in knickerbocker shooting-garb, with short curly black hair, pleasantly expressive features, and sinewy frame. The second was obviously a true-blue tar—a regular sea-dog—about thirty years of age, of Samsonian mould, and, albeit running for very life, with grand indignation gleaming in his eyes. He wore a blue shirt on his broad back, white ducks on his active legs, and a straw hat on his head, besides a mass of shaggy hair, which, apparently, not finding enough of room on his cranium, overflowed in two brown cataracts down his cheeks, and terminated in a voluminous beard.

The third fugitive was also a young man, and a negro, short, thickset, square, tough as india-rubber, and black as the Emperor of Zahara. Good-humour wrinkled the corners of his eyes, the milk of human kindness played on his thick lips and rippled his sable brow, and intense sincerity, like a sunbeam, suffused his entire visage.

James Ginger—for that was his name, though his friends preferred to call him Ebony—scorned a hat of any kind; his simple costume consisting merely of two garments—canvas trousers and a guernsey shirt.

The sailor wore a cutlass in his belt. Ebony was unarmed. The youthful leader carried a short fowling-piece.

A yell in the far distance, as if from a hundred fiends, told that the pursuers had discovered the trail of the fugitives, and were gaining on them.

“We’ll have to fight for it, doctor,” growled the sailor in a savage tone, “better stop while we’ve got some wind left.”

“The wood seems more open ahead,” replied the youth, “let’s push on a bit further.”

“Hi!” exclaimed the negro in surprise, not unmingled with alarm, as they suddenly emerged on an open space and found themselves on the edge of a stupendous precipice.

The formation of the region was curious. There was a drop in the land, as it were, to a lower level. From their elevated position the three men could see a turbulent river rushing far below, at the base of the cliffs on the edge of which they stood. Beyond lay a magnificent and varied stretch of forest scenery, extending away to the horizon, where the prospect terminated in a blue range of hills. No path was at first visible by which the fugitives could reach the plain below. The precipice was almost perpendicular. They were about to leap recklessly over, and trust to descending by means of an occasional bush or shrub which grew on the rocky face, when the negro uttered one of his falsetto exclamations.

“Hi! here am a track.”

He dashed aside the branches of an overhanging bush, and ran along a narrow path, or ledge, which sloped gently downwards. It was a fearfully giddy position, but this in the circumstances, and to men accustomed to mast-heads and yard-arms, was of small moment. On they ran, at a more cautious pace indeed, but still with anxious haste, until about a quarter of the distance down the face of the precipice, when, to their horror, they came to a turn in the path where it suddenly ended. A mass of rock, apparently detached from the cliff by recent rains, had fallen from above, and in its thundering descent had carried away fully ten yards of the path into the stream below, where they could see its shattered fragments in the rushing river. The gap in front of them was absolutely impassable. On the right, the cliff rose sheer upwards. On the left, it went sheer down.

A sort of groan escaped from the doctor.

“What’s to be done now, Hockins?” he asked sharply, turning to the sailor.

“Die!” replied Hockins, in a tone of savage bitterness.

“Stuff an’ nonsense! we no’ die yit,” said the negro, pointing to the snake-like branches of a climbing plant which, spreading over the naked face of the cliff, turned into a crevice and disappeared round a jutting point.

“Will it bear our weight, lad?” asked the sailor doubtfully.

“It leads to nothing that I can see,” said the young doctor, “and would only ensure our being dashed to pieces instead of speared.”

“Nebber fear, massa Breezy. Dis not de fus’ time I’s hoed troo de forests. If you stop here you die. James Gingah he go on an’ lib.”

“Go on then, Ebony; we will follow,” returned Breezy, slinging his gun on his shoulder so as to leave his hands free.

A yell of disappointment on the cliffs above accelerated their movements. It was evident that the pursuers had come out on the open plateau, but had not observed the path by which they descended. As it was certain, however, that they would find it in a few minutes, Ebony sprang upon the creeping plant and clambered along its tortuous limbs like a monkey. Young Breezy followed, and Hockins came last.

The plant was tough. It stood the strain well. If it had given way, death on the jagged rocks below would have been the result. But death by savage spears was behind them, so they did not hesitate. A few seconds and all three had passed round the jutting rock and into the crevice, where they were completely hidden from the view of any one standing on the path they had just left.

In the crevice they found a ledge or platform sufficiently large to admit of their standing together. They had scarcely obtained a footing on it when another shout announced that the pursuer had traced their trail to the head of the track.

We know not, reader, whether you have ever experienced that heart-melting qualm which comes over one at the sudden and unexpected approach of what, at least, appears to be death. If you have, you will be able to understand the intense relief and thankfulness felt by the fugitives when, safe from immediate danger, they listened to their pursuers as they held excited conversation at the end of the broken track. Not knowing the language they could not, of course, understand what was said, and being just beyond the range of vision—owing to the jutting cliff that concealed them—they could not see what their pursuers were doing, but they heard a suggestive crash and a sharp exclamation.

Had they been able to see, they would have understood the situation well enough without the aid of language.

Two of the natives, who were dark-skinned and almost naked savages, had come to the place where the track had been broken away. They gazed at the profound depths on the left and the inaccessible cliffs on the right, and then glanced at each other in solemn surprise.

No doubt the creeping plant would in a few seconds have attracted special attention, had not an incident turned their minds in another direction. While the foremost savage was craning his neck so as to see as far round the projecting cliff as possible, the piece of rock on which his advanced foot was dislodged, and he had the narrowest possible escape from plunging headlong after the rock, which went bounding and crashing into the gulf below.

Instantly the faces of the two men gleamed with intelligence; they nodded with energy, grinned with satisfaction, and pointed to the abyss in front of them with the air of men who had no doubt that their enemies were lying down there in quivering fragments.

Something of this James Ginger did indeed manage to see. Curiosity was so powerfully developed in that sable spirit, that, at the imminent risk of his life, he reached out by means of a branch, and so elongated his black neck that he got one of his brilliant eyes to bear for a moment upon his foes. He appreciated the situation instantly, and drew back to indulge in a smothered laugh which shut up both his eyes and appeared to gash his face from ear to ear.

“What’s wrong with you, Ebony?” whispered Mark Breezy, who was in anything but a laughing mood just then.

“Oh! nuffin’, nuffin’, massa; only dem brown niggers are sitch asses dat dey b’lieve a’most anyting. Black niggers ain’t so easy putt off de scent. Dey tinks we’s tumble ober de precipis an’ busted ourselbes.”

“Lucky for us that they think so,” said Hockins, in a soft tone of satisfaction. “But now, what are we to do? It was bad enough clamberin’ up here in blazin’ excitement to save our lives, but it will be ten times worse gettin’ down again in cold blood when they’re gone.”

“Time enough to consider that when they are gone,” muttered Breezy. “Hush! Listen!”

The sounds that reached their place of concealment told clearly enough that a number of the savages had descended the cliffs, presumably to look at the place over which the white men had fallen. Then there was much eager conversation in an unknown tongue, mingled with occasional bursts of laughter—on hearing which latter the huge mouth of our negro enlarged in silent sympathy. After a while the voices were heard to retire up the narrow track and become fainter until they died away altogether, leaving no sound save the murmur of the rushing river to fill the ears of the anxious listeners who stood like three statues in a niche on the face of that mighty precipice.

“Now, you know,” said Breezy, with a sigh of relief, “this is very satisfactory as far as it goes, and we have reason to be thankful that we are neither speared nor dashed to pieces; nevertheless, we are in an uncomfortable fix here, for night is approaching, and we must retrace our steps somehow or other, unless we make up our minds to sleep standing.”

“That’s so, doctor. There’s not room to lie down here,” assented the sailor, glancing slowly round; “an’, to tell ’ee the plain truth, I feel as funky about trustin’ myself again to that serpent-like creeper as I felt the first time I went up through the lubber-hole the year I went to sea.”

“What you’s ’fraid ob, Mr ’Ockins?” asked Ebony.

“Afraid o’ the nasty thing givin’ way under my weight. If it was a good stout rope, now, I wouldn’t mind, but every crack it gave when I was comin’ aloft made my heart jump a’most out o’ my mouth.”

“What have ’ee found there, doctor?” asked the seaman, on observing that his companion was groping behind a mass of herbage at the back part of the niche in which they stood.

“There’s a big hole here, Hockins. Perhaps we may find room to stay where we are, after all, till morning. Come here, Ebony, you’ve got something of the eel about you. Try if you can wriggle in.”

The negro at once thrust his head and shoulders into the hole, but could not advance.

“Bery strange!” he said, drawing out his head, and snorting once or twice like a dog that has half-choked himself in a rabbit-hole. “Seems to me dere’s a big block o’ wood dere stoppin’ de way.”

“Strange indeed, Ebony. A block of wood could not have grown there. Are you sure it is not a big root?”

“Sartin’ sure, massa. I hab studied roots since I was a babby. Hold on, I try again.”

The negro tried again, and with such vigour that he not only displaced the block of wood, but burst in several planks which concealed the entrance to a cavern. They fell on the stone floor with a crash that aroused a multitude of echoes in the dark interior. At the same moment something like a faint shriek or wail was heard within, causing the hearts of the three listeners to beat faster.

“Did you hear that, Hockins?”

“Ay, I heard it sure enough. What is it, think ’ee, lad!” said the seaman to the negro.

Ebony, who was gazing into the dark cavern with glaring eyeballs and distended nostrils, replied—

“My advice to you is, let’s go back de way we come. Dis no place for ’spectable Christians.”

“Do you fear ghosts?” asked Mark, smiling, yet at the same time bringing his gun into a convenient position, with his finger ready on the trigger.

“I fears nuffin,” returned the negro with a proud look, while beads of perspiration stood on his brow.

“Then ye’re a braver man than I am, Ebony, for I fear that climbin’ plant worse than a ghost; so here goes to find out what it is.”

Although the sailor spoke thus boldly, and tried to look cool, it is certain that he also was afflicted with sensations of an unusual description, which, of course, he would have scorned to admit were the result of fear! His power of will, however, was stronger than his fears. Drawing his cutlass, he was about to enter the cavern, when Mark laid a hand on his shoulder.

“Come, Hockins, you have accepted my lead hitherto. It is not fair to take it out of my hands at this critical point.”

So saying he glided past his comrade, and was almost lost to sight immediately in the deep gloom.

“Softly, softly, doctor,” whispered the seaman, as he followed, “there may be holes or pits within—”

“All right; I’m feeling my way carefully. Keep close.”

As he spoke a slight, indescribable sound was heard—almost like a sigh.

“Hist! Did ’ee hear that?” said Hockins in the lowest possible whisper.

“Oh! massa, let’s go back de way we come,” urged Ebony, in the same low but earnest tone.

Mark Breezy did not reply, but the click of his gun as he cocked it showed that he was on the alert.

For nearly a minute the three men stood in absolute silence, listening for a repetition of the mysterious sound, and, though it did not recur, there was an indescribable feeling in the heart of each that they were not alone in that cavern.

“Have you not flint and steel?” asked Mark.

“Yes; but to strike a light would only show our whereabouts if there is any one here.”

The seaman accidentally touched Ebony on the elbow as he spoke, and sent that worthy’s heart, or something like it, into his throat with such violence as nearly to choke him.

“Git along, massa,” he said in a gaspy whisper, when able to articulate, “we’s got to go troo wid it now.”

Acting on this advice the young man continued to advance cautiously, feeling his way step by step and fully expecting every moment to reach the inner wall of the cavern.

Presently the explorers were again brought to a stand by the sudden appearance of a light in the far distance. As, however, it did not move, they continued to advance, and soon were convinced that it was daylight shining through an opening in that direction. Every step convinced them more and more that they were right, and their spirits rose with the hope of escaping, though the light made no appreciable difference as yet in the darkness that surrounded them.

Suddenly a sharp, loud, short cry filled the cavern for an instant, and almost froze their blood! The loudness and abrupt stoppage of the cry left the impression that the creature which uttered it had been suddenly and effectively killed, for it ended in a sharp gasp or gurgle, and then all was still,—but only for a moment, for the shock to Mark’s nerves was such that his finger inadvertently pressed the trigger of his gun, which exploded with a deafening crash, and awoke shrieks and cries that were not to be accounted for by mere echoes.

This was too much for ordinary human beings. Fabled knights of old in armour of proof might have stood it, but the two white men and the black, being ordinary heroes, regardless of pride and honour, went in for a regular stampede, and it is but simple justice to say that Ebony won, for he reached the outlet of the cavern first, and sprang through it into daylight like a black thunderbolt. It is also due to his comrades to add that they were not far behind him.

Their courage, however, was soon restored. Daylight has a celebrated power of restoring courage. On clearing the bushes which concealed the entrance to the cave they simultaneously stopped, turned round, and resolutely faced their foe!

But no foe was to be seen! Once again all was still as death. After glaring for a few seconds at the spot whence the expected enemy should have issued, the three fugitives relaxed their frowning brows and turned inquiring eyes on each other.

“Dis beats cockfightin’ a’most,” said Ebony, with a sigh of intense relief.

“Ay, an’ every other sort o’ fightin’ as I ever heard on,” responded Hockins.

“Come, friends,” said their young leader, “whatever it may have been, it behoves us to get as far away from this spot as possible, and that as fast as we can.”

Chapter Two.

Harks back a little.

The spot where our adventurers found themselves on issuing from the mysterious cave was a peculiarly rugged one. It formed a sort of hollow or depression in the forest-land in which we introduced the three men as fugitives. From this hollow there descended a narrow track or pathway to the extensive valley which had been seen from the summit of the precipice that barred their flight, and had so nearly proved fatal.

So confused was the nature of the ground here, and so intricate were the tracks—originally formed no doubt by wild animals, though made use of by wandering men—that it became impossible for Mark Breezy to know in what direction he was leading his comrades as he wound in and out among large rocks and fallen trees. In fact it was more by chance than guidance that they ultimately hit upon the path which finally led them to the lower region or plateau of forest-land; and it is certain that they would have found it impossible to find their way back to the cave, even had they desired to do so.

Their chief object, however, was to put as much space as possible between themselves and their late pursuers, and to this end they pushed forward at their best speed, until they reached a small river which appeared to be a tributary to, or a branch of, that which they had seen from the heights earlier in the day.

“‘Come to a ribber—couldn’t git across,

Gib a couple o’ dollars for an’ old blind hoss,’”

murmured Ebony, quoting an ancient ditty.

“We shall have to swim it, I fear,” remarked Breezy, “for there is no horse here, blind or otherwise. Perhaps that fallen tree may prove strong enough to serve as a bridge.”

He pointed to a slender tree which had evidently been placed there, with several others, for the purpose of forming a rough and ready bridge; but its companions had been removed by floods, for they lay tossed on the bank further down among other wreckage.

“It’ll be somethin’ like tight-rope dancin’,” said the sailor. “We’ll have to repair the bridge.”

“Nuffin’ ob de sort! Look here.”

Ebony ran to the tree referred to, and skipped over with admirable agility, though it bent under him not unlike a tight-rope.

“But I can’t do that,” said Hockins, “not bein’ a black monkey, d’ee see?”

With a sudden expression of intense pity the negro exclaimed—

“Oh! I beg pardin’. Didn’t I forgot; you’s on’y a white man. But stop; I come ober agin an’ took you on my back.”

He pretended to be on the point of recrossing, but the sailor had already got upon the bridge, and, with much balancing and waving of his long arms, passed over in safety. Mark was about to follow, when Hockins called out, “Better pitch over the powder-flask in case you fall in.”

“That’s true, for I mayn’t be as good as you or Ebony on the tight-rope. Look out!”

He pulled the powder-flask out of his pocket and threw it towards his comrades. Unfortunately the branch of an overhanging bush had touched his hand. The touch was slight, but it sufficed to divert the flask from its proper course, and sent it into the middle of the stream.

Ebony followed it head first like an otter, but soon reappeared, gasping and unsuccessful. Again and again he dived, but failed to find the flask, without which, of course, their gun was useless, and at last they were obliged to continue their flight without it.

This was a very serious loss, for they had not an ounce of provisions with them, and were in a land the character and resources of which were utterly unknown at least to two of them, while the youth who had become their leader knew very little more than the fact that it was the island of Madagascar, that it lay about 300 miles off the eastern shores of Africa, and that the tribes by whom they were surrounded were little if at all better than savages.

That day they wandered far into the depths of a dark and tangled forest, intentionally seeking its gloomiest recesses in order to avoid the natives, and at night went supperless to rest among the branches of an umbrageous tree, not knowing what danger from man or beast might assail them if they should venture to sleep on the ground.

Although possessed of flint and steel, as well as tinder, they did not use them for fear of attracting attention. As they had nothing to cook, the deprivation was not great. Fortunately the weather at the time was pleasantly warm, so that beyond the discomfort of not being able to stretch out at full length, the occasional poking of awkward knots and branches into their ribs, and the constant necessity of holding on lest they should fall off, their circumstances were not insufferable, and might have been worse.

While they are enjoying their repose, we will tell in a few sentences who they were and how they got there.

When Mark Breezy, in the closing years of his medical-student career, got leave to go on a voyage to China in one of his father’s ships, the Eastern Star, for the benefit of his health and the enlargement of his understanding, he had no more idea that that voyage would culminate in a bed up a tree in the forests of Madagascar than you, reader, have that you will ultimately become an inhabitant of the moon! The same remark may with equal truth be made of John Hockins when he joined the Eastern Star as an able seaman, and of James Ginger—alias Ebony—when he shipped as cook. If the captain of the Eastern Star had introduced those three,—who had never seen each other before—and told them that they would spend many months together among savages in the midst of terrestrial beauty, surrounded by mingled human depravity and goodness, self-denial and cruelty, fun and tragedy such as few men are fated to experience, they would have smiled at each other with good-natured scepticism and regarded their captain as a facetious lunatic.

Yet so it turned out, though the captain prophesied it not—and this was the way of it.

Becalmed off the coast of Madagascar, and having, through leakage in one of the tanks, run short of water, the captain ordered a boat with casks to be got ready to go ashore for water. The young doctor got leave to land and take his gun for the purpose of procuring specimens—for he was something of a naturalist—and having a ramble.

“Don’t get out of hail, Doctor,” said the captain, as the boat shoved off.

“All right, sir, I won’t.”

“An’ take a couple o’ the men into the bush with you in case of accidents.”

“Ay ay, sir,” responded Mark, waving his hand in acknowledgment.

And that was the last that Mark Breezy and the captain of the Eastern Star saw of each other for many a day.

“Who will go with me?” asked Mark, when the boat touched the shore.

“Me, massa,” eagerly answered the negro cook, who had gone ashore in the hope of being able to get some fresh vegetables from the natives if any were to be found living there. “Seems to me dere’s no black mans here, so may’s well try de woods for wild wegibles.”

“No no, Ebony,” said the first mate, who had charge of the boat, “you’ll be sure to desert if we let you go—unless we send Hockins to look after you. He’s the only man that can keep you in order.”

“Well, I’ll take Hockins also,” said Mark, “you heard the captain say I was to have two men. Will you go, Hockins?”

“Ay, ay, sir,” answered the seaman, sedately, but with a wrinkle or two on his visage which proved that the proposal was quite to his taste.

All the men of the boat’s crew were armed either with cutlass or carbine—in some cases with both; for although the natives were understood to be friendly at that part of the coast it was deemed prudent to be prepared for the reverse. Thus John Hockins carried a cutlass in his belt, but no fire-arm, and the young doctor had his double-barrelled gun, with powder-flask and shot-belt, but Ebony—being a free-and-easy, jovial sort of nigger—went unarmed, saying he “didn’t want to carry no harms, seein’ he would need all harms he had to carry back de fresh wegibles wid.”

Thus those three went into the bush, promising to keep well within ear-shot, and to return instantly at the first summons.

That summons came—not as a shout, as had been expected, but as a shot—about an hour after the landing. Our explorers ran to the top of a neighbouring mound in some surprise, not unmixed with anxiety. Before they reached the summit a volley from the direction of the sea, followed by fierce yells, told that some sort of evil was going on. Another moment, and they reached the eminence just in time to behold their boat’s crew pulling off shore while a band of at least a hundred savages attacked them—some rushing into the water chest-deep in order to seize the boat. Cutlass and carbine, however, proved more than a match for stone and spear.

The fight had scarce lasted a minute, and our trio were on the point of rushing down to the rescue, when a white cloud burst from the side of the Eastern Star, the woods and cliffs echoed with the roar of a big gun, and a shot, plunging into the crowd of natives, cut down many of them and went crashing into the bushes.

It was enough. The natives turned and fled while the boat pulled to the ship.

Uncertainty as to what should be done kept Mark Breezy and his companions rooted for a few seconds to the spot. Indecision was banished, however, when they suddenly perceived a band of thirty or forty natives moving stealthily towards them by a circuitous route, evidently with the intention of taking them in rear and preventing them from finding shelter in the woods.

It was the first time that the young student’s manhood had been put severely to the test. There was a rush of hot blood to his forehead, and his heart beat powerfully as he saw and realised the hopelessness of their case with such tremendous odds against them.

“We can die but once,” he said with forced calmness, as he cocked his gun and prepared to defend himself.

“I’s not a-goin’ to die at all,” said the negro, hastily tightening his belt, “I’s a-goin’ to squatilate.”

“And you?” said Mark, turning to the seaman.

“Run, says I, of coorse,” replied Hockins, with something between a grin and a scowl; “ye know the old song—him wot fights an’ runs away, may live to fight another day!”

“Come along, then!” cried Mark, who felt that whether they fought or ran he was bound to retain the leadership of his little party.

As we have seen, they ran to some purpose. No doubt if they had started on equal terms, the lithe, hardy, and almost naked savages would have soon overtaken them, but fortunately a deep gully lay between them and the party of natives who had first observed them. Before this was crossed the fugitives were over the second ridge of rolling land that lay between the thick woods and the sea, and when the savages at last got upon their track and began steadily to overhaul them, the white men had got fairly into the forest.

Still there would have been no chance of ultimate escape if they had not come upon the footpath down the precipice which we have described as having been partly carried away by falling rocks, thus enabling Hockins and his companions to make a scramble for life which no one but a sailor, a monkey, or a hero, would have dared, and the impossibility of even attempting which never occurred to the pursuers, who concluded, as we have seen, that the white men had been dashed to pieces on the rocks far below.

Whether they afterwards found out their mistake or not we cannot tell.

The reason—long afterwards ascertained—of this unprovoked attack on the boat’s crew, was the old story. A party of godless white men had previously visited that part of the coast and treated the poor natives with great barbarity, thus stirring up feelings of hatred and revenge against all white men—at least for the time being. In this way the innocent are too often made to suffer for the guilty.

We will now return to our friends in the tree.

Chapter Three.

Describes the Deed of an Amateur Matador and the Work of a Rough-and-Ready Shoemaker.

When the day began to break Hockins awoke, and his first impulse was to shout “hold on!” Ebony’s first action was to let go, thereby bringing himself to the ground with an awful thud, which would have told severely on any one less akin to india-rubber.

For a few minutes Mark Breezy, holding tight to his particular branch, looked down at his companions, yawned heavily, and smiled a little. Then a sudden impulse of memory caused him to look grave.

“Come,” he said, dropping lightly from his perch, “these natives may have been searching for us all night, and are perhaps nearer than we suppose. I vote that we push on at once.”

“Agreed,” said Hockins, stretching himself.

“No fear, Massa,” remarked the negro. “If it wur moonlight dey might ’ave search, but whar de nights am dark dey knows better. De niggahs in dis yer island hab got skins an’ eyes an’ noses. If dey was to go troo such woods in de dark, dey hab no skins or eyes or noses in de mornin’—leas’wise nuffin’ wuth mentionin’. Cause why? Dey’d all git knocked into a sorter mush. Plenty ob time for breakfast ’fore we start.”

“That’s true, boy,” said Hockins, “but where’s the breakfast to come from?”

“What! you no bringed nuffin’ in your pockits?” asked the negro with a look of visible anxiety on his expressive face.

Hockins turned his various pockets inside out by way of reply.

“I am equally destitute,” said Mark.

The negro groaned as he slowly drew from his breeches pockets two sea-biscuits and a cold sausage.

“I meant dat,” he said, “as a light lunch for one yisterday.”

“It’ll have to do dooty, then, as a heavy breakfast for three this morning, Ebony. Come, divide, and let’s have fair play.”

“Here, massa,” said Ebony, handing the food to Mark, “you divide, I ain’t got de moral courage to do it fair. Number one is too strong in me when I’s hungry!”

With a laugh at this candid admission the youth did his best at a fair division. In a few minutes the scanty meal was finished, and the fugitives proceeded straight into the interior of the country at the utmost speed which was compatible with sustained exertion.

They could see the faint outlines of a mountain range in the far distance, and towards that they directed their steps, knowing that in the event of sustained pursuit they had a much better chance of escaping among the rugged fastnesses of a mountain region than in the forests or on the plains. But they saw plainly that there was many a weary mile to traverse before the sheltering mountains could be reached.

At first they walked rapidly and in silence, one behind the other—Mark leading—but as time passed, and the danger of being overtaken decreased, they fell more into line and began to talk of their plans and prospects.

Of course they thought about the Eastern Star, and the possibility of her hanging about the coast in the hope of picking them up; but as there was no certainty upon that point, and a return to the coast would be like rushing into the very jaws of the lion from which they were fleeing, they soon dismissed the idea as untenable.

“Now then, the question is, sir, Wot are we a-goin’ for to do?” said Hockins.

“Ay, dat’s de question,” added Ebony with much force, and more than Shakespearean brevity.

“Well now, lads,” said Mark, “I’ve been thinking over that, and it seems to me that there’s not much to choose between. Unfortunately, I know uncommonly little about this island—not that my geographical education has been neglected, but the class-books I have used did not give much information about Madagascar. I know, however, that the Mozambique Channel, which divides us from Africa, is a little too wide to swim. I also know that there is a capital somewhere near the middle of the island, the name of which begins with an ‘Ant,’ and ends with a ‘rivo.’ There are some syllables between, I believe, but how many, is more than I can tell. There’s a government in it, however, and a queen, and some Christian missionaries. Now, it strikes me that where there’s a government, a queen, and Christian missionaries, there must be more or less of civilisation and safety, so I would advise that we make straight for the capital.”

“Right you are, sir,” said Hockins. “As I know nothin’ whotsomever about the place, I’ll take my sailin’ orders from you, captain, an’ steer a straight course for Anty—whatever-she-is—arivo, where I hope we’ll arrive O!—‘all alive O!’ in the course o’ time. What say you, Ebony?”

“I’s agreeable; don’t care much for nuffin’ when it don’t trouble me. But I’s gettin’ awful hungry, an’ I don’t see nuffin’ to eat in dis yer forest—not even fruit—dough it’s pritty enough to look at.”

The scenery through which they were passing at the time was indeed more than pretty. It was gorgeous, and would certainly have claimed more attention from the travellers had they been less anxious to advance, and, perhaps, less hungry.

By that time—near mid-day—they had got through the densest part of the woods, and were come to a part where occasional openings in the foliage lighted them up. They had also discovered a narrow track or footpath, which they gladly followed; for although by so doing they ran the risk of coming suddenly upon natives, who might be foes just as well as friends, the comparative ease of travelling was too great to be neglected. This path struck over hill and down dale in a somewhat dogged and straightforward manner, scorning to go round hillocks, save when too precipitous for unwinged animals. At times it wound in and out among trees of great beauty and variety, and of tropical aspect. Elsewhere it plunged into denser stretches of forest, where the profusion of vegetable life was extraordinary—here, a dense undergrowth of shrubs, tree-ferns, and dwarf-palms; there, trees of higher growth, and, shooting high above them all, the slender trunks of many varieties of palms, whose graceful crowns and feathery leaves were pictured vividly on the blue sky. Elsewhere, innumerable creeping plants interlaced the branches, producing a wild and beautiful net-work, their tendrils crossing in all directions, and producing a green twilight in places. The whole was enriched by orchids, the abundant pink and white wax-like flowers of which contrasted well with other wild-flowers innumerable, and with many large and gorgeous flowering trees.

Different species of bamboos gave quite a peculiar aspect to the scenery in some places, and still greater variety was secured by long pendant masses of feathery grey moss and lichens. Some of the trees were of enormous height; one palm, with a straight stem, in particular, being estimated as not less than a hundred feet high to the spot where the leaves sprouted.

“’Tis a perfect paradise!” exclaimed Mark, stopping suddenly and looking around with admiration.

“Yes, massa,” murmured Ebony, with solemn looks, “if dere was on’y a few wegibles—cooked! Flowers is all bery well to look at, but we can’t heat him.”

“Well, if we can’t eat, we can, at all events, sleep,” returned Mark. “I believe it is usually thought wise in tropical countries to cease work and rest about noon, so, as I feel rather tired, I’ll have a snooze. What say you?”

No objection being made, the party again climbed into the branches of a low spreading tree, in order to avoid snakes, scorpions, or any other noxious creatures, though they knew not at the time whether such existed on the island. In less than five minutes they were sound asleep.

Awaking after about two hours’ repose, they descended, wished for something to eat, sighed, put a bold heart on it, tightened their belts to suit diminishing waists, and continued their journey.

Perseverance is sure to be rewarded. If that is not a proverb, it ought to be! At all events the perseverance of our travellers was rewarded at this time by their coming suddenly out of the woods into a wide grassy plain on which was browsing a herd of wild cattle—at least they judged them to be wild from the fact of their being discovered in such a wild place, and resolved to treat them as wild because of the “wolves” inside of them, which clamoured so wildly for food.

“Beef!” exclaimed Hockins in some excitement, as he pointed to the animal nearest to them, which happened to be a black, sleek, fat young bull, with slender limbs and fierce eyes.

“Neber mind the wegibles, massa; shot ’un!” exclaimed Ebony in an excited whisper, as he turned his glaring eyeballs on his leader.

“Hush! don’t speak,” returned Mark, drawing quietly back into cover—for the animal had not observed them. “We must consult what is to be done, because, you know, we have lost our powder-flask, the two charges in my gun are all I have got, and these are only small shot—I have no bullets!”

Grave concern overspread the face of the sturdy seaman—blank dismay that of the sea-cook!

“Might as well blaze at the beast wi’ sand,” said Hockins.

“Or wid nuffin’,” sighed Ebony.

“Nevertheless, I will try,” said Mark, quickly. “We shall be starved to death at this rate. Yonder is a line of bushes that runs close out to the brute. I’ll stalk it. When close I will make a dash at it, get as near as I can, clap the muzzle against its ribs if possible, and—well, we shall see! You two had better stop here and look on.”

“No, massa,” said the negro, firmly, “I go wid you. If you is to die, we die togidder!”

“What are you thinking of, Hockins?” asked the youth, observing that the seaman stood staring at the ground with knitted brows, as if in deep thought.

“I’ll go with you too,” he replied, drawing his cutlass and feeling its point with his finger. “You may need help. Heave ahead, sir.”

Mark could not avoid smiling at the way in which this was said, although he was sufficiently impressed with the hopelessness, it might even be the danger, of the attempt he was about to make.

They found no difficulty in approaching to within about thirty yards of the animal, being well concealed by the line of bushes before mentioned, but beyond that point there was no cover. Here therefore Mark cocked his gun and gathered himself up for a rush, and Hockins drew his cutlass. So agile was our young doctor that he actually reduced the thirty yards to ten before the astonished bull turned to fly. Another moment and the contents of both barrels were lodged in its flank. The effect was to produce a bellow of rage, a toss-up of the hindquarters, and a wild flourish of the tail, as the animal scurried away after the rest of the herd, which was in full flight.

Poor Breezy stopped at once, with a feeling of mingled disgust and despair. Ebony also stopped, and looked with wide sympathetic eyes in his leader’s face, as though to say, “Well, massa, you’s done your best.”

But Hockins ran on with persistent vigour, although the creature was leaving him further behind at every stride.

“Absurd!” murmured Mark, as he gazed at him.

“No use wassomiver,” said Ebony.

It did indeed seem as if the seaman’s exertions would prove abortive, but something in the spirit of the wounded bull suddenly changed the aspect of affairs. Whether it was the stinging pain of the small shot in its flank, or the indignation in its breast that influenced it we cannot tell, but in a moment it wheeled round with a furious roar and charged its pursuer.

Hockins stopped at once, and his comrades fully expected to see him turn and run; but our seaman was made of better stuff than they gave him credit for, and the situation was not so new to him as they imagined. In the course of his voyaging to many lands, Hockins had been to a bull-fight in South America. He had seen with fascination and some surprise the risks run by the footmen in the arena; he had beheld with mingled anger and disgust the action of the picadors, who allowed their poor horses to be gored to death by the infuriated bulls; and he had watched with thrilling anxiety, not unmingled with admiration, the cool courage of the matadors, as they calmly stood up to the maddened and charging bulls and received them on the points of their swords, stepping lightly aside at the same moment so as to avoid the dangerous horns.

The seaman’s purpose now was to act the part of a matador. He knew that he possessed coolness and nerve sufficient for the deed; he hoped that he had the skill; he felt that hunger could no longer remain unsatisfied; he feared that death by starvation might be the lot of himself and his companions, and he preferred to meet death in action—if meet it he must. All things considered, he resolved to face the bovine thunderbolt with unflinching front, like a true-blue British tar!

His coolness in the circumstances was evinced by the remarks muttered to himself in a growly tone as the bull approached.

“Three futt—that’ll be enough. I don’t rightly remember how near them mattydoors let him come before they putt their helms hard down an’ let him go by, but I think three futt’ll do.”

This decision was barely reached when the bull was upon him with lowered head and erect tail. It was an awful rush, but Hockins stood like a rock with the cutlass pointed. At the pre-arranged moment he stepped to one side, but instead of letting the momentum of the animal do the work, he could not resist the impulse to drive the cutlass deeper into the bull’s neck. The result was that, though he escaped the creature’s horn by a very narrow shave, the cutlass was wrenched violently from his grasp, and he was sent head over heels upon the plain!

Seeing this, Mark and the negro ran to the rescue, the one howling like a maniac, the other clubbing his gun; but their aid was not required, for the work of the amateur matador had been effectively done. After receiving the deadly thrust the bull plunged forward a few paces, and then fell dying upon the ground, while Hockins got up and began to feel himself all over to make sure that no bones were broken.

It need scarcely be told that they rejoiced greatly over their success, and that they cut off some of the flesh immediately, with which they returned to the forest to enjoy a much-needed meal.

“We must kindle a fire now,” said Mark, stopping at an open space in the midst of a very secluded spot at the foot of a magnificent palm-tree. “You see I’m not prepared to act like a cannibal or Eskimo, and eat the meat raw.”

“There won’t be much fear now,” said Hockins, “especially if we make the fire of dry wood an’ keep it small. Just look at that, Doctor.”

He held out his cutlass for inspection. It had been seriously bent in the recent encounter.

“Ain’t that a cryin’ shame to the owners, now, to send us poor fellows to the eastern seas, where we may meet pirates any day, with tin cutlashes like that.”

“You kin put him straight de next bull you kills,” said Ebony, as he prepared some touchwood; “you’ve on’y got to stick ’im on the left side an’ he’ll twis’ it all right. Now, massa, I’s ready, bring de gun an’ snap de flints ober dat.”

Hockins straightened his weapon between the branches of a tree, his comrades managed to capture a spark in a mass of dry combustibles, which soon burst into a flame. As the seaman had recommended, only the driest wood was used, and just enough of that to enable them to half-roast what food they required. Then they returned to the carcass of the bull, and cut off a large quantity of meat, using the cutlass as well as their clasp-knives in the operation.

“Cut the meat in thin slices,” said Mark Breezy, when they began this work.

“Why you so ’ticklar, massa?” asked Ebony. “I’s fond o’ t’ick slices—w’en him’s not too tough.”

“Because then we can dry the meat in the sun or over a slow fire, and so be able to keep it longer without spoiling. We must spend the night here for the purpose, and perhaps part of to-morrow.—Why, Hockins, what are you about?”

“Makin’ a pair o’ shoes, sir; you see them old dancin’ pumps as I left the ship with wouldn’t hold out another day o’ this rough travellin’, so I’m makin’ a noo pair of shoes when I’ve got the chance.”

“They will be a primitive pair,” observed Mark.

“If that means a good pair, you’re right, sir. They are after the pattern first made by Adam for Eve—leas’wise it’s supposed her first pair o’ dancin’ pumps was made this fashion. I’ll make a sim’lar pair for you, sir, w’en your boots give out.”

In case the reader should ever be reduced to extremities in the matter of foot-gear we may explain the seaman’s method.

Selecting what he believed to be the thickest part of the bull’s hide, he cut off a small portion about eighteen inches square. Spreading this on the ground with the hair upwards, he planted his naked foot on it and marked the shape thereon. Then with his knife he cut away the hide all round the foot-mark at four inches or so from the outline of the foot. Next, he bored little holes all round the margin, through which he ran a line, or lace, also made of raw hide. Then, planting his foot again in the middle of the hide, he drew the line tight, causing the edges to rise all round the foot and almost cover it.

“There you are, sir,” he said, stretching out his limb and admiring the contrivance; “rough-an’-ready, you see, but soon finished. It ain’t recorded in ancient history what Eve said when Adam presented her wi’ the little testimonial of his affection, but if I might ventur’ a guess I should opine that she said ‘puckery.’”

“H’m! Dey ain’t a tight fit,” observed Ebony. “I’s ob opinion dat your corns are quite safe in ’em.”

Having completed his shoe-making work, the ingenious seaman assisted his companions to prepare the dried meat, which they afterwards tied up in three convenient little parcels to be slung on their backs.

That night they found a more commodious tree to sleep in. Under the pleasant influence of a good supper they enjoyed unbroken rest, and awoke the following morning greatly refreshed. They were thus, both physically and mentally, prepared for the events of that day, to which, as they afterwards had a most important bearing on their fortunes in the island, we will devote a separate chapter.

Chapter Four.

The Doctor finds Unexpected Work in the Wilderness, and a Mysterious Stranger is Introduced.

It has been said that the travellers—for we cannot now appropriately style them fugitives—had reached a more open country, and that Hockins’s fight with the wild bull had taken place on the margin of a wide grassy plain.

This plain, however, was limited. In front of them the scenery was undulating and beautifully varied—almost park-like in its character, and only in one direction—to the right—did it extend like a sea of waving grass to the horizon. Behind them lay the dense forest through which they had passed. The forest also curved round to their left, and stretched away, apparently unbroken, on to still far-off mountains.

After they had breakfasted, packed their dried meat, and sallied forth on the journey of another day, they walked in silence until they reached the edge of the plain, where there was room to walk abreast.

“Now, comrades,” said Mark Breezy, “we will go to the top of yon mound, see how the land lies, and hold a council of war.”

“Just so, cap’n; take our bearin’s an’ lay our course,” assented Hockins.

They soon reached the spot, and found the view from it unexpectedly beautiful. The whole landscape was clothed with tropical verdure. Past the foot of the mound ran a considerable stream, which opened out into a series of lakelets in the hollows beyond, the waters of which seemed to be the home of considerable numbers of wild-fowl,—but there was no sign of the presence of man.

“Strange,” said Mark, in a low voice, “that such a lovely scene should have been created a solitude, with no one to profit by or enjoy it.”

“Well now, sir,” remarked the sailor, “d’ee know that same thought has puzzled me now an’ again; for although my purfession is the sea, I’ve travelled a good bit on the land—specially in South America—and I’ve seen miles on miles o’ splendid country, that made me think of Adam an’ Eve in paradise, with never a soul, as you say, to make use of or enjoy it. I’ve often wondered what it was all made for!”

“Don’t you tink,” said Ebony, with his head a little on one side, and his earnest eyes betraying the sincerity of his nature, “don’t you tink dat p’r’aps de ducks an’ geese, an’ sitch-like, makes use ob an’ enjoys it? to say nuffin’ oh de beasts, hinsects, an’ fishes.”

“You may be right, Ebony,” returned Hockins, with an approving nod; “we human being’s is apt to think too much of ourselves. Moreover, it has come into my mind that Great Britain was a solitood once—or much about it—an’ it’s anything but that now; so mayhap them lands will be swarmin’ wi’ towns an’ villages some day or other. What d’ee think, Doctor?”

But the young doctor said nothing, for while his companions were thus indulging in speculations, he was anxiously considering what course they should pursue.

“You see, comrades,” he said, turning to them abruptly, “if we go to the right and traverse this fine country we may very likely fall in with villages, but the villagers may be savages, like those we met on the coast. On the other hand, if we go to the left, we shall have to traverse the somewhat dark and difficult forests, but then we shall be making for the mountains and table-lands of the interior; and as the capital, Ant— Ant—”

“Anty-all-alive-O!” suggested Hockins.

“No, ’s not dat. It ends wid ‘arrive O!’ w’ich is just what we wants.”

“Well, whatever may be its name, I know that it is in the centre of the island somewhere, and the centre of any land always means the mountains; so I think we had better decide to go to the left, and—”

“Hallo! look yonder, sir,” said Hockins, pointing towards a low cliff which rose in front of them not a quarter of a mile from the spot where they stood.

Turning in the direction indicated, they observed a man running swiftly, as if in pursuit of something. They could see that he was clothed, and that he carried several spears, from which they judged that he was a hunter. Coming to the foot of the cliff before mentioned, the man ascended the face of it with wonderful agility, and had almost gained the top, when a treacherous root or stone gave way, causing him to lose his hold and roll violently to the bottom.

“Poor fellow, he’s killed!” cried Mark, running towards the fallen hunter, who lay on the ground motionless.

He was not killed, however, though stunned and bleeding profusely from a deep wound in the arm, caused by one of his own spears while in the act of falling. When the three strangers suddenly appeared the hunter grasped one of the spears and made a vigorous attempt to rise, evidently under the impression that he was about to be attacked; but the fall and the loss of blood were too much for him. He sank back with a groan, yet there was a look of quiet dignity about him which showed that he gave way to no craven spirit.

Our young doctor, kneeling down beside him, proceeded at once to staunch the wound and bind up the arm with his pocket-handkerchief. While he was thus engaged, Hockins brought some water from a neighbouring stream in a cup which he had extemporised out of a piece of bark, and applied it to the man’s lips. Ebony stood by, with a look of profound pity on his face, ready for whatever might be required of him.

The hunter showed by the expression of his handsome brown features that he was grateful for these attentions. Yet, at the same time, there seemed to be something of perplexity, if not surprise, in his looks as he gazed on the white men’s faces. But he did not utter a word. When the dressing of the arm was completed—of course in a most businesslike manner—he again attempted to rise, but was so weak from loss of blood that he fell back fainting in the Doctor’s arms.

“This is a most awkward business,” said Mark, as he laid the man carefully on the ground, and put a bundle of grass under his head for a pillow. “It behoves us to push on our journey without delay, yet it will never do to leave him here alone, and we can’t very well take him on with us. What is to be done!”

Both Hockins and the negro looked their incapacity to answer that question. Just then the answer came in the form they least expected, for a sound of many voices in clamorous talk suddenly broke on their ears. The speakers, whoever they might be, were still distant, and the formation of the ground prevented our travellers being seen by them.

“Savages!” exclaimed Mark and Hockins in the same breath.

“Hide!” cried Ebony, with a roll of his huge eyes, as he suited the action to the word, and leaped into the bushes. The others followed his example, and running about a hundred yards back into the woods, climbed into the branches of a lofty tree, from which outlook, well screened by leaves, they saw a band composed of some hundreds of natives walking smartly over the open plain. From the manner of their approach it was evident that they searched for some one, and as they made straight for the cliff where the wounded man lay, it seemed probable that they were following up his trail.

“We’re done for,” said Mark, in a tone of despair, as he noted this.

“Why d’ee think so, Doctor?” asked Hockins, who did not by any means seem to take such a gloomy view of their case.

“Don’t you see? Savages can follow up people’s trails almost as well as dogs. They’ll easily trace us to the foot of this tree by our footprints, and then they’ve only to look up!”

“That’s true. I had forgotten that.”

“Dere’s time to drop down yit, massa, and squatilate,” suggested the negro, excitedly.

Mark shook his head.

“Might as well try to run from tigers as from savages,” he returned, “unless you’ve got a good start.”

“But they ain’t all savages, sir,” whispered Hockins, as the band drew nearer. “Some o’ the naked black fellows look savage enough, no doubt, but there’s a lot of ’em lightish brown in the skin, an’ clothed in fine though queer garments. They carry themselves, too, like gentlemen. P’r’aps we’d better go for’ard an’ trust them.”

“Trust to ’em, ’Ockins!” said Ebony with a decided shake of the head, “trust men wid brown faces? Nebber!”

The whispered conversation ceased at this point for a loud shout of surprise mingled with alarm was raised as the band came to the foot of the cliff and found what appeared to be the dead body of the wounded man. Evidently they were friends, for while some of them kneeled down beside the injured hunter to examine him, others gave way to gestures and exclamations of grief.

Presently the watchers observed that one of those who kneeled beside the body looked up with a smile and a nod of satisfaction as he pointed to his chest.

“They’ve discovered that he’s not dead,” said Mark.

“Yes, massa, an’ dey’ve diskivered de bandaged arm.”

“Ay, an’ it seems to puzzle ’em,” added the seaman.

It did more than puzzle them. They had not observed it at first, because, just before running into the woods, Mark had covered it with a loose shawl—a sort of linen plaid—which the man had worn round his shoulders. When they removed this and saw the bandage which was wound round the limb in the most careful and perfect manner, they looked at each other in great surprise; then they looked solemn and spoke in low tones, glancing round now and then with saucer-like eyes, as if they expected to see something frightful.

“I do believe, Doctor,” whispered the seaman, “that they think your work has been done by a goblin of some sort!”

It would indeed seem as if some such idea had entered the minds of the band, for instead of examining the ground for footprints and following them up—as was natural to have done—they silently constructed a litter of branches, covered it with some of their garments, and quietly bore the wounded and still unconscious man away in the direction of the plains.

With thankful hearts our travellers slid to the ground, and hurried off in the opposite direction towards the mountains.

That night they came to a deeply-shaded and rugged piece of ground in the heart of the forest where there were caverns of various sizes. Here the solitude seemed to be so profound that the fear of pursuit gradually left them, so they resolved to kindle a cheerful fire in one of the caves, cook a good supper, and enjoy themselves. Finding a cave that was small, dry, and well concealed, they soon had a bright fire blazing in it, round which they sat on a soft pile of branches—Mark and Hockins looking on with profound interest and expectation while the negro prepared supper.

“If I only had a quid o’ baccy now,” said Hockins, “I’d be as happy as a king.”

“I have the advantage of you, friend, for I am as happy as a king without it,” said the young doctor.

“Well, there’s no denyin’,” returned the seaman, “that you have the advantage o’ me; but if I only had the baccy I’d enjoy my disadvantage. P’r’aps there’s a bit left in some corner o’—”

He plunged his hands into each pocket in his garments, one after another, but without success until he came to the left breast-pocket of his coat. When he had searched that to its deepest recesses he stopped and looked up with a beaming countenance.

“Ho! got ’im?” asked Ebony, with interest.

Hockins did not reply, but, slowly and tenderly, drew forth—not a quid, but—a little piece of brown wood about five or six inches long.

“A penny whistle!” exclaimed Mark.

“Speak with reverence, Doctor,” returned the sailor, with a quiet smile, “it ain’t a penny whistle, it’s a flageolet. I stuck it here the last time I was amoosin’ the crew o’ the Eastern Star an’ forgot I hadn’t putt it away. Wait a bit, you shall hear.”

Saying this Hockins put the tiny instrument to his lips, and drew from it sounds so sweet, so soft, so melodious and tuneful, that his companions seemed to listen in a trance of delight, with eyes as well as with ears!

“Splendid!” exclaimed Mark, enthusiastically, when the sailor ceased to play. “Why, Hockins, I had no idea you could play like that! Of course I knew that you possessed musical powers to some extent, for I have heard the tooting of your flageolet through the bulkheads when at sea; but two or three inches of plank don’t improve sweet sounds, I suppose.”

“Ho! massa, didn’t I tell you t’ree or four times dat he play mos’ awrful well?”

“True, Ebony, so you did; but I used to think your energetic praise was due to your enthusiastic disposition, and so paid no attention to your invitations to go for’ard an’ listen. Well, I confess I was a loser. You must have played the instrument a long time, surely?”—turning to the seaman.

“Yes, ever since I was a small boy. My father played it before me, and taught me how to finger it. He was a splendid player. He used sometimes to go to the back of the door when we had a small blow-out, an’ astonish the company by playin’ up unexpectedly. He was great at Scotch tunes—specially the slow ones, like this.”

He put the little instrument to his lips again, and let it nestle, as it were, in his voluminous beard, as he drew from it the pathetic strains of “Wanderin’ Willie,” to the evidently intense enjoyment of Ebony, who regarded music as one of the chief joys of life—next, perhaps, to cooking!

But Mark and Ebony were not the only listeners to that sweet strain. Just outside the mouth of the cave there stood a man, who, to judge from the expression of his face, was as much affected by the music as the negro. Though he stood in such a position as to be effectually screened from the view of those within, a gleam of reflected light fell upon his figure, showing him to be a tall, handsome man in the prime of life. He was clothed in what may be styled a mixed European and native costume, and a gun on which he rested both hands seemed to indicate him a hunter. He carried no other weapon, except a long knife in his girdle. The mixed character of his garb extended also to his blood, for his skin, though dark and bronzed from exposure, was much lighter than that of most natives of the island, and his features were distinctly European. Quiet gravity was the chief characteristic of his countenance, and there was also an expression of profound sadness or pathos, which was probably caused by the music.

When Hockins finished his tune the three friends were almost petrified with astonishment—not unmingled with alarm—as they beheld this man walk coolly into the cave, rest his gun on the side of it, and sit gravely down on the opposite side of the fire.

The first impulse of our three friends, of course, was to spring up, but the action of the man was so prompt, and, withal, so peaceful, that they were constrained to sit still.

“Don’t be alarmed. I come as a friend. May I sit by your fire?”

He spoke in good English, though with a decidedly foreign accent.

“You are welcome, since you come as a friend,” said Mark, “though I must add that you have taken us by surprise.”

“Well now, stranger,” said Hockins, putting his musical instrument in his pocket, “how are we to know that you are a friend—except by the cut o’ your jib, which, I admit, looks honest enough, and your actions, which, we can’t deny, are peaceable like?”

The seaman put this question with a half-perplexed, half-amused air. The stranger received it without the slightest change in his grave aspect.

“You have no other means of knowing,” he replied, “except by my ‘jib’ and my actions.”

“Dat’s a fact, anyhow,” murmured Ebony.

“Who are you, and where do you come from?” asked Mark.

“I am an outlaw, and I come from the forest.”

“That’s plain-speakin’, an’ no mistake,” said Hockins, with a laugh, “an’ deserves as plain a return. We can’t say exactly that we are outlaws, but we are out-an’-outers, an’ we’re going through the forest to—to—Anty-all-alive-O! or some such name—the capital, you know—”

“Antananarivo,” suggested the outlaw.

“That’s it! That’s the name—I couldn’t recall,” said Mark, quickly. “We are going there, if we can only find the way.”

“I know the way,” returned the outlaw, “and my reason for coming here is to offer to show it you.”

“Indeed! But how came you to know our intentions, and what makes you take so much interest in us?” asked Mark, with a look of suspicion.

“My reason for being interested in you,” returned the stranger, “is a matter with which you have nothing to do. How I came to know your intentions it is easy to explain, for I have followed you from the sea-coast step by step. I saw you escape from the savages, saw you frightened out of the cave by my friends the outlaws, who dwell in it, followed you while you traversed the forest, listened to your conversations, witnessed your exploit with the bull, and observed you when you helped and bandaged the wounded native.”

It would be difficult to describe the looks or feelings with which the three friends received this information. Ebony’s eyes alone would have taken at least half-an-hour of the pencil to portray.

“But—but—why?” stammered Mark.

“Never mind the why,” continued the outlaw, with a pleasant look. “You see that I know all about you—at least since you landed—and I also know that you have been several times in unseen danger, from which I have shielded you. Now, you have arrived at a part of the forest which is swarming with brigands, into whose hands you are sure to fall unless I am with you. I therefore come to offer myself as your guide. Will you have me?”

“It seems to me,” returned Mark, with something of scorn in his tone, “that we have no choice, for you have us at your mercy—we cannot refuse. I suppose you are the brigand chief, and are guarding us for some sinister purpose of your own.”

“I said not that I was a brigand,” returned the stranger, quietly; “I said I was an outlaw. What else I am, and my motives of action, I choose not to tell. You say truly—I have you in my power. That is one reason why I would befriend you, if you will trust me.” The outlaw rose up as he spoke.

There was such an air of quiet dignity and evident sincerity in the man that Mark was strongly impressed. Rising promptly, he stretched his hand across the fire, saying, “We will trust you, friend, even though we were not in your power.”

The outlaw grasped the youth’s hand with a gratified look.

“Now,” he added, as he took up his gun, “I will go. In the morning at day-break I will return. Sleep well till then.”

With something like a courtly salute, the mysterious stranger left them, and disappeared into the depths of the forest.

Chapter Five.

The Outlaw’s Friends. Threatened Danger curiously Averted.

As might be supposed, the unexpected appearance of the outlaw, as well as his sudden departure, tended somewhat to interfere with the sleep which he had wished the travellers at parting, and the night was far advanced before they grew tired of wondering who he could be, speculating as to where he came from, and commenting on his personal appearance. In short, at the close of their discourse, they came to the conclusion which was well embodied in the remark of Ebony, when he said, “It’s my opinion, founded on obsarvashun, dat if we was to talk an tink de whole night long we would come no nearer de troot, so I’ll turn in.”

He did turn in accordingly, and, after exhausting the regions of conjecture, the powers of speculation, and the realms of fancy, Mark and Hockins followed his example.

One consequence of their mental dissipation was that they slept rather beyond the hour of day-break, and the first thing that recalled the two white men to consciousness was the voice of their black comrade exclaiming:—

“Ho! hi! hallo! I smells a smell!”

They lifted their three heads simultaneously and beheld the outlaw sitting calmly beside the fire roasting steaks.

For the first time the mysterious stranger smiled—and it was a peculiarly sweet half-grave sort of attractive smile, as far removed from the fiendish grin of the stage bandit as night is from day.

“I knew you would be hungry, and guessed you would be sleepy,” he said, in a deep musical voice, “so I have prepared breakfast. Are you ready?”

“Ready!” repeated Hockins, rising with a mighty yawn, and stretching himself, as was his wont; “I just think we are. Leastwise I am. Good luck to ’ee Mister Outlaw, what have ’ee got there?”

“Beef, marrow-bones, and rice,” replied the man. “You may call me Samuel if you like. It was my father’s first name, but I’m best known among my friends as Ravoninohitriniony.”

“Well, that is a jaw-breaker!” exclaimed Hockins, with a laugh, as they all sat down to breakfast. “Ra-vo—what did ’ee say?”

“Better not try it till arter breakfast,” suggested Ebony.

“Couldn’t we shorten it a bit?” said Mark, beginning to consult a marrow-bone. “What say you to the first half—Ravonino?”

“As you please,” replied the outlaw, who was already too much absorbed with steaks to look up.

“Not a bad notion,” said Hockins. “Sam’l Ravonino—I’ve heerd wuss; anyhow it’s better than the entire complication—eh, Ebony?”

“Mush better,” assented the negro; “dere’s no use wotsomediver for de hitri—hitri-folderol-ony bit of it. Now, ’Ockins, fair play wid de marrow-bones. Hand me anoder.”

“Is it far, Mr Ravonino,” asked Mark, “from here to the capital—to Antananarivo?”

“You cleared ’im that time, Doctor!” murmured Hockins, wiping his mouth with a bunch of grass which he carried as a substitute for a pocket-handkerchief.

“Yes, it is a long way,” said the outlaw; “many days’ journey over mountain and plain.”

“And are you going to guide us all the way there?”

“No, not all the way. You forget I am an outlaw. It would cost me my life if I were to appear in Antananarivo.”

Mark was on the point of asking why, but, remembering the rebuff of the previous night, forbore to put questions relative to his new friend’s personal affairs. Indeed he soon found that it was useless to do so, for whenever he approached the subject Ravonino became so abstracted and deaf that no reply could be drawn from him. As if to compensate for this, however, the man was exceedingly communicative in regard to all other subjects, and there was a quiet urbanity in his manner which rendered his conversation exceedingly attractive. Moreover, to the surprise of Mark, this mysterious stranger gave evidence of a considerable amount of education. He also gratified Hockins by his evident delight in the flageolet, and his appreciation of nautical stories and “lingo,” while he quite won the heart of Ebony by treating him with the same deference which he accorded to his companions. In short each of our travellers congratulated himself not a little on this pleasant acquisition to the party—the only drawback to their satisfaction being their inability to reconcile the existence of such good qualities with the condition of an outlaw!

“However,” remarked Hockins, after a long talk with his comrades on this subject when Ravonino was absent, “it’s none of our business what he’s bin an’ done to other people. What we’ve got to do with is the way he behaves to us, d’ee see?”

“He’s a trump,” said Ebony, with a nod of decision.

“I agree with you,” said Mark; “and I only wish he was a little more communicative about himself. However, we must take him as we find him, and try to win his confidence.”

During the whole of that first day their guide conducted them through such intricate and evidently unfrequented parts of the forest that their advance was comparatively slow and toilsome, but, being young and strong and well-fed, they did not mind that. In fact Mark Breezy enjoyed it, for the wilder and more tangled the scenery was through which they forced their way, the more did it accord with the feelings of romance which filled him, and the thought, too, of being guided through the woods by an outlaw tended rather to increase his satisfaction.

“Are all the roads in your island as bad as these?” he asked, after plumping up to the knees in a quagmire, out of which he scrambled with difficulty.

“No, many of them are worse and some better,” answered the guide; “but I keep away from them, because the Queen’s soldiers and spies are hunting about the land just now.”

“Oho!” thought Mark, “I begin to see; you are a rebel.” Then, aloud, “Your country, then, is governed by a queen?”

“Misgoverned,” returned Ravonino in a tone of bitterness, which, however, he evidently tried to restrain.

Fearing to tread again on forbidden ground, Mark forbore to put questions about the guide’s objections to his queen, but simply asked her name, and if she had reigned long.

“Her name,” said Ravonino, “is Ranavalona. She has reigned for twenty-seven years—twenty-seven long and weary years! I was a little boy when she usurped the throne. Now my sun has reached its meridian, yet she is still there, a blight upon the land. But God knows what is best. He cannot err.”

This was the first reference that Ravonino had made to the Creator, and Mark was about to push his inquiries further, when a confused sound of voices was heard not far in advance of them.

Ravonino, who had been walking with an easy nonchalant air ahead of the party, on a very narrow footpath, suddenly stopped to listen with a look of anxiety. A moment later and he entered the bush that fringed the path and overhung it.

“Come,” he said in a low voice, “follow me, close!”

Without a word of explanation he strode into the dense undergrowth, through which he went with the agility of a panther and the sinuosity of a serpent. The others, being, as we have said, very active and strong, kept close at his heels, though not without difficulty. Coming at last to a place where the shrubbery was so intertwined that it was impossible to see more than a yard or two in advance, they suddenly found themselves stopped by a sheer precipice. Only for a few seconds, however, was their progress arrested, while their guide turned to explain.

“There is another and an easier way to the place I am making for, but it is much longer and more exposed. I take for granted that you have strong arms and steady heads, but if not, speak out, for I would not lead you into danger.”

“Lead on,” said Mark, promptly, “wherever you go, we will follow.”

With something like an amused twinkle of the eye, Ravonino began to climb up the face of the precipice, holding on to roots and rope-like creepers like a monkey.

“If this here sort o’ cordage was only a bit more taut I wouldn’t mind it so much,” growled Hockins, as he lost his footing at one place, and swung off the face of the precipice,—holding on to a stout creeper, however, with seaman-like grip and coolness. He quickly caught hold of another creeper, and drew himself again into comparative safety. A minute later and they all stood on a ledge, high up on the face of the cliff, and close to what appeared to be the mouth of a cavern.

“Look there,” said their guide, pushing aside the bushes which overhung the cliff in all directions.

They looked, and through the opening beheld a band of men moving in single file along the track they had just left. They were most of them nearly naked, with only short calico breeches which did not quite reach to their knees, but all had muskets on their shoulders and cross-belts on their dark bodies, one of which belts sustained apparently a cartridge-box, the other a bayonet. Their own thick hair was all the cap they wore, excepting two or three men of superior rank, who wore cloths wrapped in turban fashion on their heads, and a voluminous plaid-like garment on their shoulders. These carried swords instead of muskets.

“The soldiers of the Queen,” said Ravonino, in answer to Mark Breezy’s look. “They are out hunting.”

“What do they hunt for?” asked Mark.

“Men and women.”

“By which I suppose you mean rebels.”

“No, they are not rebels; they are the queen’s most loyal subjects!”

“But loyal subjects do not usually fly from their rulers,” objected Mark.

“True, but loyal subjects sometimes fly from tyranny,” returned the guide. “Come, I will introduce you to some fugitives from tyranny.”

He turned as he spoke and led the way into the cave before mentioned. Profound darkness did not prevent his advancing with a firm unhesitating step. As he led Mark by the hand, Hockins and Ebony held on to him and to each other, and had no difficulty in following. Presently they came to a wooden obstruction which proved to be a door. Voices in conversation were heard on the other side of it. A knock from the guide produced sudden silence. Another knock drew from those within an exclamation of surprise, and next moment the heavy door swung open on creaking hinges.

“Yes, it is Ravoninohitriniony! I knew his knock. He is come!” exclaimed a girlish voice, as a pair of arms were seen dimly to encircle the guide’s neck.

Of course the girl spoke in the native tongue, which was quite incomprehensible to our travellers, but if we are to enlighten our readers we must needs translate as we go along.

“My sister, Ra-Ruth,” said the guide, presenting her to his new friends. “She was a lady in the palace of the queen once. Now she is an outlaw, like myself—has fled from tyranny, and, perhaps, death. All in this cave are in the same case—fugitives from our tyrant queen.”

They reached the interior of the place as he spoke, and Ravonino, pointing to a bundle of dried ferns, bade his companions rest there until he had explained some private matters to the people.

Nothing loth—for they were all somewhat fatigued by their recent exertions—our travellers flung themselves on what proved to be a luxurious couch, and observed what went on around them.

Truly it was a strange scene, romantic enough even to satisfy the longings of Mark Breezy!

The cavern itself was a curious one, being in the form of a vast hall, with three smaller chambers opening out of it. The central hall seemed to have no roof, for although brightly lighted by several torches fixed to its rugged walls the upper part was lost in profound obscurity.

This strange abode was peopled by a considerable number of men and women—natives of the island—who from the variety in their costume, features, and complexion, evidently belonged to different tribes. Some were strong, tall, and rather harsh-featured, others were more slender in build and with refined countenances. A few were almost black, others of a light olive colour, and several made that approach to whiteness of skin which in England is known as brunette. All were more or less characterised by that quiet gentleness and gravity of demeanour which one is accustomed to associate with humbly borne misfortune.

It was evident from the appearance of the large chamber that its inhabitants were associated in groups or families, spaces being marked off by an arrangement of logs and household goods, etcetera, as if to indicate the habitation of each group, and, from certain indications in the smaller chambers, it was equally evident that these had been apportioned as the sleeping-places of the females. A larger space at the end of the cave, opposite to that on which Mark and his comrades reclined, seemed to be a general meeting-place.

To this spot it was that Ravonino went, leading his little sister Ra-Ruth by the hand, and followed by all the inmates of the place, who were eager to know what news he had brought. That the news was the reverse of good soon became evident, from the bowed heads and frequent sighs with which it was received.

Of course our travellers could make no use of their ears, but they made the best use of their eyes, and were deeply interested in the expressions and actions of the various members of the group who successively spoke after the guide had told his story. Poor little Ra-Ruth, whose age might have been about seventeen, was not one of the speakers. She was evidently a timid as well as a pretty little creature, for she clung to and nestled against her stout brother’s arm while he was speaking, and hid her face now and then in the masses of her luxuriant brown hair.

Close to her sat a young woman whose appearance and manner formed a striking contrast. She was much darker in complexion, but her features were of classical beauty and her air calm and self-possessed. When she had occasion to speak, she arose, displaying a tall elegantly-formed figure, which moved with queen-like dignity while she gesticulated with graceful animation, and frequently pointed upwards as if appealing to. God. When she was speaking Ra-Ruth’s timidity seemed to vanish, for she shook back her hair, and fixed her eyes on the other’s face with a gaze that told of ardent love as well as admiration.

The next who spoke was a young man, who in face and figure so strongly resembled the last speaker, that it was impossible to resist the conclusion that they were brother and sister. There was the same tall commanding figure, of course on a larger scale, the same noble cast of feature and the same dignified mien. But in the man, more than in the woman, there was an air of gentle modesty which contrasted well with his powerful frame. He did not gesticulate much in speaking, and, judging from the brevity of his speech, he had not much to say, but what he said was listened to with profound respect by all.

After this youth, several others took part in the debate. Then they all stood up, and, to the surprise of their visitors, began to sing—very sweetly—an old familiar hymn!

“It minds me o’ home,” whispered Hockins, scarce able to restrain the tears that filled his eyes.

The hymn was nearly finished, when a rushing sound and a subdued cry were heard to issue from a dark passage, the mouth of which was close to the couch of our travellers. The singing ceased instantly. Next moment a man rushed into the chamber with labouring breath and flashing eyes. Springing towards Ravonino, he spoke several words eagerly, at the same time pointing in the direction of the passage just referred to.

“Lights out and silence!” cried the guide, authoritatively, in the native tongue.

Another moment and the cave was in total darkness, and a silence so profound reigned there that the three visitors could hardly persuade themselves the whole affair was not a strange dream. The voice of Ravonino, however, soon dispelled that idea.

“Be still!” whispered the guide, laying his hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Our foes have discovered our retreat.”

“There’s a lot of stout fellows here,” returned Mark, also in a whisper. “We will help you if you have to fight.”

“We may not fight,” replied Ravonino softly. “If it be God’s will, we must die. Hush! They come.”

Once more total silence prevailed in the cavern, and the sound of distant voices could be heard. In a few minutes a tiny light was seen at the end of the dark passage. It gradually increased in size, revealing a soldier who bore a torch. He advanced on tip-toe, and with slightly scared looks, into an outer cavern which formed a sort of vestibule to the large inner cave.

The soldier was brave, no doubt, and would have faced an army in the field, but he was extremely superstitious, and advanced with a palpitating heart, the torch held high above his head, and eyes glancing nervously from side to side. A crowd of comrades, similarly affected more or less, followed the torch-bearer and pushed him on.

“Nothing here,” said the leading man, of course in Malagasy.

“Let us be gone, then,” said one of his comrades.

“No,” observed a third, who seemed bolder than the rest, “perhaps there is another cave beyond,” (pointing to the dark passage, through which, though unseen, Mark and his companions with the guide were gazing anxiously at their foes). “Give me the torch.”

The soldier seized the light and advanced quickly towards the opening. Another minute and all must have been revealed. A feeling of despair took possession of Ravonino’s breast and he gave vent to an involuntary sigh.

The sound reached the ear of the soldier with the torch and for a moment arrested him, but, thinking probably that the sound was in his imagination, he again advanced. The case was now desperate. Just then a gleam of light flashed into the mind of Hockins. Next moment, to the consternation of his comrades and the guide, a strain of the sweetest music floated softly in the air!

The soldiers stood still—spell-bound. It was not an unfamiliar air, for they had often heard the hated Christians sing it, but the sweet, liquid—we might almost say tiny—tones in which it was conveyed, were such as had never before reached their ears or even entered their imaginations. It was evident from their countenances that the soldiers were awe-stricken. The seaman noted this. He played only a few bars, and allowed the last notes of his flageolet to grow faint until they died away into absolute silence.

For a minute or two the soldiers stood rooted to the spot, gazing up into the roof of the cave as if expecting a renewal of the sounds. Then they looked solemnly at each other. Without uttering a word they turned slowly round, retreated on tip-toe as they came, and finally disappeared.

We need hardly say that the astonishment of the people in the cave at the mode of their deliverance from the threatened danger was intense.

When the torches were relighted the men and women assembled round Ravonino with looks little less solemn than those of the soldiers who had just taken their departure.

“Surely,” said the handsome young man whom we have already introduced, “surely God has wrought a miracle and sent an angel’s voice for our deliverance.”

“Not so, Laihova,” replied Ravonino, with a slight smile. “We are too apt to count everything that we fail to understand a miracle. God has indeed sent the deliverance, but through a natural channel.”

“Yet we see not the channel, Ravoninohitriniony,” said Laihova’s queen-like sister, Ramatoa.

“True, Ramatoa. Nevertheless I can show it to you. Come, Hockins,” he added in English, “clear up the mystery to them.”

Thus bidden, our seaman at once drew forth the little instrument and began to play the hymn they had just been singing, with the air of which, as we have said, he chanced to be well acquainted.

It would be hard to say whether surprise or pleasure predominated in the breasts of his audience. At last the latter feeling prevailed, and the whole assembly joined in singing the last verse of the hymn, which appropriately terminated in “Praise ye the Lord.”

“But our retreat is no longer safe,” said Ravonino, when the last echo of their thanksgiving had died away. “We must change our abode—and that without delay. Get ready. By the first light of morning I will lead you to a new home. These soldiers will not return, but they will tell what they have seen, and others less timorous will come here to search for us.”

Immediately the people set about collecting together and packing up what may be termed their household goods, leaving the guide and their visitors to enjoy supper and conversation in their own corner of the cave.

Chapter Six.

The Guide becomes Communicative, and tells of Terrible Doings.

During the progress of supper, which consisted of cold dried meat and rice, the quartette seated on the ferns in the corner of the cave were unusually silent. Mark Breezy and Ravonino continued to eat for some time without speaking a word. Ebony, although earnestly absorbed in victuals, rolled his eyes about as he looked from time to time at his companions with unwonted solemnity, and John Hockins frowned at his food, and shook his shaggy head with an air of dissatisfied perplexity.

“Ravonino,” at length said the last, looking up, and using his grass pocket-handkerchief, “it seems to me, bein’ a plain straight-for’ard sort o’ seaman, that there’s somethin’ not exactly fair an’ above-board in all them proceedin’s. Of course it’s not for me to say what a independent man should do or say; but don’t you think that w’en a man like you professes to be honest, an’ asks other men to trust him, he should at least explain some o’ the riddles that surround him? I’m a loyal man myself, an’ I’ll stand up for my Queen an’ country, no matter what may be the circumstances in w’ich I’m placed; so that w’en I sees another man admittin’ that he’s a outlaw, an’ finds the soldiers of his Queen a-huntin’ all about the country arter him and his comrades—seems to me there’s a screw loose somewheres.”

“Dat’s my sent’ments zactly,” said the negro, with a decisive nod.

Mark took no notice of this speech, but silently continued his supper. For a few moments the guide did not speak or look up. Then, laying down his knife and clasping his hands over one of his knees, he looked earnestly into the seaman’s face.

“You tell me you are loyal,” he said.

Hockins nodded.

“If your queen,” continued Ravonino, “were to tell you to give up the service of God and worship idols, would you do it?”

“Cer’nly not,” replied the seaman, promptly, “for she has no right to rule over my soul. My duty to the King of Kings stands before my duty to the Queen of England.”

Again the guide was silent for a few minutes. Then he said:—

“Hockins, by God’s blessing you have saved the lives of all our party this day—at least it seemed so, for, another step, and that soldier would have discovered us if your little pipe had not stopped him. You are therefore entitled to expect some gratitude, and, from what I have seen of you and your comrades, I have reason to believe you will not betray us, even if you get the chance.”

“Right you are, friend, I will never betray an honest man; an’ I may speak for my comrades as well as self, for they’re true-blue to the back-bone—”

“Furder nor dat,” interposed Ebony, “troo-bloo to de marrow!”

“Don’t you shove in your oar till you’re ordered, you nigger! Well, as I was a-sayin’, we’ll never betray honest men, but I give you fair warnin’ if you’re not honest, we’ll have nothin’ to do wi’ your secrets, an’ if our duty to God an’ man requires us to go against you, we’ll do it without flinchin’.”

“So be it. I am satisfied,” returned Ravonino, calmly. “I will tell you as much as I think you are entitled to know. It may have reached your ears, perhaps, that there has been terrible persecution in this island for many years.”

Here Mark Breezy took up the conversation.

“No,” said he, with something of a deprecatory air, “we did not know it. For my part I am ashamed to say so; but I will say in excuse that the British empire is widely extended in every quarter of the globe, and her missions are so numerous that average men can scarcely hope to keep up with the details of all of the persecutions that occur. Rumours, indeed, I have heard of doings in Madagascar that vie with the persecutions of the Scottish Covenanters; but more than this I know not, though of course there are men connected with our Missionary Societies—and many people, no doubt, interested in missions—who know all about the persecutions in Madagascar. Is it in connection with this that you have been outlawed?”

“It is. Ranavalona, the blood-stained usurper, our present queen, is filled with such bitter hatred of Christianity that she has for many years persecuted the native Christians who have been taught by white missionaries from your land. Hundreds of men and women have been murdered by her orders because they refused to forsake Christ; others have been banished to regions so unhealthy that they have died, and many have been sold into slavery.”

The eyes of the guide gleamed for a moment, and his stern countenance flushed as he thus referred to the sorrows of his people, but by a strong effort he controlled his feelings, and his countenance resumed its habitual quietude.

“My mother and my sister and I,” he continued, “were sold into slavery. My mother was a native lady, high in station, and a member of the court of King Radama the First, who was very favourable to Missionaries. I was an infant at that time; my little sister was not born. My father was an English trader, skilled in many handicrafts, and a great favourite with the king, who fostered the Christian religion and helped those who came to teach us. Our teachers learned our language; taught us the love of God, and, through the power of the Holy Spirit, brought many of us to the Saviour. But they were persevering and wise as well as good. Having learned our language—in which my father helped them much—they taught us to read; translated many parts of the Word of God into our tongue; sent home for presses and types, and had these printed, as well as the Pilgrim’s Progress and other books.

“Peace, joy, and prosperity were spreading in our land. Idol-worship and cruel customs were being uprooted, and everything was going well when the king died—whether a Christian or not, who can tell? for, although favourable to, he never professed, Christianity. ‘The Lord knoweth them that are His!’ The rightful heir to the throne, according to our customs, was Rakotobe—a good young man who had been taught by the missionaries, and was nephew to the king; but Ranavalona, one of the king’s wives, resolved to seize the opportunity. A bold bad woman, with a powerful will and no principle, she carried her point by reckless bloodshed. There were men at court as bad as herself who agreed to aid her. When she boldly claimed the throne, four loyal nobles asserted the claim of Rakotobe. They were instantly speared in the palace. The rightful heir was not present. Soldiers were sent to his residence to seize and kill him before he should hear of what was going on.

“Not content with shedding blood, the cruel monsters dug the poor youth’s grave before his eyes. When they were thus engaged Rakotobe kneeled down to pray, and while he was in this position they speared him and cast him into his grave. Soon after the father and mother of Rakotobe were murdered—the last being starved to death. The brother of Radama was destroyed in like manner. He lingered eight days in agony before death came to his relief. Then Rakotobe’s grandmother and other relations were slain by Ranavalona’s orders, and thus the murderess waded through blood to the throne of Madagascar!

“Think you,” continued the guide, with a passing gleam of the anger which he strove to restrain, “think you that I owe allegiance to such a queen?”

“Truly ye do not,” answered the seaman, stoutly. “My only wonder is that the people suffer her to reign.”

Scarce heeding the reply the guide continued, with suppressed excitement, “but she did not rest content. It was in the year 1829 that she usurped the throne. Since then she has persecuted the Christians for more than a quarter of a century, and at times blood has flowed like water in our land. Bad as she is, however, she would have been worse but for her love to her son. Ay, the woman whose heart is a stone to most people is soft towards the young prince Rakota, in spite of the fact that this youth is favourable to the Christians and has often stood between them and his mother.

“About nine years after the queen’s coronation my little sister was born, and was secretly baptised—the name of Ruth being given to her. It is our custom to prefix Ra to many names—so she is Ra-Ruth. Look at her!” He pointed to a group not far-off, where the delicate and graceful girl was busily assisting an elderly woman in her packing arrangements. “See you the lady beside her, with the grey hair and the sad worn face? That is my mother. I have said she was high at the Court of Radama the First. She was young then. I was born the year that Radama died. Ranavalona was fond of her, though she loved not her Christianity, so she continued at the palace. The Queen also became very fond of my little sister when she began to grow to womanhood, but Ra-Ruth could not return the affection of one whose hands were stained so deeply with Christian blood. I was an officer in the palace at the time, but would gladly have left, only my doing so might have roused the queen’s wrath against my father and mother.

“At last the missionaries were ordered to quit the capital. In 1849 a great persecution took place. The queen became furious because her people would not cease to love and serve Jesus. She ordered many men and women to be speared and burned and tossed over precipices, but all without avail, because ‘greater is He who is for us than all who can be against us.’

“My father was away on a trading expedition at this time. One day in attempting to cross a lake he was drowned.” The guide’s voice deepened as he went on, “He was a good loving father to me. He taught me nearly all I know, and he was no mean scholar. He also sent me to the missionary schools. After his death the Queen hardened her heart against us; and as we refused to give up praying to God and singing His praise, we were cast out of the palace—my mother and sister and I, with several others, among whom were Laihova and his sister Ramatoa. We were sold into slavery in the public market.

“Our purchaser was cruel. He put us to the hardest menial work. We remained for several years with him. The health of my poor mother and sister began to give way. Then he sold me to another man, and we were separated. This was too much, I suppose, for the English blood in me to endure quietly. I made my escape. I went back to my old owner, and, in the night, induced my mother and sister to fly. Many persecuted Christians have fled since then and are now hiding in dens and caves like hunted beasts. We soon found some of these in the depths of the forests, and agreed to band together. They made me their leader, and I brought them here, where we have lived and worshipped God in peace; but, as you have seen, we are liable to be captured at any moment.”

“And if captured,” said Mark, “would the Queen really put you to death?”

“I fear she would; nay, I am certain of it, because one who recently escaped from Antananarivo has just brought the news that the Queen has been visited with a fresh burst of anger against the Christians, has thrown many into prison and sent out troops to scour the country in search of those who have fled.”

“But if that is so,” said Hockins, earnestly, “what’s the use o’ you riskin’ your life by goin’ with us to Ant—Ant—all-alive-O! (I’ll never git that name into my head!) Why not just sketch us out a rough chart o’ the island on a bit o’ bark, give us the bearin’s o’ the capital, an’ let us steer a straight course for it. I’ll be bound that we’ll make our port easy enough.”

“Yes, Hockins speaks wisely,” added Mark. “It is very kind of you to take so much trouble for us, but there is no need to run such great risk on our account.”

“You do not consider,” replied Ravonino, “that it is more difficult for sailors to cross the wild forest than to find their way on the trackless sea, and you forget also that the way is long, that Madagascar is larger than Great Britain and Ireland put together. There are many tribes, too, some of which are not so hospitable as others. You could not avoid the dangers of this wilderness easily without a guide. Besides, I do not mean to enter the capital. I will merely guide you to within sight of it and then leave you. Fortunately you require no assistance from natives, not being encumbered with this world’s goods.”

“Das troo; ha, ha–a!” cried Ebony, opening his portentous mouth and shutting his eyes, “we’ve got no luggidge.”

“Well, we shall only be too glad of your company,” said Mark, with some feeling, “and we thank you most heartily for your disinterested kindness.”

“My conduct is not altogether disinterested,” returned the guide. “The truth is, I had no intention at first of doing more than guiding you to the right pass in the mountains, but since I have been with you my feelings have been modified, and the news which we have just received has—has filled me with anxiety, and raised in my mind the idea that—that I may even make use of you!”

“That’s right,” exclaimed Mark, heartily, “I’m glad if there is the smallest chance of our serving you in any way. In what way can we do so?”

For some moments the guide displayed a degree of hesitancy which his friends had not before noticed in him. Then he spoke, slowly—

“Well, the truth is, that I have a friend in the palace who is, I have been told, in great danger, owing to the wrath of Ranavalona. I thought that somehow, perhaps, you might give warning to this friend, and say that Samuel Ravoninohitriniony is in the neighbouring forest, and—”

Here the guide stopped short, and seemed to be in some perplexity. Mark Breezy, whose young and romantic spirit was deeply stirred by the prospect of adventure which his words had opened up, assured him with enthusiasm that whatever was possible for man to accomplish he might depend upon being at least vigorously attempted. To which assurance John Hockins begged to “putt the word ditto,” and the negro fervently added, “Das so—me too!”

“But how are we to find your friend,” asked Mark, “seeing that we don’t know him, and have never seen him?”

“My friend is not a man, but a—a woman, a young girl,” said Ravonino, with the slightest possible symptom of confusion, which opened the eyes of Mark instantly, and still further stirred his sympathies.

“Ravonino,” he exclaimed, suddenly grasping the guide’s hand, “treat me as a friend and trust me. You love this young girl! Is it not so? Nay, man, don’t be angry with me. I can’t help sympathising. Why, I know something of your—your—a—condition myself. The morning I left England, the very last person I said good-bye to was a fair young girl, with golden hair, and a rosebud mouth, and such lovely blue—”

“Das right, Massa,” burst in Ebony, with a crow of admiration. “It doos my bery heart good to see a man as is proud ob his sweet’art. I’s got one too, bress you! but she ain’t fair! No, she’s black as de kitchen chimbly, wid a bootiful flat nose, a mout’ like a coal-scuttle, an’ such eyes—oh!”

“Hold your tongue, Ebony! Now, am I not right, Ravonino?”

“You are right,” answered the guide, gravely, yet without displeasure. “My Rafaravavy is in danger, and I must save her from this murderess at all hazards. It is right, however, to tell you that if you attempt to aid me you will encounter both difficulty and danger.”

“Don’t mention that, friend. No true man would shrink from either in a good cause,” said Mark. “But when must we set out on this expedition?”

“By day-break to-morrow. Our new hiding-place is on our way, so the change will not delay us; and from what the fugitives have told us, I hope—indeed I feel sure—that the Queen will do no further mischief for some weeks to come. But now, comrades,” said the guide, rising, “we must rest if we would work to-morrow. Follow me.”

He led them into one of the side caves, when the whole of the people followed, as if by preconcerted arrangement. Here a much-soiled book in a leathern cover was produced. It was a portion of the Bible in the Malagasy language. A few verses were reverently read by the guide; a brief earnest prayer was offered by a very old man; a hymn was sung, and then the people dispersed to their several sections of the cave. Finally the lights were extinguished, and the place was left in silence and darkness profound.

Chapter Seven.

Describes a Meek Mother and Crocodile-Son. Journey Resumed and Strange Treatment of the King of the Waters.

Dawn was still struggling to assert itself in the far east and the depths of the forest were still shrouded in almost midnight gloom, when the strange band of outlaws emerged from their cave, and, led by Ravonino, went forth to search for a safer dwelling-place in the still more inaccessible fastnesses of the wilderness.

They had not much difficulty in finding a suitable spot, for the particular region to which they had fled from persecution was exceedingly wild and broken in form, and abounded with concealed caverns having outlets in several directions, so that pursuit and discovery were alike difficult.

We may not delay here, however, to tell of their wanderings. Like the Christians of other lands and, more ancient times, they were hunted like wild beasts, though their only crime was a desire to serve and worship God according to the dictates of their consciences. It is the old familiar story, and comment is needless to those who understand it—

“Man’s inhumanity to man

Makes countless thousands mourn.”

There is only one other member of the party of whom we will make mention just now, because she appears again somewhat prominently in our tale. This was a little elderly female who seemed utterly destitute of the very common human attribute of self-assertion, and in whose amiable, almost comical, countenance, one expression seemed to overbear and obliterate all others, namely that of gushing good-will to man and beast! Those who did not know Réni-Mamba thought her an amiable imbecile. Those who knew her well loved her with peculiar tenderness. Her modesty and self-abnegation were not, so far as any one knew, the result of principle. She was too unassertive to lay claim to principle! We are not sure that she understood the meaning of principle.

Before Christianity in its doctrinal form reached her she had only one source of discomfort in life, and that was, that in everything she failed! Failed to do as much as she wanted to do for other people; failed to express herself always as affectionately as she felt; failed to avoid giving slight occasions of offence, although she “never, never meant to do it!” In short she was, strange to say, a victim to self-condemnation. When the Gospel of Jesus came to her, telling, as it does, that “God is Love,” that Christ came to sweep away for ever the very sins that troubled her, and that His Holy Spirit would fight for and in her, so as to make her “more than conqueror,” she caught it to her heart as the very thing she needed.

She did not indeed condemn herself less—nay, she rather condemned herself more than formerly—but the joy of being on the winning side, of knowing that all sin was pardoned for His sake, of feeling assured of progressive victory now and complete victory in the end, thoroughly scattered her old troubles to the winds.

Her very name was characteristic. It is a common and curious custom in Madagascar for parents sometimes to drop their own names and take the name of their eldest child with the word raini, “father of,” or réni, “mother of,” prefixed. Now this amiable little elderly woman had been married young, and it so happened that her husband was away on an expedition to the coast when the first and only son was born. One of the first things that the child did after opening its black eyes on this life was to open its uncommonly large mouth, with the intention, no doubt, of howling. But circumstances apparently induced it to change its mind, for it shut its mouth without howling.

The effect of the gape on the mother was to remind her of one class of inhabitants of her native rivers—the crocodile—and cause her laughingly to style the child her “young crocodile.” The Malagasy word for crocodile is mamba, and thus the child came by his name, with the usual prefix, Ra-Mamba. After a time his mother became so proud of her young crocodile that she dropped her own name entirely—congenially, as it were, obliterated herself—and ever after was known as Réni-Mamba, “mother of the crocodile.”

At the time we write of, Mamba, (we will drop the “Ra”), was a stalwart handsome youth of over twenty, with no resemblance whatever to his namesake except a goodly-sized mouth and an amazing strength of appetite.

Need we say that his mother’s gushing powers were expended upon him with the force of a Norwegian mill-race? It is gratifying to be able to add that the crocodile was keenly responsive!

The father of little Mamba—Andrianivo—had returned to the capital soon after his son’s birth. He was a man in good position among the aristocracy of the land, and occupied a post of trust in the Queen’s service. At that time the first great persecution of the Christians had begun. It was known that Andrianivo favoured the Christians. On the question being put to him, he frankly admitted that he was one of them. He was therefore despoiled of all he possessed, and banished into perpetual exile and slavery. He was sent in chains to a pestilential part of the island, with the intention that toil and disease should end his life. So secretly and promptly was he spirited away that no one could tell the precise locality to which he had been banished. His heart-broken wife and child were also sold, but were taken to a more healthy region, where the child grew and became a stout boy; his little mother, meanwhile, acting the part of a meek and faithful slave. She would probably have lived and died in this condition had not her stout son, when he grew up, resolved to become free. His mother had taught him what she knew of the Christian religion. From Ravonino he learned more, and heard of the escaped Christians who found a refuge in forests and mountains. Finally he persuaded his mother to run away with him, and thus it came about that we find them with the band of which Ravonino was leader—Laihova being lieutenant of the band.

An occasion for the display of his affectionate nature was afforded to Mamba on the morning we write of. Active as a kitten, though middle-aged, Réni-Mamba was skipping from rock to rock in a very rugged part of their route, when, her foot slipping, she fell and sprained her ankle badly.

Mamba was close to her.

“Mother!” he exclaimed, hurrying forward and raising her carefully, “why jump about like the squirrel? Are you hurt?”

“My son, help me to rise.”

Gently the youth lifted her, and set her on her feet, whereupon she sank down again with a little shriek, and looked up with an expression of mingled humour and pain.

“My leg, I think, is broken!” said Réni. For the sake of brevity we will drop the “Mamba.”

“Surely not, mother; it has been too tough and strong to break ever since I knew it.”

Mamba spoke encouragingly; nevertheless, he examined the limb with anxious care. Being ignorant of surgery his examination was not of much use, but, fortunately, just then Mark Breezy, who had lingered behind to gather some plants, arrived on the scene. He found the injury to be a bad sprain, and did the best he could for the poor woman in the circumstances.

“Now, we must carry her,” he said to the guide, “for she won’t be able to walk for many days.”

On this being translated, Mamba gathered his mother up as if she had been a bundle of clothes, or a baby, and marched away with her.

“Stop, stop!” cried Ravonino, “you can’t carry her more than a few miles on such ground as I shall soon lead you over. We must arrange for her a filanzana.”

The guide here referred to the sort of palanquin used by travellers in a country where there were no roads. It consisted of a shallow, oblong basket, with light wooden framework, filled in with plaited strips of sheepskin, and hung between two light poles or bamboos. As several such machines were used by some of the party to carry their few household necessaries, one of them was at once emptied and Réni put therein by her affectionate son. Four stout young men put the ends of the poles on their shoulders, and the party once more advanced, Mamba walking by the side of the filanzana to be ready to assist in cases of difficulty or danger, and to relieve the bearers occasionally.

That afternoon they arrived at their new abode—a large, dry cavern—the entrance to which was not only well concealed on the face of a cliff in the heart of a dense jungle, but so difficult of access that a mere handful of men might easily have maintained it against a host.

Here Ravonino made no further delay than was necessary to see the party fairly settled. Then he left them, but not before receiving many an earnest and affectionate message to friends and kindred of the fugitives still at the capital, but who had, as yet, managed to elude the vigilance and escape the malignity of Queen Ranavalona and her spies. Some of the women even wept as they bade the guide farewell, saying that they felt sure he would at last fall a victim to the relentless fury of the Queen, and that they should see his face no more.

With these the guide gently remonstrated.

“Think you not,” he said, “that God is as able to protect me in Antananarivo as here in the wilderness? I go because I think that duty calls me. I expect no miracle in my behalf. I will take all possible precautions. Farewell.”

Once more our three travellers found themselves advancing rapidly in single file through the forest, with the guide in advance. Before the sinking sun compelled them to encamp under the trees that night they had put many miles between them and the hiding-place of the outlawed Christians.

Next day, as they were about to resume their journey, Ravonino told them that about noon they would come to a large river, on the other side of which there was a village where they could spend the night, for the people and their chief were friendly.

“Are they Christians?” asked Mark.

“No—at least the most of them are not, though there may be a few secret converts among them; for this hot persecution at the capital has scattered the Christians far and wide through the land, so that the knowledge of the blessed Gospel spreads. Thus our God makes the wrath of man to praise Him. The remainder of wrath He has promised to restrain. If He wills it otherwise, are we not prepared to die at His bidding? Many of our people have died already under the bloody reign of Ranavalona the usurper. How many more shall perish, who can tell?”

“But how do it come about,” asked Hockins, “that this here chief is friendly?”

“Because I had occasion to render him good service at one time, and he is grateful.”

“Good! Das allers de right way,” remarked Ebony, with an approving nod. “W’en a man’s grateful he’s safe—you’s sure ob ’im. Is dat de ribber you refur to jes’ now?”

He pointed to an opening among the trees ahead, through which the sheen of water glittering in the sunlight could be seen.

Before the guide could reply a loud shout startled them, and next moment they were surrounded by half-naked savages, who brandished their spears threateningly.

Quick as lightning, according to a pre-arranged plan in case of sudden attack, Mark, Hockins, and the negro stood back-to-back, facing in all directions—the first with his gun advanced, the seaman pointing his cutlass at the foe, and Ebony levelling a spear with which he had provided himself, little would their courage have availed them, however, if Ravonino had not been there, for a flight of spears would have ended their resistance in a moment.

“Voalavo, your chief, is my friend,” said the guide, calmly, without putting himself in an attitude of defence, or showing the slightest symptom of alarm. “Is Voalavo with you?”

“Voalavo comes,” they replied, at once lowering their weapons and pointing in the direction of the river, whence proceeded sounds as of the lowing of cattle.

“We have been to visit our enemies,” said one of the party, who, from his tones and bearing, appeared to be a leader. “We have smitten them, and we have brought away their cattle.”

As he spoke another native was seen approaching. He was a large burly jovial-looking man, somewhere about forty years of age, armed with a spear and enveloped in the native lamba, a garment used much in the same way as the Scottish plaid, which it resembled in form, though of much lighter material. The ornamentation of this garment proclaimed the wearer a person of distinction, and the evident satisfaction that beamed on his broad jovial countenance when he recognised and greeted Ravonino showed that it was Voalavo himself—the chief of the village they were approaching.

“I’m sorry to see,” said the guide, after the first few words of salutation, “that my friend still delights in war and robbery.”

“Don’t be sorry, friend, don’t be sorry,” returned the chief with a hearty laugh, as he gave the other a slap on the shoulder. “Sorrow does no good. It only puts water in the eyes and makes them red. Look at me—just returned from ‘war and robbery,’ and as happy as a squirrel. If a man does not delight in war and robbery, what is there in the world to delight in? If I am not sorry why should you be? If you can’t help it—then laugh at it and try to enjoy your sorrow. That’s the way I do. It suits me. I grow fat on it!”

He certainly did grow fat—if not on laughing at sorrow, certainly on something else—and his followers, although respectfully silent, showed by their smiling faces that they sympathised with their chief’s hilarious mood.

“But where did you fall in with the white men?” asked Voalavo, turning suddenly towards Mark and Hockins, who stood listening with interest and curiosity to the rapid flow of his unintelligible talk. “Such pale flowers do not grow in our forests!”

In a few words Ravonino explained the history of our adventurers as far as he knew it, and the chief, on learning that they were his friend’s friends, bade them welcome, and shook hands heartily in the European fashion—a mode of expressing friendship which had probably been learned from the missionaries, who, after spending many years in Madagascar, had, about the time we write of, been all banished from the island.

“Come now,” cried the chief, “the rice will soon be ready—that won’t make you sorry, Ravonino, will it?—and we have yet to cross the river with the cattle in the face of the hungry crocodiles—which won’t make them sorry! Come.”

Turning impulsively, in the brusque careless manner which characterised him, Voalavo led the way to the banks of the river—a considerable stream—where the cattle were assembled and guarded by a band of over a hundred warriors.

“Cattle seem to be plentiful in these parts,” said Mark to the guide as they walked along.

“They are numerous everywhere in Madagascar. In truth a large part of our exports to the Mauritius and elsewhere consists of cattle.—Look! the chief was right when he said the crocodiles would not be sorry to see the cattle crossing.”

He pointed to a ripple on the water caused by the ugly snout of one of the creatures referred to. It seemed by the activity of its movements to be already anticipating a feast.

“Crocodiles,” continued the guide, “are numerous in many of our lakes and rivers, and dangerous too, though they are naturally timid, and can be easily frightened away. I remember a curious instance of this kind happening on the east coast, where a European trader was cleverly imposed on—deceived, or, what you call—”

“Humbugged,” suggested Hockins.

“Well, yes—humbugged! He was a big ignorant fellow, this trader; strong and energetic enough, but full of conceit—thought he knew almost everything, but in reality knew next to nothing, yet self-willed and obstinate enough to—to— You know the sort of man?”

“Yes, yes; a stoopid cockscomb,” said Hockins. “I know the breed well—lots of ’em everywhere.”

“Jus’ so—a born idjit; go on, massa,” said Ebony, who was always charmed at the prospect of a story or anecdote.

“Well, this trader,” continued the guide, “was on his way from Antananarivo to the coast with cattle for exportation, and one day they came to a place where they had to cross a narrow part of a lake. The natives of that place advised him not to venture without trying the effect of their ody, or charms, on the crocodiles. These they said, and believed, would protect the cattle in crossing. But the trader scouted the idea, and, laughing at their superstitions, gave orders to drive the bullocks into the water. He quickly repented his obstinacy, for no sooner were they in than the crocodiles seized nine of them and dragged them down. ‘Oh! bring the ody—work the ody—quick!’ cried the anxious man, fearing lest all the cattle should be seized. The ody was worked instantly, and to his astonishment, as well as the triumph of the natives, the rest of the cattle crossed in safety. Even those that had been nearly drowned escaped and passed over.”

“But how was dat?” asked Ebony, with a perplexed air. “If de ody was nuffin’, how could it do suffin’?”

“Simply enough,” returned the guide. “The charm consisted merely in noise. The natives, in canoes and on both sides of the lake, shouted furiously and beat the water with branches of trees, so that the poor crocodiles were scared away. See—there is something of the same sort going to be performed just now.”

Previous to this process, however, the chief Voalavo went through a singular ceremony to propitiate the crocodiles. The Malagasy, like the ancient Egyptians, regard the crocodile with superstitious veneration. They esteem him the king of the waters, and to dispute his right to reign would, they believe, expose them to his vengeance. Hence they seldom kill crocodiles, and rather avoid whatever is likely to provoke them. It is their custom, also, sometimes to make solemn speeches and vows to the crocodiles when about to cross rivers.

Voalavo, who was unusually reckless, free-and-easy, and regardless in ordinary affairs, was nevertheless remarkably superstitious. Before giving orders to cross the river, therefore, he advanced to the water’s edge and mumbled incantations or made vows in a low tone for nearly half-an-hour. Then, elevating his voice, so as to be heard across the river, he continued, addressing the crocodiles:—

“Now, I pray you, good mamba, to do me no injury, and particularly to spare my cattle, for you do not know what trouble I have had to get them. No doubt you know how anxious I and my people are to eat them, for you have much of the same desire; but I beseech you to exercise self-denial. You don’t know how pleasant that will make you feel! Remember that I have never done your royal race any injury—never waged war with you or killed you. On the contrary I have always held you in the highest veneration. If you do not remember this, but forget it, I and my whole race and all my relatives will declare war and fight against you for ever more! So be good and do what I tell you!”

“Now, my men,” he cried, turning round, “drive in the cattle, work the ody, and make all the dogs bark!”

In the midst of an indescribable hubbub the herds were then driven into the river, and the men—some in canoes and some on both banks—enacted the very scene which Ravonino had described. In a few minutes the whole herd was got over in safety.

Half-an-hour later and our travellers were seated in the chief’s house regaling themselves with beef-steaks and marrow-bones, chickens and rice.

Chapter Eight.

A Friend appears unexpectedly, and our Travellers spend a Disturbed Night.

Whatever ethereal persons may say to the contrary, there can be no doubt whatever that the consumption of food is an intellectual treat, inasmuch as it sets the body free from the cravings of appetite, and by stimulating those nervous influences which convey vigour and vitality to the brain, not only becomes the direct cause of physical gratification, but induces that state of mind which is most favourable to the development of the interesting creations of fancy and the brilliant coruscations of imagination.

We might pursue this subject further did time and space permit; but our objection to “skipping” is so great, that we shrink from giving the reader even a shadow of excuse for doing so. Moreover we dread the assault of the hypercritical reader, who will infallibly object that it is not “the consumption of food,” but the resulting mental effect which is the “intellectual treat.” As if we did not know that! “But,” we would retort with scorn, “can any cause be separated from its effect without bringing about, so to speak, the condition of nonentity?”

Passing to the subject which gave rise to these erratic thoughts, we have to relate that the whole party, entertainers and entertained, did ample justice to the rice, beef, chicken and marrow-bones, after which Hockins wafted the natives to the seventh heaven of delight and wonder by means of his flageolet. It was very late that night before they retired to rest. It was later still before they went to sleep.

The native village at which our travellers had arrived was a rude, poor-looking place, inhabited by a brave and war-like tribe, who depended more for defence on their personal prowess and the difficulties presented by their forests, than upon ditches or ramparts. The village was, however, surrounded by a fence of trees growing so close together that it would have been almost impossible to carry the place by assault if resolutely defended from within.

The huts were roughly constructed of bamboos plastered with clay and lined with matting,—also with the large leaves of the “traveller’s tree,” and thatched with rushes.

The chief’s hut, in which the white guests were feasted, was of course larger and somewhat better in construction than the others. Its floor, composed of hard-beaten clay, was covered with matting, clean pieces of which were spread for the visitors to squat upon, for there were no chairs, stools, or tables. In the north-west corner was the hearth—a square of between two and three feet, with a few large stones for supporting the cooking utensils, but without chimney of any kind. Smoke was allowed to find an exit as it best could by crevices in the roof and by a small window or hole in the north gable. A few cooking-pots, earthen jars, rice-baskets, some knives, a wooden chest, and several spears, completed the furniture.

Against the northern roof-post hung a small bottle-shaped basket, which contained the household sampey, or god, or charm. In Madagascar this usually consists of a meaningless stone; sometimes a chip of wood, the leaf of a tree, or a flower, and this is what the natives pray to and profess to trust in!

Our travellers found, after supper was over, that they were not to sleep in the chief’s house, for they were led to that of a head-man of the village, and told they were to rest with him. This man was old, and seemed to have no wife or family, for the only person at home at the time, besides himself, was an old woman, perhaps his sister, who looked after the household. He was a hospitable old man, however, and made them heartily welcome to their beds of matting in the north end of the hut. Unfortunately the south end of it was usually occupied by pigs and poultry. These were expelled for the occasion, but they insisted several times on returning to their own abode, being unable, apparently, to believe that their expulsion was really intended! As there were several openings in the hut, the difficulty of excluding the animals was great, for when expelled at one hole, amid remonstrative shrieks and screams, they quickly re-entered at another with defiant grunts and cacklings.

By stopping up the holes, however, the enemy was finally overcome. Then the old man, having retired to his corner, and the sister having departed, Mark Breezy, John Hockins, James Ginger, and Ravonino drew round the fire, heaped-on fresh logs, lay down at full length on their mats, and prepared to enjoy that sleepy chat which not unfrequently precedes, sometimes even postpones, repose.

“That was a curious speech that Voalavo made to the crocodile, Ravonino,” said Mark. “Do you really think he believed it did any good?”

“Yes, truly, he believed it. This is a land of charms and superstition. Voalavo is of too honest and straightforward a nature to practise what he does not believe in.”

“Does you b’lieve in charms an’ soopistition?” asked Ebony, with expectant eyes.

“What need to ax that, you stoopid nigger?” said Hockins; “don’t you know he’s a Christian?”

“Das true, ’Ockins. I hoed an’ forgot.”

“But tell me, Ravonino, are de crokindiles awrful rampageous when dey’re roused?”

“Yes, they are pretty bad,” said the guide, clearing his throat, for he was fond of expatiating on the wonders and beauties of his native land! “And although they look sluggish enough when sprawling on mud-banks, half-asleep in the sun, you would be surprised to see them go after fish, which is their principal food. Their favourite haunts are the deep rugged banks of a river or lake overhung with trees, where they can hide themselves and watch for prey. It is not only in water that they are dangerous. They fasten their teeth, if they get the chance, on any animal that comes to the river to drink. They sometimes get hold of bullocks when drinking, and often do so when the cattle are swimming across. They are unnaturally ferocious, too, for they will devour their own young.”

“Oh! de brutes!” exclaimed Ebony, poking the fire with a bit of stick savagely. “Don’t de mudders fight for de young uns?”

“Not they. The mothers lay their eggs in the sand and leave them to look after themselves. The others are sly, and—”

“Dat’s de fadders, brudders, an’ unkles ob de eggs, you mean?”

“Yes, that’s what I mean. The old he-crocodiles watch where the eggs are laid, an’ when it’s about time for them to break an’ let the young ones out, these monsters go into the water at the edge and wait. When the baby-crocodiles get out of prison they make straight for the water, where the old villains are ready to receive an’ devour them. Some times the young ones are stupid when they are born, they take the wrong road and escape their relations’ teeth only to get to the rice-grounds and fall into the hands of the natives. Many of the eggs, too, are destroyed, before they are hatched, by vultures and other birds, as well as by serpents. Men also gather them by hundreds, boil them and dry them in the sun to preserve them for use or sale.”

“The miserable young things seem to have a poor chance of life then,” said Mark, sleepily.

“Das so, massa. I’d rader be a nigger dan a crokindile.”

Hockins said nothing, being sound asleep.

“What makes that rattling among the cooking-pots?” asked Mark, looking round lazily.

“Rats,” replied the guide. “Didn’t you see them running along the roof when you came in?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Look up now, then, and you’ll see them on the beams.”

Mark and Ebony both looked up, and beheld a row of rats on the beam overhead—their bead-like eyes glittering as they gazed over one side of the beam, and their long tails just showing on the other.

“Das funny,” said the negro, who was in sympathy with the whole brute creation!

Mark thought it very much the reverse of funny, but held his peace.

“Dar’s a ole grey un, massa, right ober ’Ockins’s head—a tremenjous big ’un. Don’t you see ’im wid a griggy young un beside ’im?”

Whether the griggy young one was also larky we cannot tell, but while the negro was speaking it executed a flourish (whether intentional or otherwise who can say?) which knocked the big grey rat off the beam, and caused it to fall with a heavy flop on Hockins’s face. Three others fell off in their anxiety to observe the result.

Hockins leapt up with an indignant roar, and the rats leaped among the pots and pans with a horrified squeak, while Ebony and the others looked on with excruciating enjoyment.

The scurrying of many little feet among the household implements told that the grey rat’s friends were numerous though unseen, and the angry grunting of pigs proved that other slumbers had been broken. Of course the whole party were thoroughly awakened by this incident, but they took it good-humouredly, and, after replenishing the fire, lay down again, and resolutely shut their eyes and ears.

Slumber was once more stealing over them, when a noise at the door of the hut awakened them. Next moment they started up, for two warriors of the tribe entered with a prisoner between them.

“We caught this man entering our village,” said one of the warriors, fiercely, to the guide; “we would have taken him to our chief, but he says that you are his friend—yet I think he lies.”

“He speaks the truth,” returned Ravonino, calmly. “He is my friend. Doubtless he has good reasons for coming here. Leave him with us, we will guard him till morning.”

The warriors at once released their prisoner and retired, while the man stepping forward into clearer light revealed the handsome countenance of Laihova.

“Sit down, my brother,” said Ravonino to the youth, in tones of unusual tenderness, “and let me know what brings you here so unexpectedly.”

“I come to offer my service,” replied the youth, with a modest air. “You have told me that you go to Antananarivo to rescue Rafaravavy. Your face is known to every one in the town. If you enter it, your death will be certain.”

“But I do not intend to enter it,” said Ravonino; “these my white friends will aid me.”

“The white men may be wise and brave, but they know not how to aid you, I am not so well-known in the town. I will venture into it and will show them where to go and what to do.”

The guide shook his head and was silent for some moments. He seemed uncertain how to act.

“What says Laihova?” asked Mark Breezy at this point, for the conversation having been conducted in the native tongue they as yet understood nothing.

The guide briefly explained, and then turned to the young man.

“But how can you think of leaving your friends in the cave, Laihova? They may require your strong arm; and my sister is—”

“It was my friends who advised me to leave them,” said the youth, quickly, “and Ra-Ruth bade me go. Besides, have we not entered into the Covenant of Blood?”

“Well, you may come with us. After all, Ra-Ruth is right.”

“What does he mean by the Covenant of Blood?” asked Mark when the guide explained what had just been said.

“It means that he and I are united by one of the closest ties that bind the men of this island. No doubt you will think it a strange alliance, nevertheless it is a true and a strong bond of brotherhood. It is meant to unite two people in sacred friendship, so that ever afterwards they feel bound to help and defend each other. When two persons agree to form this bond, a meeting is arranged for the performance of the ceremony and taking the vow. Some gunpowder and a ball are brought, with a little ginger, a spear, and two particular kinds of grass. A fowl is also used. Its head is nearly cut off, and it is left to bleed during the ceremony. Then a long vow of mutual friendship, assistance, and defence is pronounced. After this each man drinks a few drops of the other’s blood. To obtain it they make a small cut in the skin of the centre of the bosom, which they call ‘the mouth of the heart.’”

“And did you go through this ceremony with Laihova?” asked Mark.

“I did, many years ago, when we were little more than boys. He saved my life by jumping into a deep pool in a lake and rescuing me from the crocodiles. I had fallen in off the steep bank. I could not swim, and he could. After that we made the alliance of brotherhood. Laihova was not a Christian at that time. Since then God has made use of me to rescue him from a more awful death than that which threatened me. Laihova is grateful, and, knowing that I run much risk in going near the capital, has come, as you see, to help me.”

“Not a bad style of brotherhood that,” said Hockins, with a tremendous yawn. “Eh, Ebony? What d’ee think of you an’ me goin’ in for the same sort o’ thing?”

“P’r’aps,” answered Ebony, with a responsive yawn which threw that of Hockins quite into the shade, “p’r’aps black blood mightn’t agree wid your stummick. But I say, Massa Breezy, don’ you tink it a’most time we was goin’ to sleep?”

As the night was far spent—or, rather, the morning far advanced—by that time, the whole party willingly assented. Laihova was supplied with a separate mat, the embers of the wood-fire were drawn together, and they all lay down once more to make the most of what remained of the period of repose. But circumstances were against them.

True, being tired and healthy men, they dropped off at once with the facility of infants, and during a quarter of an hour or so, while the fire continued to emit an occasional flicker, all went well; but when the last vestige of flame died away, the rats again came out with bead-like eyes and cautious tread. Gradually they became bolder. Impunity never fails to encourage presumption. In short they soon began to hold a sort of carnival. The pots and pans became, as it were, musical, to the evident distress of the slumbering seaman—especially when the large grey rat fairly overturned a small rice-jar, which in its fall removed several props from other utensils and caused a serious clatter. Still the wearied men slept through it all, until the enemy took to scampering over their bodies. Then the enraged Ebony, being partially awakened, made a fierce grasp at one of the foe, and caught Hockins by the ear. Of course the result was a howl, and a sleepy request from Mark, to “Stop that noise!”

But even that incident failed to arouse them thoroughly, though it filled the rats with temporary horror, and caused them to flee.

The last word reminds us that there were others there that night, besides rats, to disturb the sleepers’ dreams—but we merely make a suggestive hint at that!

Soon the rats returned in greater force and more demonstrative hilarity than ever. They evidently went in for a game of hide-and-seek round and over the slumberers, causing the sleepy growls of John Hockins to resemble the fitful mutterings of distant thunder.

Thus they went on until the grey dawn of morning appeared. Then an extremely large cock, in the south-east corner of the hut, feeling that it had enjoyed a sufficiently good night’s rest, flapped its ungainly wings, stretched out its neck, and gave vent to a clarion-crow which—

“Brute!” exclaimed Hockins, not even giving us time to finish the sentence!

He said no other word, but seizing a piece of wood, sent it forth with such true and effective aim, that he cleared not only the cock, but all his wives off their perch, and sent them in cackling consternation out of the hut by the nearest hole in the wall.

After that the much-tried party slumbered in peace until the sun was high.

Chapter Nine.

A Jovial Chief, and New Experiences of Various Kinds.

The friendly hospitality of the chief of this village was found to be likely to cause delay, for he would not hear of his visitors departing until they had been feasted and entertained with games and hunting.

As they were completely in his power there was nothing for it but to submit with the best grace possible, although Ravonino was naturally anxious to push on.

“You see it won’t do to look as if we were indifferent to his hospitality,” said the guide. “He would be greatly offended, for you must know that the Malagasy pride themselves on their hospitality. Come, we will go and have a look at the neighbouring woods while they are preparing breakfast for us, and I will tell you a story about the late King Radama.”

“Was that the good king you told us about who did so much for the missionaries, though he wasn’t a Christian himself?” asked Hockins, as they all passed through the enclosure of the village and entered the woods.

“Yes, the same,” replied the guide, “though whether he was a Christian or not I cannot tell. I judge no man. He made no profession of Christianity, but he was kind to the missionaries—very different from Ranavalona.”

“Das de oosurper, what you call ’er?” said Ebony.

“Just so,” returned the guide. “Well, as I was saying, our people are very hospitable. Everywhere, almost, throughout the country, when a traveller enters a village, a present is usually brought to him of rice, poultry, or fruit, or whatever they have on hand. You’ll find out that for yourselves as you go along—”

“A bery proper state ob tings,” remarked Ebony.

“And whatever house you come to,” continued Ravonino, “the owner will invite you politely to enter, and make you welcome. Of course there are greedy and surly people here and there, but these are an exception to the rule. Well, on one occasion King Radama heard of some people of that sort. You must know that our chiefs have always required that they should be entertained on the best the people could provide. It is an old custom. Well, Radama made a law that all the provisions and other kinds of property should belong to the people, but all the houses in the country should belong to the sovereign; and he ordered the inhabitants to furnish lodgings to his servants and soldiers wherever they went. In order to make sure that his orders were obeyed the King soon after went in disguise to a village some distance off, and towards evening entered a peasant’s house and asked to be taken in for the night.

“The heads of the family did not refuse, but rendered their hospitality in such a way as showed that he was not welcome. Next day he went to another house. There he was kindly welcomed, civilly treated, and the best they had in the house was set before him. In the morning when taking leave he made himself known, no less to the surprise than consternation of the family, and he left, assuring them that their hospitality should not be forgotten. The King kept his word, for he afterwards sent his officers to the village with a stern reproof to his first entertainer and a handsome present to the other.”

Just as the guide finished his anecdote a resplendent butterfly of enormous size rose from the bushes, and Mark, to whom it was quite a new specimen, bounded after it, but failed to effect a capture.

“Neber mind, massa,” said the sympathetic Ebony, “you’ll hab better luck nex’ time—p’r’aps!”

“Besides,” added the guide, “there are plenty more where that came from, for we have got into a good region for insects.”

“Seems to me,” said Hockins, “it’s a good region for everything. Look at that now,”—he pointed to an object in front of him. “I would say that was a spider if it warn’t as big as a bird, and hadn’t set up a fishin’-net for a web!”

Although not strictly correct, the seaman’s description had a foundation in truth, for some of the spiders of Madagascar are enormous, and their webs so thick that it requires a considerable effort to break them. Moreover they are said to be poisonous, and the bite of some even deadly.

The contemplation of those creatures, however, had to be cut short at that time, as they did not dare to risk keeping Voalavo waiting breakfast for them.

“We are going to stick pigs and hunt wild cattle,” said the jovial chief, with his mouth full of chicken and rice, when they arrived. “We will show the white men some fun.”

On this being translated Ebony hoped that the black man was included in the white, and Mark asked if the hunting-ground was far-off.

“A long way,” said the chief, “we shan’t reach it till night. But that’s no matter, for night is our time to hunt.”

He said this with a twinkle in his eye, for he saw well enough that his guests were impatient to be gone.

“But,” continued he, on observing that they did not seem cheered by the prospect, “our road to the hunting-plain lies on your way to Antananarivo, so you won’t lose time.”

As he spoke he opened a small box containing a brown sort of dust, of which he put as much as he possibly could between the teeth of his lower jaw and the lip.

“What in all the world is he doin’?” asked Hockins of the guide in a low tone.

“He is taking snuff.”

“I always s’posed,” remarked Ebony, “dat snuff was tooken by de nose!”

“So it is, they tell me, in England; but we have a different fashion here, as you see, and quite as foolish.”

“You don’t mean that it’s tobacco he treats in that way?” exclaimed Mark.

“Not pure tobacco, but tobacco mixed with other things—something like the cheap cigars which you English are said to smoke!” replied Ravonino with something of a humorous twinkle in his eyes. “But we don’t smoke. We only snuff. In making our snuff we first dry the tobacco leaves and grind them to powder. Then to this we add the ashes of the leaves of a sweet-smelling herb, the mixture being twice as much tobacco as ashes; a small quantity of potash or salt is added, and then it is considered fit for use.”

“Don’t your people smoke at all?” asked Hockins.

“Not much, and never tobacco—except those on the coast who have been corrupted by Europeans. Some of us used to smoke rongona, a kind of hemp. It is a powerful stimulant, and used to be taken by warriors before going out to battle, because it drove them nearly mad, and so fitted them for their bloody work. Government has lately forbidden its use—but it is still used in secret.”

“They’ve got baccy, an’ don’t smoke!” murmured Hockins to himself in a kind of meditative surprise, as though he had just been told that the natives possessed food and did not eat.

“But you don’t smoke?” remarked the guide.

“That’s ’cause I hain’t got baccy nor pipe. You give me pipe and baccy an’ I’ll smoke you into fits in no time.”

“Do you feel the want of it much?”

“Not much. At first I did, most awful, but now I’m gettin’ over it.”

The guide was silent. He might have remarked, “Yet now, if you had the chance, you would enslave yourself again!” but, not being of an argumentative turn of mind, he merely shook his head and changed the subject. It was well, for Hockins was one of those people who, “if convinced against their will, remain of the same opinion still.”

After breakfast, while the young men of the tribe armed themselves and made preparation for the expedition, Ravonino took his friends through the village, the inhabitants of which were evidently as deeply interested in seeing the white men as the latter were in seeing the brown; for each were objects of curiosity to the other.

During the stroll our friends saw the weaving of the lamba—the large plaid-like garment of hempen cloth worn extensively in the island. The looms were rude and simple, but the fabrics produced were wonderfully good in appearance and texture, some being made of a kind of coarse silk. Many of them were ornamented, and rendered very heavy with immense quantities of small leaden beads fastened to the garment either in straight or curved rows, the lead having been procured from traders at the coast, and the beads having been manufactured by themselves. These natives wore but little clothing—merely a cloth round the loins, and sometimes a jacket made of coarse material. The lamba is usually worn over the shoulders in the cool of the morning, but at the time we write of most of the men who used the garment, had bound it tightly round their waists.

Our travellers were made acquainted at this time with a game which interested them greatly—especially arousing the enthusiasm of the negro. It was a kicking game, played by some of the more active among the young men, who, having got ready for the field quickly, were waiting for their slower companions. The chief peculiarity of the game consisted in the mode of kicking, namely backwards, in the horse or donkey fashion. The guide explained that the name of the game, when literally translated, was, “striking blue with the sole of the foot!” It is a desperate game, and when played, as it frequently is, by hundreds of active and powerful young men, the results are sometimes sprained ankles, broken legs, etcetera.

“Oh! das de game for me!” cried the enthusiastic Ebony, who could hardly be restrained from joining. “De sole ob my foot’s awrful broad, an’ I could strike black as well as blue. Do let me try, massa!”

Fortunately, perhaps, for our negro, the chief came out of his hut at that moment and gave the signal for the hunters to advance, thus bringing the game and Ebony’s aspirations to an abrupt end. The young men at once fell to the rear, and the whole party sallied forth into the forest.

It was magnificent weather, with just cloud enough to prevent the sun being overpoweringly hot, and the tract of country over which they passed was surpassingly beautiful. To Mark Breezy it seemed as if all the winged insects in the island had come forth to welcome him. There were butterflies of various sizes and brilliant colours flitting to and fro among the wild-flowers, besides dragon-flies, grasshoppers of exquisite beauty, spiders with coats of gold and silver, caterpillars half-a-foot long in gorgeous array of black, scarlet, and yellow, and many other creatures which we may not pause to describe here, though Mark and the guide frequently paused to look at them, insomuch that they were often left a considerable way behind. One of the butterflies which Mark caught at that time was very beautiful, and a slow flier. It actually measured eight inches across the extended wings.

Of larger animals they saw none; and it may be as well to remark here that there are no large carnivora in Madagascar—no lions, tigers, leopards panthers, or creatures of that sort—nothing larger than a wild-cat and a wolf being known. Neither are there elephants, giraffes, rhinoceroses, hippopotami, antelope, nor deer; the only large animals being two species of ox, and the wild-boar, goats and sheep, and crocodiles. There are also huge bats, an animal of the monkey tribe called the lemur, hedgehogs, and rabbits.

The lemurs are very pretty little things, and, being gentle affectionate creatures, are sometimes tamed and kept as pets.

The scenery, we have said, was beautiful. At one turn of the road in particular a landscape of such beauty appeared suddenly before them that Mark was arrested as if spell-bound; it was such a gorgeous combination of luxuriant foliage—ferns and palms and bamboos, interlaced with creepers, and enlivened by streams which brawled and tumbled in picturesque cascades, over which hundreds of butterflies sported in the sunshine. From the height of land on which they stood a wide, well-watered plain was seen to extend far below them. It was hemmed in on either side by wooded hills and backed by the interior highlands. Far down the hill-side their companions could be seen wending their way through the tangled shrubbery, just in rear of the native hunters, led by their energetic chief Voalavo. As the men carried spears, the points of which glittered in the sun, the party had quite a martial aspect.

To our young student the whole scene was enchanting. It had the effect of subduing and solemnising his feelings in a way which he had never before experienced. The earnest, religious cast of his companion’s spirit also tended not a little to deepen this feeling and induce him for the first time in his life to understand that “nature’s God” was in very truth present with him.

“Is not the hand of the Master here?” said Ravonino, after a long silence.

“Truly, my friend, it is,” replied the young man, “and your remark puts me to shame. For many a time, through the microscope and the human frame and the surrounding world, might I have seen this Master-hand everywhere—if my eyes had been open.”

The guide turned on Mark an earnest, inquiring look.

“Friend,” he said, impressively, “if this be so, you are now very specially awakened to the Truth. If you have passed through and seen so much without recognising God in his creatures, you have been brought for the first time to know yourself. Turn now—now—to the Saviour, and you will henceforth see a glory in all things that you never saw before. Turn, my friend—for ‘now is the accepted time.’”

Ravonino spoke with such an earnest look and tone that the youth could not doubt the sincerity of his belief in the Saviour whom he so affectionately held up to his view.

“Ravonino, I believe you are right. God help me to turn!”

“He has helped you already,” said the guide. “That prayer, if true, never yet came from an unrenewed heart.”

As he spoke a shout from those further down the hill-side stopped the conversation and obliged the friends to resume the descent.

“That is the plain, I am told,” said Ravonino, “where they expect to find wild cattle, and where we shall have to encamp, no doubt, till night enables us to hunt.”

“Not a very cheerful time to go sporting,” said Mark.

“They do not count it sport,” remarked his comrade, gravely. “They are short of meat, and hunt for food.”

A few minutes later and the party was encamped in the thick woods that bordered the plain.

Chapter Ten.

Tells of a Grand Hunt and Other Things.

While the party of hunters awaited the approach of night, (for the wild cattle feed chiefly at night), they kept as quiet as possible. The scouts had brought news that a large herd was feeding on a part of the plain which was not far distant, although concealed from view by the formation of the land.

Still thinking of the recent conversation which he had had with the guide, Mark Breezy retired a little from the rest of the party and flung himself on the ground under a tree to rest and meditate.

He was not left long, however, in solitude, for Hockins and Ebony soon discovered his retreat. Each of these worthies was armed with a spear.

“Hallo, Doctor,” exclaimed the former, as he came up, “are you not supplied with a weapon?”

“Yes, I am,” replied Mark, pointing to a native spear which lay at his side, “but I think I won’t use it.”

“Why not, massa?” asked Ebony.

“Because I don’t yet know how to go about this style of hunting, and if I were to attempt anything I might spoil the sport. I intend merely to look on.”

“Right you are, sir,” remarked the sailor. “P’r’aps it’ll be as well for all of us to keep in the background.”

“Pooh!” ejaculated Ebony, turning up his nose—a needless action, as it was well-turned up already—“pooh! I not keep in de background! You’re all wrong. W’en you knows nuffin, jest you wait till you knows suffin’—ebber so little—an’ den go at ’im.”

“That’s just what I said I should do, Ebony. I will merely look on at first.”

“But how long does you prepose to look on, massa? Ain’t five or six minits enuff? Dis is what I’s a-gwine to do. I’ll foller close on de chief—what you call ’im?—Vollyvo—an’ w’en I sees him stick one hox, das nuff for me. I den go at ’im on my own hook, an’ stick away right an’ left!”

“I’ll give you a wide berth, then, for it’s as like as not that you’ll stick some o’ the hunters in the dark,” said Hockins, rising, for just then there was a stir in the camp as if preparation was being made to go out.

A few minutes later and Laihova came to them with the news that he had heard the chief say they were getting ready, as it was necessary to make a long round through the woods to get well to leeward of the cattle.

This process of getting ready consisted in every man stripping and washing himself all over in order to get rid of the smell of the smoke of their huts. Even the guests were obliged to conform to the custom. Then they set off in profound silence, every man being armed with a couple of spears, excepting the guests, who were allowed only one spear each, it being feared that if they carried two they might chance to rattle them together and thus alarm the game, for the kind of cattle they were about to attack are exceedingly active and suspicious—always on the alert, continually snuffing and snorting at the bare idea, as it were, of an approaching enemy. Unlike the tame cattle of the island, these animals have no hump, but strongly resemble the ordinary cattle of England, save that their horns are shorter and their bellowings deeper. They are, however, very savage, and when wounded or annoyed are apt to attack their enemies with terrible ferocity.

To Mark Breezy and his companions the expedition proved to be full of excitement, for, apart from the novelty of the situation and uncertainty as to what lay before them or was expected of them, the extreme darkness of the night, and the quick silent stealthy motion of the almost invisible hunters, filled their minds with—if we may say so—awfully pleasurable anticipations!

The whole band followed their chief in single file, and as he was intimately familiar with the topography of the region, the only anxiety of each man was to tread carefully in his footsteps.

As for Ebony, his whole soul and spirit were in the enterprise, as well as his black body, and the varying expression of his mobile features would have charmed the heart of a physiognomist, had such a man been there with light enough to enable him to see. As there was no physiognomist, and no light, the reader must fall back on imagination.

Intent on carrying out his pre-arranged plans, our negro walked close behind the chief—so close indeed, that he inadvertently brought his spear down rather heavily on the left shoulder of that fiery person, for which he received a buffet on the ear, and an order to keep further back. In other circumstances the plucky spirit of Ebony would have been roused to indignation—perhaps to retaliation; but a sense of justice was strong in that negro’s breast. Overwhelmed with shame at his clumsiness, and eager to rectify the error—yet not daring to speak, for silence had been strictly enjoined—he raised the spear over his shoulder and turned the point backwards, thereby bringing it down on the head of the man in the rear.

Doubly shocked at this, he raised his weapon to the perpendicular, and knocked some tropical bird violently off the lower branches of a tree. It fluttered screeching to the ground, and bounced angrily into the bushes.

The whole band of hunters came to a sudden and breathless halt, but no word was uttered. In a few moments the chief resumed his silent march, and the ghostly column moved on—Ebony, greatly subdued but by no means crushed, keeping his weapon at such a slope as would prevent its doing damage to birds above or men below.

Thus they proceeded for nearly an hour, at the end of which time they could hear the wild cattle roaring and bellowing not far-off.

When the hunters had got completely to leeward, and were beginning to draw quite near to the feeding-ground, they advanced with increased caution, and some of the men began to pull the tops of the grass with their hands, as they went, in order to mimic as nearly as possible the noise made by an ox grazing.

The instant this sound reached the ears of the cattle they became absolutely silent, neither bellowing nor feeding! It was evident that they were listening with the utmost attention. Understanding this, the hunters stood quite still, without a whisper, but a few of those who were adepts at the art continued their imitation of cropping the grass. After listening for a time the animals appeared to arrive at the conclusion that it was a false alarm, for they re-commenced feeding, and the hunters continued their stealthy approach.

Soon they came to the thinly scattered shrubbery which marked the termination of the woods and the beginning of the plain. And now, profoundly dark though the night was, they could faintly perceive the forms of their game looming black against the dark sky beyond—themselves being quite invisible, however, owing to their background of forest.

Nearer and nearer the men moved, still cropping the grass as they advanced, until they fairly got up to the herd, and were less liable to disturb them, for, being almost invisible, they were, no doubt, mistaken for members of the family!

As the hunters now scattered, Ebony had some difficulty in keeping close enough to the chief to observe his movements. Voalavo himself was too intent upon his work to think of anything else, or to care who was near him.

Gradually he approached close enough to an animal to thrust his spear deep into its side. It sprang from the ground and made a noise as if hurt by the horn of a comrade, but this is so common an event that the rest of the cattle were in no way disturbed by it.

The chief saw by the staggering of the animal that it was mortally wounded, and that there was no need to follow it up, as it could be easily tracked and found in daylight. He therefore turned to attack another animal that was close at hand.

“Now den,” said Ebony to himself mentally, “your time’s come. Go at ’im!”

Lowering his weapon to the charge, he glanced round and observed the indistinct form of an animal on his right. It was apparently a little one.

“Weal is as good as beef,” thought Ebony, as he made a silent but furious rush, scarcely able to restrain a shout of anticipated victory.

The spear-point missed the animal, just grazing its back, and went deep into the ground, while the negro plunged with crushing violence on the back of John Hockins, who had been trying to approach his game à la Red Indian!

To say that poor Ebony was filled with horror, as well as shame and self-abhorrence, is but a feeble statement.

“Don’t speak, you black monster!” whispered the seaman in his ear, as he seized him by the throat.

The rush of apology which had sprung from Ebony’s heart was checked abruptly at the lips.

Hockins released him, picked up his spear, and resumed his creeping way. By this time several of the hunters had dealt silent death around them, but still the herd failed to take alarm!

Being left alone Ebony’s courage returned, and with it his enthusiasm.

“Come,” he muttered, mentally, as he drew the spear from the ground, “’Ockins not killed yet. Das one good job. No use to cry for not’ing. You try again, Ginjah. Better luck nixt time.”

Greatly encouraged by these thoughts he advanced on tip-toe—spear at the charge—eyes glancing sharply all round. Suddenly a tall form seemed to rise up right in front of him. The negro’s heart leaped violently. He was on the point of charging when a doubt assailed him. The creature before him, though scarce distinguishable from the surrounding gloom, was not long-bodied like an ox. He could perceive that clearly. It was tall like a man—very tall. Perhaps it was Mark Breezy? The recent mistake made him think anything possible!

“Is dat you, massa?” he whispered, in anxious alarm.

A furious bellow was the reply, followed by a still more furious charge. Ebony had forgotten that an ox “end on” and head up is tall and not long!

Happily, in stepping back he tripped, and the animal went right over him. But the alarm had been given, and a sudden thundering of feet told that the entire herd had taken to flight, while the shouting and cries of the hunters, added to the confused roaring, showed that there was now no need for concealment.

When the muster-roll was called it was found that nobody was missing or hurt, though several had to tell of narrow escapes, especially John Hockins, whose account of Ebony’s exploit formed, at the feast that followed, subject of interesting converse and much comment during the brief intervals of relaxation between beef-steaks and marrow-bones.

Daylight revealed the fact that somewhere between thirty and forty animals had been killed outright, besides a dozen or so which, having been fatally wounded, were afterwards followed up and some of them secured.

But daylight also brought a large party of men from a distant village with a pressing invitation to Voalavo and his men to pay them a visit, and a possibly disinterested offer to assist him in the consumption of the cattle which he had slain; for it chanced that several young men of this village were encamped in the woods that night near the spot where the hunters attacked the cattle. Knowing full well what was being done, these youths hurried home to tell what was going on. The head-man of the village was on good terms with Voalavo at the time, besides being a distant relative. Hence the message and the invitation.

As our happy-go-lucky chief was out in what may be termed a larky state of mind, and had nothing particular to do, he accepted the invitation. The meat was slung to bamboo poles, hoisted on the shoulders of his men, and away they went over the plains to pay this visit. Happily the village lay on the way to the capital, so that the guide and his party could still accompany them without losing ground.

The plain over which they passed was a very wide one, seeming to extend to the very base of the distant mountains of the interior, but our travellers were mistaken in their ideas about it. The plain was itself part of the mountain region into which they had already advanced, but by so gradual an ascent that they had scarcely perceived the rise in the land—a deception which was increased somewhat by the frequent descents they had to make when passing over ridges.

On the way Hockins pushed up alongside of Ravonino, who was walking beside Mark.

“Ravvy,” said the seaman, (for to this had he at last curtailed the guide’s name), “where do these fellows fall in wi’ the iron to make their spearheads and other things?”

“In the earth,” answered the guide.

“What! D’ee mean to say that you manufacture your own iron in them parts?”

“Of course we do. Think you that no people can work in iron except the British? We have plenty iron ore of good quality in the island. One of our mountains is so full of ore that we call it the iron mountain. It is named in our language the mountain of Ambohimiangavo.”

“An’ how d’ee work the ore o’ this Am-Ambo-bo-bominable-avo mountain?” asked the sailor.

“We smelt it, of course. We break the lumps of ore into smallish bits and spread them on charcoal, layer and layer about, in a hollow in the ground. This is covered over with a top-dressing of stone and clay. Then we set it on fire and keep the blast going with wooden bellows, till the metal is melted and runs in a mass to the bottom of the hole. This we break into smaller pieces, purify them with more fire, and run them into bars convenient for use. Our bellows,” continued the guide, “are not like yours, with two boards and leather between. The rats would soon make short work with these. They are two cylinders formed from the trunk of a tree, with a piston in each, packed with coarse cloth, and having valves. An old musket-barrel carries the air to the furnace, and, by pumping them time about, the blow is kept going continuously.”

“Why, how do you come to know so much about valves, pistons, cylinders, and such like?” asked Mark.

“You forget that my father was an Englishman,” returned the guide, “and, besides being a trader, was a sort of Jack-of-all-trades. He taught me many things about which the kinsfolk of my mother know very little. You must not suppose that because some of us are only half-civilised we can do nothing neatly or well. Many of our men are skilful workers in metal, and we owe much of our power in that way to English missionaries, who brought Christian mechanics to the capital. There is hardly anything in the shape of wrought iron-work that we cannot execute if we have a model or pattern. We can work also in copper and brass. But it is not only in metals that we can work fairly well—indeed very well, if we are to take the word of some of your own countrymen who have seen and judged our work—we are also pretty good at pottery and cabinet-making. As you have seen, we can weave good cloth of cotton and silk, and some of our ingenious men have even tried their hands at clock-making and musical instruments.”

“From what you say, Madagascar will soon become a great country, I should think,” said Mark, somewhat amused as well as interested by the evident enthusiasm of the guide.

Ravonino shook his head. “My country might become great,” he returned, “but there are some things much against her. The system of forced service to the government instead of taxes is one. This tends to repress ingenuity, for the cleverer and more ingenious a man is the more will be demanded of him, both by the government and his own feudal superior. Then the love of strong drink is too common among us; and last, as well as most serious, great multitudes of our people have no regard at all for their Maker.”

“Why, Ravonino,” said Mark, with something of a smile, “from the way you speak of ‘our’ people and ‘my’ country, I fear you think more of your Malagasy than your English extraction.”

For a few moments the guide was silent. At length he said, slowly, “England has indeed done us a service that we can never repay. She has sent us the blessed Gospel of Jesus Christ. She is also the land of my father, and I reverence my father. He was very kind and good to me. But this is the land of my mother! I am a man of Madagascar.”

It was evident from the expressive features of Ebony, who had joined them, that he heartily approved of this maternal preference, but the gravity of the guide’s countenance, no less than his pathetic tones, prevented his giving the usual candid vent to his ever-ready opinion.

Towards the afternoon the party arrived at the native village, where grand preparations for festivities had been made. It was evident also that some parts of the festive libations had been taken in advance, for the head-man had reached the solemnised point of intoxication, and some of his young men the owlish condition.

In some parts of this island of Madagascar, as in other parts of the world, the people reduced themselves to great poverty through strong drink. Though they had abundance of rice, and much beef, which latter was salted for exportation, they sold so much of their food for arrack—imported by traders from Mauritius and Bourbon—that little was left for the bare maintenance of life, and they, with their families, were often compelled to subsist on roots. They did not understand “moderate drinking”! Intoxication was the rule until the arrack was done. The wise King Radama the First attempted to check the consumption of ardent spirits by imposing a heavy duty on them, but his efforts were only partially successful.

The tribe to which our travellers were at this time introduced had just succeeded in obtaining a quantity of the coarse and fiery spirits of the traders. Their native visitors being quite ready to assist in the consumption thereof, there was every prospect of a disgusting exhibition of savagery that night.

“Don’t you think we might escape this feast?” said Mark to the guide, after the ceremony of introduction was over, “by urging the importance of our business at Antananarivo?”

“Not easily. Voalavo is one of those determined and hearty men who insist on all their friends enjoying themselves as they themselves do. To-morrow we may persuade him to let us go. Besides, I do not object to stay, for I intend to preach them a sermon on ungodliness and intemperance in the middle of the feast.”

Mark could scarcely forbear smiling at what he deemed the originality of the guide’s intention, as well as the quiet decision with which he stated it.

“Don’t you think,” he said, “that this way of bearding the lion in his den may rouse the people to anger?”

“I know not—I think not; but it is my business to be instant in season and out of season,” replied Ravonino, simply.

Mark said no more. He felt that he had to do with a Christian of a somewhat peculiar type, and thereafter he looked forward with not a little curiosity and some anxiety to the promised sermon. He was doomed, like the reader, to disappointment in this matter, for that night had not yet run into morning when an event occurred which modified and hastened the proceedings of himself and his friends considerably.

Chapter Eleven.

An Uninvited Guest appears with News that demands Instant Action.

The villagers and their guests were still in the midst of the feast, and the arrack had not yet begun to stimulate their imaginations, so that the deeds of their ancestors—which formed the chief subject of conversation—were still being recounted with some regard to modesty and truth, when Voalavo said to the assemblage, with a beaming countenance, that he had a treat in store for them.

“You are all fond of music,” he said. “Who does not know that the Malagasy are good singers? The songs you have already sung have delighted my ears, and the clapping of your hands has been in the best of time; but you shall soon have music such as the idols would enjoy, I have no doubt, when in a merry mood.”

The chief uttered the last sentence with an air of good-natured contempt, for he was what we may style an unbeliever in all gods—not an uncommon state of mind in men of superior intelligence when they think seriously of the debasing absurdities of idolatry.

“Now, my friend,” he said, turning to John Hockins, with an air and tone of command, “let them hear the little pipe on which you—you—tootle-ootle.”

Hockins had much ado to keep his gravity as he drew out the flageolet, and every eye was instantly fixed on him in glaring expectancy.

It need hardly be said that the effect of the sweet instrument was very powerful, and it is probable that the party of admirers might have taxed the seaman’s powers of performance to the uttermost, if they had not been suddenly interrupted by the entrance of a tall wild-looking man, who was evidently in a state of tremendous excitement.

He wore the usual cloth round the loins, and the lamba, which was thrown like a Scottish chieftain’s plaid over his left shoulder—but these garments bore evidence of rough usage and hard travel. The man was not a stranger, for, as he suddenly stood panting vehemently in the midst of the party, with his long arms outstretched, Voalavo addressed him in tones of surprise.

“Razafil!” he exclaimed. “Glad are we to see the Bard of Imarina. Your coming is well-timed. We are feasting, and singing, and story-telling. Words from the poet will be welcome.”

Notwithstanding the friendly reception thus accorded to the Bard of Imarina, it was evident that the words were thrown away upon him, for he continued for some time to glare and pant while perspiration rolled down his face, and it became clear to every one that something was wrong with him. At last he spoke in a kind of low singing tone which harmonised with his appearance—

“Vain man! Observ’st thou not the dead?

The morning warmth from them has fled,

Their mid-day joy and toil are o’er,

Though near, they meet fond friends no more.”

He paused and looked wildly yet tremblingly round, as if in search of some one, but took no notice of his friends, many of whom were present at the gathering. Then he continued in the same strain—

“A gate of entrance to the tomb we see,

But a departure thence there ne’er shall be.

The living waves his signal high,

But where’s the loved one’s fond reply?

Ah! where are those thus doomed to die?

“Vain man! observ’st thou not the dead?

No more their homeward path they tread.

The freeman lost may ransom’d be,

By silver’s magic power set free;

But, once the deadly hand has laid them low,

No voice can move them, for they cease to know.

Regardless of our love they lie;

Unknown the friends that o’er them sigh;

Oh! where are those thus doom’d to die?”

Again the poor man paused, and gasped as if some terrible agony were rending his bosom, yet no tear moistened his eyes, from which there seemed to gleam the wild light of insanity. His appearance and words had sunk like a pall upon the festive party, but no one spoke or moved. It was as if they were spell-bound. Once more the poet spoke, and this time in tones of deepest pathos—

“Vain man! why groan ye for the dead?

To be with Jesus they have fled,

With shattered limbs—’mid scorching flame,

They sang the praises of His name;

Now, joy unspeakable, they tread the shore

Whence ransom’d sinners shall depart no more.

But ah! while mangled corpses lie,

Our trembling, riven hearts will cry—

‘Why, why were those thus doom’d to die?’”

The man ceased; his arms fell listlessly by his side, and his chin sank on his breast.

“I fear much,” whispered Ravonino to Mark, “that I understand but too well what he means.”

Without waiting for a reply the guide rose. Going up to Razafil he laid his hand gently on his arm, and said—

“My brother!”

The bard looked at him earnestly for a few seconds, then, grasped him by the wrist as with a grip of iron.

“Ravoninohitriniony,” he said, fiercely, “my little one is dead! She is gone! They took her—a mere child—they tortured her, but she would not yield. Hear what I say. You knew her well—the soft one; the tender one, who was always so pliable, so unselfish, so easily led,—she would not yield! They led her to the place of execution; they tied her to a stake and kindled the fire about her beautiful limbs,—my little child, Raniva! I saw the skin upon her flesh blacken and crack and blaze. But she sang! sang loud and clear! I would have rushed into the fire to her but they held me back—four strong men held me! When she was consumed they led me away to the torture—but I burst from them—escaped—I know not how—I care not! for my little one is lost!—lost!—”

“Nay, Razafil—not lost!” said Ravonino, in a quiet but firm tone, for he saw the gleam increasing in the poor father’s eyes. “Did you not say just now that she is singing with joy unspeakable the praises of His name?”

The words were fitly spoken. The father’s agonised soul was quieted, but as quietness partly returned to him, a new expression appeared on his countenance.

“Listen,” he said, still holding the guide’s wrist in his powerful grasp. “I go to my poor wife. She is safe in the cave with Réni-Mamba—”

“Not in the cave you think of,” interrupted the guide, explaining the change of abode which had been recently made by the Christian fugitives.

“No matter,” returned the bard, “I know all the caves, and can find the one she has gone to. But now I must warn you—warn all of you who are Christians,” he added, with emphasis, looking round upon the natives, “if there be any such among you—that Queen Ranavalona has got one of her bad fits again. She has ordered that no one is to sing or pray to Jesus, or to read the Word of God, on pain of imprisonment, death, or being sold into slavery. Many have been sold already, and some have died. Things would have been even worse, for the English missionary has left Antananarivo, but Prince Rakota remains our friend. Still, he cannot save every one. He could not save my Raniva! Now,” he added, turning to the guide abruptly, as if anxious to keep his mind from dwelling on his terrible bereavement, “you must go to Antananarivo with all haste if you would save Rafaravavy, for she is in great danger.”

The bard had touched a cord in Ravonino’s breast which vibrated sensitively.

“She has not confessed? She is not in prison?” he asked, quickly, with emotion which was too powerful to be entirely suppressed.

“As to confessing,” returned Razafil, “there is no need for her to do that, for it is well-known that she is a Christian; but the queen is fond of her and wishes to spare her. Nevertheless, she is so exceeding mad against us just now, that there is no saying when her forbearance may come to an end. If you would save Rafaravavy, you must get her out of the palace without delay.”

The guide did not reply for a few seconds. It was evident, from the knitted brows and the pallor of his countenance, that he was endeavouring to make up his mind to some course of action. Suddenly the frown passed from his brow, his countenance became perfectly calm, and his eyes closed.

“He is speaking with God,” whispered Laihova to one who sat near him.

Laihova may have been right. If so, the prayer was a very brief one, for the guide turned almost immediately to Voalavo and explained that in the circumstances it was absolutely necessary for him and his comrades to depart at once for the capital.

The chief, being a sympathetic as well as a hilarious soul, made no objection, but rather urged him to make haste.

Ravonino then turned to his white companions, who could, of course, only guess at the meaning of all that had been said, and explained to them the whole matter. They rose at once, and, having no preparations to make, professed to be ready to start there and then.

Now, while they were yet speaking, the festive party received another surprise, or alarm, which was even more exciting than the previous one.

A young man suddenly burst into the village with the announcement that a body of the Queen’s soldiers were close at hand. They had been sent off in pursuit of Razafil, with directions to scour the country, and bring in as many Christian fugitives as possible, and he—the young man—being a fast runner, had been sent in advance by some friends of the bard to warn him of his danger.

“I would not try to avoid them if I stood alone,” said Razafil, softly. “Should I shrink from dying for Jesus, after seeing my Raniva go to Him in a chariot of fire? But I stand not alone. My wife claims my support, and my little boy.”

While he was speaking, it was seen that a few of the hunters, as well as one or two inhabitants of the village, rose quietly and left the place. These were either professing or suspected Christians, who were anxious to make their escape from the danger that threatened.

After bidding Voalavo farewell, the guide and his friends left the village and struck into the woods. They were accompanied by the bard a short distance, until a point was reached where their routes diverged, and here, after a few words of brotherly sympathy and counsel from Ravonino, the bereaved man went on his solitary way, and the others directed their course towards the capital.

“Poor man,” said Ebony, who looked over his shoulder with profound sorrow in his earnest eyes as long as the tall figure of the bard was in sight, “I’s most awrful sorry for ’im. Why don’t dey hang Randalvalona, or shot ’er?”

“History teaches that it’s not always so easy as one might think to get rid of objectionable queens in that way,” said Mark.

“Hm! I’d teach history suffin diff’rent if I had my way,” returned the negro.

“But surely the great men around her might have some sort o’ power to clap a stopper on ’er?” said Hockins.

“They have some power, but not much,” returned the guide, “for Ranavalona is a passionate, self-willed, cruel woman; and when such a woman happens to be a despotic queen, nothing short of a revolution, or her death, can save the country. She usurped the throne in 1829, we have now reached 1857, so she has been reigning more than twenty-seven years, and a bitter reign it has been. There have been many persecutions of the Christians since it began. Hundreds have been slain; thousands have been sold into slavery; many more have been banished to pestilential districts, where disease has laid them low. God grant that this mad fit may not be the forerunner of another burst of cruelty.”

“But do you really think,” said Mark, “that Rafaravavy is in great danger? Did not the bard say that she is a favourite with the queen?”

“That is some security, but not much, for Ranavalona is changeable as well as cruel. But my dear one is in the hands of God. No harm can come to her unless He permits. Nevertheless, our God works not by miracles but by means, therefore it is my business, having the opportunity given me, to hasten to her rescue.”

“And it is mine to help you,” said Mark, an impulse of youthful enthusiasm and sympathy swelling his heart as his mind suddenly reverted to the morning when he left England, and said his last good-bye to the fair one with the golden hair and the rosebud mouth and “such lovely blue eyes!”

“But how,” he continued, “shall we best aid you in this matter?”

“That question I cannot answer immediately. When we draw near to the capital and hear what is going on I shall be able to form a plan. What we have to do just now is to travel fast. You are strong stout men, all of you. Do you think you can walk fast and far with little rest or sleep, and without breaking down?”

“I think so,” answered Mark, modestly.

“I’s cock-sure ob it,” said Ebony, “if we’s allowed lots o’ grub.”

“I’m not quite so sure,” said Hockins; “you must remember I’ve only got sea-legs on—but I’ll try.”

And he did try, and so did the others; with such success, too, that before the sun set that evening they had penetrated into the very heart of the mountain range which runs through the centre of the island.

There had not been much conversation on the way, for hill-climbing all day at top-speed is not compatible with small talk. Besides, the obvious anxiety of Ravonino rendered his companions less inclined than usual to engage in desultory remarks. Nevertheless there were occasions—during momentary halts to recover breath, or when clear bubbling springs tempted them to drink—when the prolonged silence was broken.

“Putty stiff work dis hill-climbin’, massa,” said Ebony, during one of these brief halts, as he wiped the perspiration from his sable brow with the back of his hand. “Lucky I’s used to it.”

“Used to it?” repeated Mark.

“Yes. Di’n’t I tell you I was born an’ raised among de Andes in Sout’ Ameriky?”

“To be sure, I forgot that, but there must be a considerable difference between the two mountain ranges.”

“Das troo, massa, but de diff’rence don’t make much diff’rence to de legs. You see, wild rugged ground much de same wheder de mountains rise a few t’ousand foot, like dese, or poke der snow-topped heads troo de clouds right away up into de blue sky, like de Andes. Rugged ground is rugged ground, an’ hard on de legs all de same, an’ dis am rugged ’nuff even for ’Ockins!”

The negro opened his huge mouth in an amiable laugh at his companion, who had taken advantage of the brief halt to give a hearty rub to his colossal limbs.

“Rugged enough it is, no doubt,” said the sailor, gravely, “an’ it makes my sea-legs raither stiffish. But never you fear, Ebony; they’re tough, an’ will last as long as yours, anyhow.”

“You’s right, ’Ockins. Dey’ll last longer dan mine by eight or ten hinches—if not more.”

“Your jokes are small, Ebony, which is more than can be said for your mouth. Shut it, man, or some of us’ll go tumblin’ into it by accident.”

While these two were indulging their little pleasantries, the guide and his friend Laihova had gone to the top of a neighbouring bluff to consult as to the best route to adopt in the present troubled state of the country.

The view from the commanding height on which they stood was indeed marked by a rugged grandeur which might have done credit even to the giant Andes themselves, and offered a variety of routes, or rather obstructions to routes, which might well perplex men who were eager to cross country swiftly.

The point which they had reached, and much of the range they had crossed, was formed of basalt in various stages of decomposition; but in the country before them, for several miles in advance, huge masses of granite and fragments of quartz indicated a change in the nature of the prevailing rock. The position of these masses, as well as their size, gave a wild Titanic aspect to much of the scenery.

Many enormous stones projected out of the ground at various angles. One of these stood out horizontally to the distance of between twenty and thirty feet, forming a cave under it, in which it was evident, from sundry suggestive appearances, that wayfarers were accustomed to lodge. The neighbourhood of this cave formed one of the most romantic and picturesque scenes they had yet seen. It was a dark narrow vale, in many places not less than five hundred feet deep, with a considerable stream at the bottom, which brawled among detached and shattered rocks, or was partly lost to view in its meanderings among the beautiful green shrubs which clothed its banks. Various kinds of birds twittered among the bushes, and wherever water expanded in the form of pond or lakelet numerous waterfowl sported on the surface.

“A glorious prospect!” exclaimed Mark, as he joined the guide and his friend, “and a splendid place, I should think, for fugitives from persecution.”

He pointed, as he spoke, to the scene on his right, where masses of rock varying from thirty to fifty feet in length projected from the side of the ravine. On the top of these rested other masses in a position that seemed to threaten destruction to all who ventured beneath them.

“The caves of this region,” said the guide, “have served to shelter the Christians many a time. It looks as if God had provided these blocks of granite for this very purpose, for the caverns which extend beneath them are dark and intricate, having many entrances, and being lighted in some places by openings between the blocks, while in other places they are profoundly dark and of unknown extent. See also, if you look at the stream below, they form a splendid bridge. At this distance they do not seem large, but some of these blocks are not less than a hundred feet long. This whole region is infested by robbers, but the recent act of the Queen in sending troops out to scour the country for fugitive Christians seems to have driven them away. But if they had been here we should have had little to fear, for robbers are not usually fond of attacking even small parties of men who are well able to defend themselves; besides, they do not injure the outlawed Christians much. Perhaps they have a sort of fellow-feeling for us!”

At this point Laihova spoke a few words to the guide in the native tongue. The latter nodded approval, and turning to Mark, said—

“We have been consulting about our route. There are two roads—one rugged, round-about, and safe, which would take us a longer time, however, to reach the capital than the other, which is the regular beaten path, through the villages. But this latter way lays us open to the danger of meeting with soldiers, and of my being captured along with my friend Laihova. There would be no danger to you and your friends, for you are strangers.”

“Ravonino,” said Mark, quickly, “do what is best for rescuing Rafaravavy. We have no will but yours. We will follow wherever you choose to lead.”

A quiet look of satisfaction played on the guide’s features as he turned to his friend.

“What says Laihova? The Englishmen are willing to do whatever we wish.”

“Let us go by the villages. Let us push on by night as well as by day,” said Laihova. “Time flies! Ranavalona is mad! Rafaravavy is in danger!”

It was finally arranged that, at this place, which was considerably to the south of Antananarivo, they should diverge to the right, so as to avoid certain points of danger, and arrive ultimately at the eastern side of the capital.

Having settled this point, the three men rejoined their comrades, who were still conversing amicably beside the spring. Thereafter they all descended into the valley by a steep and rugged pathway.

Chapter Twelve.

A Narrow Escape and Threatening Clouds.

Their progress after leaving the spot described in the last chapter was not so rapid as could have been desired by anxious men, for it was absolutely necessary to proceed with extreme caution.

Not only were the Queen’s troops out in various directions, but many of her spies had been seen prowling about, like the evil one they served, seeking whom they could devour. Of this the travellers were made aware at the first villages they came to; and as Ravonino had formerly been well-known at the capital, it became necessary for him not only to disguise himself, but to keep as much as possible out of sight.

Disguising himself was not very difficult, owing to the fact that when he lived in Antananarivo he had, like his father, worn a bushy beard. This had made him a marked man, for the Malagasy, as a rule, have little beard, and what little they possess is usually pulled out by the roots. Since he became a fugitive the guide had shaved closely. This of itself went a long way to change his appearance; but when, in addition, he had modified the arrangement of his hair, and stained his face of a darker hue, he had made himself almost unrecognisable, even by his best friends. His chief difficulty was with his voice, which had a mellow sweetness in it that resisted modification. However, by keeping silence, or speaking low, he hoped to escape recognition until he should reach the vicinity of the capital, where he had friends who would gladly receive and conceal him, even at the risk of their lives.

As to the great object that lay nearest his heart, he hoped to manage that through his friend Laihova, without himself entering the capital.

Our travellers soon reached the inhabited part of the country, where, being surrounded by men and women going about, as well as journeying towards the Antananarivo market with provisions, etcetera, they ceased to attract much attention. Of course the Englishmen were subjects of curiosity—sometimes of inquiry,—but as Laihova reported that they were men who had been cast on the southern coast of the island and whom he was guiding to the capital, suspicion was not aroused.

Laihova at this point became leader of the party, in order to enable the guide more easily to fall into the background; and he was all the more fitted for the position in that he had acquired a smattering of English from his friend Ravonino, and could both understand much of what was said to him and also make himself pretty well understood by his white friends.

This part of the journey was by no means without adventure, sometimes of a kind that filled them with anxiety.

One evening they approached a small hamlet, or group of cottages, where they learned, among other things, that two of the Queen’s spies were at that moment in the neighbourhood, searching for two ladies of the Court who had fled because Ranavalona had threatened them with imprisonment.

“Are they young?” asked Ravonino, forgetting his caution in his anxiety.

“I know not,” replied the man who had informed them of the fact. “I think some one told me they were not young—but I forget.”

The guide said no more. He regretted having said so much, for the man glanced at him suspiciously.

Affecting an air of unconcern he turned away and bade his comrades follow.

“Come,” he said, when out of ear-shot of the man, “we must pass through this village quickly, for we know not in what house the spies may have taken up their quarters.”

“But, don’ you tink,” suggested Ebony, “dat we five could wallop any oder five men in de univarse, to say not’ing ob two spies?”

A grim smile was all the reply that the guide gave him, as he walked quickly along the path that led out of the hamlet.

“I have a friend,” he said to Mark, “who lives in a solitary cottage half-a-mile further on. He is rich, and, I think, a Christian man—but secretly, for fear of the Queen. We will call at his house in passing.”

As he spoke, they approached a large house by the roadside, the owner of which, a brown old gentleman, was enjoying himself with his wife and family in front of it.

“Is that your friend?” asked Mark.

“No; he lives in the house just beyond. We shall see it on clearing this group of trees.”

The track which they were following led close past the large house above referred to, necessitating compliance with a custom of the country, which greatly surprised, and not a little amused, the Englishmen.

We have spoken of the residence as a house, because it belonged to one owner, but it would be more correct to call it a farm-steading, or a group of buildings. Except among the very poorest people, a Malagasy family has usually two or three houses in its enclosure—frequently more, for young married people often live beside their parents, and some houses are appropriated to slaves, while others are used as kitchens, etcetera, the whole being surrounded by a wall of clay. Where a house is near the public road they have usually a little square platform, called the fijerèna, in an angle of the wall, or at the gate, with steps leading up to it. Here the family sits, when the work of the day is over, to watch—and, doubtless, to criticise—the passers-by; also to do the polite according to Malagasy ideas, for it must be told that these people are very courteous. Even the poorest have a natural dignity and ease of manner about them.

As our travellers approached the house they were observed with much interest by the brown old gentleman and his comfortable-looking wife, and his pretty little light-brown daughter, and a very uncomfortable-looking elderly female with her head tied up, who were all squatted on the fijerèna.

When within hearing Laihova stopped, and said in the politest tone and manner possible—

“Will you allow me to pass, sir?”

“Pray proceed, sir,” replied the old gentleman, with a gracious smile.

This interchange of civilities was entirely formal, and stood in the place of the Englishman’s opening remarks on the weather, to which a Malagasy would as soon think of referring, in this connection, as he would to the hatching of crocodiles’ eggs.

Then followed the conventional inquiry, “How are you? How is it with you?” which politenesses, in a number of variations unknown to Western speech, would have been continued, in ordinary circumstances, until the passers-by were beyond the range of hearing; but the appearance of the Englishmen induced the brown old gentleman on this occasion to beg the travellers to stop and accept his hospitality. This they declined to do, with many expressions of regret, on the ground that their business at the capital was urgent.

“It would have gratified me much,” said the old gentleman, “to have entertained you. But you are all well, I hope?”

“Yes, we are very well,” answered Laihova; “and how do you feel?”

“I feel as well as possible. And is it well with you?”

“It is well with us. But it does not seem to be well with the lady,” returned Laihova, glancing at the uncomfortable female with her head tied up.

“No, it is not well with her. She has toothache on the north side of her head. Farewell,” said the brown old gentleman, re-squatting on the fijerèna, as the travellers moved on; “may you live,” he shouted after them, when nearly out of ear-shot, “and reach old age.”

Great was the amusement of our travellers at all this, especially when Ravonino explained about the toothache. “You must know,” he said, “that almost all the houses in the central provinces of the island are built with their length running north and south, or nearly so, and the people use the points of the compass in describing the position of things. Thus, if they tell a slave to look for a thing in the house, they will say, Look in the north, south, east, or west corner, or side; and they apply this rule to the person also. I once heard the member of a mission from England told by his host that some rice was sticking to his moustache. The missionary wiped the wrong side. ‘No,’ said the host, ‘it is on the southern side of your moustache.’”

“Do you know,” said Mark Breezy, “that is not so strange to me as you might suppose; for I was once told by a friend who lived in the Scottish Highlands, that an old woman there actually said to her that she had toothache on the east side of her head!”

Further comment on this point was arrested by their coming suddenly in sight of the house where the guide’s friend dwelt.

“You had better stay here at the edge of this wood, while I go forward alone,” said the guide; “because although the man is kind, and has always professed to be my friend, I am not quite sure of him. It is well to be cautious. If I wave my hand to you, come up to the house, all will be well. If things don’t seem favourable I will return to you—but keep close; don’t show yourselves needlessly. You see, my friend is an officer of the palace. If friendly he can be very useful to us, if unfriendly he can be dangerous.”

“But why run risk by going near him at all?” asked Mark.

“We must run risk when life and death are in the balance,” replied the guide, shortly.

Concealed by the bushes, the travellers watched their companion as he went up to the house. Before he reached it a man opened the door and stepped out. Suddenly this man seemed to burst into a furious passion. He grasped Ravonino by the throat, almost threw him on his back, and, seizing a stick, began to belabour him violently, while two other men appeared at the door of the house, and, from their inordinate laughter, seemed fully to enjoy the scene.

“Hi!” exclaimed Ebony in shrill falsetto, as he jumped up in blazing wrath, intending to rush to the rescue, but Hockins grasped his woolly head and pulled him back.

“Obey orders, you black grampus! D’ee think he’s a babby as can’t take care of himself? Didn’t he tell us to keep close?”

Great as had been the surprise of the watchers at this sudden and unprovoked assault, it was as nothing compared with their astonishment when they saw their guide fairly turn tail and run towards them, closely followed by the furious man, who continued to thrash him all the time.

As Ravonino drew near, the angry man seemed to have exhausted himself, for he fell behind, and finally stopped. The guide ran on at full speed until he reached the wood, but did not even then slacken his speed. As he ran past his friends, however, he exclaimed in a sharp, stern voice—

“Follow me!”

Laihova obeyed with the unquestioning readiness of a faithful hound. The others followed suit with the open eyes of perplexity and amazement!

Reaching a sequestered dell in a few minutes, Ravonino suddenly stopped and turned round with a calm air of satisfaction.

“Well, dis am de most awrful supprise I’se had since my mudder give me my fust wollopin’.”

The expression on the negro’s face rendered the remark needless.

“It was well done,” said the guide, seating himself on the trunk of a fallen tree.

“A’most too well done!” returned Hockins, with a touch of sarcasm.

“Do you know,” continued the guide gravely, “I’ve had a narrow escape? The two men you saw laughing at the door are the very men we have been trying to avoid,—the Queen’s spies,—whom I have long known, and who would certainly have discovered me in spite of my shaved and stained face if we had come to talk to each other in the same room. Luckily my friend is smart as well as true. He knew my voice at once. To have talked with me, or warned me, or let me enter his house, would have been fatal. His only resource lay in thrashing me off his premises—as you have seen. How he will explain matters to the spies I know not, but I can trust him for that.”

“Das most awrful clebber!” exclaimed Ebony, his every feature broadening with delight at the success of the ruse.

“But what are we to do now?” asked Mark.

“Wait till he comes here. He told me to wait.”

“What! Told you?”

“Ay—you don’t suppose he let his tongue lie idle while he was using his stick. Of course I was myself taken aback at first when he seized me by the throat, but two or three muttered words in the midst of his anger opened my eyes, and I ran at once. All the way as he ran after and belaboured me he was giving me important information in furious tones! The spies are only staying with him for a short rest. When they are gone he will come and find us here.”

“He’s a born actor,” said Hockins.

“True—and he acted some of his blows heavier than I could have wished, in his anxiety to impress his information on me!” said the guide.

“What is his name?” asked Mark.

“Fisatra. He is named after a great chief who lived in this district not long ago.—But here he comes to speak for himself.”

At that moment a tall, fine-looking man, of very dark complexion, and clad in the ample folds of a beautiful lamba, approached them. His whole countenance was wrinkled with the lines of fun, and his brilliant teeth glistened as he smilingly held out his hand to the Englishmen, and asked them to accept his hospitality.

As they passed into the house they saw two slave-girls pounding rice in a large wooden mortar, with two enormous wooden pestles, while the savoury steam that arose from some invisible kitchen served to put a finer edge on their already sharpened appetites.

When the mats were spread, and the feast was being enjoyed, Ravonino asked the host how he had got rid of the spies, and how he managed to explain his conduct without raising their suspicions.

“Nothing easier,” said Fisatra, while his broad shoulders heaved with an inward chuckle. “You know that I used to be feared in the palace in days gone bye because of my violent nature, and the way in which I used to knock about the furniture and make the household slaves—sometimes the household troops—scurry when I was in a rage. Yet I’m sure you know very well, (he looked sheepishly innocent here), that I never was an angry man—at least not a cruel one. But that’s all changed. I am one of your set now, though no one suspects it. Since I met Mr Ellis—”

“Is Mr Ellis here just now?” interrupted Ravonino, anxiously.

“Not now,” answered Fisatra; “he departed some weeks ago, but I believe has not yet left the coast. And now there is no check on the Queen’s violence. Well, as I was about to say, I took to the old habit in pretence, as you have seen, and when I returned from thrashing you I went storming through the house, kicking about the pots and pans, and foaming at the mouth in such a way that I not only stopped the spies laughing, but put them in fear of their lives.”

Again the fun-wrinkles corrugated the visage of Fisatra, and his mighty shoulders heaved with internal explosions.

“After I had calmed down a bit,” he continued, “the spies ventured to ask timidly if that was a great enemy that I had beaten. This set me into, a worse passion than ever. ‘Enemy?’ I shouted ‘no—no—not an enemy—he—he’s a—a—’ but I got no further than that, for I didn’t know what to say, and I wouldn’t lie, so I took to foaming and stamping again! At last I said, ‘Don’t speak to me about him—excuse me, my friends; I can’t stand it—and—and the rice is nearly ready. You must be hungry!’ I said this with a look and tone as if another fit was coming on. They excused themselves. ‘No,’ they said, ‘we are not hungry, and we have yet far to go this day before the sun descends. The Queen’s orders will not wait.’ And off they went, glad to get out of my way. Truly, if it is sinful to get in a rage, it is useful sometimes to act it! So now, my friends, eat—eat—while you have the chance, and fear not the return of the spies!”

“Tell me,” said the guide, anxiously, “are you sure that Rafaravavy is still safe?”

“She is still safe—but no one knows how long that may be, for she is fearless, and utters the forbidden prayers even in the presence of the Queen. If it had not been for the love that Ranavalona bears her, she would have been tossed from the ‘rock of hurling’ long ago.”

“Faithful, even unto death,” said the guide, with a look and tone in which pathos and triumph were strangely blended.

“She has not yet been tried to that extent, but if she is, God will enable her to stand firm,” said Fisatra, whose grave child-like sincerity, when talking of religious subjects, was not less impulsively honest and natural than were the outbursts of his fun when another humour stirred his feelings.

The “rock” to which he alluded was a frightful precipice at one side of the city from which criminals were usually hurled—a spot which is hallowed by the blood of many Christian martyrs who perished there during the long reign of that tyrant queen Ranavalona.

“Has then the queen forbidden the Christians to pray?” asked Ravonino.

“Have you not heard?—but of course you have not, being an outlaw and having only just returned. Recently a very bad fit has come over the Queen. You know that for some years past there have been a few French people living in Antananarivo, who by their knowledge and skill in mechanics and mercantile matters have made themselves useful to our government. These men lately tried to dethrone the Queen, on pretence of delivering the country from her cruelties, and establishing a ‘French Protectorate.’ They gained over some of our chief men, collected in one of their houses a large quantity of weapons and ammunition, and had even fixed the night when the palace was to be invaded, the Queen seized, and the Protectorate set up. Fortunately the plot came to my knowledge. I say fortunately, because a bad queen is better than a French Protectorate, for the first will die, but the latter might never end! Well, I at once informed the Queen, who had the conspirators seized and banished from the country for ever. Among them were a Roman Catholic lady and two Jesuits. The anger of the Queen was of course very great, and she has had, as I have said, a very bad fit against the Christians; for, as these unprincipled conspirators have the name though none of the reality of Christians, she naturally mixed us all up together—and I know not what the end will be, but I have much fear, because the Queen is very angry.”

“Has she done nothing yet?” asked Ravonino.

“Nothing—except threaten and fume. But when the black cloud is overhead, and muttering thunder is heard, one knows too well what to expect—especially when one has been exposed to the storm in former years.”

“The sun is shining behind the black cloud and it will break through when the Master wills,” said Laihova, joining in the conversation for the first time that evening, and looking earnestly at his friend Ravonino, as if the words were meant for his ear alone—as indeed they were.

“Thanks, thanks, my friend, for the comforting words,” said Ravonino, “and I take shame to myself that my faith is so weak.”

“You will spend the night with me?” said their host to the guide.

“No, Fisatra, I dare not delay. Even now I may be too late. I will journey all night.”

Ravonino rose quickly and prepared to go. The others followed his example, and soon the party was proceeding rapidly along the high-road towards the capital, under a cloudless sky and a galaxy of twinkling stars.

Chapter Thirteen.

Arrival at the Capital—Queen Ranavalona’s Troubles and Perplexities.

Towards sunrise on the following morning our travellers, on passing out of a rather dense piece of plantation which crowned the brow of a low hill, came in sight of the capital—Antananarivo. It was still in the far distance, with many a rice-field and garden between, but distinctly visible, for it occupies the summit and slopes of a considerable hill.

“Here, then, through the goodness of God, we have reached the end of our journey,” said Ravonino, halting, “and I must remain behind, while you, my friends, push on to the city. Fain would I go with you, but that would ruin all, for I am a known and marked man. Laihova will now guide you, and tell you what to do. I have just one word for you at parting. Be peaceful, do not take offence. Interfere not with our customs. Use not the fist, and commit your way to God.”

The guide looked so pointedly at Ebony while he spoke that that sable comrade could not help noticing it.

“What you looks so hard at me for, hey?” demanded the negro.

“Because you are somewhat hot-tempered and apt to get people into scrapes,” answered Ravonino, with a slight twinkle in his eye.

“Me ’ot-tempered!” exclaimed Ebony, in surprise, with an appealing glance at his comrades. “I’d knock you down, Ravonino, for sayin’ dat, only it would be like as if what you say’s true! Ob all de niggers on ’art’ I’s de meekest, quietest—jest like a babby; why, my moder always said so, an’ surely she ought to know!”

“No doubt she knew, whatever she said,” observed Hockins, with a laugh.

“We will be careful,” said Mark. “But are your people, then, so particular, that we should require this caution?”

“Well, they are not very different from other people,” replied the guide, “and if things had been as usual I should have had no fear; but when Queen Ranavalona has one of her bad fits, there’s no saying what she may do. Her banishing the Europeans is a bad sign. I would that I had not brought you here, but there is no help for it now. We have been seen by many people. The news will spread to the town, and if you did not soon appear you would be suspected as spies, and the country would be scoured in search of you. No, there is nothing for it now but a bold face and an honest purpose.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Ebony, “you’s a fine feller to talk ’bout bold faces an’ honest purpusses, w’en you’re goin’ to steal a young ooman out ob de pallis, fro’ under de bery nose ob do queen!”

“To help Rafaravavy to escape of her own free will is not theft,” replied the guide, gravely. “When we are persecuted in one city Scripture advises us to flee to another.”

“Das true, Ravonino. No offence meant. Gib us your flipper, old boy!”

Grasping the guide’s hand, the negro shook it warmly, and at the same time vowed that he would be most “awrful careful,” and that he would bring Rafaravavy to his feet, dead or alive, though he should have to fight the whole town single-handed to effect his object.

It was a Thursday evening when they stood thus conversing. They had kept count of the days because of the guide’s quiet but firm determination to rest in camp on the Sabbath—a plan which, although they had no very strong principle on the subject, commended itself to the rest of the party because of the pleasant effect of the day’s rest on both soul and body, for it afforded opportunity to have long and earnest talks with Ravonino about the former days of persecution, as well as quiet strolls, alone or in couples, and—it must be admitted—occasional slumbers in the cool shade of bush or tree!

“I have purposely contrived,” said the guide, “that, by walking all night, you shall arrive early to-morrow—Friday—because it is market-day in the town, and you will be less noticed as well as more amused by what you see than if you were to arrive on any other day. Go, and God go with you! I shall be found in the cave that Laihova knows of. Farewell.”

He turned, with a wave of his hand, as he spoke, and re-entered the bush, while the others, taking the most direct route to Antananarivo, descended into the open country. Soon they were involved in the crowds which were passing along all the roads leading to the city. The people were either taking their goods for sale or going to make purchases—mayhap to meet friends or kindred.

All night Laihova led his friends at a smart pace. Next day, as the first object of our travellers was to get into the town without attracting attention, they kept in the thick of the throng all the way up to the market-place. Of course the people nearest them took special note of the two Englishmen, and some were inquisitive, but, by telling the simple facts regarding their arrival in Madagascar, Laihova removed any unpleasant suspicions that might have arisen regarding them.

The crowds increased as they advanced, and the numbers were still further augmented, as well as diversified, by the Hova army, which they came upon exercising on a plain just below the city. Ascending the sides of the steep hill on which Antananarivo stands, they obtained a magnificent view of the animated scene, which conveyed the impression rather of a grand holiday than an ordinary market-day. This, no doubt, was largely owing to the operations of the soldiers, whose manoeuvres Hockins watched with a critical eye, for his father, having been a soldier, had made him intimately acquainted with the drill as practised in the British army at that period.

“Why, I do believe the fellers are speakin’ English!” he said, in some surprise.

“Not wonder much, for Ingleesh drill’d um,” said Laihova, who, since they parted from Ravonino, had begun to use his broken English to the best of his power. It must be said that that power was not great, even at the best.

He explained to his friends that Radama the First—that wise king who had been so fond of the English, and had done so much to aid the missionaries, abolish the slave-trade, and civilise his people—had, among other changes, remodelled his army after the British pattern, and had obtained the services of non-commissioned officers from the Mauritius to drill his troops. These organised them into divisions, brigades, regiments, companies, etcetera, and as they found no native words suitable to express military evolutions, they introduced their own English words of command, which have remained in use ever since.

By means of this army of Hova troops, and the flint-lock weapon known familiarly as ‘Brown Bess,’ Radama succeeded in subduing all the native chiefs of Madagascar, with only a few exceptions, and thus became the recognised king of an island considerably larger than Great Britain. Being an enlightened and well-disposed monarch, he made good use of the power thus acquired. It was only after his death in 1828 that a retrograde movement set in, as we have said, under the wicked Queen Ranavalona.

It is one of the misfortunes of our fallen condition that rectitude in any course, however good, cannot long be maintained—at least in reasonable perfection. The army which had enabled Radama to pursue on the whole a beneficent course, ere long began to make its creator know its power. Feeling his dependence on it, Radama adopted the unwise policy of increasing the military influence, and weakening that of the civil officials, the heads of the people, and other functionaries whose position was derived from ancient political arrangements. Public offices of honour and importance were given to military officers rather than to civilians, and this unfair exaltation of the military over the civilian class led, as it always does, to tyranny and injustice.

The system of service was in itself a gross form of injustice to the people, for, although the theory of service does not at first sight appear unjust, the practice of it was very much so. More than the half—perhaps nearly two-thirds—of the whole effective male population of the central province were enrolled either as officers or privates. These received no pay, except an occasional gift of a lamba, and about a week’s rice during the year! The soldiers were indeed freed from money taxes in consideration of their service, but this was small compensation for the hardships that it entailed. Although the drills at ordinary times did not occur more frequently than for a day or two every fortnight, much time was taken up in passing to and from the exercises, especially in the case of those who lived at a distance, and thus found it almost impossible to cultivate their own rice-fields. Frequently, also, the officers would not allow the men to return home without a money bribe. In short, the private soldier was little better than a slave—in some cases worse—while the officers of the highest rank possessed unreasonable power.

Military rank was founded on a system which led to some absurdities. It was reckoned by numbers, commencing with one honour for the private, two honours for the corporal, three for the sergeant, and so on up to thirteen for a field-marshal of the higher rank—a few having sixteen honours! Those thus highly honoured were not numerous; but the number of officers of lower grade was much greater in proportion to privates, than in the British army. Indeed from a third to a fourth of the army was composed of officers, so that “ta Phairshon,” with his excess of pipers over fighting men, would not have appeared very outrageous in the eyes of the Malagasy troops!

These officers had an eye to profitable business when not on service. It is stated by the missionaries that when engaged in building their churches and schools they sometimes found they had a field-marshal for a foreman, a colonel for mason or carpenter, a major for bricklayer, and so on! Above the thirteenth rank the numbers were very few, and of the sixteenth there were not above half-a-dozen.

Good, stout, courageous fellows were the men whom John Hockins and his comrades saw that day manoeuvring below them on the plain of Imahamasina; men who, although by no means comparable to European troops in precision of movement, understood their work nevertheless, and would have proved themselves formidable opponents to deal with in war. Laihova further informed them that the first man who organised the force was a Sergeant Brady, who began his work in the year 1816, carried it on for many years, and rose to the rank of major-general in the service of King Radama. After General Brady’s death, the native officers continued the work on the same lines.

But in costume and appearance these soldiers were what is familiarly known as “a queer lot!” The uniform of the rank and file consisted of a tunic and trousers of white material, with a narrow-brimmed straw hat painted white, cross-belts and cartouche-box—by no means an unbecoming dress. But it was worn only at drills and reviews and state ceremonies. At other times, when on duty, soldiers went about almost naked, and the contrast of their dirty-white cross-belts with their brown breasts was curious, to say the least, while their straw hats and slovenly gait suggested anything but soldierly bearing.

The variety of dress indulged in, however, by the crowd of officers was outrageous as well as mirth-provoking.

“Why it seems to me,” said Mark, “that every officer may put on what seemeth right in his own eyes! I see old regimental red coats and pantaloons; hats and shakos that must have been worn a hundred years ago. I even see what looks at this distance like naval uniforms and cocked hats, and no two of them seem to be dressed alike.”

Mark looked inquiringly at Laihova as he spoke, but that dignified native merely smiled, and made a slight inclination of his head, as if to say, “Just so, that’s the way we do it here!”

“Why do they let civilians mix wi’ them?” asked Hockins, pointing to a particular part of the field.

“To keep ’em cibil, I s’pose,” suggested Ebony.

“Where?” asked Laihova, with a puzzled look.

“There—don’t you see ’em? Fellers all in black—with bell-toppers—beavers—chimney-pots on—I don’t know what you call ’em here.”

“Them be officers too,” said Laihova.

And this was true, for the higher grades of officers usually appeared at drill in a full suit of black cloth, with the common black silk hat doing duty as a helmet, and contrasting oddly enough with the rough home-made scabbardless sword, which was carried naked in the hand.

On some occasions, as our travellers afterwards learned, these regiments turned out in every variety of costume, with coats, hats, vests, and trousers, of all colours and patterns—as if they had been got up by an extensive dealer in old clothes. This passion for variety even extended to the officers of the palace, with whom, however, the material was of the best as well as gayest—for they were all gorgeously clad in blue and scarlet cloth; and velvet, with gold and silver lace, embroidery, feathers, etcetera,—but what nation, even in the so-called civilised world, is free from barbarism in this respect?

One pair of eyes beheld this review on that Friday with something of fiendish satisfaction. These belonged to no less a personage than Queen Ranavalona herself. High up on the balcony of her palace she sat under the shade of a scarlet umbrella.

That very day she had had an angry interview with her Prime Minister, Rainiharo, in reference to her only child Prince Rakota, who was a young man of mild gentle disposition, as kind to the Christians as his mother was cruel and unjust. Indeed it was believed that he himself was among the Christians, for he dared openly to defend them before his mother, and often protected them secretly from her violence. Rainiharo, the Prime Minister, on the contrary, was their bitter foe, and in his interview with the Queen above mentioned, had ventured to accuse the prince of aiding in the protection of those who practised the proscribed religion.

The one redeeming point in the character of Ranavalona was her love for this son. When asked to punish the prince for his conduct, she would say in tones of tenderness that seldom issued from her lips, “Is he not my son—my only son?” Alas! she had little pity for the son or daughter of any one else, whether “only” or otherwise!

The dress of Ranavalona, as she sat in her balcony under her scarlet umbrella observing the troops, was gorgeous, but the greater part of it was hidden under the voluminous folds of the scarlet lamba of finest English broad-cloth with which her person was enveloped. Here and there, however, portions of a rich silk dress of European manufacture could be seen, as well as various gold and silver rings, bracelets, chains, charms, and ornaments of ivory. Scarlet being the royal colour, only the Sovereign is entitled to wear the scarlet lamba or use the scarlet umbrella. The Queen’s lamba was ornamented heavily with gold-lace. Her head was not much decorated, but her hair was anointed with that hideous horror of the sick-room, castor-oil! the odour of which, however, was disguised, or rather mixed, with a leaf which smelt like nutmeg.

“I will submit to this no longer,” said the Queen, with a stern frown. “Have I not said it? Is the will of Ranavalona to be thwarted?”

This remark was, in the conversation above mentioned, made to the Prime Minister, a stern old man, dressed in a scarlet coat with huge gold epaulettes, and profusely braided with gold-lace, blue pantaloons, also gold-laced, and a magnificent brazen-sheathed sword. He stood at the Queen’s elbow with a perplexed expression of countenance, being the bearer of news about the effect of which he felt uncertain. But Rainiharo was a bold man as well as a bad one.

“Your will, madam, is sure to be thwarted,” he replied, “as long as you suffer Prince Rakota to act as he pleases. Your son is a Christian. He prays with the Christians and encourages them in this new doctrine. We are lost if your Majesty does not stop the prince in his strange self-willed ways.”

“But,” repeated the Queen, “he is my son—my only, my beloved son! Let him do what he pleases. If he wishes to be a Christian, let him—he is my beloved son!”

“But, madam,” urged Rainiharo, who hated Rakota, “if your son resists your will what becomes of the Government? I know that Rakota—”

“Cease to speak to me of Rakota,” interrupted the Queen, impatiently. “He is my son, I tell you. I love him. Let him alone—he will not disobey me.”

“Prince Ramonja, it is said, has also joined the Christians,” continued the minister, with a slightly cynical expression.

“Is this true?” demanded Ranavalona, fiercely, while she seemed to grind her teeth in wrath.

“I have reason to believe it.”

“Let inquiry be made, and if it proves to be true,” said the Queen, sternly, “let Ramonja be deprived of all his military honours, reduce him to the ranks, and fine him heavily.”

“But he is your own nephew, madam,” returned the Minister, simply, yet with a touch of sarcasm in his tone.

“It matters not. It is of our mercy that he does not die, as many others have died before him. Let my orders be obeyed if Ramonja is guilty. Let him be a warning to others in the palace, for it has come to my ears that some of our courtiers are hankering after this religion that seems to have turned my people mad. Indeed it is said that some related to yourself are among them.”

She looked pointedly at Rainiharo as she spoke, and the prime minister winced, for he had lately discovered that his own son was among the number of the “praying people.” Recovering himself in a moment, however, he merely said that he was not aware of any of his kindred having fallen away from the customs of their ancestors.

“I hope not,” returned the Queen, darkly, “for degradation and slavery, if not death, await them if they do. Go. Let a proclamation be made to-day in the market-place. Let my people and the army know that I have resolved to extinguish Christianity. Tell those officers who have become Christians, or have taken any part in religious teaching, that they shall lose their honours. They have transgressed my laws and deserve death, but through the supplications of the people of Imérina their lives are spared. But their honours, I say, shall be thrown into the river and carried over the cataract of Ifarahantsana, for they are trying to change the customs of our ancestors. Of some, half the honours shall be thrown into the river. Of others, one-third of their honours shall be thrown in, and some shall lose all their honours; the precise number shall be in proportion to their offences. Moreover,” continued the angry woman, as she worked herself into a state of great wrath, “there must be no more praying; no more psalm-singing among my people; no more—”

She stopped suddenly and listened, while the veins in her neck and forehead seemed to swell almost to bursting, for at that moment the clear notes of a sweet female voice came from some distant part of the palace and broke softly on her ear. There was no mistaking the nature of the music, for the Queen had long been familiar with the music of the psalms in which the “praying people” were wont to sing praise to the name of Jesus.

“Who sings?” she asked, with a fierce look at Rainiharo.

The prime minister again gave vent to a very slight touch of sarcasm as he replied, “I think it is Rafaravavy.”

This time the queen noted the tone, and sharply ordered her minister to be gone and do her bidding.

Now, Rafaravavy was a lady of the palace, as we have said, and a great favourite with her royal mistress, but the queen’s affection for the girl had been severely tested since the latter showed symptoms of a leaning towards the Christian religion. It is probable that Ranavalona would have cared little as to what her favourite thought about Christianity if she had only kept quiet, but Rafaravavy was one of those earnest straightforward souls who are prone to act in accordance with their conscientious beliefs without regard to consequences. She did not indeed go about endeavouring to proselytise the household, for she was naturally timid, soft-hearted, and meek, but she made no attempt to conceal her opinions and her sympathy with the persecuted Christians. She had even gone the length of interceding for them once or twice when she found her mistress in an amiable mood, but the explosion of wrath which resulted warned her not to presume again in that way.

For some time Ranavalona sat brooding over the mystery of that religion, which, notwithstanding all her power and cruelty, she had, after so many years of tyranny, been unable to suppress. Then she sent for Rafaravavy.

The girl, who in a few minutes entered her presence, was possessed of no ordinary beauty. Her delicate features and oval face were much lighter in complexion than those of the other ladies of the court, resembling rather those of a Spanish brunette than a Hova beauty. Her eyes were large, soft, and lustrous; her nose was straight and thin, and her mouth small, with an expression of habitual gravity which made her smile, when it came, all the more attractive. Little wonder that poor Ravonino had lost his heart to her, for, besides beauty of countenance, the girl was endowed with a sylph-like form, a sprightly disposition, and the sweet grace of humility.

“You have disobeyed me, Rafaravavy,” said the Queen as she entered.

“Forgive me!” answered the girl in a low musical voice. “I did not think my song of praise would reach your ear. It was meant only for my God and Saviour.”

“Is your God then deaf, that you must sing so loud?” asked the Queen, sharply.

“He is not deaf, blessed be His name!” exclaimed the maiden, with enthusiasm, “neither is His arm shortened that it cannot save. Oh! if you—”

“Stop!” cried the angry Queen, “you have presumed to talk to me thus too often. You deserve to die for singing psalms. Have you given up praying since I forbade it?”

There was that in the voice of Ranavalona which alarmed the girl, and caused her to tremble as she replied, with some hesitation, that she still prayed.

Instead of giving way to another burst of passion the Queen adopted a bantering tone, and said—

“Come, Rafaravavy, tell me what you pray for.”

“I pray for the pardon of my sins.”

“Is that all? Surely you pray for something more than that. Something nice that you want very much.”

“Yes,” continued the girl, becoming somewhat pale, yet praying silently for courage even while she spoke. “Yes, I pray for the pardon of—of your sins, and—”

“Go on! Why do you stop?”

“And that your eyes may be opened that you may ‘see the King in His beauty,’ and be drawn to Him by the cords of love, so that you may cease to persecute the Christians and learn to join with them in praising the name of Jesus who redeemed us from destruction, and is ready and willing to save us from our sins.”

While Rafaravavy was speaking Ranavalona put her hand over her eyes. When the former ceased, she did not remove the hand, but said, in a tone which the poor girl could not quite understand—

“Go! Enough. Leave me!”

As Rafaravavy left the balcony, a prepossessing youth of delicate form and gentle mien emerged upon it by another door.

“Mother,” he said, earnestly, “do, do give me leave to recall your proclamation. I have just heard of it from Rainiharo. Believe me, many of the nobles are not so good—I mean so guilty!—as you think. And the poor Christians—why should they not pray and sing? It is all that you have left to them, for they no longer dare to worship together in the churches.”

“No, Rakota, I will not recall it. Your constant pleading worries me. It is enough to say that the people shall be examined—by the tangena ordeal if necessary—and they shall be punished according to their deserts. Is that all that you come here for, my son?”

It was evident from her tone that Ranavalona relented a little, though her words were firmly spoken.

“I came also to tell you,” said the prince, “that the Europeans whom your spies brought news of some time ago have arrived. They are even now in the market-place. By my orders the guards have let them pass without question.”

“Always interfering, Rakota!” said the Queen, angrily. “Why were they not seized and guarded till I should find time to speak with them?”

“Because, mother, that would scarcely be a civil way of receiving strangers.”

“Strangers! Spies you should have said. Have you forgotten the ungrateful Frenchmen who so lately tried to overturn my government?”

“But these are not Frenchmen. They are English,” said the prince, “and I will answer for them being good and true men.”

“No doubt English are better than French—at least I hate them less; but they are all pale-faced liars and Christians, and none of them shall remain in my land. But how can you tell, boy, that they are good and true men? Have you had speech with them?”

“Not I,” returned the prince. “I have only seen them as they entered the town, but that was enough. One glance satisfied me of their being true men. When the sun rises it needs not much wisdom to know that there is heat and light. An honest face is like the sun. You cannot fail to know it.”

“Go, foolish boy. You are too confident. I will not tolerate Europeans. These men shall be arrested. Hence, and send hither an officer.”

Finding that the Queen was not in a temper to be trifled with, Rakota wisely made no reply, but bowed and went his way. In delivering the message to the officer, however, he whispered such words to him as secured a little delay in the execution of the royal commands.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Prime Minister lays Deep Plans—So does his Nephew—The Great Market-Place—A Friend in Deadly Peril, and our Three Heroes come to Grief.

Returning to his own quarters in the palace, and chafing to find that some one had informed the Queen about his son’s defection, Rainiharo encountered a favourite nephew, named Soa, who had also, unknown to his uncle, given up idolatry, and, like Prince Ramonja, been led to embrace the Gospel through the instrumentality of Prince Rakota.

“Well met, Soa,” said the premier, “I have a proclamation to make which will bring sorrow to the hearts of some of these hated Christians.”

He paused a moment, as if in thought, and Soa, a fine-looking young man of pleasant countenance and agile frame, seemed about to reply, but checked himself.

“Now, my boy,” resumed the old man, “I have a piece of work for you to do. You have heard of the arrival of the Englishmen?”

“Yes, uncle.”

“Well, I have reason to believe that they have been led hither by that son of a thunderbolt, Ravoninohitriniony, and that he is even now in hiding in the neighbourhood. At the gate you will find one of our spies who will conduct you to the cavern in which he lies concealed. Of course I could have him seized at once if I chose, but I have a deeper game to play, and want to make Ravoninohitriniony an unwitting instrument. It seems that more of the people in the palace are Christians than I knew of. It has come to my ears that some of these intend going stealthily to the cave to meet Ravoninohitriniony, for they are fond of this son of a wild-boar, and probably hope to have news by him of their banished kindred.”

Lest it should be supposed that we are putting flippant expressions into the mouth of Rainiharo, we may explain that the Malagasy define an ungrateful man as the “son of a thunderbolt,” and sometimes as the “offspring of a wild-boar,” because—so they say—the young of the wild-boar, when running by the side of its dam, continually gets in advance and turns round to bite her. The ingratitude of which our friend Ravonino was supposed to be guilty, consisted in his having forsaken the idols of the country and renounced the favour of the Queen by becoming a Christian, preferring, like Moses, to suffer affliction with the banished people of God.

“No doubt,” continued the premier, “they will be praying and psalm-singing. Now, knowing your detestation of these Christians, I have resolved to send you to their meeting as a Christian. You are wise enough to know how to act when among them. Take note of the men and women you see there, whether high or low; make out a list of them, and bring it to me. Death and chains shall be their portion, for I am fully more determined than the Queen is to stamp out this religion. Go, and do as I bid ye as quickly as you can.”

For a few seconds the youth stood perplexed and irresolute. Then he said, suddenly, “Yes, uncle, I will go, according to your bidding, as a Christian!” and hastily left the room.

Meanwhile Mark Breezy and his companions, led by Laihova, followed the throng of country-folk to the market-place. They had passed the guard at the gate by means of that potent talisman, silver, before which few gates are permanently closed. If the party had sought to pass with any pomp or circumstance, or if they had carried merchandise along with them, they could not have passed so easily; but Laihova had only to bestow some bits of silver on the guard and the way was at once clear. They might have passed without it, however, had they known of Rakota’s interference in their favour.

We speak of “bits” of silver advisedly, for the Malagasy take the simplest and most literal way of making small change; they clip their dollars into little pieces of various sizes, and therewith transact the business that in other lands is settled with pence. As these clippings are not very accurate, however, they weigh the pieces, and for this purpose every one carries about with him a tiny pair of scales in his waist-cloth. These dollars were all foreign coins, for the Malagasy at that time had, (and we believe still have), no native coinage. All silver that comes to their net is considered good fish. The standard coin is the Spanish dollar, but one will find every variety of European and American money in circulation among them. The method of clipping and weighing the small change might be thought somewhat cumbrous in European markets, for the dollar is cut up into eight sikàjy, (each about sixpence); the sikàjy into nine èranambàtra, and each èranambàtra into ten vàry-venty, each of which last is about the weight of a plump grain of rice. Four weights, marked with a government stamp, are used in weighing the money. These weights are equal, respectively, to about a half-a-dollar, a quarter-dollar, sixpence, and fourpence. Other amounts are obtained by varying these in the opposite scales and adding grains of rice. But all this forms no difficulty in Madagascar. Like most Easterns the natives there dearly love to haggle and prolong a bargain—as our travellers found to their amusement that day; for not only were the principals vociferous in their disputatious, but the bystanders entered into the spirit of the thing and volunteered their opinions!

Profound was the interest of the white men in this market, and deep was the absorption of Ebony, for that amiable negro had a faculty of totally forgetting himself and absolutely projecting himself into the shoes of other people, thus identifying himself with their interests—a faculty which cost him many anxious, indignant, pathetic, and hilarious moments.

“Das a most ’straor’nary sight,” he said, looking round with glistening eyes and expanded lips at the crowds of people who pressed along the road leading to Zomà, the great market-place.

“By the way they stare at you, Ebony,” said Hockins, “they evidently think you something ’straor’nary!”

“Not at all, ’Ockins. You’s wrong, as usual,” retorted the negro. “Dey quite used to black mans, but I tink dis de fust time dat some ob dem hab saw a man wid a face like putty.”

There was indeed some ground for the negro’s remark, for the people crowded round our heroes and gazed at them with undisguised interest.

The market-place was well suited to give some idea of the various types of countenance among the different tribes from distant parts of the island, also for making acquaintance with the products of the country and the manufactures of the people. It was a sort of museum and centre of commerce combined, with all the varied incidents, comical, semi-tragic, and otherwise, for which markets in general are more or less famed.

Here were to be seen great heaps of earthenware of red clay—pans for cooking rice, water-jars, bottles, and dishes of all sorts, as well as English crockery, especially that with the old willow-pattern design! There were great varieties of straw hats, beautifully made of rice and other straw. Elsewhere might be seen iron-work of native manufacture, some of it displaying considerable taste and skilful workmanship. There were also beds, with well-turned posts, made of a wood like mahogany, and the mattresses for these were stuffed with down from a certain flower, which made soft and comfortable couches. Lambas of many kinds were also to be seen, from those of coarse ròfia cloth to those of finer and more ornamental material—though the finest silk lambas and the more expensive European goods were not often exposed for sale there, but were to be had at the houses of the traders and manufacturers. One part of the market was devoted to wood for the rafters and framework of houses, another to the sale of vegetables and fruits—among which were sweet potatoes, manioc, beans, maize, peaches, bananas, mangoes, pine-apples, oranges, lemons, pumpkins, melons, grapes, Cape gooseberries, mulberries, guavas, pomegranates, and many others, besides bread-fruit and rice—which last is the staple food of the people.

“Oh! I say, ’Ockins,” whispered Ebony at this point, “my mout’s a-waterin’.”

“Well, mine’s somethin’ in the same way,” returned the seaman, “but we haven’t a rap to buy with.”

Whether Laihova overheard the whisper or not we cannot tell, but he stopped at that moment, purchased a large quantity of the tempting fruit, and handed it, without a word, to his friends, who received it with becoming gratitude.

“You’s a trump, Hovey,” said the negro, as he put a whole peach into his capacious mouth.

“Ditto,” said Hockins, performing the same feat with a banana.

“Do I hear music?” said Mark Breezy.

“An’ don’t I smell rum?” remarked Hockins.

“An’ doesn’t I hear cackling?” inquired Ebony.

By way of answer to all three, Laihova turned round the corner of a stall, when the party reached a spot which was devoted to the sale of native rum, or “toaka”—a coarse fiery spirit made from sugar-cane, and sold at a very low price. Here a native musician was discovered twanging a native guitar, either as an accompaniment to the cackling of hundreds of fowls and the gobbling of innumerable turkeys, or as a desperate effort to beat these creatures at their own game of noise.

On inquiry Mark found that fowls were sold at from fourpence to eightpence a-piece; geese and turkeys from a shilling to eighteenpence. Also that beef and vegetables were proportionally cheap.

“It seems to me,” remarked Hockins, as they moved slowly along, enjoying the fruit and the scene, “that this here island is a sort of paradise.”

Before many minutes were over the seaman had reason to change his views considerably on this point, for their guide led them to a spot where the slave-market was held. The sights they witnessed there were such as filled the hearts of the white men with deep sorrow and indignation, while it drew tears from the eyes of the sympathetic negro. For the men and women and children were no mere criminals who might in some sense be deserving of their fate—though such there were also amongst them,—but many of the men were guilty of political offences only, and not a few, both of men and women, were martyrs, who, because they had left the faith of their fathers and become followers of Jesus Christ, were sold into temporary—in some cases perpetual—slavery, with their wives and families.

At sight of these unfortunates Laihova was evidently much affected, though he made strenuous efforts to conceal his feelings.

“You are grieved, I see,” said Mark, in a tone of profound sympathy which touched his guide’s heart.

“Grieved! Yes—verily,” said Laihova, whose broken English was much interlarded with Scriptural words and expressions, “for does I not see my friends there? But com. They must not know me. It is danger. Com.”

He led them quickly away from the slave-market, and as they walked along he explained that some of the poor slaves whom they had just seen thus publicly exposed for sale were among the nobles of the land—not only in regard to human rank, but in right of that patent which man can neither give nor take away,—an upright regenerated soul. He further explained, as best he could, that slaves in his land were derived from three or four different sources—namely, captives taken in war; persons condemned to slavery for crime, for political offences, and for religious opinions; people who had been sold for debt, and the descendants of all of these.

They had gradually quitted the market while thus engaged in conversation, and were ascending one of the steeper parts of the city, when their attention was attracted by a shouting not far-off.

Presently they observed a number of men and boys running in and out amongst the houses and the low walls which surrounded them, as if in chase of something. Soon a man was seen to dart along the road they were following. As he drew near they observed that he stumbled as he ran, yet forced the pace and panted violently—like one running for his life. A few moments more and the crowd was close at his heels, pelting him with stones and yelling like wild beasts. The fugitive turned up a narrow lane between high walls close to where our party stood. He was closely followed by the crowd.

At this point some of the pursuers stopped as if from exhaustion.

“What has he done?” said Laihova to one of these.

“He has been stealing in the market by cutting a lamba.”

It is the practice to carry money tied up in a corner of the lamba, and thieves, by cutting off this corner, sometimes manage to secure the money.

A great cry arose just then, and some of the pursuers came running back.

“He is down,” said one. “He is dead!” said another.

Now our friend Hockins was one of those men who have at all times an irresistible tendency to take the part of the weak against the strong, without much regard to the cause of battle! He instantly, without a word, ran off at full speed to the rescue. Ebony ran after him from sympathy. Mark Breezy followed from the natural desire to keep by his comrades, and back them up, while Laihova followed—no doubt from good-fellowship!

They soon came upon the poor man, who was completely naked, bruised and bleeding, and surrounded by a crowd of youths, who were deliberately stoning him as if he were a dangerous animal or a mad dog.

With a roar like a lion Hockins went at them. He tripped up some half-dozen big boys, flattened still more the flat noses of some of the men, stretching them flat on their backs, and then, standing astride the fallen man, flourished his enormous fists, and invited the entire population of Antananarivo to “come on!”

The population refused the invitation and retired.

Ebony was not slow to follow suit, with this variation, that instead of roaring he yelled, and instead of bestriding the fallen man, he gave sudden chase hither and thither, with powerful effect, rendering the rout complete.

Meanwhile Mark attended to the injured man, who seemed to be dead. Turning him over on his back he discovered, to his inexpressible amazement, that he was no other than their old friend Mamba - the crocodile—whom they had left with his mother and the others in the cave many days before.

“How is it possible,” he exclaimed, while dressing his wounds, “that he can have arrived at the same time with us, for we started before him and have travelled fast?”

Laihova explained that Mamba was one of the fleetest men in the island, and that he could easily have passed them though starting later than they did. But why he had come, and why he had passed instead of overtaking and travelling with them, he could not even guess.

As most of poor Mamba’s wounds were bruises, and the few cuts were not deep, his four friends raised him and carried him quickly into a neighbouring house, the door of which was immediately shut. Laihova explained that it was the house of a personal friend of his own, who was also a Christian, but secretly, for fear of the Queen.

Here Mamba was sufficiently brought round by Mark’s ministrations to be able to sit up and answer questions, but at first he seemed disinclined to speak, and then gave evasive replies.

“Why this secrecy, my friend?” asked Laihova, in the native language.

“If I could answer,” said Mamba, “there would be no secrecy.”

“True, and I would not pry into your secrets,” returned Laihova, “but we would help you if we can.”

“You cannot help me,” returned Mamba, in a somewhat sad tone. “I have business in hand which requires haste. I have tried to keep clear of you to prevent delay, and to avoid mixing myself up in your dangers, for you are in danger here. I would not have come near the town at all, but I required to make a purchase in the market, and hoped to do so without being recognised. Unfortunately an old enemy saw me. He fell on the device of cutting off the corner of his own lamba, and then, raising the cry of thief, pretended that I had done it. I ran. You know my speed of foot. I trusted to that instead of trusting to my God. They surrounded me. You know the end.”

While Mamba was yet speaking a loud knocking was heard at the door, and a stern voice demanded admittance.

On hearing it Mamba leaped from the couch on which he had been laid as if nothing were the matter with him. He glanced hastily round. The owner of the house seemed to divine his wishes, for he pointed to a small window which opened into what appeared to be a court at the back of the dwelling. The window was merely a square opening, which appeared scarcely wide enough to let a man’s shoulders pass, but Mamba did not hesitate. To the amazement of Mark and his friends he took what is familiarly known as a “header” through the window—à la harlequin—and disappeared. To the still greater amazement of Mark and his friends, Laihova instantly followed suit, without a word of explanation! Indeed there was no time for that. A moment after the owner of the dwelling opened the door with a very submissive look and admitted a band of armed men.

The leader of the band, from his dress and bearing, was evidently a man of position. He carried in his hand a large spear highly ornamented with silver. This weapon—as Mark afterwards learned—was an official spear with the Queen’s name engraven on it. The bearer of it, as well as the spear itself, was named “Tsitialainga,” which means “Hater of Lies.”

Turning to the owner of the house, the Hater of Lies sternly asked some questions of him; but as he spoke in the native tongue he was unintelligible to our travellers, whose spirits were not cheered by the scowling looks of the armed men. Whatever the question was, the answer appeared to be unsatisfactory, for the Hater of Lies immediately turned to his men, and pointing with the silver spear to the three strangers, gave them a command.

Instantly they sprang upon Mark and his companions, and seized them. Both Hockins and Ebony were for a moment paralysed by surprise; then, their impulsive souls being stirred by a sudden gush of indignation, they gathered themselves up for a mighty burst which would certainly have resulted in disaster of some sort if Mark had not recovered presence of mind in time.

“Submit!—submit!” he shouted in a loud voice of authority. Then, in a sharp but lower tone, “It is our only chance! Don’t resist!”

With feelings of something like despair the two men obeyed. A few minutes more and they were bound, led through the streets surrounded by a guard, which alone protected them from death at the hands of the angry populace. Then they were cast into a dark prison, loaded with chains, and left to their reflections.

Chapter Fifteen.

The Spies and the Secret Meeting—The Prime Minister foiled by the Prince.

The sun was setting, the air was balmy, the face of nature was beautiful, the insects and birds were buzzing, humming, and chirping happily, as if there were no such things as care and sorrow in the wide world, when Soa, the prime minister’s nephew, with his guide, approached the forest in which was the cavern where the persecuted Christians had arranged to hold their secret meeting.

“I am to go as a Christian!” thought Soa, as he walked on swiftly and in silence, “as a Christian hypocrite and spy!”

The young man’s countenance relaxed into something like a smile as he thought thus; then it became solemnised as he offered the silent prayer, “Lord, enable me to do the work honestly and well.”

The way was long, but the youth’s limbs were strong and agile, so that night had not long overspread the land when he reached the end of his journey. The night was unusually dark—well adapted for deeds of secrecy and crime. If it had been lighter the two spies would have seen a number of men and women, and even children, hurrying along stealthily in the same direction with themselves. They observed only two or three of these, however, who chanced to fall in their way. They loomed up suddenly like spectres out of the surrounding darkness and as quickly melted into it again. Soa paid no attention to these apparitions, neither did he utter a word to his companion during the journey.

Most of the way he kept a pace or two in advance of his guide, but when they reached the more intricate and broken grounds of the forest, he fell behind and suffered the other to lead.

At last the path wound so much among broken rocks and over steep knolls that their progress became very slow—all the more so that the overshadowing trees rendered the darkness profound. Sometimes they had to clamber up steep places on hands and knees.

Suddenly they were arrested by what seemed to them a faint cry or wail. Listening intently, they perceived that the sounds were musical.

“The Christians are singing,” said the spy in a tone which, low though it was, betrayed a touch of contempt. “They hold their meeting in a cave on the other side of this mound.”

“Remain here, then, till I return to you,” said Soa. “They know you to be a spy. They will not suppose that I have come in such a capacity.”

The man gave vent to a slight laugh at the supposed joke and sat down, while the courtier advanced alone.

On the other side of the mound the sounds which had reached the listeners’ ears as a wail now swelled upon the young man as a well-known hymn in which he had many times joined. A feeling of joy, almost amounting to triumph, filled his heart as he stood there listening. While he listened he observed several indistinct forms glide past him and enter the cave. He crept after them.

A strange sight met his eyes. The cave was so large and high that the single torch which burned in it merely lighted up a portion of the wall against which it was fixed. Even in the immediate neighbourhood of the torch things were more or less indistinct, while all else was shrouded in darkness profound. Here more than a hundred dusky figures were assembled—those furthest from the light melting, as it were, into the darkness, and leaving the imagination to people illimitable space with similar beings.

Soa slipped in, and sat down on a jutting rock near the entrance just as the hymn was closing. Few people observed him. Immediately after, an old man who sat nearest the light rose to pray. Beside him stood our friend Ravonino. On the other side sat a young man with a remarkably intelligent countenance.

With intense earnestness and great simplicity the old man prayed, in the name of Jesus, that the Holy Spirit might bless their meeting and deliver them from the power of their enemies. He also prayed with much emphasis that their enemies might be turned into Christian friends—at which petition a loud “Amen” arose from the worshippers.

“Now Totosy will speak,” said the old man, after a brief pause, turning to the young man with the intelligent countenance. “Let the Word be brought forth.”

“Stop!” cried a man, rising in the midst of the crowd, “it may not be safe to bring out the Word just now.”

“Why not, my son?” asked the old man. “Are not all here to-night our friends?”

“I think not,” returned the man. “As I came along I saw one of the Queen’s spies, who is well-known to me. He was walking with the nephew of our deadly foe Rainiharo, and Soa himself sits there!”

He turned as he spoke, and pointed straight at Soa, who rose at once and advanced to the front.

“My friends,” he said, in a gentle voice, “the last speaker is right. I am here, and I was led here by one of the Queen’s spies. But the spy is not here. He awaits me outside. Let two of your young men guard the entrance of the cave so that our conference may not be overheard.”

Two stalwart youths rose at once and hurried to the outside of this primitive meeting-house, where they mounted guard.

“I have been sent,” continued Soa, “by my uncle, with orders to enter your meeting ‘as a Christian,’ take note of your names, and report them to him!”

There was a tendency on the part of some to shrink into the background on hearing this.

“Now,” continued Soa, “I have come to obey only part of his orders. I have come, as a Christian, to warn you of the dangers that surround you. The Queen is exceeding mad against you. It will be your wisest course to refrain from meeting together just now, and rest content with worshipping in your own homes. But let not this distress you, my friends. The God whom we love is able to turn darkness into light and to make crooked things straight. Neither let it break up our meeting just now. We are safe at present. Let us get out the Word and enjoy the worship of our Saviour while we may.”

There were murmurs of assent and satisfaction at the close of this brief address, and one of the young men, with grave—almost mysterious—looks, took up a small spade and went towards that part of the wall where Ravonino sat. The latter rose to let the young men get at a particular spot, which was marked on the wall with a small—almost imperceptible—red square. Here, after turning up a few spadefuls of earth, he struck upon a stone. Lifting it, he disclosed a hole about a foot square. The old man who presided at the meeting thrust his hands into this hole and gently lifted out a thick volume, which he laid reverently upon a flat rock that formed a sort of natural table in front of him.

This was “the Word” to which reference had been made—an old, much-soiled and worn Malagasy Bible, which had been buried there, so that, whatever might become of its Christian owners, it might escape being found and condemned to the flames, as so many of its fellows had been.

It was a curious Bible this, in more respects than one. In Madagascar the Bible was printed first in sections by the natives, under the superintendence of the missionaries; these sections got scattered, for teaching purposes, and various editions of different sizes were printed at different times. The original owner—if we may not call him fabricator—of the Bible, now referred to as having been dug up in the cave, must, in his desire to possess the Word of God complete, have been at considerable pains to secure every fragment and leaf that came in his way, and then had them all bound together. A clasp of leather and a European hook-and-eye fastened the edges. The different portions, of course, did not fit exactly, and some of the verses necessarily overlapped. Nevertheless, a nearly complete and substantial Bible was the result of his labours. See Note 1.

Taking up the treasured book with great care, the young man before mentioned by the name of Totosy opened it and selected a text. “Fear not, little flock, it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom.”

From this he preached an admirable sermon, full of hope and consolation to men and women situated as his companions were at that time, and holding up Jesus not only as the deliverer of the world from sin but from fear of physical death. Strengthening of this sort, truly, was much-needed, for during the previous persecutions of 1837 and 1849 Queen Ranavalona had given terrible evidence of her fierce and relentless nature, so that Christians were now well aware of what they had to expect if another cruel fit came upon her.

The sermon finished, another hymn was sung, followed by a prayer, after which, before finally breaking up and dispersing, the worshippers collected in various groups; and exclamations of surprise, joy, and fervent thanksgiving were heard, now and again, when friends who had parted as enemies on account of religious differences unexpectedly met as brothers in the Lord.

It has ever been a result of persecution that the persecuted cause has made progress—naturally so, for trial and suffering winnow out the chaff and leave the good seed to flourish with increased vigour. Few false professors attended those midnight meetings, which were so full of joy and danger, and none of these ever got the length of Ranavalona’s fiery stakes or the fearful “rock of hurling.”

For fully a quarter of a century, (from 1836 to 1861), did the persecution of the native Christians last in Madagascar. During most of that dark period Queen Ranavalona the First endeavoured, by cruel prohibitive laws, torture, and death, to stamp out the love of Christ from her dominions. Through most of that period she tried to prevent her people from meeting for worship, praying to God in the name of Christ, or reading the Scriptures or any other Christian book, and those who disobeyed her did so at the risk of losing property, liberty, or life. Nevertheless, in spite of this, worship was kept up in secret—in secluded villages, in recesses of the forest, in caves, even in rice-holes; the Word was read, faithful natives preached, and Baptism and the Lord’s Supper were continuously observed. Small portions of Scripture—even leaves—were carefully treasured and passed from hand to hand until “these calamities” were past; and now, at the present time, the Church in Madagascar is ten times stronger than ever it was before!

Of course active persecution was not maintained throughout the whole period of twenty-five years. The volcano smouldered at times. For brief periods it almost seemed as if about to become extinct, but at intervals it burst forth with renewed violence. At the time of which we write, (1857), there were mutterings of the volcano, and portents in the air which filled the persecuted ones, and those who loved them, with grave anxiety.

In a dark corner of the cavern Soa and Ravonino stood apart, after the service was over, and conversed in subdued tones.

“Do you think the lives of my comrades are in danger?” asked the latter, anxiously.

“It is difficult to answer that,” replied Soa. “The Queen fears to offend the English by putting European subjects to death; but she is in a savage mood just now, and your friends have intermeddled with matters that they would have been wise to let alone. Banishment is more likely to be their fate, but that will be almost equal to death.”

“How so?” asked Ravonino.

“Because Ranavalona will probably treat them as she treated the Europeans who lately tried to overthrow her government. She sent them down to the coast with orders to their conductors to keep them so long on the way—especially on the unhealthy fever-stricken parts of the route—that sickness might have time to kill them.”

“And was the plan successful?”

“Not quite, for the white people turned out to be tough. They managed to get away from our island alive, but in a state of health, I believe, that will very likely prevent them from ever wishing to return!”

“I have much love for these men,” said Ravonino, after a pause. “You have influence with Rainiharo. Can you not befriend them?”

“I shall have little influence now with my uncle,” returned Soa, sadly, “for I am a Christian, and he will soon discover that. But I will help them if I can—for your sake.”

“And Rafaravavy,” said Ravonino, in a lower voice, “do you think she can be induced to fly? If she were brought to me here, I should have little difficulty in taking her to a place of safety.”

“The difficulties in your way are greater than you suppose,” said Soa. “The Queen’s spies and soldiers are out all over the land. Even now, were it not that I am your friend and brother in Jesus, you would have been caught here as in a trap. Besides, there is the greater difficulty that Rafaravavy is filled with fidelity to her royal mistress, and pities her so much that she will not leave her. You know that she openly confesses Christ in the palace, yet so great is the Queen’s regard for her that she will not listen to my uncle, who would gladly see her tossed over the ‘rock of hurling.’ I had converse with her the other day, and I see that she even hopes to be the instrument of the Queen’s conversion to Christianity.”

“God bless her!” exclaimed Ravonino, fervently.

“Amen!” returned Soa, “and I doubt not that the blessing will come, though it may not come in the way we hope. It is no easy matter to say ‘Thy will be done’ when we are suffering.”

“Prince Rakota has done much for the Christians in time past,” urged poor Ravonino, who felt that all hope of delivering the girl he loved, at the present time, from the dangers that surrounded her was gradually slipping away from him; “surely he can and will protect her.”

“I fear he has not the power,” answered Soa. “He has interfered in behalf of the Christians so often of late that the Queen is losing patience; and you know that if she once gives way to her cruel rage, the life of Rakota himself is not safe. But, you may trust me, my friend; I will do my best to move him to aid you—and your friends also.”

Most of the people had left the cave while these two were conversing, with the understanding that they were not to return, as it was no longer a safe retreat. Another and more distant rendezvous was, however, appointed; the treasured Bible was not restored to its old place of concealment, but carried off by Totosy, the young preacher, to be reburied in a new place of refuge.

“Do you follow them?” asked Soa of Ravonino, when the others had all gone and they were about to part.

“No. My companions will come here expecting to find me if they escape. I must remain, whatever befalls. If the soldiers come, I will see them before they arrive, and give them the slip. If they give chase they will find it troublesome to catch me!”

When Soa returned to the city he went straight to the apartments of the prime minister, whom he found impatiently awaiting him.

“You have been long,” said the latter.

“The distance is great,” replied the nephew.

“Well?” exclaimed the uncle, inquiringly.

“You ordered me to act as a Christian,” returned the young man, with a slight smile, “and you know it takes time to do that.”

“True—true. And you have brought me the list?”

“No, uncle.”

“What mean you, boy?”

“I mean that I have obeyed your first command; I have been to the Christian meeting as a Christian.”

A puzzled, inquiring look overspread the premier’s countenance.

“Well, what then?”

“Well, then, of course I acted the part of a Christian to the best of my power. I told them why I had been sent, warned them of the evil intended them, and advised them to escape for their lives; but, as no immediate danger was to be feared, I joined them in their worship.”

“And you have brought no list?”

“None.”

Rainiharo’s visage, while his nephew spoke, was a sight to behold; for the conflicting emotions aroused produced a complexity of expression that is quite indescribable.

“Young man!” he said, sternly, “you have disobeyed my orders. Why have you done this? Your head must fall, for you show that you are a Christian.”

With great simplicity and gentleness Soa said:

“Yes, my uncle, I am a Christian; and if you please you may put me to death, for I do pray to Jesus.”

Utterly confounded by this straightforward and fearless reply, Rainiharo stood for some moments gazing in silent wonder at the youth who thus calmly stood prepared to abide the consequences of his confession. At first it almost seemed as if, in his anger, he would with his own hand, then and there, inflict the punishment he threatened; but once again, as in the case of Ranavalona, love proved more powerful than anger.

“No, no, boy,” he said, turning away with a wave of his hand, as if to dismiss the subject finally, “you shall not die. It is a delusion. You deceive yourself. Go. Leave me!”

Soa obeyed, and went straight to the apartment of Prince Rakota to relate to that fast friend and comrade his recent adventures, and consult with him about the dark cloud that threatened to burst in persecution over the unhappy land.

Note 1. A Bible of the kind here described may now be seen in the Museum of the British and Foreign Bible Society, 146 Queen Victoria Street, London, just as it was dug up out of the earth, where it had been buried by christian natives who probably perished in the persecutions. The New Testament bears the date of 1830, the Old Testament that of 1835.

Chapter Sixteen.

In Prison—Effects of a First Sight of Torture.

A new day had begun, cattle were lowing on the distant plain, and birds were chirping their matutinal songs in bush and tree when Mark Breezy, John Hockins, and James Ginger—alias Ebony—awoke from their uneasy rest on the prison floor and sat up with their backs against the wall. Their chains rattled sharply as they did so.

“Well now,” said Hockins, gasping forth his morning yawn in spite of circumstances, “I’ve many a time read and heard it of other folk, but I never did think I should live to hear my own chains rattle.”

“Right you are, ’Ockins; ob course I’s got de same sentiments zactly,” said the negro, lifting up his strong arm and ruefully surveying the heavy iron links of native manufacture that descended from his wrist.

Mark only sighed. It was the first time he had ever been restrained, even by bolt or bar, much less by manacles, and the effect on his young mind was at first overwhelming.

Bright though the sun was outside, very little of its light found a passage through the chinks of their all but windowless prison-house, so that they could scarcely see the size or character of the place. But this mattered little. They were too much crushed by their misfortune to care. For some time they sat without speaking, each feeling quite incapable of uttering a word of cheer to his fellows.

The silence was suddenly but softly broken by the sound of song. It seemed to come from a very dark corner of the prison in which nothing could be seen. To the startled prisoners it sounded like heavenly music—and indeed such it was, for in that corner sat two Christian captives who were spending the first minutes of the new day in singing praise to God.

The three comrades listened with rapt attention, for although the words were unintelligible, with the exception of the name of Jesus, the air was quite familiar, being one of those in which English-speaking Christians are wont to sing praise all the world over.

When the hymn ceased one of the voices was raised in a reverent and continuous tone, which was obviously the voice of prayer.

Just as the petition was concluded the sun found a loop-hole in the prison, and poured a flood of light into it which partly illumined the dark corner, and revealed two men seated on the ground with their backs against the wall. They were fine-looking men, nearly naked, and joined together by means of a ponderous piece of iron above two feet long, with a heavy ring at either end which encircled their necks. The rings were so thick that their ends must have been forced together with sledge-hammer and anvil after being put round the men’s necks, and then overlapped and riveted. Thus it became impossible to free them from their fetters except by the slow and laborious process of cutting them through with a file. Several old and healed-up sores on the necks and collar-bones of both men indicated that they and their harsh couplings had been acquainted for a long time, and one or two inflamed spots told all too clearly that they had not yet become quite reconciled. See Note 1.

“Now isn’t that awful,” said John Hockins in a low voice with a sort of choke in it, “to think that these poor fellows—wi’ that horrible thing that can’t be much under thirty pounds weight on their necks, an’ that must ha’ bin there for months if not for years—are singin’ an’ prayin’ to the Almighty, an’ here am I, John Hockins, with little or nothin’ to complain of as yet, haven’t given so much as a thought to—”

The choke got the better of our sailor at this point, and he became suddenly silent.

“Das so!” burst in Ebony, with extreme energy. “I’s wid you dere! I tell you what it is, ’Ockins, dem brown niggers is true Kistians, an’ we white folks is nuffin but hipperkrits.”

“I hope we’re not quite so bad as that, Ebony,” said Mark, with a sad smile. “Nevertheless, Hockins is right—we are far behind these poor fellows in submission and gratitude to our Maker.”

While he spoke the heavy door of the prison opened, and a jailor entered with two large basins of boiled rice. The largest he put on the ground before our three travellers, the other in front of the coupled men, and then retired without a word.

“Well, thank God for this, anyhow,” said Mark, taking up one of the three spoons which lay on the rice and going to work with a will.

“Just so,” responded the seaman. “I’m thankful too, and quite ready for grub.”

“Curious ting, ’Ockins,” remarked Ebony, “dat your happytite an’ mine seems to be allers in de same state—sharp!”

The seaman’s appetite was indeed so sharp that he did not vouchsafe a reply. The prisoners in the dark corner seemed much in the same condition, but their anxiety to begin did not prevent their shutting their eyes for a few seconds and obviously asking a blessing on their meal. Hockins observed the act, and there passed over his soul another wave of self-condemnation, which was indicated by a deprecatory shake of his rugged head.

Observing it, Ebony paused a moment and said—

“You’s an awrful sinner, ’Ockins!”

“True, Ebony.”

“Das jist what I is too. Quite as bad as you. P’r’aps wuss!”

“I shouldn’t wonder if you are,” rejoined the seaman, recovering his spirits somewhat under the stimulating influence of rice. The recovery was not, however, sufficient to induce further conversation at the time, for they continued after that to eat in silence.

They had scarcely finished when the jailor returned to remove the dish, which he did without word or ceremony, and so quickly that Ebony had to make a sudden scoop at the last mouthful; he secured it, filled his mouth with it, and then flung the spoon at the retiring jailor.

“That was not wise,” said Mark, smiling in spite of himself at the tremendous pout of indignation on the negro’s face; “the man has us in his power, and may make us very uncomfortable if we insult him.”

“Das true, massa,” said Ebony, in sudden penitence, “but if dere’s one thing I can’t stand, it’s havin’ my wittles took away afore I’m done wid ’em.”

“You’ll have to larn to stand it, boy,” said Hockins, “else you’ll have your life took away, which’ll be wuss.”

The probability of this latter event occurring was so great that it checked the rise of spirits which the rice had caused to set in.

“What d’ee think they’ll do to us, sir?” asked the sailor, in a tone which showed that he looked up to the young doctor for counsel in difficulty. The feeling that, in virtue of his education and training, he ought to be in some sort an example and guide to his comrades in misfortune, did much to make Mark shake off his despondency and pluck up heart.

“God knows, Hockins, what they will do,” he said. “If they were a more civilised people we might expect to be let off easily for so slight an offence as rescuing a supposed criminal, but you remember that Ravonino once said, when telling us stories round the camp-fire, that interference with what they call the course of justice is considered a very serious offence. Besides, the Queen being in a very bad mood just now, and we being Christians, it is likely we shall be peculiarly offensive to her. I fear that banishment is the least we may count on.”

“It’s a hard case to be punished for bein’ Christians, when we hardly deserve the name. I can’t help wonderin’,” said the seaman, “that Lovey should have bolted as he did an’ left us in the lurch. He might at least have taken his risk along with us. Anyhow, he could have spoke up for us, knowin’ both lingos. Of course it was nat’ral that, poor Mamba should look after number one, seem that he was in no way beholden to us; but Lovey was our guide, an’ pledged to stand by us.”

“I can’t help thinking,” said Mark, “that you do injustice to Laihova. He is not the man to forsake a comrade in distress.”

“That was my own opinion,” returned the sailor, “till I seed him go slap through yon port-hole like a harlequin.”

“P’r’aps he tink he kin do us more service w’en free dan as a prisoner,” suggested Ebony.

“There’s somethin’ in that,” returned Hockins, lifting his hand to stroke his beard, as was his wont when thoughtful. He lifted it, however, with some difficulty, owing to the heavy chain.

They were still engaged in conversation about their prospects when the prison-door again opened, and two men were ushered in. Both wore white lambas over their other garments. One was tall and very dark. The other was comparatively slender, and not so tall as his companion. For a moment the strangers stood contemplating the prisoners, and Mark’s attention was riveted on the smaller man, for he felt that his somewhat light-coloured and pleasant features were not unfamiliar to him, though he could not call to mind where or when he had seen him. Suddenly it flashed across him that this was the very man to whose assistance he had gone, and whose wounds he had bound up, soon after his arrival in the island.

With a smile of recognition, Mark rose and extended his hand as far as his chain permitted. The young native stepped forward, grasped the hand, and pressed it warmly. Then he looked round at his tall companion, and spoke to him in his own tongue, whereupon the tall man advanced a step, and said in remarkably bad English—

“You save me frind life one taime ago. Ver’ good—him now you save.”

“Thank him for that promise,” said Mark, greatly relieved to find at least one friend among the natives in his hour of need.

“But,” continued the Interpreter, “you muss not nottice me frind nowhar. Unerstand?”

“Oh yes, I think I do,” returned Mark, with an intelligent look. “I suppose he does not wish people to think that he is helping or favouring us?”

“That’s him! you’s got it!” replied the Interpreter, quite pleased apparently with his success in the use of English.

“My!” murmured Ebony to Hockins in an undertone, “if I couldn’t spoke better English dan dat I’d swaller my tongue!”

“Well—good-boy,” said the Interpreter, holding out his hand, which Mark grasped and shook smilingly, as he replied, “Thank you, I’m glad you think I’m a good-boy.”

“No, no—not that!” exclaimed the Interpreter, “good day, not good boy; good-night, good morning! We goes out, me an’ me frind. Him’s name Ravèlo.”

Again Ravèlo shook hands with Mark, despite the rattling chain, nodded pleasantly to him, after the English fashion, and took his departure with his tall friend.

“Well now, I do think,” remarked Hockins, when the door had closed behind them, “that Rav—Ravè-what’s-his-name might have took notice of me too as an old friend that helped to do him service.”

“Hm! he seemed to forgit me altogidder,” remarked the negro, pathetically. “Dere’s nuffin so bad as ingratitood—’cept lockjaw: das a little wuss.”

“What d’ee mean by lockjaw bein’ wuss?” demanded Hockins.

“W’y, don’t you see? Ingratitood don’t feel ‘thankee,’ w’ereas lockjaw not on’y don’t feel but don’t even say ‘thankee.’”

A sudden tumult outside the prison here interrupted them. Evidently a crowd approached. In a few minutes it halted before the door, which was flung open, and four prisoners were thrust in, followed by several strong guards and the execrations of the crowd. The door was smartly slammed in the faces of the yelling people, and the guards proceeded to chain the prisoners.

They were all young men, and Mark Breezy and his friends had no doubt, from their gentle expression and upright bearing, that they were not criminals but condemned Christians.

Three of them were quickly chained to the wall, but the third was thrown on his back, and a complex chain was put on his neck and limbs, in such a way that, when drawn tight, it forced his body into a position that must have caused him severe pain. No word or cry escaped him, however, only an irrepressible groan when he was thrust into a corner and left in that state of torture.

The horror of Mark and his comrades on seeing this done in cold blood cannot be described. To hear or read of torture is bad enough, but to see it actually applied is immeasurably worse—to note the glance of terror and to hear the slight sound of the wrenched joints and stretched sinews, followed by the deep groan and the upward glare of agony!

With a bursting cry of rage, Hockins, forgetting his situation, sprang towards the torturers, was checked by his fetters, and fell with a heavy clang and clatter on the floor. Even the cruel guards started aside in momentary alarm, and then with a contemptuous laugh passed out.

Hockins had barely recovered his footing, and managed to restrain his feelings a little, when the door was again opened and the Interpreter re-entered with the jailor.

“I come—break chains,” said the former.

He pointed to the chains which bound our travellers. They were quickly removed by two under-jailors and their chief.

“Now—com vis me.”

To the surprise of the Interpreter, Mark Breezy crossed his arms over his breast, and firmly said— “No!” Swiftly understanding his motive, our seaman and Ebony followed suit with an equally emphatic, “No!”

The Interpreter looked at them in puzzled surprise.

“See,” said Mark, pointing to the tortured man in the corner, “we refuse to move a step till that poor fellow’s chains are eased off.”

For a moment the Interpreter’s look of surprise increased; then an indescribable smile lit up his swarthy features as he turned to the jailor and spoke a few words. The man went immediately to the curled-up wretch in the corner and relaxed his chains so that he was enabled to give vent to a great sigh of relief. Hockins and Ebony uttered sighs of sympathy almost as loud, and Mark, turning to the Interpreter, said, with some emotion, “Thank you! God bless you! Now we will follow.”

Note 1. The fetters here described may be seen in the Museum of the London Missionary Society in Blomfield Street, London, along with an interesting collection of Malagasy relics.

Chapter Seventeen.

Mamba is Succoured by one of the “Ancient Soot,” and fulfils his Mysterious Mission.

When Laihova and Mamba took the reckless “headers” which we have described in a former chapter, they tumbled into a court-yard which was used as a sort of workshop. Fortunately for them the owner of the house was not a man of orderly habits. He was rather addicted to let rubbish lie till stern necessity forced him to clear it away. Hence he left heaps of dust, shavings, and other things to accumulate in heaps. One such heap happened to lie directly under the window through which the adventurous men plunged, so that, to their immense satisfaction, and even surprise, they came down soft and arose unhurt.

Instantly they slipped into an outhouse, and there held hurried converse in low tones.

“What will you do now?” asked Laihova.

“I will remain where I am till night-fall, for I dare not show myself all bruised like this. When it is dark I will slip out and continue my journey to the coast.”

“To Tamatave?” asked Laihova, naming the chief seaport on the eastern side of Madagascar.

“Yes, to Tamatave.”

“Do you go there to trade?”

“No. I go on important business.”

It was evident that, whatever his business might be, Mamba, for reasons best known to himself, resolved to keep his own counsel. Seeing this, his friend said—

“Well, I go to the eastward also, for Ravoninohitriniony awaits me there; but I fear that our English friends will be thrown into prison.”

“Do you think so?” asked Mamba, anxiously. “If you think I can be helpful I will give up my important business and remain with you.”

“You cannot help us much, I think. Perhaps your presence may be a danger instead of a help. Besides, I have friends here who have power. And have we not God to direct us in all things? No, brother, as your business is important, go.”

Mamba was evidently much relieved by this reply, and his friend saw clearly that he had intended to make a great personal sacrifice when he offered to remain.

“But now I must myself go forth without delay,” continued Laihova. “I am not well-known here, and, once clear of this house, can walk openly and without much risk out of the city. Whatever befalls the Englishmen, Ravoninohitriniony and I will help and pray for them.”

Another minute and he was gone. Passing the gates without arousing suspicion, he was soon walking rapidly towards the forest in which his friend Ravonino lay concealed.

Meanwhile, Mamba hid himself behind some bags of grain in the outhouse until night-fall, when he sallied boldly forth and made his way to the house of a friend, who, although not a Christian, was too fond of him to refuse him shelter.

This friend was a man of rank and ancient family. The soot hung in long strings from his roof-tree. He was one of “the ancient soot!”

The houses in the city are usually without ceiling—open to the ridge-pole, though there is sometimes an upper chamber occupying part of the space, which is reached by a ladder. There are no chimneys, therefore, and smoke from the wood and grass fires settles upon the rafters in great quantities inside. As it is never cleared away, the soot of course accumulates in course of time and hangs down in long pendants. So far from considering this objectionable, the Malagasy have come to regard it with pride; for, as each man owns his own house, the great accumulations of soot have come to be regarded as evidence of the family having occupied the dwelling from ancient times. Hence the “old families” are sometimes complimented by the sovereign, in proclamations, by being styled “the ancient soot!”

The particular Ancient Soot who accorded hospitality that night to Mamba was much surprised, but very glad, to see him. “Have you arrived?” he asked, with a good deal of ceremonial gesticulation.

“I have arrived,” answered Mamba.

“Safely and well, I hope.”

“Safely and well,” replied Mamba—ceremonially of course, for in reality he had barely arrived with life, and certainly not with a sound skin.

“Come in, then,” said the Ancient Soot. “And how are you? I hope it is well with you. Behold, spread a mat for him, there, one of you. And is it well with you?”

“Well indeed,” said Mamba once again, falsely but ceremonially.

“May you live to grow old!” resumed Soot. “And you have arrived safely? Come in. Where are you going?”

“I’m going yonder—westward,” replied Mamba, with charming conventional vagueness, as he sat down on the mat.

“But it appears to me,” said Ancient Soot, passing from the region of compliment into that of fact, and looking somewhat closely at his friend, “it seems to me that you have been hurt.”

Mamba now explained the exact state of the case, said that he required a good long rest, after that a hearty meal, then a lamba and a little money, for he had been despoiled of everything he had possessed by the furious crowd that so nearly killed him.

His kind host was quite ready to assist him in every way. In a few minutes he was sound asleep in a little chamber on the rafters, where he could rest without much risk of disturbance or discovery.

All next day he remained in hiding. When it began to grow dusk his host walked with him through the streets and through the gates, thus rendering his passage less likely to be observed—for this particular Ancient Soot was well-known in the town.

“I will turn now. What go you to the coast for?” asked his friend, when about to part.

“You would laugh at me if I told you,” said Mamba.

“Then tell me not,” returned his friend, with much delicacy of feeling, “for I would be sorry to laugh at my friend.”

Thus they parted. Ancient Soot returned to the home of his forefathers, and Mamba walked smartly along the road that leads to the seaport of Tamatave.

He spent that night in the residence of a friend; the next in the hut of a government wood-cutter.

Felling timber, as might be supposed, was, and still is, an important branch of industry in Madagascar. Forests of varied extent abound in different parts of the country, and an immense belt of forest of two or three days’ journey in width covers the interior of the island. These forests yield abundance of timber of different colour and texture, and of various degrees of hardness and durability.

The wood-cutter, an old man, was busy splitting a large tree into planks by means of wedges when our traveller came up. This wasteful method of obtaining planks is still practised by some natives of the South Sea Islands. Formerly the Malagasy never thought of obtaining more than two planks out of a single tree, however large the tree might be. They merely split the tree down the middle, and then chopped away the outside of each half until it was reduced to the thickness required. The advent of the English missionaries, however, in the early part of this century, introduced light in regard to the things of time as well as those of eternity-among other things, the pit-saw, which has taught the natives to “gather up the fragments so that nothing be lost.” Thick planks are still however sometimes procured in the old fashion.

The wood-cutter belonged to “The Seven Hundred” which constituted the government corps. The members of this corps felled timber for the use of the sovereign. They also dragged it to the capital, for oxen were never employed as beasts of burden or trained to the yoke. The whole population around the capital was liable to be employed on this timber-hauling work—and indeed on any government work—without remuneration and for any length of time! After the usual exhaustive questions and replies as to health, etcetera, the old man conducted his visitor to his hut and set food before him. He was a solitary old fellow, but imbued with that virtue of hospitality which is inculcated so much among the people.

Having replied to the wood-cutter’s first inquiry that he was “going yonder,” Mamba now saw fit to explain that “yonder” meant Tamatave.

“I want to see the great Missionary Ellis before he leaves the country.”

The wood-cutter shook his head. “You are too late, I fear. He passed down to the coast some weeks ago. The Queen has ordered him to depart. She is mad against all the praying people.”

“Are you one of the praying people?” asked Mamba, with direct simplicity.

“Yes, and I know that you are,” answered the wood-cutter with a smile.

“How know you that?”

“Did I not see your lips move and your eyes look up when you approached me on arriving?”

“True, I prayed to Jesus,” said Mamba, “that I might be made use of to help you, or you to help me.”

“Then your prayer is doubly answered,” returned the old man, “for we can each help the other. I can give you food and lodging. You can carry a message to Tamatave for me.”

“That is well. I shall be glad to help you. What is your message?”

“It is a message to the missionary, Ellis, if you find him still there; but even if he is gone you will find a praying one who can help me. Long have I prayed to the lord that he would send one of his people here to take my message. Some came who looked like praying people, but I was afraid to ask them, and perhaps they were afraid to speak; for, as you know, the Queen’s spies are abroad everywhere now, and if they find one whom they suspect of praying to Jesus they seize him and drag him away to the ordeal of ‘tangena’—perhaps to torture and death. But now you have come, and my prayer is answered. ‘He is faithful who has promised.’ Look here.”

The old man went to a corner of the hut, and returned with two soiled pieces of paper in his hand.

Sitting down, he spread them carefully on his knees. Mamba recognised them at once as being two leaves out of a Malagasy Bible. Soiled, worn, and slightly torn they were, from long and frequent use, but still readable. On one of them was the twenty-third Psalm, which the old wood-cutter began to read with slow and intense interest.

“Is it not grand,” he said, looking up at his young guest with a flush of joy in his care-worn old face, “to think that after this weary wood-cutting is over we shall dwell in the house of the Lord for ever? No more toiling and hauling and splitting; above all, no more sin—nothing but praise and work for Him. And how hard I could work for Him!”

“Strange!” said Mamba, while the old man gazed at the two soiled leaves as if lost in meditation, “strange that you should show this to me. I have come—but tell me,” he said, breaking off abruptly, “what do you wish me to do?”

“This,” said the old man, pointing to the leaves, as though he had not heard the question, “is all that I possess of the Word of God. Ah! well do I remember the time—many years past now—when I had the whole Bible. It was such a happy time then—when good King Radama reigned, and the missionaries had schools and churches and meetings—when we prayed and sang to our heart’s content, and the Bible was printed, by the wonderful machines brought by the white men, in our own language, and we learned to read it. I was young then, and strong; but I don’t think my heart was so warm as it is now! Learning to read was hard—hard; but the Lord made me able, and when I got a Bible all to myself I thought there was nothing more to wish for. But the good Radama died, and Ranavalona sits upon his throne. You know she has burned many Bibles. Mine was found and burned, but she did not suspect me. I suppose I am too poor and worthless for her to care about! Perhaps we did not think enough of the happy times when we had them! A brother gave me these two leaves. They are all that I have left now.”

Again the old man paused, and the younger forbore to interrupt his thoughts. Presently he looked up, and continued, “When the missionary Ellis was on his way to the coast I met him and asked for a Bible. He had not a spare one to give me. He was very sorry, but said if I could find any one going to Tamatave who would carry a Bible back to me, he would send one. Now you have come. Will you see the great missionary, or, if he is away, find one of the other men of God, and fetch me a Bible?”

There was a trembling earnestness in the old wood-cutter’s voice which showed how eager he was about the answer. Mamba readily promised, and then, after singing and praying together, these like-minded men retired to rest.

Next morning Mamba pursued his way eastward with rapid step, for he was anxious—yet with a glad heart, for he was hopeful. Many things of interest were presented to his gaze, but though he observed them well he did not suffer them to turn him aside for a moment from his purpose—which was to reach Tamatave in the shortest possible time, so as to meet and converse with the missionary before he should quit the island.

Mamba was of an inquiring disposition. In ordinary circumstances he would have paused frequently to rest and meditate and pray. He would have turned aside to examine anything peculiar in his track, or even to watch the operations of a spider, or the gambols of a butterfly; but now he had “business” on hand, and set his face like a flint to transact it.

The distance from the capital to Tamatave was nearly two hundred miles. There were dangers in the way. As we have said, the Queen’s spies were everywhere. Mamba’s wounds and bruises were still sufficiently obvious to attract attention and rouse curiosity, if not suspicion.

At one part of the journey he came upon some criminals in long chains which extended from their necks to their ankles. They were doing work on the roads under a guard. He would fain have conversed with these men, but, fearing to be questioned, turned aside into the shelter of a plantation and passed stealthily by.

At another place he came to a ferry where, when he was about to enter the boat, two men stepped in before him whom he knew to be government officers and suspected to be spies. To have drawn suddenly back without apparent reason would have proclaimed a guilty conscience. To go forward was to lay himself open to question and suspicion, for he had prepared no tissue of falsehoods for the occasion. There was no time for thought, only for prayer. He committed his soul to God as he entered the boat, and then began to converse with the boatman in as easy and natural a tone of voice as he could assume. Having to face the boatman for this purpose enabled him to turn his back upon the government officers. Scarce knowing what he said in the perturbation of his spirit, his first question was rather absurd—

“Did you ever upset in crossing here?” he asked.

“Of course not!” replied the boatman, with a look of offended dignity.

“Ha! then,” continued Mamba, who quickly recovered his equanimity, “then you don’t know what it is to feel the teeth of a crocodile?”

“No, I don’t, and hope I never shall. Did you?”

“Oh yes,” returned Mamba, “I have felt them.”

This was true; for it happened that when he was a little boy, his mother had taken him down to the side of a river where she had some washing to do, and while she was not looking the urchin waded in, and a crocodile made a snap at him. Fortunately it failed to catch him, but its sharp teeth grazed his thigh, and left a mark which he never afterwards lost.

“Where did that happen?” asked the boatman, when the other had briefly stated the fact—for the passage was too short to permit of a story being told.

“In the Betsilio country.”

“That’s a long way off.”

“Yes, a long way. I left my old mother there. I’m going to Tamatave to buy her a present. Now, my friend,” said Mamba, in a bantering tone, as the boat ran into the opposite bank, “take care never to upset your boat, because crocodile teeth are wonderfully sharp!”

Mamba had the satisfaction of hearing the two officers chuckle at his little joke, and the boatman growl indignantly, as he leaped ashore and sedately strode away with a sigh of relief and thankfulness for having made what he deemed a narrow escape.

The road to Tamatave was by no means lonely, for, being the highway from the seaport to the capital, there was constant traffic both of travellers and of merchandise. There were also great droves of cattle making their way to the coast—for a large part of the wealth of the chiefs and nobles of the land consists of cattle, which are exported to the islands of Bourbon and Mauritius, and disposed of to the shipping that come there for supplies.

At last Mamba reached Tamatave, footsore, worn, and weary, and went straight to the house of friend—a native of wealth and importance in the town, and one whom he knew to be a Christian. From him he learned, to his great joy, that Mr Ellis had not yet left the place, and that he hoped to be permitted still to remain there for some time.

It was dark when Mamba arrived, and rather late; but he was too anxious to transact his “business” to wait till morning. Having ascertained where the missionary lived, he went there direct, and was ushered into his sitting-room.

“You wish to converse with me,” said Mr Ellis, in a kind voice, and in the native tongue, as he placed a chair for his visitor—who, however, preferred to stand.

“Yes, I come from very far away—from the Betsilio country. My mother dwells there, and she is a praying one—a follower of Jesus. She loves the Word of God. I heard that you had brought the Bible to us from your own land—printed in our language, and so I have come to ask you for a Bible.”

“Have you come all that long journey to procure the Word of God?” asked the missionary, much interested.

“Yes—that is my business,” replied Mamba.

Although Mr Ellis liked the look of his visitor, and was strongly disposed to believe him, he had too much knowledge of the native character to place immediate confidence in him. Besides, the man being a stranger to him, and possibly one of the government spies, he feared to comply at once with his request, lest he should hasten his own banishment from the island. He replied, therefore, with caution.

“I cannot give you what you want to-night,” he said, “but you may call on me again to-morrow, and I will speak with you.”

This answer did not at all satisfy the eager heart of the poor fellow who had travelled so far and risked so much. His countenance showed the state of his feelings so strongly that the sympathetic missionary laid his hand kindly on his shoulder, bade him cheer up, and asked for his name as well as the name of some one in Tamatave who knew him.

“Now then, Mamba,” he said, as they were about to part, “don’t be cast down. Come here to see me to-morrow. Come early.”

Comforted a little—more by the missionary’s look and tone than by his words,—Mamba took his departure.

Meanwhile Mr Ellis made inquiries, visited the friend to whom he had been referred, and found that not only was Mamba a good and true man, but that many of his family “feared the Lord greatly.”

When, therefore, his anxious visitor returned very early the following morning, he was ready for him.

“I am assured that you are a Christian, Mamba,” he said, “as well as many of your kindred.”

“Yes, I love the Lord, and so do many of my kinsmen. But my family is large and scattered.”

“Have any of them got the Scriptures?”

“They have seen and heard them,” returned Mamba, “but all that we possess are a few pages of the words of David. These belong to the whole family. We send them from one to another, and each, after keeping them for a time, passes them on, until they have been read by all. They are in my hands just now.”

“Have you them with you?” asked the missionary. Mamba did not reply at once. He seemed unwilling to answer, but at last confessed that he had.

“Will you not show them to me? Surely you can trust me, brother!”

Mamba at length made up his mind. Thrusting his hand deep into his bosom, he drew a parcel from the folds of his lamba. This he slowly and carefully opened. One piece of cloth after another being unrolled, there appeared at length a few leaves of the Book of Psalms, which he cautiously handed to Mr Ellis.

Though it was evident that the greatest care had been taken of that much-prized portion of Scripture, the soiled appearance of the leaves, worn edges, and other marks of frequent use—like the two leaves owned by the wood-cutter—showed how much they had been read.

Even Mamba’s anxiety was allayed by the tender way in which the missionary handled his treasure, and the interest in it that he displayed.

“Now, my friend,” said Mr Ellis, still holding the tattered leaves, which Mamba seemed anxious to get back, “if you will give me these few words of David, I will give you all his words; and I will give you, besides, the words of Jesus, and of John, and Paul and Peter. See—here they are.”

Saying which, he handed to his visitor a copy of the New Testament and Psalms, in Malagasy, bound together.

But Mamba did not leap at this gift as might have been expected. Either it seemed to him to be too good news to be true, or he was of a sceptical turn of mind. At all events he was not satisfied until he had sat down with the missionary and assured himself that every verse in his ragged treasure was contained in the presented volume, and a great deal more besides. Then he let the old treasure go, and joyfully accepted the new, which, he said, he was going to carry back to his mother who greatly longed for it.

Before retiring with it, however, he mentioned his friend the wood-cutter, whom Mr Ellis remembered well, and gladly gave another Testament to be taken back to him. Then, uttering expressions of fervent gratitude, Mamba left the house.

In the course of that day the missionary inquired after his visitor, wishing to have further converse with him, but the Christians of Tamatave told him that Mamba had started off, almost immediately after quitting him, on his long return journey to Betsilio-land—doubtless “rejoicing as one that findeth great spoil.”

Dust was not allowed to accumulate on the Bibles of Madagascar in those days!

Chapter Eighteen.

Unexpected Deliverance and Several Surprises.

At the time when Mamba started away on his expedition to Tamatave, Ravonino, as we have said, lay concealed in the forest, anxiously awaiting news from the town. At last the news came—the two white men and the negro had got involved in a row, and were in prison!

So said Laihova on entering the cave and seating himself, weary, worn, and dispirited, on a ledge of rock beside his friend, to whom he related all that had befallen.

“Give not way to despondency,” said Ravonino, though he could not smooth the lines of anxiety from his own brow. “Does not the Lord reign? Let the earth rejoice! No evil can befall unless permitted, and then it will surely work for good. Let us now consider what is to be done. But first, we will pray.”

In the gloom of the cavern the two men went down on their knees, and, in very brief but earnest sentences, made known their wants to their Creator.

“It is useless to remain here idle,” said the guide, as they resumed their seat on the ledge.

“It is useless to go into the town,” returned Laihova. “I am known now as one of those who aided Mamba to escape.”

“But I am not known—at least not in my present guise,” said Ravonino. “Have you seen Rafaravavy?”

“No; I tell you we had not been long in the town when this mischance befell.”

“Did not Mamba tell you why he has undertaken so long a journey?”

“He did not, but I can guess,” answered Laihova, with a slight smile. “The night before we left our friends in the cave in Betsilio-land I heard his mother urging him to accompany us to the capital and fetch her, if possible, a copy of the Word of God. She was joined in her persuasions by my sister Ramatoa, and you know he loves Ramatoa. I have no doubt that the two overcame his objections.”

“Do you know why he objected?” asked Ravonino.

“He said that he was afraid to quit his mother and the others at a time when she might sorely need his protection, but other motives may have influenced him.”

“If he said it he meant it,” returned the guide, with some decision, “for Mamba is open and true of heart. No doubt he had other motives, but these were secondary. God grant him success and safe deliverance from the hands of his enemies!”

“Amen!” responded Laihova.

For some time the two friends sat there in silence, meditating as to what they should do in the circumstances, for each felt that action of some sort was absolutely necessary.

“My friend,” said the guide at last, “it seems to me that the Lord requires me at this time to go with my life in my hand, and give it to Him if need be. I have led these Englishmen into danger. I must do my best to succour them. Rafaravavy also is in great danger of losing her life—for the Queen’s fondness for her may not last through the opposition to her will which she is sure to meet with. At all risks I will enter the town and try to meet with Rafaravavy. But you, my friend, have no need to run so great a risk. The Englishmen have no claim upon you. My sister Ra-Ruth, as well as the other banished ones, need your arm to defend them, all the more that Mamba has left for a time. I counsel you to return to the Betsilio country and leave me. There is no fear. I am in the hands of God.”

For a few moments Laihova was silent. Then he spoke, slowly. “No. I will not leave you. Are not our friends also in the hands of God? For them, too, there is no fear. At present they are far from danger and in safe hiding, for even the outlaws—the robbers who infest the forests—understand something of their case; they have sympathy and will not molest them. Besides all that, Ravoninohitriniony, is there not the Blood-covenant between you and me? No, I will not leave you! Where you go I will go, and if you die I will not live!”

Seeing that his friend’s mind was made up, the guide made no further effort to influence him, and both men prepared themselves to go to the city.

We return now to our friends Mark Breezy, John Hockins, and James Ginger, whom we left in the act of quitting their prison after being the means of obtaining some extension of mercy to an unfortunate sufferer whom they left behind them there.

The Interpreter led them up several steep streets, and finally brought them to a court-yard in which were several small houses. Into one of these he ushered them, having previously pointed out to them that the building occupied a prominent position not far from the great palace of the Queen.

“So—if you out goes—git losted—know how to finds you’self agin!”

“Das so,” said Ebony. “You’s a clibber man.”

“Now you stop,” continued the Interpreter, paying no attention to the remark, “for git some—some—vik—vik—vikles—eh?”

“Vikles!” repeated Mark, with a puzzled air.

“Yis—yis—vikles,” repeated the Interpreter, nodding his head, smiling, opening his mouth very wide, and pointing to it.

“P’r’aps he means victuals,” suggested Hockins.

“Yis—yis—jus’ so—vittles,” cried the Interpreter, eagerly, “wait for vittles. Now—good-boy—by-by!” he added, with a broad grin at his blunder, as he left the room and shut the door.

The three friends stood in the middle of the room for a few seconds in silence, looked at each other, and smiled dubiously.

“Let’s see if we really are free to go and come as we choose,” said Mark, suddenly stepping to the door and trying it. Sure enough it was open. They passed out and went a short distance along the street, in which only a few natives were moving about. These, strange to say, instead of gazing at them in idle curiosity, seemed to regard them with some show of respect.

“Hold on, sir,” said Hockins, coming to an abrupt halt, “you know that feller told us to wait for victuals, and I am uncommon disposed for them victuals; for, to say truth, the trifle of rice they gave us this mornin’ was barely enough to satisfy an average rat. Better come back an’ do as we’re bid. Obedience, you know, is the first law of natur’.”

“Das w’at I says too. Wait for de wittles.”

“Agreed,” said Mark, turning on his heel.

On reaching the house they found that two slaves had already begun preparations for the hoped-for feast. In a few minutes they had spread on the mat floor several dishes containing rice, mingled with bits of chicken and other meats, the smell of which was exceedingly appetising. There was plain beef also, and fowls, and cooked vegetables, and fruits of various kinds, some of which were familiar to them, but others were quite new.

Slaves being present, our three travellers did not give full and free expression to their feelings; but it was evident from the way that Hockins smacked his lips and Ebony rolled his tongue about, not to mention his eyes, and Mark pursed his mouth, that they were smitten with pleased anticipation, while the eyes of all three indicated considerable surprise!

There were no knives or forks—only horn spoons for the rice; but as each man carried a large clasp-knife in his pocket, the loss was not felt.

In any other circumstances the singularity and unexpected nature of this good treatment would have stirred up the fun of Ebony and the latent humour of Hockins, but they could not shake off the depression caused by the memory of what they had seen in the prison—the heavy iron collars and the cruel binding chains. They tried to put the best face possible on it, but after a few faint sallies relapsed into silence. This, however, did not prevent their eating a sufficiently hearty meal.

“There’s no sayin’ when we may git the chance of another,” was Hockins’s apologetic remark as he helped himself to another fowl.

“It is very mysterious that we should receive such treatment,” said Mark. “I can only account for it by supposing that our friend Ravèlo is an officer of some power. If so, it was doubly fortunate that we had the opportunity of doing him a good turn.”

“Now, you leave dem two drumsticks for me, ’Ockins,” said Ebony, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “You’ll do yourself a injury if you heat de whole ob ’im.”

“Well, I must confess to bein’ surprised summat,” said the seaman, referring to Mark’s observation, not to Ebony’s.

They were destined to receive some additional surprises before that day was over. The meal which they had been discussing was barely finished when their friend the Interpreter again entered and bade them follow him.

“Queen Ranavalona wish sees you,” he said.

“What! all on us?” exclaimed Hockins, with elevated eyebrows.

“Yis—all.”

“Oh! nonsense,” he cried, turning to Mark. “It must be you, doctor, she wants to see. What can she want with a or’nary seaman like me?”

“Or a extraor’nary nigger like me?” said Ebony, with a look of extreme contempt.

“You kin stop in house if you choose,” remarked the Interpreter, with a quiet grin, “but you heads be splitted if you do.”

“Then I think I’ll go,” said Hockins, quietly.

“Me too,” remarked the negro.

Accordingly they all went—with a slight qualm, however, for they felt slightly doubtful whether, under existing circumstances, they might not after all be going to execution.

The royal palaces, to which they were led, occupy a very conspicuous and commanding position on the summit of the hill, and stand at an elevation of more than 500 feet above the surrounding plains. They are conspicuously larger than any of the other houses in the city, are grouped together in a large court-yard, and number about a dozen houses—large and small. The chief palace, named Manjàka-Miàdana, is about 100 feet long by 80 broad, and 120 high to the apex of its lofty roof. A wide verandah, in three stories, runs all round it. All is painted white except the balustrade. The building next in size to this is the Silver House. On the eastern side of the court-yard are the palace gardens, and around it stand a number of houses which are the residences of the chief officers of the army, the Secretaries of State, and other members of the Government.

On reaching the palace gate two young officers approached to receive the visitors. They were dressed in splendid European regimentals, much bedecked with gold-lace, tight-fitting trousers, Wellington boots, sash, sword, and cocked hat, all complete! One of these, to their surprise, spoke English remarkably well.

“I learned it from the missionaries when I was leetle boy,” he explained to Mark, as he conducted the visitors through the archway and across the spacious court-yard into the palace. In the second storey of the verandah the Queen was seen seated beneath that emblem of royalty the scarlet umbrella, with her Court around her. Before entering the court the visitors had removed their hats. They were now directed to make a profound reverence as they passed, and proceeded along the side of the building to the further end.

A line of native troops was drawn up across the court, but these wore no uniform, only the lamba wound round their waists, and white cross-belts on their naked bodies. They were armed with the old flint-lock muskets and bayonets of the period.

Their conductor, who was an Under-Secretary of State, led them by a dark narrow stair to the balcony where the Queen sat, and in a few moments they found themselves in the presence of the cruel Ranavalona, of whom they had heard so much.

She did not look cruel at that time, however. She was dressed in a rich satin gown, over which she wore the royal scarlet lamba, and jewels of various kinds ornamented her person. She was seated in a chair raised two or three steps above the floor, with her ladies on one side and her gentlemen on the other. The former, among whom were some really good-looking brunettes, had all adopted the English fashion of dress, with parts of native costume retained. Some wore head-dresses of gorgeous colouring, composed of ribbons, flowers, and feathers in great profusion, but as no head-dress, however strongly marked by barbaric splendour, can excel the amazing feminine crests in present use among the civilised, we refrain from attempting description! Most of the men also wore European costume, or portions thereof, some being clad in suits of black broad-cloth.

The amount of ceremony displayed on all hands at Court seemed to have infected our three adventurers, for, when led before the Queen, they approached with several profound bows, to which Hockins added the additional grace of a pull at his forelock. In this he was imitated by Ebony.

For some moments Ranavalona eyed her visitors—perhaps we should say her captives—sternly enough, but there was also a slight touch of softness in her expression, from which Mark drew much comfort. silence, for as yet the Queen had given no indication as to whether the new-comers were to be treated as friends or spies, and the recent banishment of the missionaries, and harsh treatment of Europeans by the Queen, left their minds in some doubt on the point.

Turning to the Secretary who had introduced the party, Ranavalona spoke to him a few words. When she had finished, the Secretary turned to Mark, whom he at once recognised as the chief and spokesman of the trio.

“Queen Ranavalona bid me ask where you comes from,” he said.

To which Mark replied that they came from England, that they were all English subjects, though one was an African by descent.

“I have heard,” continued the Queen, through her interpreter, “that you have been shipwrecked, that one of your number is a Maker of Medicine, and that you helped one of my people—even saved his life—soon after your arrival in my country. Is that so?”

Mark explained that they had not been shipwrecked, but had been left on shore, and obliged to fly from the natives of the coast; that he was indeed a maker of medicine, though his training had not been quite completed when he left England, and that he had rendered a trifling service to an unfortunate man who had slipped in climbing a cliff, but he could hardly be said to have saved the man’s life.

While he was speaking, Mark observed that his friend Ravèlo stood close to the Queen’s chair, in front of a group of officers, from which circumstance he concluded that he must be a man of some note, and that it was he who had procured the deliverance of himself and his friends from prison.

“Tell the young Maker of Medicine,” said the Queen, in a loud voice, so that all the Court might hear, “that Europeans have behaved very ill here of late, so ill that they had to be banished from my country; for I, Ranavalona, permit no one, whether his face be black, brown, or white, to meddle with my government. They fancied, I suppose, that because I am a woman I am weak and ignorant, and unable to rule! They have now found their mistake, and Christians shall not again be permitted to dwell in my country. But I am Ranavalona, and I will do what I please. If I choose to make an exception I will do it. If any one thinks to oppose my will he shall die. The man whose life was saved by this young Maker of Medicine is my son Rakota—my beloved son. Is it not so?”

The Queen looked round as she spoke, and the man whom we have hitherto styled Ravèlo bent his head and replied, “It is so,” whereupon there were murmurs of surprise and approval among the courtiers.

“Now,” continued the Queen, “as I am grateful, and as I want a physician at Court just now, I appoint this young Maker of Medicine to that post, and I appoint his black companion to be his servant. Do you all hear that?”

All the courtiers made murmurs of assent.

“Tell them all that, Secretary,” said the Queen.

Mark Breezy and his friends had considerable difficulty in concealing their astonishment when “all that” was explained to them, but they had the presence of mind to acknowledge the information with a profound obeisance. At the same time Mark explained, with much modesty, that he was not entitled to aspire to or to accept so high and honourable a position, as he had not yet obtained the standing which entitled him to practise in his own country.

“Tell him,” said the Queen, sternly, “that I, Ranavalona, have nothing to do with the customs of England, and have no regard for them. If he does not accept what I offer, instant banishment—perhaps worse—will be his portion!”

“Oh! massa, accep’ him at once!” murmured Ebony in an undertone, and in much anxiety.

Mark took his advice, and agreed to become Physician to the Court of the Queen of Madagascar, without stipulating either as to salary or privileges!

“I am also told,” said the Queen, with a smile of condescension to her physician, “that your English companion is full of music, and performs on a wonderful little instrument. I have a good band, which was trained by your countrymen, but they have no such little instrument. Let the Man of the Sea perform.”

On this being translated Mark looked at the Man of the Sea, and could with difficulty restrain a burst of laughter at the expression of his countenance.

“What!” exclaimed Hockins, “me play my whistle afore this here Court? Unpossible!”

“You’ll have to try,” said Mark, “unless you wish for instant banishment—or something worse!”

“Oh! ’Ockins, blaze away at once!” murmured Ebony, with renewed anxiety, for the “something worse” was to him suggestive of imprisonment, torture, and death!

Thus pressed, the seaman put his hand into the inner pocket of his jacket and drew forth his cherished flageolet. In a few minutes the Queen and all her courtiers were enthralled by the music. It was not only the novelty and bird-like sweetness of the instrument itself that charmed, but also the fine taste and wonderful touch of the sailor. The warbling notes seemed to trill, rise and fall, and float about on the atmosphere, as it were, like fairy music, filling the air with melody and the soul with delight.

“Good! let the Man of the Sea be also cared for. Give them quarters in the palace, and see that they all attend upon us in the garden to-morrow.”

So saying, the Queen arose, swept into the palace, and left her courtiers to follow.

Immediately Prince Rakota came forward and shook hands with Mark.

“So then, your Highness,” said the latter, “we are indebted to you for all this kindness.”

“It is only one small ting,” returned the Prince in broken English. “Am I not due to you my life? Come, I go show you your house.”

On the way, and after entering the house which was appropriated to their use, Mark learned from the Prince that their approach to the capital had been discovered and announced by spies long before their arrival; that it was they who had discovered and revealed to the Queen Hockins’s wonderful powers with the “little tube.” Also that it was well-known who had guided them through the country, and that Ravoninohitriniony was being diligently sought for in his hiding-places.

This last piece of information filled the three friends with deep concern and anxiety.

“He has been so very kind to us,” said Mark, “and I know is one of the most generously disposed and law-respecting subjects of her Majesty.”

“That not help for him if he tumbles into the hands of my mother,” said the Prince, sadly. “He is a Christian. He has run to the forest, and has made others to fly.”

“But you have much power with the Queen,” pleaded Mark, “could you not induce her to pardon him?”

“Yes—if he will give up Christianity—if not do that—no!”

“That he will never do,” said Mark, firmly. “I know him well. He will rather die than deny Christ.”

“He is likely to die then,” returned Rakota, “for my mother is fixed to root up the religion of Jesus from the land.”

“But surely you don’t agree with her,” broke in Hockins at this point.

“No, I not agree,” said the Prince. “But I can not command the Queen. Some time it very hard to move her even a leetle. My only power with her is love.”

“Das de greatest power in de world!” chimed in Ebony.

“It is,” returned the Prince, “and you be very sure I use the power much as I can for save your friend.”

Chapter Nineteen.

A Malagasy Garden Party—The Cloud grows Blacker.

The garden party is by no means a novelty of the present day. In the early part of this century—if not much earlier—Malagasy sovereigns seem to have been wont to treat their Court and friends to this species of entertainment.

The order which the Queen had given that her European visitors should attend upon her in the garden, was neither more nor less than an invitation to a garden party, or pic-nic, to be held the following day at one of her surburban retreats named Anosy, about half-a-mile from the city. Accordingly, early in the morning—for the Malagasy are early risers—their friend the Interpreter came to conduct them to the spot, with a gift of a striped lamba for each of the white men.

“Why she not send one for me?” demanded Ebony, pouting—and Ebony’s pout was something to take note of!

“’Cause you’re black and don’t need no clothing,” said Hockins, awkwardly attempting to put the lamba on his broad shoulders.

“Humph! if she knowed what splendid lobscouse an’ plum duff I kin make,” returned the negro, “Ranny Valony would hab sent me a silk lamba an’ made me her chief cook. Hows’ever, dere’s a good time comin’. I s’pose I ain’t to go to the party?”

“Yis—you muss go. All of you got to go. Kill-deaded—if you don’t go.”

“I’m your man, den, for I don’t want to be deaded yet a while; moreover, I want to see de fun,” returned the negro.

Meanwhile the Interpreter showed them how to put on the lamba—with one end of it thrown over the left shoulder, like the Spaniard’s cloak,—and then conducted them to the palace, where they found three palanquins—or chairs supported by two staves—awaiting them. Getting into them they set off, preceded by the Interpreter in a similar conveyance. Ebony and his bearers brought up the rear.

The Queen and her Court had already started some time. Our party soon reached the scene of festivities, at the south-east of the city. It was a charming spot, having large gardens laid out in the European style, with goodly trees overshadowing the pleasure-house of Anosy, and an extensive lake. The house was on an island in the lake, and was reached by a narrow causeway.

At the entrance to the place two enormous letters, “R R,” formed in grass borders that surrounded flower-beds, indicated that Radama Rex, the first king of that name, had originated those gardens. And they did him credit; for he had made great exertions to accumulate there specimens of the most useful and remarkable trees and plants in the country—especially those that were of service in materia medica. Some immense camphor-wood trees were among the most conspicuous, and there were several specimens of a graceful fan-palm, as well as clumps of the long-leaved Ròfia. The lake was covered in part with a profusion of purple waterlilies, and was well stocked with gold-fish. In the garden and on the upper part of the grounds were luxuriant vines, besides figs, mangoes, pine-apples, and coffee-plants.

Here, to the strains of an excellent band, hundreds of people, in white and striped lambas, and various gay costumes, were walking about enjoying themselves, conversing with animation, or consuming rice, chickens, and beef, on mats beneath the mango and fig-trees. Elsewhere the more youthful and lively among them engaged in various games, such as racing, jumping, etcetera.

“Come,” said their friend of the previous day—the Secretary—to Mark and his comrades, breaking in on their contemplation of the animated scene, “the Queen wishes to see you.”

Her Majesty, who was dressed in a long robe of muslin, embroidered with gold, sat near the door of the garden-house, surrounded by her ladies, who all wore the simple but graceful native dress. A guard of soldiers stood near at hand.

The Queen merely wished to ask a few ceremonial questions of her visitors. While she was engaged with Hockins and the Secretary, Mark ventured to glance at the ladies of the Court, among whom he observed one who made a deep impression on him. She wore, if possible, a simpler dress than any of her companions, and no ornaments whatever. Her features were well formed, and her rather pensive countenance was very beautiful. When they were retiring from the presence of the Queen, Mark could not resist the temptation to ask the Secretary who she was.

“That,” said he, “is our self-willed little Christian, Rafaravavy.”

“She does not look very self-willed,” returned Mark.

“True, and she is not really so—only in the matter of religion. I fear we shall lose her ere long, for she minds not the Queen, and no one who defies Ranavalona lives long. But come, let us sit down under this mango tree and eat. You must be hungry.”

He led them as he spoke to a sequestered spot near a coppice which partially guarded them from public gaze on three sides, and on the fourth side afforded them a charming view of the gardens, the gay assemblage, and the country beyond.

At first both Hockins and Ebony hesitated to sit down to breakfast with so distinguished a person as an Under-Secretary of State.

“We ain’t used, you see, doctor,” observed the seaman in a low tone, “to feed wi’ the quality.”

“Das so, massa,” chimed in Ebony in the same tone; “wittles nebber taste so pleasant in de cabin as in de fo’c’s’l.”

“Don’t object to anything,” replied Mark, quickly, “just do as I do.”

“Hall right, massa. Neck or nuffin—I’m your man!”

As for the seaman, he obeyed without reply, and in a few minutes they were busy with the Secretary over drumsticks and rice.

The free-and-easy sociability of that individual would have surprised them less if they had known that he had been specially commissioned by the Queen to look well after them, and gather all the information they might possess about the fugitive Christians who were hiding in the forests.

Fortunately our young student was quick-witted. He soon perceived the drift of the Secretary’s talk, and, without appearing to evade his questions, gave him such replies as conveyed to him no information whatever of the kind he desired. At the same time, he took occasion, when the Secretary’s attention was attracted by something that was going on, to lay his finger on his lips and bestow a look of solemn warning on his comrades, the effect of which on their intelligent minds was to make the negro intensely stupid and the seaman miraculously ignorant!

Now, while our friends are thus pleasantly engaged, we will return to Rafaravavy, whom we left standing among the Queen’s ladies.

Of all the ladies there that little brunette was not only the best-looking, the sweetest, the most innocent, but also, strange to say, the funniest; by which we do not mean to say that she tried to be funny—far from it, but that she had the keenest perception of the ludicrous, and as her perceptions were quick, and little jokes usually struck her, in vulgar parlance, “all of a heap,” her little explosions of laughter were instantaneous and violently short-lived. Yet her natural temperament was grave and earnest, and her habitual expression, as we have said, pensive.

Indeed it would have been strange had it been otherwise, considering the times in which she lived, the many friends whom she had seen sacrificed by the violence of her royal mistress, and the terrible uncertainty that hung over her own fate.

After a time the Queen dismissed some of her attendants to ramble about the grounds,—among them Rafaravavy, who sauntered down one of the side-walks by herself.

She had not gone far when, on reaching a turn of the road where a small thicket of shrubs concealed her from the more public part of the garden, she heard her own name pronounced.

Stopping abruptly, she listened with intense anxiety expressed on her countenance.

“Rafaravavy!” repeated the voice again, “fear not!” Next moment the bushes were turned aside, a man stepped on the path, and Ravonino stood before her! He seized her in his arms, and printed a fervent kiss upon her lips.

“Oh! Samuel,” she said, using her lover’s Christian name, which she naturally preferred, and speaking, of course, in her native tongue, “why did you come here? You know that it is death if you are caught.”

“I would risk more than death, if that were possible, to see you, Rafaravavy. But I come to ask you to fly with me. Our dear Lord’s counsel is that when we are persecuted we should flee to a place of safety.”

“Impossible!” said the girl, in a tone of decision that made her lover’s heart sink. “Besides, I am not persecuted. The Queen is fond of me, and bears much.”

“Fond of you she may well be, my loved one, she cannot help that; but she is fonder of herself, and the moment you go beyond a certain point she will order you out to execution. Has she not done the same sort of thing before? She is capable of doing it again. She will surely do it again. Come, dearest! let us fly now—this moment. I have a lamba here which will conceal most of your dress. Arrangements are made with some of our friends in the Lord to aid us. Bearers are ready. I will guide you to the caverns in the forest where my sister Ra-Ruth is longing to receive you, where many of your old friends are dwelling in security, where we worship God, and pray to Jesus, and sing the sweet old hymns in peace. Come, dear one! will you not come?”

It was evident that the intense earnestness of the lover was exerting powerful influence over the affectionate maiden, for she began to waver.

“Oh! do not persuade me thus!” she said. “I know not what God would have me do. But the Queen has been very kind to me in spite of my religion, and sometimes I have thought that she listens to my pleading. Perhaps God may use me as the means of bringing her to Jesus. Think what that would be—not only to her own soul but to the multitudes who are now suffering in—”

At that moment footsteps were heard on the gravel walk. They were evidently approaching the spot where the lovers stood. Before Ravonino could make up his mind to drag her into the thicket by main force, Rafaravavy had disengaged herself and bounded away. At the same moment Ravonino glided into the shrubbery and disappeared.

A few seconds later and Mark Breezy stood on the spot they had quitted. He was alone.

“Strange!” he muttered to himself, “I am almost certain that she took this path, and I fancy that the man’s voice sounded like that of Ravonino. Nothing more natural than that he should ferret her out. Yet it seems to have been imagination.”

“It was not imagination,” said a rather stern voice at Mark’s elbow. He turned quickly.

“I was sure of it!” he exclaimed.

“If you were so sure of it,” said the guide, with a touch of bitterness, “why did you interrupt us and scare the maiden away?”

“You do me wrong in your thoughts,” replied the student, flushing. “One of the Queen’s secretaries is even at this moment coming along this track in company with Hockins and Ebony. While seated at breakfast I saw Rafaravavy walk in this direction, and somehow I took it into my head that you would surely meet her here—I know not why I thought so, unless it be that in like circumstances I myself would have acted the same part—so I hastened on in advance to warn you. Hush! do you not hear their steps?”

“Forgive me,” said Ravonino, extending his hand, and grasping that of his friend. Then, speaking low and hurriedly, “You are in favour at Court. Will you befriend her?”

“I will. You may depend on me!”

There was no time for more. Already it was almost too late, for the guide had barely disappeared in the thicket when his comrades and the Secretary appeared.

“Hallo! doctor,” exclaimed Hockins, “was ye arter a pretty girl that you bolted so, all of a sudden?”

“Yes, I was,” answered Mark promptly. “I saw one of the Queen’s ladies come in this direction and ran after her! I suppose there is no harm in that, Mr Secretary? You don’t forbid men to look at your women, do you, like the Arabs?”

“Certainly not,” replied the Secretary, with a slight smile and a ceremonial bow.

“Come, then, let us follow the track, we may yet meet her.”

So saying, Mark led the way along the path where Rafaravavy had vanished, not for the purpose of overtaking her, but in order to give his friend time and opportunity to get out of the thicket unperceived.

On the evening of that same day, after the garden festivities were over, Queen Ranavalona sat in her palace with a frown on her brow, for, despite her determination and frequent commands, the Christians in the town still persisted in holding secret meetings for worship. Those who knew her moods saw plainly that she was fanning the smouldering fires of anger, and that it needed but a small matter to cause them to burst out into a devouring flame.

While she was in this critical frame of mind an influential courtier appeared before her. He seemed to be greatly excited.

“Madam,” he said, “I request that a bright and sharp spear may be brought to me!”

Somewhat surprised at the nature of the request, the Queen asked to know the reason.

“Madam,” continued the courtier, “I cannot but see with grief the dishonour that is done, not only to our idols but to the memory of your own predecessors, by the doctrines of these foreigners. Our ancient customs are being destroyed and the new faith is spreading on every hand. All this is but preparatory to the invasion of Madagascar by Europeans; and, as I would rather die than see my Queen and country so disgraced, I ask for a spear to pierce my heart before the evil day arrives.”

This speech had a powerful effect on the Queen. She began to regard Christianity as not merely a sacrilege, but a political offence; for were not people learning to despise the idols of their forefathers and to cease praying to the royal ancestors by whom the kingdom had been established, and under whom the country had become great and powerful? Might they not eventually despise herself and learn to treat their living sovereign with contempt?

For some time Ranavalona remained silent, leaning her forehead on her hand. Suddenly she looked up with a flushed countenance.

“It is true—all true,” she said. “When I was carried along in procession to-day did I not hear these Christians singing one of their hated hymns? They will not cease till some of them lose their heads. Have you got with you the formal accusation that was made before my chief judge yesterday?”

“No, madam, I have not.”

“Go. Fetch it and read it to me.”

The courtier bowed, left the apartment, and speedily returned with a paper containing the accusations referred to. Unfolding it, he read as follows:—

“First. The Christians are accused of despising the idols. Second. They are always praying. Third. They will not swear, but merely affirm. Fourth. Their women are chaste. Fifth. They are of one mind with regard to their religion. Sixth. They observe the Sabbath as a sacred day.”

Strange to say, this catalogue of so-called accusations deeply affected the queen with grief and rage.

“I swear,” she said, with flashing eyes and clenched hands, “that I will root out this religion of the Europeans if it should cost the life of every Christian in the land! Go. Leave me!”

For a fortnight subsequent to this the palace and Court appeared as if in mourning for some public calamity. No band played; no amusements were allowed, and a dread of impending evil seemed to weigh upon the spirits of all classes. During this time, also, measures were taken to effect the final destruction, as far as possible, of all that had been done in the country by the teaching of the missionaries and their converts.

At last the storm burst. A Kabàry, or immense general assembly of the nation, was called by proclamation at the capital. The people were only too well aware of what this signified to doubt that the Queen was thoroughly in earnest and in one of her worst moods. With trembling hearts they hastened to obey the summons.

Chapter Twenty.

A Great Kabàry is held, followed by Dreadful Martyrdoms.

No rank or age was exempt from attendance at the great assembly. Soldiers were sent about the city and suburbs to drive the people towards the place of assembly near the palace, and the living stream continued to pour onwards until many thousand souls were gathered together at Imàhamàsina.

Here a body of troops fifteen thousand strong was posted, and in the earlier part of the day the cannon along the heights of the city thundered out a salute to inspire the people with awe and respect for the royal authority. The highest civil and military officers were there in their varied and gay trappings, but Ranavalona herself did not appear in person. Her message was conveyed to the people by one of the chief officers of state. It was interspersed here and there with the various titles of the Queen, and was to the following effect:—

“I announce to you, oh ye people! I am not a sovereign that deceives. I therefore tell to you what I purpose to do, and how I shall govern you. Who, then, is that man who would change the customs of our ancestors and the twelve sovereigns in this country? To whom has the kingdom been left by inheritance, by Impóin, Imérina, and Radama, except to me? If any, then, would change the customs of our ancestors, I abhor that, saith Rabòdon-Andrian-Impóin-Imérina.”

After a good deal more to much the same effect, the message went on to say:—

“As to baptisms, societies, places of worship distinct from schools, and the observance of the Sabbath, how many rulers are there in the land? Is it not I alone that rule? These things are not to be done; they are unlawful in my country, saith Ranavàlo-manjàka, for they are not the customs of our ancestors; and I do not change their customs, excepting as to things alone that improve my country. And then, in your worship, you say ‘Believe!’ ‘Follow the Christian customs!’ and thus you change the customs of the ancestors, for you do not invoke all that is sacred in heaven and earth, and all that is sacred in the twelve sovereigns and the idols. And is not this changing the customs of the ancestors? I detest that; and I tell you plainly that such things shall not be done in my country, saith Ranavàlo-manjàka.

“Now I decree that all Bibles and books of the new religion shall be delivered up to be destroyed, that all who are guilty shall come in classes, according to the nature of their offences, and accuse themselves of having been baptized, of being members of the church, of having taught slaves to read—all shall come to the officers and confess; but those who conceal their offence and are accused by others shall be subjected to the ordeal of the tangena, and those who resist my commands shall die, saith Ranavàlo-manjàka.”

This message was no idle threat. The people were well aware of that, and the city was filled with weeping and consternation.

It was while things were in this state that Mamba arrived at Antananarivo with his precious New Testament and Psalms in the folds of his lamba. Although well aware of what had taken place, he recklessly visited his friends in the city. From them he learned more particulars, and saw, when too late, that it would be impossible for him now to pass out of the gates with the Testament on his person, as the guards had been cautioned to search every one whom they had the slightest reason to suspect.

Hearing of the sudden exaltation of his English friends, he formed the wise resolution to place his treasure in their hands.

Boldness is often successful where timidity would fail. Without hesitation, or even consultation with his friends, Mamba went straight to the palace and demanded permission to visit the Maker of Medicine. He was allowed to pass and conducted by an official to the quarters of Mark Breezy, who was seated with Hockins and Ebony at the time.

Great was their surprise at seeing their friend.

“Why, Mamba! I thought you had gone to Tamatave?” said Mark, shaking hands heartily with him.

“Yis—yis—I hoed,” said Mamba, and then endeavoured to tell something of his doings in English; but his knowledge of that language was so very imperfect that they could make nothing of it. They understood him, however, when he cautiously and lovingly drew the Testament from its hiding-place and gave it into Mark’s hands.

“What am I to do with it, my poor friend?” said Mark. “I know that you have no chance of retaining it, after the decree that has just been passed.”

“Keep ’im—keep—for me,” said Mamba, anxiously.

“I will do so, if I can, but it may not be possible,” answered Mark.

“Yis, keep—safe. Got ’im for me mudder.”

“You’re a brick,” cried Ebony, enthusiastically grasping the man’s hand, for he had a great love for his own mother, and experienced a gush of sympathy.

At that moment there was a loud knocking at the door, and Mark had barely time to slip the Testament into his coat pocket when Hater-of-lies entered with his silver spear and attendants. Seizing hold of poor Mamba, without uttering a word they led him away.

Hockins instantly followed, and Ebony was about to do the same when Mark laid his hand on his shoulder and checked him.

“What would you do, Ebony?”

“Look arter ’Ockins, massa.”

“Hockins is well able to look after himself. No doubt he has gone to see where they take Mamba to. One pair of eyes is enough for that. Your company would only trouble him.”

A few minutes later the seaman returned with the information that the unfortunate man had been cast into the prison from which they had been so recently released.

At this time the Christians in the island possessed numerous entire copies of the Scriptures, besides a large number of Testaments and Psalms, and books of a religious character, which, having been secreted, had escaped the destruction of previous persecutions. Some of these were now given up and destroyed. Many of the more timid among the natives came forward, as commanded, and accused themselves, thus escaping punishment; but there were others who would neither give up their Bibles nor accuse themselves. Some of these were accused by their slaves, others by their so-called friends and kindred—in some cases falsely.

Next day the Prime Minister came to the Queen and reported that one lady, named Rasalama, who had not accused herself, had been accused by some of her slaves of attending religious meetings.

“Is it possible,” exclaimed the Queen, “that there is one so daring as to defy me? Go, let her be put to death at once!”

The intercession of friends of the accused produced no effect on the Queen, and even the pleading of Prince Rakota failed, in this instance, to do more than delay the execution for a few days.

Meanwhile Rasalama was cast into prison and loaded with chains.

“Is it not strange,” she said to her jailors, “that I should be put in chains, and some of my friends should be sent to perpetual slavery and some killed, though we have done no evil? We have neither excited rebellion, nor stolen the property of any, nor spoken ill of any—yet we are treated thus, and our property is confiscated. It will be wise if the persecutors think what they do, lest they bring on themselves the wrath of God. But I do not fear. When Hater-of-lies came to my house I rejoiced that I was counted worthy to suffer affliction for believing in Jesus.”

When this speech was reported to the judges, Rasalama was ordered to be put into heavier irons and severely beaten. This cruel order was carried out; and after her tender limbs had been additionally weighted, her delicate skin was lacerated with terrible stripes. Yet her fortitude never forsook her. Nay more—through the grace bestowed on her she actually sang hymns in the midst of her torment! Sometimes, indeed, her physical strength failed for a brief space. At other times the song of triumph blended with a wail of agony, but she always recovered to renew the hymn of praise.

Her tormentors were confounded. This was something quite beyond their understanding, and their only solution of the mystery was that she must be under the influence of some powerful charm. Others there were, however, who listened to her triumphant songs, and beheld her calm steadfast countenance with widely different thoughts and feelings.

But the sufferings of this poor creature had not yet terminated. The rage of her persecutors was not yet appeased. Next day the ordinary chains she wore were exchanged for others, consisting of rings and bars fastened around her wrists, knees, ankles, and neck, and these, when drawn together, forced her whole body into a position that caused intense agony—something like that which we have described as having been seen by Mark and his comrades in the same prison-house. In this posture it was impossible to use the voice in song, but, doubtless, she was not even then prevented from making melody in her heart to the Lord, for whose name she suffered so much. All night long was this terrific trial endured, but with the dawn of day came relief, for then the chains were relaxed; and so great was the change that poor Rasalama looked forward to the fate which she knew awaited her with feelings of joy.

That fate was not long delayed. Soon they led her out of the prison, and took the road which conducted towards the southern extremity of the hill on which the city stood, where was the tremendous precipice down which many a criminal and many a Christian martyr had already in Ranavalona’s evil reign been hurled out of Time into Eternity. Yet this was not the gate through which Rasalama was to pass into Paradise. See Note 1.

As she walked along, the poor martyr began again to sing a favourite hymn. When passing the place of worship, at that time closed, she exclaimed, “There have I heard the words of the Saviour.” Hundreds of people accompanied her. Some even ventured to whisper words of comfort to her as she went along, although by doing so they imperilled their own lives, and one young man, utterly regardless of consequences, walked boldly by her side, speaking to her of the Saviour, till the place of execution was reached.

To this spot Mark Breezy and his companions in exile had hastened, for the Secretary had told them that some of the Christians were about to be executed, and a fearful suspicion that their friend Mamba might be among the number impelled them to hasten to the spot with some half-defined intention of interfering in his behalf. For they had gradually, and imperceptibly to themselves, acquired a great liking for the young native, whose earnest, straightforward, yet playful spirit, together with his great kindness to his mother, had deeply impressed them during the brief time they had sojourned together in the forest.

“Will we fight for ’im, massa?” asked Ebony, with anxious looks, as they ran to the place of execution, which was not far-off.

“That would be useless,” answered Mark. “If we were thirty Samsons instead of three ordinary men, we could not overcome the Queen’s army.”

“I’ve half a mind to try,” said Hockins, with something unusually fierce in his expression. “Many a man has run a-muck before now. I’ve got to die once at any rate!”

“And what good would that do to Mamba?” asked Mark. “No, I will try another plan. I have fortunately done service to the Queen in saving the life of her son. If Mamba is to be martyred, I will throw my arms round him and ask the Queen in return to spare the life of my friend.”

They had by that time mingled with the dense crowd that stood on the brow of the precipice of Ambohipotsy to witness the execution. Pushing to the front with breathless anxiety, they were just in time to see Rasalama led forward by two men armed with spears. In front of them was a shallow ditch, and a little further on the brow of the precipice, from which was seen a magnificent prospect of the surrounding country. But no prospect, however sublime, could have attracted the eyes of the three friends just then, for in front of them stood two crosses supporting the bodies of two Christians who had been crucified thereon the day before. Even these, however, lost their horrible power of fascination, when they observed the cheerful holy expression of Rasalama’s countenance as she was led to the edge of the ditch which was to be her grave. The bottom of that grave was already strewn with the bloody remains and the bleaching bones of other martyrs who had preceded her.

The crowd, who had followed the procession with imprecations against the Christians, now ceased to shout.

“Will you allow me a short time to pray?” asked Rasalama of the executioners.

Her request being granted, she kneeled on the rocky ground, clasped her hands, and raised to Heaven a look of calm trustfulness, as she held communion for the last time on earth with her Redeemer.

“Where is the God she prays to that he does not save her now?” whispered some. Others held their peace, but laid these things to heart.

While the poor creature was thus engaged, the two executioners, without warning, thrust their spears deep into her body. It was the custom of these men to plunge the spears into the loins of their victims on each side of the back-bone in such a position that they did not produce immediate death, but allowed the martyrs to tumble into the ditch and writhe there in agony for some time with the spears still sticking in them. Happily, in the case of Rasalama, the thrusts were—either intentionally or accidentally—more effective than usual. After a very brief struggle, her happy soul was set free to be “for ever with the Lord.”

In that ditch her poor mangled body was left to be devoured by the wild dogs that frequent all places in Madagascar where criminals suffer. See Note 2.

“Oh, God!” exclaimed Mark, unable to repress a groan. “Let us quit this accursed spot.”

“Stay, sir, stay,” whispered the sailor at his elbow, “you forget Mamba. More are comin’.”

More martyrs were indeed coming, as the singing of hymns proved.

Close on the heels of Rasalama, a band of nine other Christians were carried to the place of execution, each with his feet and hands tied together and slung on a pole, the ends of which were borne by two men. Straw had been stuffed into their mouths to prevent praying or singing, but several of them, managing to get rid of the straw, burst into the triumphal songs which had attracted the attention of our seaman.

Arrived at the ditch, the victims were asked if they would give up praying to Jesus. In every case the answer was a decided “No!” They were then thrust into the ditch, forced down on their knees, and made to bend forward. While this was being done, the shuddering friends of Mamba perceived that he was not among the martyrs. One by one each unfortunate was stabbed in the loins, close on either side of the back-bone, but not one was terrified into recanting, although by so doing he might have been restored at once to life and liberty. The truth of that word, “As thy days thy strength shall be,” was clearly and wonderfully proved in the case of these sufferers. After all had fallen, their heads were cut off and placed in a row on the edge of the ditch. Five of the nine belonged to one family.

One man who had been reserved to the last, for some reason or other that was net explained, was led to the brow of the precipice, and the same question was put to him that had been put to his fellow-martyrs. From the spot on which he stood he could look down into the awful gulf, a sheer descent of sixty feet first to a place where a ledge projected, and then, a further descent of still greater depth to the bottom, where the ground was covered with rocks and debris from the cliffs.

Unfaltering in courage and allegiance to the Master, his “No!” was distinct and decisive. Next moment he was hurled over. With terrific force he struck the ledge, and it must have been a lifeless body that was finally shattered on the plain below.

As the people immediately began to disperse after this, Mark and his friends hastened sway from the place with an overwhelming sense of horror upon them, but thankful as well as relieved to know that their friend Mamba was not yet among the martyrs.

Note 1. Rasalama was in truth the first martyr of Madagascar. She was slain in the year 1837. We have only transposed the date. Her story is given, without variation worthy of mention, from authentic records.

Note 2. Close to the spot where the heroic Rasalama knelt to pray and die, a large Memorial Church now stands, the spire of which forms a conspicuous object in every distant view of the city.

Chapter Twenty One.

Mamba, Subjected to the Ordeal of the “Tangena,” escapes, but afterwards accuses himself and is Condemned.

If not yet among the martyrs, it was soon evident that Mamba stood a good chance of being among them before long—and that the mother of whom he was so fond, and for the gratification of whose spiritual longings he had risked so much, would probably never receive the Gospel of Peace from his hands.

While in prison under accusation of being a believer in the religion of the white man, he had debated much with himself as to what was his duty in the present distress. Was he bound to confess Christ and take the consequence—which, of course, he knew to be death? To deny Him was out of the question. He at once dismissed that idea as untenable. But was there no other mode of escape? Did not the Word itself advise that when persecuted in one city he was not only entitled but advised to escape to another? “But how am I to escape? Oh God, guide me!” he cried, lifting his clasped hands as he converted the question into a prayer.

The rattling of his chains seemed to bid him dismiss all hope, but he did not lose faith. He continued to pray and meditate. And the longer he meditated the more anxiously did he long to be back in the cave beside his Reni—his humble-minded loving little mother—and beside—yes, he made no attempt to conceal it from himself—beside the beautiful queen-like sister of Laihova. The more he meditated, however, the more hopeless did his case seem to become. To lie he would not—not even to gain Ramatoa. To die he would rather not! To escape he could not!

At last he hit upon an idea. He would refuse to answer. He would take refuge in absolute silence!

As might have been expected, this course of policy did not avail him much. When it was found that he would not say whether he was a Christian or not, it was resolved that the matter should be settled by an appeal to the ordeal of the Tangena.

This used to be a common and much-practised ordeal in Madagascar in days but recently past. It consisted in the administration of poison. Other ordeals existed in the island—such as passing a red-hot iron over the tongue, or plunging the naked arm into a large pot of boiling water and picking out a pebble thrown therein for the purpose of trial. Alas for both innocent and guilty subjected to either trial! But the ordeal most universally in favour was that of the Tangena.

The Tangena is in fact a poisonous nut about the size of a chestnut which derives its name from the tree that bears it. If taken in small doses it acts as an emetic; if in large doses it kills. Many pages would be required to give a full and particular account of all the Malagasy superstitions connected with the ordeal. Let it suffice to say, roughly, that previous to the poison being administered the accused person is obliged to swallow whole, or rather bolt, three pieces of the skin of a fowl, about the size of a dollar. Then the decoction of Tangena in rice-water is administered. If given strong it kills, and the unfortunate is held to have been guilty. If not too strong, and the sufferer be able to bear it, vomiting is the result, and the three pieces of skin are eagerly looked for. The finding of the pieces proves the accused to be innocent. The not finding of them proves him guilty, and at once, if he be a free man, he is killed, if a slave he is sold, and got rid of in some distant market. There was a very complex system of combined profit and superstition surrounding the whole affair which it is difficult as well as useless thoroughly to understand, but which it is easy to see afforded clever scoundrels the means of persecuting, defrauding, or killing any whom they chanced to dislike, or who stood in their way. Of course it was very easy to make the potion strong enough to kill, or to dilute it with rice-water until it became almost harmless.

Now, when Mark Breezy heard that Mamba was condemned to swallow the Tangena he went straight to his friend Rakota.

“Prince Rakota,” he said, earnestly, “if your expressions of gratitude to me are sincere you will save the life of this man.”

“I will try,” returned the Prince, “but the Queen is very angry just now!”

When the Prince pleaded for the man’s life Ranavalona asked of what he was accused.

“Of praying to the Christians’ God.”

“Does he admit the charge?” demanded the Queen sternly.

“No—I believe not.”

“Then, let the Tangena decide. It always speaks the truth. Our ancestors thought so, and I will not change the customs of our ancestors!” said this outrageously conservative queen.

Rakota, however, was a determined man and not easily foiled. Going privately to those who had the management of the matter, he made use of those mysterious arguments with which princes manage to attain their ends, and afterwards told Mark the result, which was, according to Hockins, that, “Mamba’s grog was to be well-watered!” As Mark could do nothing more for his friend he went with his companions to see the result.

There was another man, accused of stealing, who was to be tested at the same time. He was a strong sturdy pugnacious-looking man.

A good deal of ceremonial of course preceded the ordeal. Among other things the poison had to be tested on two fowls. It killed them both and was deemed too strong. Being diluted it was tried on two other fowls, and killed neither. It was therefore considered rather weak. At last, having been reduced to the exact strength which killed one fowl and only sickened the other, the potion was administered to the reputed thief, after a long prayer or invocation. For two hours there was no result, but at the end of that time the pains began, and increased with much violence, yet the man maintained his innocence. His agonies were soon extreme. Amidst his torture he solicited medicine, but this was refused. His bowels, he said, were writhing as if in knots. His groans were awful. His eyes seemed ready to start from their sockets. His countenance assumed a ghastly hue, and his entire frame was convulsed with torture. Then he vomited violently, and, fortunately for him, the three pieces of skin which he had swallowed made their appearance. He was at once pronounced innocent and set free.

Poor Mamba had to witness all this before his own turn came. Once more he was questioned, but continued dumb. Then he was made to swallow his three pieces of skin and to drink the Tangena.

The state of mind of his friends as they watched him after what they had just seen may be conceived but cannot be described. In Mamba’s case the poison acted differently. Being well diluted, its effects, although severe, were not to be compared with those experienced by the first sufferer. Still they were bad enough, and vomiting commenced much sooner. To the great satisfaction of his friends the three pieces of skin were ejected, and Mamba, being pronounced innocent, had his fetters removed and was set free.

But when Mark hastened to congratulate him, what was his surprise to see the poor fellow clasp his hands and raise them to Heaven, while an expression of pain—very different from that resulting from physical suffering—convulsed his features.

“Oh! no, no!” he exclaimed, in a tone of agony, “I am not innocent. I am guilty! guilty! very wicked! I have denied Thee, dear Lord, by my looks, though not with my lips! Forgive me, O God!” Then, turning quickly to the officers of justice, “Here—put on the chains again. I am a praying man! I love the Lord Jesus. He will save you as well as me if you will come to Him!”

As this was spoken in the native language our Englishmen did not understand it, but they had little difficulty in guessing the drift of it when they saw the officers replace the chains and lead Mamba back to prison, where the last words the jailor heard as he left him were, “Mother, mother! Ramatoa! I shall never more see your dear faces in this life—never more!”

But in this Mamba was mistaken, as the sequel will show.

Meanwhile Mark hurried back to the palace and told Rakota what had occurred. The Prince was not surprised. He had mingled much with the Christians, and knew well the spirit by which they were animated. He went at once to the Queen, who was enraged at first by his persistent pleading, vowed that Mamba should die, and gave orders to that effect. But on reconsidering the matter she commuted the sentence into life-long slavery in long chains.

There is usually but brief delay between a sentence and its execution in Madagascar. The very next day heavy chains were riveted on Mamba. These, at one end, were attached to an iron collar round his neck, at the other end to iron rings round his ankles. What sailors would call the slack of these heavy fetters was gathered up in one of the wearer’s hands, and thus carried while he moved about at work.

The poor fellow was first set to work on a piece of road-mending just outside the city gate, with several others—martyrs and criminals—in similar condemnation. And here Mark and his companions met him unexpectedly before they were aware that the fearful punishment had begun.

At the time poor Mamba was toiling with pick and shovel. His heart was almost broken. Death he could have faced without flinching, but to be a life-long slave in galling chains, with the possibility even of seeing his mother and Ramatoa, without being permitted to go near or speak to them, was almost more than he could bear. A deep groan burst from his overcharged breast as he cried, “Oh Lord Jesus, enable me to bear it!”

It was just then that Ebony observed him and uttered a falsetto cry of astonishment.

The Secretary, who was conducting Mark and Hockins on a visit to one of the suburban places of resort, stopped and looked round.

“Dars Mamba, massa!” cried Ebony.

Mark ran to him at once, but was stopped by the guard. A few words from the Secretary, however, sufficed, and Mark was allowed to speak to the slave, which he did through the Secretary.

Despair was in Mamba’s every tone and look, for the crushing calamity was too recent and too tremendous to be borne with equanimity at first. Yet through it all there ran, as it were, a tiny silver thread of hope.

“For is it not true,” he said, “that ‘with God all things are possible’?”

“My friend,” said Mark in reply, and with a burst of enthusiasm, “I will save you somehow! Keep a good heart.”

Mamba smiled faintly, yet gratefully, as he shook his head, gathered up the superfluous links of his chain, and resumed his toil.

“How will you save him?” asked the Secretary, with a peculiar half-amused look, as they walked away.

“I know not,” answered Mark. “But we have a proverb, ‘Where there’s a will there’s a way,’ and I have a determined will to save my poor friend from this slavery. I will not cease to try—as we say in England, ‘I will leave no stone unturned,’—till I have accomplished this thing. Moreover I will not cease to pray for this end. Mamba’s trust in God puts me to shame. Up to this time I have only recognised by name that Saviour whom this man worships. God helping me, I will henceforth follow the Lord!”

To the surprise of the young man the Secretary turned suddenly on him and grasped his hand, and said in a low voice, as he looked cautiously round—“It gives me joy to hear you speak so. I too am a follower of Jesus. I tell you this because I know, now, that you will not betray me. There are many of us in the palace besides Prince Rakota, but we dare not speak out, for the Queen is very angry, as you know. Hush! Tell it not even to our companions. Little birds have ears. If the Queen suspects any of us, in her present state of mind, she will either ruin or kill us.”

“I have heard something of this,” said Mark, “from the friend who guided us to the capital—”

“I know,” interrupted the Secretary, with an intelligent nod. “It was Ravoninohitriniony. He is well-known to us. He loves Rafaravavy, and is now in the neighbourhood of the capital, hoping to induce her to fly with him to the forests. You are surprised, but you would not be so if you knew the number of spies that Ranavalona has out everywhere.”

“Has my friend Ravonino,” (we call him so for brevity), “been seen in—in—I mean near the city lately?” asked Mark, anxiously.

“Not in the city, certainly,” returned the Secretary. “Bold and daring though he is, he would scarcely venture that; but he has been seen and heard of more than once lately.”

Mark felt relieved. It was evident the Secretary neither knew of nor suspected the fact that Ravonino had actually attended the garden party and met Rafaravavy almost under the Queen’s eyes! Remembering, however, that the Prime Minister had sent Soa to pretend to be a Christian, in order that he might discover the secrets of the Christians, and not having yet had much experience of the Secretary’s character, he resolved to be very cautious in his reference to Ravonino,—indeed to any one with whom he had to do. Acting on this resolve he changed the subject by asking questions about the extensive rice-grounds around the capital.

The Secretary was of a communicative disposition, and evidently fond of airing his English. He willingly followed in conversation wherever the young doctor chose to lead, and gave him and his friends a great deal of interesting information as to the manners and customs of the Malagasy people—their habits, beliefs, and laws.

Among the latter he spoke of a curious fact in regard to criminals which gave Mark a sudden inspiration! Hockins afterwards styled it a “wrinkle.” Ebony called it a “dodge.” But, whatever might be said on that head, it had the effect of very materially altering the conditions of some of the personages of this tale, as the following chapters will show.

Chapter Twenty Two.

The Court Physician prescribes for the Queen—A Blow-up, and Mysterious Preparations for Tremendous Surprises.

About this time the anger of Queen Ranavalona against the Christians was so great that she made herself quite ill, and more than once had to send for her Court Physician, Mark Breezy, to prescribe for her.

Our youthful medico understood her complaint, which was a simple one. He prescribed much exercise, change of air, and amusement, so as to distract her mind from the cares of State and the evil passions to which she was giving way. He hoped thus to serve the Christians indirectly, for he saw clearly that the mere mention of their existence made her ill. Some slight administrations of physic, also, coupled with judicious alterations of diet, put her Majesty in a state of such excellent health and spirits that she began to entertain quite a warm regard for her Court Physician, and congratulated herself not a little on the good fortune which had sent him to the capital.

Thus Mark was enabled to disperse, for a time, the dark cloud which had been lowering over the land—not, however, in time to prevent many Christians from being slain, and some even of the officers and ladies of the palace from being degraded, their honours taken from them, and themselves and children sold as slaves.

Among the ladies, Rafaravavy had a narrow escape. For a time her life seemed to hang by a hair, for she was rebellious as well as fearless, and would sing her favourite hymns in spite of orders to the contrary! Love prevailed, however, as in the case of Prince Rakota, and she was tolerated as a sort of spoilt child.

Being a favourite, Mark of course became a man of power in the capital. This fact would have raised him a host of enemies had it not been for the kindness of his disposition and the urbanity of his manners. When a strapping powerful young fellow treats every one with respectful deference, keeps in the background, and neither by word nor look asserts himself, but, on the contrary, seems to entertain kindly thoughts about every one, it argues such an absence of selfishness that most people are irresistibly attracted to him. Thus, unwittingly, he escaped jealousy and enmity in a palace where both were rife, and, holding in his hands as he did the power to alleviate many of the “ills that flesh is heir to,” he secured a good deal of warm friendship.

Being also an ingenious youth, he devised many little plans for amusing Ranavalona and preventing her mind from dwelling on dangerous memories. Among other things, he induced her to go in for a series of garden parties, and encouraged the people to practise their national games at these gatherings in a systematic way.

What all this was ultimately to lead to he did not know—indeed at first he had no particular end in view save the great one of preventing the Queen from ordering any more of the horrible scenes of bloodshed which he and his friends had so recently witnessed. But as time ran on his ideas became more definite and concentrated. It occurred to him that Ravonino would inevitably venture to attend the garden parties in the hope of again meeting Rafaravavy, and now that the Secretary had avowed himself on the side of the Christians, he felt that through him he might influence her to agree to her lover’s proposal.

Then his plan to effect the rescue of Mamba was gradually matured.

“Ebony,” he exclaimed, suddenly, one afternoon when sitting at his table preparing some villainous compound for the Queen, “go down to the laboratory, boy, and fetch me some gunpowder, sulphur, saltpetre, and charcoal.”

Mark’s laboratory, by the way, contained not only the medicines which chanced to be in the capital at that time, but also a vast collection of miscellaneous articles and substances which, in the opinion of palace officials, could be classed, however remotely, with “doctor’s stuffs.”

“Them stuffs,” remarked Hockins, who sat luxuriously in an arm-chair smoking a short pipe—for he had unfortunately obtained tobacco since arriving at the capital!—“Them stuffs are apt to cause surprisin’ effects w’en properly mixed.”

“Just so. That is my reason for sending for them. I shall create some surprising effects if my old cunning in pyrotechny has not forsaken me. When I was a school-boy, you must know, I was fond of dabbling in fireworks, and it strikes me that I could compound some things that would charm the Queen and astonish the natives.”

“Massa,” asked Ebony, powerful surprise expressed in his sable visage, while Mark spooned large quantities of the ingredients referred to into an earthenware dish, “is dem powders to be took inside arter bein’ well shooken, or rubbed outside?”

“Whichever way you please, Ebony. Would you like to try?”

“No thankee, massa.”

“Now, then, look here,” said Mark, making some pencil notes on a sheet of paper, after arranging several plates in a row. “You and Hockins set to work and mix these in the exact proportions set down on this paper. I’d do it myself, but I’m due at the palace, and you know the Queen does not like to be kept waiting. Stick to the paper, exactly, and here you have an egg-cup, a table-spoon, and a tea-spoon to measure with. Put your pipe out, I advise you, Hockins, before beginning. If Rainiharo should call, tell him he will find me with the Queen. I don’t like that Prime Minister. He’s a prime rascal, I think, and eggs the Queen on when she would probably let things drop. He’s always brooding and pondering, too, as if hatching mischief.”

“If that’s a sign of hatching mischief,” said Hockins, with a short laugh, “the same thing may be said of yourself, doctor, for you’ve done little but brood and ponder for more nor a week past.”

“True, I have been plotting; but many a man plots much without much resulting.”

Hurrying away, Mark found the Secretary waiting for him to act as interpreter, for the Queen understood little or no English.

After the preliminary ceremonial salutations, the young doctor asked if her Majesty would honour the gardens with her presence the following day, hold a grand reception, and make arrangements to remain in Anosy till after dark.

Yes, the Queen was quite ready to do so, but why did her Court Physician make such a proposal? Had he some new surprise in store for her?

“I have,” answered Mark. “In my country we make very grand displays with fire. But I have various little surprises and plots in store, which cannot be properly wrought out unless Ranavalona will consent to go to the gardens privately—that is to say, without public announcement, for that has much to do with the success of my scheme.”

“It shall be done, though it is against my custom,” said the Queen, with a good-natured nod, for she had begun to regard her young physician as an eccentric creature who needed and deserved encouragement in his amusing and harmless fancies.

Immediately after the audience, Mark and his sympathetic interpreter, the Secretary, obtained an interview with Rafaravavy. The doctor began abruptly.

“I am well acquainted with your lover, dear young lady.” At this she pouted a little, blushed terribly, and drew her pretty figure to its full height—which was not great! “And,” continued Mark, “I have been very deeply indebted to him.”

Rafaravavy relaxed a little, and fixed her fine dark eyes on the youth searchingly, but said nothing.

“Now I know,” Mark went on, pretending not to observe the maiden’s varying moods, “that my friend loves you so profoundly—so deeply—that he will risk his life to see you, and if he is caught, you are well aware that in the present state of the Queen’s mind the result would be his death—almost certainly, and perhaps you would die along with him. Therefore, if you get an opportunity soon you should agree to fly with him.”

During the first part of this speech the young girl’s face glowed with evident pleasure, but the last part was unfortunate. It did not suit the temper of one who was brave as she was beautiful.

“I know not, sir,” she said, with flashing eyes, while the little figure drew up again, “what English girls may think or do, but Malagasy women are not afraid to die with those whom they love. Your advice may be kindly meant, but I doubt if it is wise. Besides, I am a servant of my Queen, and owe allegiance to her.”

“Your Queen, mademoiselle, is a servant of the devil,” said Mark, whose indignation was severely stirred. “And, Rafaravavy, do you not profess to be a servant of the Christians’ God—the Almighty? Does not the Book state that it is impossible to serve two masters?”

“Come, come!” cried the Secretary, in a sharp tone, after translating this faithfully, “it is time to go. Follow me!”

Mark’s surprise at this abrupt termination of the interview was great, but as Rafaravavy retired hastily, he had no resource but to follow his friend.

“Why so sharp?” he asked, as they passed along the corridor.

“Because you have said enough,” returned the Secretary, with a quiet smile. “You may understand your own women, no doubt, but not the Malagasy girls as well as I do. When a man has said enough to a woman he should stop and let it simmer. All the rest that he would say she will say to herself—and say it much better, too! But tell me, when do you think Ravoninohitriniony will meet Rafaravavy?”

“I don’t know. All I know is that a true lover is sure to manage a meeting soon—and somehow.”

He was glad to be able to make this indefinite reply; for although he trusted the Secretary, and would have revealed his own affairs fully to him, he felt that he had no right to reveal the affairs of his friend to any one.

Before they reached the palace-yard a loud report was heard. The palace shook as with an earthquake. Loud cries of soldiery were heard without, and Mark’s heart sank with an undefinable dread.

To account for this report we must go back a little. When Hockins and Ebony were left, as we have seen, to mix their “powders,” the former, being a reckless man, forgot to put his pipe out, and Ebony being a careless man, (as regarded himself), did not observe the omission. The consequence was that the seaman kept on puffing and emitting sage reflections to his admiring friend while they mixed their compounds in concert.

“Hand me the powder, Ebony.”

“Das good—ha! ha! das awrful good,” cried the negro, referring to the latest sage reflection—as he pushed across the powder canister, which was a large one.

At that inauspicious moment a spark fell from the pipe! Next moment the door was burst open, the window blown out, Hockins was laid fiat on his back, while Ebony went head-over-heels upon the floor!

Slowly and with a dazed look the seaman raised himself on one elbow and looked round.

“Any—anything of ye left, boy?” he asked, quietly.

“I—I’s not kite sure, ’Ockins,” replied the negro, slowly passing his hand down one of his legs without rising from the floor. “’Ow does it feel wid you?”

“All right, I think,” replied the seaman, rising and presenting a remarkable exhibition of singed beard and frizzled locks, “no bones broke, anyhow.”

At that instant Mark rushed into the smoke-filled room in consternation, followed by the Secretary and a number of soldiers who formed the guard of the palace, and great was their surprise, as well as their satisfaction, to find that the two men had received no damage worth mentioning.

“Well, I am thankful,” exclaimed Mark, beginning to pick up the débris of plates and furniture.

“So am I,” remarked the sailor, “thankful to think that I’ve got it over at last—so easy too!”

“Why, what do you mean?”

“I means, doctor, that I’ve gone the whole round o’ human possibilities now—leastwise I think so—and am alive to tell it! I’ve bin shot, an’ stabbed, an’ drownded—all but—an’ now I’ve bin blow’d up!”

“So’s I, ’Ockins, so you needn’t boast,” remarked Ebony, as he tenderly felt the place where his wool ought to have been, but where only a few irregularly-shaped patches of scrub remained.

We need scarcely say that Mark Breezy did not allow this little contretemps to interfere with his plans.

“You’ll have to work all night, both of you—that’s your punishment for disobeying orders—and without the solace of a pipe too,” said Mark, when order was somewhat restored and work resumed. “The garden party, you know, is fixed for to-morrow, and it’s as much as our heads are worth to disappoint the Queen of her expected amusements. Time, tide, and Ranavalona the First wait for no man! I’ve got to go out for an hour or so. When I return I’ll show you how to make stars and crackers and red rain, etcetera.”

“But I say, Doctor,” asked Hockins, looking up from his work, “where are the cases to hold all this here stuff?”

“Time enough for that when we want ’em. I’ve got some fellows at work on small ones, and there’s a big one that will open the Madagaskite eyes if there’s virtue in saltpetre. It’s made of—ah! here it comes,” he added, as the door opened and two natives carried in a piece of cast-iron pipe about six feet long and four inches in diameter.

“The pistol-barrel of a giant,” exclaimed the seaman.

“A young cannon!” said Ebony. “W’y, massa, you gwine to make a Roman candle ob dat?”

He turned for an answer, but Mark had hastily quitted the house.

Encountering the Secretary in the court-yard, he took his arm and said, “I want your help.”

“Well, you shall have it. But you are so mys—mys—what is it—sterious about your leetil plans, that I fear my help is not useful.”

“Oh! yes, it is, I want you to get me a paper from—I don’t know who—the proper officer, whoever he is, authorising me to take a gang of convicts—four will do—to work for me.”

“Good, you shall have it,” returned the Secretary, with a laugh. “I see you are going to give us big surprises to-morrow.”

“You are right, I am,” said Mark, as the Secretary left him to execute his mission.

Armed with an order, Mark left the palace and hurried through the steep narrow streets of the town, until he reached a piece of road that was being mended by four slaves in long chains. That morning Mark had observed that his friend the crocodile was one of the four. Passing close enough to attract the attention of the poor fellow, he whispered, without stopping, “Mamba, expect me to-morrow.”

This he had said in the native tongue, having by that time acquired a few sentences, of which he made the best and most frequent use possible.

Going to the guard of these slaves, he presented his paper, and said that he should come personally for them early in the morning. Then he returned to the laboratory and assisted his comrades to load the firework cases with various kinds of “fire,” stars, golden rain, etcetera. The young cannon especially was loaded, with a succession of surprises, to the very muzzle, before midnight.

“Suppose he bust!” suggested Ebony, with a solemn visage. “De Queen ob Madigascur be blow’d into middle ob nixt week—hey?”

“I shall take precautions against that, Ebony. In the first place, I’ll have it buried in the earth up to the muzzle, and, in the second place, I’ll not place it too near her Majesty.”

When all was prepared the wearied triumvirate retired to rest, each to dream of the subjects that lay nearest his heart and imagination at the moment. Hockins dreamed of tobacco-pipes and explosions; Mark dreamed of freed slaves, thunder-struck queens, eloping lovers and terrible consequences; and Ebony dreamed of incomprehensible situations, crashing thunderbolts, and unimaginable coruscations of resplendent fire!

Chapter Twenty Three.

In which Mark carries out his Plans successfully, and powerfully astonishes himself as well as every one else.

It was a brilliant lovely morning when the guests began to wend their way to the suburban residence of Anosy, where Ranavalona was to hold her garden party.

The people were very gay, somewhat excited, and very chatty, for they were aware that the young English doctor had prepared something new and surprising for the Queen’s special benefit.

Just before the earliest of these guests, however, had set off to the garden, our three heroes had passed down to that part of the road where the four slaves were already at work with pick and shovel and clanking chain.

It was a little after sunrise when Mark went up to the guard to relieve him.

“Take care,” said the guard, when about to leave, “that you keep the slaves well out of the way when the Queen passes. All the others in the neighbourhood have been taken off long ago. I was beginning to be afraid you would not come in time.”

“I understand,” said Mark, who knew enough of the language, (and also of the situation), to follow the drift of his meaning.

The guard thereupon turned, shouldered his musket, and went off, apparently well pleased at the unexpected relief from duty.

While this little incident was occurring three of the slaves were looking on with a slight expression of surprise in their sad faces. The fourth, Mamba, was standing in a dejected attitude before Hockins and Ebony, holding a pick in one hand and his heavy chain in the other.

“Oh! man, I am sorry to see you like this,” said Hockins, extending his brawny hand, “an’ I does wish I could set you free—but you know I’m as helpless as a babby in this matter.”

Mamba dropped the pick and grasped the strong hand, but did not look up. His heart was too full. He did not understand the seaman’s words, but he understood the tone. If he had looked up he would have seen that the tears were hopping over Ebony’s cheeks in spite of the powerful efforts of that sympathetic soul to control them, and that he was unable to speak because of a lump in his throat.

“Das most awrful!” he exclaimed at last. “Oh, Mamby, I’d fight for you like a wild-cat wid the cholera if that would do you any good, but it would be ob no use.”

Just then Mark came forward. “Quick, follow me,” he said, leading the way to a thick clump of bushes behind a wall that bordered the road. Here, quite concealed, yet able to peep through the leafy screen, he ordered his party to sit down on a heap of stones and await orders. He then went to the top of a mound that lay immediately behind them. From this he could see the road winding along for about two or three hundred yards.

Descending to his comrades he sat down beside them.

“You look anxious, doctor,” remarked the seaman.

“I am anxious,” returned Mark, “I am on the point of making a great venture, and the results may be serious. But we are in God’s hands;” then, turning to Mamba, who looked at him with much curiosity and a gleam of hope on his intelligent face, “I have hope of success and have prayed for it.”

Mamba, whose knowledge of English was very slight, shook his head and looked puzzled.

“Have you forgotten, Mamba, the law of your land—that the criminal who looks upon the Queen is from that moment entitled to claim freedom? Ranavalona is to pass along this road in less than half-an-hour.”

Of course Mark said this in remarkably bad Malagasy, but Mamba understood. A gleam of intelligence shot into his swarthy visage, and his chest began to heave with strong emotion as he glared rather than gazed at the speaker. Not less surprised were Hockins and Ebony when Mark explained, for although they had indeed heard about the law in question they had forgotten it. After recovering the first shock, Mamba turned quickly and pointed to his three comrades in suffering.

“Yes, yes—I understand,” said Mark, “I shall set them free at the same time. Why not? The risk will not be increased.”

“A reg’lar jail-delivery!” murmured Hockins, as he drew in a long breath.

“Hush! they come!” cried Mark, crouching so as the more effectually to conceal himself, in which act he was quickly imitated by the others.

According to promise, Ranavalona had set out from her palace that morning without her wonted display and ceremonial, with only a few of her courtiers and a handful of troops around her. She did not, however, omit the scarlet umbrella of state, and it was this brilliant object which had attracted Mark’s attention.

When the procession had approached close to the place of concealment, Mark whispered “Now!” and ran to the top of the mound before referred to. The four slaves followed him. The summit gained they turned, lifted up their arms and chains, looked upon the Queen, and gave vent to the “oo!—oo!—oo!” which stands to the Malagasy in the place of a cheer. Recognising the importance of the event, Hockins and Ebony, unable to restrain themselves, gave vent to a hearty British hurrah!

At this interruption, the bearers of the royal palanquin or chair halted, the soldiers brought their muskets to the “ready,” and a dark frown overspread the features of the Queen.

Before the storm could burst, however, Mark descended the mound, went to the side of the chair, knelt on one knee, and exclaimed—

“Forgive, madam—forgive me!”

“This, then, is your doing,” replied the Queen, sternly, through the Secretary, who was at her side.

“It is, madam. I am guilty. If punishment must descend, I alone should bear it.”

There was something so modest, yet so fearless, in the youth’s tone and bearing, that the Queen’s brows relaxed a little.

“But why did you dare to interfere with my laws?” demanded Ranavalona, still angrily.

“I did not venture to interfere, madam,” returned Mark, humbly, “I did but use one law to neutralise another. One of these slaves is my friend. I think he would be very useful in helping me to-night with my magic fires!”

There was so much of cool presumption in thus quietly changing the subject, with such charming modesty of demeanour, too, that the Queen burst into a hearty laugh.

“Strike off his fetters,” she said, and gave the signal to her bearers to move on.

“Ay,” said Mark to the Secretary in an authoritative tone, “and also strike off the fetters of the other three!”

“You’ve got cheek for anything a’most, doctor,” said the amazed and amused seaman, as they fell into the procession, and followed the Queen to the pleasure-garden.

Here extensive preparations had been made for spending the day in games and festivities that far exceeded anything of the sort ever before attempted in that land. For Mark Breezy had not only an ingenious mind to devise, but an organising spirit to make use of the services of others in carrying out his plans.

When the guests were scattered about the grounds, after a good breakfast, enjoying the delightful shade of the trees, tempting the gold-fish in the lake with crumbs of food, and loitering among the by-paths, the young doctor made himself almost ubiquitous. Acting the double part of manager of the games and amusements, and private conspirator, he set an army of palace officials in motion, whom he pledged to secrecy, and led each to suppose that he was the prime mover in some plot that was to astonish and delight the Queen, in all which he was ably assisted by the Secretary. When he had thus stirred up, as it were, an air of mystery and expectation, he led the Secretary, Hockins, and Ebony, to a retired spot, and, bidding them sit down, gave them a brief address.

“You see,” he said, “the time has now come for me to explain to you more fully the plans and plots with which I have been engaged for some time past. And in doing so I would impress upon you, Mr Secretary, that I am placing my life in your hands; but I do so without fear, believing that you are a Christian and will not betray me.”

Mark paused and looked full at the Secretary, who said, “But you must remember that I can do nothing that will be disloyal to the Queen.”

“If you were persecuted by the Queen and threatened with death, would you consider it allowable to fly to the forests?”

“Yes—the Word of the Lord recommends that.”

“Would you consider it right to assist a fellow-Christian to fly?”

“Truly I would!”

“Well then, you will assist me this night, for I have spoken to Rafaravavy. My Malagasy words are few, but love does not require many words! She has agreed to fly with Ravonino—”

“Have you seen Ravonino lately?” asked Hockins.

“No—I have not seen him lately.”

“How, then, do you know he will be ready?”

“Because,” said Mark, with a peculiar look, “I have been smitten with his complaint, and know that it runs the same course and exhibits the same phases in most men. Let a young fellow see his intended bride treated with cruelty, and you may be sure that, no matter what difficulties may be in the way, he will hasten at the very first opportunity to meet and carry off the sweet little fairy in spite of—”

“Das me an’ my black darlin’, zactly—same zif you bin dar an’ sawd us do it!” exclaimed Ebony, with beaming interest.

“Just so,” resumed Mark. “However, I have not left things altogether to chance. Although I did not see Ravonino lately, I saw him not very long ago, and gave him to understand that when some unusual festivities were going on in this garden he was to be ready at the old spot for whatever might happen! Now, here is my little plan. You know I’ve been drilling fifty picked natives for some time in that big shed at the back of the cliff on the north side o’ the city. I picked them for intelligence as well as strength and activity. Well, I have taught them a wild war-dance. It cost me no little trouble and many sleepless nights to invent it, but I’ve managed it, and hope to show the Queen and Court what can be done by a little organisation. These fifty are first of all to glide quietly among the trees, each man to a particular spot and hang on the branches fifty earthen saucers full of grease, with wicks in them. At a given signal they are to light these instantaneously and retire. At another signal they are to rush upon the open space in front of the garden-house, and there engage in a sham fight. While thus engaged, men who have been taught will set fire to the mildest of our fireworks. When these are about to go out I will myself light the big Roman candle—”

“De young cannon, massa?”

“Yes, the young cannon, and that will keep things going for a considerable time. Now, it is when the fight of the fifty begins and engrosses the attention of every one that I will myself take Rafaravavy out from among the ladies and lead her to the rendezvous. You will all stand by—to lend a hand if need be—at the south-east corner of the garden-house, that I may know exactly where to find you. My hope and expectation is that by keeping things going as long as possible our friends Ravonino and Rafaravavy will get a good start. After the flight of the latter is found out, nothing more can be done for them.”

“Do they go all alone?” asked Hockins.

“No, Laihova goes with them; and Mamba, who knows the secret meeting-places of the Christians, will, I have no doubt, soon find out which way they have gone. Anyhow they will all certainly make for the cave in Betsilio-land where so many of their friends are. May God speed them! Meanwhile we must keep the Queen amused with races, wrestling, and such-like; and when she begins to get wearied with mere eating and talking, I want you, Hockins, to go in for a wrestling-match with Ebony by way of varying the entertainment, and showing them what Englishmen and niggers can do.”

“Wery good,” said the seaman, with a sedate smile, “if that’s to be the fun, you better make your will, Ebony, for I’ll break your back.”

“All right,” retorted Ebony, with a grin, “an’ I tink you’ll be wise to make your last dyin’ speech afore we begin, for I’ll bust you!”

The various plans which we have here sketched were carried out with such brilliant success that the Queen did not weary at all, and darkness began to descend on the scene before the day seemed to have half run its course. At this point Mark hastened to the south-east corner of the garden-house, where he found the other conspirators faithfully at their post.

“Have you the flageolet with you?” he asked, hastily.

“In course I has. Never goes nowheres without it,” said the seaman, drawing the little instrument from his breast-pocket.

“Go then, make your bow to the Queen, and give her a tune. You know she’s quite in love with your pipe—or yourself—and has been asking me about it already. She’s in the verandah just now, and they are lighting the torches there.”

With the silent obedience of a man-of-war’s man, Hockins went off, and, without prelude, began. Dead silence was the instant result, for the small bird-like pipe seemed to charm the very soul of every one who heard it. We know not whether it was accident or a spice of humour in the seaman, but the tune he played was “Jock o’ Hazeldean!” And as Mark hurried off to see that his fifty men were in readiness, he gave vent to a slight laugh as he thought of the lines:

“She’s ower the border and awa’

Wi’ Jock o’ Hazeldean!”

To the surprise of the audience, no sooner had the last notes of the air died away than the performer thrust the pipe into his pocket, threw off his coat, and in a loud voice challenged the best man in Madagascar to wrestle with him. As the challenge was given in English of course no native responded. Even if it had been given in choice Malagasy we question whether any brown man there would have ventured a hug with the huge sailor. But no sooner had the challenge passed his lips than Ebony sprang forward, flung off not only his coat but his vest and shirt, and embraced his white opponent in a grip of iron.

At that opportune moment the signal was given to the fifty men, who applied their lights, and, as if by magic, the entire scene was illuminated by a blaze of intense light that almost rivalled that of the sun itself!

A tremendous “oo!—oo!—oo!” of applause burst from the astonished company, who, having had their attention fixed on the wrestlers, did not observe how the sudden illumination had been effected.

Truly the proceedings of Hockins and Ebony would have surprised even more finished wrestlers than those of Madagascar, for the two men had entered into a sly compact not only to exert their strength to the uttermost, but to give way, each at certain points or moments, when by so doing the appearance of what they styled a “back-breaker” and a “buster” might be achieved in an effective manner. It was a marvellous exhibition. Ebony glared and gasped! Hockins growled and frowned! Nothing short of a tussle between Achilles and Hercules could have equalled it. The Court, from the Queen downwards, was awe-stricken, eye-strained, open-mouthed, and breathless, but Mark felt that it was time to cut it short. Giving a preconcerted signal, he caused both men to fall down side by side as if exhausted but not conquered. Then he gave another signal. A moment after, fire-wheels and Roman candles began to play, and the fifty warriors rushed upon the scene, brandishing muskets and yelling like fiends.

Hastening, according to orders, to the south-east corner of the garden-house, Hockins and Ebony found the Director-General awaiting them.

“I cannot delay to fire the big candle,” he said quickly.

“De young cannon!” panted Ebony.

“Yes, yes. You must fire it for me in about ten minutes or so, when the warriors seem to be getting knocked up. Follow me, Hockins, and keep close.”

Another minute and Rafaravavy, who was standing near the Queen’s chair, felt a touch on her arm. She looked round with a start, for, like every one else, she had been fascinated and quite engrossed by the scene before her.

A glance and motion of the hand from Mark sufficed. She glided gently backwards and reached the other side of the house unobserved. Here Mark grasped her hand and Hockins followed. They walked at first, but began to run on gaining the shrubbery, which was rendered doubly dark by contrast with the glare behind them.

In a couple of minutes they reached the thicket where the previous meeting had taken place. The over-arching foliage deepened the darkness so that it was impossible to distinguish features. A form was dimly seen, but it was only by the sound of the voice that they knew it to be Ravonino.

Few words were uttered. Every instant was precious.

“Farewell, dear friend,” said Ravonino, grasping Mark’s hand, “God grant that we may meet again in better times! Laihova waits for me beyond the garden—”

He stopped abruptly, seized Rafaravavy’s hand and glided with her noiselessly into the thicket, for at that moment another figure was seen to approach them. From his unusual size they knew him to be one of Ranavalona’s chief executioners. He was a cool-headed and suspicious man, a sort of natural detective, who always had his wits about him. Having observed several people gliding through the shrubbery he had quitted the sports and followed. To have been recognised by this official would have been fatal—at least to those plotters who did not take to flight. Hockins, who was prompt to conceive and act when danger pressed, at once stepped forward and gave the man of blood a right-hander on the top of the nose which instantly Romanised that feature and laid its owner on his back insensible.

At the same moment—as if the blow had been the touching of a secret spring—the whole garden was lighted up with a magnificent red glare, and they knew that Ebony had done his part and lighted the giant candle. The red glare lasted long enough to reveal the fact that Ravonino and Rafaravavy were gone, and that the man at their feet was indeed the executioner whom they had guessed him to be. Leaving him there they ran quickly back to the scene of festivities, hoping that their absence had not been observed. Before they had gone half-a-dozen steps there was an explosion like that of a big gun, a bomb went high into the air, and burst in a magnificent constellation of brilliant stars, mingled with fiery rain. The “oo!—oo!—oo!” cheers became vociferous at this, and were, if possible, still more enthusiastic when the red fire changed to a beautiful blue.

“Splendid!” exclaimed Mark, much satisfied with the result of his recent labours, “and it will keep going on for a considerable time yet.”

As he spoke there was a crash like the loudest thunder, and a momentary glare as of the brightest noon-light, which was followed by intense darkness, while the garden was shaken as if by an earthquake. Loud cries and shrieks were accompanied by the falling of a shower of dust and small stones. Evidently there had been a catastrophe, and the quaking conspirators hastened to the spot, half expecting to find the Queen and Court of Madagascar blown to atoms.

“The whole consarn’s busted up!” exclaimed Hockins, on coming in sight of the garden-house.

The seaman’s explanation was the true one. Owing to some inexplicable mistake in the loading of the monster Roman candle, fire had communicated somehow with the lowest charge, which was a good strong one, intended to propel a glorious mass of ingenious contrivances into the air and end the matter with an effective bang. As it turned out, the bang was ten times more effective, for it not only blew out the entire charge but burst the cast-iron case, and upturned tons of earth in which Mark had taken the precaution to bury the thing up to its neck.

At first the Queen, like her people, had got a severe fright; but, seeing that no one seemed to be hurt, she controlled her feelings, under the impression, no doubt, that the explosion was part of the programme.

“Have you got your whistle, Hockins?” asked Mark, quickly, as he ran forward.

“Ay, sir—always here, ready for action!”

“Come, then, play up when I give the word—something quieting. Hold on! Let’s do it sedately.”

By this time they had got within the circle of torchlight. Reducing their run to a smart walk the two friends advanced, as Mark had suggested, sedately, in front of the Queen, while the Secretary rejoined the circle of courtiers unperceived.

As they advanced they encountered Ebony with an unused Roman candle in each hand, and an expression of horror on his black face.

“Oh! massa—” he began.

“Hush! never mind! Follow me!” said Mark, in a peremptory whisper.

Another moment and the sweet tones of the flageolet silenced the noise of the excited throng, as Hockins stood before the Queen and played one of the sweetest of Scottish songs.

Mark placed Ebony behind his comrade, made him hold up the Roman candles, quietly lighted them both, and retired. Thus Hockins, much to his own surprise, found himself, in the midst of spouting fire, producing the melodious notes of “Afton Water!”

When the little candles exploded, our Director-General advanced to the royal chair and expressed a hope that the performances had given satisfaction.

This the Secretary—ever-ready in time of need—translated, and returned the answer that the Queen was charmed, after which the proceedings terminated, and Ranavalona returned to her palace to dream, no doubt, of fireworks and music instead of martyrdoms.

So engrossed was the whole Court with the exciting and singular events of the day that no one noticed the absence of Rafaravavy, and, happily, the Queen did not happen to require her attendance that night.

Even those who were in closest proximity to the fugitive’s own room were so taken up with what they had seen that they either did not think of her, or supposed that fatigue had induced her to retire early.

Thus it came to pass that when her flight was discovered on the following day, Rafaravavy, carried by strong and willing bearers, and guarded by her devoted Ravonino and his faithful friend Laihova, was being swiftly borne over mountain and plain to the forest stronghold in Betsilio-land.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Flight and Pursuit of Ravonino and Rafaravavy.

The fury of the Queen when she heard of the flight of Rafaravavy was terrible, for this was the second of her favourite ladies-in-waiting who had become Christians and deserted her Court in fear of their lives—Ra-Ruth, the fair little sister of Ravonino, having been the first.

Fortunately Ranavalona did not think of connecting the flight of Rafaravavy with the recent entertainments, so that suspicion did not attach to Mark and his friends. Neither did the executioner with the Romanised nose suspect them, for in the profound darkness he had not been able to see who it was that knocked the senses out of him; and when afterwards he was told of the explosion that had occurred, he came to the conclusion, (and told his friends), that a big stone, hurled into the air at that time, had descended on his head and felled him. Whether the “friends” believed this or not we cannot say, but certain it is that they covertly rejoiced in the accident, for naturally the man of blood was no favourite!

As might be supposed, soldiers were at once despatched all over the country in search of the fugitive; and the Queen, relapsing into one of her dark fits of cruelty, began to persecute the Christians more severely than ever. Still, Mark Breezy strove to influence her towards mercy, and in some measure restrained her.

Meanwhile Ravonino and his party pushed on in hot haste towards their place of refuge in the wild forest.

The dangers to which they were exposed and the risks they ran on this adventurous journey were too numerous to be related in detail. We can only touch on a few of them here.

Laihova, it may be mentioned in passing, failed to join them, certainly not from want of will, but because the place where he had concealed himself was discovered while he lay awaiting the signal to join his friends. Two female relations who knew of his hiding-place were caught, convicted, if we may so put it, of Christianity! and put to the torture. Although true-hearted, these poor girls were so agonised by suffering and terror that, in a moment of weakness, they disclosed the secret. But even among prison authorities there were found followers of Jesus—secretly, however, for fear of the tyrant Queen—and one of these sent a swift messenger to Laihova to warn him. Had the youth been an ordinary man the warning would have been too late, for close on the heels of the messenger came the soldiers with his death-warrant. But Laihova was gifted with cool courage and unusual speed of foot. Trust, also, in the certainty of God’s blessing, whether life or death should be his portion, filled him with that spirit of enthusiastic energy which goes so far, in all circumstances of life, to ensure success. He soon distanced his pursuers, left them out of sight behind, and, finally, found refuge with a Christian friend, who hid him over an oven in his house when he had reached the last stage of exhaustion from hard running, and could not have advanced further without rest. The soldiers came up and searched the house while he was asleep, but happily did not observe the oven! They remained there, however, over the night, and thus rendered it impossible for Laihova to join his friends at that time.

Ravonino could not, of course, afford to delay. Knowing also that his young friend was well able to take care of himself, and that his soul’s anchor was the Lord, he felt comparatively little anxiety in starting without him.

To let Rafaravavy have female companionship on the hazardous journey, her lover induced a Christian girl who had been named Sarah to accompany them. This faithful creature was the means of saving their lives more than once by giving timely warning of approaching danger.

The first place to which the fugitives directed their steps was a village about fifty miles from the capital, where dwelt a Christian who, with his wife, offered them hospitality and protection. This man had sent a noble message to the persecuted ones in the city. It ran thus:—

“Let all the Christians who are compelled to run away for their lives come to me. I will take care of them. As long as I am safe they are safe, and as long as I have food they shall share it.”

Not an hour’s rest was taken until the house of their friend was reached. Of course they were received with open arms. Food was placed before them, and mats were spread in a safe place on which they might rest. But neither food nor repose would the fugitives take until they had joined the Christian family in thanking God for their escape and in singing His praise.

“Sing the hymn of dear Ramanisa,” said Ravonino as he seated himself at the side of Rafaravavy, after arranging her mat.

The host smiled as he turned over the leaves of a Malagasy hymn-book. “All the fugitives like that hymn,” he said.

“Do you wonder?” returned his guest. “Before the last great persecution he was one of our most faithful preachers of the Gospel, and when trouble came he always forgot himself in his eager desire to help and comfort others. Many a time has he guided and strengthened the Lord’s people when they have been compelled to fly,—to travel weary and footsore by night, to wander in the dark forests, and hide in the gloomy caves. Wherever he went there was sunshine, because his heart was very full of the love of Jesus; and when he was led out to be speared, was he not faithful to the last? Perhaps we may be permitted to sing his own hymn along with him some day before the throne. No wonder that we love the words of Ramanisa. They called him Josiah when he was baptized, but he was Ramanisa when the Lord called him, and I think that is the name that is written in the Book of Life.”

The hymn composed by this good native, which these Christians began to sing—and which is incorporated, as we have said, in the Malagasy hymn-book,—is still, and will doubtless continue to be, a great favourite with the Christians of Madagascar. The following is a translation of three of the verses. See Note 1.

“Loud to the Lord your voices raise,

Extol His name, exalt His praise;

Publish the wonders of His hand

O’er all the earth, in every land.

“Oh! God, our God, to Thee we cry,

Jesus, the Saviour, be Thou nigh;

Oh! sacred Spirit, hear our prayer,

And save the afflicted from despair.

“Scarce can we find a place of rest,

Save dens and caves, with hunger press’d;

Yet Thy compassion is our bliss,

Pilgrims amidst a wilderness.”

Poor Rafaravavy had full proof of the truth embodied in these lines, both as to the affliction and the bliss, before many days were over. The soldiers being strong hardy men, burdened only with their arms, and with little clothing, pushed after the three fugitives with so much vigour that they arrived at the place where the latter had rested on the second day of their flight. While soldiers were thus close to them the utmost caution and close concealment were necessary. They remained where they were, therefore, and every morning, before dawn, Ravonino stole out to a neighbouring mountain with Rafaravavy and her maid. There they lay hid among the craggy rocks until night-fall, when they returned to their friend’s house.

But soon this place of concealment became known to the persecuting prime minister, Rainiharo, who directed the soldiers to search the mountain before going to the village. This they did, but did not find the fugitives, for, as it was cold that morning, they had agreed to run the risk of remaining in the house!

Failing to find those they sought for in the mountain, the soldiers entered the village and approached the house where they lay unperceived by human eye, and it seemed as if at last Rafaravavy’s doom was sealed. Other eyes, however,—very black and sharp ones—observed the enemy, and the owners of these eyes—a flock of crows—rose in alarm at their approach.

“Oh!” exclaimed the handmaiden, Sarah, “the crows are at the rice I spread out to dry!” and out she ran to rescue it. One glimpse of the soldiers was enough. Sarah was equal to the occasion. Without even a backward glance she gave warning to those in the house, but cleverly continued her raid upon the crows, laughingly asking the men when she passed them, “if they had come there to search for run-away Christians!”

“This way,” whispered the host to his two guests when the warning reached him. Leading them to an inner room he made them creep under a bed and covered them with a mat. As for the chair-bearers and their burden, such adjuncts to Malagasy travel were too numerous and common in the land to attract much attention. Fortunately the soldiers were hungry, and, being eager for food, did not search the house with care, but during their stay of an hour poor Rafaravavy heard all they said respecting her and the orders that had been issued for her arrest and death. At the same time Ravonino became aware that his presence in the neighbourhood was known, though his complicity in the abduction of his companion in distress, he fancied, had not been suspected.

That night the fugitives resumed their journey and travelled till dawn, when they again found safe refuge in the house of a sympathising friend. Thus they proceeded for several days and nights with the utmost caution, for, wherever they went it was found that soldiers had been sent out in pursuit.

One night they approached a village where they knew they would be kindly received, but had scarcely reached it when they learned that a party of soldiers were searching the neighbourhood for some other woman who had recently disappeared. They were compelled, therefore, to return to the place they had left the day before. From this point they changed their intended route, partly to throw the pursuers off the scent, if possible, and partly to seek temporary refuge at the house of an old woman who was an aunt of Sarah.

“She’s a real good Christian,” said Sarah, when advising the visit, “and she fears no one but God. If they ever kill my old aunt she will die singing, or praying for her murderers.”

Sure enough, when they reached the hut of the old woman, they heard her singing hymns at the full pitch of her voice, quite regardless of the fact that she was breaking the law and that persecutors were swarming in the land.

“Shelter you!” exclaimed this old woman, when her niece had mentioned the cause of their visit, “yes, I will shelter you as long as my dear Lord gives me the power to do so.”

The need for friendly aid was great, for, even while the old woman spoke, a little girl came bounding into the hut saying that a party of soldiers were approaching.

“Run! meet them, child. Then turn and run away as if you were afraid of them. Make them chase you if you can. Run!”

The girl was intelligent. She bounded away, and the old woman, with a degree of activity that was wonderful at her age, led her visitors to the back of her house and hid them in a pit. There they had to spend that night while the aunt entertained their pursuers, but next morning, after the latter had left, their old hostess led them to a plantation close at hand, where they remained concealed for several days, not daring to move, for, at various times, they saw men who were in pursuit of them pass quite near to their hiding-place.

Here it was decided that the palanquin, or chair-bearers, should proceed no further, as they only increased the danger of discovery, and that Ravonino, Rafaravavy, and Sarah should proceed alone and on foot through the extensive forest which lay just beyond the place.

The first night all went well. The moon was clear enough to make travelling easy, and no enemies were encountered, but the next evening, a little after sunset, on gaining the crest of a hill, they met almost face to face a small band of soldiers who were travelling in the opposite direction.

To crouch behind some rocks was the work of an instant. There was no thick underwood at the spot to conceal them. As Ravonino glanced quickly round, he saw that the only hope was to turn and run. They evidently had not been perceived, but what probability was there that the two trembling girls beside him could escape by such means?

“We must fly, dear one,” he said, in desperation, putting his arm round Rafaravavy’s waist.

“I cannot run,” she said, while a look of resignation settled on her face. “Go, you may escape, perhaps, if the Lord will, and bring us help. Leave us, we are ready to die.”

“Leave you, Rafaravavy!” exclaimed the man, with a look almost of triumph. “No—not until my God commands. May He help us now!”

While he spoke he observed a patch of rushes growing at the side of the path. As a last resource he ran in among them, leading or rather dragging the two girls. To their joy they found that the rushes grew in a pool of water. It was very shallow, but by lying down and sinking themselves into the mud of the deepest part they managed to cover themselves completely, except their heads, which the rushes effectually concealed.

A few minutes later and the soldiers, reaching the crest of the hill, halted to look round and chat. If it had been broad day at the time the fugitives must undoubtedly have been observed, but it was growing dark. For a few terrible minutes the men conversed—always on the same theme—the capture and death of Rafaravavy! Then they resumed their march and disappeared among the forest trees.

It was a deplorable plight in which the fugitives now found themselves. Soaking wet, covered with mud from their necks downwards, and without the prospect of any shelter for the coming night save that afforded by the open forest. Poor Sarah lost heart entirely for a little time and burst into tears, but Rafaravavy, putting her hand on the maid’s shoulder, said encouragingly, “‘The Lord reigneth. We will not fear what man can do unto us.’ Will you pray for us?” she added, turning to their protector.

Ravonino at once kneeled; the two girls sank down beside him, and in few but earnest, simple words he prayed for help in the all-prevailing name of Jesus.

The vigour of body which flowed from the prayer was no fanciful emotion or miraculous effect. The confidence resulting from faith in God, and the joy of soul and consequent flow of warm blood, were not less natural consequences of prayer than direct answers to it would have been. They rose from their knees refreshed, and walked on with renewed energy for a considerable time; but at last Rafaravavy was fairly overcome with fatigue, and an irresistible desire to sleep. Her maid, being of a more robust physical fibre, was not so much overcome, and declared that she could still go on easily.

Ravonino at last solved the difficulty by taking his lady-love in his strong arms. She submitted with a sleepy protest, and her little head was no sooner on the man’s shoulder than she was fast asleep.

And here again the power of joy to give strength became abundantly evident, for when he fairly had Rafaravavy in his arms, a glow of enthusiasm and thankfulness pervaded his entire being, so that he felt as if he had scarcely walked any distance at all that day! His endurance, however, was not destined to be further tested that night, for he had not gone far when he came unexpectedly on the hut of a wood-cutter, who received him hospitably, though, being taciturn, it was not easy to ascertain what were his views as to the religion for which so many people were then suffering.

Strange to say, during all this trying time, these fugitives found comfort not only from the Word of God, but from the Pilgrim’s Progress of Bunyan! This work had been translated into the Malagasy language by the English missionaries, and many passages in it were found to be singularly appropriate to and comforting in the circumstances in which the persecuted people were placed. Eight copies of the great allegory had been transcribed by the native Christians themselves for their common use. These being lent from one household to another the details of the story soon spread. Naturally those who possessed strong memories learned much of it by heart, and thus it became a book which the afflicted Christians prized next to the Bible.

Note 1. Extracted from Madagascar, its Missions and Martyrs, by E. Prout, for the London Missionary Society.

Chapter Twenty Five.

The Forest Refuge—Voalavo is War-like, Ravonino Peaceful, and False Friends Dangerous.

We change the scene, now, to the profoundest recesses of the tangled forest. Here, in the deep shadow cast by the over-arching trees, two native girls wandered out at an early hour one morning to converse about things that interested them deeply—if the varying aspects of their expressive faces were any index to their thoughts. One was tall, dark, majestic in mien and grave of countenance. The other was comparatively fair, of small stature, and evidently of lively yet timid disposition. Need we say that they were Ramatoa, the sister of Laihova, and Ra-Ruth, the sister of Ravonino?

“I fear they will never return to us,” said Ra-Ruth, laying her hand on her friend’s arm.

“Say not so,” replied Ramatoa, “we know not what blessings our God has in store for us. Only this we are sure of, that all things will work together for our good.”

“But the Queen is so cruel!” objected her little friend. “When her anger is roused she will do anything. Besides, has not the messenger told us that the soldiers have been sent in hundreds over the country to search for Christians, and spies are about everywhere. Laihova, too, has been separated from them, he says. Perhaps he has been caught.”

“I like not this messenger,” said the other, with a touch of sternness in her look and tone. “He seems to me like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He does not refer all things to God as ‘Our Father,’ and in his use of the Word he does not seem sincere. I trust that he is not one of the spies.”

As she spoke her companion uttered a quick exclamation. There was a rustling in the bushes, and next moment, Laihova, springing out, clasped Ra-Ruth in his arms.

“Thank God,” he said, in deep earnest tones, as he released her. “I am not too late!”

“Brother,” said Ramatoa, anxiously, laying a hand on the man’s arm, “are you alone?”

“Yes. Have not Ravoninohitriniony and Rafaravavy arrived?”

“No. And—and what of Mamba?” asked Ramatoa.

An expression of profound sadness crossed the features of Laihova. Dropping his eyes on the ground he stood silent. For a few moments his sister did not speak, but her breast heaved with suppressed emotion. At last she asked in a low voice—

“Has he been martyred?”

“No—he is not dead. But—he is condemned to slavery in chains for life.”

Terrible though this fate was, the news of it evidently conveyed a measure of relief to Ramatoa, for it assured her that her lover was at all events not dead. Where there is life there is hope!

“I fear this will kill his mother,” she said. “Poor Reni-Mamba is so full of love and gentleness, and her sorrows have been very heavy. Strange that her husband and son should share the same fate—perpetual slavery! Yet it is not perpetual. Death will set them free. Come to the cave and let us break the sad news.”

As they walked through the forest Ramatoa gave her brother a rapid outline of what had occurred since the day he left.

“They will be deeply grieved,” she said, “that our friends are not with you. We had all hoped that you would arrive together. A messenger who has just come did indeed tell us that you had been separated from them, but all supposed that you would easily overtake them.”

“True, sister, but I over-shot them. That has been the way of it,” returned Laihova, regretfully.

“Still, I feel sure that they will escape,” continued the girl, “Ravoninohitriniony has such a firm trust in God, and he is so strong and brave and wise. Besides, he has the blood of the white man in his veins—he will succeed or die!”

This compliment to her brother, whether deserved or not, had the effect of raising a flush of pleasure on Ra-Ruth’s little face.

“Many things have happened since you left us,” resumed Ramatoa. “Razafil, the poet, has come to stay with us, and Voalavo too.”

“Voalavo!” exclaimed Laihova in surprise, “is he not the chief of a tribe that does not love Jesus? And he was not a Christian when I saw him last.”

“He is a Christian now,” returned the girl, quietly, “if I may judge him by his works. He has been our main stay since you went away. Not long after you left us he came, saying that you had told him about Jesus delivering men from the power of sin, and he wanted to know about Him. You may be sure we were glad to tell him all we knew. He has never said he is a Christian, but he has stayed with us ever since, and hunted for us. He is as active as the youngest men in getting and bringing in wild fruits, and the youths are glad to have his wisdom and advice. He listens to us while we sing, and he prays in secret—I know that he does, for I have overheard him. Moreover, he has brought some of his people over to our side. He seems to be particularly fond of Reni-Mamba, and she is fond of him—for he is funny.”

“Yes; he is very funny,” responded Laihova, with profound gravity.

On reaching the cavern which we have described in a former chapter, they found that most of the men were out, and the women were busy with those culinary labours which tend to rejoice the hearts of hunters when they return home.

The chief, Voalavo, was there, however, deeply engaged in studying—yes, studying—The Pilgrim’s Progress! But he could not make much of it, his education—at the hands of Ra-Ruth—having commenced only a few weeks before. Besides teaching the chief his letters, Ra-Ruth had read to him large portions of the book, which had so fascinated him that he had applied himself to his letters with a will, and, being an able man, had begun to make rapid progress. His desire, also, to be able to read the Bible—when he began to understand what it was, and to perceive the significance of some of its soul-stirring words—stimulated his active mind to greater exertions.

The unfortunate poet, Razafil, also fell in with the wonderful allegory in that cave for the first time, and it helped in no small degree to turn his mind from brooding over the fate of his dear martyred daughter Raniva. His mind was quicker than that of the chief to perceive the grand truths which underlie the story, and he was not a little comforted. Thus these two men, so very differently constituted, sat at the feet of the fair Ra-Ruth, who being, as we have said, timid and rather distrustful of herself, was overjoyed to find that even she could help in advancing the cause of her Lord.

But it rather perplexed the little maiden when these same men, having been gifted with inquiring minds, puzzled themselves over the question why the Prince of the country in The Pilgrim’s Progress did not kill Apollyon at once and have done with him.

“Or make him good,” suggested Voalavo.

“True, that would have been better, perhaps, than killing him,” assented Razafil.

Like millions of the human race before them, the two men got out of their depth here; but unlike too many thousands of the same race, they did not permit such difficulties to interfere with their unshaken confidence in the love and wisdom of that God, who certainly “doeth all things well,” whatever we in our pride and partial ignorance may think of Him.

Voalavo’s studies on the day we write of did not however engross him so much as to prevent his starting up in great excitement when he heard the sound of Laihova’s voice. He hastened to the entrance of the cavern, and received his friend with his wonted effusive heartiness. But he was damped considerably on learning that Laihova came alone, that Mamba was enslaved, and that Ravonino and Rafaravavy were still wandering in the forest, pursued by their enemies.

“Come, my young men!” he shouted, flying into a sudden state of indignation, and clapping his hands together like a pistol-shot, “we will go and rouse our warriors. Arm, and make to the rescue! We will dethrone the Queen—this Ranavalona—usurper! Why should such a woman live on, filling the land with blood and misery!”

“My friend,” said Laihova, in a soothing tone, as he laid his hand on the chief’s shoulder, “the arms of Christians are not the arms of a soldier. We wrestle not against flesh and blood.”

“That is idle talk,” exclaimed the unpacified chief. “Did not Christian use a sword? Did not Greatheart fight Apollyon with a sword?”

“True, but these were spiritual weapons,” said Laihova. “Moreover, if you did rouse your people and march to the capital, what could you do? Your whole tribe would appear but as a handful of dust in the eyes of the Hova army.”

“I would that we were a handful of dust!” snorted the chief, “and we’d dash ourselves into the eyes of the Hova army and kill them while they wept!”

“But there is nothing to prevent us from going forth to meet our friends,” rejoined Laihova, “and we can take our spears. If they stand in need of help we may give it.”

This proposition fell in entirely with the war-like Voalavo’s views, and, a band of the young hunters and fruit-gatherers entering the cave at that moment, he urged them to make haste with their dinner and get ready for the war-path.

Ever-ready—as young blades usually are—for fighting, these youths threw down their loads quickly.

And, truly, judging from the contents of the cavern larder that day, there was no prospect of famine before the persecuted people. In one part of that larder there was abundance of beef and pork, also of game, such as guinea-fowl, pheasants, partridges, peacocks, turkeys, geese, ducks, pigeons, turtle-doves, and snipe. In another place the vegetable and fruit-gatherers had piled up little mounds of bread-fruit, pine-apples, cocoa-nuts, yams, plantains, bananas, manioc-root, melons, etcetera, much of which had been gathered from regions at a considerable distance from their place of abode. Thus they had laid up store for many days, and felt somewhat elated.

But there were two hearts there which found it impossible to rejoice, and very hard to submit to God. Reni and Ramatoa retired to a dark recess in the cave, and mingled their tears and prayers together.

“Oh! it would have been better if he had died!” sobbed Reni, “for then he would have been with Jesus; but now it is awful to think of the life-long slavery; and we shall never more see him on earth.”

“Nay, mother, do not think thus. Whatever God does must be best,” returned Ramatoa in a tremulous voice. “Let us try to say ‘Thy will be—’”

She broke down and finished the sentence with prayer for strength and for a submissive spirit.

Meanwhile the war-like expedition, on which Voalavo and his youths were only too ready to enter was rendered needless by the sudden appearance of Ravonino himself, with Rafaravavy and Sarah! After encountering innumerable hardships and dangers those three had at last arrived at their forest stronghold in safety.

“So then,” remarked Laihova to Ra-Ruth, after the first enthusiastic reception was over, “I have only over-shot them by a few hours after all!”

“We were just going to sally forth to look for you—and fight if need be,” said Voalavo.

“There was no need for that,” returned Ravonino, “the Lord was our protector.”

“Where is Reni-Mamba? Have you heard, mother, about your son?”

Reni and Ramatoa, who had pressed forward, looked surprised, for their friend did not speak like a man who had bad news to tell.

“Laihova has told me, truly,” replied Reni, still whimpering, “that my dear boy is worse than dead.”

“Not so, mother,” said Ravonino, taking the poor woman’s hand, “be of good cheer; Mamba is not dead. I know not indeed where he is at this moment, having been pressed in my own flight, but I know that the Queen has set him free—this much I learned from our white friend, Mark Breezy. More I cannot tell, but is not this cause for joy and gratitude? Come, let us return thanks to our Father.”

Most of those present were glad to give vent to their feelings in prayer and praise, though some there were who, having been led to join the band by the mere force of circumstances, had little heart in the matter. Certainly Voalavo was not among these last, for the enthusiasm which inclined him to fight with violence also induced him to pray with vigour.

When this appropriate act of worship was over, food was prepared for the wearied travellers, and in a short time the whole party was seated round the cooking-fire, illuminated by the torches on the wall, and listening eagerly to Ravonino as he recounted his adventures.

“I fear much,” he said in conclusion, “that another dark season is about to fall on us. It may be like the last—or worse.”

Ravonino here referred, (and with bated breath), to the terrible outbreak of persecution which had occurred several years previously, when, at the lowest estimate, about two thousand men and women were severely punished, and many tortured and slain, because they professed or favoured the religion of Jesus.

As, one after another, various members of the party detailed the sad sufferings or deaths of relatives and friends, the feelings of all became deeply affected with grief, those of some with a considerable dash also of indignation. Among the latter of course was Voalavo.

“Why,” he cried suddenly, giving his hands the accustomed pistol-shot clap that betrayed his inability to contain himself, “why do we suffer all this? Why not assemble the tribes, go up at once to Antananarivo, take it, cut off the Queen’s head, and put Prince Rakota on the throne?”

“Ay, why not?” demanded several of the more fiery young men.

“Because the Lord tells us to overcome evil with good,” answered Ravonino, quietly. Then, wishing to draw attention from the subject, he inquired for the messenger who had brought news of his own escape.

All looked round as if expecting the man to answer for himself, but no one replied.

Search was made, and then it was discovered that the messenger had hastily taken his departure from the place.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Doctor Breezy prescribes for the Queen, and attains to Temporary and “Perfik F’licity”.

While these events were taking place in the forest, Queen Ranavalona was keeping her Court Physician and his comrades in a state of considerable uneasiness, not only with reference to the safety of their own heads, but because of her violent edicts regarding her Christian subjects.

She renewed her commands as to the necessity of every one coming forward, on pain of instant death in the event of disobedience, and accusing themselves, with the reiterated assurance that if they failed to comply and they were afterwards accused by others they should be subjected to the ordeal of the Tangena, and slain or reduced to perpetual slavery if found guilty.

The whole city was in a panic. No one felt safe. Under the influence of fear some accused themselves, expecting, no doubt, that their punishment would be lightened. Others remained quiet, hoping that they might escape detection, while many were accused by false friends as well as by enemies, and fell victims under the poison ordeal. Others, again, stood firm, and boldly proclaimed their faith in the Lord Jesus and their readiness to die if need be for His cause.

After the accusations, trials, and investigations, sentences were read which deprived four hundred officers and nobles of their honours, and levied fines on the remainder to the number of about two thousand. One would have thought that the mere necessity for such widespread punishment would have shown the Queen how deeply the new religion had taken root, and how hopeless it was to attempt its suppression, but she did not see it in that light. On the contrary, she issued a mandate requiring all books to be delivered up to her officers, and threatening death against any who should keep back or hide even a single leaf. She also commanded her subjects never again even to “think of the Christian lessons they had learned, but to blot them from their memories for ever!”

Among those who boldly held to their opinions was the Queen’s own son Rakota, who, however, as we have seen, did not run quite so much risk as others, owing to his mother’s affection for him. The Prime Minister’s son, also, and Prince Ramonja, made no effort to conceal their opinions, though they were wise enough to refrain from exasperating the angry Queen by asserting them openly.

One morning the Prime Minister sent a message to the Court Physician, requiring his immediate attendance at the palace. Mark was seated in his own room at the time, talking with Hockins and Ebony about the gloomy state of affairs. A slight feeling of dismay fluttered the heart of each when the message came, for death-warrants were much in the air at that time.

“Oh, massa, p’r’aps dey’re a-goin’ to kill you!” was the negro’s comforting suggestion.

“More likely they want him to cure the Queen,” said Hockins.

“Couldn’t you, massa,” whispered Ebony, with a terribly solemn countenance, “mix a spoonful—a bery small spoonful—ob prussic acid, or creosote, or suffin ob dat sort, wid ’er physic?”

Mark laughed, and shook his head as he went out.

He found Rainiharo, with a tremendous frown on his face and deep lines of care on his brow, seated in front of our friend the Secretary, who had an open book on his knee. Three other officers of the palace sat beside them. These constituted a court of inquiry into the contents of the suspected books, and the Secretary, being the only literary character among them, was the appointed reader.

“Come here. Sit down,” said Rainiharo, sternly pointing to a seat; “we want you to explain your books. The Queen commands us to examine them, and, if we find anything contrary to her wishes in them, to condemn them to the flames. But it seems to us that there is nothing in them but rubbish which we cannot understand.”

Strange, is it not, that in barbaric as well as in civilised lands, people are apt to regard as rubbish that which they do not understand?

So thought the Court Physician, but he wisely held his tongue and sat down.

“This book,” said the Prime Minister, pointing with a look of mingled contempt and exasperation to the volume on the Secretary’s knee, “is worse than the last. The one we condemned yesterday was what you call your Bible. We began with it because it was the biggest book. Being practical men we began at the beginning, intending to go straight through and give it a fair hearing. We began at Gen—Gen—what was it?”

“Genesis,” answered the Secretary.

“Genzis—yes. Well, we found nothing to object to in the first verse, but in the second—the very second—we found the word ‘darkness.’ This was sufficient! Queen Ranavalona does not like darkness, so we condemned it at once—unanimously—for we could not for a moment tolerate anything with darkness in it.”

Mark felt an almost irresistible desire to laugh outright, but as the gratification of that desire might have cost him his head he did resist it successfully.

“Now,” continued the Prime Minister, with a darker frown, “we have got to the Pil—Pil—what is it?”

“Pilgrim’s Progress,” answered the Secretary. “Just so—the Pilgim’s Progress. Well, we agreed that we would give the Pil—Pilgim’s Progress a better chance, so we opened it, as it were, anyhow, and what do we come on—the very first thing—but a man named Obstinate! Now, if there is one thing that the Queen hates more than another it is an obstinate man. She cannot abide obstinate men. In fact, she has none such about her, for the few men of that sort that have turned up now and then have invariably lost their heads. But we wanted to be fair, so we read on, and what do we find as one of the first things that Obstinate says? He says, ‘Tush! away with your book!’ Now, if the man himself condemns the book, is our Queen likely to spare it? But there are some things in the book which we cannot understand, so we have sent for you to explain it. Now,” added Rainiharo, turning to the Secretary, “translate all that to the maker of physic and tell me what he has to answer.”

It was a strange and difficult duty that our young student was thus unexpectedly and suddenly called to perform, and never before had he felt so deeply the difference between knowing a subject and expounding it. There was no escape, however, from the situation. He was not only bound by fear of his life, but by Scripture itself, “to give a reason of the hope that was in him,” and he rose to the occasion with vigour, praying, mentally, for guidance, and also blessing his mother for having subjected him in childhood—much against his will!—to a pretty stiff and systematic training in the truths of Scripture as well as in the story of the Pilgrim’s Progress.

But no exposition that he could give sufficed to affect the foregone conclusion that both the Bible and the Pilgrim, containing as they did matter that was offensive to the Queen, were worthy of condemnation, and, therefore, doomed to the flames.

Having settled this knotty point in a statesmanlike manner, Rainiharo bade Mark and the Secretary remain with him, and dismissed his three colleagues.

“You see,” he said, after some moments of anxious thought, “although I agree with the Queen in her desire to stamp out the Christian religion, I have no desire that my son and my nephew should be stamped out along with it; therefore I wish to have your assistance, doctor, in turning the mind of Ranavalona away from persecution to some extent for in her present mood she is dangerous alike to friend and foe. Indeed I would not give much for your own life if she becomes more violent. How is this to be done, think you?”

The question was indeed a puzzler, for it amounted to this—

“How are we to manage a furious, blood-thirsty woman with the reins loose on her neck and the bit fast in her teeth?”

“I know not,” said Mark at last, “but I will think the matter over and talk with you again.”

“If I may be allowed to speak,” said the Secretary.

“You are allowed,” returned the Premier.

“Then I would advise that the Queen should arrange a grand journey—a procession—all over the country, with thousands of her soldiers. This will let her have plenty of fresh air and exercise, change of scene, and excitement, and will give her something to do till her blood cools. At the same time it will show the people her great power and perhaps induce them to be cautious how they resist her will.”

“The idea is good,” said Mark, with animation, “so good that I would advise its being carried out immediately—even before another week passes.”

Rainiharo shook his head. “Impossible. There is to be a great bull-fight this week, and you know Ranavalona will allow nothing to interfere with that. Besides, it takes time to get up such an expedition as you suggest. However, I like the notion well. Go. I will think over it and see you again.”

The bull-fighting to which the Premier referred was a favourite amusement with this blood-thirsty woman, and the spectacle usually took place in the royal court-yard. Rainiharo was right when he said the Queen would not forego it, but she was so pleased with the plan of a royal progress through the country that she gave orders to make ready for it at once in an extensive scale.

“You will of course accompany me,” she said to Mark, when he was summoned to a subsequent audience, “I may be ill, or my bearers may fall and I may be injured.”

“Certainly,” he replied, “nothing would afford the Court Physician greater pleasure than to attend upon her Majesty on such an expedition. But I would ask a favour,” continued Mark. “May my black servant accompany me? He is very useful in assisting me with my medicines, and—”

“Yes, yes,” interrupted the Queen, “let him go with you by all means. He shall have bearers if you choose. And take yon other man also—with his music. I love his little pipe!”

In some excitement Mark went off to tell his comrades the news—which Hockins received with a grunt of satisfaction, and the negro with a burst of joy. Indeed the anxieties and worries they had recently experienced in the city, coupled with the tyranny and bloodshed which they witnessed, had so depressed the three friends that the mere idea of getting once again into the fresh free open plains and forests afforded them pleasure somewhat akin to that of the school-boy when he obtains an unexpected holiday.

Great was the excitement all over the country when the Queen’s intention was made known. The idea was not indeed a novelty. Malagasy sovereigns had been in the habit of making such progresses from time to time in former years. The wise King Radama the First frequently went on hunting expeditions with more or less of display. But knowing as they did, only too well, the cruel character of Ranavalona the First, the people feared that the desire to terrify and suppress had more to do with the event than pleasure or health.

At last, everything being complete, the Queen left the capital, and directed her course to the south-westward. Her enormous retinue consisted of the members of the Government, the principal military and civil officers and their wives, six thousand soldiers, and a host of slaves, bearers, and other attendants; the whole numbering about 40,000 souls.

Great preparations had been made for the journey in the way of providing large stores of rice, herds of cattle, and other provisions, but those who knew the difficulties of the proposed route, and the thinly populated character of the country, looked with considerable apprehension on the prospects of the journey. Some there were, no doubt, who regarded these prospects with a lively hope that the Queen might never more return to her capital!

Of course such a multitude travelled very slowly, as may well be believed when it is said that they had about 1500 palanquins in the host, for there was not a wheeled vehicle in Madagascar at that time. The soldiers were formed in five divisions; one carrying the tents, one the cooking apparatus and spears, and one the guns and sleeping-mats. The other two had always to be in readiness for any service required about the Queen. The camp was divided into four parts; the Queen being in the middle, in a blue tent, surrounded, wherever she halted for the night, by high palisades, and near to this was pitched a tent containing the idols of the royal family. The tent of the Prime Minister, with the Malagasy flag, was pitched to the north of that of the Queen. East, west, and south, were occupied by other high officers of State, and among the latter was the tent of our friends, Mark, Hockins, and Ebony.

“Now,” said the first of these, as he sat in the door of the tent one evening after supper, watching the rich glow of sunshine that flooded a wide stretch of beautiful country in front of him, “this would be perfect felicity if only we had freedom to move about at our own pleasure and hunt up the treasures in botany, entomology, etcetera, that are scattered around us.”

“True, Massa,” returned Ebony, “it would be perfik f’licity if we could forgit de poor Christ’ns in chains an’ pris’ns.”

“Right, Ebony, right. I am selfishly thinking only of myself at the present moment. But let us hope we may manage to do these poor Christians good before we leave the land.”

“I don’t think, myself, that we’ll get much fun out o’ this trip,” remarked Hockins. “You see the Queen’s too fond o’ your physickin’ and of my tootootlin’ to part with us even for a day at a time. If we was like Ebony, now, we might go where we liked an’ no one ud care.”

“Ob course not,” replied the negro, promptly, “peepil’s nebber anxious about whar wise men goes to; it’s on’y child’in an’ stoopid folk dey’s got to tink about. But why not ax de Queen, massa, for leabe ob absence to go a-huntin’?”

“Because she’d be sure to refuse,” said Mark. “No, I see no way out of this difficulty. We are too useful to be spared!”

But Mark was wrong. That very night he was sent for by the Prime Minister, and as he passed the Secretary’s tent he called him out to act as interpreter. On reaching the tent on the north side they found Rainiharo doubled up on his mat and groaning in agony.

“What’s wrong?” demanded the doctor.

“Everything!” replied the patient.

“Describe your feelings,” said the doctor.

“I’ve—I’ve got a red-hot stone,” groaned Rainiharo, “somewhere in my inwards! Thorny shrubs are revolving in my stomach! Young crocodiles are masticating my—oh!”

At this point his power of description failed; but that matters little, for, never having met with the disease before, we can neither describe it nor give it a name. The young doctor did not know it, but he knew exactly what to do, and did it. We cannot report what he did, but we can state the result, which was great relief in a few minutes and a perfect cure before morning! Most men are grateful under such circumstances—even the cruel Rainiharo was so.

“What can I do for you?” he asked, affectionately, next day.

A sudden inspiration seized the doctor, “Beg the Queen,” he said, “to let me and my two friends wander round the host all day, and every day, for a short time, and I will return to report myself each night.”

“For what purpose?” asked the Premier, in some surprise.

“To pluck plants and catch butterflies.”

“Is the young doctor anxious to renew his childhood?”

“Something of the sort, no doubt. But there is medicine in the plants, and—and—interest, if nothing else, in the butterflies.”

“Medicine in the plants” was a sufficient explanation to the Premier. What he said to the Queen we know not, but he quickly returned with the required permission, and Mark went to his couch that night in a state of what Ebony styled “perfik f’licity.”

Behold our trio, then, once more alone in the great forests of Madagascar—at least almost alone, for the Secretary was with them, for the double purpose of gaining instruction and seeing that the strangers did not lose themselves. As they were able to move about twice as fast as the host, they could wander around, here, there, and everywhere, or rest at pleasure without fear of being left behind.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

In which a Happy Change for the Better is Disastrously Interrupted.

One very sultry forenoon Mark and his party—while out botanising, entomologising, philosophising, etcetera, not far from but out of sight of the great procession—came to the brow of a hill and sat down to rest.

Their appearance had become somewhat curious and brigand-like by that time, for their original garments having been worn-out were partially replaced by means of the scissors and needle of John Hockins—at least in the trousers department. That worthy seaman having, during his travels, torn his original trousers to shreds from the knee downwards, had procured some stout canvas in the capital and made for himself another pair. He was, like most sailors, expert at tailoring, and the result was so good that Mark and Ebony became envious. The seaman was obliging. He set to work and made a pair of nether garments for both. Mark wore his pair stuffed into the legs of a pair of Wellington boots procured from a trader. Ebony preferred to cut his off short, just below the knee, thus exposing to view those black boots supplied to negroes by Nature, which have the advantage of never wearing out. Hockins himself stuck to his navy shirt, but the others found striped cotton shirts sufficient. A native straw hat on Mark’s head and a silk scarf round his waist, with a cavalry pistol in it, enhanced the brigand-like aspect of his costume.

This pistol was their only fire-arm, the gun having been broken beyond repair, but each carried a spear in one hand, a gauze butterfly-net in the other, and a basket, in lieu of a specimen-box, on his shoulder. Even the Secretary, entering into the spirit of the thing; carried a net and pursued the butterflies with the ardour of a boy.

“Oh! massa,” exclaimed Ebony, wiping the perspiration from his forehead with a bunch of grass, “I do lub science!”

“Indeed, why so?” asked Mark, sitting down on a bank opposite his friend.

“Why, don’t you see, massa, it’s not comfortabil for a man what’s got any feelin’s to go troo de land huntin’ an’ killin’ cattle an’ oder brutes for noting. You can’t eat more nor one hox—p’r’aps not dat. So w’en you’ve kill ’im an’ eaten so much as you can, dar’s no more fun, for what fun is dere in slaughterin’ hoxes for noting? Den, if you goes arter bees an’ butterflies on’y for fun, w’y you git shamed ob yourself. On’y a chile do dat. But science, dat put ’im all right! Away you goes arter de bees and butterflies an’ tings like mad—ober de hills an’ far away—troo de woods, across de ribbers—sometimes into ’em!—crashin’ an’ smashin’ like de bull in de china-shop, wid de proud feelin’ bustin’ your buzzum dat you’re advancin’ de noble cause ob science—dat’s what you call ’im, ‘noble’?—yes. Well, den you come home done up, so pleasant like, an’ sot down an’ fix de critters up wid pins an’ gum an’ sitch-like, and arter dat you show ’em to your larned friends an’ call ’em awrful hard names, (sometimes dey seem like bad names!) an’—oh! I do lub science! It’s wot I once heard a captin ob a ribber steamer in de States call a safety-balve wot lets off a deal o’ ’uman energy. He was a-sottin on his own safety-balve at de time, so he ought to have know’d suffin about it.”

“I say, Ebony,” asked Hockins, “where did you pick up so much larnin’ about science—eh?”

“I pick ’im in Texas—was ’sistant to a German nat’ralist dar for two year. Stuck to ’im like a limpit till he a-most busted hisself by tumblin’ into a swamp, smashin’ his spectacles, an’ ketchin’ fever, w’en he found hisself obleeged to go home to recroot—he called it—though what dat was I nebber rightly understood, unless it was drinkin’ brandy an’ water; for I noticed that w’en he said he needed to recroot, he allers had a good stiff pull at de brandy bottle.”

Ebony’s discourse was here cut short by the sudden appearance of an enormous butterfly, which the excitable negro dashed after at a breakneck pace in the interests of science. The last glimpse they had of him, as he disappeared among the trees, was in a somewhat peculiar attitude, with his head down and his feet in the air!

“That’s a sign he has missed him,” remarked Hockins, beginning to fill his pipe—the tobacco, not the musical, one! “I’ve always observed that when Ebony becomes desperate, and knows he can’t git hold of the thing he’s arter, he makes a reckless plunge, with a horrible yell, goes right down by the head, and disappears like a harpooned whale.”

“True, but have you not also observed,” said Mark, “that like the whale he’s sure to come to the surface again—sooner or later—and generally with the object of pursuit in possession?”

“I b’lieve you’re right, doctor,” said the seaman, emitting a prolonged puff of smoke.

“Does he always go mad like that?” asked the Secretary, who was much amused.

“Usually,” replied Mark, “but he is generally madder than that. He’s in comparatively low spirits to-day. Perhaps it is the heat that affects him. Whew! how hot it is! I think I shall take a bath in the first pool we come to.”

“That would only make you hotter, sir,” said Hockins. “I’ve often tried it. At first, no doubt, when you gits into the water it cools you, but arter you come out you git hotter than before. A hot bath is the thing to cool you comfortably.”

“But we can’t get a hot bath here,” returned Mark.

“You are wrong,” said the Secretary, “we have many natural hot springs in our land. There is one not far from here.”

“How far?” asked Mark with some interest.

“About two rice-cookings off.”

To dispel the reader’s perplexity, we may explain at once that in Madagascar they measure distances by the time occupied in cooking a pot of rice. As that operation occupies about half-an-hour, the Secretary meant that the hot spring was distant about two half-hours—that is, between three and four miles off.

“Let’s go an’ git into it at once,” suggested Hockins.

“Better wait for Ebony,” said Mark. Then—to the Secretary—“Yours is a very interesting and wonderful country!”

“It is, and I wonder not that European nations wish to get possession of it—but that shall never be.”

Mark replied, “I hope not,” and regarded his friend with some surprise, for he had spoken with emphasis, and evidently strong feeling. “Have you fear that any of the nations wish to have your country?”

“Yes, we have fear,” returned the Secretary, with an unwontedly stern look. “They have tried it before; perhaps they will try it again. But they will fail. Has not God given us the land? Has not He moved the hearts of Engleesh men to send to us the Bible? Has not his Holy Spirit inclined our hearts to receive that Word? Yes—it has come. It is planted. It must grow. The European nations cannot hinder it. Ranavalona cannot stamp it out. False friends and open foes cannot crush it. The Word of God will civilise us. We will rise among the nations of the earth when the love of Jesus spreads among us—for that love cures every evil. It inclines as well as teaches us to deny self and do good. It is not possible for man to reach a higher point than that! Deny self! Do good! We are slow to learn, but it is sure to come at last, for is it not written that ‘the knowledge of the Lord shall cover the earth as the waters cover the sea’?”

“I believe you are right,” said Mark, much impressed with this outburst and the earnest enthusiasm of his friend’s manner. “And,” he continued, “you have a noble country to work on—full of earth’s riches.”

“You say noting but the truth,” answered the Secretary in a gratified tone. “Is not our island as big—or more big—as yours—nearly the same as France? And look around! We have thousands of cattle, tame and wild, with which even now we send large supplies to foreign markets, and fowls innumerable, both wild and tame. Our soil is rich and prolific. Are not our vegetables and fruits innumerable and abundant? Do not immense forests traverse our island in all directions, full of trees that are of value to man—trees fit for building his houses and ships and for making his beautiful furniture, as well as those that supply cocoa-nuts, and figs, and fruits, and gums, and dyes? And have we not the silkworm in plenty, and cotton-plants, and sugar-cane, and many spices, and the great food-supply of our people—rice, besides minerals which make nations rich, such as iron and gold? Yes, we have everything that is desirable and good for man. But we have a climate which does not suit the white man. Yet some white men, like yourself, manage to live here. Is not this a voice, from God? He does not speak to us with the tongue of man, but He speaks with a still, small voice, as easy to understand. He has surrounded our island with unhealthy shores. Does not that tell the white man not to come here? Your London Missionary Society sent us the Bible. God bless them for that! They have done well. But they have done enough. We desire not the interference of England or France in our affairs. We do not want your divisions, your sects. We have the Word. God will do the rest. We want no white nations to protect us. We want to be let alone to protect and develop ourselves, with the Bible for our guide and the Holy Spirit as our teacher. You Englishmen were savages once, and the Word of God came and raised you. You only continue to be great because the Bible keeps you still in the right path. What it has done for you it will do for us. All we ask for is to be let alone!”

The Secretary had become quite excited on this theme, and there is no saying how much longer he might have gone on if Ebony had not returned, scratched, bruised, bleeding, panting and perspiring, but jubilant, with an enormous butterfly captive in his net, and the cause of science advanced.

Having secured the specimen, they set off at once to visit the hot springs, after pricking a traveller’s tree with a spear and obtaining a refreshing draught of cool clear water therefrom.

Fountains of mineral waters have been found in many, parts of Madagascar, and among them several which are called Rano-mafana, or “warm waters.” These vary both in temperature and medicinal properties. The spot when reached was found to be a small cavity in the rocks which was delightfully shaded by the leaves of the wild fig, and by a number of interwoven and overhanging bamboos. The branches of the fig-trees spread directly across the stream.

Hastening to the fountain, Hockins thrust his hand in, but quickly pulled it out again, for the water was only a few degrees below the boiling-point.

“Too hot to bathe in!” he said.

“But not too hot here,” remarked Ebony, going to a pool a little further from the fountain-head, where the water had cooled somewhat. There the negro dropped his simple garments, and was soon rolling like a black porpoise in his warm bath. It was only large enough for one, but close to it was another small pool big enough for several men. There Mark and Hockins were soon disporting joyously, while the Secretary looked on and laughed. Evidently he did not in the circumstances deem warm water either a necessity or a luxury.

That evening, after returning to camp, Mark was summoned to lay the result of his labours before the Queen, who was much interested in his collection of plants, and not a little amused with his collection of insects; for she could understand the use of the medicines which her Court Physician assured her could be extracted from the former, but could see no sense whatever in collecting winged and creeping things, merely to be stuck on pins and looked at and saddled with incomprehensible names! She did indeed except the gorgeous butterflies, and similar creatures, because these were pretty; but on the whole she felt disposed to regard her physician as rather childish in that particular taste.

Very different was her opinion of John Hockins. So fond was she of the flageolet of that musical and stalwart tar that she sent for him almost every evening and made him pipe away to her until he almost fell asleep at his duty, so that at last he began to wish that flageolets had never been invented.

“It’s nothin’ but blow, blow, blow, day arter day,” he growled as he returned to his tent one night and flung down the little instrument in disgust. “I wish it had bin blow’d up the time your big Roman candle busted, doctor.”

“If it had been, your influence with the Queen would have been gone, John.”

“Well, I dun-know, sir. Many a queer gale I’ve come through in time past, but this blow beats ’em all to sticks an’ whistles.”

“Nebber mind, ’Ockins,” remarked Ebony, who was busy preparing supper at the time, “we’s habbin good times ob it just now. Plenty fun an’ lots ob science! Come—go at your wittles. We’ve hard work besides fun before us demorrow.”

Ebony was a true prophet in regard to the hard work, but not as to the fun, of the morrow; for it so happened that two events occurred which threw a dark cloud over the expedition, for some, at least, in the royal procession, and induced the Queen to return to the capital sooner than she had intended.

The first of these events was the discovery of a party of sixteen fugitives who were of suspicious character and unable to give account of themselves.

They had been discovered by the Queen’s spies hidden in a rice-house. When brought before the officer who examined them, they were at first silent; when pressed, they spoke a little, but nothing of importance could be gathered from them. At last they seemed to make up their minds to acknowledge who they were, for one of them stood forth boldly and said—

“Since you ask us again and again, we will tell you. We are not robbers or murderers. We are praying people. If this makes us guilty in the kingdom of the Queen, then, whatsoever she does, we must submit to suffer. We are ready to die for the name of the Lord Jesus.”

“Is this, then,” asked the officer, “your final answer, whether for life or death?”

“It is our final answer, whether for life or for death.”

When this was reported to the Queen, all her anger was stirred up again. She ordered the captives to be chained and sent off at once to Antananarivo. Two of the band managed to escape that night, but the other fourteen were safely lodged in prison.

The countenance of Ranavalona was now changed. She took no pleasure in Mark’s collections, and sent no more for the musical seaman. To make matters worse, there came in, on the following day, a report that some of her soldiers had captured a large band of fugitives in a distant part of the country, and were then marching them in chains to the capital. As this band was at the time approaching, the Queen gave orders to halt on an eminence that overlooked the path along which they had to travel, that she might see them.

It was about noon when they drew near-worn, weary, and footsore. The Queen was so placed among the bushes that she could see the captives without being herself seen. Her chief officers stood near her. Mark and his companions had taken up a position much nearer to the forest path.

First came a band of weary little ones, driven onwards like a flock of sheep, and apparently too much terrified by what they had undergone to make much noise, although most of them were weeping. Next came a group of women. These, like the children, were not bound, but the men, who walked in rear, were chained together—two and two. Soldiers guarded them on every side.

“It is profoundly sad!” said Mark, in a deep sorrowful tone. “God help them!”

“Massa,” whispered Ebony, “look dar! Sure I knows some ob—”

He stopped and opened wide his eyes, for at that moment he recognised Rafaravavy and Ramatoa among the women. With something like a groan, Hockins turned a glance on his comrades and pointed to the men. They required no second glance to enlighten them, for there they plainly saw Ravonino heavily ironed by the neck to Laihova, and Razafil, the poet, chained to the chief, Voalavo. Many others whom they did not know were also there. These all trudged along with bowed heads and eyes on the ground, like men who, having gone through terrible mental and physical agony, have either become callous or resigned to their fate.

As the Queen had given orders to her people to keep quiet and out of sight, the poor captives knew nothing of the host that gazed at them. Mark and his friends were so horrified that all power to move or speak failed them for a time. As for Ranavalona, she sat in rigid silence, like a bronze statue, with compressed lips and frowning brows, until they had passed. Then she gave orders to encamp where they stood, and retired in silence to her tent.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

In which Terrible but True Martyrdoms are Described.

Matters had now reached a crisis. Although suffering from illness—partly brought on, or aggravated, by her unrestrained passions—the Queen gave orders next day for the host to turn homeward. Travelling more rapidly than she had yet done, she soon reached the capital.

There the arrival of the captives and the news of what had occurred prepared them for the worst. And the worst was not long of coming. The very day following the Queen’s return, a great assembly, or Kabàry, of the whole people was called. None were exempted from the meeting. High and low, rich and poor, sick and healthy, were driven to the great place of assembly near the palace—literally driven, for officers were sent as usual to break into the houses of the people, when necessary, and force them to attend. And there was no way of escape, for at the time of the summons being sent out every outlet from the city was guarded by soldiers, and the cannon along the heights thundered a salute by way of striking terror into the hearts of the rebellious. Well did the poor people know what all this foreshadowed. One who was an eye-witness of the scene said, “there was a general howling and wailing, a rushing and running through the streets, as if the town had been attacked by a hostile army.” At last the great square of the city was crowded, as full as it could hold, with hundreds of thousands of people, who were overawed by the presence of a body of troops fifteen thousand strong as they awaited the announcement of the Queen’s pleasure.

Mark Breezy was there, along with his comrades, on an elevated spot near to the place where the Queen’s messenger was to make the proclamation.

“We are utterly helpless here,” said Mark in a low voice, as he gazed in pity on the groaning and swaying multitude. “The Queen’s countenance is changed to me. I feel sure that either we have been betrayed in the matter of Rafaravavy, or we are suspected. Indeed, if it were not that she is ill, and needs my aid, she would certainly banish us all from her dominions.”

“I wish I was well out of ’em,” growled Hockins. “The country is well enough, no doubt, but a woman like that makes it a hell-upon-earth!”

“Has you hear, massa, whar dey hab put Ravonino an’ our oder friends?” asked Ebony.

“No, I did not dare to ask. And even if we knew we could do nothing!”

The youth spoke bitterly, for he had become so much attached to their former guide, and the natives with whom they had sojourned and travelled, that he would have fought for them to the death if that could have availed them. Strong and active young men are apt to become bitter when they find that superabundant energy and physical force are in some circumstances utterly useless. To be compelled to stand by inactive and see injustice done—cruelty and death dealt out, while the blood boils, the nerves quiver, and the violated feelings revolt, is a sore trial to manhood! And such was the position of our three adventurers at that time.

Presently the highest civil and military officers came forth, one of whom, in a loud sonorous voice, delivered the message of his terrible mistress.

After a number of complimentary and adulatory phrases to the Queen herself, and many ceremonial bowings towards the palace, as if she actually heard him, the messenger spoke as follows—

“I announce to you, O people, that I am not a Sovereign that deceives. I find that, in spite of my commands, many of my people revile the idols and treat divination as a trifle, and worship the Christians’ God, and pray, and baptize, and sing—which things I abhor. They are unlawful. I detest them, and they are not to be done, saith Ranavàlo-Manjàka. I will not suffer it. Those who dare to disobey my commands shall die. Now, I order that all who are guilty shall come in classes according to their offences, and accuse themselves of being baptized, of being members of the Church, of having taught slaves to read, and that all books shall be given up.”

As on a previous occasion, many came forward at once and accused themselves, or gave up their Bibles and Testaments; but, as before, others concealed their treasures and held their tongue, although it was evident that on this occasion the Queen uttered no vain threat, but was terribly in earnest.

The proclamation ended, the people dispersed, and Mark and his friends were returning to their quarters when they were arrested by a party of soldiers. As usual, their first impulse was to resist violently, but wisdom was given them in time, and they went quietly along. Of course Mark protested vehemently both in English and in broken Malagasy, but no attention whatever was paid to his words. They were led to a prison which they had not before seen. As they approached the door the sound of singing was heard. Another moment and they were thrust into the room whence the sounds issued, and the door was locked upon them.

At first they could only see dimly, the place was so dark; but in a few seconds, their eyes becoming accustomed to the gloom, they could see that a number of other prisoners—both men and women—were seated round the walls singing a hymn. When the hymn ceased an exclamation from a familiar voice made them turn round, and there they saw their friend Ravonino seated on the floor with his back against the wall and chained to Laihova and to the floor. Beside him were several well-remembered natives, and on the opposite side of the room, also chained, were the women of the party, among whom were Ramatoa, Ra-Ruth, Rafaravavy, her maid Sarah, and the poor mother of Mamba.

“Ravonino!” exclaimed Mark, in tones of profound sorrow, as he sat down beside his old guide, “I little thought to find you in such a strait.”

“Even so, sir,” returned the man in a gentle voice, “for so it seems good in His eyes! But still less did I expect to find you in prison—for the way they thrust you in shows me that you are no mere visitor. I fear me, the cruel woman has found out how kind you were in helping me.”

“But surely dar some hope for you! Dey nebber kill you all!” said the negro, waving his hand round as if to indicate the whole party.

“No hope, no hope,” returned Ravonino, sadly, “Not even for you, Ebony, because you are only a black man. But they won’t kill you, sir, or Hockins. They know better than to risk the consequences of putting a British subject to death. For the rest of us—our doom is sealed.”

“If the Lord wills it so,” remarked Laihova, quietly.

“How do you know that the Lord wills it so?” demanded a voice fiercely, and a man who had hitherto sat still with his face buried in his hands looked up. It was the stout chief Voalavo, all whose fun of disposition seemed to have been turned to fury. “You all speak as if you were already dead men! Are we not alive? Have we not stout hearts and strong limbs? While life remains there is hope!”

He leaped up as he spoke and began to wrench at his chain like a maddened tiger, until blood spurted from his wrists and the swollen veins stood out like cords from his neck and forehead. But iron proved tougher than flesh. He sank down, exhausted, with a deep groan—yet even in his agony of rage the strong man murmured as he fell, “Lord forgive me!”

While the men conversed, and Ebony sought to soothe Voalavo, with whom he had strong sympathy most of the poor women opposite were seated in a state of quiet resignation. Some there were, however, who could not bring their minds to contemplate with calmness the horrible fate that they knew too well awaited them, while others seemed to forget themselves in their desire to comfort their companions. Among the timid ones was pretty little Ra-Ruth. Perhaps her vivid imagination enabled her to realise more powerfully the terrors of martyrdom. It may be that her delicately-strung nerves shrank more sensitively from the prospect, but in spite of her utmost efforts to be brave she trembled violently and was pale as death. Yet she did not murmur, she only laid her head on the sympathetic bosom of her queen-like friend Ramatoa, who seemed to her a miracle of strength and resignation.

In a short time the door of the prison opened, and a party of armed men entered with Silver Spear, or Hater of Lies, at their head. An involuntary shudder ran through the group of captives as the man advanced and looked round.

“Which is Razafil?” demanded Hater of Lies.

The poet rose promptly. “Here I am,” he said, looking boldly at the officer. Then, glancing upwards, and in a voice of extreme tenderness, he said, “Now, my sweet Raniva, I will soon join you!”

“Ramatoa—which is she?” said the officer, as his men removed the fetters from the poet and fastened his wrists with a cord.

Ramatoa at once rose up. “I am ready,” she said, calmly. “Now, Ra-Ruth, the Master calls me. Fear not what man can do unto thee.”

“Oh! no, no! do not go yet,” exclaimed Ra-Ruth in an agony of grief, as she clung to her friend. “The good Lord cannot mean this—oh! take me! take me! and let her stay!”

The sentence ended in a low wail, for at the moment two soldiers forced the girls asunder, and Ra-Ruth sank upon the floor, while Ramatoa was led away.

Poor Laihova had watched every movement of Ra-Ruth. It was, no doubt, the fiercest part of the fiery trial he had to undergo; and when the soldier grasped her arms to tear her from her friend he could restrain himself no longer. He sprang up and made a wild leap towards her, but the chain arrested him effectually, and three bayonets were quickly pointed at his breast. His head fell forward, and he sank down like one who had been shot.

Meanwhile Hater of Lies selected Ra-Ruth and twelve others from the group of prisoners, but only the three whom we have mentioned are known to the reader. They were led into an outer room, where they were further pinioned. Some of them had their feet and hands tied together, so that, by thrusting a pole between the legs and arms of each, they could be suspended and carried by two men. Others were allowed to walk to the place of execution. The rage of Ranavalona, however, was so great on finding that the Christians would not submit to her that she had given orders to the soldiers to torture the martyrs with their spears as they marched along the road. This was done to all except Ramatoa and Ra-Ruth, as the blood-stained road bore witness. The comfort of being together was not allowed to the two ladies. They were placed in different parts of the procession.

Mats were thrust into the mouths of the suspended victims to prevent them from speaking, but some of them managed to free their mouths and prayed aloud, while others sang hymns or addressed the crowd. Thus they passed along the road that led to the Place of Hurling Down.

This was a tremendous precipice of granite, 150 feet high. Thither the multitude streamed—some influenced by hatred of the Christians, some by deep sympathy with them, but the majority, doubtless, prompted by mere excitement and curiosity. And there they crowded as near as they dared venture to the edge of the precipice and gazed into the awful gulf.

Slowly the procession moved, as if to prolong the agony of the martyrs. Suddenly a young man pushed through the crowd, advanced to the side of Ramatoa, and grasped one of her hands, exclaiming in a loud voice, “Dearest! I will go with you and stay by you to the end.”

For a moment the calm serenity that had settled on the girl’s fine countenance was disturbed.

“Mamba!” she said, “this is not wise. You cannot save me. It is God’s will that I should now glorify the dear name of Jesus by laying down my life. But you are not yet condemned, and your mother needs your help.”

“Full well do I know that,” returned the youth, fervently. “Were it not for my dear mother’s love and claim on me, I would now have gone with you to heaven. As it is, I will stay by you, dear one, to the end.”

“Thank you, dear friend,” returned the girl, earnestly. “I think it will not be long till we meet where there are no more sufferings or tears.”

Soon the procession reached the brow of the terrible cliff. Here the martyrs were ranged in such a way that, while they were cast over one by one, the rest could see their companions fall.

The first to perish was the poet Razafil. After the Queen’s messenger had pronounced the sentence of each, the poor man was seized and thrown violently on the ground. A rope was then fastened round his waist, and he was asked if he would cease to pray in the name of Jesus.

“Cease to pray to Jesus!” he exclaimed, while the fire of enthusiasm gleamed in his eyes—“to Jesus who saved my Raniva, and who holds out His blessed hands to me—even me—to take me to Himself? Never!”

Razafil was instantly slung over the precipice, and held suspended there in the hope that the awful nature of his impending fate might cause his courage to fail, while the executioner knelt, knife in hand, ready to cut the rope.

“Once more, and for the last time,” said the officer in command, “will you cease to pray?”

The answer was an emphatic “No!”

Next moment Razafil went shooting down headlong into the abyss. There was a projecting ledge of rock about fifty feet down the precipice. On this the body of the martyr struck, and, bounding off into space, reached the bottom with incredible violence, a shattered and mangled heap.

With trembling hearts and straining gaze the other victims watched the descent. It seemed to be more than human nature could endure to voluntarily face such a fate when a word would deliver them. So thought many of the spectators, and they were right; mere human nature could not have endured it, but these Christians were strengthened in a way that the ungodly will neither believe nor understand. One by one they were led to the edge of the cliff, suspended over the edge, and had the testing-question put to them, and, one by one, the answer was a decisive “No!”

But where was the tyrant Queen while this scene of butchery was being enacted? In her chamber in the palace—comparatively, yet not altogether, regardless of the matter.

Her son Rakota stood beside her. Our friend the Secretary stood at the door.

“Mother,” said the Prince, quietly, “they are being hurled down now—and little Ra-Ruth is among them.”

The Queen looked up, startled. “No, no!” she said, hesitatingly. “Ra-Ruth must not—but—but—I must not seem to my people to be weak—yet I would save her.”

Rakota gave a gentle nod to the Secretary, who instantly vanished. He reached the place of execution only just in time. The rope was already round the girl’s slender waist, and the testing-question had been put—but her timidity had flown, and was replaced by a calm, almost angelic, expression, as she gazed up to Heaven, clasped her hands, and, with a flush of enthusiasm, exclaimed—

“No—Jesus—no, I will never cease to worship Thee!”

A murmur of mingled surprise and pity broke from the crowd. At that moment the Secretary came forward.

“The Queen,” he said, “has sent me to ask you, Ra-Ruth, whether you will not worship our gods and save your life.”

“No,” answered the girl, firmly. “I have been weak—a coward—but now God has sent me strength by His own Holy Spirit, and my fixed determination is to go this day with my dear brothers and sisters to Heaven.”

“You are a fool! You are mad!” exclaimed an officer standing by, as he struck her on the head.

“Yes, she is mad,” said the Secretary to the officer in command. “Send a messenger to tell the Queen that Ra-Ruth has lost her reason. Meanwhile, let her be taken away and guarded well till the Queen’s pleasure regarding her is known.”

But although this poor girl was thus snatched from death at the last moment, no mercy was extended to the others. All were thrown over the cliff and dashed to pieces at that time except Ramatoa. When the question was put to her, last of all, she, as might have been expected, was not less firm in her reply than her companions; but, instead of being thrown over, she was informed that as it was not allowable to shed the blood of one of noble birth she was to be burnt alive!

At this dreadful announcement she turned paler than before, but did not flinch. At the same moment poor Mamba lost control of himself. He sprang to her side, put an arm round her waist, and shouted—

“This shall not be! I, too, am a praying man. Ye shall not touch her!”

He glared fiercely round, and, for a moment, the soldiers did not dare to approach him, although he was totally unarmed. But they sprang on him from behind, and he was quickly overpowered by numbers. At the command of their officer, they tore him from Ramatoa, carried him to the cliff, and hurled him over. His head struck the ledge, and his brains were dashed out there. Next moment he lay dead among the rocks at the bottom.

This awful sight Ramatoa was spared, for, at the same instant, they had dragged her away to the spot where a pile of wood had been prepared for herself. Four stakes were fixed in the midst of the pile, as three other Christian nobles were to be burnt along with her, one of whom was a lady. While Ramatoa watched the preparations for her death, her fellow-sufferers arrived—singing, as they walked, a hymn which begins with, “When our hearts are troubled,” and ends with, “Then remember us.” Ramatoa raised her voice and joined them. There was no wavering or shrinking from the fiery ordeal. When all was ready the martyrs quietly suffered themselves to be bound to the stakes, and, strange to say, when the flames roared around them, the song of praise still went on, and the voices of praise and prayer did not cease until they had culminated in glad shouts of praise and victory before the throne of God!

We write facts just now, reader, not fiction! Men talk of the cruelty of devils! Assuredly there is not a devil in or out of hell who can sink to lower depths of cruelty than fallen man will sink to when left to the unrestrained influence of that hateful thing—sin—from which Jesus Christ came to deliver us, blessed be His name!

It is said that while these four martyrs were being fastened to the stakes, an immense triple-arched rainbow stretched across the heavens, one end of which appeared to rest upon them, and that rain fell in torrents. This so terrified many of the spectators, that they fled in consternation from the scene.

But the cup of iniquity was not yet filled up. While the martyrs were still in the fire, and praying, “O Lord, receive our spirits, and lay not this sin to their charge,” a shouting yelling band arrived, dragging after them the corpses of the men and women who had perished at the Place of Hurling Down. These were tossed upon the pile to serve as fuel to the fire. The poor unrecognisable remains of Mamba were among them; and thus, even in their death, he and Ramatoa were not divided!

At this time of terrible suffering and trial—as in the previous persecutions during the reign of this tyrant queen—hundreds of Christians willingly submitted to the loss of position, wealth, and liberty for the sake of Jesus, besides those who witnessed a good confession, and sealed their testimony with their blood. Thirty-seven native preachers, with their wives and families, were consigned to a life of slavery. More than a hundred men and women were flogged and sentenced to work in chains during their lives. Some were heavily fined, and many among the “great and noble” were stripped of honours and titles, reduced to the ranks, and forced to labour at the hardest and most menial occupation.

Among these last was Prince Ramonja, who had been the means of sheltering, secreting, and saving many Christians. Fortunately Prince Rakota retained his influence over his mother, and his power to do good—a circumstance for which our three adventurers had ultimately reason to thank God, though, for a considerable time after that, they remained in prison, in company with their friends Ravonino, Voalavo, Laihova, and others.

These last were not delivered from their chains, but lived in hourly expectation of being led out to execution. After Ra-Ruth’s removal, Laihova was at first overwhelmed with despair, but when a friendly jailor informed him of her having been spared under the supposition that she was insane, hope revived a little, though he could not help seeing that the prospect ahead was still very black.

Another prisoner who was inconsolable was poor Reni-Mamba. From the time that she was told of her son’s fate she seemed to sink into a state of quiet imbecility, from which no efforts of her friends could rouse her. She did not murmur or complain. She simply sat silent and callous to everything around her. She, Rafaravavy, Sarah, and the other females, were removed to another prison, and for a long time their male friends could learn nothing as to their fate.

“It is this prolonged uncertainty that’s so hard to bear,” remarked Ravonino to Mark one day, lifting his hands high above his head, and letting them fall, with the clanking chains, into his lap.

“True, true,” replied the youth, shortly—for confinement was beginning to tell unfavourably on himself.

“Das w’ere it is,” remarked Ebony, endeavouring to brighten up a little, but with only moderate success, “it’s sottin still an’ doin’ nuffin dat kills. What you tink, ’Ockins?”

“Ay, ay,” assented the seaman; and as for a long time nothing more than “ay, ay,” had been got out of Hockins, Ebony relapsed into silence.

Things had reached this lugubrious pass when an event occurred which materially affected the condition of the prisoners, and considerably altered the history of Madagascar.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Threatened Death Averted—Buried Alive—End of the Tyrant Queen—Revolt Crushed and Radama the Second Crowned.

One morning, shortly after sunrise, Mark was awakened by the entrance of their jailor. By that time he had grown so accustomed to clanking chains, shooting bolts, and such-like sounds, that he looked up sleepily and without much interest, but a thrill or qualm passed through him when he observed that the jailor was followed by Hater of Lies with his silver spear.

Still more were he and his awakened comrades horrified when the names of Ravoninohitriniony and Voalavo were sternly called out. Both men promptly stood up.

“At last!” said the former, quietly, and without a trace of excitement. “Well, I am glad, for it is the Lord’s will. Farewell, my friends,” he added, looking back as he was led away, “we shall all meet again in great joy—farewell!”

Evidently Voalavo did not take things so quietly. His lips were firmly compressed, his face was deeply flushed, and his brows were sternly contracted, as they led him out. But for his chains the chief would certainly have given his jailors some trouble.

The whole thing passed so quickly that it seemed to those left behind like a dream when they found themselves alone. Ebony sat down, put his face on his knees, and fairly burst into tears.

“Oh! Lord,” he sobbed, “send ’em quick for me, an’ let’s hab it ober!”

It seemed as if the poor fellow’s prayer was about to be answered, for again the door opened, and the Secretary entered.

“Be not afraid,” he said, observing their alarm, “I come not to summon you to death, but to ask you, doctor, to come and see the Queen—she is ill.”

“Oh! massa, pison her! Do, massa! Nobody would call it murder,” said the negro, with fervent entreaty.

Paying no attention to this advice, Mark followed the Secretary, and the bolts were again drawn on his friends.

He found Ranavalona suffering severely. Indeed, for some time previous to that her health had been failing, and she would gladly have had the advice of her Court Physician, but seemed to be ashamed to send for him after the way she had caused him to be treated. There is this to be said for her, that she would probably have liberated him long ago, but for the advice of her minister, Rainiharo, who was jealous of the young Englishman’s growing popularity as well as a hater of his religion.

After prescribing for the Queen and affording her some relief, he gave orders that she should be kept very quiet; that no noise was to be permitted in or near the palace. Then he left her apartments with the Secretary.

As they traversed one of the corridors, the latter told Mark that the order had been given for the execution of Ravonino and Voalavo.

“Was that order given by the Queen?” demanded Mark, flushing with indignation, while a gush of anxiety almost choked him.

“No, it was given by Rainiharo, who takes advantage of his position and the Queen’s illness.”

Just then a step was heard at the further end of the passage, and Hater of Lies advanced towards them with his badge of office, the silver spear, in his hand.

Like a flash of light an idea entered the young Englishman’s head! He had no time to think or plan—only to act. In the same moment, however, he offered up a silent prayer for help.

As the officer was about to pass, Mark snatched the spear from his hand and brought the handle of it down on its owner’s crown with such good-will that the Hater of Lies was laid flat upon the floor!

Thunder-struck, the Secretary gazed at his young companion. “You are ruined now!” he said.

“True, and you must be ruined along with me! Here, take the spear and act the part of the Hater of Lies.”

For a moment the Secretary hesitated—then, as if suddenly making up his mind, he said—

“Come, I am with you heart and soul!”

“Lead to the place of execution—quick,” cried Mark.

“We will take the prison in passing,” said his companion, grasping the spear and hastening onward.

The prison was soon reached. The guards were a little surprised at the change of the bearer, but no one dared to think of opposing the passage of the well-known and awful emblem of office!

“Come, Hockins, Ebony, Laihova, follow us,” cried Mark, springing in.

He did not wait to explain. The Secretary, acting his part well, stalked with grand solemnity down the streets towards the western gate of the city. His four friends followed. Every one made way. Hockins and the negro, not knowing what they might be called on to do, took the first opportunity that presented, each to seize and carry off a garden-stake, as a substitute for cudgel or quarter-staff.

The guards, as before, let them pass without question. Once outside the town they quickened their pace, and finally ran.

“We may be too late!” gasped Mark.

“It may be so—but we have not far to go.” As he spoke they distinguished sounds as of men engaged in a struggle. On turning a point of rock they came in sight of a party of twelve soldiers. They were struggling fiercely with one man, whom they tried to bind. But the man seemed to possess the power of Samson.

“It’s Voalavo,” cried Hockins, and rushed to the rescue.

“Das so,” cried the negro, following suit with blazing eyes.

Snatching the silver spear from the Secretary, Mark sprang forward like a wild-cat, and, sweeping it right and left, brought down two of the men. His comrades overturned two others whose muskets they seized, while Voalavo, with the power of a giant, hurled two others from him as if they had been boys. He did not stop to speak, but to the surprise of his rescuers, ran straight into a neighbouring coppice, and disappeared.

For one moment the remaining soldiers lowered their bayonets as if to charge, but the Secretary, grasping the Hater of Lies, said, in a commanding tone—

“What means this haste? Ye shall answer to the Queen for what you have done! Go! Return to your quarters. You are under arrest. Carry your comrades with you!”

Cowed by this speech, for they all knew the Secretary to be a man of position and power in the palace, the soldiers humbly picked up their fallen comrades and retired. The victors immediately ran into the coppice in search of Voalavo, whom they found on his knees, digging up the earth with both hands as if for very life! Just as they came up he had uncovered the face of Ravonino, who had been buried alive, and was already as pale as if he were dead.

“Have they killed him?” gasped Laihova, as he dropped on his knees with the others, and began to dig.

“No—they do not kill when the sentence is to bury alive,” said the Secretary, “but no doubt he is half-suffocated.”

The grave was very shallow—not more than a foot deep, and a living man might without much difficulty have struggled out of it, but the poor man had been bound to a long pole, which was buried along with him, so that he could not move. They soon got him out, and were about to cast him loose when there arose a cry in the city which quickly increased to a mighty roar.

“They have found out our trick,” said the Secretary. “Nothing can save us now but flight. Come—take him up. This way!”

In a moment Hockins and Ebony had the ends of the pole on their shoulders, and bore their still unconscious friend after the Secretary. The noise and shouting in the town increased, and it soon became evident that they were pursued, being led, no doubt, by the soldiers who had been so roughly handled.

“This way,” cried their guide, turning sharp into a by-path which led them into a small garden, “a friend—a Christian—dwells here.”

The friend turned out to be an old woman who was rather deaf, but she heard enough to understand the situation.

“Here!” she said, tottering into a back-yard, in which was a quantity of straw and rubbish. “Go down there.”

She pointed to a hole. It was the mouth of a rice-hole. Down went the Secretary, without a word, and turned to receive the end of the pole which Hockins passed carefully in. The rest followed. The old woman put on the cover and threw over it some of the rubbish.

Being pitch dark, the nature of the place could not be distinguished by the fugitives, but they could hear the shouting of the soldiers who searched the house for them. They could also hear the angry queries that were put to the owner of the place, and they could perceive that the old woman had miraculously become dumb as well as stone deaf!

Soon the quietness overhead led them to hope that the soldiers had left. In a short time the cover of the rice-hole was removed, and the old woman, putting her head down, informed them that all was safe, at least in the meantime.

They now unfastened Ravonino from the pole, and found, to their great joy, that he was yet alive, though considerably shaken. A little rice-soup, however, and a night’s rest, put him all right again.

In that hole, carefully tended by the deaf old woman, these six were compelled to secrete themselves for a week, during which time the soldiers were scouring the country in all directions in search of them. They had to keep so close, and to be so careful, that they did not even dare to let the old woman go near the neighbours to inquire what was going on in the town, though naturally they were very anxious on that point.

At the end of that week, while the fugitives were taking a breath of fresh air in the yard, they were surprised by hearing the tramp of approaching soldiers. To dive into their hiding-place and be covered over by the old woman was the work of a few seconds. Anxiously they listened while the renewed search was going on. The sounds sometimes showed that the searchers were retiring from the yard, at other times drawing near to it. At last a step was heard on the rubbish heap above them; then a blow resounded on their covering, as if with the butt-end of a musket. This was followed by a shout, a clamour of voices, and a hasty clearing away of the rubbish.

“All is lost!” exclaimed the Secretary in his native tongue.

“Not while we have arms,” growled Voalavo.

“You need not count on me to help you,” said Ravonino, quietly, in the native tongue; “why should we slaughter men uselessly? If we had a chance of making a dash I would fight. But we can get out of this hole only one by one, and no doubt a hundred men await us!”

“Is we a-goin’ to fight, massa?” asked the negro, hopefully.

“Of coorse we are,” said Hockins.

“No, my friend, we are not,” said the Secretary, “our only hope, now, is in God.”

“It seems to me,” rejoined Ravonino, “that God is our only hope at all times—whether in danger or in safety; but He makes it plain just now that our duty, as well as our wisdom, lies in quiet submission.”

Ebony received this remark with a groan, and Hockins with something like a growl. Just then the covering of their hiding-place was thrown off, and several bayonet-points appeared.

“Come out, one at a time, quietly, else we will shoot you where you stand!” exclaimed a stern voice.

The Secretary translated this. At the same time Ravonino clambered out of the rice-hole, and was instantly seized and bound.

“It’s all over now—may the Lord have mercy on us!” exclaimed Hockins, dropping his weapon and following his friend.

Whatever might have been the various feelings of the unfortunate party, the example thus set was accepted, for each one submitted, and when Mark looked round on the large band of armed men by whom they were surrounded, he perceived the wisdom of Ravonino’s advice, and how hopeless would have been any attempt on the part of himself and his friends to break through and escape.

Silently, and without a word of explanation, the officer in command led his captives into the town. They were too much overwhelmed by their calamitous circumstances to pay much attention to anything, yet they could not help observing that greater crowds of people than usual were hurrying through the streets, and that every one wore, more or less, an air of excitement.

Our friends had expected to be cast into their old prison, but they were led straight to the palace, where they were handed over to the officer on duty. In spite of the depression of his spirits, the Secretary could not resist his feelings of curiosity, and asked what all the stir meant, but he received no answer.

The prisoners were now conducted into a large room, where they found Prince Rakota standing, surrounded by a crowd of people—male and female. Beside the Prince was his cousin, Ramonja. Ravonino and Laihova observed—with a gush of feeling which may be understood but not described—that Rafaravavy and Ra-Ruth were among the ladies. Poor Reni-Mamba was also there, her mild face showing unmistakable traces of the suffering caused by the loss of her only son.

“Welcome, my friends,” said Rakota, hastening forward to receive the prisoners. “You are now safe and free!”

“Safe? free?” repeated the Secretary, in surprise.

“Yes. Have they not told you the news?” he asked, while an expression, as of pain, passed over his face, “my mother—the Queen—is dead! But come,” he added quickly, as if he wished to avoid the subject, “I wish to consult with you, for serious dangers threaten us. Come.”

He left the room quickly, followed by the Secretary, while Ravonino and Laihova were drinking in the news from the respective lips that pleased them best. The facts were soon communicated to all the party.

The Queen, they said, who had been declining in health for a considerable time past, had latterly become much worse. No doubt her failure to stamp out Christianity must have aggravated her complaint, for the effect of her extreme severity was rather to advance than hinder the good cause. The persecutions—the banishments—the murders—of twenty-five years, instead of checking, had spread the Gospel far and wide over the land, for, as in the first days, ‘they that were scattered abroad went everywhere preaching the Word,’ and the amazing constancy, and courage, and tenderness to their enemies, of the noble army of martyrs, had given a depth and power to the Christian life which might otherwise have been wanting.

At all events, whatever the cause, Ranavalona the First sank rapidly, and, on the 15th of August, 1861, after a reign of thirty-three years, the Tyrant Queen of Madagascar passed away to the tribunal of the King of Kings.

Her son, Prince Rakota, was her successor; but his succession was not to be unopposed. He had a rival claimant to the throne in his own cousin Rambosalàma, an able, wary, and unscrupulous man, who, on perceiving that the end was approaching, had laid his plans secretly and extensively for seizing the reins of government. Prince Rakota, however, was so much beloved that all his cousin’s plans were revealed to him by his friends, but the disposition of the prince was too humane to permit of his adopting the usual savage means to foil his foe.

“All has been told to me,” he said to the Secretary. “My cousin has gained many to his side—especially of those who hate the Christians. He has even hired men to kill me! I know it, because one of the assassins came last night and warned me. At the same time he confessed that he had intended to commit the crime.”

“But have you not taken steps to thwart your cousin!”

“I have. For some time past every allowable measure for our protection has been taken, but the religion of Jesus, as you know, forbids me to resort to poison, the chain, or the spear. My reign shall not begin with bloodshed if I can help it. You know that my good friend the Commander-in-Chief of the troops, Rainiharo’s son, is on our side. Finding that my cousin went about armed, he recently issued an order that no one should be allowed to carry arms in the palace. As I myself bowed to this order, and submitted to be searched, of course Rambosalàma had no excuse for refusing. Then, as a precaution, we have concealed from all except sure friends the orders which, from day to day, have regulated the movements of the troops. I have met daily in council those on whom I can depend, and our course of action is all arranged. Only one point remains unsettled, and it is that which I ask you to undertake—for your will is resolute.”

“Whatever my Prince requires of me shall be done—if it be not against the laws of my God,” said the Secretary.

Rakota looked pleased with the reply. “I want you,” he said, “to stand in the passage here, till Rambosalàma appears. He is sure to pass, being now in the death-chamber, to which I return speedily. His followers will be in force in the palace-yard—I hear the multitudes assembling even now. When he passes this way it will be to give the signal of revolt. You will stop him. If he resists, use force—you are strong! You understand?”

The Secretary looked intelligent, and bowed as the Prince rose and left him. Then he hastily sought for and found his friend Ebony, with whom he had struck up a sort of happy-go-lucky friendship.

Meanwhile the multitudes, who had heard early in the morning that the Queen was dying, had crowded every street that led to the palace. Some had even pressed into the courts in their anxiety to know the truth. Laxity seemed to prevail among the guards, for many people who carried weapons ill-concealed in their lambas, and whose looks as well as movements were suspicious, were allowed to enter. These were the partisans of Rambosalàma. Indeed it is probable that even among the guards themselves there were adherents of the Pretender.

But the faithful Commander-in-Chief was on the alert, and had laid his plans. He stood in the chamber of death where the mourners were weeping. He watched with keen eye the movements of Rambosalàma, and when that Prince left the room for the purpose of giving the signal to his followers, he slipped quietly out and gave his counter-signal, which was the waving of a scarf from a window. Instantly a trumpet sounded, and more than a thousand trusty soldiers who had been in waiting marched into the palace courts.

Hearing the trumpet, the Pretender hastened along the passage that led to the court. At the end of it a door opened, and the Secretary, stepping out, confronted him.

“Well met, Rambosalàma,” he said, taking his arm in a friendly but firm way, “I have somewhat to say to you.”

“Not now, not now!” exclaimed the other, hastily. “I am wanted outside! Another time—”

“No time like the present,” interrupted the Secretary, tightening his grasp, “come this way.”

Rambosalàma taking alarm, tried to wrench himself free, but the Secretary was strong. At the same moment a powerful black hand grasped the nape of his neck.

“Come now, sar, you go ’long quiet an’ comf’r’able an’ nobody hurt you. Dis way. Das a sweet little chamber for de naughty boys.”

With a force that there was no resisting Ebony pushed the prince into a small room with a very small window. The door was shut, the key turned, and the danger was past!

Immediately afterwards the Commander-in-Chief appeared on the balcony of the palace, announced the Queen’s death to the multitude, and, amid demonstrations of wildest joy, alike from soldiers and people, proclaimed Rakota King of Madagascar, under the title of Radama the Second.

In the afternoon of the same day the King presented himself to the people, arrayed in royal robes, with a crown on his head, and surrounded by his chief nobles.

So overjoyed were the people at the blessed change from the tyranny of a cruel woman to the sway of a gentle prince, that it was some time before they could be quieted. When silence was obtained, the King, in a few and simple words, assured his subjects that his great desire was, and his aim would be, to devote himself to their welfare, and that of the country over which he had been called to reign.

Chapter Thirty.

The Last.

The vigour with which Prince Rakota put down the attempt at usurpation was followed by characteristic deeds of leniency and kindness. Instead of taking the usual method of savage and semi-civilised rulers to crush rebellion, he merely banished Rambosalàma from the capital, and confined him in a residence of his own in the country; but no fetters were put on his limbs, and his wealth was not forfeited, nor was he forbidden to communicate with his friends.

Moreover, before the sun of that day in 1861 had set, the new King caused it to be proclaimed far and wide that all his subjects might depend upon receiving equal protection; that every man was free to worship God according to the dictates of his own conscience; that the prison-doors should be thrown open to those who had been condemned for conscience sake, and their fetters knocked off. He also sent officers to announce to those who had been banished to the pestilential districts that the day of deliverance had come.

To many of these last, of course, the good news came too late for this life. Disease, and hard labour and cruel fetters, had done their work; but the deliverance that came to these was grander and more glorious than the mere removal of earthly chains and pains.

It was a glad day for Madagascar, and the people of the capital were wild with joy, for condemned ones who had long been given up as lost, because enslaved or imprisoned for life, were suddenly restored to family and friends, while others could entertain the hope that those who had been long banished would speedily return to them. Many a house in the city resounded that day with hymns of praise and thanksgiving that the tyrant Queen was dead, and that the gentle Prince was crowned.

But the change did not bring equal joy to all. Some there were whose smitten hearts could not recover from the crushing blows they had sustained when the news of loved ones having perished in exile had been brought to them—though even these felt an impulse of pleasure from Christian sympathy with the joy of their more fortunate friends.

Among these last was poor Reni-Mamba. She, being very meek and submissive, had tried hard to join in the prayer and praise; but her voice was choked when she attempted to speak, and it quavered sadly when she tried to sing.

“Oh! if it had only pleased God to spare thee, Mamba—thou crumb of my life!—my dear, my only son!” She broke out thus one day when the sympathetic Ra-Ruth sought to comfort her. “I was beginning to get over the loss of his father—it was so many years ago that they took him from me! and as my boy grew up, the likeness to my Andrianivo was so strong that I used to try to think it was himself; but—now—both—”

“Are with the Lord, which is far better,” said Ra-Ruth, tenderly laying her hand on Reni’s arm.

“You are young to give such comfort,” returned Reni, with a sad smile.

“It is not I who give it, but the Lord,” returned Ra-Ruth. “And you forget, mother, that I am old in experience. When I stood on the edge of the Rock of Hurling, that awful day, and saw the dear ones tossed over one by one, I think that many years passed over my head!”

“True—true,” returned the other, “I am a selfish old woman—forgetting others when I think so much of myself. Come—let us go to the meeting. You know that the congregation assembles to-day for the first time after many, many, years—so many!”

“Yes, mother, I know it. Indeed I came here partly to ask you to go with me. And they say that Totosy, the great preacher, is to speak to us.”

Many others besides these two wended their way to the meeting-house that day. Among them was a group in which the reader is perhaps interested. It consisted of Mark Breezy, John Hockins, Ebony Ginger, Samuel Ravoninohitriniony, Laihova, and Voalavo.

“Well now, this is the queerest go-to-meetin’ that I’ve had to do with since I was a babby,” remarked Hockins, as he looked from side to side upon the varied crowd of men and women, black, brown, and yellow, rich and poor, noble and slave, who were joyfully and noisily thronging to the house of God!

“Das true,—an’ look dar!” said Ebony, pointing to a young woman who was standing as if thunder-struck before a worn-out, feeble, white-haired man in tattered garments, with a heavy iron collar on his neck.

Recovering from her surprise, the young woman uttered the word “Father” with a wild shriek, and rushed into the old man’s arms.

“Easy to see that he is a banished one returned unexpectedly,” observed Mark, as the young woman, after the first wild embrace, seized the old man’s arm and hurried him towards the meeting-house, while tears of joy streamed from her eyes.

And this was not the only case they witnessed, for constantly, during the days that followed the accession of Radama the Second, exiles were hastening home,—men and women in rags, worn and wasted with want and suffering—reappearing in the city to the astonishment and joy of friends who had supposed them long since dead. Yes, the long-desired jubilee had come at last, and not only was there great rejoicing over those lost and found ones, but also over many who, through the power of sympathy, were brought at that time to the Saviour and repentance.

Referring to that period, one of those returned exiles writes thus:—

“On Thursday, 29th August 1861, we that were in concealment appeared. Then all the people were astonished when they saw us, that we were alive and not yet buried or eaten by the dogs. And there were a great many people desiring to see us, for they considered us as dead, and this is what astonished them. On the 9th of September, those that were in fetters came to Antananarivo, but they could not walk on account of the weight of the heavy fetters and their weak and feeble bodies.”

It was a strange gathering, and there were many surprises in the church that day, and some strange music too, besides that of psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, for, during the service, several exiles who had just arrived, hearing what was going on, had hastened to the scene of reunion without waiting to have their fetters filed off, and entered the house in clanking chains.

The preacher’s duty was one of unusual difficulty, for, besides these peculiar interruptions and the exclamations of surprised friends, the sympathy of his own heart nearly choked his utterance more than once. But Totosy was equal to the occasion. His heart was on fire, his lips were eloquent, and the occasion was one of a thousand, never to be forgotten. Despite difficulties, he held his audience spell-bound while he discoursed of the “wonderful words of God” and the shower of blessing which had begun to fall.

Suddenly, during a momentary pause in the discourse, the clanking of a very heavy chain was heard, and a man was seen to make his way through the crowd. Like Saul, head and shoulders above his fellows, gaunt, worn, and ragged, he had been standing near the door, not listening, apparently, to the preacher, but intent on scanning the faces of the congregation. Discovering at length what he looked for, he forced his way to the side of Reni-mamba, sank at her feet, and with a profound sigh—almost a groan—laid his head upon her lap!

Mamba, grown to a giant, seemed to have come back to her. But it was not her son. It was Andrianivo, her long-lost husband! For one moment poor Reni seemed terrified and bewildered, then she suddenly grasped the man’s prematurely grey head in both hands and covered the face with passionate kisses, uttering every now and then a shriek by way of relieving her feelings.

Great though the preacher’s power was in overcoming the difficulties of his position, Reni-Mamba’s meek spirit, when thus roused, was too much for him. He was obliged to stop. At the same moment the gaunt giant arose, gathered up Reni in his great arms as if she had been a mere baby, and, without a word, stalked out of the meeting to the music of his clanking chains. A Malagasy cheer burst from the sympathetic people.

“Praise the Lord! Let us sing!” shouted the wise Totosy, and in a few seconds the congregation was letting off its surplus steam in tremendous and jubilant song, to the ineffable joy of Ebony, who must have burst out in some other way had not this safety-valve been provided.

But there were more surprises in store for that singular meeting. After the sermon the preacher announced that two marriages were about to be solemnised by him in the simplest manner possible. “My friends,” he said, “one of the bridegrooms is only half a Malagasy, the other half of him is English. He objects to ceremony, and his friend, the other man to be married, objects to everything that he objects to, and agrees to everything that he agrees to, which is a very satisfactory state of mind in a friend; so they are to be married together.”

Immediately after this speech Ravonino led forward Rafaravavy, and Laihova advanced with Ra-Ruth, and these two couples were then and there united in matrimony. Radama the Second, and Prince Ramonja, who had been recalled and reinstated with the Secretary, and Soa, and other courtiers, graced the wedding with their presence.

From this time, Radama the Second—or Rakota, as we still prefer to call him—began systematically to undo the mischief which his wicked mother had done. He began to build a college; he re-opened the schools throughout the country which had been closed in the previous reign, and acted on principles of civil and religions liberty and universal free trade, while the London Missionary Society—which had sent out the first Protestant Missionaries in 1818-20—were invited to resume their beneficent labours in the island—an invitation which, of course, they gladly accepted, and at once despatched the veteran Mr Ellis, and other missionaries, to the re-opened field. See Note 1.

But all this, and much more historical matter of great interest, we must leave untouched, in order that we may wind up the record of our heroes’ fortunes, or misfortunes; as the reader pleases to consider them.

The events which we have described occurred in such rapid succession that our trio—Mark, Hockins, and Ebony—had scarce found breathing-time to consider what they should do, now that they were free to do as they pleased.

“Go home, ob course,” said Ebony, when the question was mooted. “Ain’t my black darlin’ awaitin’ ob me dar?”

“I incline to the same course,” said Mark, “for my—well, I won’t say who, is awaiting me there also.”

“Unless she’s falled in lub wid some one else, tinkin’ you was dead, massa, you know,” suggested Ebony.

“Ditto, says I,” answered Hockins, when appealed to, “for, to the best o’ my belief, my old ooman is awaitin’ for me, too, over there—he pointed to England with the stem of his pipe—to say nothin’ o’ three thumpin’ boys an’ a gal—also an old gran’-mother an’ a maiden aunt, etceterer—all awaitin’ with great patience, I have no manner o’ doubt.”

“But how’s we to git dar? Das de question; as Hamblit said to his moder’s ghost.”

The question was answered sooner than they expected, for while they were yet speaking, a summons came from the King commanding the immediate attendance of the Court Physician. The object was to offer Mark his appointment permanently, but Mark respectfully, yet firmly, declined the honour.

“I feared that,” said the King, “for I doubt not that you has friends in your native home which draws you. Well, you wishes to go. I say, ‘Go with my good-will.’ There is Breetish ship loading at Tamatave now. If you and you’s friends mus’ go, there be your chance, and I will send you to Tamatave in palanquins. We all very sorry you go, for you was useful to us, and you was be kind—to my mother!”

Of course Mark gladly availed himself of the opportunity, thankfully accepted the king’s offer, and went off to inform his comrades and make preparation.

It was a sad occasion when they met in the house of their old guide Ravonino, to spend the last evening with him and Rafaravavy, and Laihova, and Ra-Ruth, Reni-Mamba and her husband, Voalavo, Soa, Totosy, the Secretary, and other friends, but it was also a time of pleasant communing about days that seemed so long past, although so recent. They also communed of days to come, and especially of that great day of reunion in the Better Land. And intensely earnest was the final prayer of the native pastor Totosy, as he commended his friends to the loving care of God.

Next day they set sail for the seaport town of Tamatave.

And here we might appropriately terminate our narrative, for the bright days that had begun to dawn on Madagascar have never since been darkened by persecution—though they have not been altogether cloudless or free from the curse of war; for, with its enormous capacities and important position, the island has long been a morsel coveted by some of what men style the “Great Powers.”

But we may not close our tale without at least touching on one dark spot, the contemplation of which cannot fail to grieve the heart of every sincere Christian. Rakota, the gentle, humane, courageous Prince, who had always favoured, and suffered hardship for, the cause of Christ, who had shielded and saved many of the Christians at the risk of his own life, and seemed to be—indeed was—a very pillar in the infant church, Rakota fell into gross sin and ultimately perished by the assassin’s hand.

We have no right to judge him. Only this we know, that “the blood of Jesus Christ cleanseth from all sin;” and if his life and death throw light upon any passage of Scripture, they seem to bring out in strong relief the words, “Let him that thinketh he standeth take heed lest he fall.”

It was a bright breezy morning when our three heroes stood on the deck of a homeward-bound vessel and gazed wistfully over the taffrail at the fast-receding shore. When the island sank like a little cloud into the horizon and disappeared, Mark and Ebony turned their eager eyes in the direction of old England, as if they half expected that celebrated isle of the west to appear! Possibly the one was thinking of a fair one with golden hair and blue eyes and a rosebud mouth. It is not improbable that the other was engaged in mental contemplation of a dark one with “a flat nose, and a coal-scuttle mout’, an’ such eyes!” As for Hockins, he stood with his sea-legs wide apart, his hands in his breeches pockets, and his eyes frowning severely at the deck. Evidently his thoughts, whether of past, present, or future, were too deep for utterance, for, like his comrades, he maintained unbroken silence.

Leaving them thus in pensive meditation, we regretfully bid them—and our readers—farewell!

Note 1. Those who wish for fuller information will find it in such works as Madagascar and its People, by James Sibree, Junior; Madagascar, its Missions and its Martyrs; The History of Madagascar, etcetera, by Reverend William Ellis; Madagascar of To-day, (a threepenny volume), by G A Shaw, F Z S, etcetera.

The End.

Table of Contents

- Chapter One.

- In which the hunters are introduced.

- Chapter Two.

- Life in the wild woods.

- Chapter Three.

- Wherein I mount guard, and how I did it, etcetera.

- Chapter Four.

- Wherein will be found much that is philosophical.

- Chapter Five.

- Preparations for a grand hunt.

- Chapter Six.

- Dreaming and feeding and bloody work enlarged upon.

- Chapter Seven.

- We Circumvent the Natives.

- Chapter Eight.

- Peterkin distinguishes himself, and Okandaga is disposed of, etcetera.

- Chapter Nine.

- I discover a curious insect, and Peterkin takes a strange flight.

- Chapter Ten.

- Water Appreciated—Destructive Files, Etcetera.

- Chapter Eleven.

- How We Met With Our First Gorilla, And How We Served Him.

- Chapter Twelve.

- Peterkin’s Schoolday Reminiscences.

- Chapter Thirteen.

- We get into “The Thick of it”—Great Success.

- Chapter Fourteen.

- Our Plans are Suddenly Altered—Wicked Designs Discovered.

- Chapter Fifteen.

- An unexpected meeting—We fly, and I make a narrow escape from an appalling fate.

- Chapter Sixteen.

- An unfortunate delay, and a terrible visitor.

- Chapter Seventeen.

- We visit a natural menagerie, see wonderful sights, and meet with strange adventures.

- Chapter Eighteen.

- Strange and terrible discoveries—Jack is made commander-in-chief of an army.

- Chapter Nineteen.

- Preparations for War, and Peculiar Drill.

- Chapter Twenty.

- A Warlike Expedition and a Victory.

- Chapter Twenty One.

- Arrangements for pursuing the enemy, and sudden change of plans.

- Chapter Twenty Two.

- We Meet with a Ludicrously Awful Adventure.

- Chapter Twenty Three.

- We see strange things, and give our negro friends the slip.

- Chapter Twenty Four.

- A Long Chase, and a Happy Termination Thereof.

- Chapter Twenty Five.

- I Have a Desperate Encounter and a Narrow Escape.

- The End.

R.M. Ballantyne

The Gorilla Hunters

Chapter One.

In which the hunters are introduced.

It was five o’clock in the afternoon. There can be no doubt whatever as to that. Old Agnes may say what she pleases—she has a habit of doing so—but I know for certain (because I looked at my watch not ten minutes before it happened) that it was exactly five o’clock in the afternoon when I received a most singular and every way remarkable visit—a visit which has left an indelible impression on my memory, as well it might; for, independent of its singularity and unexpectedness, one of its results was the series of strange adventures which are faithfully detailed in this volume.

It happened thus:—

I was seated in an armchair in my private study in a small town on the west coast of England. It was a splendid afternoon, and it was exactly five o’clock. Mark that. Not that there is anything singular about the mere fact, neither is it in any way mixed up with the thread of this tale; but old Agnes is very obstinate—singularly positive—and I have a special desire that she should see it in print, that I have not given in on that point. Yes, it was five precisely, and a beautiful evening. I was ruminating, as I frequently do, on the pleasant memories of bygone days, especially the happy days that I spent long ago among the coral islands of the Pacific, when a tap at the door aroused me.

“Come in.”

“A veesiter, sir,” said old Agnes (my landlady), “an’ he’ll no gie his name.”

Old Agnes, I may remark, is a Scotchwoman.

“Show him in,” said I.

“Maybe he’s a pickpocket,” suggested Agnes.

“I’ll take my chance of that.”

“Ay! that’s like ’ee. Cares for naethin’. Losh, man, what if he cuts yer throat?”

“I’ll take my chance of that too; only do show him in, my good woman,” said I, with a gesture of impatience that caused the excellent (though obstinate) old creature to depart, grumbling.

In another moment a quick step was heard on the stair, and a stranger burst into the room, shut the door in my landlady’s face as she followed him, and locked it.

I was naturally surprised, though not alarmed, by the abrupt and eccentric conduct of my visitor, who did not condescend to take off his hat, but stood with his arms folded on his breast, gazing at me and breathing hard.

“You are agitated, sir; pray be seated,” said I, pointing to a chair.

The stranger, who was a little man and evidently a gentleman, made no reply, but, seizing a chair, placed it exactly before me, sat down on it as he would have seated himself on a horse, rested his arms on the back, and stared me in the face.

“You are disposed to be facetious,” said I, smiling (for I never take offence without excessively good reason).

“Not at all, by no means,” said he, taking off his hat and throwing it recklessly on the floor. “You are Mr Rover, I presume?”

“The same, sir, at your service.”

“Are you? oh, that’s yet to be seen! Pray, is your Christian name Ralph?”

“It is,” said I, in some surprise at the coolness of my visitor.

“Ah! just so. Christian name Ralph, t’other name Rover—Ralph Rover. Very good. Age twenty-two yesterday, eh?”

“My birthday was yesterday, and my age is twenty-two. You appear to know more of my private history than I have the pleasure of knowing of yours. Pray, sir, may I—but, bless me! are you unwell?”

I asked this in some alarm, because the little man was rolling about in his seat, holding his sides, and growing very red in the face.

“Oh no! not at all; perfectly well—never was better in my life,” he said, becoming all at once preternaturally grave. “You were once in the Pacific—lived on a coral island—”

“I did.”

“Oh, don’t trouble yourself to answer. Just shut up for a minute or two. You were rather a soft green youth then, and you don’t seem to be much harder or less verdant now.”

“Sir!” I exclaimed, getting angry.

“Just so,” continued he, “and you knew a young rascal there—”

“I know a rascal here,” I exclaimed, starting up, “whom I’ll kick—”

“What!” cried the little stranger, also starting up and capsizing the chair; “Ralph Rover, has time and sunburning and war so changed my visage that you cannot recognise Peterkin?”

I almost gasped for breath.

“Peterkin—Peterkin Gay!” I exclaimed.

I am not prone to indulge in effeminate demonstration, but I am not ashamed to confess that when I gazed on the weather-beaten though ruddy countenance of my old companion, and observed the eager glance of his bright blue eyes, I was quite overcome, and rushed violently into his arms. I may also add that until that day I had had no idea of Peterkin’s physical strength; for during the next five minutes he twisted me about and spun me round and round my own room until my brain began to reel, and I was fain to cry him mercy.

“So, you’re all right—the same jolly, young old wiseacre in whiskers and long coat,” cried Peterkin. “Come now, Ralph, sit down if you can. I mean to stay with you all evening, and all night, and all to-morrow, and all next day, so we’ll have lots of time to fight our battles o’er again. Meanwhile compose yourself, and I’ll tell you what I’ve come about. Of course, my first and chief reason was to see your face, old boy; but I have another reason too—a very peculiar reason. I’ve a proposal to make and a plan to unfold, both of ’em stunners; they’ll shut you up and screw you down, and altogether flabbergast you when you hear ’em, so sit down and keep quiet—do.”

I sat down accordingly, and tried to compose myself; but, to say truth, I was so much overjoyed and excited by the sight of my old friend and companion that I had some difficulty at first in fixing my attention on what he said, the more especially that he spoke with extreme volubility, and interrupted his discourse very frequently, in order to ask questions or to explain.

“Now, old fellow,” he began, “here goes, and mind you don’t interrupt me. Well, I mean to go, and I mean you to go with me, to—but, I forgot, perhaps you won’t be able to go. What are you?”

“What am I?”

“Ay, your profession, your calling; lawyer, M.D., scrivener—which?”

“I am a naturalist.”

“A what?”

“A naturalist.”

“Ralph,” said Peterkin slowly, “have you been long troubled with that complaint?”

“Yes,” I replied, laughing; “I have suffered from it from my earliest infancy, more or less.”

“I thought so,” rejoined my companion, shaking his head gravely. “I fancied that I observed the development of that disease when we lived together on the coral island. It don’t bring you in many thousands a year, does it?”

“No,” said I, “it does not. I am only an amateur, having a sufficiency of this world’s goods to live on without working for my bread. But although my dear father at his death left me a small fortune, which yields me three hundred a year, I do not feel entitled to lead the life of an idler in this busy world, where so many are obliged to toil night and day for the bare necessaries of life. I have therefore taken to my favourite studies as a sort of business, and flatter myself that I have made one or two not unimportant discoveries, and added a few mites to the sum of human knowledge. A good deal of my time is spent in scientific roving expeditions throughout the country, and in contributing papers to several magazines.”

While I was thus speaking I observed that Peterkin’s face was undergoing the most remarkable series of changes of expression, which, as I concluded, merged into a smile of beaming delight, as he said,—“Ralph, you’re a trump!”

“Possibly,” said I, “you are right; but, setting that question aside for the present, let me remind you that you have not yet told me where you mean to go to.”

“I mean,” said Peterkin slowly, placing both hands on his knees and looking me steadily in the face—“I mean to go a-hunting in—but I forgot. You don’t know that I’m a hunter, a somewhat famous hunter?”

“Of course I don’t. You are so full of your plans and proposals that you have not yet told me where you have been or what doing these six years. And you ye never written to me once all that time, shabby fellow. I thought you were dead.”

“Did you go into mourning for me, Ralph?”

“No, of course not.”

“A pretty fellow you are to find fault. You thought that I, your oldest and best friend, was dead, and you did not go into mourning. How could I write to you when you parted from me without giving me your address? It was a mere chance my finding you out even now. I was taking a quiet cup of coffee in the commercial room of a hotel not far distant, when I overheard a stranger speaking of his friend ‘Ralph Rover, the philosopher,’ so I plunged at him promiscuously, and made him give me your address. But I’ve corresponded with Jack ever since we parted on the pier at Dover.”

“What! Jack—Jack Martin?” I exclaimed, as a warm gush of feeling filled my heart at the sound of his well-remembered name. “Is Jack alive?”

“Alive! I should think so. If possible, he’s more alive than ever; for I should suppose he must be full-grown now, which he was not when we last met. He and I have corresponded regularly. He lives in the north of England, and by good luck happens to be just now within thirty miles of this town. You don’t mean to say, Ralph, that you have never met!”

“Never. The very same mistake that happened with you occurred between him and me. We parted vowing to correspond as long as we should live, and three hours after I remembered that we had neglected to exchange our addresses, so that we could not correspond. I have often, often made inquiries both for you and him, but have always failed. I never heard of Jack from the time we parted at Dover till to-day.”

“Then no doubt you thought us both dead, and yet you did not go into mourning for either of us! O Ralph, Ralph, I had entertained too good an opinion of you.”

“But tell me about Jack,” said I, impatient to hear more concerning my dear old comrade.

“Not just now, my boy; more of him in a few minutes. First let us return to the point. What was it? Oh! a—about my being a celebrated hunter. A very Nimrod—at least a miniature copy. Well, Ralph, since we last met I have been all over the world, right round and round it. I’m a lieutenant in the navy now—at least I was a week ago. I’ve been fighting with the Kaffirs and the Chinamen, and been punishing the rascally sepoys in India, and been hunting elephants in Ceylon and tiger-shooting in the jungles, and harpooning whales in the polar seas, and shooting lions at the Cape; oh, you’ve no notion where all I’ve been. It’s a perfect marvel I’ve turned up here alive. But there’s one beast I’ve not yet seen, and I’m resolved to see him and shoot him too—”

“But,” said I, interrupting, “what mean you by saying that you were a lieutenant in the navy a week ago?”

“I mean that I’ve given it up. I’m tired of the sea. I only value it as a means of getting from one country to another. The land, the land for me! You must know that an old uncle, a rich old uncle of mine, whom I never saw, died lately and left me his whole fortune. Of course he died in India. All old uncles who die suddenly and leave unexpected fortunes to unsuspecting nephews are old Indian uncles, and mine was no exception to the general rule. So I’m independent, like you, Ralph, only I’ve got three or four thousand a year instead of hundreds, I believe; but I’m not sure and don’t care—and I’m determined now to go on a long hunting expedition. What think ye of all that, my boy?”

“In truth,” said I, “it would puzzle me to say what I think, I am so filled with surprise by all you tell me. But you forget that you have not yet told me to which part of the world you mean to go, and what sort of beast it is you are so determined to see and shoot if you can.”

“If I can!” echoed Peterkin, with a contemptuous curl of the lip. “Did not I tell you that I was a celebrated hunter? Without meaning to boast, I may tell you that there is no peradventure in my shooting. If I only get there and see the brute within long range, I’ll—ha! won’t I!”

“Get where, and see what?”

“Get to Africa and see the gorilla!” cried Peterkin, while a glow of enthusiasm lighted up his eyes. “You’ve heard of the gorilla, Ralph, of course—the great ape—the enormous puggy—the huge baboon—the man monkey, that we’ve been hearing so much of for some years back, and that the niggers on the African coast used to dilate about till they caused the very hair of my head to stand upon end? I’m determined to shoot a gorilla, or prove him to be a myth. And I mean you to come and help me, Ralph; he’s quite in your way. A bit of natural history, I suppose, although he seems by all accounts to be a very unnatural monster. And Jack shall go too—I’m resolved on that; and we three shall roam the wild woods again, as we did in days of yore, and—”

“Hold, Peterkin,” said I, interrupting. “How do you know that Jack will go?”

“How do I know? Intuitively, of course. I shall write to him to-night; the post does not leave till ten. He’ll get it to-morrow at breakfast, and will catch the forenoon coach, which will bring him down here by two o’clock, and then we’ll begin our preparations at once, and talk the matter over at dinner. So you see it’s all cut and dry. Give me a sheet of paper and I’ll write at once. Ah! here’s a bit; now a pen. Bless me, Ralph, haven’t you got a quill? Who ever heard of a philosophical naturalist writing with steel. Now, then, here goes:— ‘B’luv’d Jack,’—will that do to begin with, eh? I’m afraid it’s too affectionate; he’ll think it’s from a lady friend. But it can’t be altered,—‘Here I am, and here’s Ralph—Ralph Rover!!!!!! think of that,’ (I say, Ralph, I’ve put six marks of admiration there); ‘I’ve found him out. Do come to see us. Excruciatingly important business. Ever thine—Peterkin Gay.’ Will that bring him, d’ye think?”

“I think it will,” said I, laughing.

“Then off with it, Ralph,” cried my volatile friend, jumping up and looking hastily round for the bell-rope. Not being able to find it, my bell-pull being an unobtrusive knob and not a rope, he rushed to the door, unlocked it, darted out, and uttered a tremendous roar, which was followed by a clatter and a scream from old Agnes, whom he had upset and tumbled over.

It was curious to note the sudden change that took place in Peterkin’s face, voice, and manner, as he lifted the poor old woman, who was very thin and light, in his arms, and carrying her into the room, placed her in my easy-chair. Real anxiety was depicted in his countenance, and he set her down with a degree of care and tenderness that quite amazed me. I was myself very much alarmed at first.

“My poor dear old woman,” said Peterkin, supporting my landlady’s head; “my stupid haste I fear you are hurt.”

“Hech! it’s nae hurt—it’s deed I am, fair deed; killed be a whaumlskamerin’ young blagyird. Oh, ma puir heed!”

The manner and tone in which this was said convinced me that old Agnes was more frightened than injured. In a few minutes the soothing tones and kind manner of my friend had such an effect upon her that she declared she was better, and believed after all that she was only a “wee bit frichtened.” Nay, so completely was she conciliated, that she insisted on conveying the note to the post-office, despite Peterkin’s assurance that he would not hear of it. Finally she hobbled out of the room with the letter in her hand.

It is interesting to note how that, in most of the affairs of humanity, things turn out very different, often totally different, from what we had expected or imagined. During the remainder of that evening Peterkin and I talked frequently and much of our old friend Jack Martin. We recalled his manly yet youthful countenance, his bold, lion-like courage, his broad shoulders and winning gentle smile, and although we knew that six years must have made an immense difference in his personal appearance—for he was not much more than eighteen when we last parted—we could not think of him except as a hearty, strapping sailor-boy. We planned, too, how we would meet him at the coach; how we would stand aside in the crowd until he began to look about for us in surprise, and then one of us would step forward and ask if he wished to be directed to any particular part of the town, and so lead him on and talk to him as a stranger for some time before revealing who we were. And much more to the same effect. But when next day came our plans and our conceptions were utterly upset.

A little before two we sauntered down to the coach-office, and waited impatiently for nearly twenty minutes. Of course the coach was late; it always is on such occasions.

“Suppose he does not come,” said I.

“What a fellow you are,” cried Peterkin, “to make uncomfortable suppositions! Let us rather suppose that he does come.”

“Oh, then, it would be all right; but if he does not come, what then?”

“Why, then, it would be all wrong, and we should have to return home and eat our dinner in the sulks, that’s all.”

As my companion spoke we observed the coach come sweeping round the turn of the road about half a mile distant. In a few seconds it dashed into the town at full gallop, and finally drew up abruptly opposite the door of the inn, where were assembled the usual group of hostlers and waiters and people who expected friends by the coach.

“He’s not there,” whispered Peterkin, in deep disappointment—“at least he’s not on the outside, and Jack would never travel inside of a coach even in bad weather, much less in fine. That’s not him on the back-seat beside the fat old woman with the blue bundle, surely! It’s very like him, but too young, much too young. There’s a great giant of a man on the box-seat with a beard like a grenadier’s shako, and a stout old gentleman behind him with gold spectacles. That’s all, except two boys farther aft, and three ladies in the cabin. Oh, what a bore!”

Although deeply disappointed at the non-arrival of Jack, I could with difficulty refrain from smiling at the rueful and woe-begone countenance of my poor companion. It was evident that he could not bear disappointment with equanimity, and I was on the point of offering some consolatory remarks, when my attention was attracted by the little old woman with the blue bundle, who went up to the gigantic man with the black beard, and in the gentlest possible tone of voice asked if he could direct her to the white house.

“No, madam,” replied the big man hastily; “I’m a stranger here.”

The little old woman was startled by his abrupt answer. “Deary me, sir, no offence, I hope.”

She then turned to Peterkin and put the same question, possibly under a vague sort of impression that if a gigantic frame betokened a gruff nature, diminutive stature must necessarily imply extreme amiability. If so, she must have been much surprised as well as disappointed, for Peterkin, rendered irascible by disappointment, turned short round and said sharply, “Why, madam, how can I tell you where the white house is, unless you say which white house you want? Half the houses of the town are white—at least they’re dirty white,” he added bitterly, as he turned away.

“I think I can direct you, ma’am,” said I, stepping quickly up with a bland smile, in order to counteract, if possible, my companion’s rudeness.

“Thank you, sir, kindly,” said the little old woman; “I’m glad to find some little civility in the town.”

“Come with me, ma’am; I am going past the white house, and will show you the way.”

“And pray, sir,” said the big stranger, stepping up to me as I was about to move away, “can you recommend me to a good hotel?”

I replied that I could; that there was one in the immediate vicinity of the white house, and that if he would accompany me I would show him the way. All this I did purposely in a very affable and obliging tone and manner; for I hold that example is infinitely better than precept, and always endeavour, if possible, to overcome evil with good. I offered my arm to the old woman, who thanked me and took it.

“What!” whispered Peterkin, “you don’t mean me to take this great ugly gorilla in tow?”

“Of course,” replied I, laughing, as I led the way.

Immediately I entered into conversation with my companion, and I heard “the gorilla” attempt to do so with Peterkin; but from the few sharp cross replies that reached my ear, I became aware that he was unsuccessful. In the course of a few minutes, however, he appeared to have overcome his companion’s ill-humour, for I overheard their voices growing louder and more animated as they walked behind me.

Suddenly I heard a shout, and turning hastily round, observed Peterkin struggling in the arms of the gorilla! Amazed beyond measure at the sight, and firmly persuaded that a cowardly assault had been made upon my friend, I seized the old woman’s umbrella, as the only available weapon, and flew to the rescue.

“Jack, my boy! can it be possible?” gasped Peterkin.

“I believe it is,” replied Jack, laughing.—“Ralph, my dear old fellow, how are you?”

I stood petrified. I believed that I was in a dream.

I know not what occurred during the next five minutes. All I could remember with anything like distinctness was a succession of violent screams from the little old woman, who fled shouting thieves and murder at the full pitch of her voice. We never saw that old woman again, but I made a point of returning her umbrella to the “white house.”

Gradually we became collected and sane.

“Why, Jack, how did you find us out?” cried Peterkin, as we all hurried on to my lodgings, totally forgetful of the little old woman, whom, as I have said, we never saw again, but who, I sincerely trust, arrived at the white house in safety.

“Find you out! I knew you the moment I set eyes on you. Ralph puzzled me for a second, he has grown so much stouter; but I should know your nose, Peterkin, at a mile off.”

“Well, Jack, I did not know you,” retorted Peterkin, “but I’m safe never again to forget you. Such a great hairy Cossack as you have become! Why, what do you mean by it?”

“I couldn’t help it, please,” pleaded Jack; “I grew in spite of myself; but I think I’ve stopped now.”

“It’s time,” remarked Peterkin.

Jack had indeed grown to a size that men seldom attain to without losing in grace infinitely more than they gain in bulk, but he had retained all the elegance of form and sturdy vigour of action that had characterised him as a boy. He was fully six feet two inches in his stockings, but so perfect were his proportions that his great height did not become apparent until you came close up to him. Full half of his handsome manly face was hid by a bushy black beard and moustache, and his curly hair had been allowed to grow luxuriantly, so that his whole aspect was more like to the descriptions we have of one of the old Scandinavian Vikings than a gentleman of the present time. In whatever company he chanced to be he towered high above every one else, and I am satisfied that, had he walked down Whitechapel, the Horse Guards would have appeared small beside him, for he possessed not only great length of limb but immense breadth of chest and shoulders.

During our walk to my lodgings Peterkin hurriedly stated his “plan and proposal,” which caused Jack to laugh very much at first, but in a few minutes he became grave, and said slowly, “That will just suit—it will do exactly.”

“What will do exactly? Do be more explicit, man,” said Peterkin, with some impatience.

“I’ll go with you, my boy.”

“Will you?” cried Peterkin, seizing his hand and shaking it violently; “I knew you would. I said it; didn’t I, Ralph? And now we shall be sure of a gorilla, if there’s one in Africa, for I’ll use you as a stalking-horse.”

“Indeed!” exclaimed Jack.

“Yes; I’ll put a bear-skin or some sort of fur on your shoulders, and tie a lady’s boa to you for a tail, and send you into the woods. The gorillas will be sure to mistake you for a relative until you get quite close; then you’ll take one pace to the left with the left foot (as the volunteers say), I’ll take one to the front with the right—at fifty yards, ready—present—bang, and down goes the huge puggy with a bullet right between its two eyes! There. And Ralph’s agreed to go too.”

“O Peterkin, I’ve done nothing of the sort. You proposed it.”

“Well, and isn’t that the same thing? I wonder, Ralph that you can give way to such mean-spirited prevarication. What? ‘It’s not prevarication!’ Don’t say that now; you know it is. Ah! you may laugh, my boy, but you have promised to go with me and Jack to Africa, and go you shall.”

And so, reader, it was ultimately settled, and in the course of two weeks more we three were on our way to the land of the slave, the black savage, and the gorilla.

Chapter Two.

Life in the wild woods.

One night, about five or six weeks after our resolution to go to Africa on a hunting expedition was formed, I put to myself the question, “Can it be possible that we are actually here, in the midst of it?”

“Certainly, my boy, in the very thick of it,” answered Peterkin, in a tone of voice which made Jack laugh, while I started and exclaimed—

“Why, Peterkin, how did you come to guess my thoughts?”

“Because, Ralph, you have got into a habit of thinking aloud, which may do very well as long as you have no secrets to keep but it may prove inconvenient some day, so I warn you in time.”

Not feeling disposed at that time to enter into a bantering conversation with my volatile companion, I made no reply, but abandoned myself again to the pleasing fancies and feelings which were called up by the singular scene in the midst of which I found myself.

It seemed as if it were but yesterday when we drove about the crowded streets of London making the necessary purchases for our intended journey, and now, as I gazed around, every object that met my eye seemed strange, and wild, and foreign, and romantic. We three were reclining round an enormous wood fire in the midst of a great forest, the trees and plants of which were quite new to me, and totally unlike those of my native land. Rich luxuriance of vegetation was the feature that filled my mind most. Tall palms surrounded us, throwing their broad leaves overhead and partially concealing the starlit sky. Thick tough limbs of creeping plants and wild vines twisted and twined round everything and over everything, giving to the woods an appearance of tangled impenetrability; but the beautiful leaves of some, and the delicate tendrils of others, half concealed the sturdy limbs of the trees, and threw over the whole a certain air of wild grace, as might a semi-transparent and beautiful robe if thrown around the form of a savage.

The effect of a strong fire in the woods at night is to give to surrounding space an appearance of ebony blackness, against which dark ground the gnarled stems and branches and pendent foliage appear as if traced out in light and lovely colours, which are suffused with a rich warm tone from the blaze.

We were now in the wilds of Africa, although, as I have said, I found it difficult to believe the fact. Jack and I wore loose brown shooting coats and pantaloons; but we had made up our minds to give up waistcoats and neckcloths, so that our scarlet flannel shirts with turned-down collars gave to us quite a picturesque and brigand-like appearance as we encircled the blaze—Peterkin smoking vigorously, for he had acquired that bad and very absurd habit at sea. Jack smoked too, but he was not so inveterate as Peterkin.

Jack was essentially moderate in his nature. He did nothing violently or in a hurry; but this does not imply that he was slow or lazy. He was leisurely in disposition, and circumstances seldom required him to be otherwise. When Peterkin or I had to lift heavy weights, we were obliged to exert our utmost strength and agitate our whole frames; but Jack was so powerful that a comparatively slight effort was all that he was usually obliged to make. Again, when we two were in a hurry we walked quickly, but Jack’s long limbs enabled him to keep up with us without effort. Nevertheless there were times when he was called upon to act quickly and with energy. On those occasions he was as active as Peterkin himself, but his movements were tremendous. It was, I may almost say, awful to behold Jack when acting under powerful excitement. He was indeed a splendid fellow, and not by any means deserving of the name of gorilla, which Peterkin had bestowed on him.

But to continue my description of our costume. We all wore homespun grey trousers of strong material. Peterkin and Jack wore leggings in addition, so that they seemed to have on what are now termed knickerbockers. Peterkin, however, had no coat. He preferred a stout grey flannel shirt hanging down to his knees and belted round his waist in the form of a tunic. Our tastes in headdress were varied. Jack wore a pork-pie cap; Peterkin and I had wide-awakes. My facetious little companion said that I had selected this species of hat because I was always more than half asleep! Being peculiar in everything, Peterkin wore his wide-awake in an unusual manner—namely, turned up at the back, down at the front, and curled very much up at the sides.

We were so filled with admiration of Jack’s magnificent beard and moustache, that Peterkin and I had resolved to cultivate ours while in Africa; but I must say that, as I looked at Peterkin’s face, the additional hair was not at that time an improvement, and I believe that much more could not have been said for myself. The effect on my little comrade was to cause the lower part of his otherwise good-looking face to appear extremely dirty.

“I wonder,” said Peterkin, after a long silence, “if we shall reach the niggers’ village in time for the hunt to-morrow. I fear that we have spent too much time in this wild-goose chase.”

“Wild-goose chase, Peterkin!” I exclaimed. “Do you call hunting the gorilla by such a term?”

“Hunting the gorilla? no, certainly; but looking for the gorilla in a part of the woods where no such beast was ever heard of since Adam was a schoolboy—”

“Nay, Peterkin,” interrupted Jack; “we are getting very near to the gorilla country, and you must make allowance for the enthusiasm of a naturalist.”

“Ah! we shall see where the naturalist’s enthusiasm will fly to when we actually do come face to face with the big puggy.”

“Well,” said I, apologetically, “I won’t press you to go hunting again; I’ll be content to follow.”

“Press me, my dear Ralph!” exclaimed Peterkin hastily, fearing that he had hurt my feelings; “why, man, I do but jest with you—you are so horridly literal. I’m overjoyed to be pressed to go on the maddest wild-goose chase that ever was invented. My greatest delight would be to go gorilla-hunting down Fleet Street, if you were so disposed.—But to be serious, Jack, do you think we shall be in time for the elephant-hunt to-morrow?”

“Ay, in capital time, if you don’t knock up.”

“What! I knock up! I’ve a good mind to knock you down for suggesting such an egregious impossibility.”

“That’s an impossibility anyhow, Peterkin, because I’m down already,” said Jack, yawning lazily and stretching out his limbs in a more comfortable and dégagé manner.

Peterkin seemed to ponder as he smoked his pipe for some time in silence.

“Ralph,” said he, looking up suddenly, “I don’t feel a bit sleepy, and yet I’m tired enough.”

“You are smoking too much, perhaps,” I suggested.

“It’s not that,” cried Jack; “he has eaten too much supper.”

“Base insinuation!” retorted Peterkin.

“Then it must be the monkey. That’s it. Roast monkey does not agree with you.”

“Do you know, I shouldn’t wonder if you were right; and it’s a pity, too, for we shall have to live a good deal on such fare, I believe. However, I suppose we shall get used to it.—But I say, boys, isn’t it jolly to be out here living like savages? I declare it seems to me like a dream or a romance.—Just look, Ralph, at the strange wild creepers that are festooned overhead, and the great tropical leaves behind us, and the clear sky above, with the moon—ah! the moon; yes, that’s one comfort—the moon is unchanged. The same moon that smiles down upon us through a tangled mesh-work of palm-leaves and wild vines and monkeys’ tails, is peeping down the chimney-pots of London and Edinburgh and Dublin!”

“Why, Peterkin, you must have studied hard in early life to be so good a geographer.”

“Rather,” observed Peterkin.

“Yes; and look at the strange character of the tree-stems,” said I, unwilling to allow the subject to drop. “See those huge palmettoes like—like—”

“Overgrown cabbages,” suggested Peterkin; and he continued, “Observe the quaint originality of form in the body and limbs of that bloated old spider that is crawling up your leg, Ralph!”

I started involuntarily, for there is no creature of which I have a greater abhorrence than a spider.

“Where is it? oh! I see,” and the next moment I secured my prize and placed it with loathing, but interest, in my entomological box.

At that moment a hideous roar rang through the woods, seemingly close behind us. We all started to our feet, and seizing our rifles, which lay beside us ready loaded, cocked them and drew close together round the fire.

“This won’t do, lads,” said Jack, after a few minutes’ breathless suspense, during which the only sound we could hear was the beating of our own hearts; “we have allowed the fire to get too low, and we’ve forgotten to adopt our friend the trader’s advice, and make two fires.”

So saying, Jack laid down his rifle, and kicking the logs with his heavy boot, sent up such a cloud of bright sparks as must certainly have scared the wild animal, whatever it was, away; for we heard no more of it that night.

“You’re right, Jack,” remarked Peterkin; “so let us get up a blaze as fast as we can, and I’ll take the first watch, not being sleepy. Come along.”

In a few minutes we cut down with our axes a sufficient quantity of dry wood to keep two large fires going all night; we then kindled our second fire at a few yards distant from the first, and made our camp between them. This precaution we took in order to scare away the wild animals whose cries we heard occasionally during the night. Peterkin, having proposed to take the first watch—for we had to watch by turns all the night through—lighted his pipe and sat down before the cheerful fire with his back against the stem of a palm-tree, and his rifle lying close to his hand, to be ready in case of a surprise. There were many natives wandering about in that neighbourhood, some of whom might be ignorant of our having arrived at their village on a peaceful errand. If these should have chanced to come upon us suddenly, there was no saying what they might do in their surprise and alarm, so it behoved us to be on our guard.

Jack and I unrolled the light blankets that we carried strapped to our shoulders through the day, and laying ourselves down side by side with our feet to the fire and our heads pillowed on a soft pile of sweet-scented grass, we addressed ourselves to sleep. But sleep did not come so soon as we expected. I have often noted with some surprise and much interest the curious phases of the phenomenon of sleep. When I have gone to bed excessively fatigued and expecting to fall asleep almost at once, I have been surprised and annoyed to find that the longer I wooed the drowsy god the longer he refused to come to me; and at last, when I have given up the attempt in despair, he has suddenly laid his gentle hand upon my eyes and carried me into the land of Nod. Again, when I have been exceedingly anxious to keep awake, I have been attacked by sleep with such irresistible energy that I have been utterly unable to keep my eyelids open or my head erect, and have sat with my eyes blinking like those of an owl in the sunshine, and my head nodding like that of a Chinese mandarin.

On this our first night in the African bush, at least our first night on a hunting expedition—we had been many nights in the woods on our journey to that spot—on this night, I say, Jack and I could by no means get to sleep for a very long time after we lay down, but continued to gaze up through the leafy screen overhead at the stars, which seemed to wink at us, I almost fancied, jocosely. We did not speak to each other, but purposely kept silence. After a time, however, Jack groaned, and said softly—

“Ralph, are you asleep?”

“No,” said I, yawning.

“I’m quite sure that Peterkin is,” added Jack, raising his head and looking across the fire at the half-recumbent form of our companion.

“Is he?” said Peterkin in a low tone. “Just about as sound as a weasel!”

“Jack,” said I.

“Well?”

“I can’t sleep a wink. Ye-a-ow! isn’t it odd?”

“No more can I. Do you know, Ralph, I’ve been counting the red berries in that tree above me for half an hour, in the hope that the monotony of the thing would send me off; but I was interrupted by a small monkey who has been sitting up among the branches and making faces at me for full twenty minutes. There it is yet, I believe. Do you see it?”

“No; where?”

“Almost above your head.”

I gazed upward intently for a few minutes, until I thought I saw the monkey, but it was very indistinct. Gradually, however, it became more defined; then to my surprise it turned out to be the head of an elephant! I was not only amazed but startled at this.

“Get your rifle, Jack!” said I, in a low whisper.

Jack made some sort of reply, but his voice sounded hollow and indistinct. Then I looked up again, and saw that it was the head of a hippopotamus, not that of an elephant, which was looking down at me. Curiously enough, I felt little or no surprise at this, and when in the course of a few minutes I observed a pair of horns growing out of the creature’s eyes and a bushy tail standing erect on the apex of its head, I ceased to be astonished at the sight altogether, and regarded it as quite natural and commonplace. The object afterwards assumed the appearance of a lion with a crocodile’s bail, and a serpent with a monkey’s head, and lastly of a gorilla, without producing in me any other feeling than that of profound indifference. Gradually the whole scene vanished, and I became totally oblivious.

This state of happy unconsciousness had scarcely lasted—it seemed to me—two minutes, when I was awakened by Peterkin laying his hand on my shoulder and saying—

“Now then, Ralph, it’s time to rouse up.”

“O Peterkin,” said I, in a tone of remonstrance, “how could you be so unkind as to waken me when I had just got to sleep? Shabby fellow!”

“Just got to sleep, say you? You’ve been snoring like an apoplectic alderman for exactly two hours.”

“You don’t say so!” I exclaimed, getting into a sitting posture.

“Indeed you have. I’m sorry to rouse you, but time’s up, and I’m sleepy; so rub your eyes, man, and try to look a little less like an astonished owl if you can. I have just replenished both the fires, so you can lean your back against that palm-tree and take it easy for three-quarters of an hour or so. After that you’ll have to heap on more wood.”

I looked at Jack, who was now lying quite unconscious, breathing with the slow, deep regularity of profound slumber, and with his mouth wide open.

“What a chance for some waggish baboon to drop a nut or a berry in!” said Peterkin, winking at me with one eye as he lay down in the spot from which I had just risen.

He was very sleepy, poor fellow, and could hardly smile at his own absurd fancy. He was asleep almost instantly. In fact, I do not believe that he again opened the eye with which he had winked at me, but that he merely shut the other and began to slumber forthwith.

I now began to feel quite interested in my responsible position as guardian of the camp. I examined my rifle to see that it was in order and capped; then leaning against the palm-tree, which was, as it were, my sentry-box, I stood erect and rubbed my hands and took off my cap, so that the pleasant night air might play about my temples, and more effectually banish drowsiness.

In order to accomplish this more thoroughly I walked round both fires and readjusted the logs, sending up showers of sparks as I did so. Then I went to the edge of the circle of light, in the centre of which our camp lay, and peered into the gloom of the dark forest.

There was something inexpressibly delightful yet solemn in my feelings as I gazed into that profound obscurity where the great tree-stems and the wild gigantic foliage nearest to me appeared ghost-like and indistinct, and the deep solitudes of which were peopled, not only with the strange fantastic forms of my excited fancy, but, as I knew full well, with real wild creatures, both huge and small, such as my imagination at that time had not fully conceived. I felt awed, almost oppressed, with the deep silence around, and, I must confess, looked somewhat nervously over my shoulder as I returned to the fire and sat down to keep watch at my post.

Chapter Three.

Wherein I mount guard, and how I did it, etcetera.

Now it so happened that the battle which I had to fight with myself after taking my post was precisely the converse of that which I fought during the earlier part of that night. Then, it was a battle with wakefulness; now, it was a struggle with sleep; and of the two fights the latter was the more severe by far.

I began by laying down my rifle close by my side, leaning back in a sitting posture against the palm-tree, and resigning myself to the contemplation of the fire, which burned merrily before me, while I pondered with myself how I should best employ my thoughts during the three long hours of my watch. But I had not dwelt on that subject more than three minutes, when I was rudely startled by my own head falling suddenly and heavily forward on my chest. I immediately roused myself. “Ah! Ralph, Ralph,” said I to myself in a whisper, “this won’t do, lad. To sleep at your post! shame on you! Had you been a sentinel in time of war that nod would have cost you your life, supposing you to have been caught in the act.”

Soliloquising thus, I arose and shook myself. Then I slapped my chest several times and pulled my nose and sat down again. Only a few minutes elapsed before the same thing occurred to me again, so I leaped up, and mended the fires, and walked to and fro, until I felt thoroughly awake, but in order to make sure that it should not occur again, I walked to the edge of the circle of light and gazed for some time into the dark forest, as I had done before. While standing thus I felt my knees give way, as if they had been suddenly paralysed, and I awoke just in time to prevent myself falling to the ground. I must confess I was much amazed at this, for although I had often read of soldiers falling asleep standing at their posts, I had never believed the thing possible.

I now became rather anxious, “for,” thought I, “if I go to sleep and the fires die down, who knows but wild beasts may come upon us and kill us before we can seize our arms.” For a moment or two I meditated awaking Jack and begging him to keep me company, but when I reflected that his watch was to come immediately after mine, I had not the heart to do it. “No!” said I (and I said it aloud for the purpose of preventing drowsiness)—“no; I will fight this battle alone! I will repeat some stanzas from my favourite authors. Yes, I will try to remember a portion of ‘A Midsummer-Night’s Dream.’ It will be somewhat appropriate to my present circumstances.”

Big with this resolve, I sat down with my face to the fire and my back to the palm-tree, and—fell sound asleep instantly!

How long I lay in this condition I know not, but I was suddenly awakened by a yell so appalling that my heart leaped as if into my throat, and my nerves thrilled with horror. For one instant I was paralysed; then my blood seemed to rebound on its course. I sprang up and attempted to seize my rifle.

The reader may judge of my state of mind when I observed that it was gone! I leaped towards the fire, and grasping a lighted brand, turned round and glared into the woods in the direction whence the yell came.

It was grey dawn, and I could see things pretty distinctly; but the only living object that met my gaze was Peterkin, who stood with my rifle in his hand laughing heartily!

I immediately turned to look at Jack, who was sitting up in the spot where he had passed the night, with a sleepy smile on his countenance.

“Why, what’s the meaning of this?” I inquired.

“The meaning of it?” cried Peterkin, as he advanced and restored the rifle to its place. “A pretty fellow you are to mount guard! we might have been all murdered in our sleep by niggers or eaten alive by gorillas, for all that you would have done to save us.”

“But, Peterkin,” said I gravely, “you ought not to have startled me so; you gave me a terrible fright. People have been driven mad before now, I assure you, by practical jokes.”

“My dear fellow,” cried Peterkin, with much earnestness, “I know that as well as you. But, in the first place, you were guilty of so heinous a crime that I determined to punish you, and at the same time to do it in a way that would impress it forcibly on your memory; and in the second place, I would not have done it at all had I not known that your nerves are as strong as those of a dray-horse. You ought to be taking shame to yourself on account of your fault rather than objecting to your punishment.”

“Peterkin is right, my boy,” said Jack, laughing, “though I must say he had need be sure of the nerves of any one to whom he intends to administer such a ferocious yell as that. Anyhow, I have no reason to complain; for you have given me a good long sleep, although I can’t say exactly that you have taken my watch. It will be broad daylight in half an hour, so we must be stirring, comrades.”

On considering the subject I admitted the force of these remarks, and felt somewhat crestfallen. No doubt, my companions had treated the thing jocularly, and, to say truth, there was much that was comical in the whole affair; but the more I thought of it, the more I came to perceive how terrible might have been the consequences of my unfaithfulness as a sentinel. I laid the lesson to heart, and I can truly say that from that day to this I have never again been guilty of the crime of sleeping at my post.

We now busied ourselves in collecting together the dying embers of our fire and in preparing breakfast, which consisted of tea, hard biscuit, and cold monkey. None of us liked the monkey; not that its flesh was bad—quite the contrary—but it looked so like a small roasted baby that we could not relish it at all. However, it was all we had; for we had set off on this hunting excursion intending to live by our rifles, but had been unfortunate, having seen nothing except a monkey or two.

The kettle was soon boiled, and we sat down to our meagre fare with hearty appetites. While we are thus engaged, I shall turn aside for a little and tell the reader, in one or two brief sentences, how we got to this place.

We shipped in a merchant ship at Liverpool, and sailed for the west coast of Africa. Arrived there we found a party, under the command of a Portuguese trader, about to set off to the interior. He could speak a little English; so we arranged to go with him as far as he intended to proceed, learn as much of the native language as possible while in his company, and then obtain a native guide to conduct us to the country in which the gorillas are found. To this native guide, we arranged, should be explained by the trader our object in visiting the country, so that he might tell the tribes whom we intended to visit. This, we found, was an absolutely needful precaution, on the following ground.

The natives of Africa have a singular and very bad style of carrying on trade with the white men who visit their shores. The traffic consists chiefly of ivory, barwood (a wood much used in dyeing), and indiarubber. The natives of the far interior are not allowed to convey these commodities directly to the coast, but by the law of the land (which means the law of the strongest, for they are absolute savages) are obliged to deliver their goods to the care of the tribe next to them; these pass them on to the next tribe; and so on they go from tribe to tribe till they reach the coast, where they are sold by the tribe there. The price obtained, which usually consists of guns, powder and shot, looking-glasses, cloth, and sundry other articles and trinkets useful to men in a savage state, is returned to the owners in the far interior through the same channel; but as each tribe deducts a percentage for its trouble, the price dwindles down as it goes, until a mere trifle, sometimes nothing at all, remains to be handed over to the unfortunate people of the tribe who originally sent off the goods for sale. Of course, such a system almost paralyses trade. But the intermediate tribes between the coast and the interior being the gainers by this system, are exceedingly jealous of anything like an attempt to carry on direct trade. They are ready to go to war with the tribes of the interior, should they attempt it, and they throw all the opposition they can in the way of the few white men who ever penetrate the interior for such a purpose.

It will thus be seen that our travels would be hindered very much, if not stopped altogether, and ourselves be regarded with jealousy, or perhaps murdered, if our motives in going inland were not fully and satisfactorily explained to the different tribes as we passed through their lands. And we therefore proposed to overcome the difficulty by taking a native guide with us from the tribe with which we should chance to be residing when obliged to separate from the Portuguese trader.

We had now reached this point. The day before that on which we encamped in the woods, as above related, we arrived at a native village, and had been received kindly by the king. Almost immediately after our arrival we heard so many stories about gorillas that I felt persuaded we should fall in with one if we went a-hunting, and being exceedingly anxious to add one to my collection of animals—for I had a small museum at home—I prevailed on Jack and Peterkin to go one day’s journey into the bush to look for them. They laughed very much at me indeed, and said that we were still very far away from the gorilla country; but I had read in some work on Africa a remark to the effect that there is no cordillera, or mountain range, extending across the whole continent to limit the habitat of certain classes of animals, and I thought that if any animal in Africa would not consent to remain in one region when it wished to go to another, that animal must be the ferocious gorilla. The trader also laughed at me, and said that he had never seen any himself in that region, and that we would have to cross the desert before seeing them. Still, I felt a disposition to try; besides, I felt certain that we should at least fall in with some sort of animals or plants or minerals that would be worth collecting; so it was agreed that we should go out for a single day, and be back in time for a great elephant-hunt which was about to take place.

But to return from this digression. Having finished breakfast, we made three bundles or packages of our blankets, provisions, and camp equipage; strapped them on our backs; and then, shouldering our rifles, set out on our return to the negro village.

Of course we gave Jack the largest and heaviest bundle to carry. Peterkin’s and mine were about equal, for although I was taller than Peterkin, I was not by any means so powerful or active. I often wondered at the great strength that lay in the little frame of my friend. To look at him, no one would believe that he was such a tough, wiry, hardy little fellow. He was the same hearty, jovial creature that I had lived with so pleasantly when he and Jack and I were cast away on the coral island. With the exception of a small scrap of whisker on each cheek, a scar over the right eye, and a certain air of manliness, there was little change in my old comrade.

“Ralph,” said Jack, as we strode along through the forest, “do you remember how we three used to wander about together in the woods of our coral island?”

“Remember!” I cried with enthusiasm, for at that moment the thought occurred to my own mind; “how can I ever forget it, Jack? It seems to me just like yesterday. I can hardly believe that six long years have passed since we drank that delicious natural lemonade out of the green cocoa-nuts, and wandered on the coral beach, and visited Penguin Island, and dived into the cave to escape the pirates. The whole scene rises up before me so vividly that I could fancy we were still there. Ah! these were happy times.”

“So they were,” cried Peterkin; “but don’t you go and become sentimentally sad, Ralph, when you talk of those happy days. If we were happy there, are we not happy here?—There’s no change in us—except, indeed, that Jack has become a gorilla.”

“Ay, and you a monkey,” retorted Jack.

“True; and Ralph a naturalist, which is the strangest beast of all,” added Peterkin.—“Can you tell me, Ralph, by the way, what tree that is?”

“I’m sure I cannot tell. Never saw or heard of one like it before,” I replied, looking at the tree referred to with some interest. It was a fine tree, but the great beauty about it was the gorgeous fruit with which it was laden. It hung in the form of bunches of large grapes, and was of the brightest scarlet colour. The glowing bunches seemed like precious gems glittering amongst the green foliage, and I observed that a few monkeys and several parrots were peeping at us through the branches.

“It seems good for food,” said Jack. “You’d better climb up, Peterkin, and pull a few bunches. The puggies won’t mind you, of course, being one of themselves.”

“Ralph,” said Peterkin, turning to me, and deigning no reply to Jack, “you call yourself a naturalist; so I suppose you are acquainted with the habits of monkeys, and can turn your knowledge to practical account.”

“Well,” I replied, “I know something about the monkey tribes, but I cannot say that at this moment I remember any particular habit of which we might avail ourselves.”

“Do you not? Well, now, that’s odd. I’m a student of nature myself, and I have picked up a little useful knowledge in the course of my travels. Did you ever travel so far as the Zoological Gardens in London?”

“Of course I have done so, often.”

“And did you ever observe a peculiar species of monkey, which, when you made a face at it, instantly flew into a towering passion, and shook the bars of its cage until you expected to see them broken?”

“Yes,” said I, laughing; “what then?”

“Look here, you naturalist, and I’ll put a wrinkle on your horn. Yonder hangs a magnificent bunch of fruit that I very much desire to possess.”

“But it’s too high to reach,” said I.

“But there’s a monkey sitting beside it,” said Peterkin.

“I see. You don’t expect him to pull it and throw it down, do you?”

“Oh no, certainly not; but—” Here Peterkin stepped up to the tree, and looking up at the monkey, said, “O-o-o-oo-o!” angrily.

“O-o-o-oo-oo!” replied the monkey, stretching out its neck and looking down with an expression of surprise and indignation, as if to say, “What on earth do you mean by that?”

“Oo-o-o-oo-o!” roared Peterkin.

Hereupon the monkey uttered a terrific shriek of passion, exposed all its teeth and gums, glared at its adversary like a little fiend, and seizing the branch with both hands, shook it with all its might. The result was, that not only did the coveted bunch of fruit fall to the ground, but a perfect shower of bunches came down, one of which hit Jack on the forehead, and, bursting there, sent its fragrant juice down his face and into his beard, while the parrots and all the other monkeys took to flight, shrieking with mingled terror and rage.

“You see I’m a practical man,” observed Peterkin quietly, as he picked up the fruit and began to eat it. “Knowledge is power, my boy. A man with a philosophical turn of mind like yourself ought to have been up to a dodge of this sort. How capital this fruit is, to be sure!—Does it make good pomade, Jack?”

“Excellent; but as I’m not in the habit of using pomade, I shall wash this out of my beard as quickly as possible.”

While Jack went to a brook that ran close to where we stood, I tasted the fruit, and found it most excellent, the pulp being juicy, with a very pleasant flavour.

While we were thus engaged a wild pig ran grunting past us.

“Doesn’t that remind you of some of our doings on the coral island, Ralph?” said Peterkin.

Before I could reply a herd of lovely small gazelles flew past. Our rifles were lying on the ground, and before either of us could take aim the swift creatures were lost sight of in the thick underwood. Peterkin fired one shot at a venture, but without any result.

We were still deploring our stupidity in not having our rifles handy, when a strange sound was heard in the distance. By this time Jack had come up, so we all three seized our rifles and listened intently. The sound was evidently approaching. It was a low, dull, booming roar, which at one moment seemed to be distant thunder, at another the cry of some huge animal in rage or pain. Presently the beating of heavy hoofs on the turf and the crash of branches were heard. Each of us sprang instinctively towards a tree, feeling that if danger were near its trunk would afford us some protection.

Being ignorant, as yet, of the cries of the various wild beasts inhabiting those woods, we were greatly at a loss to determine what creature it could be that approached at such headlong speed. That its mad career was caused by fear soon became apparent, for the tones of terror either in man or beast, when distinctly heard, cannot be mistaken.

Immediately in front of the spot where we stood was an open space or glade of considerable extent. Towards this the animal approached, as was evident from the increasing loudness of its wild roar, which was almost continuous. In another moment the thick wall of underwood at its farther extremity was burst asunder with a crash, and a wild buffalo bull bounded into the plain and dashed madly across. On its neck was crouched a leopard, which had fixed its claws and teeth deep in the flesh of the agonised animal. In vain did the bull bound and rear, toss and plunge. At one moment it ran like the wind; the next it stopped with such violence as to tear up the turf and scatter it around. Then it reared, almost falling back; anon it plunged and rushed on again, with the foam flying from its mouth, and its bloodshot eyes glaring with the fire of rage and terror, while the woods seemed to tremble with its loud and deep-toned bellowing. Twice in its passage across the open glade it ran, in its blind fury, straight against a tree, almost beating in its skull, and for a moment arresting its progress; but it instantly recovered the shock and burst away again as madly as ever. But no effort that it was capable of making could relieve the poor creature from its deadly burden, or cause the leopard in the slightest degree to relax its fatal gripe.

It chanced that the wild bull’s mad gallop was in a direction that brought it within a few yards of the spot where we stood, so we prepared to put an end to its misery. As it drew near, Jack, who was in advance, raised his rifle. I, being only a short distance from him, also made ready to fire, although I confess that in the agitation of the moment I could not make up my mind whether I should fire at the buffalo or the leopard. As far as I can recall my rapid and disjointed thoughts on that exciting occasion, I reasoned thus: “If I shoot the leopard the bull will escape, and if I shoot the bull the leopard will escape.” It did not occur to me at that trying moment, when self-possession and decision were so necessary, that I might shoot the bull with one barrel, and the leopard with the other. Still less did it occur to me that I might miss bull and leopard altogether.

While I was engaged in this hurried train of troubled thought, Jack fired both barrels of his rifle, one after the other, as quickly as possible. The bull stumbled forward upon its knees. In order to make assurance doubly sure, I aimed at its head and fired both barrels at once. Instantly the bull rose, with a hideous bellow, and stood for one moment irresolute, glaring at its new enemies. The leopard, I observed, was no longer on its back. At this moment I heard an exclamation of anger, and looking round I observed Peterkin struggling violently in the grasp of one of the wild vines or thorny plants which abound in some parts of the African forests and render them almost impassable. It seems that as the bull drew near, Peterkin, who, like Jack and me, was preparing to shoot, found that a dense thicket came between him and the game, so as to prevent his firing. He leaped nimbly over a bush, intending to run to another spot, whence he could more conveniently take aim, but found himself, as I have related, suddenly entangled among the thorns in such a way that the more he struggled the more firmly he became ensnared. Being of an impatient disposition, he did struggle violently, and it was this, probably, that attracted the attention of the bull and decided its future course and its ultimate fate; for after remaining one moment, as I have stated, in an irresolute attitude, it turned suddenly to the left and rushed, with its head down and its tail up, straight at Peterkin.

I cannot describe the sensations that overwhelmed me on observing the imminent danger of my friend. Horror almost overwhelmed me as I gazed with a stare of fascination at the frightful brute, which with flashing eyes and bloody foam dripping from its mouth charged into the thicket, and crashed through the tough boughs and bushes as if they were grass. A film came over my eyes. I tried to reload my rifle, but my trembling hand refused to act, and I groaned with mingled shame and despair on finding myself thus incapable of action in the hour of extreme peril. At that moment I felt I would joyfully have given my own life to have saved that of Peterkin. It takes me long to describe it, but the whole scene passed with the rapidity almost of a flash of light.

Jack did not even attempt to load, but uttering a fearful cry, he sprang towards our friend with a bound like that of an enraged tiger. A gleam of hope flashed through my soul as I beheld his gigantic form dash through the underwood. It seemed to me as if no living creature could withstand such a furious onset. Alas for Peterkin, had his life depended on Jack, strong and lion-like though he was! His aid could not have been in time. A higher Power nerved his arm and steeled his heart at that terrible moment. As I gazed helplessly at Peterkin, I observed that he suddenly ceased his struggles to get free, and throwing forward the muzzle of his piece, stood boldly up and awaited the onset with calm self-possession. The bull was on him almost in an instant. One stride more and he would have been lost, but that stride was never taken. His rifle poured its deadly charge into the skull of the wild bull, which fell a mass of dead flesh, literally at his feet.

It were vain to attempt to describe the state of our feelings on this memorable occasion—the fervour with which we thanked our heavenly Father for our friend’s deliverance—the delight with which we shook his hands, again and again, and embraced him. It was with considerable difficulty that we extricated Peterkin from his entanglement. When this was accomplished we proceeded to examine our prize.

We were not a little puzzled on discovering that only three bullets had struck the bull. For my part, I fired straight at its forehead, and had felt certain at the time that my shots had taken effect; yet there was but one ball in the animal’s head, and that was undoubtedly Peterkin’s, for the hair all round the hole was singed off, so near had it been to him when he fired. The other two shots were rather wide apart—one in the shoulder, the other in the neck. Both would have proved mortal in the long run, but neither was sufficiently near to a vital spot to kill speedily.

“Now, Ralph, my boy,” said Jack, after our excitement was in some degree abated, “you and I must divide the honour of these two shots, for I fear we can’t tell which of us fired them. Peterkin only fired once, and that was pretty effectual.”

“Yes,” I replied, “it is rather perplexing; for although I have no objection whatever to your having all the honour of those two shots, still one likes to know with certainty who actually made them.”

“You’d better toss for them,” suggested Peterkin, who was seated on the trunk of a fallen tree, examining, with a somewhat rueful countenance, the tattered condition of his garments.

“There would not be much satisfaction in that,” replied Jack, laughing.

“It is probable,” said I, “that each of us hit with one barrel and missed with the other.”

“And it is possible,” added Jack, “that one of us hit with both, and the other missed with both. All that I can positively affirm is that I fired both barrels at his shoulder—one after the other.”

“And all that I am certain of,” said I, “is that I fired both barrels at his forehead, and that I discharged them both at once.”

“Did you?” said Peterkin, looking up quickly; “then, Ralph, I’m afraid you must give all the honour to Jack, for you have missed altogether.”

“How do you know that?” I asked, in a somewhat piqued tone.

“Simply enough. If you fired both shots together at so short a distance, they would have been found close together wherever they had struck, whereas the two shots in the neck and shoulder are more than two feet apart.”

I was compelled to admit that there was much truth in the observation, but still felt unwilling to give up all claim to having assisted in slaying our first buffalo. I pondered the subject a good deal during the remainder of the time we spent in cutting up and packing part of the buffalo meat, and in preparing to continue our journey, but could come at no satisfactory conclusion in my own mind, and, to say truth, I felt not a little crestfallen at my conduct in the whole affair.

While wandering in this mood near the spot where the buffalo had been first wounded, I received a sudden and severe start on observing the leopard crouching within a couple of yards of me. I saw it through the bushes quite distinctly, but could not make quite sure of its attitude. With a mingled cry of alarm and astonishment I sprang back to the place where I had left my rifle.

Jack and Peterkin instantly ran up with their pieces cocked.

“Where is it?” they cried in a breath.

“There, crouching just behind that bush.”

Jack darted forward.

“Crouching!” he cried, with a loud laugh, seizing the animal by the tail and dragging it forth; “why, it’s dead—stone dead.”

“Dead as mutton,” said Peterkin. “Hallo! what’s this?” he added in surprise. “Two holes close together in its forehead, I do declare! Hooray! Ralph, my boy, give us your paw! You’ve missed the bull and hit the leopard! If you haven’t been and put two bullets right between its two eyes, I’m a Dutchman!”

And so, in truth, it turned out. I had aimed at the bull and hit the leopard. So I left that spot not a little pleased with my bad aim and my good fortune.

Chapter Four.

Wherein will be found much that is philosophical.

Having skinned the leopard and cut off as much of the buffalo meat as we could carry, we started for the negro village at a round pace, for we had already lost much time in our last adventure. As we walked along I could not help meditating on the uncertainty of this life, and the terrible suddenness with which we might at any unexpected moment be cut off. These thoughts led me naturally to reflect how important a matter it is that every one, no matter how young, should be in a state of preparedness to quit this world.

I also reflected, and not without a feeling of shame, on my want of nerve, and was deeply impressed with the importance of boys being inured from childhood to trifling risks and light dangers of every possible description, such as tumbling into ponds and off trees, etcetera, in order to strengthen their nervous system. I do not, of course, mean to say that boys ought deliberately to tumble into ponds or climb trees until they fall off; but they ought not to avoid the risk of such mishaps. They ought to encounter such risks and many others perpetually. They ought to practise leaping off heights into deep water. They ought never to hesitate to cross a stream on a narrow unsafe plank for fear of a ducking. They ought never to decline to climb up a tree to pull fruit merely because there is a possibility of their falling off and breaking their necks. I firmly believe that boys were intended to encounter all kinds of risks, in order to prepare them to meet and grapple with the risks and dangers incident to man’s career with cool, cautious self-possession—a self-possession founded on experimental knowledge of the character and powers of their own spirits and muscles. I also concluded that this reasoning applies to some extent to girls as well as boys, for they too are liable through life to occasional encounters with danger—such as meeting with mad bulls, being run away with on horseback, being upset in boats, being set on fire by means of crinoline; in all of which cases those who have been trained to risk slight mishaps during early life will find their nerves equal to the shock, and their minds cool and collected enough to look around and take hasty advantage of any opportunity of escape that may exist; while those who have been unhappily nurtured in excessive delicacy, and advised from the earliest childhood to “take care of themselves and carefully avoid all risks,” will probably fall victims to their nervous alarms and the kind but injudicious training of parents or guardians.

The more I pondered this subject the more deeply impressed did I become with its great importance to the well-being of mankind, and I was so profoundly engrossed with it that my companions utterly failed to engage me in general conversation as we walked briskly along through the forest. Jack again and again attempted to draw my attention to the splendour of the curious specimens of tropical foliage and vegetation through which we passed; but I could not rouse myself to take interest therein. In vain did Peterkin jest and rally me, and point out the monkeys that grinned at us ever and anon as we passed beneath them, or the serpents that glided more than once from our path, I was fascinated with my train of meditation, and as I could not then give it up until I had thought it out, so now I cannot pass from the subject until I have at least endeavoured to guard myself from misconception.

I beg, then, that it will be understood that I do not by any means inculcate hare-brained recklessness, or a course of training that will foster that state of mind. On the contrary, the course of training which I should like to see universally practised would naturally tend to counteract recklessness, for it would enable a boy to judge correctly as to what he could and could not do. Take an illustration. A naturally bold boy has been unwisely trained to be exceedingly careful of himself. He does not know the extent of his own courage, or the power and agility of his own muscles; he knows these things to some extent indeed, but owing to restraint he does not know them fully. Hence he is liable both to over and under estimate them.

This bold boy—we shall call him Tom—takes a walk into the country with a friend, whom we shall name Pat. Pat is a bad boy, but he has been permitted to train his muscles as he pleased, and his natural disposition has led him to do difficult and sometimes slightly dangerous things.

“You can’t jump over that river, Tom,” says Pat.

“Perhaps not,” replies Tom: “I never tried such a jump, because my mother tells me never to go where I am likely to tumble into the water.”

“Oh, your mother’s a muff!” cries Pat.

“Pat,” says Tom, flushing with indignation and confronting his friend, “don’t you ever say that again, else the friendship between you and me will come to an end. I know you don’t really mean what you say; but I won’t allow you to speak disrespectfully of my mother.”

“Well, I won’t,” says Pat, “but you’re a muff, anyhow.”

“Perhaps I am,” replies Tom.

“Of course you are, because you’re afraid to jump over that river, and I’m not. So here goes.”

Pat thereupon jumps the river (he is a splendid leaper), and Tom hesitates.

“Come along, Tom; don’t be a hen.”

Tom gives way, alas! to a disobedient impulse, and dashing at the leap comes to the edge, when he finds, somehow, that he has not got the proper foot first for the spring—almost every boy knows the feeling I allude to; his heart fails, and he balks.

“O Tom, what a nimini-pimini muff you are, to be sure!”

Tom, as I have said, is a bold boy. His blood boils at this; he rushes wildly at the bank, hurls himself recklessly into the air, barely reaches the opposite side with a scramble, and falls souse into the river, from which he issues, as Pat says amid peals of laughter, “like a half-drowned rat.”

Now, had Tom been permitted to follow the bent of his own bold impulses, he would have found out, years ago, how far and how high he could leap, and how far exactly he could depend on his own courage in certain circumstances; and he would either, on the one hand, have measured the leap with an accustomed eye, and declined to take it with a good-humoured admission that it was beyond his powers, or, on the other hand, he would calmly have collected his well and oft tried energies for the spring. The proper foot, from long experience, would have come to the ground at the right time. His mind, freed from all anxiety as to what he could accomplish, would have received a beneficial impulse from his friend’s taunt. No nervous dread of a ducking would have checked the completeness of his bound, because he would have often been ducked before, and would have discovered that in most cases, if the clothes be changed at once, a ducking is not worth mentioning—from a hydropathic point of view is, in fact, beneficial—and he would have cleared the river with comfort to himself and confusion to his friend, and without a ducking or the uneasiness of conscience caused by the knowledge that he had disobeyed his mother. Had Peterkin not been trained to encounter danger, his natural boldness alone would never have enabled him to stand the charge of that buffalo bull.

There are muffs in this world. I do not refer to those hairy articles of female apparel in which ladies are wont to place their hands, handkerchiefs, and scent-bottles. Although not given to the use of slang, I avail myself of it on this occasion, the word “muff” being eminently expressive of a certain class of boys, big as well as little, old as well as young. There are three distinct classes of boys—namely, muffs, sensible fellows, and boasters. I say there are three distinct classes, but I do not say that every boy belongs to one or other of those classes. Those who have studied chemistry know that nature’s elements are few. Nearly all kinds of matter, and certainly all varieties of mind, are composite. There are no pure and simple muffs. Most boasters have a good deal of the muff in them, and many muffs are boasters; while sensible fellows are occasionally tinged with a dash of both the bad qualities—they are, if I may be allowed to coin a word, sensible-boasto-muffers! Still, for the sake of lucidity, I will maintain that there are three distinct phases of character in boys.

The muff is a boy who from natural disposition, or early training, or both, is mild, diffident, and gentle. So far he is an estimable character. Were this all, he were not a muff. In order to deserve that title he must be timid and unenthusiastic. He must refuse to venture anything that will subject him to danger, however slight. He must be afraid of a shower of rain; afraid of dogs in general, good and bad alike; disinclined to try bold things; indifferent about learning to swim. He must object to the game called “dumps,” because the blows from the ball are sometimes severe; and be a sworn enemy to single-stick, because the whacks are uncommonly painful. So feeling and acting, he will, when he becomes a man, find himself unable to act in the common emergencies of life—to protect a lady from insolence, to guard his house from robbery, or to save his own child should it chance to fall into the water. The muff is addicted to boasting sometimes, especially when in the company of girls; but when on the playground he hangs on the skirts of society, and sings very small. There are many boys, alas! who are made muffs by injudicious training, who would have grown up to be bold, manly fellows had they been otherwise treated. There are also many kinds of muffs. Some are good-hearted, amiable muffs; others are petty, sneaking muffs.

With many of the varieties I have a strong sympathy, and for their comfort I would say that muffs may cure themselves if they choose to try energetically.

Courage and cowardice are not two distinct and entirely antagonistic qualities. To a great extent those qualities are the result of training. Every courageous man has a slight amount of cowardice in his composition, and all cowards have a certain infusion of courage. The matador stands before the infuriated bull, and awaits its charge with unflinching firmness, not because he has more courage than his comrades in the ring who run away, but because long training has enabled him to make almost certain of killing the bull. He knows what he has done before, he feels that he can do it again, therefore he stands like a hero. Were a doubt of his capacity to cross his mind for an instant, his cheek would blanch, his hand would tremble, and, ten to one, he would turn and flee like the rest.

Let muffs, therefore, learn to swim, to leap, and to run. Let them wrestle with boys bigger than themselves, regardless of being thrown. Let them practise “jinking” with their companions, so that if even they be chased by a mad bull, they will, if unable to get out of his way by running, escape perhaps by jinking. Let them learn to leap off considerable heights into deep water, so that, if ever called on to leap off the end of a pier or the side of a ship to save a fellow-creature, they may do so with confidence and promptitude. Let them even put on “the gloves,” and become regardless of a swelled nose, in order that they may be able to defend themselves or others from sudden assault. So doing they will become sensible fellows, whose character I have thus to some extent described. Of course, I speak of sensible fellows only with reference to this one subject of training the nerves and muscles. Let it never be forgotten that there are men who, although sensible in this respect, are uncommonly senseless in regard to other things of far higher moment.

As to boasters, I will dismiss them with a few words. They are too easily known to merit particular description. They are usually loud and bold in the drawing-room, but rather mild in the field. They are desperately egotistical, fond of exaggeration, and prone to depreciate the deeds of their comrades. They make bad soldiers and sailors, and are usually held in contempt by others, whatever they may think of themselves. I may wind up this digression—into which I have been tempted by an earnest desire to warn my fellow-men against the errors of nervous and muscular education, which, in my case, led to the weak conduct of which I had been guilty that day—I may wind up this digression, I say, by remarking that the boys who are most loved in this world are those who are lambs, almost muffs, in the drawing-room, but lions in the field.

How long I should have gone on pondering this subject I know not, but Peterkin somewhat rudely interrupted me by uttering a wild scream, and beginning to caper as if he were a madman. I was much alarmed as well as surprised at this course of conduct; for although my friend was an inveterate joker, he was the very reverse of what is termed a buffoon, and never indulged in personally grotesque actions with a view to make people laugh—such as making faces, a practice which, in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred, causes the face-makers to look idiotical rather than funny, and induces beholders to pity them, and to feel very uncomfortable sensations.

Peterkin’s yells, instead of ceasing, continued and increased.

“Why, what’s wrong?” I cried, in much alarm.

Instead of answering, Peterkin darted away through the wood like a maniac, tearing off his clothes as he went. At the same moment Jack began to roar like a bull, and became similarly distracted. It now flashed across me that they must have been attacked by an army of the Bashikouay ant, a species of ant which is so ferocious as to prove a perfect scourge to the parts of the country over which it travels. The thought had scarcely occurred to me when I was painfully convinced of its accuracy. The ants suddenly came to me, and in an instant I was covered from head to foot by the passionate creatures, which hit me so severely that I also began to scream and to tear off my garments; for I had been told by the trader who accompanied us to this part of the country that this was the quickest method of getting rid of them.

We all three fled, and soon left the army of Bashikouay ants behind us, undressing, as we ran, in the best way we could; and when we at length came to a halt we found ourselves almost in a state of nudity. Hastily divesting ourselves of the remainder of our apparel, we assisted each other to clear away the ants, though we could not rid ourselves of the painful effects of the bites with which we were covered.

“What dreadful villains!” gasped Peterkin, as he busied himself in hastily picking off the furious creatures from his person.

“It would be curious to observe the effect of an army of soldiers stepping into an army of Bashikouays,” said Jack. “They would be routed instantly. No discipline or courage could hold them together for two minutes after they were attacked.”

I was about to make some reply, when our attention was attracted by a shout at no great distance, and in a few seconds we observed, to our confusion, the trader and a band of negroes approaching us. We hurried on our clothes as rapidly as possible, and were a little more presentable when they arrived. They had a good laugh at us, of course, and the naked blacks seemed to be much tickled with the idea that we had been compelled to divest ourselves, even for a short time, of what they considered our unnecessary covering.

“We thought you were lost,” said the trader, “and I began to blame myself for letting you away into the woods, where so many dangers may be encountered, without a guide. But what have you got there? meat of some kind? Your guns seem to have done service on this your first expedition.”

“Ay, that they have,” answered Jack. “We’ve killed a buffalo bull, and if you send your black fellows back on our track for some hours they’ll come to the carcass, of which we could not, of course, bring very much away on our shoulders, which are not accustomed yet to heavy loads.”

“Besides,” added Peterkin, “we were anxious to get back in time for your elephant-hunt, else we should have brought more meat with us. But Jack has not mentioned what I consider our chief prize, the honour of shooting which belongs to my friend Ralph Rover.—Come, Ralph, unfasten your pack and let them see it.”

Although unwilling to put off more time, I threw down my pack, and untying it, displayed my leopard skin. The shout of delight and surprise which the sight of it drew from the negroes was so enthusiastic that I at once perceived I was considered to have secured a great prize.

“Why, Mr Rover, you’re in luck,” said the trader, examining the skin; “it’s not every day that one falls in with such a fine leopard as that. And you have already made a reputation as a daring hunter, for the niggers consider it a bold and dangerous thing to attack these critters; they’re so uncommon fierce.”

“Indeed I do not by any means deserve such a reputation,” said I, refastening my pack, “for the shot was entirely accidental; so I pray you, good sir, to let the negroes know that, as I have no desire to go under a false flag, as my friend Peterkin would say—”

“Go under a false flag!” exclaimed Peterkin, in contempt. “Sail under false colours, man! That’s what you should have said. Whatever you do, Ralph, never misquote a man. Go under a false flag! ha, ha! Why, you might just as well have said, ‘progress beneath assumed bunting.’”

“Well, accidental or otherwise,” said the trader, “you’ve got credit for the deed, and your fame will be spread among the tribe whether you will or not; for these fellows are such incorrigible liars themselves that they will never believe you if you tell them the shot was accidental. They will only give you credit for some strange though unknown motive in telling such a falsehood.”

While the trader was speaking I observed that the negroes were talking with the eager looks and gesticulations that are peculiar to the Africans when excited, and presently two or three of them came forward and asked several questions, while their eyes sparkled eagerly and their black faces shone with animation as they pointed into the woods in the direction whence we had come.

“They want to know where you have left the carcass of the leopard, and if you have taken away the brains,” said the trader, turning to me. “I daresay you know—if not you’ll soon come to find out—that all the nigger tribes in Africa are sunk in gross and cruel superstitions. They have more fetishes, and greegrees, and amulets, and wooden gods, and charms, than they know what to do with, and have surrounded themselves with spiritual mysteries that neither themselves nor anybody else can understand. Among other things, they attach a very high value to the brains of the leopard, because they imagine that he who possesses them will be rendered extraordinarily bold and successful in hunting. These fellows are in hopes that, being ignorant of the value of leopard brains, you have left them in the carcass, and are burning with anxiety to be off after them.”

“Poor creatures!” said I, “they are heartily welcome to the brains; and the carcass lies not more than four hours’ march from this spot, I should think,—Is it not so, Jack?”

My friend nodded assent, and the trader, turning to the expectant crowd of natives, gave them the information they desired. No sooner had he finished than with loud cries they turned and darted away, tossing their arms wildly in the air, and looking more like to a band of scared monkeys than to human beings.

“They’re queer fellows,” remarked Peterkin.

“So they are,” replied the trader, “and they’re kindly fellows too—jovial and good-humoured, except when under the influence of their abominable superstitions. Then they become incarnate fiends, and commit deeds of cruelty that make one’s blood run cold to think of.”

I felt much saddened by these remarks, and asked the trader if the missionaries accomplished any good among them.

“Oh yes,” he replied, “they do much good, such of them at least as really are missionaries; for it does not follow that every one who wears a black coat and white neck-cloth, and goes abroad, is a missionary. But what can a few men scattered along the coast here and there, however earnest they be, do among the thousands upon thousands of savages that wander about in the interior of Africa? No good will ever be done in this land, to any great extent, until traders and missionaries go hand in hand into the interior, and the system of trade is entirely remodelled.”

“From what you remark,” said I, feeling much interested, “I should suppose that you have given this subject a good deal of attention.”

“I have. But there are people in this world who, supposing that because I am a trader I am therefore prone to exalt trade to an equality with religion, do not give me credit for disinterestedness when I speak. Perhaps you are one of these.”

“Not I, in truth,” said I, earnestly. “My chief desire in conversing with mankind is to acquire knowledge; I therefore listen with attention and respect to the opinions of others, instead of endeavouring to assert my own. In the present instance, being ignorant, I have no opinions to assert.”

“I wish there were more people in your country,” replied the trader, “who felt as you do. I would tell them that, although a trader, I regard the salvation of men’s souls as the most important work in this world. I would argue that until you get men to listen, you cannot preach the gospel to them; that the present system of trade in Africa is in itself antagonistic to religion, being based upon dishonesty, and that, therefore, the natives will not listen to missionaries—of course, in some cases they will; for I believe that the gospel, when truly preached, is never preached in vain—but they will throw every possible impediment in their way. I would tell them that in order to make the path of the missionary practicable, the system of trade must be inverted, the trader and the missionary must go hand in hand, and commerce and religion—although incomparably different in their nature and ends—must act the part of brother and sister if anything great is to be done for the poor natives of Africa.”

Conversing thus we beguiled the time pleasantly while we proceeded rapidly on our way, for the day was drawing to a close, and we were still at a considerable distance from the native village.

Chapter Five.

Preparations for a grand hunt.

All was bustle, noise, and activity in the village, or, more correctly speaking, in the native town of his Majesty King Jambai, early in the morning after our arrival. A great elephant-hunt had been resolved on. The hunters were brushing up their spears and old guns—all of which latter were flint-locks that had been procured from traders, and were not worth more than a few shillings. The women were busy preparing breakfast, and the children were playing around their huts.

These huts were of the simplest construction—made of bamboo, roofed with large palm-leaves, and open in front. The wants of savages are generally few; their household furniture is very plain, and there is little of it. A large hut near to that of his sable majesty had been set apart for the trader and his party during our residence at the town. In this we had spent the night as pleasantly as we could, but the mosquitoes kept up an unceasing warfare upon us, so that daylight was welcomed gladly when it came.

On going to the hut of King Jambai, who had invited us to breakfast with him, we found the Princess Oninga alone, seated in the king’s armchair and smoking her pipe with uncommon gusto. She had spent the early part of the morning in preparing breakfast for her father and ourselves, and was now resting from her labours.

“You are early astir, Princess Oninga,” said the trader as we entered and took our seats round the fire, for at that hour the air felt chilly.

The princess took her pipe from her lips and admitted that she was, blowing a long thin cloud of smoke into the air with a sigh of satisfaction.

“We are ready for breakfast,” added the trader. “Is the king at home?”

“He is in the woods, but will be back quickly.” With this remark the princess rose, and knocking the ashes out of her pipe, left the tent.

“Upon my word, she’s a cool beauty,” said Peterkin.

“I should rather say a black one,” remarked Jack.

“Perhaps an odd one would be the most appropriate term,” said I. “Did you ever see such a headdress?”

The manner in which the Princess Oninga had seen fit to dress her head was indeed peculiar, I may say ludicrous. Her woolly hair had been arranged in the form of a cocked hat, with a horn projecting in front, and at a short distance off it might easily have been mistaken for the headpiece of a general officer minus the feathers. There was little in the way of artificial ornament about it, but the princess wore a number of heavy brass rings on her arms and ankles. Those on the latter reached half-way up to her knees, and they were so heavy that her walk was little better than a clumsy waddle. Before we could pass further comment on her appearance, King Jambai entered, and saluted us by taking us each separately and rubbing noses with us. This done, he ordered in breakfast, which consisted of roast and boiled plantains, ground nuts, roast fowl, and roast pig; so we fell to at once, and being exceedingly hungry after our long walk of the day before, made a hearty meal.

“Now, sir,” said Jack, when our repast was about concluded, “as you are going to leave us soon, you had better arrange with the king about getting us an interpreter and supplying us with a few men to carry our goods. I think you said there was once a man in the tribe who spoke a little English. Have you found out whether he is alive?”

“Yes; I have heard that he is alive and well, and is expected in every day from a hunting expedition. He is a splendid hunter and a capital fellow. His name is Makarooroo, and if you get him you will be fortunate.”

“Then ask his black majesty,” said Peterkin, “as quick as you please, for, to say truth, I’m rather anxious on this point. I feel that we should never get on without a good interpreter.”

To our satisfaction we found that the king was quite willing to do all that we wished and a great deal more. In fact, we soon perceived that he felt highly honoured by our visit, and had boasted not a little of “his white men” to the chiefs of neighbouring tribes, some of whom had come a considerable distance to see us.

“You have made quite a conquest, gentlemen, of worthy Jambai,” said the trader, after translating the king’s favourable reply. “The fact is he is pleased with the liberality you have shown towards him in the way of gifts, and is proud of the confidence you have placed in him. Had you been bent on a trading expedition, he would have opposed your further progress; but knowing that you are simply hunters, he is anxious to assist you by all the means at his command. He is surprised, indeed, at your taking so much trouble and coming so far merely to kill wild animals, for he cannot understand the idea of sporting. He himself hunts for the sake of procuring meat.”

“Can he not understand,” said Peterkin, “that we hunt for fun?”

“No, he don’t quite see through that. He said to me a few minutes ago, ‘Have these men no meat at home, that they come all this long way to get it?’ I told him that you had plenty, and then endeavoured to explain your idea of hunting ‘for fun.’ But he shook his head, and I think he does not believe you.”

At this point in our conversation the king rose and gave the signal to set out on the hunting expedition. Instantly the whole population of the town turned out and rushed to the banks of the river, near which it stood, where canoes were prepared for us. Suddenly there arose a great shout, and the name “Makarooroo, Makarooroo,” passed from mouth to mouth. Presently a fine, tall, deep-chested and broad-shouldered negro stepped up to the king and laid a leopard skin at his feet, while the people shouted and danced with delight at the success of their companion; for, as I have already stated, it is deemed a bold feat to attack and slay a leopard single-handed.

While the commotion caused by this event was going on, I said to the trader—

“How comes it that Makarooroo can speak English?”

“He spent a couple of years on the coast, in the service of a missionary, and during that time attended the missionary school, where he picked up a smattering of English and a trifle of geography and arithmetic; but although a stout, sturdy hunter, and an intelligent man, he was a lazy student, and gave the good missionary much trouble to hammer the little he knows into his thick skull. At last he grew tired of it, and returned to his tribe; but he brought his Bible with him, and I am told is very diligent in the study of it. His education has gained for him a great reputation as a fetishman, or doctor of mysteries, among his people. I used often to see him at school hammering away at m-a, ma-b-a, ba, and so on, amid a group of children. He used to sit beside the king—”

“The king!” said I, in surprise.

“Ay; the king of that district became a Christian, and he and the queen, with one or two others of the royal household, used to attend school with the children every day, and their diligence in studying the A B C was beyond all praise. But they were terribly stupid. The children beat them easily, showing how true is the saying that ‘youth is the time to learn.’ The king was always booby, and Makarooroo was always beside him.”

As the trader spoke, Makarooroo came forward and shook hands with him in the English fashion. He was then introduced to us, and expressed his willingness to become our interpreter in somewhat curious but quite comprehensible English. As I looked at his intelligent, good-natured countenance, I could not help thinking that the trader had underrated his intellectual powers.

“He’s a funny dog that Makarooroo,” said Peterkin, as our interpreter hastened away to fetch his rusty old gun and spears; for he meant to join our hunting expedition, although he had only that moment arrived from a long and fatiguing chase.

“Do you think so?” said Jack.

“I don’t agree with you,” said I; “to me he seems rather of a grave and quiet disposition.”

“O Ralph, what a bat you are! He was grave enough just now, truly; but did you not observe the twinkle in his eye when he spoke to us in English? Depend on it he’s a funny dog.”

“There must be freemasonry, then, among funny dogs,” I retorted, “for Jack and I don’t perceive it.”

“Is this our canoe?” inquired Jack of the trader.

“It is.”

“Then let’s jump in.”

In a few seconds the river was crowded with a fleet of small canoes, and we all paddled quickly up the stream, which was sluggish at that part. We did not intend to proceed more than a few miles by water, as the place where game was expected was at some distance from the river. I felt some regret at this, for the trip up the river was to me most enchanting.

Every yard we advanced new beauties of scenery were revealed to view. The richness of the tropical vegetation seemed in this place to culminate, it was so rank and gorgeous. The day was fine, too, and all the strange-looking creatures—ugly and beautiful, large and small—peculiar to those regions, seemed to have resolved on a general peace in order to bask in the sunshine and enjoy the glorious weather. Man alone was bent on war, and our track, alas! was marked with blood wherever we passed along. I pondered much on this subject, and wondered at the bloodthirsty spirit which seems to be natural to man in all conditions and climes. Then I thought of the difficulty these poor Africans have at times in procuring food, the frequency with which they are reduced almost to a state of starvation, and I ceased to wonder that they shot and speared everything that came in their way.

We proceeded up the left bank of the river, keeping close in to the shore in order to obtain the protection of the overhanging boughs and foliage; for the sun soon began to grow hot, and in the middle of the day became so intense that I sometimes feared that I or my companions would receive a sunstroke. I confess that the subject of health often caused me much anxiety; for although I knew that we were all old experienced travellers—though young in years—and had become in a great degree inured to hardships, I feared that the deadly climate of Central Africa might prove too much for our European constitutions. By the free use of quinine, however, and careful attention to the roles of health as far as circumstances would permit, we were fortunate enough to keep in excellent health and spirits during the whole course of our sojourn there; for which, when I thought of the hundreds of Europeans who had perished on that deadly coast without even venturing into the interior, I felt very thankful. One of our chief delights, to which I in a great degree attribute our uninterrupted health, was bathing daily in the streams and ponds with which we fell in, or on which we paddled during our travels. On these occasions we were fain, however, to be exceeding careful in the selection of our bathing-pool, as crocodiles and alligators, and I know not what other hideous animals, were constantly on the lookout for prey, and I make no doubt would have been very ready to try the flavour of a morsel of English food had we given them the chance.

On these occasions, when we had made sure of our pool, we were wont to paddle about in the cool refreshing stream, and recall to mind the splendid dips we had had together six years before in the clear waters of the coral island. Since that time Peterkin had learned to swim well, which was not only a source of much satisfaction and gratification to himself now, but, he told me, had been the means of preserving not only his own life on more than one occasion, but the life of a little child which he had the good fortune to rescue from drowning when cruising off the island of Madagascar.

Peterkin used to speak very strongly when talking on this subject, and I observed, from the unusual seriousness of his manner, that he felt deeply too.

“Ralph,” he said to me one day, “half the world is mad—I am not sure that I might not say three-quarters of the world is mad—and I’m quite certain that all the ladies in the world are mad with the exception of the brown ladies of the South Seas, and a few rare specimens elsewhere; they’re all mad together in reference to the matter of swimming. Now that I have learned it nothing is so easy, and any one who is not as blind as a rheumatic owl must see that nothing is more important; for every one almost is subject to being pitched now and then into deep water, and if he can’t swim it’s all up with him. Why, every time an angler goes out to fish he runs the chance of slipping and being swept into a deep hole, where, if he cannot swim, he is certain to be drowned. And yet five strokes would save his life. Good swimming is by no means what is wanted; swimming of any kind, however poor, is all that is desiderated. Every time a lady goes to have a row on a lake she is liable to be upset by the clumsiness of those who accompany her, and although it may be close to shore, if she cannot swim, down she goes to the bottom. And floating won’t do. Some ladies delude themselves with the idea that floating is of great value. In nine cases out of ten it is of no value at all; for unless water be perfectly smooth and still, a person cannot float so as to keep the waves from washing over the face, in which case choking is the certain result. There is no excuse for not learning to swim. In most large cities there are swimming-baths; if the sea is not available, a river is, everywhere. I tell you what it is, Ralph: people who don’t learn to swim are—are—I was going to say asses, but that would be an insult to the much-maligned long-eared animal; and parents who don’t teach their offspring to swim deserve to be drowned in butter-milk; and I wish I saw—no, I don’t quite wish I saw them all drowned in that way, but I do wish that I could impress upon mankind over the length and breadth of this rotund world the great, the immense, the intense importance of boys and girls being taught to swim.”

“You make use of strong language,” said I.

“Quite a powerful orator,” added Jack, laughing.

“Bah!” exclaimed Peterkin; “your reception of this grand truth is but a type of the manner in which it will be received by the pig-headed world. What’s the use of preaching common sense? I’m a perfect donkey!”

“Nay, Peterkin,” said Jack; “I appreciate what you say, and have no doubt whatever that your remarks, if made public, would create quite a revolution in the juvenile world, and convert them speedily into aquatic animals. Did you ever think of sending your views on that subject to the Times?”

“The Times!” cried Peterkin.

“Yes, the Times; why not?”

“Because,” said Peterkin slowly, “I once sent a letter to that great but insolent periodical, and what do you think it did?”

“Can’t tell, I’m sure.”

“Took no notice of it whatever!” said Peterkin, with a look of ineffable disgust.

But to return from this digression. I was much struck with the splendid contrast of colours that met my eye everywhere here. The rich variety of greens in the different trees harmonised with the bright pink plums and scarlet berries, and these latter were almost dimmed in their lustre by the bright plumage of the birds, which I felt intense longing to procure, many of them being quite new to me, and, I am certain, totally unknown to naturalists, while others I recognised with delight as belonging to several of the species of which I had read in ornithological works. I tried hard to shoot several of these lovely creatures, intending to stuff them, but, to my regret, was utterly unable to hit them. Seeing this, Peterkin took pity on me, and sitting down in the bow of our canoe, picked off all the birds I pointed out to him as we passed, with unerring precision. Most of them fell into the water, and were easily secured, while one or two toppled off the branches into the canoe. Several of them he shot on the wing—a feat which even filled Jack with surprise, and so astounded the natives that they surrounded our canoe at last, and gazed open-mouthed at my friend, whom they evidently regarded as the greatest fetishman that had ever come amongst them.

He was obliged to stop at last and lay down his gun in order to make the natives cease from crowding round us and delaying our voyage. A number of iguanas were observed on the branches of the trees that overhung the stream. They dropped into the water as we approached; but the natives succeeded in spearing a good many, and I afterwards found that they considered them excellent food.

If I was charmed with the birds, Peterkin was no less delighted with the monkeys that chattered at us as we passed along. I never saw a man laugh as he did that day. He almost became hysterical, so much was he tickled with their antics; and the natives, who have a keen sense of the ludicrous, seemed quite to sympathise with his spirit, although, of course, what amused him could not have similarly affected them, seeing that they were used to monkeys from infancy.

“There’s something new!” exclaimed Jack, as we rounded a bend in the river and came in view of an open flat where it assumed somewhat the aspect of a pond or small lake. He pointed to a flock of birds standing on a low rock, which I instantly recognised to be pelicans.

“Surely,” said I, “pelicans are not new to you!”

“Certainly not; but if you look a little more attentively, I think you will find material for your note-book.”

Jack was right. I observed a very fine fish-hawk circling over the head of one of the pelicans. Its head and neck were white, and its body was of a reddish chocolate colour. Just as we came in sight, the pelican caught a fine fish, which it stowed away safe in the pouch under its chin. The sly hawk, which had been watching for this, immediately made a descent towards its victim, making a considerable noise with its wings as it came down. Hearing this, the pelican looked hastily up, and supposing that a terrible and deadly assault was about to be made, opened its mouth and screamed in terror. This was just what the hawk wanted. The open bill revealed the fish in the pouch. Down he swooped, snatched it out, and then soared away with his ill-gotten gains in his talons.

“Oh, what a thief!” exclaimed Peterkin.

“And the pelican seems to take his loss in a remarkably philosophical manner,” observed Jack.

To my surprise the great stupid bird, instead of flying away, as I had expected, quietly resumed his fishing as if nothing had happened. No doubt he was well pleased to find himself still alive, and it is not improbable that the hawk made several more meals at the expense of his long-beaked friend after we had passed by.

We soon put him to flight, however, by landing near the spot where he stood, this being the place where we were to quit our canoes and pass through the jungle on foot. The hunters now prepared themselves for action, for the recent tracks of elephants were seen on the bank of the stream, and the natives said they could not be far off. Jack and Peterkin were armed with immensely heavy rifles, which carried balls of the weight of six-ounces. I carried my trusty, double-barrelled fowling-piece, which is of the largest size, and which I preferred to a rifle, because, not being a good shot, I resolved, on all occasions, to reserve my fire until we should come to close quarters with game, leaving my more expert comrades to take the longer shots. We had also two natives—one being our guide, Makarooroo, who carried Jack and Peterkin’s double-barrelled guns as a reserve. These were loaded, of course, with ball.

“This looks something like business,” said Jack, as he leaned on his heavy rifle and looked at the natives, who were selecting their spears and otherwise making preparations.

“It does,” replied Peterkin. “Are you loaded?”

“Ay, and I have just examined the caps to see that they are dry; for it’s not like grouse-shooting on the Scottish hills this African hunting, depend upon it. A snapping cap might cost us our lives,—Ralph, my boy, you must keep well in rear. I don’t want to hurt your feelings, but it won’t do to go in front when you cannot depend on your nerves.”

I experienced a feeling of sadness not unmingled with shame as my friend said this, but I could not question the justness of his remark, and I knew well that he would not have made it at all, but for his anxiety lest I should run recklessly into danger, which I might find myself, when too late, unable to cope with. I was careful, however, to conceal my feelings as I replied with a smile—

“You are right, Jack. I shall act the part of a support, while you and Peterkin skirmish in advance.”

“And be careful,” said Peterkin, solemnly, “that you don’t fire into us by mistake.”

Somewhat of Peterkin’s own spirit came over me as I replied, “Indeed, I have been thinking of that, and I’m not sure that I can restrain myself when I see a chimpanzee monkey and a gorilla walking through the woods before me.”

“I think we’d better take his gun from him,” suggested Jack.

At this moment the king gave the signal to advance, so we shouldered our weapons and joined him. As we walked rapidly along, Jack suggested that we should allow the natives to kill any elephants we might fall in with in their own way, so as to observe how they managed it, rather than try to push ourselves forward on this our first expedition. We all agreed to this, and shortly after we came to the place which elephants were known to frequent.

Here great preparations had evidently been made for them. A space of more than a mile was partially enclosed by what might be termed a vine wall. The huge, thorny, creeping vines had been torn down from the trees and woven into a rude sort of network, through which it was almost impossible for any animal except an elephant to break. This was intended—not to stop the elephant altogether, but to entangle and retard him in his flight, until the hunters could kill him with their spears. The work, we were given to understand, was attended with considerable danger, for some of the natives were occasionally caught by the thorny vines when flying from the charge of the infuriated animal, and were instantly stamped to death by his ponderous feet.

I felt a new and powerful excitement creep over me as I saw the natives extend themselves in a wide semicircle of nearly two miles in extent, and begin to advance with loud shouts and cries, in order to drive the game towards the vines, and the flashing eyes and compressed lips of my two companions showed that they were similarly affected. We determined to keep together and follow close on that part of the line where the king was.

“You no be ’fraid?” said Makarooroo, looking down at Peterkin, who, he evidently supposed, was neither mentally nor physically adapted for an African hunter.

Peterkin was so tickled with the question that he suddenly began to tremble like an aspen leaf, and to chatter with his teeth and display all the symptoms of abject terror. Pointing over Makarooroo’s shoulder into the bush behind him, he gasped, “The leopard!”

The negro uttered a hideous yell, and springing nearly his own height into the air, darted behind a tree with the agility of a wild-cat.

Instantly Peterkin resumed his composure, and turning round with a look of cool surprise, said—

“What! you’re not afraid, Makarooroo?” The good-humoured fellow burst into a loud laugh on perceiving the practical joke that had been passed on him, and it was evident that the incident, trifling though it was, had suddenly raised his estimation of Peterkin to a very exalted pitch.

We now began to draw near to the enclosure, and I was beginning to fear that our hunt was to prove unsuccessful that day. A considerable quantity of small game had passed us, alarmed by the cries of the natives; but we purposely withheld our fire, although I saw that Jack was sorely tempted once or twice, when several beautiful gazelles and one or two wild pigs ran past within shot. Presently we heard a shrill trumpeting sound, which Peterkin, who had hunted in the forests of Ceylon, told us, in an excited voice, was the cry of the elephant. We hastened forward with our utmost speed, when suddenly we were brought to a stand by hearing a tremendous roar close in front of us. Immediately after, a large male lion bounded from among the bushes, and with one stroke of his enormous paw struck down a negro who stood not twenty yards from us. The terrible brute stood for an instant or two, lashing his sides with his tail and glaring defiance. It chanced that I happened to be nearest to him, and that the position of the tangled underwood prevented my companions from taking good aim; so without waiting for them, being anxious to save, if possible, the life of the prostrate negro, I fired both barrels into the lion’s side. Giving utterance to another terrible roar, he bounded away into the bush, scattering the negroes who came in his way, and made his escape, to our great disappointment.

We found, to our horror, on going up to the fallen hunter, that he was quite dead. His skull had been literally smashed in, as if it had received a blow from a sledge-hammer.

I cannot describe my feelings on beholding thus, for the first time, the king of beasts in all the savage majesty of strength and freedom, coupled with the terrible death of a human being. My brain was in a whirl of excitement; I scarce knew what I was doing. But I had no time to think, for almost immediately after firing the shots at the lion, two elephants came crashing through the bushes. One was between ten and eleven feet high, the other could not have been less than twelve feet. I had never seen anything like this in the menageries of England, and their appearance, as they burst thus suddenly on my vision, was something absolutely appalling.

Those who have only seen the comparatively small and sluggish animals that are wont to ring their bells to attract attention, and to feed on gingerbread nuts from the hands of little boys, can form no idea of the terrible appearance of the gigantic monsters of Africa as they go tearing in mad fury through the forests with their enormous ears, and tails, and trunks erect, their ponderous tusks glistening in the sunshine, and their wicked little eyes flashing like balls of fire as they knock down, rend asunder, and overturn all that comes in their way.

The two that now approached us in full career were flying before a crowd of negroes who had already fixed a number of spears in their sides, from which the blood was flowing copiously. To say that the bushes went down before them like grass would not give a correct idea of the ponderous rush of these creatures. Trees of three and four inches diameter were run against and snapped off like twigs, without proving in any degree obstructive.

By this time the negroes had crowded in from all sides, and as the elephants approached the place where we stood, a perfect cloud of spears and javelins descended on their devoted sides. I observed that many of the active natives had leaped up into the trees and discharged their spears from above, while others, crouching behind fallen trees or bushes, threw them from below, so that in a few seconds dozens of spears entered their bodies at every conceivable angle, and they appeared as if suddenly transformed into monstrous porcupines or hedgehogs. There was something almost ludicrous in this, but the magnitude and aspect of the animals were too terrible, and our danger was too imminent, to permit anything like comic ideas to enter our brains. I observed, too, that the natives were perfectly wild with excitement. Their black faces worked convulsively, and their white eyes and teeth glittered as they leaped and darted about in a state of almost perfect nudity, so that their aspect was quite demoniacal.

The suddenness and violence of the attack made near to us had the effect of turning the elephants aside, and the next instant they were tearing and wrenching themselves through the meshes of the tough and thorny vines. The natives closed in with wild cries and with redoubled energy. Nothing surprised me so much as to observe the incredible number of spears that were sticking all over these creatures, and the amount of blood that they lost, without any apparent diminution of strength resulting. It seemed as if no human power could kill them, and at that moment I almost doubted Peterkin’s assertion that he had, while in Ceylon, actually killed elephants with a single ball.

While Jack and Peterkin and I were gazing in deep interest and surprise at the curious struggle going on before us, and holding ourselves in readiness to act, should there be any chance of our game escaping, the larger of the two elephants succeeded in disentangling himself by backing out of the snare. He then wheeled round and charged straight at King Jambai, who stood close to us, with incredible fury. The beast, as it came on with the bristling spears all over it, the blood spirting from its innumerable wounds, and trumpeting shrill with rage, seemed to me like some huge unearthly phantom. It was with difficulty I could believe the whole scene other than a hideous dream. Jambai launched his javelin into the animal’s chest, and then turned and fled. The other natives also darted and scattered hither and thither, so that the elephant could not make up its mind on which of its enemies to wreak its vengeance. We, too, turned and took to our heels at once with right good will. All at once I heard Jack utter a wild shout or yell, very unlike to anything I ever heard from him before. I looked back, and saw that his foot had got entangled in a thorny shrub, and that the elephant was making at him.

To this day I have never been able to account for the remarkable condition of mind and body that ensued on this occasion. Instead of being paralysed as I had been when Peterkin was in imminent danger, all sensation of fear or hesitancy seemed to vanish on thine instant. I felt my nerves and muscles strung, as it were, and rendered firm as a rock, and with calm deliberation, yet with the utmost rapidity of which I was capable, I turned round, sprang between Jack and the enraged beast, and presented my piece at his head.

“Right in the centre of his forehead,” gasped Jack, as he endeavoured to wrench his foot from the entanglement.

At that moment I observed Peterkin leap to my side; the next instant the report of both our guns rang through the woods; the elephant bounded completely over Jack, as Peterkin and I leaped to either side to let it pass, and fell to the ground with such violence that a tree about six inches thick, against which it struck, went down before it like a willow wand.

We immediately assisted Jack to extricate himself; but we had no time to congratulate ourselves on our narrow escape, for mingled shouts and yells from the men in the bushes ahead apprised us that some new danger menaced them in that direction.

Reloading as fast as we could, we hastened forward, and soon gained the new scene of battle. Here stood the other elephant, trying to break down a small tree up which King Jambai had climbed, partly for safety and partly in order to dart a javelin down on the brute as it passed.

This was a common custom of the natives; but the king, who was a bold, reckless man, had neglected to take the very necessary precaution of selecting a strong tree. The elephant seemed actually to have observed this, for instead of passing on, it suddenly rushed headlong against the tree and began to break it down. When we came up the beast was heaving and straining with all its might, the stout tree was cracking and rending fearfully, so that the king could scarcely retain his position on it. The natives were plying their spears with the utmost vigour; but although mortally wounded, it was evident that in a few more seconds the elephant would succeed in throwing down the tree and trample the king to death.

Peterkin instantly sprang forward, but Jack laid his hand on his shoulder.

“It’s my turn this time, lad,” he cried, and leaping towards the monster, he placed the muzzle of his rifle close to its shoulder and sent a six-ounce ball right through its heart.

The effect was instantaneous. The elephant fell to the ground, a mountain of dead flesh.

The delight of the negroes at this happy termination of the battle was excessive. They leaped and laughed and danced like insane men, and we had much ado to prevent them seizing us in their arms and rubbing noses with us.

As we had not commenced the hunt until well on in the day, evening was now closing in; so the king gave orders to encamp on a dry rising ground not far distant, where the jungle was less dense, and thither we all repaired, the natives bringing in all the game, and cutting up the elephants in a very short space of time.

“Your shot was not such a bad one this time, Ralph,” observed Peterkin, as we three stood looking at the large elephant which the natives were cutting up. “There they are, just above the proboscis. But let me warn you never again to venture on such a foolhardy thing as to fire in the face of a charging elephant unless you are a dead shot.”

“Thank you, Peterkin, for your advice, which, however, I will not take when a comrade’s life may depend on my doing so.”

“I give you full credit for the excellence of your intention,” rejoined my friend; “but if Jack’s life had depended on those two shots from your double-barrel, he would have been but a dead man now. There is only one vulnerable spot in the front of an elephant’s head; that is, exactly in the centre of the forehead. The spot is not bigger than a saucer, and the bone is comparatively thin there. If you cannot make sure of hitting that, you simply face certain death. I would not have tried it on any account whatever, had I not seen that both you and Jack would have been killed had I not done so.”

On examination we found that the heavy ball from Peterkin’s rifle had indeed penetrated the exact spot referred to, and had been the means of killing the elephant, while my two bullets were found embedded in the bone.

The tusks of this animal were magnificent. I do not know what their exact weight was, not having the means wherewith to weigh them. They were probably worth a considerable sum of money in the British market. Of course we did not lay claim to any part of the spoil of that day, with the exception of a few of the beautiful birds shot on the voyage up the river, which were of no value to the natives, although priceless to me. Alas! when I came to examine them next morning, I found that those destructive creatures the white ants had totally destroyed the greater part of them, and the few that were worth stuffing were very much damaged.

Experience is a good though sometimes a severe teacher. Never again did I, after that, put off the stuffing of any valuable creature till the next day. I always stuffed it in the evening of the day on which it was killed; and thus, although the practice cost me many a sleepless night, I preserved, and ultimately brought home, many specimens of rare and beautiful birds and beasts, which would otherwise have been destroyed by those rapacious insects.

That night the scene of our camp was indescribably romantic and wild. Numerous huge fires were lighted, and round these the negroes circled and cooked elephant and venison steaks, while they talked over the events of the day or recounted the adventures of former hunts with noisy volubility and gesticulation.

The negro has a particular love for a fire. The nights in his warm climate are chill to him, though not so to Europeans, and he luxuriates in the heat of a fire as a cat does in the rays of the sun. The warm blaze seems to draw out his whole soul, and causes his eyes to sparkle with delight. A good supper and a warm fire render him almost perfectly happy. There is but one thing wanting to render him supremely so, and that is—a pipe! No doubt, under similar circumstances, the white man also is in a state of enviable felicity, but he does not show his joy like the negro, who seems to forget his cares and sorrows, the miseries which his gross superstitions entail on him, the frequency with which he is exposed to sudden destruction; everything, in short, is forgotten save the present, and he enjoys himself with unmitigated fervour.

It really did my heart good as I sat with my comrades beside our fire and looked around me on their happy faces, which were rendered still happier by the gift from us of a small quantity of tobacco, with which we had taken care to provide ourselves for this very purpose.

I could scarcely believe that the jovial, kindly, hearty fellows were the very men who are well-known to be such cruel, bloodthirsty fiends when under the influence of their dreadful superstitions, and who, but a few hours before, had been darting through the woods besmeared with blood and yelling like maniacs or demons. In fact, the whole scene before me, and the day’s proceedings, seemed to me, at that time, like a vivid dream instead of a reality. Moreover, after I lay down, the reality became a dream, and I spent that night, as I had spent the day, shooting gazelles, lions, wild pigs, and elephants in imagination.

Chapter Six.

Dreaming and feeding and bloody work enlarged upon.

The first object of which my senses became cognisant on awaking next morning was my friend Peterkin, who had evidently awakened just a moment or two before me, for he was in the act of yawning and rubbing his eyes.

I have all my life been a student of character, and the most interesting yet inexplicable character which I have ever studied has been that of my friend Peterkin, whose eccentricities I have never been able fully to understand or account for. I have observed that, on first awaking in the mornings, he has been wont to exhibit several of his most eccentric and peculiar traits, so I resolved to feign myself asleep and watch him.

“Heigh-ho!” he exclaimed, after the yawn I have just referred to. Having said this, he stretched out both arms to the utmost above his head, and then flung himself back at full length on his couch, where he lay still for about half a minute. Then he started up suddenly into a sitting posture and looked slowly from one to another of the recumbent forms around him. Satisfied, apparently, that they were asleep, he gave vent to a long yawn which terminated in a gasp, and then he looked up contemplatively at the sky, which was at that hour beginning to warm with the red rays of the rising sun. While thus engaged, he caressed with his right hand the very small scrap of whisker that grew on his right cheek. At first it seemed as if this were an unconscious action, but he suddenly appeared to become absorbed in it, and stared straight before him as one does when only half awake, mumbling the while in an undertone. I could not make out distinctly what he said, but I think I caught the words, “Yes, a little—a very little thicker—six new hairs, I think—umph! slow, very slow.” Here he looked at Jack’s bushy beard and sighed.

Suddenly he thrust both hands deep into his breeches pockets and stared at the black embers of the extinct fire; then as suddenly he pulled out his hands, and placing the forefinger of his right hand on the end of the thumb of his left, said slowly—

“Let me see—I’ll recall it.”

He spoke with intense gravity. Most persons do when talking to themselves.

“Yes, I remember now. There were two elephants and four—or three, was it?—no, it must have been four lions. The biggest elephant had on a false front of fair curls and a marriage-ring on its tail. Stay; was it not the other one had that? No, it was the biggest. I remember now, for it was just above the marriage-ring I grasped it when I pulled its tail out. I didn’t pull it off, for it wouldn’t come off; it came out like a telescope or a long piece of indiarubber. Ha! and I remember thinking how painful it must be. That was odd, now, to think of that. The other elephant had on crinoline. That was odder still; for of all animals in the world it least required it. Well, let me see. What did I do? Oh yes, I shot them both. Of course, that was natural; but it wasn’t quite so natural that the big one should vomit up a live lion, which attacked me with incredible fury. But I killed it cleverly. Yes, it was a clever thing, undoubtedly, to split a lion in two, from the tip of its nose to the extremity of its tail, with one stroke of a penknife—”

At this climax I could contain myself no longer, and burst into a loud laugh as I perceived that Peterkin had spent the night, as I myself had done, in hunting—though, I confess, there was a considerable difference in the nature of our achievements, and in the manner of their accomplishment.

“Why, what are you laughing at?” said Jack, sitting up and gazing at me with a stupid stare.

“At Peterkin’s dreams,” said I.

“Ah!” said Jack, with a smiling yawn, “that’s it, is it? Been hunting elephants and lions, eh?”

“Why, how did you guess that?” I asked, in surprise; “were you not asleep just now?”

“Of course I was, and dreaming too, like yourself, I make no doubt. I had just bagged my fifteenth elephant and my tenth lion when your laugh awoke me. And the best of it is that I was carrying the whole bagful on my back at once, and did not feel much oppressed by the weight.”

“That beats my dream hollow,” observed Peterkin; “so its my opinion we’d better have breakfast.—Makarooroo, hy! d’ye hear? rouse up, you junk of ebony.”

“Yis, massa, comin’,” said our guide, rising slowly from his lair on the opposite side of our fireplace.

“D’you hear?”

“Yis, massa.”

“You’re a nigger!”

“Dat am a fact.”

“Well, being a nigger you’re a brick, so look sharp with that splendid breakfast you promised us last night. I’ll wager a million pounds that you had forgotten all about it.”

“No, massa, me no forgit. Me up in centre ob de night and put ’im in de hole. Wat you call ’im—oben?”

“Ay, oven, that’s it.”

“Yis. Well, me git ’im d’rec’ly.”

“And, I say, hold on,” added Peterkin. “Don’t you suppose I’m going to stand on ceremony with you. Your name’s too long by half. Too many rooroos about it, so I’m going to call you Mak in future, d’ye understand?”

The negro nodded and grinned from ear to ear as he left us. Presently he returned with a huge round, or lump of meat, at which we looked inquisitively. The odour from it was delightful, and the tender, juicy appearance of the meat when Makarooroo, who carved it for us, cut the first slice, was quite appetising to behold.

“What is it?” inquired Peterkin.

“Elephant’s foot,” replied the guide.

“Gammon,” remarked Peterkin.

“It’s true, massa. Don’t you see him’s toe?”

“So it is,” said Jack.

“And it’s first-rate,” cried I, tasting a morsel.

With that we fell to and made a hearty meal, after which we, along with the king and all his people, retraced our steps to the river and returned to the native town, where we spent another day in making preparations to continue our journey towards the land of the gorilla.

During the hunt which I have just described I was very much amused as well as amazed at the reckless manner in which the negroes loaded their rusty old trade-guns. They put in a whole handful of powder each time, and above that as much shot and bits of old iron of all kinds as they dared; some I saw charged thus to within a few inches of the muzzle, and the owners seemed actually afraid to put them to their shoulders, as well they might be, for the recoil was tremendous, and had the powder been good their guns must have been blown to pieces and themselves killed.

On our return to the village we found the people on the eve of one of those terrible outbursts of superstitious passion which rarely if ever pass away without some wretched human creature perishing under the hands of murderers.

“There is something wrong with the fetishman, I think,” remarked Jack, as we disembarked at the landing. “He seems excited. Do you know what it can be at, Makarooroo?”

“Jack,” interposed Peterkin, “I have changed his name to Mak, so you and Ralph will please to remember that.—Mak, my boy, what’s wrong with your doctor?”

The negro looked very grave and shook his head as he replied, “Don’ know, massa. Him’s be goin’ to rizz de peepil wid him norrible doin’s. Dere will be death in the camp mos’ bery quick—p’raps dis night.”

“That is terrible,” said I. “Are you sure of what you say?”

“Sartin sure,” replied the negro, with another shake of the head.

“Then, Mak,” said Jack, “it behoves us to look to ourselves. You look like an honest fellow, and I believe we may trust you. We cannot expect you to help us to fight against your own kith and kin, but I do expect that you will assist us to escape if any foul play is intended. Whatever betides, it is as well that you should know that white men are not easily conquered. Our guns are good—they never miss fire. We will sell our lives dearly, you may depend on it.”

“Ay,” added Peterkin, “it is well that you should know that; moreover, it is well that the rascally niggers of your tribe should know it too; so you can take occasion to give them a hint that we shall keep ourselves prepared for them, with my compliments.”

“De mans ob my peepil,” replied the negro, with some dignity of manner, “be not wuss dan oder mans. But dem is bad enuff. But you no hab need for be fraid. Dey no touch de white mans. Dem bery much glad you com’ here. If any bodies be killed it be black mans or ’oomans.”

We felt somewhat relieved on hearing this, for, to say truth, we knew well enough that three men, no matter how well-armed or resolute they might be, could not hope to defend themselves against a whole tribe of savages in their own country. Nevertheless we resolved to keep a sharp lookout, and be prepared for the worst. Meanwhile we did all in our power to expedite our departure.

That evening the trader started on his return journey to the coast, leaving us in charge of King Jambai, who promised earnestly to take good care of us. We immediately put his willingness to fulfil his promise to the test by begging him to furnish us with men to carry our goods into the interior. He tried very hard to induce us to change our minds and remain hunting with his tribe, telling us that the gorilla country was far far away from his lands; that we should never reach it alive, or that if we did we should certainly be killed by the natives, who, besides being cruel and warlike, were cannibals; and that if we did meet in with gorillas we should all be certainly slain, for no one could combat successfully with that ferocious giant of the monkey tribe.

To this we replied that we were quite aware of the dangers we should have to encounter in our travels, but added that we had come there for the very purpose of encountering such dangers, and especially to pay a visit to the giant monkeys in their native land, so that it was in vain his attempting to dissuade us, as we were resolved to go.

Seeing that we were immovable, the king eventually gave in, and ordered some of his best men to hold themselves in readiness to start with us on the following morning. We then proceeded to his majesty’s house, where we had supper, and afterwards retired to our own hut to rest.

But we were destined to have little or no rest that night. The doctor or fetishman of the tribe had stirred up the passions of the people in a manner that was quite incomprehensible to us. King Jambai, it seems, had been for some weeks suffering from illness—possibly from indigestion, for he was fond of gorging himself—and the medicine-man had stated that his majesty was bewitched by some of the members of his own tribe, and that unless these sorcerers were slain there was no possibility of his getting well.

We never could ascertain why the fetishman should fix upon certain persons to be slain, unless it was that he had a personal enmity against them; but this seemed unlikely, for two of the persons selected were old female slaves, who could never, of course, have injured the doctor in any way. But the doings of Africans, especially in regard to religious superstitions, I afterwards found were so mysterious that no one could or would explain the meaning of them to us. And I am inclined to believe that in reference to the meaning of many things they were themselves utterly ignorant.

Towards midnight the people had wrought themselves up to a frenzied condition, and made so much noise that we could not sleep. In the midst of the uproar Makarooroo, who we observed had been very restless all the evening, rushed into our hut, exclaiming, “Massa! massa! come, save my Okandaga! come quick!”

The poor fellow was trembling with anxiety, and was actually pale in the face; for a distinctly discernible pallor overspreads the countenance of the negro when under the influence of excessive terror.

Okandaga we had previously heard of and seen. She was, according to African notions, an exceedingly pretty young girl, with whom our worthy guide had fallen desperately in love. Makarooroo’s education had done much for him, and especially in regard to females. Having observed the kind, respectful consideration with which the missionaries treated their wives, and the happiness that seemed to be the result of that course of conduct, he resolved in his own mind to try the experiment with one of the girls of his own tribe, and soon after rejoining it paid his attentions to Okandaga, who seemed to him the most modest and lovable girl in the village.

Poor Okandaga was first amazed and then terrified at the strangely gentle conduct of her lover, and thought that he meant to bewitch her; for having never before been accustomed to other than harsh and contemptuous treatment from men, she could not believe that Makarooroo meant her any good. Gradually, however, she began to like this respectful wooer, and finally she agreed to elope with him to the sea-coast and live near the missionaries. It was necessary, however, to arrange their plans with great caution. There was no difficulty in their getting married. A handsome present to the girl’s father was all that was necessary to effect that end, and a good hunter like Makarooroo knew he could speedily obtain possession of his bride, but to get her removed from her tribe and carried to the coast was quite a different affair. While the perplexed negro was pondering this subject and racking his brains to discover a way of getting over the difficulty, our arrival at the village occurred. At once he jumped to the conclusion that somehow or other he should accomplish his object through our assistance; and holding this in view, he the more willingly agreed to accompany us to the gorilla country, intending first to make our acquaintance, and afterwards to turn us to account in furthering his plans. All this we learned long afterwards. At the period of which I am now writing, we were profoundly ignorant of everything save the fact that Okandaga was his affianced bride, and that the poor fellow was now almost beside himself with horror because the fetishman had condemned her, among others, to drink the poisoned cup.

This drinking of the poisoned cup is an ordeal through which the unhappy victims to whom suspicion has been attached are compelled to pass. Each one drinks the poison, and several executioners stand by, with heavy knives, to watch the result. If the poison acts so as to cause the supposed criminal to fall down, he is hacked in pieces instantly; but if, through unusual strength or peculiarity of constitution, he is enabled to resist the effects of the poison, his life is spared, and he is declared innocent.

Jack and Peterkin and I seized our weapons, and hurrying out, followed our guide to the spot where this terrible tragedy was enacting.

“Don’t fear, Mak,” said Peterkin, as we ran along; “we’ll save her somehow. I’m certain of that.”

The negro made no reply, but I observed a more hopeful expression on his countenance after the remark. He evidently had immense faith in Peterkin; which I must say was more than I had, for when I considered our small numbers, my hope of influencing savages was very slight.

The scene that met our eyes was indescribably horrible. In the centre of a dense circle of negroes, who had wrought themselves up to a pitch of ferocity that caused them to look more like wild beasts than men, stood the king, and beside him the doctor or fetishman. This latter was ornamented with a towering headdress of feathers. His face was painted white, which had the effect of imparting to him an infinitely more hideous and ghastly aspect than is produced in the white man when he is painted black. A stripe of red passed round his head, and another down his forehead and nose. His naked body was decked with sundry fantastic ornaments, and altogether he looked more like a fiend than I had believed it possible for man to appear.

The ground all round him was saturated with blood and strewn with arms, fingers, cleft skulls, and masses of flesh that had been hewn from the victims who had already fallen, one of whom, we afterwards learned, had belonged to the royal family. Two still remained—a young female and an old man. The emaciated frame and white woolly head of the latter showed that in the course of nature his earthly career must soon terminate. It is probable that the poor old man had become a burden to his relations, and the doctor took this opportunity of ridding the tribe of him. The girl was Okandaga, who stood weeping and trembling as she gazed upon the butchery that had already taken place.

The old man had swallowed the poison shortly before we arrived, and he was now struggling to maintain an erect position. But he failed, his quivering limbs sank beneath him, and before we could interfere the bloody executioners had cut off his head, and then, in a transport of passion, they literally hacked his body to pieces.

We rushed hastily forward to the king, and Jack, in an earnest voice, implored him to spare the last victim.

“Surely,” said he, “enough have been sacrificed already.—Tell him, Makarooroo, that I will quit his village and never see him more if he does not spare the life of that young girl.”

The king appeared much perplexed by this unlooked-for interference on our part.

“I cannot check the spirits of my people now,” he replied. “They are roused. The girl has bewitched me and many others. She must die. It is our custom. Let not my white men be offended. Let them go to their hut and sleep.”

“We cannot sleep while injustice is done in the village,” answered Jack, in a lofty tone. “Let not King Jambai do that which will make his visitors ashamed of him. Let the girl live till to-morrow at midnight. Let the case be investigated, and if she be proved guilty then let her die.”

The king commenced a long reply in the same dignified manner and tone which Jack had assumed. While he was thus engaged Peterkin touched our guide on the shoulder and whispered—

“I say, Mak, tell the doctor to back up Jack’s request, and I’ll give him a gun.”

The negro slipped at once to the side of the doctor, who had begun to frown fiercely on Jack, and whispered a few words in his ear. Instantly his face assumed a calmer aspect, and presently he stepped up to the king, and a whispering conversation ensued, in which the doctor, carefully refraining from making any mention of the gun, commended the wise advice of the white man, and suggested that the proposal should be agreed to, adding, however, that he knew for certain that the girl was a witch, but that the investigation would do good in the way of proving that he, the doctor, was correct, and thus the girl should perish on the following night, and the white men would be satisfied.

Having announced this to the multitude, the king ordered Okandaga to be conducted back to her prison and carefully guarded; and we returned to our hut—not, however, to sleep, but to consult as to what was to be done next.

“I knew that you wanted a respite for her,” said Peterkin, as we sat round our fire, “that you might have time to consider how to act, and I backed up your request accordingly, as you know. But now, I confess, I’m very much at a loss what to suggest. It seems to me we have only purchased a brief delay.”

“True,” answered Jack. “The delay is not so brief, however, but that we may plan some method of getting the poor girl out of this scrape.—What say you, Mak?”

“If you no can tink ’pon someting, I gib up all hope,” replied our guide sorrowfully.

“Come, Mak, cheer up,” cried Peterkin. “If the worst comes to the worst, you can, at any rate, fight for your bride.”

“Fight!” exclaimed the negro, displaying his white teeth like a mastiff, rolling his eyes and clinching his fists convulsively. Then in a calmer tone he continued, “Ay, me can fight. Me could kill all de guards an’ take Okandaga by de hand, an’ run troo de bushes for eber. But guards no die widout hollerin’ an’ yellerin’ like de gorilla; an’ nigger mans can run fasterer dan womans. No, no, dat am dumpossobable.”

“Nothing’s ‘dumpossobable’ to brave hearts and stout arms,” replied Jack. “There are only four guards put over her, I believe. Well, there are just four of us—not that we require to be equal, by any means. Peterkin and I could settle them easily; but we require to be equal in numbers, in order to do it quietly. I have a plan in my head, but there’s one hitch in it that I cannot unravel.”

“And what may that be?” If asked.

“Why, I don’t see how, after getting clear off with Okandaga, we are to avoid being pursued on suspicion and captured.”

“Dere is one cave,” remarked the guide, “not far off to here. P’raps we be safe if we git into ’im. But I ’fraid it not do, cause him be peepiled by fiends an’ dead man’s spirits.”

“That’s a grave objection,” said Peterkin, laughing.

“Yes, an’ de tribe neber go near dere; dey is most drefful terrorfied to be cotched dere.”

“Then, that will just do,” cried Jack, with animation. “The very thing. And now I’ll tell you what my plan is. To-morrow morning early we will tell the king that we wish to be off at once—that we have put off too much time already, and wish to make no further delay. Then we’ll pack up and start. At night we will encamp in a quiet, out-of-the-way part of the woods, and slip back to the village in the dark a short time before midnight. The whole village will at that time be assembled, probably, at the spot where the execution is to take place; so we can rush in, overpower the guard, free Okandaga, and make our escape to the cave, where they will never think of looking for us.”

Peterkin shook his head. “There are two difficulties in your plan, Jack. First, what if the natives are not assembled on the place of execution, and we find it impossible to make our entrance into or exit from the village quietly?”

“I propose,” replied Jack, “that we shall undress ourselves, rub ourselves entirely over with charcoal and grease, so that they shall not recognise us, and dash in and carry the girl off by a coup de main. In which case it will, of course, be neck or nothing, and a tremendous race to the cave, where, if they follow us, we will keep them at bay with our rifles.”

“Umph! dashing, no doubt, but risky,” said Peterkin—“extremely risky. Yet it’s worth trying. Well, my second difficulty is—what if they don’t stick to their promise after we quit, and kill the poor thing before midnight?”

“We must take our chance of that. But I shall put the king on his honour before leaving, and say that I will make particular inquiry into the way in which the trial has been conducted on my return.”

“Put the king on his honour!” observed Peterkin. “I’m afraid that you’ll put his majesty on an extremely unstable foundation. However, I see nothing better that can be done.”

“Have you any more difficulties?”

“Yes,” said I. “There is one other. What do you propose to do with the men who are to be supplied us by the king during these extremely delicate and difficult manoeuvres?”

The countenances of my comrades fell at this question.

“I never thought of them,” said Jack.

“Nor I,” said Peterkin.

Makarooroo groaned.

“Well,” said I, “if you will allow me to suggest, I would recommend that we should, towards the close of the day, send them on ahead of us, and bid them encamp at a certain place, saying that we shall spend the night in hunting, and return to them in the morning.”

“The very thing,” said Jack. “Now, comrades, to rest. I will occupy myself until I fall asleep in maturing my plans and thinking out the details. Do you the same, and if anything should occur to you let us consult over it in the morning.”

We were all glad to agree to this, being wearied more perhaps by excitement than want of rest; so bidding each other good-night, we lay down side by side to meditate, and for my part to dream of the difficult and dangerous work that awaited us on the morrow.

Chapter Seven.

We Circumvent the Natives.

We arose on the following morning with the dawn of day, and began to make preparation for our departure.

To our satisfaction we found the king quite willing that we should go; so embarking our goods in one of the native canoes, we ordered our negroes to embark, and commenced our journey amid the firing of guns and the good wishes of the natives. I must confess that I felt some probings of conscience at the thought of the double part we were compelled to play; but the recollection of the horrid fate that awaited the poor negro girl put to flight such feelings, and induced a longing for the time of action to arrive.

I have more than once referred to our goods. Perhaps it may be as well to explain that, when we first landed on the African coast, we made inquiries of those who were best acquainted with the nature and requirements of the country we were about to explore, as to what goods we ought to purchase of the traders, in order to be in a position to pay our way as we went along; for we could not, of course, expect the savages to feed us and lodge us and help us on our way for nothing. After mature consideration, we provided ourselves with a supply of such things as were most necessary and suitable—such as tobacco, powder, and shot, and ball, a few trade-guns, several pieces of brightly-coloured cloth, packages of beads (some white enamelled, others of coloured glass), coffee and tea, knives, scissors, rings, and a variety of other knick-knacks. These, with a little brandy to be used medicinally, our blankets and camp cooking utensils, formed a heavy load for ten men; but, of course, as we advanced, the load was lightened by the consumption of our provisions and the giving away of goods. The additions which I made, however, in the shape of stuffed specimens, began in the course of time to more than counterbalance this advantage.

Being resolved to impress the natives with a respect for our physical powers, we made a point of each carrying a pretty heavy load on our journeys—excepting, of course, when we went out a-hunting. But to return.

Our crew worked willingly and well, so that ere night closed in upon us we were a considerable distance away from the village. As the sun set we landed, and ordering our men to advance in the canoe to a certain bend in the river, and there encamp and await our return, we landed and went off into the woods as if to search for game.

“Now, Makarooroo, quick march, and don’t draw rein till we reach the cave,” said Jack when we were out of sight of the canoe.

Our guide obeyed in silence, and for the next two hours we travelled through the woods at a sort of half trot that must have carried us over the ground at the rate of five miles in hour. The pace was indeed tremendous, and I now reaped the benefit of those long pedestrian excursions which for years past I had been taking, with scientific ends in view, over the fields and hills of my native land. Jack and Peterkin seemed both to be made of iron, and incapable of suffering from fatigue. But I have no doubt that the exciting and hazardous nature of the expedition on which we had embarked had much to do with our powers of endurance.

After running and doubling, gliding and leaping through the dense woods, as I have said, for two hours, we arrived at a broken, rocky piece of ground, over which we passed, and eventually came upon a thick jungle that concealed a vast cliff almost entirely from view. The cracking of the bushes as we approached showed that we had disturbed the slumbers of more than one of the wild beasts that inhabited the spot. Here Makarooroo paused, and although it was intensely dark I could observe that he was trembling violently.

“Come, Mak,” said I in a whisper, “surely you, who have received a Christian education, do not really believe that devils inhabit this spot?”

“Me don know, massa. Eber since me was be a pikaniny me ’fraid—horrobably ’fraid ob dat cave.”

“Come, come,” said Jack impatiently; “we have no time for fears of any kind this night. Think of Okandaga, Mak, and be a man.”

This was sufficient. The guide pushed boldly forward, and led us to the mouth of a large cavern, at which he halted and pointed to the gloomy interior.

“You have the matches, Peterkin; quick, strike a light. It is getting late,” said Jack.

In another moment a light was struck, and with it we kindled three goodly-sized torches with which we had provided ourselves. Holding these high over our heads, we entered the cavern—Jack first, Peterkin second, I next, and the terrified negro in rear.

We had scarcely entered, and were peering upwards at the black vault overhead, when an indescribable rushing sound filled the air of the cavern, and caused the flame of our torches to flicker with such violence that we could not see any object distinctly. We all came to a sudden pause, and I confess that at that moment a feeling of superstitious dread chilled the blood in my veins. Before we could discover the cause of this strange effect, several large black objects passed through the air near our heads with a peculiar muffled noise. Next instant the three torches were extinguished.

Unable to command himself any longer, the negro uttered a cry of terror and turned to fly; but Jack, whose wits seemed always prepared for any emergency, had foreseen the probability of this, and springing quickly after him, threw his arms round his neck and effectually prevented his running away.

The noise caused by the scuffle seemed to arouse the fury of all the evil spirits of the place, for a perfect hurricane of whirring sounds raged around us for a few seconds.

“It’s only bats,” cried Jack.—“Look alive, Peterkin; another light.”

In a few seconds the torches were rekindled, and we advanced into the cavern; and Mak, after recovering from his fright and learning the cause thereof, became much bolder. The cave was about a hundred yards deep by about fifty wide; but we could not ascertain its height, for the light of our torches failed to penetrate the deep gloom overhead. It was divided into two natural chambers, the outer being large, the inner small—a mere recess, in fact. In this latter we planted our torches, and proceeded with our hasty preparations. Peterkin was ready first. We endeavoured to make ourselves as like to the natives in all respects as possible; and when I looked at my companions, I was obliged to confess that, except in the full blaze of the torch-light, I could not discern any point of difference between them and our guide.

“Now then, Jack,” said Peterkin, “as you’re not quite ready and I am, I shall employ myself in preparing a little plan of my own which I intend to put in force if the savages dare to venture into the cavern after us.”

“Very good; but see that you finish it in less than five minutes, for I’ll be ready in that time.”

Peterkin immediately poured out a large quantity of powder on a flat rock, and mingling with it a little water from a pool near by, converted it into a semi-moist ball. This he divided into three parts, and forming each part into the shape of a tall cone, laid the whole carefully aside.

“There!” said he, “lie you there until you are wanted.”

At this moment, while Jack and I were bending down fastening the latchet of our shoes, our ears were saluted with one of the most appalling yells I ever listened to. Makarooroo fell flat to the earth in his fright, and my own heart chilled with horror, while Jack sprang up and instinctively grasped the handle of his hunting-knife.

“Very good,” said Peterkin, as he stood laughing at us quietly, and we immediately perceived that it was he who uttered the cry.

“Why, what mean you?” said Jack, almost angrily. “Surely this is no time for foolish jesting.”

“I am anything but jesting, Jack. I’m only rehearsing another part of my plan.”

“But you ought to give us warning when you are about to do such startling things,” said I remonstratively.

“Nay, that would not have done at all, because then I should not have known what effect my cry is likely to produce on unexpectant ears.”

“Well, now, are you all ready?” inquired Jack. “Then let us go.”

Issuing forth armed only with our double-barrelled guns and heavy hunting-knives, we hastened towards the native village. When within a hundred yards of the edge of the wood that skirted it we stopped to pull off our shoes, for it was necessary that we should have nothing about our persons to tell who we were should any one chance to see us as we ran. We also left our rifles beside the shoes at a spot where we could find them in an instant in passing, and then slowly approached the outskirts of the village.

Presently we heard the hum of distant voices shouting, and the fear that the scene of bloodshed had already begun induced us to quicken our pace to a smart run. I never saw a man so deeply affected as was our poor guide, and when I looked at him I felt extremely anxious lest his state of mind should unfit him for acting with needful caution.

We gained the first cottages—they were empty. The village having been recently built, no stockade had yet been thrown round it, so our progress was unimpeded.

“We must be very cautious now,” observed Jack in a whisper.—“Restrain yourself, Makarooroo; Okandaga’s life depends on our coolness.”

On reaching the back of the next hut, which was also empty. Jack motioned to us to halt, and coming close to us looked earnestly in each of our faces without saying a word. I supposed that, like a wise general, he was reviewing his troops—seeing whether the men he was about to lead into battle were fit for their work.

“Now,” said he rapidly, “it’s evident from the shouting that’s going on that they won’t waste much time with their palaver. The hut in which she is confined is not fifty yards off; I took care to ascertain its position before leaving this morning. What we have to do is simple. Spring on the guards and knock them down with our fists or the hilts of our hunting-knives, or with bits of stick, as suits us best. But mind”—here he looked pointedly at our guide—“no shedding of blood if it can be avoided. These men are not our enemies. Follow me in single file; when I halt, come up into line; let each single out the man nearest to him, and when I hold up my hand spring like wild-cats. If there happen to be five or six guards instead of four, leave the additional ones to me.” We merely nodded assent, and in another minute were close upon the prison. Peterkin, Mak, and I had provided us with short heavy bludgeons on our way. These we held in our right hands; our left hands we kept free either to grasp our opponents with, or to draw our knives if necessary. Jack carried his long knife—it might almost have been termed a short sword—in his left hand, and from the manner in which he clinched his right I saw that he meant to make use of it as his principal weapon.

On gaining the back of the house we heard voices within, but could see nothing, so we moved softly round to the front, keeping, however, well behind the screen of bushes. Here Jack halted, and we ranged up alongside of him and peeped through the bushes. The hut was quite open in front and the interior was brightly lighted by a strong fire, round which the four guards—stout fellows all of them—were seated with their spears beside them on the ground. They were conversing in an excited tone, and taking no notice of Okandaga, who sat behind them, partially in the shade, with her face buried in her hands. She was not tied in any way, as the guards knew well enough that she could not hope to escape them by mere running way.

One rapid glance showed us all this, and enabled us to select our men. Then Jack gave the signal, and without an instant’s hesitation we darted upon them. I know not in what manner my comrades acted their part. From the moment I set eyes on the negro nearest to me, my blood began to boil. Somehow or other I saw Jack give the signal without taking my eyes off my intended victim, then I sprang forward, and he had barely time to look up in alarm when I struck him with all my force on the right temple. He fell without a groan. I looked round instantly, and there lay the other three, with my companions standing over them. Our plan had been so well concerted and so promptly executed that the four men fell almost at the same instant, and without a cry.

Poor Okandaga leaped up and uttered a faint scream of alarm, but Makarooroo’s voice instantly reassured her, and with an exclamation of joy she sprang into his arms. There was no time for delay. While the scene I have described was being enacted the shouts in the centre of the village had been increasing, and we guessed that in a few minutes more the bloodthirsty executioners would come for their helpless victim. We therefore left the hut at once, and ran as fast as we could towards the place where our guns and shoes had been left. Our guide seized Okandaga by the wrist and dragged her along; but indeed she was so nimble that at first she required no assistance. In a short time, however, we were obliged to slacken our pace in order to enable her to keep up. We reached the guns in safety; but while we were in the act of lifting them a burst of wild cries, that grew louder and fiercer as they approached, told that the natives were rushing tumultuously towards the prison.

“Now, lads,” said Jack, “we must put on full speed.—Mak, take her right hand.—Here, Okandaga, your left.”

At that instant there was a shout in the village, so loud that we knew the escape was discovered. An indescribable hubbub ensued, but we soon lost it in the crackling of the underwood as we burst through it in our headlong flight towards the cave. The poor girl, feeling that her life depended on it, exerted herself to the utmost, and with the aid of Jack and her lover kept well up.

“She’ll never hold out to the end,” said Peterkin, glancing over his shoulder as he ran.

The cries of the savages filled the woods in all directions, showing that they had instantly scattered themselves in the pursuit, in order to increase their chances of intercepting us. We had already traversed the greater part of the wood that lay between the village and the haunted cavern, when two negroes, who must have taken a shorter route, descried us. They instantly uttered a yell of triumph and followed us at full speed, while from the cries closing in upon us we could tell that the others had heard and understood the shout. Just then Okandaga’s strength began to fail, and her extreme terror, as the pursuers gained on us, tended still further to increase her weakness. This was all the more unfortunate that we were now almost within a couple of hundred yards of the mouth of the cave.

Makarooroo spoke encouragingly to her, but she was unable to reply, and it became evident that she was about to sink down altogether. Jack glanced over his shoulder. The two negroes were within fifty yards of us, but no others were in sight.

“Hold my gun,” said Jack to me sharply.

I seized it. He instantly stooped down, grasped Okandaga round the waist, and without stopping, swung her, with an exertion of strength that seemed to me incredible, into his arms. We gained the mouth of the cavern; Jack dropped Okandaga, who immediately ran in, while the rest of us stopped abruptly and faced about.

“Back, all of you,” cried Jack, “else they will be afraid to come on.”

The words had scarcely passed his lips when the two negroes came up, but halted a few yards from the mouth of the cave on seeing such a giant form guarding the entrance.

To let those men escape and reveal the place of our concealment was not to be thought of. Jack darted out upon them. They separated from each other as they turned to fly. I was peeping out of the cave, and saw that Jack could not secure them both; I therefore darted out, and quickly overtaking one, seized him by the hair of the head and dragged him into the cave with the aid of Peterkin. Jack lifted the other savage completely from the ground, and carried him in struggling in his gripe like a child in its nurse’s arms.

This last episode was enacted so quickly that the two negroes were carried into the cavern and gagged before the other pursuers came up. At the cave’s mouth the whole of the men of the village shortly assembled with the king at their head. Thus far the excitement of the chase had led them; but now that the first burst of their rage was over, and they found themselves on the threshold of that haunted cavern, the fear of which had been an element in their training from infancy, they felt, no doubt, overawed by superstitious dread, and hesitated to enter, although most of them must have been convinced that the fugitives were there. Their fears increased as their anger abated, and they crowded round King Jambai, who seemed loath to take upon himself the honour of leader.

“They must have sought shelter here,” said the king, pointing to the cavern and looking round with an assumption of boldness which he was evidently far from feeling. “Who among my warriors will follow me?”

“Perhaps the evil spirits have carried them away,” suggested one of the sable crew.

“That is the word of a coward,” cried the king, who, although somewhat timorous about spirits, was in reality a bold, brave man, and felt nettled that any of his warriors should show the white feather. “If evil spirits are there, our fetishman will drive them away. Let the doctor stand forth.”

At that moment the doctor, worthy knave, must have wished in his inmost soul that he had remained quietly at home and left to warriors the task of capturing the fugitives, but there was no resisting the mandate of the king; besides, his honour and credit as a fetishman was at stake; moreover, no doubt he felt somewhat emboldened by the presence of such a large number of men—there were certainly several hundreds on the ground—so, all things considered, he thought it best to accept the post of leader with a good grace. Stepping quickly forward, he cried, “Let torches be brought, and I will lead the way.”

A murmur of approbation ran through the crowd of blacks, who, like a flock of sheep, felt bold enough to follow a leader blindly.

While the consultation was going on outside, we were making hasty preparation for defending ourselves to the last extremity. Peterkin, in particular, was extremely active, and, to say truth, his actions surprised us not a little. I once or twice fancied that excitement had turned his brain. He first dressed up his head in a species of wild turban made of dried grass and tall sedgy leaves; then he put several patches of red and white earth on his black face, as well as on his body in various places, and fastened a number of loose pieces of rag, torn from a handkerchief, and bits of tattered leaves to his arms and legs in such a manner as to give him an extremely wild and dishevelled appearance. I must say that when his hasty toilet was completed he seemed to me the most horrible-looking demon I had ever conceived of. He next poured out nearly a whole flask of gunpowder on a ledge of rock, the edge of which was visible from the entrance to the cave, while the rock itself concealed him from view. Last of all, he took up the three cones of moistened gunpowder which the reader will remember he had made before we left the cave to attack the village. One of these he placed among the grass and branches on his head, the other two he held in his hands.

“Now, boys,” he said, when all was ready, “all I have to ask of you is that you will stand by with matches, and when I give the word light the points of those three cones of gunpowder simultaneously and instantly, and leave me to finish the remainder of my part. Of course you will be prepared to back me up with your rifles if need be, but keep well out of sight at first.”

We now saw the drift of our eccentric friend’s intention, but for my part I felt little confidence in his success. The plan seemed altogether too wild and absurd. But our danger was imminent. No way of escape seemed possible, and it is wonderful how readily men will grasp at anything in the shape of a ruse or stratagem, no matter how silly or wild, that affords the most distant chance of escape from danger. Jack, too, I could see from the look of his face, put little faith in the plan; and I observed an expression on the countenance of our negro guide which seemed to indicate that his respect for Peterkin’s wisdom was on the wane.

We had not to wait long. The doctor, with several torch-bearers, suddenly darted in with a shout, followed closely by the warriors, who yelled furiously, in order, no doubt, to keep up their courage.

Alarmed by such an unusual hubbub in their usually quiet domain, the bats came swooping from their holes in the walls by hundreds, and the torches were extinguished almost instantly. The savages who were near the entrance drew back in haste; those who had entered stood rooted to the spot in terror.

“Now!” whispered Peterkin eagerly.

We struck our lights at once and applied them to the points of the gunpowder cones, which instantly began to spout forth a shower of sparks with great violence. Peterkin darted out from behind the rock with a yell so appalling that we ourselves were startled by it, having forgotten that it formed an element in his plan. In passing he allowed a few sparks to fall on the heap of powder, which exploded with so bright a flame that the whole cavern was illuminated for an instant. It also set fire to the ragged scraps with which Peterkin had decked himself out—a result which had neither been intended nor anticipated—so that he rushed towards the mouth of the cave howling with pain as well as with a desire to scare the savages.

The effect of this apparition was tremendous. The negroes turned and crushed through the narrow entrance screaming and shrieking with terror. The bats, no less alarmed than the men, and half suffocated with smoke, fled out of the cave like a whirlwind, flapping their wings on the heads of the negroes in their flight, and adding, if that were possible, to their consternation. The negroes ran as never men ran before, tumbling over each other in their mad haste, dashing against trees and crashing through bushes in their terror, while Peterkin stood leaping in the cave’s mouth, smoking and blazing and spurting, and unable to contain himself, giving vent to prolonged peals of demoniacal laughter. Had the laugh been that of negroes it might have been recognised; but Peterkin’s was the loud, violent, British guffaw, which, I make no doubt, was deemed by them worthy of the fiends of the haunted cave, and served to spur them on to still greater rapidity in their wild career.

Returning into the cave’s innermost recess, we lighted one of the torches dropped by the savages, and placing it in a sort of natural niche, seated ourselves on several pieces of rock to rest.

Our first act was to look earnestly in each other’s faces; our next to burst into peals of laughter.

“I say, comrades,” I exclaimed, checking myself, “don’t we run some risk in giving vent to our feelings so freely?”

“No fear,” cried Peterkin, who was still smoking a little from unextinguished sparks. “There is not a man in the whole crew who will draw rein till he is sitting, with the teeth still chattering in his head, at his own fireside. I never saw men in such a fright since I was born. Depend upon it, we are safe enough here from this day forth.—Don’t you think so, Mak?”

Our guide, who was now trying to reassure his trembling bride, turned, with a broad grin on his sable countenance, and said—

“Safe? ho! yis, massa. Dere not be a man as’ll come to dis yere cuvern for de nix tree hun’r year or more. Massa Peterkin be de most horriboble ghost dey ever did saw, an’ no mistake. But, massas, we mus’ go ’way quick an’ git to our camp, for de king sure to go dere an’ see if you no hab someting to do wid it all. Him’s a bery clebber king, am Jambai—bery clebber; him’s no be bughummed bery easy.”

“Humbugged, you mean,” said Jack, laughing. “You’re right, Mak; we must set off at once. But what are we to do with poor Okandaga, now that we have got her?”

This was indeed a puzzling question. It was impossible to take her to our camp and account to the negroes for her appearance in a satisfactory manner; besides, if Jambai took it into his head to pursue us, in order to ascertain whether we had had anything to do with the rescue, our case would be hopeless. It was equally impossible to leave her where she was, and to let her try to make her escape through the woods alone was not to be thought of. While we pondered this dilemma an idea occurred to me.

“It seems to me,” said I, “that men are seldom, perhaps never, thrown into a danger or difficulty in this world without some way of escape being opened up, which, if they will but grasp at it promptly, will conduct them at last out of their perplexities. Now, it has just occurred to me that, since everything else seems to be impossible, we might send Okandaga into the woods, with Makarooroo to guide and defend her and to hunt for her. Let them travel in a line parallel with the river route which we intend to follow. Each night Mak will make a secure shelter for her, and then return to our camp as if he had come in from hunting. Each morning he will set off again into the woods as if to hunt, rejoin Okandaga; and thus we will journey together, as it were, and when we reach the next tribe of natives we will leave the girl in their charge until we return from the gorilla country. What do you think of that plan?”

“Not a bad one,” replied Jack; “but if Mak is away all day, what are we to do for an interpreter?”

“Make him describe to us and to the men the day’s route before leaving us,” suggested Peterkin; “and as for the talking, we can manage that well enough for all needful purposes by a mixture of the few phrases we know with signs.”

In the excitement of this whole affair we had totally forgotten our two prisoners, who lay not far from us on the ground, gagged and pinioned. We were now reminded of their presence rather abruptly. We must have secured their fastenings badly, for during the time we were conversing they managed to free themselves, and made a sudden dash past us. Jack’s eye fortunately caught sight of them in time. He sprang up, rushed at the one nearest him, and throwing out his foot as he passed, tripped him up. It chanced that at that spot there was a deep hole in the floor of the cavern. Into this the poor wretch plunged head first, and he was killed on the spot. Meanwhile, the other gained the outlet of the cave, and had almost escaped into the forest, when Makarooroo darted after him with the speed of an antelope. In a few seconds we heard a cry, and shortly after our guide returned with his knife clotted with blood. He had overtaken and slain the other negro.

I cannot convey to the reader the horror that filled me and my two companions at this unexpected and melancholy termination of the affair. Yet we felt that we were guiltless of rashly spilling human blood, for Jack had no intention of killing the poor negro whom he tripped up; and as to the other, we could not have prevented our guide from doing what he did. He himself deemed it justifiable, and said that if that man had escaped to the village, and told who it was that frightened them out of the cave, they would certainly have come back and murdered us all. There was truth in this. Still we could not but feel overwhelmed with sadness at the incident.

We were now doubly anxious to get away from this cave, so we rapidly finished the discussion of our plan, and Jack arranged that he should accompany what may be termed the overland part of our expedition. This settled, we washed the charcoal off our persons, with the exception of that on our faces, having been advised by King Jambai himself to hunt with black faces, as wild animals were quicker to perceive our white skins than their black ones. Then we resumed our garments, and quitting the haunted cavern, set out on our return journey to the camp.

Chapter Eight.

Peterkin distinguishes himself, and Okandaga is disposed of, etcetera.

When within about three miles of the place where our men had been ordered to haul the canoe out of the water and make the camp, we came to a halt and prepared a spot for Okandaga to spend an hour or two in sleep. The poor creature was terribly exhausted. We selected a very sequestered place in a rocky piece of ground, where the light of the small fire we kindled, in order to cook her some supper, could not be seen by any one who might chance to pass by that way.

Jack remained with her, but the guide went on with us, in order to give instructions to our men, who, when we arrived, seemed much surprised that we had made such a bad hunt during the night. Having pointed out our route, Makarooroo then left us, and we lay down to obtain a few hours’ repose.

We had not lain more than an hour when one of our men awoke us, saying that it was time to start; so we rose, very unwillingly, and embarked.

“I say, Ralph,” observed Peterkin, as we glided up the stream, which in this place was narrow and sluggish, “isn’t it strange that mankind, as a rule, with very few exceptions, should so greatly dislike getting up in the morning?”

“It is rather curious, no doubt. But I suspect we have ourselves to thank for the disinclination. If we did not sit up so late at night we should not feel the indisposition to rise so strong upon us in the morning.”

“There you are quite wrong, Ralph. I always find that the sooner I go to bed the later I am in getting up. The fact is, I’ve tried every method of rousing myself, and without success. And yet I can say conscientiously that I am desirous of improving; for when at sea I used to have my cot slung at the head with a block-tackle, and I got one of the middies to come when the watch was changed and lower me, so that my head lay on the deck below, and my feet pointed to the beams above. And would you believe it, I got so accustomed to this at last that, when desperately sleepy, I used to hold on in that position for a few minutes, and secure a short nap during the process of suffocation with blood to the head.”

“You must indeed have been incorrigible,” said I, laughing. “Nevertheless, I feel assured that the want of will lies at the root of the evil.”

“Of course you do,” retorted Peterkin testily; “people always say that when I try to defend myself.”

“Is it not probable that people always say that just because they feel that there is truth in the remark?”

“Humph!” ejaculated my friend.

“Besides,” I continued, “our success in battling with the evil tendencies of our natures depends often very much on the manner in which we make the attack. I have pondered this subject deeply, and have come to the conclusion that there is a certain moment in the awaking hour of each day which if seized and improved gains for us the victory. You know Shakespeare’s judicious remark—‘There is a tide in the affairs of men which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune,’ or something to that effect. I never feel quite sure of the literal correctness of my quotations, although I am generally certain as to the substance. Well, there is a tide also in the affair of getting up in the morning, and its flood-point is the precise instant when you recover consciousness. At that moment every one, I believe, has moral courage to leap violently out of bed; but let that moment pass, and you sink supinely back, if not to sleep, at least into a desperate condition of unconquerable lethargy.”

“You may be very correct in your reasoning,” returned Peterkin; “but not having pondered that subject quite so deeply as you seem to have done, I shall modestly refrain from discussing it. Meanwhile I will go ashore, and stalk yonder duck which floats so comfortably and lazily in the cove just beyond the point ahead of us, that I think it must be in the condition of one who, having missed the flood-tide you have just referred to, is revelling in the luxury of its second nap.—Ho, you ebony-faced scoundrel!” he added, turning to the negro who steered our canoe; “shove ashore, like a good fellow.—Come, Ralph, lend me your fowling-piece, and do you carry my big rifle. There is nothing so good for breakfast as a fat duck killed and roasted before it has had time to cool.”

“And here is a capital spot on which to breakfast,” said I, as we landed.

“First-rate. Now then, follow me, and mind your muzzle. Better put the rifle over your shoulder, Ralph, so that if it does go off it may hit the sun or one of the stars. A six-ounce ball in one’s spine is not a pleasant companion in a hunting expedition.”

“But,” retorted I, “you forget that I am particularly careful. I always carry my piece on half-cock, and never put my finger on the trigger.”

“Indeed: not even when you pull it?”

“Of course when I am about to fire; but you know well enough what I mean.”

“Hush, Ralph! we must keep silence now and step lightly.”

In a few minutes we had gained the clump of bushes close behind which the duck lay; and Peterkin, going down on all fours, crept forward to get a shot. I followed him in the same manner, and when he stopped to take a deliberate aim, I crept up alongside. The duck had heard our approach, and was swimming about in a somewhat agitated manner among the tall reeds, so that my companion made one or two unsuccessful attempts to take aim.

“What an aggravating thing!” exclaimed Peterkin in a whisper.

At that moment I happened to cast my eyes across the river, and the reader may judge of my surprise when I beheld two elephants standing among the trees. They stood so silently and so motionless, and were so like in colour to the surrounding foliage, that we had actually approached to within about thirty yards without observing them. I touched Peterkin on the shoulder, and pointed to them without saying a word. The expression of amazement that instantly overspread his features showed that he also saw them.

“The rifle, Ralph,” he said, in a low, excited whisper.

I handed it to him. With careful deliberation he took aim, and fired at the animal nearest to us. The heavy ball entered its huge body just behind the shoulder. Both elephants tossed up their trunks, and elevating their great ears they dashed furiously into the bush; but the one that had been hit, after plunging head foremost down a low bank fell to the ground with a heavy crash, quite dead.

It was a splendid shot. The natives, who almost immediately after came up screaming with delight, could scarcely believe their eyes. They dashed across the river in the canoe, while some of them, regardless of the alligators that might be hidden there, sprang into the water and swam over.

“I’m sorry we did not get the duck, however,” observed Peterkin, as we returned to the place where we had left the canoe. “Elephant meat is coarse, nasty stuff, and totally unfit for civilised mouths, though these niggers seem to relish it amazingly.”

“You forget the baked foot,” said I.

“Well, so I did. It was pretty good, certainly; but that’s the only part o’ the brute that’s fit to eat.”

Soon after this the canoe came back and took us over the river; and we breakfasted on the side where the elephant had fallen, in order to allow the natives to cut off such portions of the meat as they required, and to secure the tusks. Then we continued our journey, and at night encamped near a grove of palm-trees which Makarooroo had described to us, and where we were soon joined by him and Jack, who told us that he had got on well, during the day—that he had shot an antelope, and had seen a zebra and a rhinoceros, besides a variety of smaller game. He also told us that Okandaga was encamped in a place of safety a few miles to the right of our position, and that she had stood the journey well.

I was much interested by Jack’s account of the zebra and the rhinoceros, specimens of both of which animals I had seen in menageries, and felt disposed to change places with him on the march; but reflecting that he was much more likely than I successfully to hunt anything he might pursue, I made up my mind to remain by the canoe.

Thus we travelled for several days without anything particular occurring, and at length arrived at a native village which lay on the banks of a noble stream.

Here Makarooroo introduced us to Mbango the chief, a fine-looking and good-natured negro, who received us most hospitably, supplied us with food, and urged us to remain and hunt with his people. This, however, we declined to do, telling our entertainer that we had come to his country for the purpose of shooting that wonderful animal the gorilla, but assuring him that we would come back without fail if we should be spared. We further assured him on this head by proposing to leave in his charge a woman for whom we had a great respect and love, and whom we made him promise faithfully to take care of till we returned.

Peterkin, who soon gave them a specimen of his powers as a marksman, and contrived in other ways to fill the minds of the chief and his people with a very exalted idea of his powers both of body and intellect, endeavoured to make assurance doubly sure by working on their superstitious fears.

“Tell Mbango,” said he to our guide, “that though we be small in numbers we are very powerful; that we can do deeds,” (here he became awfully solemn and mysterious) “such as no black man ever conceived of; and that if a hair of the head of Okandaga is hurt, we will on our return—”

Instead of completing the sentence, Peterkin started up, threw himself into violent contortions, rolled his eyes in a fearful manner, and, in short, gave the chief and his people to understand that something quite indescribable and unutterably terrible would be the result of their playing us false.

“Send for Njamie,” said Mbango to one of his retainers.

Njamie, who was the chief’s principal wife, soon appeared. She led a sturdy little boy by the hand. He was her only son, and a very fine little fellow, despite the blackness of his skin and his almost total want of clothing.

To this woman Mbango gave Okandaga in charge, directing her in our presence how to care for her, and assuring her of the most terrible punishment should anything befall the woman committed to her care.

Njamie was a mild, agreeable woman. She had more modesty of demeanour and humility of aspect than the most of the women of her tribe whom we happened to see, so that we felt disposed to believe that Okandaga was placed in as safe keeping as it was possible for us to provide for her in our circumstances. Even Makarooroo appeared to be quite at ease in his mind; and it was evidently with a relieved breast and a light heart that he bade adieu to his bride, and started along with us on the following day on our journey into the deeper recesses of the wilderness.

Before entering upon these transactions with the people of this village, we took care to keep our crew in total ignorance of what passed by sending them on in advance with the canoe under Jack’s care, a few hours before we brought Okandaga into the village, or even made mention of her existence; and we secured their ready obedience to our orders, and total indifference as to our motives in these incomprehensible actions, by giving them each a few inches of tobacco—a gift which rendered them supremely happy.

One day, about a week after the events above narrated, we met with an adventure which well-nigh cost Jack his life, but which ultimately resulted in an important change in our manner of travelling. We were traversing an extremely beautiful country with the goods on our shoulders, having, in consequence of the increasing turbulence of the river as well as its change of direction, been compelled to abandon our canoe, and cut across the country in as straight a line as its nature would permit. But this was not easy, for the grass, which was bright green, was so long as to reach sometimes higher than our shoulders.

In this species of country Jack’s towering height really became of great use, enabling him frequently to walk along with his head above the surrounding herbage, while we were compelled to grope along, ignorant of all that was around us save the tall grass at our sides. Occasionally, however, we came upon more open ground, where the grass was short, and then we enjoyed the lovely scenery to the full. We met with a great variety of new plants and trees in this region. Many of the latter were festooned with wild vines and other climbing plants. Among others, I saw several specimens of that curious and interesting tree the banyan, with its drop-shoots in every state of growth—some beginning to point towards the earth, in which they were ultimately destined to take root; some more than half-way down; while others were already fixed, forming stout pillars to their parent branches—thus, as it were, on reaching maturity, rendering that support which it is the glory as well as the privilege of youth to accord to age. Besides these, there were wild dates and palmyra trees, and many others too numerous to mention, but the peculiar characteristics of which I carefully jotted down in my note-book. Many small water-courses were crossed, in some of which Mak pointed out a number of holes, which he said were made by elephants wading in them. He also told us that several mud-pools, which seemed to have been recently and violently stirred up, were caused by the wallowing of the rhinoceros; so we kept at all times a sharp lookout for a shot.

Lions were also numerous in this neighbourhood, and we constantly heard them roaring at night, but seldom saw them during our march.

Well, as I have already remarked, one day we were travelling somewhat slowly through the long grass of this country, when, feeling oppressed by the heat, as well as somewhat fatigued with my load, I called to Jack, who was in advance, to stop for a few minutes to rest.

“Most willingly,” he replied, throwing down his load, and wiping away the perspiration which stood in large drops on his brow. “I was on the point of calling a halt when you spoke.—How do you get on down there, Peterkin?”

Our friend, who had seated himself on the bale he had been carrying, and seemed to be excessively hot, looked up with a comical expression of countenance, and replied—

“Pretty well, thank’ee. How do you get on up there?”

“Oh, capitally. There’s such a nice cool breeze blowing, I’m quite sorry that I cannot send a little of it down.”

“Don’t distress yourself, my dear fellow; I’ll come up to snuff it.”

So saying, Peterkin sprang nimbly upon Jack’s shoulders, and began to gaze round him.

“I say, Peterkin,” said Jack, “why are you a very clever fellow just now?”

“Don’t know,” replied Peterkin. “I give it up at once. Always do. Never could guess a riddle in all my life.”

“Because,” said Jack, “you’re ‘up to snuff.’”

“Oh, oh! that certainly deserves a pinch; so there’s for you.”

Jack uttered a roar, and tossed Peterkin off his shoulders, on receiving the punishment.

“Shabby fellow!” cried Peterkin, rubbing his head. “But, I say, do let me up again. I thought, just as you dropped me, that I saw a place where the grass is short. Ay, there it is, fifty yards or so ahead of us, with a palmyra tree on it. Come, let us go rest there, for I confess that I feel somewhat smothered in this long grass.”

We took up our packs immediately, and carried them to the spot indicated, which we found almost free from long grass. Here we lay down to enjoy the delightful shade of the tree, and the magnificent view of the country around us. Our negroes also seemed to enjoy the shade, but they were evidently not nearly so much oppressed with the heat as we were, which was very natural. They seemed to have no perception of the beautiful in nature, however, although they appreciated fully the agreeable influences by which they were surrounded.

While I lay at the foot of that tree, pondering this subject, I observed a very strange-looking insect engaged in a very curious kind of occupation. Peterkin’s eye caught sight of it at the same instant with mine.

“Hollo! Jack, look here!” he cried in a whisper. “I declare, here’s a beast been and shoved its head into a hole, and converted its tail into a trap!”

We all three lay down as quietly as possible, and I could not but smile when I thought of the literal correctness of my friend’s quaint description of what we saw.

The insect was a species of ant-eater. It was about an inch and a quarter long, as thick as a crow-quill, and covered with black hair. It put its head into a little hole in the ground, and quivered its tail rapidly. The ants, which seemed to be filled with curiosity at this peculiar sight, went near to see what the strange thing could be; and no sooner did one come within the range of the forceps on the insect’s tail, than it was snapped up.

“Now, that is the most original trapper I ever did see or hear of,” remarked Peterkin, with a broad grin. “I’ve seen many things in my travels, but I never expected to meet with a beast that could catch others by merely wagging its tail.”

“You forget the hunters of North America,” said Jack, “who entice little antelopes towards them by merely wagging a bit of rag on the end of a ramrod.”

“I forget nothing of the sort,” retorted Peterkin. “Wagging a ramrod is not wagging a tail. Besides, I spoke of beasts doing it; men are not beasts.”

“Then I hold you self-convicted, my boy,” exclaimed Jack; “for you have often called me a beast.”

“By no means, Jack. I am not self-convicted, but quite correct, as I can prove to the satisfaction of any one who isn’t a philosopher. You never can prove anything to a philosopher.”

“Prove it, then.”

“I will. Isn’t a monkey a beast?”

“Certainly.”

“Isn’t a gorilla a monkey?”

“No doubt it is.”

“And aren’t you a gorilla?”

“I say, lads, it’s time to be going,” cried Jack, with a laugh, as he rose and resumed his load.

At that moment Mak uttered an exclamation, and pointed towards a particular spot in the plain before us, where, close by a clump of trees, we saw the graceful head and neck and part of the shoulders of a giraffe. We were naturally much excited at the sight, this being the first we had fallen in with.

“You’d better go after it,” said Jack to Peterkin, “and take Mak with you.”

“I’d rather you’d go yourself,” replied Peterkin; “for, to say truth, I’m pretty well knocked up to-day. I don’t know how it is—one day one feels made of iron, as if nothing could tire one; and the next, one feels quite weak and spiritless.”

“Well, I’ll go; but I shall not take any one with me.—Take observation of the sun, Mak, and keep a straight course as you are now going until night. D’ye see yonder ridge?”

“Yes, massa.”

“Then hold on direct for that, and encamp there. I’ll not be long behind you, and hope to bring you a giraffe steak for supper.”

We endeavoured to dissuade Jack from going out alone, but he said truly that his load distributed among us all was quite sufficient, without adding to it by taking away another member of the party. Thus we parted; but I felt a strange feeling of depression, a kind of foreboding of evil, which I could not shake off, despite my utmost efforts. Peterkin, too, was unusually silent, and I could not avoid seeing that he felt more anxiety on account of Jack’s rashness than he was willing to allow. Our friend took with him one of our large-bore rifles, and a double-barrel of smaller bore slung at his back.

Shortly after parting with him, we descried an ostrich feeding in the plain before us. I had long desired to meet with a specimen of this gigantic bird in its native wilds, and Peterkin was equally anxious to get a shot at it; so we called a halt, and prepared to stalk it. We were aware that the ostrich is a very silly and very timid bird, but not being aware of the best method of hunting it, we asked Makarooroo to explain how he was in the habit of doing it.

“You mus’ know,” he began, “dat bird hims be a mos’ ex’roroninary beast. When hims run hims go fasterer dan—oh! it be dumpossobable for say how much fast hims go. You no can see him’s legs; dey go same as legs ob leetle bird. But hims be horrobably stupid. Suppose he see you far, far away, goin’ to de wind’ard ob him, he no run ’way to leeward; hims tink you wants to get round him, so off him start to git past you, and before hims pass he sometimes come close ’nuff to be shooted or speared. Me hab spear him dat way, but him’s awful differcult to git at for all dat.”

“Well then, Mak, after that lucid explanation, what d’you propose that we should do?” inquired Peterkin, examining the locks of his rifle.

“Me pruppose dat you go far ober dere, Massa Ralph go not jist so far, and me go to de wind’ard and gib him fright.”

Acting upon this advice, we proceeded cautiously to the several spots indicated, and our guide set off towards an exposed place, where he intended to show himself. In a few minutes we observed the gigantic bird look up in alarm, and then we saw Makarooroo running like a deer over the plain. The ostrich instantly rushed off madly at full speed, not, as might have been expected, in a contrary direction, or towards any place of shelter, but simply, as it appeared to me, with no other end in view than that of getting to windward of his supposed enemy. I observed that he took a direction which would quickly bring him within range of my companion’s rifle, but I was so amazed at the speed with which he ran that I could think of nothing else.

Every one knows that the ostrich has nothing worthy of the name of wings—merely a small tuft of feathers at each side, with which he cannot make even an attempt to fly; but every one does not know, probably, that with his stout and long legs he can pass over the ground nearly at the ordinary speed of a locomotive engine. I proved this to my own satisfaction by taking accurate observation. On first observing the tremendous speed at which he was going, I seized my note-book, and pulling out my watch, endeavoured to count the number of steps he took in a minute. This, however, I found was totally impossible; for his legs, big though they were, went so fast that I could no more count them than I could count the spokes of a carriage-wheel. I observed, however, that there were two bushes on the plain in the direction of his flight, which he would soon have to pass. I therefore laid down my note-book and rifle, and stood with my watch in hand, ready to note the precise instants at which he should pass the first and second. By afterwards counting the number of footsteps on the ground between the bushes, and comparing the result with the time occupied in passing between the two, I thus proposed to myself to ascertain his rate of speed.

Scarcely had I conceived this idea when the bird passed the first bush, and I glanced at my watch; then he passed the second, and I glanced again. Thus I noted that he took exactly ten seconds to pass from one bush to the other. While I was in the act of jotting this down I heard the report of Peterkin’s rifle, and looking up hastily, saw the tail-feathers of the ostrich knocked into the air, but the bird itself passed on uninjured. I was deeply mortified at this failure, and all the more so that, from past experience, I had been led to believe that my friend never missed his mark. Hurrying up, I exclaimed—

“Why, my dear fellow, what can have come over you?”

Poor Peterkin seemed really quite distressed; he looked quite humbled at first.

“Ah!” said he, “it’s all very well for you to say, ‘What has come over you?’ but you ought to make allowance for a man who has carried a heavy load all the forenoon. Besides, he was almost beyond range. Moreover, although I have hunted a good deal, I really have not been in the habit of firing at animal locomotives under full steam. Did you ever see such a slapping pace and such an outrageous pair of legs, Ralph?”

“Never,” said I. “But come with me to yonder bushes. I’m going to make a calculation.”

“What’s a calcoolashun?” inquired our guide, who came up at that moment, panting violently.

“It’s a summation, case of counting up one, two, three, etcetera—and may be multiplying, subtracting, and dividing into the bargain.”

“Ho! dat’s what me been do at de missionary school.”

“Exactly; but what sort of calculation Ralph means to undertake at present I know not. Perhaps he’s going to try to find out whether, if we were to run at the rate of six miles an hour till doomsday, in the wrong direction, there would be any chance of our ever sticking that ostrich’s tail again on his big body. But come along; we shall see.”

On reaching the spot I could scarcely believe my eyes. Each step this bird had taken measured fourteen feet in length! I always carried a rolled-up yard-measure about with me, which I applied to the steps, so that I could make no mistake. There were exactly thirty of those gigantic paces between the two bushes. This multiplied by six gave 180 steps, or 2,520 feet in one minute, which resulted in 151,200 feet, or 50,400 yards, or very nearly thirty miles in the hour.

“No wonder I only knocked his tail off,” said Peterkin.

“On the contrary,” said I, “the wonder is that under the circumstances you hit the bird at all.”

On further examination of the place where we had seen the ostrich before it was alarmed, we ascertained that his ordinary walking pace varied from twenty to twenty-six inches in length.

After this unsuccessful hunt we returned to our comrades, and proceeded to the rendezvous where we expected to find Jack; but as he was not there, we concluded that he must have wandered farther than he intended, so, throwing down our packs, we set about preparing the camp and a good supper against his return. Gradually the sun began to sink low on the horizon; then he dipped below it, and the short twilight of those latitudes was rapidly merging into night; but Jack did not return, and the uneasiness which we had all along felt in regard to him increased so much that we could not refrain from showing it.

“I’ll tell you what it is, Ralph,” cried Peterkin, starting up suddenly: “I’m not going to sit here wasting the time when Jack may be in some desperate fix. I’ll go and hunt for him.”

“Me tink you right,” said our guide; “dere is ebery sort ob ting here—beasties and mans. P’raps Massa Jack am be kill.”

I could not help shuddering at the bare idea of such a thing, so I at once seconded my companion’s proposal, and resolved to accompany him.

“Take your double-barrel, Ralph, and I’ll lend our spare big gun to Mak.”

“But how are we to proceed? which way are we to go? I have not the most distant idea as to what direction we ought to go in our search.”

“Leave that to Mak. He knows the ways o’ the country best, and the probable route that Jack has taken. Are you ready?”

“Yes. Shall we take some brandy?”

“Ay; well thought of. He’ll perhaps be the better of something of that sort if anything has befallen him. Now, then, let’s go.”

Leaving our men in charge of the camp, with strict injunctions to keep good watch and not allow the fires to go down, lest they should be attacked by lions, we three set forth on our nocturnal search. From time to time we stood still and shouted in a manner that would let our lost friend know that we were in search of him, should he be within earshot, but no answering cry came back to us; and we were beginning to despair, when we came upon the footprints of a man in the soft soil of a swampy spot we had to cross. It was a clear moonlight night, so that we could distinguish them perfectly.

“Ho!” exclaimed our guide, as he stooped to examine the marks.

“Well, Mak, what do you make of it?” inquired Peterkin anxiously.

Mak made no reply for a few seconds; then he rose, and said earnestly, “Dat am Massa Jack’s foot.”

I confess that I was somewhat surprised at the air of confidence with which our guide made this statement; for after a most careful examination of the prints, which were exceedingly indistinct, I could discern nothing to indicate that they had been made by Jack.

“Are you sure, Mak?” asked Peterkin.

“Sartin sure, massa.”

“Then push on as fast as you can.”

Presently we came to a spot where the ground was harder and the prints more distinct.

“Ha! you’re wrong, Mak,” cried Peterkin, in a voice of disappointment, as he stooped to examine the footsteps again. “Here we have the print of a naked foot; Jack wore shoes. And, what’s this? blood!”

“Yis, massa, me know dat Massa Jack hab shoes. But dat be him’s foot for all dat, and him’s hurt somehow for certain.”

The reader may imagine our state of mind on making this discovery. Without uttering another word, we quickened our pace into a smart run, keeping closely in the track of Jack’s steps. Soon we observed that these deviated from side to side in an extraordinary manner, as if the person who made them had been unable to walk straight. In a few minutes more we came on the footprints of a rhinoceros—a sight which still further increased our alarm. On coming out from among a clump of low bushes that skirted the edge of a small plain, we observed a dark object lying on the ground about fifty yards distant from us. I almost sank down with an undefinable feeling of dread on beholding this.

We held our rifles in readiness as we approached it at a quick pace, for we knew not whether it was not a wild animal which might spring upon us the moment we came close enough. But a few seconds dispelled our dread of such an attack and confirmed our worst fears, for there, in a pool of blood, lay Jack’s manly form. The face was upturned, and the moon, which shone full upon it, showed that it was pale as death and covered with blood. His clothes were rent and dishevelled and covered with dust, as if he had struggled hard with some powerful foe, and all round the spot were footprints of a rhinoceros, revealing too clearly the character of the terrible monster with which our friend had engaged in unequal conflict.

Peterkin darted forward, tore open Jack’s shirt at the breast, and laid his hand upon his heart.

“Thank God,” he muttered, in a low, subdued tone, “he’s not dead! Quick, Ralph—the brandy-flask.”

I instantly poured a little of the spirit into the silver cup attached to the flask, and handed it to Peterkin, who, after moistening Jack’s lips, began assiduously to rub his chest and forehead with brandy. Kneeling down by his side I assisted him, while I applied some to his feet. While we were thus engaged we observed that our poor friend’s arms and chest had received several severe bruises and some slight wounds, and we also discovered a terrible gash in his right thigh which had evidently been made by the formidable horn of the rhinoceros. This, and the other wounds which were still bleeding pretty freely, we stanched and bound up, and our exertions were at length rewarded by the sight of a faint tinge of colour returning to Jack’s cheeks. Presently his eyes quivered, and heaving a short, broken sigh, he looked up.

“Where am I, eh? Why, what’s wrong? what has happened?” he asked faintly, in a tone of surprise.

“All right, old boy. Here, take a swig of this, you abominable gorilla,” said Peterkin, holding the brandy-flask to his mouth, while one or two tears of joy rolled down his cheeks.

Jack drank, and rallied a little.

“I’ve been ill, I see,” he said gently. “Ah! I remember now. I’ve been hurt—the rhinoceros; eh, have you killed it? I gave it a good shot. It must have been mortal, I think.”

“Whether you’ve killed it or not I cannot tell,” said I, taking off my coat and putting it under Jack’s head for a pillow, “but it has pretty nearly killed you. Do you feel worse, Jack?”

I asked this in some alarm, observing that he had turned deadly pale again.

“He’s fainted, man; out o’ the way!” cried Peterkin, as he applied the brandy again to his lips and temples.

In a few seconds Jack again rallied.

“Now, Mak, bestir yourself,” cried Peterkin, throwing off his coat. “Cut down two stout poles, and we’ll make some sort of litter to carry him on.”

“I say, Ralph,” whispered Jack faintly, “do look to my wounds and see that they are all tightly bound up. I can’t afford to lose another drop of blood. It’s almost all drained away, I believe.”

While I examined my friend’s wounds and readjusted the bandages, my companions cut down two poles. These we laid on the ground parallel to each other and about two feet apart, and across them laid our three coats, which we fastened in a rough fashion by means of some strong cords which I fortunately happened to have with me. On this rude litter we laid our companion, and raised him on our shoulders. Peterkin and I walked in rear, each supporting one of the poles; while Makarooroo, being the stoutest of the three, supported the entire weight of the other ends on his broad shoulders. Jack bore the moving better than we had expected, so that we entertained sanguine hopes that no bones were broken, but that loss of blood was all he had to suffer from.

Thus slowly and with much difficulty we bore our wounded comrade to the camp.

Chapter Nine.

I discover a curious insect, and Peterkin takes a strange flight.

It happened most fortunately at this time that we were within a short day’s journey of a native village, to which, after mature consideration, we determined to convey Jack, and remain there until he should be sufficiently recovered to permit of our resuming our journey. Hitherto we had studiously avoided the villages that lay in our route, feeling indisposed to encounter unnecessarily the risk of being inhospitably received—perhaps even robbed of our goods, if nothing worse should befall us. There was, however, no other alternative now; for Jack’s wounds were very severe, and the amount of blood lost by him was so great that he was as weak as a child. Happily, no bones were broken, so we felt sanguine that by careful nursing for a few weeks we should get him set firmly upon his legs again.

On the following morning we set forth on our journey, and towards evening reached the village, which was situated on the banks of a small stream, in the midst of a beautiful country composed of mingled plain and woodland.

It chanced that the chief of this village was connected by marriage with King Jambai—a most fortunate circumstance for us, as it ensured our being hospitably received. The chief came out to meet us riding on the shoulders of a slave, who, although a much smaller man than his master, seemed to support his load with much case. Probably habit had strengthened him for his special work. A large hut was set apart for our accommodation; a dish of yams, a roast monkey, and a couple of fowls were sent to us soon after our arrival, and, in short, we experienced the kindest possible reception.

None of the natives of this village had ever seen a white face in their lives, and, as may well be imagined, their curiosity and amazement were unbounded. The people came constantly crowding round our hut, remaining, however, at a respectful distance, and gazed at us until I began to fear they would never go away.

Here we remained for three weeks, during which time Jack’s wounds healed up, and his strength returned rapidly. Peterkin and I employed ourselves in alternately tending our comrade, and in scouring the neighbouring woods and plains in search of wild animals.

As we were now approaching the country of the gorilla—although, indeed, it was still far distant—our minds began to run more upon that terrible creature than used to be the case; and our desire to fall in with it was increased by the strange accounts of its habits and its tremendous power that we received from the natives of this village, some of whom had crossed the desert and actually met with the gorilla face to face. More than once, while out hunting, I have been so taken up with this subject that I have been on the point of shooting a native who appeared unexpectedly before me, under the impression that he was a specimen of the animal on which my thoughts had been fixed.

One day about a week after our arrival, as I was sitting at the side of Jack’s couch relating to him the incidents of a hunt after a buffalo that Makarooroo and I had had the day before, Peterkin entered with a swaggering gait, and setting his rifle down in a corner, flung himself on the pile of skins that formed his couch.

“I’ll tell you what it is,” said he, with the look and tone of a man who feels that he has been unwarrantably misled—“I don’t believe there’s such a beast as a gorilla at all; now, that’s a fact.”

There was something so confident and emphatic in my comrade’s manner that, despite my well-grounded belief on that point, I felt a sinking at the heart. The bare possibility that, after all our trouble and toil and suffering in penetrating thus far towards the land which he is said to inhabit, we should find that there really existed no such creature as the gorilla was too terrible to think upon.

“Peterkin,” said I anxiously, “what do you mean?”

“I mean,” replied he slowly, “that Jack is the only living specimen of the gorilla in Africa.”

“Come, now, I see you are jesting.”

“Am I?” cried Peterkin savagely—“jesting, eh? That means expressing thoughts and opinions which are not to be understood literally. Oh, I would that I were sure that I am jesting! Ralph, it’s my belief, I tell you, that the gorilla is a regular sell—a great, big, unnatural hairy do!”

“But I saw the skeleton of one in London.”

“I don’t care for that. You may have been deceived, humbugged. Perhaps it was a compound of the bones of a buffalo and a chimpanzee.”

“Nay, that were impossible,” said I quickly; “for no one pretending to have any knowledge of natural history and comparative anatomy could be so grossly deceived.”

“What like was the skeleton, Ralph?” inquired Jack, who seemed to be rather amused by our conversation.

“It was nearly as tall as that of a medium-sized man—I should think about five feet seven or eight inches; but the amazing part about it was the immense size and thickness of its bones. Its shoulders were much broader than yours, Jack, and your chest is a mere child’s compared with that of the specimen of the gorilla that I saw. Its legs were very short—much shorter than those of a man; but its arms were tremendous—they were more than a foot longer than yours. In fact, if the brute’s legs were in the same proportion to its body as are those of a man, it would be a giant of ten or eleven feet high. Or, to take another view of it, if you were to take a robust and properly proportioned giant of that height, and cut down his legs until he stood about the height of an ordinary man, that would be a gorilla.”

“I don’t believe it,” cried Peterkin.

“Well, perhaps my simile is not quite so felicitous as—”

“I don’t mean that,” interrupted Peterkin; “I mean that I don’t believe there’s such a brute as a gorilla at all.”

“Why, what has made you so sceptical?” inquired Jack.

“The nonsense that these niggers have been telling me, through the medium of Mak as an interpreter; that is what has made me sceptical. Only think, they say that a gorilla is so strong that he can lift a man by the nape of the neck clean off the ground with one of his hind feet! Yes, they say he is in the habit of sitting on the lower branches of trees in lonely dark parts of the wood watching for prey, and when a native chances to pass by close enough he puts down his hind foot, seizes the wretched man therewith, lifts him up into the tree, and quietly throttles him. They don’t add whether or not he eats him afterwards, or whether he prefers him boiled or roasted. Now, I don’t believe that.”

“Neither do I,” returned Jack; “nevertheless the fact that these fellows recount such wonderful stories at all, is, to some extent, evidence in favour of their existence: for in such a country as this, where so many wonderful and horrible animals exist, men are not naturally tempted to invent new creatures; it is sufficient to satisfy their craving for the marvellous that they should merely exaggerate what does already exist.”

“Go to, you sophist! if what you say be true, and the gorilla turns out to be only an exaggerated chimpanzee or ring-tailed roarer, does not that come to the same thing as saying that there is no gorilla at all—always, of course, excepting yourself?”

“Credit yourself with a punched head,” said Jack, “and the account shall be balanced when I am sufficiently recovered to pay you off. Meanwhile, continue your account of what the niggers say about the gorilla.”

Peterkin assumed a look of offended dignity as he replied—

“Without deigning any rejoinder to the utterly absurd and totally irrelevant matter contained in the preliminary sentences of your last remark, I pass on to observe that the natives of these wilds hold the opinion that there is one species of the gorilla which is the residence of the spirits of defunct niggers, and that these fellows are known by their unusual size and ferocity.”

“Hold,” cried I, “until I get out my note-book. Now, Peterkin, no fibs.”

“Honour bright,” said he, “I’ll give it you just as I got it. These possessed brutes are never caught, and can’t be killed. (I only hope I may get the chance to try whether that be true or not.) They often carry off natives into the woods, where they pull out their toe and finger nails by the roots and then let them go; and they are said to be uncommonly fond of sugar-cane, which they steal from the fields of the natives sometimes in a very daring manner.”

“Is that all?” said I.

“All!” exclaimed my comrade. “How much more would you have? Do you suppose that the gorilla can do anything it likes—hang by its tail from the moon, or sit down on its nose and run round on its chin?”

“Massa Jack,” said Makarooroo, entering the hut and interrupting our conversation at this point, “de chief hims tell to me for to tell to you dat w’en you’s be fit for go-hid agin hims gib you cottle for sit upon.”

“Cottle, Mak! what’s cottle?” inquired Jack, with a puzzled look.

“Ho, massa, you know bery well; jist cottle—hoxes, you know.”

“Indeed, I don’t know,” replied Jack, still more puzzled.

“I’ve no doubt,” interposed Peterkin, “that he means cuttle, which is the short name for cuttle-fish, which, in such an inland place as this, must of course be hoaxes! But what do you mean, Mak? Describe the thing to us.”

Mak scratched his woolly pate, as if he were quite unable to explain himself.

“O massas, you be most stoopid dis yer day. Cottle not a ting; hims am a beast, wid two horn an’ one tail. Dere,” said he, pointing with animation to a herd of cattle that grazed near our hut, “dat’s cottle, or hoxes.”

We all laughed at this proposal.

“What!” cried Jack, “does he mean us to ride upon ‘hoxes’ as if they were horses?”

“Yis, massa, hims say dat. Hims hear long ago ob one missionary as hab do dat; so de chief he tink it bery good idea, an’ hims try too, an’ like it bery much; only hims fell off ebery tree steps an’ a’most broke all de bones in him’s body down to powder. But hims git up agin and fell hoff agin. Oh, hims like it bery much!”

“If we follow the chief’s example,” said I, laughing, “we shall scarcely be in a fit state to hunt gorillas at the end of our journey; but now I come to think of it, the plan seems to me not a bad one. You know a great part of our journey now lies over a comparatively desert country, where we shall be none the worse of a ride now and then on ox-back to relieve our limbs. I think the proposal merits consideration.”

“Right, Ralph,” said Jack.—“Go, Mak, and tell his majesty, or chieftainship, or his royal highness, with my compliments, that I am much obliged by the offer, and will consider it. Also give him this plug of tobacco; and see you don’t curtail its dimensions before it leaves your hand, you rascal.”

Our guide grinned as he left the hut to execute his mission, and we turned to converse on this new plan, which, the more we thought of it, seemed the more to grow in our estimation as most feasible.

“Now, lads, leave me,” said Jack, with a sigh, after we had chatted for more than an hour. “If I am to go through all that our worthy host seems to have suffered, it behoves me to get my frame into a fit state to stand it. I shall therefore try to sleep.”

So saying he turned round on his side, and we left him to his slumbers.

As it was still early in the afternoon, we two shouldered our rifles and strolled away into the woods, partly with the intention of taking a shot at anything that might chance to come in our way, but chiefly with the view of having a pleasant chat about our prospect of speedily reaching that goal of our ambition—the gorilla country.

“It seems to me,” observed Peterkin, as we walked side by side over an open grassy and flower-speckled plain that lay about a couple of miles distant from the village—“it seems to me that we shall never reach this far-famed country.”

“I have no doubt that we shall,” said I; “but tell me, Peterkin, do you really doubt the existence of the gorilla?”

“Well, since you do put it to me so very seriously, I can scarce tell what I believe. The fact is, that I’m such a sceptical wretch by nature that I find it difficult to believe anything unless I see it.”

I endeavoured to combat this very absurd state of mind in my companion by pointing out to him very clearly that if he were to act upon such a principle at all times, he would certainly disbelieve many of the commonest facts in nature, and give full credit, on the other hand, to the most outrageous absurdities.

“For instance,” said I, “you would believe that every conjurer swallows fire, and smoke, and penknives, and rabbits, because you see him do it; and you would disbelieve the existence of the pyramids, because you don’t happen to have seen them.”

“Ralph,” said my companion seriously, “don’t go in too deep, else I shall be drowned!”

I was about to make some reply, when my attention was attracted by a very singular appearance of moisture at the foot of a fig-tree under which we were passing. Going up to it I found that there was a small puddle of clear water near the trunk. This occasioned me much surprise, for no rain had fallen in that district since our arrival, and probably there had been none for a long period before that. The ground everywhere, except in the large rivers and water-courses, was quite dry, insomuch that, as I have said, this little solitary pool (which was not much larger than my hand) occasioned us much surprise.

“How comes it there?” said I.

“That’s more than I can tell,” replied Peterkin. “Perhaps there’s a small spring at the root of the tree.”

“Perhaps there is,” said I, searching carefully round the spot in all directions; but I found nothing to indicate the presence of a spring—and, indeed, when I came to think of it, if there had been a spring there would also certainly have been a water-course leading from it. But such was not the case. Presently I observed a drop of water fall into the pool, and looking up, discovered that it fell from a cluster of insects that clung to a branch close over our heads.

I at once recognised this water-distilling insect as an old acquaintance. I had seen it before in England, although of a considerably smaller size than this African one. My companion also seemed to be acquainted with it, for he exclaimed—

“Ho! I know the fellow. He’s what we used at home to call a ‘frog-hopper’ after he got his wings, and a ‘cuckoo-spit’ before that time; but these ones are six times the size of ours.”

I was aware that there was some doubt among naturalists as to whence these insects procured the water they distilled. My own opinion, founded on observations made at this time, led me to think the greater part of the moisture is derived from the atmosphere, though, possibly, some of it may be procured by suction from the trees. I afterwards paid several visits to this tree, and found, by placing a vessel beneath them, that these insects distilled during a single night as much as three or four pints of water!

Turning from this interesting discovery, we were about to continue our walk, when we observed a buffalo bull feeding in the open plain, not more than five or six hundred yards off from us.

“Ha! Ralph, my boy,” cried Peterkin enthusiastically, “here is metal more attractive! Follow me; we must make a détour in order to get to leeward of him.”

We set off at a brisk pace, and I freely confess that, although the contemplation of the curious processes of the water-distilling insect afforded me deeper and more lasting enjoyment, the gush of excitement and eagerness that instantly followed the discovery of the wild buffalo bull enabled me thoroughly to understand the feeling that leads men—especially the less contemplative among them—infinitely to prefer the pleasures of the chase to the calmer joys attendant upon the study of natural history.

At a later period that evening I had a discussion with my companions on that subject, when I stood up for the pursuit of scientific knowledge as being truly elevating and noble, while the pursuit of game was, to say the least of it, a species of pleasure more suited to the tastes and condition of the savage than of the civilised man.

To this Peterkin replied—having made a preliminary statement to the effect that I was a humbug—that a man’s pluck was brought out and his nerves improved by the noble art of hunting, which was beautifully scientific in its details, and which had the effect of causing a man to act like a man and look like a man—not like a woman or a nincompoop, as was too often the case with scientific men.

Hereupon Jack announced it as his opinion that we were both wrong and both right; which elicited a cry of “Bravo!” from Peterkin. “For,” said Jack, “what would the naturalist do without the hunter? His museums would be almost empty and his knowledge would be extremely limited. On the other hand, if there were no naturalists, the hunter—instead of being the hero who dares every imaginable species of danger, in order to procure specimens and furnish information that will add to the sum of human knowledge—would degenerate into the mere butcher, who supplies himself and his men with meat; or into the semi-murderer, who delights in shedding the blood of inferior animals. The fact is, that the naturalist and the hunter are indispensably necessary to each other—‘both are best,’ to use an old expression; and when both are combined in one, as in the case of the great American ornithologist Audubon, that is best of all.”

“Betterer than both,” suggested Peterkin.

But to return from this digression.

In less than quarter of an hour we gained a position well to leeward of the buffalo, which grazed quietly near the edge of the bushes, little dreaming of the enemies who were so cautiously approaching to work its destruction.

“Keep well in rear of me, Ralph,” said Peterkin, as we halted behind a bush to examine our rifles. “I’ll creep as near to him as I can, and if by any chance I should not kill him at the first shot, do you run up and hand me your gun.”

Without waiting for a reply, my companion threw himself on his breast, and began to creep over the plain like a snake in the grass. He did this so well and so patiently that he reached to within forty yards of the bull without being discovered. Then he ceased to advance, and I saw his head and shoulders slowly emerge from among the grass, and presently his rifle appeared, and was slowly levelled. It was one of our large-bore single-barrelled rifles.

He lay in this position for at least two minutes, which seemed to me a quarter of an hour, so eager was I to see the creature fall. Suddenly I heard a sharp snap or crack. The bull heard it too, for it raised its huge head with a start. The cap of Peterkin’s rifle had snapped, and I saw by his motions that he was endeavouring, with as little motion as possible, to replace it with another. But the bull caught sight of him, and uttering a terrific roar charged in an instant.

It is all very well for those who dwell at home in security to think they know what the charge of an infuriated buffalo bull is. Did they see it in reality, as I saw it at that time, tearing madly over the grass, foaming at the mouth, flashing at the eyes, tossing its tail, and bellowing hideously, they would have a very different idea from what they now have of the trials to which hunters’ nerves are frequently exposed.

Peterkin had not time to cap. He leaped up, turned round, and ran for the woods at the top of his speed; but the bull was upon him in an instant. Almost before I had time to realise what was occurring, I beheld my companion tossed high into the air. He turned a distinct somersault, and fell with a fearful crash into the centre of a small bush. I cannot recall my thoughts on witnessing this. I remember only experiencing a sharp pang of horror and feeling that Peterkin must certainly have been killed. But whatever my thoughts were they must have been rapid, for the time allowed me was short, as the bull turned sharp round after tossing Peterkin and rushed again towards the bush, evidently with the intention of completing the work of destruction.

Once again I experienced that strange and sudden change of feeling to which I have before referred. I felt a bounding sensation in my breast which tingled to my finger-ends. At the same time my head became clear and cool. I felt that Providence had placed the life of my friend in my hands. Darting forward in advance of the bush, I awaited the charge of the infuriated animal. On it came. I knew that I was not a sufficiently good shot to make sure of hitting it in the brain. I therefore allowed it to come within a yard of me, and then sprang lightly to one side. As it flew past, I never thought of taking aim or putting the piece to my shoulder, but I thrust the muzzle against its side and pulled both triggers at once.

From that moment consciousness forsook me, and I knew not what had occurred for some minutes after. The first object that met my confused vision when I again opened my eyes was Peterkin, who was seated close beside me on the body of the dead buffalo, examining some bloody scratches on the calf of his left leg. He had evidently been attempting to restore me to consciousness, for I observed that a wet handkerchief lay on my forehead. He muttered to himself as he examined his wounds—

“This comes of not looking to one’s caps. Humph! I do believe that every bone in my body is—ah! here’s another cut, two inches at least, and into the bone of course, to judge from the flow of blood. I wonder how much blood I can afford to lose without being floored altogether. Such a country! I wonder how high I went. I felt as if I’d got above the moon. Hollo, Ralph! better?”

I sat up as he said this, and looked at him earnestly.

“My dear Peterkin, then you’re not killed after all.”

“Not quite, but pretty near. If it had not been for that friendly bush I should have fared worse. It broke my fall completely, and I really believe that my worst hurts are a few scratches. But how are you, Ralph? Yours was a much more severe case than mine. You should hold your gun tighter, man, when you fire without putting it to your shoulder.”

“How? why? what do you mean?”

“Simply this, that in consequence of your reckless manner of holding your rifle, it came back with such a slap on your chest that it floored you.”

“This, then, accounts for the pain I feel in it. But come,” said I, rising and shaking my limbs to make sure that no bones were broken; “we have reason to be very thankful we have escaped so easily. I made sure that you were killed when I saw you flying through the air.”

“I always had a species of cat-luck about me,” replied Peterkin, with a smile. “But now let us cut off a bit o’ this fellow to take back with us for Jack’s supper.”

With some difficulty we succeeded in cutting out the buffalo’s tongue by the root, and carried it back to the village, where, after displaying it as an evidence of our prowess, we had it cooked for supper.

The slight hurts that we had received at the time of this adventure were speedily cured, and about two weeks after that we were all well enough to resume our journey.

Chapter Ten.

Water Appreciated—Destructive Files, Etcetera.

Our first start from the village where we had been entertained so hospitably and so long was productive of much amusement to ourselves and to the natives.

We had determined to accept of three oxen from the chief, and to ride these when we felt fatigued; but we thought it best to let our native porters carry our baggage on their shoulders, as they had hitherto done.

When the animals were led up to our hut, we could not refrain from laughing. They were three sturdy-looking dark-skinned oxen, with wicked-looking black eyes and very long horns.

“Now, Jack, do you get up first,” said Peterkin, “and show us what we are to expect.”

“Nay, lad; I am still entitled to be considered an invalid: so you must get up first, and not only so, but you must try them all, in order that I may be enabled to select the quietest.”

“Upon my word, you are becoming despotic in your sickness, and you forget that it is but a short time since I came down from a journey to the sky, and that my poor bones are still tender. But here goes. I was born to be victimised, so I submit to the decrees of Fate.”

Peterkin went up to one of the oxen and attempted to mount it; but the animal made a demonstration of an intention to gore him, and obstinately objected to this.

“Hold him tight, Mak,” he cried, after several futile attempts to mount. “I was always good at leap-frog when a schoolboy; see if I don’t bring my powers into play now.”

So saying, he went behind the ox, took a short race and sprang with the agility of a monkey over its tail on to its back! The ox began to kick and sidle and plunge heavily on receiving this unexpected load; but its rider held on well, until it took it into its head to dart under a neighbouring tree, the lower branches of which swept him off and caused him to fall with a heavy plump to the ground.

“I told you so,” he cried, rising with a rueful face, and rubbing himself as he limped forward. However, his pain was more than half affected, for the next minute he was on the back of another ox. This one also proved restive, but not so much so as the first. The third was a very quiet animal, so Jack appropriated it as his charger.

Having bade adieu to the chief and rubbed noses with him and with several of our friends in the village, we all three got upon our novel steeds and set forth. But we had not got away from the village more than a mile when the two restive oxen began to display a firm determination to get rid of their intolerable burden. Mine commenced to back and sidle, and Peterkin’s made occasional darts forward, and then stopping suddenly, refused to budge a step. We lost all patience at last, and belaboured them soundly with twigs, the effect of which was to make them advance rather slowly, and evidently under protest.

“Look out for branches,” cried Peterkin as we came up to a narrow belt of wood.

I had scarcely time to raise my head when I was swept off my seat and hurled to the ground by a large branch. Peterkin’s attention was drawn to me, and his ox, as if aware of the fact, seized the opportunity to swerve violently to one side, thereby throwing its rider off. Both animals gave a bellow, as of triumph, erected their tails, and ran away. They were soon recaptured, however, by our negroes; and mounting once more, we belaboured them well and continued our journey. In course of time they became more reconciled to their duties; but I cannot say that I ever came to enjoy such riding, and all of us ultimately agreed that it was a most undesirable thing to journey on ox-back.

Thus we commenced our journey over this desert or plain of Africa, and at the end of many weeks found ourselves approaching that part of the country near the equator in which the gorilla is said to dwell. On the way we had many adventures, some of an amusing, some of a dangerous character, and I made many additions to my collection of animals, besides making a number of valuable and interesting notes in my journal; but all this I am constrained to pass over, in order to introduce my reader to those regions in which some of our most wonderful adventures occurred.

One or two things, however, I must not omit to mention.

In passing over the desert we suffered much from want of water. Frequently the poor oxen had to travel two or three days without tasting a drop, and their distress was so great that we more than once thought of turning them adrift at the first good watering-place we should come to, and proceed, as formerly, on foot; for we had all recovered our wonted vigour, and were quite capable of standing the fatigues of the journey as well as our men. But several times we had found the country destitute of game, and were reduced to the point of starvation; so we continued to keep the oxen, lest we should require them for food.

On one occasion we were wending our way slowly along the bed of what in the rainy season would become a large river, but which was now so thoroughly dry that we could not find even a small pool in which the oxen might slake their thirst. They had been several days absolutely without a drop of water, while we were reduced to a mouthful or two per man in the day. As we could not exist much longer without the life-giving fluid, Jack dismounted, and placing the load of one of the men on the ox’s back, sent him off in advance to look for water. We had that morning seen the footprints of several animals which are so fond of water that they are never found at any great distance from some spot where it may be found. We therefore felt certain of falling in with it ere long.

About two hours afterwards our negro returned, saying that he had discovered a pool of rain-water, and showing the marks of mud on his knees in confirmation of the truth of what he said.

“Ask him if there’s much of it, Mak,” said Jack, as we crowded eagerly round the man.

“Hims say there be great plenty ob it—’nuff to tumble in.”

Gladdened by this news we hastened forward. The oxen seemed to have scented the water from afar, for they gradually became more animated, and quickened their pace of their own accord, until they at last broke into a run. Peterkin and I soon outstripped our party, and quite enjoyed the gallop.

“There it is,” cried my comrade joyfully, pointing to a gleaming pond in a hollow of the plain not two hundred yards off.

“Hurrah!” I shouted, unable to repress my delight at the sight.

The oxen rushed madly forward, and we found that they were away with us. No pulling at our rope-bridles had any effect on them. My companion, foreseeing what would happen, leaped nimbly off just as he reached the margin of the pond. I being unable to collect my thoughts for the emergency, held on. My steed rushed into the water up to the neck, and stumbling as he did so, threw me into the middle of the pond, out of which I scrambled amidst the laughter of the whole party, who came up almost as soon as the oxen, so eager were they to drink.

After appeasing our own thirst we stood looking at the oxen, and it really did our hearts good to see the poor thirsty creatures enjoy themselves so thoroughly. They stood sucking in the water as if they meant to drink up the whole pond, half shutting their eyes, which became mild and amiable in appearance under the influence of extreme satisfaction. Their sides, which had been for the last two days in a state of collapse, began to swell, and at last were distended to such an extent that they seemed as if ready to burst. In point of fact the creatures were actually as full as they could hold; and when at length they dragged themselves slowly, almost unwillingly, out of the pool, any sudden jerk or motion caused some of the water to run out of their mouths!

Some time after that we were compelled to part with our poor steeds, in consequence of their being bitten by an insect which caused their death.

This destructive fly, which is called tsetse, is a perfect scourge in some parts of Africa. Its bite is fatal to the horse, ox, and dog, yet, strange to say, it is not so to man or to wild animals. It is not much larger than the common house-fly, and sucks the blood in the same manner as the mosquito, by means of a proboscis with which it punctures the skin. When man is bitten by it, no more serious evil than slight itching of the part follows. When the ox is bitten no serious effect follows at first, but a few days afterwards a running takes place at the eyes and nose, swellings appear under the jaw and on other parts of the body, emaciation quickly follows, even although the animal may continue to graze, and after a long illness, sometimes of many weeks, it dies in a state of extreme exhaustion.

The tsetse inhabits certain localities in great numbers, while other places in the immediate neighbourhood are entirely free. Those natives, therefore, who have herds of cattle avoid the dangerous regions most carefully; yet, despite their utmost care, they sometimes come unexpectedly on the habitat of this poisonous fly, and lose the greater part of their cattle.

When our poor oxen were bitten and the fatal symptoms began to appear, we knew that their fate was sealed; so we conducted them into a pleasant valley on which we chanced to alight, where there was plenty of grass and water, and there we left them to die.

Another incident occurred to us in this part of our journey which is worthy of record.

One day Peterkin and I had started before our party with our rifles, and had gone a considerable distance in advance of them, when we unexpectedly came upon a band of natives who were travelling in an opposite direction. Before coming up with their main body, we met with one of their warriors, who came upon us suddenly in the midst of a wooded spot, and stood rooted to the earth with fear and amazement; at which, indeed, we were not much surprised, for as he had probably never seen white faces before, he must have naturally taken us for ghosts or phantoms of some sort.

He was armed with shield and spear, but his frame was paralysed with terror. He seemed to have no power to use his weapons. At first we also stood in silent wonder, and returned his stare with interest; but after a few seconds the comicality of the man’s appearance tickled Peterkin so much that he burst into a fit of laughter, which had the effect of increasing the terror of the black warrior to such a degree that his teeth began to chatter in his head. He actually grew livid in the face. I never beheld a more ghastly countenance.

“I say, Ralph,” observed my companion, after recovering his composure, “we must try to show this fellow that we don’t mean him any harm, else he’ll die of sheer fright.”

Before I could reply, or any steps could be taken towards this end, his party came up, and we suddenly found ourselves face to face with at least a hundred men, all of whom were armed with spears or bows and arrows. Behind them came a large troop of women and children. They were all nearly naked, and I observed that they were blacker in the skin than most of the negroes we had yet met with.

“Here’s a pretty mess,” said Peterkin, looking at me.

“What is to be done?” said I.

“If we were to fire at them, I’d lay a bet they’d run away like the wind,” replied my comrade; “but I can’t bear to think of shedding human blood if it can possibly be avoided.”

While we spoke, the negroes, who stood about fifty yards distant from us, were consulting with each other in eager voices, but never for a moment taking their eyes off us.

“What say you to fire over their heads?” I suggested.

“Ready, present, then,” cried Peterkin, with a recklessness of manner that surprised me.

We threw forward our rifles, and discharged them simultaneously.

The effect was tremendous. The whole band—men, women, and children—uttered an overwhelming shriek, and turning round, fled in mad confusion from the spot. Some of the warriors turned, however, ere they had gone far, and sent a shower of spears at us, one of which went close past my cheek.

“We have acted rashly, I fear,” said I, as we each sought shelter behind a tree.

No doubt the savages construed this act of ours into an admission that we did not consider ourselves invulnerable, and plucked up courage accordingly, for they began again to advance towards us, though with hesitation. I now saw that we should be compelled to fight for our lives, and deeply regretted my folly in advising Peterkin to fire over their heads; but happily, before blood was drawn on either side, Makarooroo and Jack came running towards us. The former shouted an explanation of who and what we were to our late enemies, and in less than ten minutes we were mingling together in the most amicable manner.

We found that these poor creatures were starving, having failed to procure any provisions for some time past, and they were then on their way to another region in search of game. We gave them as much of our provisions as we could spare, besides a little tobacco, which afforded them inexpressible delight. Then rubbing noses with the chief, we parted and went on our respective ways.

Chapter Eleven.

How We Met With Our First Gorilla, And How We Served Him.

“It never rains but it pours,” is a true proverb. I have often noticed, in the course of my observations on sublunary affairs, that events seldom come singly. I have often gone out fishing for trout in the rivers of my native land, day after day, and caught nothing, while at other times I have, day after day, returned home with my basket full.

As it was in England, so I found it in Africa. For many days after our arrival in the gorilla country, we wandered about without seeing a single creature of any kind. Lions, we ascertained, were never found in those regions, and we were told that this was in consequence of their having been beaten off the field by gorillas. But at last, after we had all, severally and collectively, given way to despair, we came upon the tracks of a gorilla, and from that hour we were kept constantly on the qui vive, and in the course of the few weeks we spent in that part of the country, we “bagged,” as Peterkin expressed it, “no end of gorillas”—great and small, young and old.

I will never forget the powerful sensations of excitement and anxiety that filled our breasts when we came on the first gorilla footprint. We felt as no doubt Robinson Crusoe did when he discovered the footprint of a savage in the sand. Here at last was the indubitable evidence of the existence and presence of the terrible animal we had come so far to see. Here was the footstep of that creature about which we had heard so many wonderful stories, whose existence the civilised world had, up to within a very short time back, doubted exceedingly, and in regard to which, even now, we knew comparatively very little.

Makarooroo assured us that he had hunted this animal some years ago, and had seen one or two at a distance, though he had never killed one, and stated most emphatically that the footprint before us, which happened to be in a soft sandy spot, was undoubtedly caused by the foot of a gorilla.

Being satisfied on this head, we four sat down in a circle round the footprint to examine it, while our men stood round about us, looking on with deep interest expressed in their dark faces.

“At last!” said I, carefully brushing away some twigs that partly covered the impression.

“Ay, at last!” echoed Jack, while his eyes sparkled with enthusiasm.

“Ay,” observed Peterkin, “and a pretty big last he must require, too. I shouldn’t like to be his shoemaker. What a thumb, or a toe. One doesn’t know very well which to call it.”

“I wonder if it’s old?” said I.

“As old as the hills,” replied Peterkin; “at least 50 I would judge from its size.”

“You mistake me. I mean that I wonder whether the footprint is old, or if it has been made recently.”

“Him’s quite noo,” interposed our guide.

“How d’ye know, Mak?”

“’Cause me see.”

“Ay; but what do you see that enables you to form such an opinion?”

“O Ralph, how can you expect a nigger to understand such a sentence as that?” said Jack, as he turned to Mak and added, “What do you see?”

“Me see one leetle stick brok in middel. If you look to him you see him white and clean. If hims was old, hims would be mark wid rain and dirt.”

“There!” cried Peterkin, giving me a poke in the side, “see what it is to be a minute student of the small things in nature. Make a note of it, Ralph.”

I did make a note of it mentally on the spot, and then proposed that we should go in search of the gorilla without further delay.

We were in the midst of a dark gloomy wood in the neighbourhood of a range of mountains whose blue serrated peaks rose up into the clouds. Their sides were partly clothed with wood. We were travelling—not hunting—at the time we fell in with the track above referred to, so we immediately ordered the men to encamp where they were, while we should go after the gorilla, accompanied only by Mak, whose nerves we could depend on.

Shouldering our trusty rifles, and buckling tight the belts of our heavy hunting-knives, we sallied forth after the manner of American Indians, in single file, keeping, as may well be supposed, a sharp lookout as we went along. The fact was that long delay, frequent disappointment, and now the near prospect of success, conspired together to fill us with a species of nervous excitement that caused us to start at every sound.

The woods here were pretty thick, but they varied in their character so frequently that we were at one time pushing slowly among dense, almost impenetrable underwood, at another walking briskly over small plains which were covered in many places with large boulders. It was altogether a gloomy, savage-looking country, and seemed to me well suited to be the home of so dreadful an animal. There were few animals to be seen here. Even birds were scarce, and a few chattering monkeys were almost the only creatures that broke the monotonous silence and solitude around us.

“What a dismal place!” said Peterkin, in a low tone. “I feel as if we had got to the fag-end of the world, as if we were about plunging into ancient chaos.”

“It is, indeed,” I replied, “a most dreary region. I think that the gorillas will not be disturbed by many hunters with white faces.”

“There’s no saying,” interposed Jack. “I should not wonder, now, if you, Ralph, were to go home and write a book detailing our adventures in these parts, that at least half the sportsmen of England would be in Africa next year, and the race of gorillas would probably become extinct.”

“If the sportsmen don’t come out until I write a book about them, I fear the gorillas will remain undisturbed for all time to come.”

At that time, reader, I was not aware of the extreme difficulty that travellers experience in resisting the urgent entreaties of admiring and too partial friends!

Presently we came to a part of the forest where the underwood became so dense that we could scarcely make our way through it at all, and here we began for the first time to have some clearer conception of the immense power of the creature we were in pursuit of; for in order to clear its way it had torn down great branches of the trees, and in one or two places had seized young trees as thick as a man’s arm, and snapped them in two as one would snap a walking-cane.

Following the track with the utmost care for several miles, we at length came to a place where several huge rocks lay among the trees. Here, while we were walking along in silence, Makarooroo made a peculiar noise with his tongue, which we knew meant that he had discovered something worthy of special attention, so we came to an abrupt pause and looked at him.

“What is it, Mak?” inquired Jack.

The guide put his finger on his mouth to impose silence, and stood in a listening attitude with his eyes cast upon the ground, his nostrils distended, and every muscle of his dusky frame rigid, as if he were a statue of black marble. We also listened attentively, and presently heard a sound as of the breaking of twigs and branches.

“Dat am be gorilla,” said the guide, in a low whisper.

We exchanged looks of eager satisfaction.

“How shall we proceed, Mak?” inquired Jack.

“We mus’ go bery slow, dis way,” said the guide, imitating the process of walking with extreme caution. “No break leetle stick. If you break leetle stick hims go right away.”

Promising Mak that we would attend to his injunctions most carefully, we desired him to lead the way, and in a few minutes after came so near to where the sound of breaking sticks was going on that we all halted, fearing that we should scare the animal away before we could get a sight of it amongst the dense underwood.

“What can he be doing?” said I to the guide, as we stood looking at each other for a few seconds uncertain how to act.

“Him’s breakin’ down branches for git at him’s feed, s’pose.”

“Do you see that?” whispered Peterkin, as he pointed to an open space among the bushes. “Isn’t that a bit o’ the hairy brute?”

“It looks like it,” replied Jack eagerly.

“Cluck!” ejaculated Makarooroo, making a peculiar noise with his tongue. “Dat him. Blaze away!”

“But it may not be a mortal part,” objected Peterkin. “He might escape if only wounded.”

“Nebber fear. Hims come at us if hims be wound. Only we mus’ be ready for him.”

“All ready,” said Jack, cocking both barrels of his rifle.—“Now, Peterkin, a good aim. If he comes here he shall get a quietus.”

All this was said in the lowest possible whispers. Peterkin took a steady aim at the part of the creature that was visible, and fired.

I have gone through many wild adventures since then. I have heard the roar of the lion and the tiger in all circumstances, and the laugh of the hyena, besides many other hideous sounds, but I never in all my life listened to anything that in any degree approached in thundering ferocity the appalling roar that burst upon our ears immediately after that shot was fired. I can compare it to nothing, for nothing I ever heard was like it. If the reader can conceive a human fiend endued with a voice far louder than that of the lion, yet retaining a little of the intonation both of the man’s voice and of what we should suppose a fiend’s voice to be, he may form some slight idea of what that roar was. It is impossible to describe it. Perhaps Mak’s expression in regard to it is the most emphatic and truthful: it was absolutely “horriboble!” Every one has heard a sturdy, well-grown little boy, when being thrashed, howling at the very top of his bent. If one can conceive of a full-grown male giant twenty feet high pouring forth his whole soul and voice with similarly unrestrained fervour, he may approximate to a notion of it.

And it was not uttered once or twice, but again and again, until the whole woods trembled with it, and we felt as if our ears could not endure more of it without the tympanums being burst.

For several moments we stood motionless with our guns ready, expecting an immediate attack, and gazing with awe, not unmingled—at least on my part—with fear, at the turmoil of leaves and twigs and broken branches that was going on round the spot where the monster had been wounded.

“Come,” cried Jack at length, losing patience and springing forward; “if he won’t attack us we must attack him.”

We followed close on his heels, and next moment emerged upon a small and comparatively open space, in the midst of which we found the gorilla seated on the ground, tearing up the earth with its hands, grinning horribly and beating its chest, which sent forth a loud hollow sound as if it were a large drum. We saw at once that both its thighs had been broken by Peterkin’s shot.

Of all the hideous creatures I had ever seen or heard of, none came up in the least degree to this. Apart altogether from its gigantic size, this monster was calculated to strike terror into the hearts of beholders simply by the expression of its visage, which was quite satanic. I could scarcely persuade myself that I was awake. It seemed as if I were gazing on one of those hideous creatures one beholds when oppressed with nightmare.

But we had little time to indulge in contemplation, for the instant the brute beheld us it renewed its terrible roar, and attempted to spring up; but both its legs at once gave way, and it fell with a passionate growl, biting the earth, and twisting and tearing bunches of twigs and leaves in its fury. Suddenly it rushed upon us rapidly by means of its fore legs or arms.

“Look out, Jack!” we cried in alarm.

Jack stood like a rock and deliberately levelled his rifle. Even at this moment of intense excitement I could not help marvelling at the diminutive appearance of my friend when contrasted with the gorilla. In height, indeed, he was of course superior, and would have been so had the gorilla been able to stand erect, but his breadth of shoulder and chest, and his length and size of arm, were strikingly inferior. Just as the monster approached to within three yards of him, Jack sent a ball into its chest, and the king of the African woods fell dead at our feet!

It is impossible to convey in words an idea of the gush of mingled feelings that filled our breasts as we stood beside and gazed at the huge carcass of our victim. Pity at first predominated in my heart, then I felt like an accomplice to a murder, and then an exulting sensation of joy at having obtained a specimen of one of the rarest animals in the world overwhelmed every other feeling.

The size of this animal—and we measured him very carefully—was as follows:—

Height, 5 feet 6 inches; girth of the chest, 4 feet 2 inches; spread of its arms, 7 feet 2 inches. Perhaps the most extraordinary measurement was that of the great thumb of its hind foot, which was 5 and a half inches in circumference. When I looked at this and at the great bunches of hard muscles which composed its brawny chest and arms, I could almost believe in the stories told by the natives of the tremendous feats of strength performed by the gorilla. The body of this brute was covered with grey hair, but the chest was bare and covered with tough skin, and its face was intensely black. I shuddered as I looked upon it, for there was something terribly human-like about it, despite the brutishness of its aspect.

“Now, I’ll tell you what we shall do,” said Jack, after we had completed our examination of the gorilla. “We will encamp where we are for the night, and send Makarooroo back to bring our fellows up with the packs, so that you, Ralph, will be able to begin the work of skinning and cleaning the bones at once. What say you?”

“Agreed, with all my heart,” I replied.

“Well, then,” observed Peterkin, “here goes for a fire, to begin with, and then for victuals to continue with. By the way, what say you to a gorilla steak? I’m told the niggers eat him.—Don’t they, Mak?”

“Yis, massa, dey does. More dan dat, de niggers in dis part ob country eat mans.”

“Eat mans!” echoed Peterkin in horror.

“Yis, eat mans, and womins, an’ childerdens.”

“Oh, the brutes! But I don’t believe you, Mak. What are the villains called?”

“Well, it not be easy for say what dem be called. Miss’naries calls dem canibobbles.”

“Ho!” shouted Peterkin, “canibobbles? eh! well done. Mak, I must get you to write a new dictionary; I think it would pay!”

“It won’t pay to go on talking like this, though,” observed Jack. “Come, hand me the axe. I’ll fell this tree while you strike a light, Peterkin.—Be off with you, Mak.—As for Ralph, we must leave him to his note-book; I see there is no chance of getting him away from his beloved gorilla till he has torn its skin from its flesh, and its flesh from its bones.”

Jack was right. I had now several long hours’ work before me, which I knew could not be delayed, and to which I applied myself forthwith most eagerly, while my comrades lit the fire and prepared the camp, and Makarooroo set off on his return journey to bring up the remainder of our party.

That night, while I sat by the light of the camp-fire toiling at my task, long after the others had retired to rest, I observed the features of Jack and Peterkin working convulsively, and their hands clutching nervously as they slept, and I smiled to think of the battles with gorillas which I felt assured they must be fighting, and the enormous “bags” they would be certain to tell of on returning from the realms of dreamland to the regions of reality.

Chapter Twelve.

Peterkin’s Schoolday Reminiscences.

The day following that on which we shot our first gorilla was a great and memorable day in our hunting career in Africa, for on that day we saw no fewer than ten gorillas: two females, seven young ones—one of which was a mere baby gorilla in its mother’s arms—and a huge lone male, or bachelor gorilla, as Peterkin called him. And of these we killed four—three young ones, and the old bachelor. I am happy to add that I saved the lives of the infant gorilla and its mother, as I shall presently relate.

The portion of country through which we travelled this day was not so thickly wooded as that through which we had passed the day before, so that we advanced more easily, and enjoyed ourselves much as we went along. About the middle of the day we came to a spot where there were a number of wild vines, the leaves of which are much liked by the gorilla, so we kept a sharp lookout for tracks.

Soon we came upon several, as well as broken branches and twigs, in which were observed the marks of teeth, showing that our game had been there. But we passed from the wood where these signs were discovered, out upon an open plain of considerable extent. Here we paused, undecided as to whether we should proceed onward or remain there to hunt.

“I vote for advancing,” said Peterkin, “for I observe that on the other side of this plain the wood seems very dense, and it is probable that we may find Mister Gorilla there.—What think you, Mak?”

The guide nodded in reply.

“I move,” said Jack, “that as the country just where we stand is well watered by this little brook, besides being picturesque and beautiful to look upon, we should encamp where we are, and leaving our men to guard the camp, cross this plain—we three take Mak along with us, and spend the remainder of the day in hunting.”

“I vote for the amendment,” said I.

“Then the amendment carries,” cried Jack, “for in all civilised societies most votes always carry; and although we happen to be in an uncivilised region of the earth, we must not forget that we are civilised hunters. The vote of two hunters ought certainly to override that of one hunter.”

Peterkin demurred to this at once, on the ground that it was unfair.

“How so?” said I.

“In the first place,” replied he, looking uncommonly wise, and placing the point of his right finger in the palm of his left hand—“in the first place, I do not admit your premises, and therefore I object to your conclusion. I do not admit that in civilised societies most votes carry; on the contrary, it too frequently happens that, in civilised societies, motions are made, seconded, discussed, and carried without being put to the vote at all; often they are carried without being made, seconded, or discussed—as when a bottle-nosed old gentleman in office chooses to ignore the rights of men, and carry everything his own way. Neither do I admit that we three are civilised hunters; for although it is true that I am, it is well-known that you, Ralph, are a philosopher, and Jack is a gorilla. Therefore I object to your conclusion that your two votes should carry; for you cannot but admit that the vote of one hunter ought to override that of two such creatures, which would not be the case were there an equality existing between us.”

“Peterkin,” said I, “there is fallacy in your reasoning.”

“Can you show it?” said he.

“No; the web is too much ravelled to disentangle.”

“Not at all,” cried Jack; “I can unravel it in a minute, and settle the whole question by proving that there does exist an equality between us; for it is well-known, and generally admitted by all his friends, and must be acknowledged by himself, that Peterkin is an ass.”

“Even admitting that,” rejoined Peterkin, “it still remains to be proved that a philosopher, a gorilla, and an ass are equal. Of course I believe the latter to be superior to both the former animals; but in consideration of the lateness of the hour, and the able manner in which you have discussed this subject, I beg to withdraw my motion, and to state that I am ready to accompany you over the plain as soon as you please.”

At this point our conversation was interrupted by the shriek of a small monkey, which had been sitting all the time among the branches of the tree beneath which we stood.

“I declare it has been listening to us,” cried Peterkin.

“Yes, and is shouting in triumph at your defeat,” added Jack.

As he spoke, Makarooroo fired, and the monkey fell to the ground almost at our feet.

“Alas! it has paid a heavy price for its laugh,” said Peterkin, in a tone of sadness.

The poor thing was mortally wounded; so much so that it could not even cry. It looked up with a very piteous expression in our faces. Placing its hand on its side, it coughed once or twice, then lying down on its back and stretching itself out quite straight, it closed its eyes and died.

I never could bear to shoot monkeys. There was something so terribly human-like in their sufferings, that I never could witness the death of one without feeling an almost irresistible inclination to weep. Sometimes, when short of provisions, I was compelled to shoot monkeys, but I did so as seldom as possible, and once I resolved to go supperless to bed rather than shoot one whose aspect was so sad and gentle that I had not the heart to kill it. My companions felt as I did in this matter, and we endeavoured to restrain Makarooroo as much as possible; but he could not understand our feelings, and when he got a chance of a shot, almost invariably forgot our injunctions to let monkeys alone unless we were absolutely ill off for food. To do him justice, however, I must add that we were at this particular time not overburdened with provisions, and the men were much pleased to have the prospect of a roast monkey for supper.

Having given our men a little tobacco, a gift which caused their black faces to beam with delight, we shouldered our rifles and set off across the plain towards the thick wood, which was not more than five miles distant, if so much.

It was a beautiful scene, this plain with its clumps of trees scattered over it like islands in a lake, and its profusion of wild flowers. The weather, too, was delightful—cooler than usual—and there was a freshness in the air which caused us to feel light of heart, while the comparative shortness of the grass enabled us to proceed on our way with light steps. As we walked along for some time in silence, I thought upon the goodness and the provident care of the Creator of our world; for during my brief sojourn in Africa I had observed many instances of the wonderful exactness with which things in nature were suited to the circumstances in which they were placed, and the bountiful provision that was made everywhere for man and beast. Yet I must confess I could not help wondering, and felt very much perplexed, when I thought of the beautiful scenes in the midst of which I moved being inhabited only by savage men, who seemed scarcely to appreciate the blessings by which they were surrounded, and who violated constantly all the laws of Him by whom they were created. My meditations were interrupted by Jack saying—

“I cannot help wondering why that poor monkey kept so still all the time we were talking. One would think that it should have been frightened away just as we came under the tree.”

“I have no doubt,” said I, “that although of course it could not understand what we said, yet it was listening to us.”

“I’m not so certain that it did not understand,” observed Peterkin. “You know that sailors believe that monkeys could speak if they chose, but they don’t for fear that they should be made to work!”

“Well, whatever truth there may be in that, of this I am certain, they are the most deceptive creatures that exist.”

“I don’t agree with you,” rejoined Peterkin. “It’s my opinion that little boys are the greatest deceivers living.”

“What! all little boys!” exclaimed Jack.

“No, not all. I have not so bad an opinion of the race as that. I’ve had a good deal to do with boys during my naval career, and among the middies of her Majesty’s navy I have met with as fine little chaps as one would wish to see—regular bricks, afraid of nothing (except of doing anything that would be thought sneaking or shabby), ready to dare anything—to attack a seventy-four single-handed in a punt or a bumboat if need be; nevertheless, I’ve met boys, and a good many of them too, who would beat all the monkeys in Africa at sneaking and deceiving. I remember one rascal, who went to the same school with me, who was a wonderfully plausible deceiver. I can’t help laughing yet when I think of the curious way he took to free himself of the restraint of school.”

“How was it?” cried Jack; “tell us about it—do.”

“Well, you must know,” began Peterkin, “that this boy was what Jack tars would call a ‘great, stupid, lubberly fellow.’ He was a very fair-haired, white eyelashed sort of chap, that seemed to grow at such a rate that he was always too big for his clothes, and showed an unusual amount of wrist and ankle even for a boy. Most people who met him thought him a very stupid boy at first; but those who came to know him well found that he was rather a sharp, clever fellow, but a remarkably shy dog. We called him Doddle.

“His mother was a widow, and he was an only son, and had been spoiled, of course, so that he was not put to school till he was nearly twelve years of age. He had been at several schools before coming to ours, but had been deemed by each successive schoolmaster a hopeless imbecile. And he was so mischievous that they advised his poor mother to take him away and try if she could not instil a little knowledge into him herself. The old lady was a meek, simple body, and quite as stupid as her hopeful son appeared to be. Hearing that our master was a sharp fellow, and somewhat noted as a good manager of obstreperous boys, she brought him to our school as a last resource, and having introduced him to the master, went her way.

“It was near the end of play-hour when she brought him, so he was turned out into the playground, and stood there looking like a mongrel cur turned unexpectedly into a kennel of pointers.

“‘Well, Doddle,’ said one of the sixth-form boys, going up to him and addressing him for the first time by the name which stuck to him ever after, ‘where did you grow; and who cut you down and tossed you in here?’

“‘Eh?’ said Doddle, looking sheepish.

“‘What’s your name, man, and where did you come from, and how old are you, and how far can you jump without a race? and in fact I want to know all about you.’

“‘My name’s Tommy Thompson,’ replied the boy, ‘and I—’

“At that moment the bell rang, and the remainder of his sentence was drowned in the rush of the rest of us to the classroom.

“When all was quiet the master called Doddle up, and said, ‘Well, Thompson, my boy, your mother tells me you have learned a little grammar and a little arithmetic. I hope that we shall instil into you a good deal of those branches of learning, and of many others besides, ere long. Let me hear what you can do.’

“‘I can play hockey and dumps,’ began Doddle, in a sing-song tone, and with the most uncommonly innocent expression of visage; ‘an’ I can—’

“‘Stay, boy,’ interrupted the master, smiling; ‘I do not want to know what you can play at. Keep silence until I put a few questions to you. What is English grammar?’

“‘Eh?’

“‘Don’t say “Eh!” When you fail to understand me, say “Sir?” interrogatively. What is English grammar?’

“‘It’s a book.’

“The master looked over the top of his spectacles at Doddle in surprise.

“‘English grammar,’ said he, slowly, and with a slight touch of sternness, ‘is indeed contained in a book; but I wish to know what it teaches.’

“‘Eh?—a—I mean sir interrogatively.’

“‘What does English grammar teach, boy?’ cried the master angrily.

“Doddle laid hold of his chin with his right hand, and looked down at the floor with an air of profound thought, saying slowly, in an undertone to himself, ‘What—does—English—grammar—teach—teach—grammar—teach? It—teaches—a—I don’t know what it teaches. Perhaps you can tell me, sir?’

“He looked up, and uttered the last sentence with such an air of blank humility that we all had to cram our pocket handkerchiefs into our mouths to prevent a universal explosion. The master looked over his spectacles again at Doddle with an expression of unutterable amazement. We looked on with breathless interest, not unmingled with awe, for we expected some awful outbreak on the part of the master, who seemed quite unable to make up his mind what to do or say, but continued to stare for nearly a minute at the boy, who replied to the stare with a humble, idiotic smile.

“Suddenly the master said sharply, ‘How much are seven times nine?’

“‘Five hundred and forty-two and a half,’ answered Doddle, without a moment’s hesitation.

“The master did not look surprised this time, but he took Doddle by the shoulder, and drawing him towards his chair, looked earnestly into his face. Then he said quietly, ‘That will do, Thompson; go to your seat.’

“This was all that occurred at that time. During a whole week the master tried by every means to get Doddle to learn something; but Doddle could learn nothing. Yet he seemed to try. He pored over his book, and muttered with his lips, and sometimes looked anxiously up at the ceiling, with an expression of agony on his face that seemed to indicate a tremendous mental effort. Every species of inducement was tried, and occasionally punishment was resorted to. He was kept in at play-hours, and put in a corner during school-hours; and once, the master having lost patience with him, he was flogged. But it was all one to Doddle. All the methods tried proved utterly unavailing. He could not be got to acquire a single lesson, and often gave such remarkable answers that we all believed him to be mad.

“On the Monday forenoon of his second week at the school, the master called him up again for examination.

“‘Now, Thompson,’ he began, ‘you have been a long time over that lesson; let us see how much of it you have learned. What is etymology?’

“‘Etymology,’ answered Doddle, ‘is—is—an irregular pronoun.’

“‘Boy!’ cried the master sternly.

“‘Please, sir,’ pleaded Doddle, with deprecatory air, ‘I—I suppose I was thinkin’ o’ one o’ the other mologies, not the etty one.’

“‘Ha!’ ejaculated the master; ‘well, tell me, how many parts of speech are there?’

“‘Nineteen,’ answered the boy, quite confidently.

“‘Oh!’ exclaimed the master, with a good deal of sarcasm in his tone; ‘pray, name them.’

“In a very sing-song voice, and with an air of anxious simplicity, Doddle began, ‘Article, noun, adjective, pronoun, verb, adverb, preposition, conjunction, interjection, outerjection, beginning with ies in the plural—as, baby, babies; lady, ladies; hady, hadies. Please, sir, isn’t that last one a bad word?’

“‘The boy is a lunatic!’ muttered the master.

“The boys in the class were far past laughing now; we were absolutely stunned. The master seemed perplexed, for Doddle was gazing at him with a look of mild self-satisfaction.

“‘I say, Peterkin,’ whispered the boy next to me, ‘as sure as you’re alive that boy’s shamming stupid.’

“Presently the master, who had been turning over the leaves of the grammar in a way that showed he was not conscious of what he was about, looked up, and said abruptly, ‘What is a proper noun?’

“‘A well-behaved one,’ replied Doddle.

“At this the whole school tittered violently.

“‘Silence, boys,’ cried the master, in a tone that produced the desired effect so thoroughly that you might have heard a pin drop. Then laying his hand on Doddle’s shoulder, he looked him full in the face, and said solemnly, ‘Thompson, I have found you out. Go, sir, to your seat, and remain behind when the other boys go to the playground.’

“We observed that Doddle grew very red in the face as he came back to his seat, and during the rest of the hour he never once looked up.

“During the whole of the play-hour the master and he remained shut up together in the schoolroom. We never discovered what took place there between them, for neither threats nor coaxing could induce Doddle afterwards to speak on the subject; but from that day forward he was a changed boy. He not only learned his lessons, but he learned them well, and in the course of time became one of the best scholars in the school; so that although he never would admit it, we all came to the conclusion he had been shamming stupid—attempting to deceive the master into the belief that he was incurable, and thus manage to get rid of lessons and school altogether.”

“A most remarkable boy,” observed Jack when Peterkin concluded. “Certainly he beat the monkeys hollow.”

“I wonder,” said I, “what the master said or did to him that wrought such a mighty change.”

“Don’t know,” replied Peterkin; “I suppose he told him that now he had found him out, he would flay him alive if he didn’t give in, or something of that sort.”

We had now entered the dark forest that edged the plain over which we had been walking, and further conversation on this subject was stopped, and the subject itself banished utterly from our minds by the loud, startling cry of a gorilla at no great distance from us.

“Hist! that’s him,” whispered Peterkin.

Instantly throwing our rifles into a position of readiness we pushed rapidly through the underwood in the direction whence the cry had come.

Chapter Thirteen.

We get into “The Thick of it”—Great Success.

In a few minutes we came upon a female gorilla, which, all unconscious of our approach, was sitting at the foot of a vine, eating the leaves. There were four young ones beside her, engaged in the same occupation. In order to approach within shot of these, we had to creep on all fours through the brushwood with the greatest caution; for gorillas are sharp-sighted, and they have a remarkably acute sense of hearing, so that sometimes the breaking of a dry twig under one’s foot is sufficient to alarm them.

We did not venture to speak even in whispers as we advanced; but by a sign Jack told Peterkin to take the lead. Jack himself followed. Makarooroo went next, and I brought up the rear.

In all our hunting expeditions we usually maintained this arrangement, where it was necessary. Peterkin was assigned the post of honour, because he was the best shot; Jack, being next best, came second; and I came last, not because our guide was a better shot than I, but because he was apt to get excited and to act rashly, so that he required looking after. I was at all times ready to lay hold of him by the hair of his woolly head, which, as he was nearly naked, was the only part of him that one could grasp with any degree of firmness.

After creeping in this manner for some distance, we got within range. Peterkin and Jack took aim and fired together. The old gorilla and one of the young ones fell instantly, and from their not struggling it was evident that they were shot quite dead. The guide and I fired immediately after, but only the one that I fired at fell. The other two ran off as fast as they could. Sometimes they ran on all fours; and I observed that while running in this fashion the hind legs passed between the arms, or, as it were, overstepped them. Occasionally, however, they rose and ran on their hind legs, in a stooping position.

When they did this I was particularly struck with their grotesque yet strong resemblance to man, and I do not think that I could at that time have prevailed upon myself to fire at them. I should have felt like a murderer. In truth, my thoughts and sensations just then were anything but agreeable. Nevertheless I was so excited by the chase that I am quite certain no one, to look at me, could have guessed what was passing in my mind.

We ran as rapidly as was possible in such a tangled forest, but we had no chance with the young gorillas. Peterkin at last ran himself out of breath. Stopping suddenly, he said, pantingly—

“It’s—o’—no use whatever. Ho! dear me, my bellows are about exploded.”

“We’ve no chance in a race with these hairy men,” responded Jack, as he wiped the perspiration from his forehead.—“Why did you miss, Mak?”

“’Cause me no could hit, s’pose, massa.”

“Very justly and modestly said,” remarked Peterkin, with an approving nod. “’Tis a pity that men are not more generally animated with your spirit, Mak. Most people, when they do wrong or make a mistake, are too apt to try to excuse themselves.”

“Yes,” I added, with a laugh; “particularly when they blow the tails out of ostriches.”

Peterkin shook his head, and said solemnly, “Ralph, my boy, don’t take to joking. It don’t agree with your constitution. You’ll get ill if you do; and we can’t afford to have you laid up on our hands in these out-o’-the-way regions.”

“Come, now, let us back to the gorillas and secure them, lest their comrades carry them away,” said Jack, turning to retrace our steps.

I was anxious to shoot as many gorillas as possible, in order that I might study the peculiarities of, and differences existing between, the different species—if there should be such—and between various individuals of the same species in all stages of development. I had made an elaborate examination of our first gorilla, and had taken copious notes in regard to it. Being desirous of doing the same as far as possible with the female and the two young ones we had just killed, I hastened back with my companions, and we fastened them securely among the branches of a conspicuous tree, intending to send out some of our men for them on our return to camp.

After this we resumed our search for more, but wandered about for several hours without meeting with any, although we observed recently-made footprints in abundance. We went as nearly as possible in a direction parallel to our camp, so that although we walked far we did not increase our distance from it to any great extent.

Presently Makarooroo made a peculiar “cluck” with his tongue, and we all came to an abrupt stand.

“What is’t, Mak?”

The negro did not speak, but pointed eagerly in front of him, while the whites of his eyes seemed to sparkle with animation, and raised his gun to shoot.

We came up at the moment, and through an opening in the bushes saw what he was about to fire at. It was a female gorilla, with a baby gorilla in her arms. Fierce and hairy though she was, there was a certain air of tenderness about this mother, as she stroked and pawed her little one, that went straight to my heart, and caused me almost involuntarily to raise my arm and strike up the muzzle of Makarooroo’s gun, at the moment he pulled the trigger. The consequence of this act was that the ball passed close over their heads. The report of the piece was instantly followed by a roar of consternation, mingled with rage, from the mother, and a shriek of terror from the baby, which again was immediately followed by a burst of laughter from us, as we beheld the little baby clasp its arms tightly round its mother, while she scampered wildly away from us.

Mak looked at me in amazement.

“What for you be do dat, massa?”

“To prevent you from committing murder, you rascal,” said I, laughing. “Have you no feelings of natural pity or tenderness, that you could coolly aim at such a loving pair as that?”

The guide seemed a little put out by this remark, and went on reloading his gun without making reply. He had received enough of moral education at the mission stations to appreciate to some extent the feelings by which I was actuated; yet he had been so long accustomed and so early inured to harsh, unfeeling deeds, that the only idea that probably occurred to him on seeing this mother and her baby was, how near he could get to them in order to make sure of his aim.

“Ah! Ralph,” said Jack, as we resumed our march, “you’re too tender-hearted, my boy, for a hunter in Africa. There you’ve lost a chance of getting a gorilla baby, which you have been desiring so much the last few days, and which you might have stuck in a bottle of spirits, and sent home to be held up to universal admiration in Piccadilly, who knows.”

“Ay, who knows?” echoed Peterkin. “I think it more probable, however, that it would be held up to universal ridicule. Besides, you forget that we have no spirits to preserve it in, except our own, which I admit are pretty high—a good deal overproof, considering the circumstances in which we are placed, and the unheard-of trials we have to endure. I’m sure I don’t know what ever induced me to come, as a Scotch cousin of mine once said, ‘so far frae my ain fireside’ to endure trials. I do believe I’ve had more trials since I came to this outrageous land than all the criminals of the last century in England put together have had.”

“Peterkin,” said I seriously, “trials are a decided benefit and blessing to mankind—”

“Oh, of course,” interrupted Peterkin; “but then, as you have often retorted upon me that I am of the monkey kind, I think that I could get on pretty well without them.”

“My opinion is that they are good both for man and monkey,” said Jack. “Just consider, now: it must have been a terrible trial for yon gorilla-mamma to hear a bullet pass within an inch of her head, and have her sweet little darling frightened almost out of its wits. Well, but just think of the state of satisfaction and rejoicing that she must be in now at having escaped. Had it not been for that trial she would now have been in her ordinary humdrum condition. I quite agree with Ralph that trials are really a blessing to us.”

“I declare it is quite refreshing to hear that you ‘agree’ with anybody, Jack,” rejoined Peterkin, in a tone of sarcasm.—“Perhaps Mr Rover will kindly enlarge on this most interesting subject, and give us the benefit of his wisdom.—And, Mak, you lump of ebony, do you keep a sharp lookout for gorillas in the meantime.”

The guide, whose appreciation of fun was very considerable, said, “Yis, massa,” grinned from ear to ear, in doing which he displayed a double row of tremendous white teeth, and pretended to be gazing earnestly among the bushes on either side in search of game, as he followed us. The moment we began to talk, however, I observed that he came close up behind, and listened with all his ears. If eager expansion indicates anything, I may add that he listened with all his eyes too!

“I shall have much pleasure in obliging you, Peterkin,” said I, with a smile. “And in the first place—”

“O Ralph, I entreat you,” interrupted Peterkin, “do not begin with a ‘first place.’ When men begin a discourse with that, however many intermediate places they may have to roam about in and enlarge on, they never have a place of any kind to terminate in, but go skimming along with a couple of dozen ‘lastlies,’ like a stone thrown over the surface of a pond, which, after the first two or three big and promising bounds, spends itself in an endless succession of twittering ripples, and finally sinks, somehow or nohow, into oblivion.”

“Ahem! Shakespeare?” said Jack.

“Not at all,” retorted Peterkin. “If anybody gave utterance to the sentiment before, it was Shelley, and he must have been on the sea-shore at the time with a crotchet, if not a crab, inside of him.—But pray go on, Ralph.”

“Well, then, in the first place,” I repeated with emphasis, whereat Peterkin sighed, “trials, when endured in a proper spirit, improve our moral nature and strengthen our hearts; the result of which is, that we are incited to more vigorous mental, and, by consequence, physical exertion, so that our nervous system is strengthened and our muscular powers are increased.”

“Very well put, indeed,” cried Peterkin. “Now, Ralph, try to forget your ‘secondly,’ omit your ‘thirdly,’ throw your ‘fourthly’ to the winds, and let your ‘first place’ be your ‘last place,’ and I’ll give you credit for being a wise and effective speaker.”

I gave in to my volatile friend at that time, as I saw that he would not allow me to go on, and, to say truth, I thought that I had exhausted my subject. But, after all, Peterkin did not require to be incited either to good thoughts or good actions. With all his exuberant fun and jocularity, he was at bottom one of the most earnest and attached friends I ever possessed. I have lived to know that his superficial lightness of character overlaid as deeply earnest and sympathetic a spirit as ever existed.

While we were thus conversing and wandering through the forest, we again came upon the fresh tracks of a gorilla, and from their great size we conjectured them to be those of a solitary male. It is a remarkable fact that among several of the lower animals we find specimens of that unnatural class of creatures which among men are termed old bachelors! Among the gorillas these solitaires are usually very large, remarkably fierce, uncommonly ugly, desperately vindictive, and peculiarly courageous; so much so that the natives hold them in special dread. It is of these wild men of the woods that their most remarkable and incredible stories are related.

“I don’t think it’s a gorilla at all,” said Jack, stooping down to examine the footprints, which in that place were not very distinct; “I think an elephant or a rhinoceros must have passed this way.”

“No, massa, them’s not deep ’nuff for dat. Hims be a gorilla—a bery big one, too.”

“Don’t let us talk then, lest we should scare it,” whispered Peterkin. “Lead the way, Mak; and mind, when we come close enough, move your great carcass out of the way and let me to the front.”

“No, no, lad,” said Jack. “Fair play. It’s my turn now.”

“So be it, my boy. But get on.”

The tracks led us a considerable distance deeper into the wood, where the trees became so thick that only a species of twilight penetrated through them. To add to our discomfort, the light, we knew, would soon fail us altogether, as evening was drawing on apace, so we quickened our pace to a smart run.

We had not proceeded far when we were brought to a sudden standstill by one of those awfully loud and savage roars which we at once recognised as being that of a gorilla. It sounded like what we might term barking thunder, and from its intensity we were assured that our conjectures as to the creature being a solitary male gorilla were correct.

“Dat him, massas!” cried our guide quickly, at the same time cocking both barrels of his rifle. “Look hout! we no hab go after him no more. Him’s come to fight us. Most always doos dot—de big ole gorilla.”

We saw from the deeply earnest expression of the negro’s countenance that he felt himself now to be in a very serious position, which would demand all his nerve and coolness.

Again the roar was repeated with terrible loudness and ferocity, and we heard something like the beating of a huge bass drum, mingled with the cracking of branches, as though some heavy creature were forcing its way through the underwood towards us.

We were all much impressed with this beating sound, and, as is often the case when men are startled by sounds which they cannot account for, we were more filled with the dread of this incomprehensible sound than of the gorilla which we knew was approaching us. We might, indeed, have asked an explanation from Makarooroo, but we were all too much excited and anxious just then to speak.

We drew together in a group.

Jack, who stood a little in front of us, having claimed the first shot, was whispering something about its being a pity there was so little light, when his voice was drowned by a repetition of the roar, so appalling that we each started, feeling as though it had been uttered close to our ears. Next instant the bushes in front of us were torn aside, and the most horrible monster I ever saw, or hope to set eyes on, stood before us.

He was evidently one of the largest-sized gorillas. In the gloom of the forest he appeared to us to be above six feet high. His jet-black visage was working with an expression of rage that was fearfully satanic. His eyes glared horribly. The tuft of hair on the top of his head rose and fell with the working of his low wrinkled forehead in a manner that peculiarly enhanced the ferocity of his expression. His great hairy body seemed much too large for his misshapen legs, and his enormous arms much too long for the body. It was with the fists at the ends of those muscular arms that he beat upon his bulky chest, and produced the unaccountable sounds above referred to. As he stood there uttering roar upon roar—apparently with the view of screwing up his courage to attack us—displaying his great canine teeth, and advancing slowly, step by step, I felt a mingling of powerful emotions such as I had never felt before in all my life, and such as cannot by any possibility be adequately described.

I felt quite self-possessed, however, and stood beside my comrades with my rifle ready and my finger on the trigger.

“Now!” whispered Peterkin. But Jack did not move.

“Now!” said he again, more anxiously, as the immense brute advanced, beating its chest and roaring, to within eight yards of us. Still Jack did not move, and I observed that it was as much as Peterkin could do to restrain himself.

As it took the next step, and appeared about to spring, Jack pulled the trigger. The cap alone exploded! Like a flash of light the other trigger was pulled; it also failed! some moisture must have got into the nipples in loading. Almost as quick as thought Jack hurled his piece at the brute with a force that seemed to me irresistible. The butt struck it full in the chest, but the rifle was instantly caught in its iron gripe. At that moment Peterkin fired, and the gorilla dropped like a stone, uttering a heavy groan as it fell prone with its face to the earth—not, however, before it had broken Jack’s rifle across, and twisted the barrel as if it had been merely a piece of wire!

“That was a narrow escape, Jack,” said I seriously, after we had recovered from the state of agitation into which this scene had thrown us.

“Indeed it was; and thanks to Peterkin’s ever-ready rifle that it was an escape at all. What a monstrous brute!”

“Much bigger than the first one,” said Peterkin.—“Where is your measure, Ralph? Out with it.”

I pulled out my measure, and applying it to the prostrate carcass, found that the gorilla we had now shot was five feet eight inches in height, and proportionately large round the chest. It seemed to be a mass of sinews and hard muscles, and as I gazed at its massive limbs I could well imagine that it had strength sufficient to perform many, at least, if not all of the wonderful feats ascribed to it by the natives.

Shortly after the death of the gorilla, night settled down upon the scene, so we hurried back towards our camp, where we arrived much exhausted, yet greatly elated, by our successful day’s sport.

I spent a great part of that night making entries in my note-book, by the light of our camp-fires, while my companions slept. And, truly, I enjoyed such quiet hours after days of so great mental and physical excitement. I observed, also, that the negroes enjoyed those seasons exceedingly. They sat round the blaze, talking and laughing, and recounting, I have no doubt, their feats of daring by flood and field; then, when they began to grow sleepy, they sat there swaying to and fro, making an occasional remark, until they became too sleepy even for that, when they began to nod and wink and start, and almost fell into the fire, so unwilling did they seem to tear themselves away from it, even for the distance of the few feet they required to draw back in order to enable them to lie down. At last nature could hold out no longer, and one by one they dropped back in their places.

I, too, began to nod at last, and to make entries in my note-book which were too disjointed at last to be comprehensible; so I finally resigned myself to repose, and to dream, as a matter of course.

Chapter Fourteen.

Our Plans are Suddenly Altered—Wicked Designs Discovered.

For several weeks after this we wandered about in the woods searching for gorillas. We were very successful, and shot so many that I had the satisfaction of making elaborate notes of specimens of nearly all ages and kinds.

But an event was looming in the future which we little thought of, and which ultimately compelled us to abandon the gorilla country and retrace our steps towards the southern part of the continent.

One day we set out, as was our wont, to hunt for gorillas, accompanied only by our faithful follower Makarooroo. It chanced to be a lovely day, and the country through which we were passing was exceedingly beautiful, so that we found more pleasure at that time in conversing together on the beauties of nature and on the wonderful works of nature’s God than in contemplating our chances of falling in with game.

“It’s a splendid country,” said Jack, as we walked along under the shade of some magnificent ebony trees. “I wish that it were inhabited by a Christian people. Perhaps this may be the case one of these days, but I don’t think we shall live to see it.”

“There’s no saying, Jack,” observed Peterkin. “Does not the Bible speak of a ‘nation being born in a day?’ Of course that must be figurative language; nevertheless it must mean something, and I incline to think that it means that there shall be a time when men shall flock rapidly, and in unusually great numbers, to the Saviour.”

“It may be so,” observed I, “but I have made up my mind on this point, that Christian people are not sufficiently awake to the terrible condition of the natives of countries such as this, or to the fact that they have much in their power to do for the amelioration of both their temporal and spiritual welfare. I, for one, will, if spared to return home, contribute more largely than I have been wont to do to the cause of missions.”

“Talking of that,” said Peterkin, “do you think it right to support the missions of other churches besides your own?”

“Do I think it right?” I exclaimed in surprise. “Of course I do. I think it one of the greatest evils that can befall a Christian, that he should become so narrow-minded as to give only to his own church, and think only of his own church’s missions. Why, surely a soul saved, if a matter of rejoicing in heaven, ought to be a matter of joy on earth, without reference to the particular church which was the instrument used by the Holy Spirit for that end. I feel very strongly that all Christians who love our Saviour with deep sincerity must of necessity have a warm feeling towards His people in all churches. At any rate we ought to cultivate such a feeling.”

“Who can these be?” cried Jack, stopping and pointing to some figures that appeared to be approaching us in the distance.

“They are negroes, at any rate,” said I; “for they seem to be black, and are evidently naked.”

“Warriors, too, if I mistake not. They have not yet observed us. Shall we hide and let them pass?”

Jack hesitated a moment, then leaping behind a bush, cried—

“Ay, ’tis well to be cautious when nothing is to be gained by daring. These fellows outnumber us, and war-parties are not to be trusted—at least not if these of Africa resemble those of North America.”

“Hollo! there’s a white man with them,” cried Peterkin, as he peeped over the bushes behind which we were hid.

“You don’t say so, eh? So there is. Come; we have nothing to fear from the party of a traveller.—What, Mak, you shake your head! What mean you?”

Makarooroo increased the shaking of his head, and said, “Me no know dat, massa. P’raps hab more to fear dan you tink.”

“Oh, stuff! come along. Why, Mak, it seems as if gorilla-hunting had failed to improve your courage.”

As Jack said this he stepped out from among the bushes and advanced to meet the strangers. Of course we all followed, and although we carried our rifles in a careless manner, as if we expected no evil, yet we held ourselves in readiness to take instant action if necessary.

The moment the negroes perceived us, they set up a great shout and brandished their spears and guns, but the voice of their leader was instantly heard commanding them to halt. They obeyed at once, and the European stranger advanced alone to meet us. As he drew near we observed that he was a splendid-looking man, nearly as large as Jack himself, with a handsome figure and a free, off-hand gait. But on coming closer we saw that his countenance, though handsome, wore a forbidding, stern expression.

“Dat am a slabe-dealer,” whispered our guide, as the stranger came up and saluted us in French.

Jack replied in the same language; but on learning that we were Englishmen, he began to talk in our own tongue, although he evidently understood very little of it.

“Do you travel alone with the natives?” inquired Jack, after a few preliminary remarks.

“Yaas, sair, I doos,” replied the stranger, who was a Portuguese trader, according to his own account.

“You seem to carry little or no merchandise with you,” said Jack, glancing towards the party of natives, who stood at some distance looking at us and conversing together eagerly.

“I has none wis me, true, bot I has moche not ver’ far off. I bees go just now to seek for ivory, and ebony, and sl–a–— w’at you call him? barwood.”

The man corrected himself quickly, but the slip confirmed Makarooroo’s remark and our own suspicions that he was a slave-dealer.

“De day is far gone,” he continued, putting as amiable a smile on his countenance as possible; “perhaps you vill stop and we have dine togedder.”

Although we did not much like the appearance of our new friend or his party, we felt that it would be uncourteous in so wild a country, where we had so few chances of meeting with white faces, to refuse, so we agreed. A camp-fire was speedily kindled, and the two parties mingled together, and sat down amicably to discuss roast monkey and venison steaks together.

During the course of the meal the Portuguese trader became so communicative and agreeable that we all began to think we had judged him harshly. We observed, too, that Makarooroo and the negroes had fraternised heartily, and our guide was singing and laughing, and making himself agreeable at a very uncommon rate, so much so as to call forth our surprise.

“Mak seems to be mad to-day,” observed Peterkin, as one of our guide’s jovial laughs rang through the wood and was echoed by his new acquaintances.

“Bees him not always so?” inquired the Portuguese.

“He’s always hearty enough,” replied Jack, “but I must confess I never saw him in such high spirits as he seems to be in just now. It must be the effect of meeting with new faces, I suppose.”

“Ah! s’pose so,” remarked the trader.

I was struck with the manner in which this was said. There was a tone of affected indifference, such as one assumes when making a passing remark, but at the same time a dark frown rested for one moment on his brow, and he cast a piercing vindictive glance at our guide. Next moment he was smiling blandly and making some humorous remark to Peterkin.

I looked at my companions, but they had evidently not observed this little piece of by-play. It seemed to me so unaccountable, considering that the two men had never met before, that I resolved to watch them. I soon observed that Makarooroo’s mirth was forced, that he was in fact acting a part, and I noticed once or twice that he also cast an occasional stealthy and piercing glance at the Portuguese. It afterwards turned out that both men had been acting the same part, and that each had suspected what the other was doing.

When our meal was concluded we prepared to resume our separate routes.

“I goes to de west,” observed the Portuguese, in a casual way, as he buckled on the belt that supported his hunting-knife.

“Indeed! I had understood you to say that you were going south.”

“No; you not have onderstand me. I goes to de west, ver’ long way.”

“Then, sir, I wish you a safe and pleasant journey,” said Jack, lifting his cap.

“De same to you, sairs, an’ goot plenty of gorillas to you. Farder nord dey be more plenty. Adieu!”

We took off our caps to each other, and saying farewell, we turned away, and soon lost sight of the party.

“Ho! de yaller-faced villain,” exclaimed Makarooroo between his clinched teeth, after we were out of earshot.

“Why, what’s wrong, Mak?” inquired Peterkin, in great surprise.

“Ho! noting porteekler,” replied the guide, with an air and tone of sarcasm that quite amused us. “Hims not go sout’, ho no! hims go west, ho yis! Hims advise us to go nort’, ho dear! dat bery clibber, bery mush clibber; but we is clibberer, we is, ho! ho! ho!”

Our worthy guide looked so terribly fierce as he uttered this fiendish laugh, that we all came to a stand and gazed at him in surprise; we fancied that something must have deranged his mind.

“Mak,” said Peterkin, “you are mad. What mean you by such grimaces?”

Pursing his lips tightly, and looking at each of us for a few moments in silence, he finally crossed his arms on his chest, and turning eagerly to Jack, said with extreme volubility—

“Dat rascal! dat tief! Him’s no trader, him’s slabe-dealer; hims no go west, hims go south; an’ w’at for hims go? W’at for hims carry guns so many, eh? Hims go,” (here the guide dropped his voice into a whisper of intense bitterness)—“hims go for attack village an’ take all peepils away for be slabes. No pay for ’em—tief!—take dem by force.”

“Why, how did you come to know all this,” said Jack, “or rather to suspect it? for you cannot be sure that you are right.”

“W’at, no can be sure me right? ho, yis, me sartin sure. Me bery clibber. Stop, now. Did him—dat tief!—speak bery mush?”

“Certainly he did, a good deal.”

“Yis, ho! An’ did him make you speak bery mush?”

“I rather think he did,” replied Peterkin, laughing at our guide’s eagerness.

“Yis, ho! hims did. An’ did him ax you plenty question, all ’bout where you go, an’ where you come from, an’ de way back to village where we be come from? An’ did hims say, when him find you was come from sout, dat hims was go west, though before dat hims hab say dat hims be go sout, eh?”

“Certainly,” said Jack, with a thoughtful look, “he did say all that, and a great deal more to that effect.”

“Yis, ho! hims did. Me know bery well. Me see him. An’ me also dood to de niggers what hims do to you. Me talk an’ laugh an’ sing, den me ax dem questions. But dey bery wise; dey no speak mush, but dey manage to speak ’nuff for me. Yis, me bam—bam—eh?”

“Boozle,” suggested Peterkin.

“Vis, bamboozle dem altogidder, ho! ho!”

After a little further explanation we found that this Portuguese trader was a man-stealer, on his way to one of the smaller villages, with the intention of attacking it. Makarooroo ascertained that they meant to proceed direct to that of King Jambai, first, however, getting one of the neighbouring tribes to pick a quarrel with that monarch and go to war with him; and we now recollected, with deep regret, that in our ignorance of what the Portuguese was, we had given him a great deal of information regarding the village of our late hospitable entertainer which might prove very useful to him, and very hurtful to poor King Jambai, in the event of such a raid being carried out.

But, in addition to this, Makarooroo had ascertained that it was possible that, before going to King Jambai’s village, they might perhaps make a descent on that of our friend Mbango, with whom we had left poor Okandaga. It was this that raised the wrath of our guide to such a pitch.

The instant we heard it Jack said—

“Then that settles the question of our future proceedings. We must bid adieu to the gorillas at once, and dog the steps of this marauding party, so as to prevent our good friends Mbango and Jambai being surprised and carried into slavery along with all their people. It seems to me that our path is clear in this matter. Even if we were not bound in honour to succour those who have treated us hospitably, we ought to do our best to undo the evil we have done in telling their enemies so much about them. Besides, we must save Okandaga, whatever happens. What say you, comrades?”

“Of course we must,” said Peterkin. I also heartily concurred.

“You’s a good man,” said Makarooroo, his eyes glistening with emotion.

“If I did not stand by you at such a time as this,” replied Jack, smiling, “I should certainly be a very bad man.”

“But what are we to do about our goods?” inquired I, “We cannot hope to keep up with these robbers if we carry our goods with us; and yet it seems hard to leave them behind, for we should fare ill, I fear, in this country if we travel as beggars.”

“We shall easily manage as to that,” replied Jack. “I have observed that one of our niggers is a sensible, and, I am disposed to think, a trustworthy fellow—”

“D’you mean the man with the blind eye and the thumping big nose?” inquired Peterkin.

“The same. Well, I shall put him in charge, and tell him to follow us to Mbango’s village; then we four shall start off light, and hunt our way south, travelling as fast as we can, and carrying as many strings of beads, by way of small change, as we can stuff into our pockets and fasten about our persons.”

“The very thing,” cried Peterkin. “So let’s put it in practice at once.”

“Ay, this very night,” said Jack, as we hurried back to the spot where our goods had been left.

As we went along in silence I noticed that Peterkin sighed once or twice very heavily, and I asked him if he was quite well.

“Well? Ay, well enough in body, Ralph, but ill at ease in mind. How can it be otherwise when we are thus suddenly and unexpectedly about to take leave of our dear friends the gorillas? I declare my heart is fit to break.”

“I sympathise with you, Peterkin,” said I, “for I have not yet made nearly as many notes in regard to these monster-monkeys as I could have wished. However, I am thankful for what I have got, and perhaps we may come back here again one of these days.”

“What bloodthirsty fellows!” cried Jack, laughing. “If you talk so, I fear that Mak and I shall have to cut your acquaintance; for, you see, he and I have got a little feeling left.”

“Well, it’s natural, I fancy,” observed Peterkin, “that gorillas should feel for their kindred. However, I console myself with the thought that the country farther south is much better filled with other game, although the great puggy is not there. And then we shall come among lions again, which we can never find, I believe, in the gorilla country. I wonder if the gorilla has really driven them out of this part of Africa.”

“Some think it probable,” observed I, “but we cannot make sure of that point.”

“Well, we can at all events make sure of this point,” cried Peterkin, as we came in sight of our encampment, “that lions are thick enough in the country whither we are bound; so let’s have a good supper, and hurrah for the south! It’s a bright prospect before us. A fair lady to be saved; possibly a fight with the niggers, and lion, elephant, rhinoceros, alligator, hippopotamus, and buffalo shooting by way of relaxation in the intervals of the war!”

Chapter Fifteen.

An unexpected meeting—We fly, and I make a narrow escape from an appalling fate.

During many days after the incidents narrated in the last chapter did Jack, and Peterkin, and Makarooroo, and I, push across the continent through bush and brake, over hill and dale, morass and plain, at our utmost possible speed. We did not, during the whole course of our journey, overtake the Portuguese slave-dealer; but we thought little of that, for it was not very probable that we should hit upon exactly the same route, and we entertained sanguine hopes that the energy and speed with which we kept steadily and undeviatingly on our way would enable us to reach the village of Mbango before the slave-dealer and his party.

When I look back upon that time now, and reflect calmly on the dangers we encountered and the hardships we endured, I confess that I am filled with amazement. I might easily fill several volumes such as this with anecdotes of our encounters with wild animals, and other adventures; but however interesting these might be in themselves, I must not forget that some of the main incidents of our sojourn in Africa have yet to be related, and that there is a limit to the patience of even youthful readers.

Our power of enduring fatigue and sustained active exertion, with comparatively short intervals of nightly repose, was much greater than I could have believed to be possible. I have no doubt that anxiety to save Okandaga from the terrible fate that hung over her enabled us to bear up under fatigues which would at other times have overcome us. I know not well how it was that I kept up with my strong and agile comrades. Oftentimes I felt ready to drop down as I walked, yet somehow I never thought of falling behind, but went doggedly on, and at nights found myself little worse in condition than they. Peterkin, although small, was tough and springy, and his spirits seemed rather to rise than otherwise as his strength abated. As for Jack, I never saw any one like him. He seemed like a lion roaming in his strength over his native deserts. So hardened had we all become during the course of our travels that we found ourselves not only equal to Makarooroo in pedestrian powers, but superior; for when occasion required we could almost knock him up, but I am free to admit that we never succeeded in doing this thoroughly. In short, we were all as nearly as possible equal to each other, with the exception of Jack, who seemed in every way invulnerable.

During this long and hurried but intensely interesting and delightful journey we came upon, at different times, almost every species of animal, plant, and tree peculiar to the African continent. Oftentimes we passed by droves and herds of elephants, deer, buffalo, giraffes, antelopes, and zebras; we saw rhinoceroses, alligators, leopards, lions, apes of several kinds, and smaller monkeys innumerable. We also saw great numbers of birds—some curious on account of their habits and form, others beautiful and bright as the rainbow.

Yet although, as I have said, this journey was very delightful, our feelings were at different times exceedingly varied, and not unfrequently pained; for while we saw around us much that was beautiful, innocent, and lovely, we also witnessed the conflicts of many wild creatures, and sometimes came across evidences of the savage and cruel dispositions of the human beings by whom the country was peopled. We always, however, carefully avoided native villages, being anxious not to be interrupted on our forced march. Neither did we turn aside to hunt, although we were much tempted so to do, but contented ourselves with killing such animals as we required for our daily subsistence; and of these we shot as many as we required without having to turn aside from our straight course.

Thus we went on day after day, and slept under the shade of the trees or under the wide canopy of heaven night after night, until we arrived one day at a beautiful valley, bordered by a plain, and traversed by a river, where Peterkin met with a sad accident, and our onward progress was for a short period arrested.

It happened thus:— The region through which we chanced to be passing was peopled by so many natives that we had the utmost difficulty in avoiding them, and more than once were compelled to halt during the daytime in some sequestered dell, and resume our journey during the night.

One day—it was, if I remember rightly, about two o’clock in the afternoon—we came suddenly in sight of a native village on the banks of the river whose course we were at that time following, and made a wide détour in order to avoid it. We had passed it several miles, and were gradually bending into our course again, when we came unexpectedly upon a band of natives who had been out hunting and were returning to their village with the spoils of the chase on their shoulders. Both parties at once came to an abrupt halt, and we stood for several minutes looking at each other—the natives in speechless amazement, while we conversed in whispers, uncertain what to do.

We knew that if we made friendly advances we should no doubt be welcomed, but then we should certainly be compelled to go back with them to their village and spend at least a day or two with them, as we could not hope to give them a satisfactory reason for our going on at once. We also knew that to go on in spite of them would produce a quarrel, and, of course, a fight, which, as it would certainly result in bloodshed, was by all means to be avoided for we could not bear to think that a mere caprice of ours in visiting Africa should be the means of causing the death of a single human being, if we could prevent it.

“What is to be done?” said Peterkin, looking at Jack in despair.

“I don’t know,” replied Jack. “It’s very awkward. It will never do to go all the way back to the village with these stupid fellows, and we cannot tell them our real reason for going on; for, in the first place, they would perhaps not believe us, or, in the second place, they might offer to join us.”

“Fight,” said Makarooroo in a low tone, grinding his teeth together and clutching his rifle.

I felt deep sympathy with the poor fellow, for I knew well that in disposition he was naturally the reverse of quarrelsome, and that his present state of mind was the consequence of anxiety for the deliverance of his faithful bride.

“No, no,” replied Jack quickly; “we shall not fight.”

“Suppose we bolt!” whispered Peterkin, brightening up as the idea occurred to him—“regularly run away!”

We seized at the idea instantly. We were all of us hard of muscle and strong of wind now, and we knew that we could outstrip the savages.

“We’ll do it!” said Jack hastily. “Let us scatter, too, so as to perplex them at the outset.”

“Capital! Then here goes. I’m off,” cried Peterkin.

“Stay!” said Jack.

“Why?” demanded Peterkin.

“Because we must appoint a place of rendezvous if we would hope to meet again.”

“True; I forgot that.”

“D’you all see yonder blue mountain-peak?”

“Let us meet there. If we miss each other at the base, let us proceed to the summit and wait. Away!”

As Jack uttered the last word we all turned right about and fled like the wind. The savages instantly set up a hideous yell, and darted after us; but we made for the thick woods, and scattering in all directions, as had been previously arranged, speedily threw them off the scent, and finally made our escape.

For the first time since landing on the continent of Africa, I now found myself totally alone in the wild forest. After separating from my companions, I ran at my utmost speed in the direction of a dense jungle, where I purposed taking shelter until the natives should pass by, and then come out and pursue my way leisurely. But I was prevented from adopting this course in consequence of two very fleet negroes discovering my intention, and, by taking a short cut, frustrating it. I was compelled, therefore, to keep in the more open part of the forest, and trust simply to speed and endurance for escape.

I should think that I ran nearly two miles at full speed, and kept well ahead of my pursuers. Indeed, I had distanced them considerably; but feeling that I could not hold out long at such a killing pace, I pulled up a little, and allowed them to gain on me slightly. I was just about to resume my full speed, and, if possible, throw them at once far behind, when my foot was caught by a thorny shrub, and I fell headlong to the ground. I was completely stunned for a moment or two, and lay quite motionless. But my consciousness suddenly returned, accompanied by a feeling of imminent danger, which caused me to spring up and renew my headlong career. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw that the two natives had gained so much on me that had I lain a few seconds longer I must inevitably have been captured.

I exerted myself now beyond my powers. My head, too, from the shock I had received, became confused, and I scarce knew whither I was going. Presently a loud, dull roar, as if of distant thunder, struck upon my ear, and I beheld what appeared to me to be a vast white plain covered with mist before. Next moment I found myself on the brink of a precipice of a hundred feet deep, over which, a little to my left, a large river fell, and thundered down into a dark abyss, whence issued those clouds of spray which I had taken for a white plain in the confusion of my brain and vision.

I made a desperate effort to check myself, but it was too late. My heels broke off the earthy edge of the cliff, and I obtained just one awful glance of the horrid turmoil directly below me as I fell over with a mass of débris. I uttered an involuntary shriek of agony, and flung my arms wildly out. My hand clutched the branch of an overhanging bush. This, slight though it was, was the means, under God, of saving my life. The branch broke off, but it checked my fall, and at the same time swung me into the centre of a tree which projected out from the cliff almost horizontally. Through this tree I went crashing with fearful violence, until I was arrested by my chest striking against a stout branch. This I clutched with the tenacity of despair, and wriggling myself, as it were, along it, wound my arms and legs round it, and held on for some time with the utmost fervour of muscular energy.

My position now was beyond conception horrible. I shut my eyes and prayed earnestly for help. Presently I opened them, and in the position in which I then lay, the first thing I saw was the boiling water of the fall more than a hundred feet below me. My agony was such that large drops of perspiration broke out all over my forehead. It was many minutes before I could summon up courage to turn my head so as to look upward, for I had a vague feeling that if I were to move the branch on which I lay would break off. When I did so, I observed that the branches over my head completely screened the sky from me, so that I knew I had escaped one danger; for the natives, believing, no doubt, that I had fallen down into the river, would at once give up their hopeless pursuit. The branch on which I lay was so slender that it swayed about with every motion that I made, and the longer I remained there the more nervous did I become.

At last I bethought me that unless I made a manful effort I should certainly perish, so I looked about me until I became accustomed to the giddy position. Then I perceived that, by creeping along the branch until I gained the trunk of the tree, I could descend by means of it to the face of the precipice from which it projected, and thus gain a narrow ledge of rock that overhung the abyss. In any other circumstances I would as soon have ventured to cross the Falls of Niagara on a tight-rope; but I had no other alternative, so I crept along the branch slowly and nervously, clinging to it, at the same time, with terrible tenacity. At last I gained the trunk of the tree and breathed more freely, for it was much steadier than the branch.

The trunk projected, as I have said, almost horizontally from the precipice, so I had to draw myself carefully along it, not daring to get on my hands and knees, and finally reached the ledge above referred to. Compared with my former position, this was a place of temporary safety, for it was three feet wide, and having a good head, I had no fear of falling over. But on looking up my heart sank within me, for the bare cliff offered no foothold whatever. I do not believe that a monkey could have climbed it. To descend the precipice was equally impossible, for it was like a wall. My only hope, therefore, lay in the ledge on which I stood, and which, I observed, ran along to the right and turned round a projecting rock that hid the remainder of it from view.

Hasting along it, I found, to my inexpressible relief, that it communicated with the top of the precipice. The ascent was difficult and dangerous; but at last I succeeded in passing the most serious part, and soon gained the summit of the cliff in safety, where I immediately fell on my knees and returned thanks for my deliverance.

I had passed nearly an hour in the trying adventure which I have just related, and feeling that my companions would naturally begin soon to be anxious about me, I started for our rendezvous, which I reached in little more than an hour and a half. Here I found Jack seated alone beside a stream of water, from which he occasionally lifted a little in the hollow of his hand and drank greedily.

“Ah, Ralph, my boy!” he exclaimed joyfully as I came up, “I’m glad you’ve come. I had begun to fear that you must have been captured. Ay, drink, lad! You seem warm enough, though I scarcely think you can be much more so than I am. What a run we have had, to be sure! But, what, Ralph—your clothes are much torn, and your face and hands are scratched. Why, you must have got among thorns. Not badly hurt, I trust?”

“Oh no; nothing to speak of. I have, however, had a narrow escape. But before I speak of that, what of Peterkin?”

“I don’t know,” replied Jack, with an anxious expression; “and to say truth, I begin to feel uneasy about him, for he ought to have been here almost as soon as myself.”

“How so? Did you, then, run together?”

“Latterly we did. At first we separated, and I knew not what had become either of him or you. The fact is, I had enough to do to look out for myself, for a dozen of rascally niggers kept close upon my heels and tried my powers of running somewhat; so I took to the thick wood and made a détour, to throw them off the scent. All at once I heard a smashing of the bushes right in front of me, and before I knew what I was about, Peterkin bounced through the underwood and almost plunged into my arms. We both gave an involuntary yell of alarm.

“‘There’s two of ’em right on my heels,’ said he in a gasp, as he dashed off again. ‘Come along with me, Jack.’

“I followed as fast as I could, and we crossed an open plain together, when I looked over my shoulder, and saw that all the other fellows had given up the chase except the two mentioned by Peterkin. These kept on after us, and somehow or other we got separated again, just after re-entering the wood on the other side of the plain. Of course I ran on, expecting to see my companion every minute. Finally I came to the rendezvous, and here I found that the savages had given up all hope of overtaking me, for I could see nothing of them.”

“How long ago is that?” I inquired quickly.

“About an hour.”

“Then poor Peterkin must have been caught,” said I, in a voice of despair.

“No, that is not likely,” replied Jack; “for I climbed a high tree and saw the savages recrossing the plain alone. I think it probable he may have lost his way, and is afraid to climb trees or to fire off his gun to signal us, for fear of being heard or seen by the niggers. I have sent Mak, who came here soon after I did, to search for him.”

“It may be as you say, Jack, but we must go at once to look for him.”

“With all my heart, Ralph. I only waited until you had sufficiently rested.”

“The body cannot rest when the mind is ill at ease. Come, let us start at once. I shall tell you of my little adventure as we go along.”

We soon reached the edge of the plain where Jack had been separated from his companion, and here we proceeded to make a careful search. Being certain that the savages were now out of earshot, we began to halloo occasionally as we went along. But monkeys and parrots alone replied to us.

“This is the very spot where I last saw him,” said Jack, leading me to a palm-tree which stood a little within the outer verge of the wood; “and here are his footsteps faintly indicated on the grass.”

“Ah! then let us follow these up,” said I eagerly.

“We might, if we were North American backwoodsmen or Red Indians; but I can scarcely follow. Stay, here they enter upon a piece of soft ground, and are more distinct. Now, then, we shall get on.”

For nearly quarter of an hour we followed the footprints; then we came to dry ground again, and lost all traces of them. We wandered about perseveringly, nevertheless, and were rewarded by again discovering them about quarter of a mile farther on, leading down to the banks of the river on another part of which I had had such a narrow escape.

While we were advancing—I in front—I felt the ground beneath me suddenly begin to give way with a crackling sound. I instinctively threw up my arms and sprang back.

“Hollo, Ralph!” cried my companion, seizing me with one hand by the collar, and hauling, or rather lifting me back, as if I had been a poodle dog. “Why, you were as near as possible into a pitfall.”

“Thanks to you, Jack, that I am not actually in,” said I, putting my somewhat twisted costume to rights. “But, I say, does it not strike you that perhaps Peterkin has fallen into one of these?”

We both started and listened with breathless attention, for at that moment we heard a faint groan not far from us. It was repeated almost immediately, though so faintly that we could scarcely ascertain the direction whence it came. We advanced cautiously, however, a few paces, and discovered a hole in the ground, from which, at that very moment, the dishevelled head of poor Peterkin appeared, like Jack coming out of his box. His sudden appearance and serio-comic expression would have been at any other time sufficient to have set us off in fits of laughter; but joy at finding him, and anxiety lest he should prove to be seriously hurt, restrained us at that time effectually.

“My dear fellow!” cried Jack, hurrying forward.

“Keep back! avaunt ye. Oh dear me, Jack, my poor head!” said Peterkin with a sigh, pressing his hand to his forehead; “what an intolerable whack I have got on my miserable caput. There; don’t come nearer, else you’ll break through. Reach me your hand. That’s it; thank’ee.”

“There you are, all safe, my boy,” cried Jack, as he drew Peterkin out of the hole.—“But hollo! I say, Ralph, run down for some water; I believe the poor fellow has fainted.”

I sprang down the river-bank, and speedily returned with some water in the crown of my wide-awake. Peterkin had recovered before I came back, and a long draught quite restored him, so that in a few minutes he was able to relate how the accident had befallen him.

“You see,” said he, in a jocular tone, for it was a most unusually severe accident indeed that could drive the fun out of our little friend—“you see, after I lost sight of Jack, I took a leaf out of the hare’s book, and doubled on my course. This brought me, unhappily, to the banks of the river, where I came upon one of the pitfalls that are made by the niggers here to catch wild beasts, and in I went. I kept hold of the surface boughs, however, scrambled out again, and pushed on. But I had not gone ten yards when the ground began to crackle and sink. I made a desperate bound to clear it, but my foot caught in a branch, and down I went head foremost into the pit. And that’s the whole of my story. How long I remained there I know not. If I had known what time it was when I dived in, and you were to tell me what o’clock it is now, we might arrive at a knowledge of the time I have spent at the bottom of that hole. All that I can positively affirm is, that I went in, and within in the last ten minutes I came out!”

We laughed at this free-and-easy manner of narrating the incident, and then prepared to return to our rendezvous; but on attempting to walk, Peterkin found that he had received a greater shake than at first he had imagined. Several times during our march he became giddy, and had to be supported; and after reaching our encampment, where we found Makarooroo waiting for us, he fainted. We were therefore obliged to make up our minds to encamp where we were for a few days.

Chapter Sixteen.

An unfortunate delay, and a terrible visitor.

Only those who have been forcibly held back when filled with the deepest anxiety to go forward, can form any thing like a conception of our state of mind during the few days that succeeded that on which Peterkin met with his accident.

We felt like chained hounds when the huntsmen pass by. We knew that every hour increased the distance between us and the slave-dealer’s party, who, unless we succeeded in passing them and reaching the villages first, would infallibly succeed in their villainous design. But Peterkin was unable to proceed without great risk, as whenever he attempted to walk steadily for any distance his head became giddy, and we were compelled to halt, so that a day or two’s rest was absolutely necessary. Poor Makarooroo was nearly beside himself with impatience; but to do him justice, he endeavoured to conceal the state of his feelings when in Peterkin’s presence.

During this period of forced inaction, although of course I had nothing to do, I found it impossible to apply my mind closely to the study of any of the strange and beautiful objects by which I was surrounded. Anxiety banished from me almost entirely the love of study, as well as the power of observation. Nevertheless, one or two things that I saw were so curious that they could not but make a deep impression on my memory.

I discovered a spider of a very remarkable kind, which was such an ingenious creature as to be capable of making a door to the entrance of its house. I came upon the animal one day while taking a stroll a short distance from our camp. It was as large as a shilling, reddish in colour, and from the fierce, rapid way in which it ran about hither and thither as if in search of prey, it had an exceedingly horrible and voracious aspect. The hole of this creature is visible only when its owner is absent from home. It is quite evident either that there are no thieves among the lower animals there, or that there is nothing in the hole to steal, for when he goes out he leaves the door open behind him. When he returns he shuts the door, and the hole becomes invisible, in consequence of the door being coated with earth on the outside. Its inside is lined with a pure white silky substance, which at once attracted my attention as I passed. On trying to pick up the door, I found that it was attached by a hinge to the hole, and on being shut it fitted exactly.

Perhaps the most singular discovery I made was a tree, the stem of which had been so completely surrounded by spiders’ webs that it could not be seen, and I had to cut through the network with my knife in order to get at the tree. The lines of those webs were as thick as coarse threads, and pretty strong, as I had reason to know; for when walking back to camp the same evening, meditating deeply on our unfortunate detention, I ran my head into the middle of a spider’s web, and was completely enveloped in it, so much so that it was with considerable difficulty I succeeded in clearing it away. I was as regularly netted as if a gauze veil had been thrown over me.

On our third morning after the accident we set forth again, and continued our journey by forced marches as Peterkin could bear it. Although the two past days and nights had been absolutely lost, and could not now be recalled, yet the moment we set out and left our camp behind us, the load of anxiety was at once lifted off our minds, and we hurried forward with an elasticity of step and spirit that was quite delightful. We felt like prisoners set free, and kept up a continual flow of conversation, sometimes in reference to the scenery and objects around us, at other times in regard to our future plans or our past experiences.

“It seems to me,” said Jack, breaking silence at the end of a long pause which had succeeded an animated discussion as to whether it were better to spend one’s life in the civilised world or among the wilds of Africa, in which discussion Peterkin, who advocated the wild life, was utterly, though not admittedly, beaten—“it seems to me that, notwithstanding the short time we stayed in the gorilla country, we have been pretty successful. Haven’t we bagged thirty-three altogether?”

“Thirty-six, if you count the babies in arms,” responded Peterkin.

“Of course we are entitled to count these.”

“I think you are both out in your reckoning,” said I, drawing out my note-book; “the last baby that I shot was our thirty-seventh.”

“What!” cried Peterkin, “the one with the desperately black face and the horrible squint, that nearly tore all the hair out of Jack’s head before he managed to strangle him? That wasn’t a baby; it was a big boy, and I have no doubt a big rascal besides.”

“That may be so,” I rejoined; “but whatever he was, I have him down as number thirty-seven in my list.”

“Pity we didn’t make up the forty,” observed Jack.

“Ah! yes indeed,” said Peterkin. “But let me see: could we not manage to make it up to that yet?”

“Impossible,” said I. “We are far away from the gorilla land now, I know; for, in addition to the fact that we have seen no traces of gorillas for a long time, we have, within the last few days, seen several lions, which, you are well aware, do not exist in the gorilla country.”

“True; but you mistake me,” rejoined Peterkin. “I do not mean to make up the number to forty by killing three more, but by proving, almost to demonstration, that we have already been the death of that number, in addition to those noted down.”

“You’ll find that rather difficult,” said Jack, laughing.

“Not at all,” cried Peterkin. “Let me think a minute. You remember that enormously big, hairy fellow, that looked so like an ugly old man that Ralph refused point-blank to fire at him, whereupon you fired at him point-blank and wounded him in the shoulder as he was running away?”

“We treated several big fellows in that way,” replied Jack; “which of them do you allude to?—the one that roared so loud and terrified you so much that you nearly ran away?”

“No, no; you know well enough which one I mean. The one that ran along the edge of the stagnant pool into which you tumbled as we were coming back.”

“Oh yes! I remember,” said Jack, laughing.

“Well, that fellow flew into such a horrible rage when he was wounded,” continued Peterkin, “that I am perfectly certain he went straight home and murdered his wife in a passion; which brings up the number to thirty-eight. Then there was that old woman-gorilla that I brought down when we were descending yon hill that was covered with such splendid vines. You remember? Well, I’m quite certain that the young man-gorilla beside her, who ran off and escaped, was her son, and that he went home straightway and died of grief. That makes thirty-nine. Then—”

“Oh, do be quiet, Peterkin, please,” said I, with a shudder. “You put things in such a fearfully dark and murderous light that I feel quite as if I were a murderer. I feel quite uneasy, I assure you; and if it were not that we have killed all these creatures in the cause of science, I should be perfectly miserable.”

“In the cause of science!” repeated Peterkin; “humph! I suspect that a good deal of wickedness is perpetrated under the wing of science.”

“Come, come,” said Jack; “don’t you begin to grow sarcastic, Master Peterkin. I abominate sarcasm, and cannot tolerate sarcastic people. If you adopt that style, I shall revert to my natural habits as a gorilla, and tear you in pieces.”

“There you exhibit your unnatural ignorance of your own natural habits,” retorted Peterkin; “for you ought to know that gorillas never tear men in pieces—their usual mode being to knock you down with a blow of their huge paws.”

“Well, I will knock you down if you prefer it.”

“Thank you; I’d rather not. Besides, you have almost knocked me up already; so pray call a halt and let me rest a bit.”

We were all very willing to agree to this request, having walked the last two or three miles at a very quick pace. Seating ourselves on the trunk of a fallen tree, we enjoyed the beautiful prospect before us. An open vista enabled us to see beyond the wood in which we were travelling into an extensive sweep of prairie-land on which the sinking sun was shedding a rich flood of light. It happened to be a deliciously cool evening, and the chattering of numerous parrots as well as the twittering songs of other birds—less gorgeous, perhaps, but more musical than they—refreshed our ears as the glories of the landscape did our eyes. While we were gazing dreamily before us in silent enjoyment, Jack suddenly interrupted our meditations by exclaiming—

“Hist! look yonder!”

He pointed as he spoke to a distant part of the plain on which the forest closely pressed.

“A zebra!” cried I, with delight; for besides the feeling of pleasure at seeing this splendid creature, I entertained a hope that we might shoot him and procure a steak for supper, of which at that time we stood much in need.

“I’m too tired to stalk it now,” said Peterkin, with an air of chagrin.—“Are you up to it, Jack?”

“Quite; but I fear he’s an animal that’s very difficult to stalk in such an open country.—What say you, Mak?”

“Hims no be cotched dis yer night, massa; hims too far away an’ too wide ’wake.”

“What say you to a long shot, Peterkin? Your rifle is sighted for four hundred yards, and he seems to be little more than six hundred off.”

“I’ll try,” said our friend, going down on one knee and adjusting the sight of his piece. Taking a long, steady aim, he fired, and in another instant the zebra lay dead on the plain. I need hardly add that our amazement was excessive. Even Peterkin himself could scarcely believe his eyes. Had his rifle been sighted for such a distance, the shot, although a splendid one, would not have amazed us so much, because we knew that our friend’s aim was deadly; but as he had to elevate the muzzle above the object fired at and guess the amount of elevation, the shot was indeed wonderful. It was a long time before our guide could move, but when he did recover himself he danced and shouted like a madman with delight, and then, setting off with a bound, sped across the plain like a deer.

“Come along,” cried Jack with a laugh—“let’s follow; for Mak looked so rabid when he went off that I believe he’ll eat the beast raw before we can claim our share, if we don’t look sharp.”

We all of us set off at a smart trot, and soon came to the spot where our prize lay. It was a splendid creature, and in prime condition. After examining it carefully, and descanting on the beauty of its striped skin, I sat down beside it and pulled out my note-book, while my comrades entered the forest to search for a suitable place on which to encamp, and to kindle a fire. A spot was quickly found, and I had scarcely finished making notes when they returned to carry the zebra into the encampment. We accomplished this with some difficulty, and laid it beside the fire. Then cutting four large steaks from its flanks we proceeded to sup, after which we made our arrangements for spending the night there. We little knew the startling surprise that was in store for us that night.

As the forest in that place happened to be swarming with wild animals of every kind, we deemed it prudent to set a watch as well as to keep up a blazing fire. Jack and I and the negro kept watch by turns; Peterkin, being still sufficiently an invalid to claim exemption from laborious duties, was permitted to rest undisturbed.

About midnight I aroused Jack, and having made him sit up, in order to show that he was thoroughly awake, I lay down and went to sleep.

How long I slept I cannot tell, but I was suddenly awakened by one of the most tremendous roars I ever heard. It was so chose to me that, in the confusion of my sleepy brain, it seemed to be far more terrible than that even of the gorilla. I was mistaken in this, however, and no doubt my semi-somnolent condition tended to increase its awfulness.

Springing into a sitting posture, and by an involuntary impulse reaching out my hand for my gun which lay close to me, I beheld a sight that was calculated to appal the stoutest heart. A lion of the largest size was in the very act of springing over the bushes and alighting on the zebra, which, as I have said, lay on the other side of the fire and not four yards off from us. As the light glared in the brute’s eyes, and, as it were, sparkled in gleams on its shaggy mane, which streamed out under the force of its majestic bound, it seemed to my bewildered gaze as though the animal were in the air almost above my head, and that he must inevitably alight upon myself. This, at least, is the impression left upon my mind now that I look back upon that terrific scene. But there was no time for thought. The roar was uttered, the bound was made, and the lion alighted on the carcass of the zebra almost in one and the same moment. I freely confess that my heart quailed within me. Yet that did not prevent my snatching up my gun; but before I had time to cock it the crashing report of Jack’s elephant rifle almost split the drum of my ear, and I beheld the lion drop as if it had been a stone.

It lay without motion, completely dead, and we found, on examination, that the ball had smashed in the centre of its forehead and completely penetrated its brain.

Some time elapsed before we could find words to express our feelings. Our guide, who had so completely enveloped his head and shoulders in grass when he lay down to sleep that he was the last to spring up, looked at the huge carcass of the lion with an expression of utter bewilderment.

“What a magnificent fellow! And what a splendid shot!” exclaimed Peterkin at last. “Why, Jack, I don’t believe there’s a finer lion in Africa. It’s lucky, though, that you were on the qui vive.”

“Yes,” said I; “had it not been for you we might have been all killed by this time.”

“No fear o’ dat,” chimed in our guide, as he sat down on the lion’s shoulder, and began to stroke its mane; “hims was want him’s supper off de zebra, ho! ho! Hims got him’s supper off a bullet!”

“’Tis well that he has,” observed Jack, as he reloaded his rifle. “To say truth, comrades, I scarcely deserve credit for being guardian of the camp, for I’m ashamed to say that I was sound asleep at the moment the lion roared. How I ever managed to take so quick and so good an aim is more than I can tell. Luckily my rifle was handy, and I had fallen asleep in a sitting posture. Had it been otherwise, I could scarcely have been in time to prevent the brute springing on us, had he felt so disposed.”

Here was now another subject for my note-book, so I sat down, and began a minute inspection of the noble-looking animal, while my comrades, heaping fresh logs on the fire, sat down in front of it, and for upwards of an hour, “fought their battles o’er again.”

It was a matter of deep regret to us all that we could not afford to carry away with us the skin of this lion as a memorial; but circumstanced as we then were, that was out of the question, so we contented ourselves with extracting his largest teeth and all his claws, which we still preserve in our museum as trophies of the adventure.

Chapter Seventeen.

We visit a natural menagerie, see wonderful sights, and meet with strange adventures.

We observed, on this journey, that the elephants which we met with in our farthest north point were considerably smaller than those farther to the south, yet though smaller animals, their tusks were much larger then those of the south. The weight of those tusks varied from twenty to fifty pounds, and I saw one that was actually upwards of one hundred pounds in weight—equal, in fact, to the weight of a big boy or a little man. Such tusks, however, were rare.

At nights, when we encamped near to a river or pool of water, we saw immense numbers of elephants come down to drink and enjoy themselves. They seemed, in fact, to be intoxicated with delight, if not with water; for they screamed with joy, and filling their trunks with water, spurted it over themselves and each other in copious showers. Of course, we never disturbed them on such occasions, for we came to the conclusion that it would be the height of barbarity and selfishness to spoil the pleasure of so many creatures merely for the sake of a shot.

Frequently we were wont to go after our supper to one of those ponds, when we chanced to be in the immediate neighbourhood of one, and lying concealed among the bushes, watch by the light of the moon the strange habits and proceedings of the wild creatures that came there to drink. The hours thus passed were to me the most interesting by far that I spent in Africa. There was something so romantic in the kind of scenery, in the dim mysterious light, and in the grand troops of wild creatures that came there in all the pith and fire of untamed freedom to drink. It was like visiting a natural menagerie on the most magnificent scale; for in places where water is scarce any pool that may exist is the scene of constant and ever-changing visits during the entire night.

In fact, I used to find it almost impossible to tear myself away, although I knew that repose was absolutely needful, in order to enable me to continue the journey on the succeeding day, and I am quite certain that had not Peterkin and Jack often dragged me off in a jocular way by main force, I should have remained there all night, and have fallen asleep probably in my ambush.

One night of this kind that we passed I shall never forget. It was altogether a remarkable and tremendously exciting night; and as it is a good type of the style of night entertainment to be found in that wild country, I shall describe it.

It happened on a Saturday night. We were then travelling through a rather dry district, and had gone a whole day without tasting water. As evening approached we came, to our satisfaction, to a large pond of pretty good water, into which we ran knee-deep, and filling our caps with water, drank long and repeated draughts. Then we went into a piece of jungle about a quarter of a mile distant, and made our encampment, intending to rest there during the whole of the Sabbath.

I may mention here that it was our usual custom to rest on the Sabbath days. This we did because we thought it right, and we came ere long to know that it was absolutely needful; for on this journey southward we all agreed that as life and death might depend on the speed with which we travelled, we were quite justified in continuing our journey on the Sabbath. But we found ourselves at the end of the second week so terribly knocked up that we agreed to devote the whole of the next Sabbath to repose. This we did accordingly, and found the utmost benefit from it; and we could not avoid remarking, in reference to this on the care and tenderness of our heavenly Father, who has so arranged that obedience to His command should not only bring a peculiar blessing to our souls, but, so to speak, a natural and inevitable advantage to our bodies. These reflections seemed to me to throw some light on the passage, “The sabbath was made for man, and not man for the sabbath.” But as this is not the place for theological disquisition, I shall not refer further to that subject.

Not having, then, to travel on the following day, we made up our minds to spend an hour or two in a place of concealment near the margin of this pond; and I secretly resolved that I would spend the whole night there with my note-book (for the moon, we knew, would be bright), and make a soft pillow of leaves on which I might drop and go to sleep when my eyes refused any longer to keep open.

The moon had just begun to rise when we finished our suppers and prepared to go to our post of observation. We took our rifles with us of course, for although we did not intend to shoot, having more than sufficient food already in camp, we could not tell but that at any moment those weapons might be required for the defence of our lives. Makarooroo had been too long accustomed to see wild animals to understand the pleasure we enjoyed in merely staring at them, so he was left in charge of our camp.

“Now, then,” said Peterkin, as we left the encampment, “hurrah, for the menagerie!”

“You may well call it that,” said Jack, “for there’s no lack of variety.”

“Are we to shoot?” inquired Peterkin.

“Better not, I think. We don’t require meat, and there is no use in murdering the poor things. What a splendid scene!”

We halted to enjoy the view for a few seconds. The forest out of which we had emerged bordered an extensive plain, which was dotted here and there with scattered groups of trees, which gave to the country an exceedingly rich aspect. In the midst of these the pond lay glittering in the soft moonlight like a sheet of silver. It was surrounded on three sides by low bushes and a few trees. On the side next to us it was open and fully exposed to view. The moonlight was sufficiently bright to render every object distinctly visible, yet not so bright as to destroy the pleasant feeling of mysterious solemnity that pervaded the whole scene. It was wonderfully beautiful. I felt almost as if I had reached a new world.

Continuing our walk we quickly gained the bushes that fringed the margin of the pool, which was nowhere more than thirty yards broad, and on our arrival heard the hoofs of several animals that we had scared away clattering on the ground as they retreated.

“There they go already,” cried Jack; “now let us look for a hillock of some kind on which to take up our position.”

“We shall not have to look far,” said I, “for here seems a suitable spot ready at our hand.”

“Your eyes are sharp to-night, Ralph,” observed Peterkin; “the place is splendid, so let’s to work.”

Laying down our rifles, we drew our hunting-knives, and began to cut down some of the underwood on the top of a small hillock that rose a little above the surrounding bushes, and commanded a clear view of the entire circumference of the pond. We selected this spot for the double reason that it was a good point of observation and a safe retreat, as animals coming to the pond to drink, from whatever quarter they might arrive, would never think of ascending a hillock covered with bushes, if they could pass round it.

Having cleared a space sufficiently large to hold us—leaving, however, a thin screen of shrubs in front through which we intended to peep—we strewed the ground with leaves, and lay down to watch with our loaded rifles close beside us. We felt certain of seeing a good many animals, for even during the process of preparing our unlace of retreat several arrived, and were scared away by the noise we made.

Presently we heard footsteps approaching.

“There’s something,” whispered Peterkin.

“Ay,” returned Jack. “What I like about this sort o’ thing is your uncertainty as to what may turn up. It’s like deep-sea fishing. Hist! look out.”

The steps were rapid. Sometimes they clattered over what appeared to be pebbly ground, then they became muffled as the animal crossed a grassy spot; at last it trotted out of the shade of the bushes directly opposite to us into the moonlight, and showed itself to be a beautiful little antelope of the long-horned kind, with a little fawn by its side. The two looked timidly round for a few seconds, and snuffed the air as if they feared concealed enemies, and then, trotting into the water, slaked their thirst together. I felt as great pleasure in seeing them take a long, satisfactory draught as if I had been swallowing it myself, and hoped they would continue there for some time; but they had barely finished when the rapid gallop of several animals was heard, and scared them away instantly.

The newcomers were evidently heavy brutes, for their tread was loud and quite distinct, as compared with the steps of the antelopes. A few seconds sufficed to disclose them to our expectant eyes. A large herd of giraffes trotted to the water’s edge and began to drink. It was a splendid sight to behold these graceful creatures stooping to drink, and then raising their heads haughtily to a towering height as they looked about from side to side. In the course of a couple of hours we saw elands, springboks, gnus, leopards, and an immense variety of wild creatures, some of which fawned on and played with each other, while others fought and bellowed until the woods resounded with the din.

While we were silently enjoying the sight, and I attempting to make a few entries in my note-book, our attention was attracted to a cracking of the branches close to the right side of our hillock.

“Look out!” whispered Jack; but the warning was scarcely needed, for we instinctively seized our rifles. A moment after our hearts leaped violently as we heard a crashing step that betokened the approach of some huge creature.

“Are we safe here?” I whispered to Jack.

“Safe enough if we keep still. But we shall have to cut and run if an elephant chances to get sight of us.”

I confess that at that moment I felt uneasy. The hillock on the summit of which we lay was only a place of comparative safety, because no animal was likely to ascend an elevated spot without an object in view, and as the purpose of all the nocturnal visitors to that pond was the procuring of water, we did not think it probable that any of them would approach unpleasantly near to our citadel; but if any wild beast should take a fancy to do so, there was nothing to prevent him, and the slight screen of bushes by which we were surrounded would certainly have been no obstacle in the way.

A hunter in the African wilds, however, has not much time to think. Danger is usually upon him in a moment. We had barely time to full-cock our rifles when the bushes near us were trodden down, and a huge black rhinoceros sauntered slowly up to us. So near was he that we could have sprung out from our hiding-place and have caught hold of him, had we chosen to do so.

This enormous unwieldy monster seemed to me so large that he resembled an elephant on short legs, and in the dim, mysterious moonlight I could almost fancy him to be one of those dreadful monsters of the antediluvian world of which we read so much in these days of geological research. I held my breath and glanced at my comrades. They lay perfectly motionless, with their eyes fixed on the animal, which hesitated on approaching our hillock. My blood almost stagnated in my veins. I thought that he must have observed us or smelt us, and was about to charge. He was only undecided as to which side of the hillock he should pass by on his way to the pond. Turning to the left, he went down to the water with a heavy, rolling gait, crushing the shrubs under his ponderous feet in a way that filled me with an exalted idea of his tremendous power.

I breathed freely again, and felt as if a mighty load had been lifted off me. From the suppressed sighs vented by my comrades, I judge that they also had experienced somewhat similar relief. We had not, however, had time to utter a whisper before our ears were assailed by the most tremendous noise that we had yet heard. It came from the opposite side of the pool, as if a great torrent were rushing towards us. Presently a black billow seemed to burst out of the jungle and roll down the sloping bank of the pond.

“Elephants!” exclaimed Jack.

“Impossible,” said I; “they must be buffaloes.”

At that instant they emerged into the full blaze of the moon, and showed themselves to be a herd of full-grown elephants, with a number of calves. There could not have been fewer than one hundred on the margin of the pond; but from the closeness of their ranks and their incessant movements I found it impossible to count their numbers accurately. This magnificent army began to drink and throw water about, waving their trunks and trumpeting shrilly at the same time with the utmost delight. The young ones especially seemed enjoy themselves immensely, and I observed that their mothers were very attentive to them, caressing them with their trunks and otherwise showing great fondness for their offspring.

“I say,” whispered Peterkin, “what a regiment of cavalry these fellows would make, mounted by gorillas armed with scythe-blades for swords and Highland claymores for dirks!”

“Ay, and cannon-revolvers in their pockets!” added Jack. “But, look—that hideous old rhinoceros. He has been standing there for the last two minutes like a rock, staring intently across the water at the elephants.”

“Hush!” said I. “Whisper softly. He may hear us.”

“There goes something else on our side,” whispered Peterkin, pointing to the right of our hillock. “Don’t you see it? There, against the—I do believe it’s another giraffe!”

“So it is! Keep still. His ears are sharp,” muttered Jack, examining the lock of his rifle.

“Come, come!” said I; “no shooting, Jack. You know we came to see, not to shoot.”

“Very true; but it’s not every day one gets such a close shot at a giraffe. I must procure a specimen for you, Ralph.”

Jack smiled as he said this, and raised his rifle. Peterkin at the same moment quietly raised his, saying, “If that’s your game, my boy, then here goes at the rhinoceros. Don’t hurry your aim; we’ve lots of time.”

As I waited for the reports with breathless attention, I was much struck at that moment by the singularity of the circumstances in which we were placed. On our left stood the rhinoceros, not fifteen yards off; on our right the giraffe raised his long neck above the bushes, about twenty yards distant, apparently uncertain whether it was safe to advance to the water; while in front lay the lake, reflecting the soft, clear moonlight, and beyond that the phalanx of elephants, enjoying themselves vastly. I had but two moments to take it all in at a glance, for Jack said “Now!” in a low tone, and instantly the loud report of the two rifles thundered out upon the night air.

Words cannot convey, and the reader certainly cannot conceive, any idea of the trumpeting, roaring, crashing, shrieking, and general hubbub that succeeded to the noise of our firearms. It seemed as if the wild beasts of twenty menageries had simultaneously commenced to smash the woodwork of their cages, and to dash out upon each other in mingled fury and terror; for not only was the crashing of boughs and bushes and smaller trees quite terrific, but the thunderous tread of the large animals was absolutely awful.

We were thoroughly scared, for, in addition to all this, from the midst of the horrid turmoil there came forth a royal roar close behind us that told of a lion having been secretly engaged in watching our proceedings; and we shuddered to think that, but for our firing, he might have sprung upon us as we lay there, little dreaming of his presence.

Since our last adventure with the king of beasts, Makarooroo had entertained us with many anecdotes of the daring of lions, especially of those monsters that are termed man-eaters; so that when we heard the roar above referred to, we all three sprang to our feet and faced about with the utmost alacrity. So intent were we on looking out for this dreadful foe—for we had made up our minds that it must be a man-eating lion—that we were utterly indifferent to the other animals. But they were not indifferent to us; for the wounded rhinoceros, catching sight of us as we stood with our backs towards him, charged at once up the hillock.

To utter three simultaneous yet fearfully distinct yells of terror, spring over the low parapet of bushes, and fly like the wind in three different directions, was the work of a moment. In dashing madly down the slope my foot caught in a creeping shrub, and I fell heavily to the earth.

The fall probably saved my life, for before I could rise the rhinoceros sprang completely over me in its headlong charge. So narrow was my escape that the edge of one of its ponderous feet alighted on the first joint of the little finger of my left hand, and crushed it severely. Indeed, had the ground not been very soft, it must infallibly have bruised it off altogether. The moment it had passed I jumped up, and turning round, ran in the opposite direction. I had scarcely gone ten paces when a furious growl behind me, and the grappling sound as of two animals in deadly conflict, followed by a fierce howl, led me to conclude that the lion and the rhinoceros had unexpectedly met each other, and that in their brief conflict the former had come off second best.

But I gave little heed to that. My principal thought at that moment was my personal safety; so I ran on as fast as I could in the direction of our encampment, for which point, I had no doubt, my companions would also make.

I had not run far when the growl of a lion, apparently in front, caused me to stop abruptly. Uncertain of the exact position of the brute, I turned off to one side, and retreated cautiously and with as little noise as possible, yet with a feeling of anxiety lest he should spring upon me unawares. But my next step showed me that the lion was otherwise engaged. Pushing aside a few leaves that obstructed my vision, I suddenly beheld a lion in the midst of an open space, crouched as if for a spring. Instinctively I threw forward the muzzle of my rifle; but a single glance showed me that his tail, not his head, was towards me. On looking beyond, I observed the head and shoulders of Jack, who, like the lion, was also in a crouching position, staring fixedly in the face of his foe. They were both perfectly motionless, and there could not have been more than fifteen or twenty yards between them.

The true position of affairs at once flashed across me. Jack in his flight had unwittingly run almost into the jaws of the lion; and I now felt convinced that this must be a second lion, for it could not have been the one that was disturbed by the rhinoceros, as I had been running directly away from the spot where these two brutes had met. Jack had crouched at once. We had often talked, over our camp-fire, of such an event as unexpectedly meeting a lion face to face; and Peterkin, who knew a good deal about such matters, had said that in such a case a man’s only chance was to crouch and stare the lion out of countenance. We laughed at this; but he assured us positively that he had himself seen it done to tigers in India, and added that if a man turned and ran his destruction would be certain. To fire straight in the face of a lion in such a position would be excessively dangerous; for while the bullet might kill, it was more than probable it would glance off the bone of the forehead, which would be presented at an angle to the hunter. The best thing to do, he said, was to stare steadily at the creature until it began to wince, which, if not a wounded beast, it would certainly do; and then, when it turned slowly round, to slink away, take aim at its heart, and fire instantly.

The moon was shining full in Jack’s face, which wore an expression of intense ferocity I had never before witnessed, and had not believed it possible that such a look could have been called up by him. The lower part of his face, being shrouded in his black beard, was undiscernible; but his cheeks and forehead were like cold marble. His dark brows were compressed so tightly that they seemed knotted, and beneath them his eyes glittered with an intensity that seemed to me supernatural. Not a muscle moved; his gaze was fixed; and it was not difficult to fancy that he was actually, instead of apparently, petrified.

I could not, of course, observe the visage of the lion, and, to say truth, I had no curiosity on that point; for just then it occurred to me that I was directly in the line of fire, and that if my friend missed the lion there was every probability of his killing me. I was now in an agony of uncertainty. I knew not what to do. If I were to endeavour to get out of the way, I might perhaps cause Jack to glance aside, and so induce the lion to spring. If, on the other hand, I should remain where I was, I might be shot. In this dilemma it occurred to me that, as Jack was a good shot and the lion was very close, it was extremely unlikely that I should be hit; so I resolved to bide my chance, and offering up a silent prayer, awaited the issue.

It was not long of coming. The fixed gaze of a bold human eye cowed at last even the king of the woods. The lion slowly and almost imperceptibly rose, and sidled gently round, with the intention, doubtless, of bounding into the jungle. I saw that if it did so it would pass very close to me so I cocked both barrels and held my piece in readiness.

The click of my locks attracted the lion’s attention; its head turned slightly round. At that instant Jack’s rifle sprang to his shoulder, and the loud crack of its report was mingled with and drowned by the roar of the lion, as he sprang with a terrible bound, not past me, but straight towards me. I had no time to aim, but throwing the gun quickly to my shoulder, drew both triggers at once.

I had forgotten, in my perturbation, that I carried Peterkin’s heavy elephant rifle, charged with an immense quantity of powder and a couple of six-ounce balls. My shoulder was almost dislocated by the recoil, and I was fairly knocked head over heels. A confused sound of yells and roars filled my ear for a moment. I struggled to collect my faculties.

“Hollo! Jack!—Ralph! where are you?” shouted a voice that I well knew to be that of Peterkin. “Hurrah I’m coming. Don’t give in! I’ve killed him! The rhinoceros is dead as a door-nail! Where have you—”

I heard no more, having swooned away.

Chapter Eighteen.

Strange and terrible discoveries—Jack is made commander-in-chief of an army.

When my consciousness returned, I found myself lying on my back beside our camp-fire, with my head resting on Peterkin’s knee; and the first sound I heard was his pleasant voice, as he said—

“All right, Jack; he’s coming round. I’m quite certain that no serious damage is done. I know well what sort o’ rap he must have got. It’ll bother him a little at first, but it won’t last long.”

Comforted not a little by this assurance, I opened my eyes and looked up.

“What has happened?” I inquired faintly.

“Ah! that’s right, Ralph. I’m glad to hear your voice again. D’you know, I thought at first it was all over with you?”

“Over with him!” echoed Peterkin; “it’s only begun with him. Ralph’s days of valorous deeds are but commencing.—Here, my boy; put this flask to your mouth. It’s lucky I fetched it with us. Here, drink.”

“No, not until you tell me what has occurred,” said I, for I still felt confused in my brain.

“Then I won’t tell you a word until you drink,” repeated my friend, as he looked anxiously in my face and held the flask to my lips.

I sipped a mouthful, and felt much revived.

“Now,” continued Peterkin, “I’ll tell you what has happened. We’ve floored a rhinoceros and a giraffe and a lion, which, to my thinking, is a pretty fair bag to make after dusk of a Saturday night! And my big rifle has floored you, which is the least satisfactory part of the night’s entertainment, but which wouldn’t have occurred had you remembered my instructions, which you never do.”

“Oh, I recollect now,” said I, as the spirits revived me. “I’m all right.—But, Jack, I trust that you have not received damage?”

“Not a scratch, I’m thankful to say; though I must confess I was near catching an ugly wound.”

“How so?” I inquired quickly, observing a peculiar smile on Jack’s face as he spoke.

“Oh, make your mind easy,” put in Peterkin; “it was just a small bit of an escape he made. When you let drive at the lion so effectively, one of the balls went in at his mouth and smashed its way out at the back of his skull. The other ball shaved his cheek, and lodged in a tree not two inches from Jack’s nose.”

“You don’t mean it!” cried I, starting up, regardless of the pain occasioned to my injured shoulder by the movement, and gazing intently in Jack’s face.

“Come, come,” said he, smiling; “you must not be so reckless, Ralph. Lie down again, sir.”

“Peterkin, you should not talk lightly of so narrow an escape,” said I reproachfully. “The fact that such a terrible catastrophe has nearly occurred ought to solemnise one.”

“Granted, my dear boy; but the fact that such a catastrophe did not occur, ought, I hold, to make us jolly. There’s no managing a fellow like you, Ralph. I knew that if I told you of this gravely, you would get into such a state of consternational self-reproachativeness, so to speak, that you would infallibly make yourself worse. And now that I tell it to you ‘lightly,’ as you call it, you take to blowing me up.”

I smiled as my friend said this, and held out my hand, which he grasped and squeezed. Feeling at the moment overcome with drowsiness, I unconsciously retained it in my grasp, and thus fell sound asleep.

Three days after this misadventure I was nearly as well as ever, and we were once more journeying by forced marches towards the south. Two days more, we calculated, would bring us to Mbango’s village. As the end of our journey approached, we grew more desperately anxious to push forward, lest we should be too late to give them timely warning of the slave-dealer’s approach. We also became more taciturn, and I could see plainly that the irrepressible forebodings that filled my own heart, were shared by my companions. Poor Makarooroo never spoke, save in reply to questions addressed pointedly to himself; and seeing the state of his mind, we forbore to trouble him with conversation.

Yet, even while in this anxious state, I could not avoid noticing the singular variety and beauty of both the animal and the vegetable kingdom in the regions through which we passed.

In one part of our journey we had to cross a portion of what is called desert country, but which, notwithstanding its name, was covered with grass, and in many places with bushes, and even trees. Its vegetation, however, as compared with other parts of the country, was light; and it was almost entirely destitute of water, there being no rivers or springs; only a few pools of rain-water were to be found in the hard beds of ancient river-courses. This desert land was inhabited by numbers of bushmen and other natives, as well as by large quantities of game of various kinds. But what struck me as being most singular was the great variety of tuberous roots with which the region was supplied, and which were evidently designed by our beneficent Creator to make up to the inhabitants in a great degree for the want of a full supply of water.

I also observed, with much interest, a species of plant which, like man, is capable of being, as it were, acclimatised. It is not by nature a tuber-bearing plant; yet here it had become so, in order to be able to retain a sufficiency of moisture during the dry season. Makarooroo also dug up for us several tuber-roots, which were the size of a large turnip, and filled with a most delicious juice, which, as we were much oppressed with thirst at the time, appeared to us like nectar. Besides these, we also procured water-melons in abundance at certain spots, which were a great treat, not only to us, but also to elephants, rhinoceroses, antelopes, and many other animals, whose footprints we found in great numbers, and whose depredations among the water-melons were very evident.

During the whole of this journey we made a point, as I have already remarked, of avoiding man; not that we were indifferent to him, but anxious not to be detained at that particular time. We were very fortunate in this matter, for we succeeded in eluding the observation of the natives of many villages that we passed, in escaping others by flight, and in conciliating those who caught us by making them liberal gifts of beads.

One day we came to a halt under the most magnificent tree I ever saw. It was a mowano tree, whose trunk consisted of six stems united in one. The circumference a yard or so from the ground was eighty-four feet—upwards of nine yards in diameter.

“What a tree for a nobleman’s park!” said Jack, as we gazed at it, lost in admiration.

“Ay; and behold a gentleman worthy to take up his residence under it,” said Peterkin, pointing as he spoke to a living creature that sat among the grass near its roots.

“What can it be?” I exclaimed.

“The original father of all frogs!” replied Peterkin, as he darted forward and killed the thing with a stick.

“I believe it is a frog,” said Jack.

We all burst into a fit of laughter, for undoubtedly it was a frog, but certainly the largest by far that any of us had ever seen. It was quite as large as a chicken!

“What a shame to have killed it!” said I. “Why did you do it?”

“Shame! It was no shame. In the first place, I killed it because I wish you to make scientific inspection of it; and in the second place, I wanted to eat it. Why should not we as well as Frenchmen eat frogs? By the way, that reminds me that we might introduce this giant species into France, and thereby make our fortunes.”

“You greedy fellow,” cried Jack, who was busying himself in lighting the fire, “your fortune is made already. How many would you have?”

“D’ye know, Jack, I have been in possession of my fortune, as you call it, so short a time that I cannot realise the fact that I have it.—Hollo! Mak, what’s wrong with you?”

Peterkin thus addressed our guide because he came into the camp at that moment with a very anxious expression of countenance.

“Dere hab bin fight go on here,” said he, showing several broken arrows, stained with blood, which he had picked up near our encampment.

“Ha! so there has, unless these have been shot at wild beasts,” said Jack, examining the weapons carefully.

“No, massa; no shot at wild beast. De wild beast hab bin here too, but dey come for to eat mans after he dead.”

“Come, let us see the spot,” said Jack.

Makarooroo at once led the way, and we all followed him to a place not a hundred yards distant, where there were evident traces of a fight having taken place. Jack seemed to be much distressed at the sight.

“There can be no question as to the fact,” he remarked as we returned to our fire; “and at any other time or in any other place I would have thought nothing of it, for we know well enough that the natives here often go to war with each other; but just at this time, and so near to our friend Mbango—I fear, I fear much that that villain has been before us.”

“No been long, massa,” said Makarooroo earnestly. “If we go quick we ketch ’im.”

“We shall go quick, Mak. But in order to do that, we must eat well, and sleep at least an hour or so. If we push on just now, after a hard day’s journey, without food or rest, we shall make but slow progress; and even if we did come up with the slave-dealer, we should not be in a very fit state for a battle.”

This was so obvious that we all felt the wisdom of Jack’s remarks; so we ate a hearty supper, and then lay down to rest. Peterkin declared the frog to be excellent, but I could not at that time make up my mind to try it.

An hour and a half after lying down, our guide awakened us, and we set forth again with recruited energies.

That night the lions and hyenas roared around us more than was their wont, as if they were aware of our anxious condition, and were desirous of increasing our discomforts. We had to keep a sharp lookout, and once or twice discharged our rifles in the direction of the nearest sounds, not in the expectation of hitting any of the animals, but for the purpose of scaring them away.

Towards morning we came out upon an open plain, and left these evil prowlers of the night behind us.

About daybreak we came within sight of Mbango’s village, but the light was not sufficient to enable us to distinguish any object clearly. Here again we came upon traces of war, in the shape of broken arrows and daggers, and human bones; for the poor wretches who had been slain had been at once devoured by wild beasts.

Hurrying forward with intense anxiety, we reached the outskirts of the village; and here a scene presented itself that was well calculated to fill our breasts with horror and with the deepest anxiety. Many of the houses had been set on fire, and were reduced to ashes. The mangled corpses of human beings were seen lying here and there amongst the embers—some partially devoured by wild beasts, others reduced to simple skeletons, and their bones left to whiten on the ruins of their old homes. In one place the form of a woman tied to a tree, and dreadfully mangled, showed that torture had been added to the other horrors of the attack.

With feelings of mingled rage, pity, and anxiety, we hastened towards the hut that had been the residence of Mbango, the chief. We found it, like the rest, in ruins, and among them discovered the remains of a child. Recollecting the little son of our friend Njamie, Okandaga’s guardian, I turned the body over in some anxiety; but the features were too much mutilated to be recognisable.

“Alas! alas!” I exclaimed, as we collected in a group round this remnant of a little child, “what a dreadful sight! What an unhappy race of beings! Without doubt our friends have been slain, or carried into captivity.”

Poor Makarooroo, who had been from the first going about among the ruins like a maniac, with a bewildered air of utter despair on his sable countenance, looked at me as if he hoped for a slight word that might reanimate hope in his bosom. But I could give him none, for I myself felt hopeless.

Not so, Jack. With that buoyancy of spirit that was peculiar to him, he suggested many ideas that consoled our guide not a little.

“You see,” said he, “the rascally Portuguese trafficker in human flesh would naturally try to effect his object with as little bloodshed as possible. He would just fight until he had conquered, not longer; and then he would try to take as many prisoners as he could, in order to carry them away into slavery. Now, I cannot conceive it possible that he could catch the whole tribe.”

“Of course not,” interrupted Peterkin; “he had a comparatively small party. To take a whole tribe prisoners with such a band were impossible.”

“Ay, but you forget,” said I, “that he might easily prevail on some other tribe to go to war along with him, and thus capture nearly the whole. Yet some must have escaped into the woods, and it is probable that among these may have been the chief and his household. Okandaga may be safe, and not far off, for all we know.”

The guide shook his head.

“At any rate,” observed Jack, “if caught they would certainly be guarded with care from injury; so that if we could only find out which way they have gone, we might pursue and attack them.”

“Four men attack forty or fifty!” said I despondingly.

“Ay, Ralph. Why not?” asked Peterkin.

“Oh, I doubt not our pluck to do it,” I replied; “but I doubt very much our chances of success.”

While we were yet speaking our attention was attracted by a low wail, and the appearance of some living object creeping amongst the ruins not far from us. At first we thought it must be a beast of prey lurking in the neighbourhood of the dead, and impatient at our having interrupted its hideous banquet; but presently the object sat up and proved to be a woman. Yet she was so covered with blood and dust, and so awfully haggard in appearance, that we could with difficulty believe her to be a human being.

At first she appeared to be in ignorance of our presence. And indeed so she actually was; for her whole soul was absorbed in the contemplation of the dead and mangled body of an infant which lay in her arms, and which she pressed ever and anon with frantic energy to her breast, uttering occasionally a wail of such heart-broken sadness that the tears sprang irresistibly into my eyes while I gazed upon her. There needed no explanation of her tale of woe. The poor mother had crept back to her hut after the fierce din of battle was over to search for her child, and she had found it; but ah, who can conceive the unutterable anguish of heart that its finding had occasioned!

“Speak to her, Mak,” said Peterkin, in a husky voice; “she will be less afraid of you, no doubt, than of us.”

Our guide advanced. The slight noise he made in doing so attracted the poor woman’s attention, and caused her to look up with a wild, quick glance. The instant she saw us she leaped up with the agility of a leopard, clasped her dead child tightly to her breast, and uttering shriek upon shriek, rushed headlong into the jungle.

“After her!” cried Jack, bounding forward in pursuit. “She’s our only chance of gaining information.”

We all felt the truth of this, and joined in the chase at top speed. But although we ran fast and well, the affrighted creature at first outstripped us. Then, as we tired her out and drew near, she doubled on her track, and dived hither and thither among the thick underwood in a way that rendered it exceedingly difficult to catch her.

Peterkin was the first to come up with her. He gradually but perseveringly ran her down. When he came within a few yards of her, the poor creature sank with a low wail to the ground, and turning half round, glanced at her pursuer with a timid, imploring, yet despairing expression. Alas! despair mingled with it, because she knew too well the terrible cruelty of savage men when their blood is up, and she knew nothing yet of the hearts of Christians.

Peterkin, whose susceptible nature was ever easily touched, felt a thrill of self-reproach as the thought suddenly occurred that, however good his intentions might be, he was in reality running a helpless woman down like a bloodhound. He stopped short instantly, and acting, as on most occasions he did, impulsively, he threw his rifle away from him, unclasped his belt, and throwing it, with his hunting-knife, also away, sat down on the ground and held out both his hands.

There was something almost ludicrous in the act, but it had the effect of, to some extent, relieving the poor woman’s fears. Seeing this, as we successively came up we all laid down our rifles, and stood before the crouching creature with our empty hands extended towards her, to show that we meant her no harm. Still, although she seemed less terrified, she trembled violently, and panted from her recent exertion, but never for a moment relaxed her hold of the dead child.

“Speak to her, Mak,” said Jack, as the guide came up. “Tell her who and what we are at once, to relieve her feelings; and let her know especially that we are the bitter enemies of the villain who has done this deed.”

While Makarooroo explained, the woman’s countenance seemed to brighten up, and in a few minutes she began to tell with great volubility the events of the attack. The trader, she said, had come suddenly on them in the dead of night with a large band, and had at once routed the warriors of the village, who were completely taken by surprise. A few had escaped; but Mbango, with Okandaga and his household, had been taken prisoners, and carried away with many others.

“How long is it since this happened?” inquired Jack.

“She say two days, massa. Den dey go off to ’tack King Jambai.”

“Ah! then it is too late to save him,” returned Jack, in a tone of sadness.

Our hearts sank on learning this; but on questioning the woman further, we found that the marauding party, deeming themselves too weak to attack so large a village as that of King Jambai, had talked of turning aside to secure the assistance of another tribe not far distant, who, they knew, would be too glad to pick a quarrel with that chief.

“Then we shall do it yet!” cried Jack, springing up energetically. “We shall be in time to warn Jambai and to save Okandaga and her friends. Come, Mak, cheer up; things begin to look better.”

The cheerful, confident voice in which our friend said this raised my hopes wonderfully, even although, on consideration, I could not see that our chances of success were very great. Our guide was visibly comforted, and we stepped aside to pick up our rifles with considerable alacrity.

During the brief period in which we were thus employed, the poor woman managed to creep away, and when we again looked round she was gone. Our first impulse was to give chase again, but the thought of the needless terror which that would occasion her deterred us, and before we could make up our minds what to do she was almost beyond our reach, and would certainly have cost us an hour of search, if not longer, to find her. Time pressed. To reach the village of King Jambai with the utmost possible speed was essential to the safety of the tribe, so we resolved to leave her, feeling as we did so that the poor creature could sustain herself on roots and berries without much difficulty or suffering until she reached the village of some neighbouring tribe.

We now pushed on again by forced marches, travelling by night and by day, shooting just enough game as we required for food, and taking no more rest than was absolutely necessary to enable us to hold on our way. In a short time we reached the village, which, to our great joy, we found in much the same state as it was when we left it.

King Jambai received us with great delight, and his people went into a state of immense rejoicing—firing guns, and shouting, and beating kettles and drums, in honour of the arrival of the “white faces;” which name was certainly a misnomer, seeing that our faces had by that time become the very reverse of white—indeed they were little lighter than the countenances of the good people by whom we were surrounded.

But the king’s consternation was very great when we told him the reason of our unexpected visit, and related to him the details of the terrible calamity that had befallen poor Mbango and his people. He appeared sincerely grateful for the effort we had made to warn him of the impending attack, and seemed unable to express his thanks when we offered to aid him in the defence of his village.

We now deemed this a fitting moment to tell the king boldly of our having assisted in the escape of Okandaga from his village, and beg his forgiveness. He granted this at once, but strongly advised us to keep our secret quiet, and leave it to him to account to his warriors for the reappearance of the runaway maiden when retaken. Of course we could make no objection to this, so after thanking him we entered upon a discussion of the best method of frustrating the slave-dealer’s designs.

“Tell the king,” said Jack, addressing himself to our guide, “that if he will make me commander-in-chief of his forces, I will show him how white warriors manage to circumvent their enemies.”

“I would like much,” said Peterkin, laughing, “to know how Mak will translate the word ‘circumvent.’ Your style is rather flowery, Jack, for such an interpreter; and upon my word, now I think of it, your presumption is considerable. How do you know that I do not wish to be commander-in-chief myself?”

“I shall make over the command to you with all my heart, if you wish it,” said Jack, smiling blandly.

“Nay, I’ll none of it. However suited I may be to the work, the work is not suited to me, so I resign in your favour.”

“Well, then,” said Jack, “since you decline to accept the chief command, I’ll make you my second. Mak shall be my aide-de-camp; you and Ralph shall be generals of divisions.”

“I thank you much, my honoured and honourable generalissimo; but perhaps before being thus liberal of your favours, it were well to ascertain that your own services are accepted.”

“That is soon done.—What says the king, Mak?”

“Hims say that him’s delighted to git you, an’ you may doos how you like.”

“That’s plain and explicit. You see, Peterkin, that I’m fairly installed; so you and I will take a short walk together, and hold a consultation as to our plans in the approaching campaign, while Ralph arranges our hut and makes things comfortable.”

“A glorious campaign, truly, to serve in an army of baboons, led by a white gorilla! I would deem it almost comical, did I not see too sure a probability of bloodshed before its conclusion,” remarked Peterkin.

“That you shall not see, if I can prevent it; and it is for the purpose of consulting you on that point, and claiming your services in an old and appropriate character, that I drag you along with me now,” said Jack, as he rose, and, making a bow to the king, left the hut.

Chapter Nineteen.

Preparations for War, and Peculiar Drill.

The plan which Jack and Peterkin concocted, while I was engaged in making the interior of our old residence as comfortable as possible, was as follows:—

Scouts were, in the first place, to be sent out that night all over the country, to ascertain the whereabouts of the enemy. Then, when the enemy should be discovered, they were to send back one of their number to report; while the remainder should remain to dog their steps, if need be, in order to ascertain whether Mbango and Okandaga were in their possession, and if so, where they were kept—whether in the midst of the warriors or in their rear.

This settled, the remainder of the warriors of the village were to be collected together, and a speech to be made to them by Jack, who should explain to them that they were to be divided into two bands: all who carried guns to be under the immediate charge of Jack himself; the others, carrying bows and spears, to be placed under me. Peterkin was to act a peculiar part, which will appear in the course of narration.

Having partaken of a hearty supper, we assembled the scouts, and having, through Makarooroo, given them their instructions, sent them away just as the shades of night began to fall. We next caused a huge bonfire to be kindled, and round this all the men of the village assembled, to the extent of several hundreds. The king soon appeared, and mounting the trunk of a fallen tree, made a long speech to his warriors, telling them of the danger that threatened them, in such vivid and lively terms that the greater part of them began to exhibit expressions of considerable uneasiness on their countenances. He then told them of the trouble that we had taken, in order to give them timely warning—whereat they cast upon us looks of gratitude; and after that introduced Jack to them as their commander-in-chief, saying, that as a white man led the enemy, nothing could be better than that a white man should lead them to meet the enemy—whereat the sable warriors gave a shout of satisfaction and approval.

Having been thus introduced, Jack mounted the trunk of the fallen tree, and Makarooroo got up beside him to interpret. He began, like a wise diplomatist, by complimenting King Jambai, and spoke at some length on courage in general, and on the bravery of King Jambai’s warriors in particular; which, of course, he took for granted. Then he came to particulars, and explained as much of his intended movements as he deemed it good for them to know; and wound up by saying that he had three words of command to teach them, which they must learn to understand and act upon that very night. They were, “Forward!” “Halt!” and “Fire!” By saying the first of these words very slow and in a drawling voice, thus, “Forw-a-a-a-a-a-rd!” and the second in a quick, sharp tone, and the third in a ferocious yell that caused the whole band to start, he actually got them to understand and distinguish the difference between the commands, and to act upon them in the course of half an hour.

The drill of his army being thus completed, Jack dismissed them with a caution to hold themselves in readiness to answer promptly the first call to arms; and the king enforced the caution by quietly assuring them that the man who did not attend to this order, and otherwise respect and obey Jack as if he were the king, should have his heart, eyes, and liver torn out, and the rest of his carcass cast to the dogs—a threat which seemed to us very horrible and uncalled for, but which, nevertheless, was received by the black warriors with perfect indifference.

“Now, Mak,” said Jack, as he descended to the ground, “do you come with me, and help me to place sentries.”

“W’at be dat, massa?”

“Men who are placed to guard the village from surprise during the night,” explained Jack.

“Ho! dat be de ting; me know someting ’bout dat.”

“No doubt you do, but I daresay you don’t know the best way to place them; and perhaps you are not aware that the pretty little threat uttered by the king shall be almost carried out in the case of every man who shall be found asleep at his post or who shall desert it.”

The guide grinned and followed his commander in silence, while I returned to our hut and busied myself in cleaning the rifles and making other preparations for the expected fight.

At an early hour on the following morning we were awakened by the arrival of one of the scouts, who reported that the Portuguese trader, with a strong and well-armed force, was encamped on the margin of a small pond about fifteen miles distant from the village. The scout had gone straight to the spot on being sent out, knowing that it was a likely place for them to encamp, if they should encamp at all. And here he found them making active preparations for an attack on the village. Creeping like a serpent through the grass, the scout approached near enough to overhear their arrangements, which were to the elect that the attack should take place at midnight of the following day. He observed that there were many prisoners in the camp—men, women, and children—and these were to be left behind, in charge of a small party of armed men; while the main body, under the immediate command of the Portuguese trader, should proceed to the attack of the village.

From the scout’s description of the prisoners, we became convinced that they were none other than our friends Mbango and his people, and one woman answering to the description of Okandaga was among them.

“So, Mak, we shall save her yet,” cried Jack heartily, slapping the shoulder of the guide, whose honest visage beamed with returning hope.

“Yis, massa. S’pose we go off dis hour and fight ’em?”

“Nay; that were somewhat too hasty a movement. ‘Slow but sure’ must be our motto until night. Then we shall pounce upon our foes like a leopard on his prey. But ask the scout if that is all he has got to tell us.”

“Hims say, massa, dat hims find one leetle chile—one boy—when hims go away from de camp to come back to here.”

“A boy!” repeated Jack; “where—how?”

“In de woods, where hims was trow’d to die; so de scout take him up and bring him to here.”

“Ah, poor child!” said I; “no doubt it must have been sick, and being a burden, has been left behind. But stay. How could that be possible if it was found between the camp and this village?”

On further inquiry, we ascertained that the scout, after hearing what he thought enough of their arrangements, had travelled some distance beyond the encampment, in order to make sure that there were no other bands connected with the one he had left, and it was while thus engaged that he stumbled on the child, which seemed to be in a dying condition.

“Hims say, too,” continued Makarooroo, after interpreting the above information, “that there be one poor woman in awfable sorrow, screechin’ and hollerowin’ like one lion.”

“Eh?” exclaimed Peterkin. “Describe her to us.”

The scout did so as well as he could.

“As sure as we live,” cried Peterkin, “it is our friend Njamie, and the child must be her boy! Come, show us the little fellow.”

We all ran out and followed the scout to his hut, where we found his wives—for he had three of them—nursing the child as tenderly as if it had been their own. It was very much wasted, evidently through want of food and over-fatigue; but we instantly recognised the once sturdy little son of Njamie in the faded little being before us. He, too, recognised us, for his bright spectral eyes opened wide when he saw us.

“I knew it,” said I.

“I told you so,” cried Peterkin.—“Now, Mak, pump him, and let’s hear what he knows.”

The poor child was far too much exhausted to undergo the pumping process referred to. He could merely answer that Njamie and Okandaga and Mbango were prisoners in the camp, and then turned languidly away, as if he desired rest.

“Poor boy!” said Peterkin tenderly, as he laid his hand gently on the child’s woolly pate.—“Tell them, Mak, to look well after him here, and they shall be paid handsomely for—nay,” (here he interrupted himself), “don’t say that. ’Tis a bad thing to offer to pay for that which people are willing to do for love.”

“Right, lad,” said Jack: “we can easily make these poor folk happy by giving them something afterwards, without saying that it is bestowed because of their kindness to the boy. The proper reward of diligent successful labour is a prize, but the best reward of love and kindness is a warm, hearty recognition of their existence.—Just tell them, Mak, that we are glad to see them so good and attentive to the little chap.—And now, my generals, if it is consistent with your other engagements, I would be glad to have a little private consultation with you.”

“Ready and willing, my lord,” said Peterkin, as we followed Jack towards the king’s palace. “But,” he added seriously, “I don’t like to be a general of division at all.”

“Why not, Peterkin?”

“Why, you see, when I was at school I found division so uncommonly difficult, and suffered so much, mentally and physically, in the learning of it, that I have a species of morbid antipathy to the very name. I even intend to refuse a seat in parliament, when offered to me, because of the divisions that are constantly going on there. If you could only make me a general of subtraction now, or—”

“That,” interrupted Jack, “were easily done, by deducting you from the force altogether, and commanding you to remain at home.”

“In which case,” rejoined Peterkin, “I should have to become general of addition, by revolunteering my services, in order to prevent the whole expedition from resolving itself into General Muddle, whose name and services are well-known in all branches of military and civil service.”

“So that,” added Jack, “it all comes to this, that you and Ralph and I must carry on the war by rule of three, each taking his just and appropriate proportion of the work to be done. Now, to change the subject, there’s the sun getting up, and so is the king, if I may judge from the stir in his majesty’s household.”

Having begged the king to assemble his warriors together, Jack now proceeded to divide them into four companies, or bands, over which he appointed respective leaders. All the men who possessed guns were assembled together in one band, numbering about one hundred and fifty men. These Jack subdivided into two companies, one including a hundred, the other fifty men. The remainder, constituting the main army, were armed with bows and arrows, spears and knives. Of these a large force was told off to remain behind and guard the village.

This home-guard was placed under command of the king in person. The hundred musketeers were placed under Peterkin’s command. The other fifty were given to me, along with a hundred spear and bow men. Jack himself took command of the main body of spearmen. As Peterkin had to act a special and independent part, besides commanding his hundred musketeers, Makarooroo was made over to him, to act as lieutenant.

All these arrangements and appointments were made in a cool, quiet, and arbitrary manner by Jack, to whom the natives, including the king, looked up with a species of awe amounting almost to veneration.

“Now,” said our commander-in-chief to Lieutenant Mak, “tell the niggers I am going to make them a speech,” (this was received with a grunt of satisfaction), “and that if they wish to have the smallest chance of overcoming their enemies, they had better give their closest attention to what I have to say.”

Another grunt of acquiescence followed this announcement.

“Say that I am going to speak to them of things so mysterious that they shall not by any conceivable or possible effort understand them.”

This being quite in accordance with the superstitions and tastes of the negroes, was received with eager acclamations of delight.

“Tell them,” continued Jack, in a deep, solemn tone, and frowning darkly, “that we shall gain the victory only through obedience. Each man must keep his ears open and his eye on his leader, and must obey orders at once. If the order ‘Halt’ should be given, and any man should have his mouth open at the time, he must keep his mouth open, and shut it after he has halted.”

Here Jack took occasion to revert to the three orders, “Forward,” “Halt,” and “Fire,” and repeated the lesson several times, until his men were quite perfect. Then he put the various bodies under their respective commanders, and telling the musketeers to make believe to fire (but making sure that they should not really do it, by taking their guns from them), he made each of us give the various words separately, so that our men should become familiar with our voices.

This done, he called the generals of divisions to him, and said—

“Now, gentlemen, I am going to review my troops, and to give them their final lesson in military tactics, with the double view of seeing that they know what they have got to do, and of impressing them with a due sense of the great advantage of even a slight knowledge of drill.”

He then directed us to take command of our several companies (Makarooroo being placed on this occasion over the king’s band), and pointed out the separate directions in which we were ultimately to post our troops, so as to advance upon the spot on which the king stood when the signal should be given. We had already taught the men the necessity of attacking in a compact single line, and of forming up into this position from what is termed Indian file, with which latter they were already acquainted. Of course we could not hope to teach them the principles of wheeling in the short time at our command. To overcome this difficulty, we told each band to follow its leader, who should walk in front; to advance when he advanced, to retire when he retired, and to turn this way or that way, according to his movements.

At a signal we gave the word “Forward!” and the whole band defiled into the woods before the king, and disappeared like a vision, to the unutterable amazement of his majesty, who stood perfectly motionless, with eyes and mouth open to their fullest extent.

Having marched together for some distance, each leader detached his men and led them, as it were, to opposite directions of the compass, three of the bands making a considerable détour, in order to get the spot where the king stood in the centre of us. Then we halted and awaited the next signal. In about ten minutes it was given—a loud whistle—and we gave the word “Forward” again. I say “we,” because the result proved that we had done so. Being out of sight of the other bands, of course I could not see how they acted.

On I rushed over brake and bush and morass, my men following me in a very good line, considering the nature of the ground. I had divided them into four lines, with an interval of about six yards between each. And it was really wonderful how well they kept in that position. The other companies had been ordered to act in the same way.

On bursting out of the woods I saw that we had outstripped the other companies, so I held my men in check by running somewhat slower; and they had been so deeply impressed with the fatal consequences of not doing exactly as I did, that they stared at me with all their eyes, to the no small risk of their lives; for one or two dashed against trees, and others tumbled head over heels into holes, in their anxiety to keep their eyes upon me.

In a few seconds I observed Peterkin spring out of the woods, followed by his men, so I went on again at full speed. As we entered the village, our ranks were sadly broken and confused by the huts; but on gaining the open space where Jack stood, I was pleased to observe that the negroes tried, of their own accord, to regain their original formation, and succeeded so well that we came on in four tolerably straight and compact lines. Each commander having been forewarned to hold his men in check, or to push forward, so as to arrive at the central point at the same moment, Jack, Peterkin, Makarooroo, and I ran in upon the king together, and unitedly gave the word “Halt!” whereupon we found ourselves in the centre of a solid square.

So deeply had the men been impressed with the necessity of obedience that they had scarcely observed each other’s approach. They now stood rooted to the ground in every possible attitude of suddenly-arrested motion, and all with their eyes and mouths wide open. In another moment the result of their combined movement became evident to them, and they uttered a yell of delighted surprise.

“Very good, very good indeed,” said Jack; “and that concluding yell was very effective—quite magnificent.—But you see,” he added, turning to me, “although such a yell is sufficiently appalling to us, it will no doubt be a mere trifle to men who are used to it. What say you to teaching them a British cheer?”

“Absurd,” said I; “they will never learn to give it properly.”

“I don’t know that,” rejoined Jack, in a doubtful manner.

“Try,” said Peterkin.

“So I will.—Mak, tell them now that I’m going to continue the speech which this little review interrupted.”

“They’s all ready for more, massa.”

This was patent to the meanest capacity; for the negroes stood gazing at their commander-in-chief with eyes and mouths and ears open, and nostrils expanded, as if anxious to gulp in and swallow down his words through every organ.

“There is a cry,” said Jack, “which the white man gives when he enters into battle—a terrible cry, which is quite different from that of the black man, and which is so awful that it strikes terror into the heart of the white man’s enemies, and has even been known to make a whole army fly almost without a shot being fired. We shall let you hear it.”

Thereupon Jack and I and Peterkin gave utterance to a cheer of the most vociferous description, which evidently filled the minds of the natives with admiration.

“Now,” resumed Jack, “I wish my black warriors to try that cheer—”

Some of the black warriors, supposing that the expression of this wish was a direct invitation to them to begin, gave utterance to a terrific howl.

“Stay! stop!” cried Jack, holding up his hand.

Every mouth was closed instantly.

“You must cheer by command. I will say ‘Hip, hip, hip!’ three times; as soon as I say the third ‘hip,’ out with the cry. Now then. Hip, hip—”

“’Popotamus,” whispered Peterkin.

“Hip, hurrah!” shouted Jack.

“Hurl! ho! sh! kee! how!” yelled the savages, each man giving his own idea of our terror-inspiring British cheer.

“That will do,” said Jack quietly; “it is quite evident that the war-cry of the white man is not suited to the throat of the black. You will utter your usual shout, my friends, when the signal is given; but remember, not before that.

“And now I come to the greatest mystery of all.” (Every ear was eagerly attentive.) “The shot and bits of metal and little stones with which King Jambai’s warriors are accustomed to kill will not do on this great and peculiar occasion. They will not answer the purpose—my purpose; therefore I have provided a kind of bullet which every one must use instead of his usual shot. No warriors ever used such bullets in the fight before. They are very precious, because I have only enough of them to give one to each man. But that will do. If the enemy does not fly at the first discharge, then you may load with your own shot.”

So saying, Jack, with the utmost gravity, took from the pouch that hung at his side a handful of little balls of paper about the size of a musket bullet, which he began to distribute among the savages. We had observed Jack making several hundreds of these, the night previous to this memorable day, out of one or two newspapers we had carried along with us for wadding; but he would not at that time tell us what he was going to do with them. The negroes received this novel species of ammunition with deep interest and surprise. Never having seen printed paper before, or, in all probability, paper of any kind, they were much taken up with the mysterious characters imprinted thereon, and no doubt regarded these as the cause of the supernatural power which the bullets were supposed to possess.

“Remember,” said Jack, “when these are discharged at the enemy, I do not say that they will kill, but I do say that they will cause the enemy to fly. Only, be assured that everything depends on your obedience. And if one single stone, or nail, or hard substance is put in along with these bullets, the chief part of my plans will be frustrated.”

It was quite evident, from the expression of their sable countenances, that the idea of the bullets not killing was anything but agreeable. They were too deeply impressed, however, with Jack’s power, and too far committed in the enterprise, and generally too much overwhelmed with mingled surprise and perplexity, to offer any objection.

“Now,” said Jack in conclusion, “you may go and eat well. To-night, when it grows dark, hold yourselves in readiness to go forth in dead silence. Mind that: not a sound to be uttered until the signal, ‘Hip, hip, hip!’ is given.”

“And,” added Peterkin, in an undertone to Makarooroo, “tell them that King Jambai expects that every man will do his duty.”

This remark was received with a shout and a frightful display of white teeth, accompanied by a tremendous flourish of guns, bows, and spears.

There was something quite awful, not to say picturesque, in this displaying of teeth, which took place many times during the course of the above proceedings. You looked upon a sea of black ebony balls, each having two white dots with black centres near the top of it. Suddenly the ebony balls were gashed across, and a sort of storm, as it were, of deep red mingled with pure white swept over the dark cloud of heads before you, and vanished as quickly as it had appeared, only to reappear, however, at the next stroke of humour, or at some “touch of that nature” which is said on very high authority, to “make the whole world kin.”

The proceedings eventually closed with a brief speech from the king, who referred to Peterkin’s remark about each man doing his duty, and said that, “if each man did not do his duty—” Here his majesty paused for a minute, and wrought his countenance into horrible contortions, indicative of the most excruciating agony, and wound up with an emphatic repetition of that dire threat about the unnatural treatment of eyes, heart, liver, and carcass, which had on the previous evening sounded so awful in our ears, and had been treated with such profound indifference by those whom it was specially designed to affect.

“I didn’t know, Jack,” observed Peterkin gravely, as we returned to our hut, “that you were such an out-and-out humbug.”

“You are severe, Peterkin. I scarcely deserve to be called a humbug for acting to the best of my judgment in peculiar circumstances.”

“Peculiar circumstances!” responded Peterkin. “Truly they have received peculiar treatment!”

“That is as it should be,” rejoined Jack; “at any rate, be they peculiar or be they otherwise, our plans are settled and our mode of action fixed, so we must e’en abide the issue.”

Chapter Twenty.

A Warlike Expedition and a Victory.

It was excessively dark that night when we set forth on our expedition.

The scout from whom we had already ascertained so much about the intended movements of the enemy also told us that they meant to set out at a little before midnight and march on the village by a certain route. Indeed, it was very unlikely that they would approach by any other, as the jungle elsewhere was so thick as to render marching, especially at night, very difficult.

Jack therefore resolved to place the greater proportion of his troops in ambush at the mouth of a small gully or dell a few miles from the enemy’s camp, where they were almost certain to pass. But with a degree of caution that I thought highly creditable in so young and inexperienced a general, he sent out a considerable number of the most trustworthy men in advance, with instructions to proceed with the stealth of leopards, and to bring back instant information of any change of route on the part of the foe.

The troops placed in ambush at the dell above referred to were Peterkin’s hundred musketeers, supported by Jack’s spear and bow men. I was ordered to advance by a circuitous route on the camp itself with my fifty musketeers, followed by my small company of spearmen. My instructions were, to conceal my men as near to the camp as possible, and there await the first discharge of firearms from the dell, when I was to rise, advance upon the camp, utter a terrific shout when within fifty yards, rush forward to within twenty-five yards, halt, pour in one withering volley of blank cartridge, and charge without giving my men time to load.

Of course I could not speak to my men; but this was a matter of little consequence, as they were now well acquainted with our three words of command, “Forward,” “Halt,” and “Fire,” and fully understood that they must under all circumstances follow their leader. I knew well enough that there must be no little danger in this arrangement, because the leader would necessarily be always in front of the muzzles of the loaded guns. But there was no help for it, so I resolved to act upon my usual principle—namely, that when a thing is inevitable, the best thing to do is to treat it as being unavoidable.

Having conducted my men stealthily and successfully to the vicinity of the enemy’s camp, though with some difficulty, owing to the almost impenetrable nature of the jungle through which we had to pass in making the détour necessary to avoid falling in with the attacking force, we proceeded to advance to within as short a distance of it as possible without running the risk of being discovered. This was not difficult, for the men left to guard the camp, supposing, no doubt, that their presence in that part of the country was not suspected, had taken no precautions in the way of placing sentries; so we quickly arrived at the foot of a small mound about sixty yards or so from the encampment. At the foot of this mound I caused my men to lie down, giving them to understand, by signs, that they were on no account to move until I should return. Then I crept alone to the brow of the mound, and obtained a clear view of the camp.

The men who should have guarded it were, I found, busily employed in cooking their supper. There were, perhaps, upwards of a hundred of them. To my great satisfaction, I observed the captives sitting near to the fire; and although at so considerable a distance from them, I felt certain that I recognised the figures of Mbango and Okandaga. Hastening back to my men, I endeavoured to give them as much information as possible by means of signs, and then lay down beside them to await the signal from Jack’s party.

Although the attack of both our parties was to be simultaneous, the first shot was to be fired by our troops in the dell. I will therefore describe their part of the engagement first. Jack described it to me minutely after all was over.

On reaching the dell Jack disposed his forces so as to command the only approach to it. The hundred musketeers he placed in a double row directly across the deepest and darkest part. The spearmen he divided into two bodies, which he posted on the flanks of the musketeers among the bushes. He then showed the rear rank of the latter how to point their pieces over the shoulders of the men in the front rank at a given signal, but carefully reiterated the order not to touch a trigger until the word “Fire” should be given.

“Now, Peterkin,” said Jack, when these dispositions had been made, “it is time for you to get ready. Makarooroo and I can manage these fellows, so you have my permission to go and play your own independent part. Only let me warn you to remember your last exploit in this way, and see that you don’t do yourself a damage.”

“Thanks, noble general, for the permission,” answered Peterkin, “of which I shall avail myself. In reference to your advice, I may remark that it is exceedingly valuable—so much so, indeed, that I would advise you not to part with it until asked for.”

With that Peterkin ran into the jungle, and was soon lost to view.

On gaining a sufficient distance from the men, he took off the greater part of his clothes, and wound round his person several pieces of light-coloured cotton that he chanced to have with him, and some pieces of old newspaper. Then he decked his head with leaves and ragged branches, as he had done before in the haunted cave, making himself, in short, as wild and fantastic a looking creature as possible—the only difference between his getting-up on this and the former occasion being that he was white instead of black. For he wisely judged that a white demon must naturally appear infinitely more appalling and horrible to a negro than one of his own colour.

The two cones of moistened powder, however, which he had prepared for this occasion, were very much larger than the former, and had been fitted into two wooden handles, or cups, for safety. With these in his hands, he crept to the top of a steep, sloping mound or hill near the entrance to the dell, and considerably in advance of the troops. Here he sat down to await the approach of the enemy.

There is something very eerie and awe-inspiring in a solitary night-watch, especially if it be kept in a wild, lonesome place. Peterkin afterwards told me that, while sitting that night on the top of the mound, looking out upon a plain, over which the enemy were expected to approach, on the one hand, and down into the dark dell where our troops were posted, on the other hand, his heart more than once misgave him; and he could not help asking himself the questions, “What if our plans miscarry? What if our united volley and cheer, and my demoniac display, should fail to intimidate the negroes?” Such questions he did not like to dwell upon, for he knew that in the event of failure a regular pitched battle would be fought, and much blood would certainly flow.

While indulging in such thoughts, he observed a dark form glide past the foot of the mound on which he lay, and vanish in the obscurity of the dell, which was so surrounded by crags and rocky places covered with underwood that no light could penetrate into it. At first he was startled, and thought of giving the alarm to his comrades; but on second thoughts he concluded the person must have been one of his own scouts returned with news; at all events, he felt that one man could do no harm worth speaking of to so large a party.

Presently he observed a large band of men coming over the plain towards the entrance of the dell. These, he felt assured, must be the enemy; and he was right. They came on in a large, compact body, and were well-armed; yet, from the quick and unguarded manner of their approach, he could perceive that they suspected no ambush.

They entered the dell in a confused though solid and silent body; and Peterkin could observe, by the dim light, that they were led by one man, who walked in advance, whom he rightly judged to be the Portuguese slave-dealer.

The time for action had now come. He examined the points of his powder-cones, to ascertain that they were dry, then held a match in readiness, and listened intently to the footsteps of the foe.

I have already explained that Jack had drawn his musketeers across the dell, and placed the spearmen in the jungle on both flanks. They were arranged in such a way as to form three sides of a square, into which the unsuspecting enemy now marched. Jack allowed them to approach to within thirty paces of his musketeers, and then gave, in a loud, deep, sonorous tone, the word—“Hip! hip! hip!”

The compound cheer and yell that instantly followed the last hip was so tremendous, coming, as it did, from all sides except the rear, that the enemy were absolutely paralysed. They stood rooted to the earth, as motionless as if they had been transformed into stone.

Jack raised his hand, in which he held a bunch of white grass that could be distinctly seen in the dark.

Every muzzle was pointed on the instant, but not a sound was heard save the click of a hundred locks.

The sound was familiar to the enemy, although never before heard at one moment in such numbers. They started; but before a step could be taken, the word “Fire” was given.

Instantly a sheet of flame swept across the entire dell, and the united crash of a hundred guns seemed to rend the very earth. The surrounding cliffs reverberated and multiplied the horrid din, while, led by Jack, cheer followed cheer, or rather howls and yells filled the air, and kept awake the echoes of the place.

The enemy turned and fled, and the shrieks to which they gave utterance as they ran betokened the extremity of their terror. It wanted but one touch to complete their consternation, and that touch was given when Peterkin, lighting his powder-cones, showed himself on the mound, dancing in a blaze of fire, and shrieking furiously as the horrified tide of men swept by.

In the midst of his wild orgies, Peterkin acted an impromptu and unintentional part by tripping over the brow of the hill, and rolling down the steep declivity like a fire-wheel into the very midst of the flying crew. Jumping hastily up, he charged through the ranks of the foe, flung the two hissing cones high into the air, and darting into the jungle, hid himself effectually from view.

Meanwhile Jack still held the bunch of white straw aloft. Every eye was fixed on it, but not a man moved, because it remained stationary. This absence of pursuit in the midst of such appalling sights and sounds must, undoubtedly, have added to the mystery and therefore to the terrors of the scene.

Suddenly the white bunch was seen to dart forward. Jack, who now considered the enemy almost beyond the chance of being overtaken, gave the word, “Forward!” in the voice of a Stentor, following it up with “Hip, hip, hurrah!” and the whole host, musketeers and spearmen in a mingled mass, rushed yelling out upon the plain, and gave chase to the foe.

“Not so badly done,” said Jack, with a quiet laugh, as he laid his hand on Peterkin’s shoulder.

“Why, Jack, how did you find me out?”

“Easily enough, when it is considered that I saw you go in. The flame of your wild-fire indicated your movements pretty plainly to me, although terror and amazement no doubt blinded the eyes of every one else. Even Mak’s teeth began to chatter when he saw you perform that singular descent of the hill, and no wonder. I hope no bones have been broken?”

“No; all right as far as that goes,” replied Peterkin within a laugh; “but I’ve lost a good deal of skin. However, it’ll grow again. I’m glad it’s no worse. But I say, Jack, do you think our fellows won’t overtake these rascals?”

“No fear of that. I took care to give them a good start, and if there be any truth in the generally received idea that terror lends wings, I’m pretty sure that each man in the enemy’s ranks must have obtained the loan of several pairs to-night. But have you heard the sound of Ralph’s guns?”

“No; the din here was enough to drown anything so distant.”

“Well, we must away to him as fast as we can. I expect that poor Mak is off before us.”

“But you’ll wait until I put on my clothes?” said Peterkin, hasting back towards the place where he had undressed.

“Certainly, lad; only look alive.”

Soon afterwards they left the place together.

While this was going on at the dell, I, on hearing the first shot, gave the word “Forward!” in a low tone. My men instantly rose and followed me, and I could not, even at that anxious moment, help admiring the serpent-like facility with which they glided from bush to bush, without the slightest noise. We descended a hill, crossed a small brook, and approached to within thirty yards of the camp without being discovered.

Suddenly I leaped on the top of a hillock, and shouted at the utmost pitch of my voice the single word “Halt!”

On hearing it all the men in the camp sprang to their arms, and stood gazing round them with looks of consternation.

My next word was, “Fire!”

A firm, tremendous crash burst from among the bushes, and my single person, enveloped in smoke and flame, was, I believe, the only object visible to those in the camp.

“Hip, hip, hip, hurrah! forward!” I shouted; and with a ferocious yell we poured like a whirlwind upon the foe.

The same result that had occurred at the dell took place here. The enemy never awaited our charge. They fled instantly, and so great was their terror that they actually threw down their arms, in order to facilitate their flight.

On gaining the camp, however, I found, to my sorrow, that we had done the thing only too vigorously; for we had not only put the enemy to flight, but we had also frightened away those whom we had come to deliver!

At this point in the engagement I came to learn how incompetent I was to command men in cases of emergency, for here my presence of mind utterly forsook me. In my anxiety to capture Mbango and his friends I ordered an immediate pursuit. Then it occurred to me that, in the event of my men being successful in overtaking the fugitives, they would instantly murder them all, so I tried to call them back; but, alas! they did not understand my words, and they were by this time so excited as to be beyond all restraint. In a few minutes I found myself left alone in the enemy’s camp, and heard the shouts of pursued and pursuers growing gradually fainter and more distant, as they scattered themselves through the jungle.

Seating myself by the fire in a state of mind bordering on despair, I buried my face in my hands, and endeavoured to collect myself, and consider what, under the circumstances, should be now done.

Chapter Twenty One.

Arrangements for pursuing the enemy, and sudden change of plans.

“You seem to be taking it easy, old boy,” said a voice close to my elbow.

I started, and looked up hastily.

“Ah! Peterkin. You there?”

“Ay; and may I not reply, with some surprise, you here?”

“Truly you may,—but what could I do? The men ran away from me, whether I would or no; and you are aware I could not make myself understood, not being able to— But where is Jack?”

I asked this abruptly, because it occurred to me at that moment that he and Peterkin should have been together.

“Where is Jack?” echoed Peterkin; “I may ask that of you, for I am ignorant on the point. He and I got separated in endeavouring to escape from the scrimmage caused by your valiant attack. You seem to have scattered the whole force to the winds. Oh, here he is, and Mak along with him.”

Jack and our guide came running into the camp at that moment.

“Well, Ralph, what of Okandaga?”

“Ah! what of her indeed?” said Peterkin. “I forgot her. You don’t moan to say she was not in the camp?”

“Indeed she was,” said I, “and so were Mbango, and his wife Njamie, and one or two others whom I did not know; but my men went at them with such ferocity that they fled along with our enemies.”

“Fled!” cried Jack.

“Ay; and I fear much that it will fare ill with them if they are overtaken, for the men were wild with excitement and passion.”

“Come, this must be looked to,” cried Jack, seizing his rifle and tightening his belt; “we must follow, for if they escape our hands they will certainly be retaken by their former captors.”

We followed our comrade, without further remark, in the direction of the fugitives; but although we ran fast and long, we failed to come up with them. For two hours did we dash through bush and brake, jungle and morass, led by Makarooroo, and lighted by the pale beams of the moon. Then we came to a halt, and sat down to consult.

“Dem be gone,” said our wretched guide, whose cup of happiness was thus dashed from his hand just as he was about to raise it to his lips.

“Now, don’t look so dismal, Mak,” cried Peterkin, slapping the man on the shoulder. “You may depend upon it, we will hunt her up somehow or other. Only let us keep stout hearts, and we can do anything.”

“Very easily said, Master Peterkin,” observed Jack; “but what course do you propose we should follow just now?”

“Collect our scattered men; go back to the village; have a palaver with King Jambai and his chiefs; get up a pursuit, and run the foxes to earth.”

“And suppose,” said Jack, “that you don’t know in which direction they have fled, how can we pursue them?”

“It is very easy to suppose all manner of difficulties,” retorted Peterkin. “If you have a better plan, out with it.”

“I have no better plan, but I have a slight addition to make to yours, which is, that when we collect a few of our men, I shall send them out to every point of the compass, to make tracks like the spokes of a wheel, of which the village shall be the centre; and by that means we shall be pretty certain to get information ere long as to the whereabouts of our fugitives. So now let us be up and doing; time is precious to-night.”

In accordance with this plan, we rapidly retraced our steps to the dell, which had been appointed as our place of rendezvous. Here we found the greater part of our men assembled; and so well-timed had Jack’s movements been, that not one of them all had been able to overtake or slay a single enemy. Thus, by able generalship, had Jack gained a complete and bloodless victory.

Having detached and sent off our scouts—who, besides being picked men, travelled without any other encumbrance than their arms—we resumed our journey homeward, and reached the village not long after sunrise, to the immense surprise of Jambai, who could scarcely believe that we had routed the enemy so completely, and whose scepticism was further increased by the total, and to him unaccountable, absence of prisoners, or of any other trophies of our success in the fight. But Jack made a public speech, of such an elaborate, deeply mysterious, and totally incomprehensible character, that even Makarooroo, who translated, listened and spoke with the deepest reverence and wonder; and when he had concluded, there was evidently a firm impression on the minds of the natives that this victory was—by some means or in some way or other quite inexplicable but highly satisfactory—the greatest they had ever achieved.

The king at once agreed to Jack’s proposal that a grand pursuit should take place, to commence the instant news should be brought in by the scouts. But the news, when it did come, had the effect of totally altering our plans.

The first scout who returned told us that he had fallen in with a large body of the enemy encamped on the margin of a small pond. Creeping like a snake through the grass, he succeeded in getting near enough to overhear the conversation, from which he gathered two important pieces of information—namely, that they meant to return to their own lands in a north-easterly direction, and that their prisoners had escaped by means of a canoe which they found on the banks of the river that flowed past King Jambai’s village.

The first piece of information decided the king to assemble his followers, and go off in pursuit of them at once; the second piece of news determined us to obtain a canoe and follow Mbango and his companions to the sea-coast, whither, from all that we heard, we concluded they must certainly have gone. As this, however, was a journey of many weeks, we had to take the matter into serious consideration.

“It is quite evident,” said Jack, as we sat over our supper on the night after receiving the above news—“it is quite evident that they mean to go to the coast, for Mbango had often expressed to Mak a wish to go there; and the mere fact of their having been seen to escape and take down stream, is in itself pretty strong evidence that they did not mean to return to their now desolated village, seeing that the country behind them is swarming with enemies; and of course they cannot know that we have conquered the main body of these rascals. I therefore propose that we should procure a canoe and follow them: first, because we must at all hazards get hold of poor Okandaga, and relieve the anxiety of our faithful guide Makarooroo; and second, because it is just as well to go in that direction as in any other, in order to meet with wild animals, and see the wonders of this land.”

“But what if King Jambai takes it into his black woolly head to decline to let us go?” said Peterkin.

“In that case we must take French leave of him.”

“In which case,” said I, in some alarm, “all my specimens of natural history will be lost.”

Jack received this remark with a shake of his head and a look of great perplexity; and Peterkin said, “Ah, Ralph, I fear there’s no help for it. You must make up your mind to say good-bye to your mummies—big puggies and all.”

“But you do not know,” said I energetically, “that Jambai will detain us against our will.”

“Certainly not,” replied Jack; “and for your sake I hope that he will not. At any rate I will go to see him about this point after supper. It’s of no use presenting a petition either to king, lord, or common while his stomach is empty. But there is another thing that perplexes me: that poor sick child, Njamie’s son, must not be left behind. The poor distracted mother has no doubt given him up for lost. It will be like getting him back from the grave.”

“True,” said I; “we must take him with us. Yet I fear he is too ill to travel, and we cannot await his recovery.”

“He is not so ill as he seemed,” observed Peterkin. “I went to see him only half an hour ago, and the little chap was quite hearty, and glad to see me. The fact is, he has been ill-used and ill-fed. The rest and good treatment he has received have, even in the short time he has been here, quite revived him.”

“Good,” said Jack; “then he shall go with us. I’ll engage to take him on my back when he knocks up on the march—for we have a march before us, as I shall presently explain—and when we get into a canoe he will be able to rest.”

“But what march do you refer to?” I asked.

“Simply this. Mak, with whom I have had a good deal of conversation on the subject, tells me that the river makes a considerable bend below this village, and that by taking a short cut of a day’s journey or so over land we can save time, and will reach a small hamlet where canoes are to be had. The way, to be sure, is through rather a wild country; but that to us is an advantage, as we shall be the more likely to meet with game. I find, also, that the king has determined to follow the same route with his warriors in pursuit of the enemy, so that thus far we may travel together. At the hamlet we will diverge to the north-east, while we, if all goes well, embarking in our canoe, will proceed toward the west coast, where, if we do not overtake them on the way, we shall be certain to find them on our arrival. Okandaga has often longed to go to the mission station there, and as she knows it is in vain to urge Mbango to return to his destroyed village, she will doubtless advise him to go to the coast.”

“What you say seems highly probable,” said I; “and I think the best thing you can do is to go to the king at once and talk him over.”

“Trust Jack for that,” added Peterkin, who was at that moment deeply engaged with what he called the drumstick of a roast monkey. “Jack would talk over any creature with life, so persuasive is his eloquence. I say, Ralph,” he added, holding the half-picked drumstick at arm’s length, and regarding it with a critical gaze, “I wonder, now, how the drumstick of an ostrich would taste. Good, I have no doubt, though rather large for one man’s dinner.”

“It would be almost equal to gorilla ham, I should fancy,” said Jack, as he left the hut on his errand to the king.

“O you cannibal, to think of such a thing!” cried Peterkin, throwing the bone of his drumstick after our retreating comrade.—“But ’tis always thus,” he added, with a sigh: “man preys upon man, monkey upon monkey. Yet I had hoped better things of Jack. I had believed him to be at least a refined species of gorilla. I say, Ralph, what makes you look so lugubrious?”

“The difficulties, I suppose, that beset our path,” said I sadly; for, to say truth, I did not feel in a jesting humour just then. I was forced, however, in spite of myself, to laugh at the expression of mingled disgust and surprise that overspread the mobile countenance of my friend on hearing my reply.

“‘The difficulties,’” echoed he, “‘that beset our path!’ Really, Ralph, life will become insupportable to me if you and Jack go on in this fashion. A man of nerve and sanguine temperament might stand it, but to one like me, of a naturally timid and leaning nature, with the addition of low spirits, it is really crushing—quite crushing.”

I laughed, and replied that he must just submit to be crushed, as it was impossible for Jack and me to change our dispositions to suit his convenience; whereupon he sighed, lighted his pipe, and began to smoke vehemently.

In the course of little more than an hour Jack returned, accompanied by Makarooroo, and from the satisfied expression of their faces I judged that they had been successful.

“Ah! I see; it’s all right,” said Peterkin, raising himself on one elbow as they entered the hut and seated themselves beside the fire. “Old Jambai has been ‘talked over.’”

“Right; but he needed a deal of talk—he was horribly obstinate,” said Jack.

“Ho, yis; ho! ho! horribubly obsterlate,” added Makarooroo in corroboration, rubbing his hands and holding his nose slyly over the bowl of Peterkin’s pipe, in order to enjoy, as it were, a second-hand whiff.

“Here, there’s a bit for yourself, old boy. Sit down and enjoy yourself while Jack tells us all about his interview with royalty,” said Peterkin, handing a lump of tobacco to our guide, whose eyes glistened and white teeth gleamed as he received the much-prized gift.

Jack now explained to us that he had found the king in a happy state of satiety, smoking in his very curious and uneasy-looking easy-chair; that he had at first begged and entreated him (Jack) to stay and take command of his warriors, and had followed up his entreaties with a hint that it was just possible he might adopt stronger measures if entreaty failed.

To this Jack replied in a long speech, in which he pointed out the impossibility of our complying with the king’s request under present circumstances, and the absolute necessity of our returning at some period or other to our native land to tell our people of the wonders we had seen in the great country of King Jambai. Observing that his arguments did not make much impression on the king, he brought up his reserve force to the attack, and offered all the remainder of our goods as a free gift to his majesty, stipulating only that he (the king) should, in consideration thereof, carefully send our boxes of specimens down to the coast, where the messengers, on arriving, should be handsomely paid if everything should arrive safely and in good order.

These liberal offers had a visible influence on the sable monarch, whose pipe indicated the state of his mind pretty clearly—thin wreaths of smoke issuing therefrom when he did not sympathise with Jack’s reasoning, and thick voluminous clouds revolving about his woolly head, and involving him, as it were, in a veil of gauze, when he became pleasantly impressed. When Jack made mention of the valuable gifts above referred to, his head and shoulders were indistinctly visible amid the white cloudlets; and when he further offered to supply him with a few hundreds of the magical paper balls that had so effectually defeated his enemies the day before, the upper part of his person was obliterated altogether in smoke.

This last offer of Jack’s we deemed a great stroke of politic wisdom, for thereby he secured that the pending war should be marked by the shedding of less blood than is normal in such cases. He endeavoured further to secure this end by assuring the king that the balls would be useless for the purpose for which they were made if any other substance should be put into the gun along with them, and that they would only accomplish the great end of putting the enemy to flight if fired at them in one tremendous volley at a time when the foe had no idea of the presence of an enemy.

All things being thus amicably arranged, we retired to rest, and slept soundly until daybreak, when we were awakened by the busy sounds of preparation in the village for the intended pursuit.

We, too, made active arrangements for a start, and soon after were trooping over the plains and through the jungle in the rear of King Jambai’s army, laden with such things as we required for our journey to the coast, and Jack, besides his proportion of our food, bedding, cooking utensils, etcetera, carrying Njamie’s little sick boy on his broad shoulders.

Chapter Twenty Two.

We Meet with a Ludicrously Awful Adventure.

The day following that on which we set out from King Jambai’s village, as narrated in the last chapter, Jack, Peterkin, Makarooroo, Njamie’s little boy, and I embarked in a small canoe, and bidding adieu to our hospitable friends, set out on our return journey to the coast.

We determined to proceed thither by another branch of the river which would take us through a totally new, and in some respects different, country from that in which we had already travelled, and which, in the course of a few weeks, would carry us again into the neighbourhood of the gorilla country.

One beautiful afternoon, about a week after parting from our friends, we met with an adventure in which the serious and the comic were strangely mingled. Feeling somewhat fatigued after a long spell at our paddles, and being anxious to procure a monkey or a deer, as we had run short of food, we put ashore, and made our encampment on the banks of the river. This done, we each sallied out in different directions, leaving Makarooroo in charge of the camp.

For some time I wandered about the woods in quest of game, but although I fired at many animals that were good for food, I missed them all, and was unwillingly compelled to return empty-handed. On my way back, and while yet several miles distant from the camp, I met Jack, who had several fat birds of the grouse species hanging at his girdle.

“I am glad to see that you have been more successful than I, Jack,” said I, as we met.

“Yet I have not much to boast of,” he replied. “It is to be hoped that Peterkin has had better luck. Have you seen him?”

“No; I have not even heard him fire a shot.”

“Well, let us go on. Doubtless he will make his appearance in good time. What say you to following the course of this brook? I have no doubt it will guide us to the vicinity of our camp, and the ground immediately to the left of it seems pretty clear of jungle.”

“Agreed,” said I; and for the next ten minutes or so we walked beside each other in silence. Suddenly our footsteps were arrested by a low peculiar noise.

“Hark! is that a human voice?” whispered Jack, as he cocked his rifle.

“It sounds like it,” said I.

At the same moment we heard some branches in an opposite direction crack, as if they had been broken by a heavy tread. Immediately after, the first sound became louder and more distinct. Jack looked at me in surprise, and gradually a peculiar smile overspread his face.

“It’s Peterkin,” said I, in a low whisper.

My companion nodded, and half-cocking our pieces, we advanced with slow and cautious steps towards the spot whence the sound had come. The gurgling noise of the brook prevented us from hearing as well as usual, so it was not until we were close upon the bushes that fringed the banks of the streamlet that we clearly discerned the tones of Peterkin’s voice in conversation with some one, who, however, seemed to make no reply to his remarks. At first I thought he must be talking to himself, but in this I was mistaken.

“Let’s listen for a minute or two,” whispered my companion, with a broad grin.

I nodded assent, and advancing cautiously, we peeped over the bushes. The sight that met our eyes was so irresistibly comic that we could scarcely restrain our laughter.

On a soft grassy spot, close to the warbling stream, lay our friend Peterkin, on his breast, resting on his elbows, and the forefinger of his right hand raised. Before him, not more than six inches from his nose, sat the most gigantic frog I ever beheld, looking inordinately fat and intensely stupid. My memory instantly flew back to the scene on the coral island where Jack and I had caught our friend holding a quiet conversation with the old cat, and I laughed internally as I thought on the proverb, “The boy is the father of the man.”

“Frog,” said Peterkin, in a low, earnest voice, at the same time shaking his finger slowly and fixing his eyes on the plethoric creature before him—“frog, you may believe it or not as you please, but I do solemnly assure you that I never did behold such a great, big, fat monster as you are in all—my—life! What do you mean by it?”

As the frog made no reply to this question, but merely kept up an incessant puffing motion in its throat, Peterkin continued—

“Now, frog, answer me this one question—and mind that you don’t tell lies—you may not be aware of it, but you can’t plead ignorance, for I now tell you that it is exceedingly wicked to tell lies, whether you be a frog or only a boy. Now, tell me, did you ever read ‘Aesop’s Fables?’”

The frog continued to puff, but otherwise took no notice of its questioner. I could not help fancying that it was beginning to look sulky at being thus catechised.

“What, you won’t speak! Well, I’ll answer for you: you have not read ‘Aesop’s Fables;’ if you had you would not go on blowing yourself up in that way. I’m only a little man, it’s true—more’s the pity—but if you imagine that by blowing and puffing like that you can ever come to blow up as big as me, you’ll find yourself mistaken. You can’t do it, so you needn’t try. You’ll only give yourself rheumatism. Now, will you stop? If you won’t stop you’ll burst—there.”

Peterkin paused here, and for some time continued to gaze intently in the face of his new friend. Presently he began again—

“Frog, what are you thinking of? Do you ever think? I don’t believe you do. Tightened up as you seem to be with wind or fat or conceit, if you were to attempt to think the effort would crack your skin, so you’d better not try. But, after all, you’ve some good points about you. If it were not that you would become vain I would tell you that you’ve got a very good pair of bright eyes, and a pretty mottled skin, and that you’re at least the size of a big chicken—not a plucked but a full-fledged chicken. But, O frog, you’ve got a horribly ugly big mouth, and you’re too fat—a great deal too fat for elegance; though I have no doubt it’s comfortable. Most fat people are comfortable. Oh! you would, would you?”

This last exclamation was caused by the frog making a lazy leap to one side, tumbling heavily over on its back, and rolling clumsily on to its legs again, as if it wished to escape from its tormentor, but had scarcely vigour enough to make the effort. Peterkin quietly lifted it up and placed it deliberately before him again in the same attitude as before.

“Don’t try that again, old boy,” said he, shaking his finger threateningly and frowning severely, “else I’ll be obliged to give you a poke in the nose. I wonder, now, Frog, if you ever had a mother, or if you only grew out of the earth like a plant. Tell me, were you ever dandled in a mother’s arms? Do you know anything of maternal affection, eh? Humph! I suspect not. You would not look so besottedly stupid if you did. I tell you what it is, old fellow: you’re uncommonly bad company, and I’ve a good mind to ram my knife through you, and carry you into camp to my friend Ralph Rover, who’ll skin and stuff you to such an extent that your own mother wouldn’t know you, and carry you to England, and place you in a museum under a glass case, to be gazed at by nurses, and stared at by children, and philosophised about by learned professors. Hollo! none o’ that now. Come, poor beast; I didn’t mean to frighten you. There, sit still, and don’t oblige me to stick you up again, and I’ll not take you to Ralph.”

The poor frog, which had made another attempt to escape, gazed vacantly at Peterkin again without moving, except in regard to the puffing before referred to.

“Now, frog, I’ll have to bid you good afternoon. I’m sorry that time and circumstance necessitate our separation, but I’m glad that I have had the pleasure of meeting with you. Glad and sorry, frog, in the same breath! Did you ever philosophise on that point, eh? Is it possible, think you, to be glad and sorry at one and the same moment? No doubt a creature like you, with such a very small intellect, if indeed you have any at all, will say that it is not possible. But I know better. Why, what do you call hysterics? Ain’t that laughing and crying at once—sorrow and joy mixed? I don’t believe you understand a word that I say. You great puffing blockhead, what are you staring at?”

The frog, as before, refused to make any reply; so our friend lay for some time chuckling and making faces at it. While thus engaged he happened to look up, and to our surprise as well as alarm we observed that he suddenly turned as pale as death.

To cock our rifles, and take a step forward so as to obtain a view in the direction in which he was gazing with a fixed and horrified stare, was our immediate impulse. The object that met our eyes on clearing the bushes was indeed well calculated to strike terror into the stoutest heart; for there, not three yards distant from the spot on which our friend lay, and partially concealed by foliage, stood a large black rhinoceros. It seemed to have just approached at that moment, and had been suddenly arrested, if not surprised, by the vision of Peterkin and the frog. There was something inexpressibly horrible in the sight of the great block of a head, with its mischievous-looking eyes, ungainly snout, and ponderous horn, in such close proximity to our friend. How it had got so near without its heavy tread being heard I cannot tell, unless it were that the noise of the turbulent brook had drowned the sound.

But we had no time either for speculation or contemplation. Both Jack and I instantly took aim—he at the shoulder, as he afterwards told me; I at the monster’s eye, into which, with, I am bound to confess, my usual precipitancy, I discharged both barrels.

The report seemed to have the effect of arousing Peterkin out of his state of fascination, for he sprang up and darted towards us. At the same instant the wounded rhinoceros crossed the spot which he had left with a terrific rush, and bursting through the bushes as if it had been a great rock falling from a mountain cliff, went headlong into the rivulet.

Without moving from the spot on which we stood, we recharged our pieces with a degree of celerity that, I am persuaded, we never before equalled. Peterkin at the same time caught up his rifle, which leaned against a tree hard by, and only a few seconds elapsed after the fall of the monster into the river ere we were upon its banks ready for another shot.

The portion of the bank of the stream at this spot happened to be rather steep, so that the rhinoceros, on regaining his feet, experienced considerable difficulty in the attempts to clamber out, which he made repeatedly and violently on seeing us emerge from among the bushes.

“Let us separate,” said Jack; “it will distract his attention.”

“Stay; you have blown out his eye, Ralph, I do believe,” said Peterkin.

On drawing near to the struggling monster we observed that this was really the case. Blood streamed from the eye into which I had fired, and poured down his hideous jaws, dyeing the water in which he floundered.

“Look out!” cried Jack, springing to the right, in order to get on the animal’s blind side as it succeeded in effecting a landing.

Peterkin instantly sprang in the same direction, while I bounded to the opposite side. I have never been able satisfactorily to decide in my own mind whether this act on my part was performed in consequence of a sudden, almost involuntary, idea that by so doing I should help to distract the creature’s attention, or was the result merely of an accidental impulse. But whatever the cause, the effect was most fortunate; for the rhinoceros at once turned towards me, and thus, being blind in the other eye, lost sight of Jack and Peterkin, who with the rapidity almost of thought leaped close up to its side, and took close aim at the most vulnerable parts of its body. As they were directly opposite to me, I felt that I ran some risk of receiving their fire. But before I had time either to reflect that they could not possibly miss so large an object at so short a distance, or to get out of the way, the report of both their heavy rifles rang through the forest, and the rhinoceros fell dead almost at my feet.

“Hurrah!” shouted Peterkin, throwing his cap into the air at this happy consummation, and sitting down on the haunch of our victim.

“Shame on you, Peterkin,” said I, as I reloaded his rifle for him—“shame on you to crow thus over a fallen foe!”

“Ha, boy! it’s all very well for you to say that now, but you know well enough that you would rather have lost your ears than have missed such a chance as this. But, I say, it’ll puzzle you to stuff that fellow, won’t it?”

“No doubt of it,” answered Jack, as he drew a percussion cap from his pouch, and placed it carefully on the nipple of his rifle. “Ralph will not find it easy; and it’s a pity, too, not to take it home with us, for under a glass case it would make such a pretty and appropriate pendant, in his museum, to that interesting frog with which you—”

“Oh, you sneaking eavesdropper!” cried Peterkin, laughing. “It is really too bad that a fellow can’t have a little tête-à-tête with a friend but you and Ralph must be thrusting your impertinent noses in the way.”

“Not to mention the rhinoceros,” observed Jack.

“Ah! to be sure—the rhinoceros; yes, I might have expected to find you in such low company, for ‘birds of a feather,’ you know, are said to ‘flock together.’”

“If there be any truth in that,” said I, “you are bound, on the same ground, to identify yourself with the frog.”

“By the way,” cried Peterkin, starting up and looking around the spot on which his interesting tête-à-tête had taken place, “where is the frog? It was just here that—Ah!—oh!—oh! poor, poor frog!

“‘Your course is run, your days are o’er;

We’ll never have a chat no more,’

“As Shakespeare has it. Well, well, who would have thought that so conversable and intelligent a creature should have come to such a melancholy end?”

The poor frog had indeed come to a sad and sudden end, and I felt quite sorry for it, although I could not help smiling at my companion’s quaint manner of announcing the fact.

Not being gifted with the activity of Peterkin, it had stood its ground when the rhinoceros charged, and had received an accidental kick from the great foot of that animal which had broken its back and killed it outright.

“There’s one comfort, however,” observed Jack, as we stood over the frog’s body: “you have been saved the disagreeable necessity of killing it yourself, Ralph.”

This was true, and I was not sorry that the rhinoceros had done me this service; for, to say truth, I have ever felt the necessity of killing animals in cold blood to be one of the few disagreeable points in the otherwise delightful life of a naturalist. To shoot animals in the heat and excitement of the chase I have never felt to be particularly repulsive or difficult; but the spearing of an insect, or the deliberate killing of an unresisting frog, are duties which I have ever performed with a feeling of deep self-abhorrence.

Carefully packing my frog in leaves, and placing it in my pouch, I turned with my companions to quit the scene of our late encounter and return to our camp, on arriving at which we purposed sending back Makarooroo to cut off the horn of the rhinoceros; for we agreed that, as it was impossible to carry away the entire carcass, we ought at least to secure the horn as a memorial of our adventure.

Chapter Twenty Three.

We see strange things, and give our negro friends the slip.

During the two following days we passed through a country that was more thickly covered with the indiarubber vine than any place we had before met with in our African travels. I could not help feeling regret that such a splendid region should be almost, if not altogether, unknown and useless to civilised man. There seemed to be an unlimited supply of caoutchouc; but the natives practised a method of gathering it which had the effect of destroying the vine.

One day, some weeks after this, we came upon the habitation of a most remarkable species of monkey, named the Nshiego Mbouve, which we had often heard of, but had not up to that time been so fortunate as to see. Being exceedingly anxious to observe how this remarkable creature made use of its singular house, Peterkin and I lay down near the place, and secreting ourselves in the bushes, patiently awaited the arrival of the monkey, while Jack went off in another direction to procure something for supper.

“I don’t believe he’ll come home to-night,” said Peterkin, after we had lain down. “People never do come in when any one chances to be waiting for them. The human race seems to be born to disappointment. Did you never notice, Ralph, how obstinately contrary and cross-grained things go when you want them to go otherwise?”

“I don’t quite understand you,” said I.

“Of course you don’t. Yours seems to be a mind that can never take anything in unless it is hammered in by repetition.”

“Come now, Peterkin, don’t become, yourself, an illustration of your own remark in reference to cross-grained things.”

“Well, I won’t. But seriously, Ralph, have you not observed, in the course of your observant life, that when you have particular business with a man, and go to his house or office, you are certain to find him out, to use the common phrase? It would be more correct, however, to say ‘you are certain not to find him in.’”

“You are uncommonly particular, Peterkin.”

“Truly I had need to be so, with such an uncommonly stupid audience.”

“Thank you. Well?”

“Well, have you never observed that if you have occasion to call at a house where you have never been before, the number of that particular house is not in its usual place, and you find it after a search quite away from where it ought to be? Has it never struck you that when you take out your umbrella, the day is certain to become hot and sunny; while, if you omit to carry it with you, it is sure to rain?”

“From all of which you conclude,” said I, “that the Nshiego will not come home to-night?”

“Exactly so; that is my meaning precisely.”

After Peterkin said this, we relapsed into silence; and it was well that we did so, for had we continued our conversation even in the whispering tones in which it had up to that time been conducted, we should have frightened away the ape which now came, as it were, to rebuke Peterkin for his unbelief.

Coming quickly forward, the Nshiego Mbouve chambered quickly up the tree where its nest was built. This nest was not a structure into which it clambered, but a shelter or canopy formed of boughs with their leaves, somewhat in shape like an umbrella, under which it sat. The construction of this shelter exhibited a good deal of intelligent ingenuity on the part of the ape; for it was tied to the tree by means of wild vines and creepers, and formed a neat, comfortable roof, that was quite capable of shedding the night dews or heavy rains, and thus protecting its occupant.

We were greatly amused by the manner in which the creature proceeded to make itself comfortable. Just below the canopy was a small branch which jutted out horizontally from the stem of the tree. On this branch the ape seated itself, its feet and haunches resting thereon. Then it threw one arm round the tree, and hugging that lovingly to its side, gave what appeared to me to be a small sigh of satisfaction, and prepared to go to sleep.

At this Peterkin chuckled audibly. The Nshiego’s eyes opened at once. I cocked my gun and took aim. The desire to procure a specimen was very strong within me, but an unconquerable aversion to kill an animal in such cozy circumstances restrained me. The Nshiego got up in alarm. I pointed the gun, but could not fire. It began to descend. I pulled the trigger, and, I am happy to add, missed my aim altogether, to the intense delight of Peterkin, who filled the woods with laughter, while the Nshiego Mbouve, dropping to the ground, ran shrieking from the spot.

My forbearance at this time was afterwards repaid by my obtaining two much finer specimens of this shelter-building ape, both of which were killed by Peterkin.

On quitting this place we had a narrow escape, the recollection of which still fills me with horror. We were walking rapidly back towards our encampment, chatting as we went, when Peterkin suddenly put his foot on what appeared to be the dead branch of a tree. No sooner had he done so than the curling folds of a black snake fully ten feet long scattered the dry leaves into the air, and caused us both to dart aside with a yell of terror.

I have thought that in the complicated and wonderful mechanism of man there lies a species of almost involuntary muscular power which enables him to act in all cases of sudden danger with a degree of prompt celerity that he could not possibly call forth by a direct act of volition. At all events, on the present emergency, without in the least degree knowing what I was about, I brought my gun from my shoulder into a horizontal position, and blew the snake’s head off almost in an instant.

I have pondered this subject, and from the fact that while at one time a man may be prompt and courageous in case of sudden danger, at another time the same man may become panic-stricken and helpless, I have come to the conclusion that the all-wise Creator would teach us—even the bravest among us—the lesson of our dependence upon each other, as well as our dependence upon Himself, and would have us know that while at one time we may prove a tower of strength and protection to our friends, at another time our friends may have to afford succour and protection to us.

I have often wondered, in reference to this, that many men seem to take pride in bold independence, when it is an obvious fact that every man is dependent on his fellow, and that this mutual dependence is one of the chief sources of human happiness.

The black snake which I had killed turned out to be one of a very venomous kind, whose bite is said to be fatal, so that we had good cause to be thankful, and to congratulate ourselves on our escape.

In this region of Africa we were particularly fortunate in what we saw and encountered, as the narrative of our experiences on the day following the above incidents will show.

We had scarcely advanced a few miles on our journey on the morning of that day, when we came upon a part of the country where the natives had constructed a curious sort of trap for catching wild animals; and it happened that a large band of natives were on the point of setting out for a grand hunt at that time.

We were greeted with immense delight on our arrival, for those natives, we soon discovered, had already heard of our exploits in the lands of the gorilla, and regarded us as the greatest hunters that had ever been born. After a short conversation with the chief, through the medium of Makarooroo, we arranged to rest there a day, and accompany them on their hunting expedition; and the better to secure their good will, we presented some of the head men with a few of the beads which we still possessed. Then hauling our canoe out of the water, we prepared ourselves for the chase.

After a long and tedious march through somewhat dense jungle, we came upon the ground, which was partly open, partly clothed with trees and shrubs. Here the natives, who numbered several hundreds, spread themselves out in a long semicircular line, in order to drive the game into the trap.

As we followed them, or rather formed part of the line, I overheard the following conversation between Peterkin and Makarooroo, who chanced to be together.

“Now, Mak,” said the former, examining the caps of his rifle, “explain to me what sort of trap this is that we’re coming to, and what sort of brutes we may expect to find in it.”

“De trap, massa,” replied our faithful follower, drawing the back of his hand across his mouth—“de trap am be call hopo—”

“Called what-o?” inquired Peterkin.

“Hopo.”

“Oh! go on.”

“An’ hims be made ob great number oh sticks tumble down—an’ hole at de end ob dat; an’ de beasties dat goes in be zebros, elosphants, eelands, buff’los, gaffs, nocrices, noos, an’ great more noders ob which me forgit de names.”

“Oh! you forgit de names, do you?”

“Yis, massa.”

“Ah! it wouldn’t be a great loss, Mak, if you were to forget the names of those you remember.”

The conversation was interrupted at this point by the appearance of a buffalo, which showed that we were drawing near to the scene of action. But as Makarooroo’s description is not remarkable for lucidity, I may explain here that the hopo, or trap, consists of two parts; one part may be termed the conducting hedges, the other the pit at their termination, and into which the game is driven. The conducting hedges are formed in the shape of the letter V. At the narrow extremity there is a narrow lane, at the end of which is the terminating pit. This pit is about eight feet deep and fifteen feet broad, and its edges are made to overlap in such a way that once the animals are in it, they have no chance whatever of getting out again. The surface of the pit is concealed by a thin crust of green rushes, and the hedges are sometimes a mile long, and nearly the same width apart at the outer extremities.

We were still a considerable distance from the outer ends of the hedges, when the natives spread out as above described, and I am convinced that our line extended over at least four miles of ground. The circle, of course, narrowed as they advanced, shouting wildly, in order to drive the game into the enclosure.

That the country was teeming with game soon became apparent, for ever and anon as we advanced a herd of gnus or buffaloes or hartbeests would dart affrighted from their cover, and sweep over the open ground into another place of shelter, out of which they were again driven as the line advanced. In the course of half an hour we drove out hartbeests, zebras, gnus, buffaloes, giraffes, rhinoceroses, and many other kinds of smaller game, either singly or in herds.

“Now, lads,” said Jack, approaching Peterkin and me as we walked together, “it is quite evident that if we wish to see this sport in perfection we must get outside the hedge, and run along towards the pit; for there, in the natural course of things, we may expect the grand climax. What say you? Shall we go?”

“Agreed,” said I.

“Ditto,” cried Peterkin.

So without more words we turned aside, followed by Makarooroo, leaped the hedge, and running down along it soon reached the edge of the pit.

Here we found a number of the natives assembled with spears, looking eagerly through the interstices of the hedges in expectation of the advancing herds. We took up our stand on a convenient spot, and prepared to wait patiently. But our patience was not severely tried. We had not been more than five minutes stationed when the noise of the closing line was heard, and a herd of buffaloes dashed wildly out from a small piece of jungle in which they had sought shelter, and galloped over the plain towards us. Suddenly they halted, and stood for a moment snuffing the air, as if uncertain what to do; while we could see, even at that distance, that every muscle of their bodies trembled with mingled rage and terror. Before they could decide, a herd of gnus burst from the same place; and presently a dozen zebras galloped out, tossing up their heels and heads in magnificent indignation. These last scattered, and approached the hedges; which caused several natives to dart into the enclosure, who from beneath the shelter of oval shields as large as themselves, threw their spears with unerring certainty into the sides of the terrified creatures.

At this moment there was a general rush from the scattered groups of trees and clumps of jungle, for the animals were now maddened with terror, not only at the shouts of their human persecutors, but at their own wild cries and the increasing thunder of their tread.

The shouting and tumult now became excessive. It was almost bewildering. I looked round upon the faces of the negroes nearest to me. They seemed to be almost insane with suppressed excitement, and their dark faces worked in a manner that was quite awful to witness.

Presently there was a general and indiscriminate rush of all kinds of wild animals towards the narrow end of the hopo. The natives pressed in upon them with wild cries. Spears flew in all directions. Ere long the plain was covered with wounded animals struggling and bellowing in their death-agonies. As the rushing multitude drew nearer to the fatal pit, they became crowded together, and now the men near us began to play their part.

“Look out, Jack!” I cried, as a buffalo bull with glaring eyes and foaming jaws made a desperate effort to leap over the barrier in our very faces.

Jack raised his rifle and fired; at the same instant a spear was sent into the buffalo’s breast, and it fell back to form a stumbling-block in the way of the rushing mass.

The report of the rifle caused the whole herd to swerve from our side so violently that they bore down the other side, until I began to fear the hedge would give way altogether; but they were met by the spears and the furious yells of the natives there, and again swept on towards the narrow lane.

And now the head of the bellowing mass came to the edge of the pit. Those in front seemed to suspect danger, for they halted suddenly; but the rush of those behind forced them on. In another moment the thin covering gave way, and a literal cataract of huge living creatures went surging down into the abyss.

The scene that followed was terrible to witness; and I could not regard it with other than feelings of intense horror, despite my knowledge of the fact that a large tribe of natives depended on the game then slain for their necessary food. The maddened animals attempted to leap out of the pit, but the overlapping edges already referred to effectually prevented this until the falling torrent filled it up; then some of them succeeded in leaping out from off the backs of their smothered comrades. These, however, were quickly met and speared by the natives, while ever and anon the great mass was upheaved by the frantic struggles of some gigantic creature that was being smothered at the bottom.

While this scene of wholesale destruction was going on, Makarooroo came up to me and begged me, with mysterious looks, to follow him out of the crowd.

I obeyed, and when we had got away from the immediate neighbourhood of the turmoil, I said,—“Well, Mak, what’s wrong?”

“De chief, massa, hims tell me few moments ago dat canoe wid Mbango and oomans hab pass dis way to-morrow.”

“To-morrow!” I exclaimed.

“No, me forgit; hab pass yistumday.”

“Indeed!”

“Yis, an’ de chief hims say hims want us to stop wid him and go hunt for week or two. P’raps he no let us go ’way.”

“That’s just possible, Mak. Have you told Jack?”

“No, massa.”

“Then go bring him and Peterkin hither at once.”

In a few minutes my companions were with me, and we held a brief earnest consultation as to what we should do.

“I think we should tell the chief we are anxious to be off at once, and leave him on good terms,” said I.

Peterkin objected to this. “No,” said he; “we cannot easily explain why we are anxious to be off so hastily. I counsel flight. They won’t find out that we are gone until it is too late to follow.”

Jack agreed with this view, so of course I gave in, though I could not in my heart approve of such a method of sneaking away. But our guide seemed also to be exceedingly anxious to be off, so we decided; and slipping quietly away under the shelter of the hedge, while the natives were still busy with their bloody work, we soon gained the forest. Here we had no difficulty in retracing our steps to the village, where, having picked up our little companion, Njamie’s son, who had been left to play with the little boys of the place, we embarked, swept down the stream, and were soon far beyond the chance of pursuit.

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Long Chase, and a Happy Termination Thereof.

Knowing that unless we advanced with more than ordinary speed we could not hope to overtake our friends for several days—a stern chase being proverbially a long one—we travelled a great part of the night as well as all day; and on our third day after quitting the scene of the curious hunt described in the last chapter, we descried the fugitives descending the river about a quarter of a mile ahead of us.

Unhappily we made a stupid mistake at this time. Instead of waiting until we were near enough to be recognised, we shouted to our friends the moment we saw their canoe. I cannot say that we knew them to be our friends, but we had every reason to suppose so. The result of our shout was that they supposed us to be enemies, and paddled away as if for their lives. It was in vain that we tried to show by signs that we were not enemies.

“Yell!” cried Peterkin, turning to Makarooroo, who sat close behind him.

Our guide opened his huge mouth, and gave utterance to a yell that might well have struck terror into the heart of Mars himself.

“Stop! stay!” cried Peterkin hastily. “I didn’t mean a war-yell; I meant a yell of—of peace.”

“Me no hab a yell ob peace,” said Makarooroo, with a look of perplexity.

“I should not suppose you had,” observed Jack, with a quiet laugh, as he dipped his paddle more energetically than ever into the stream.—“The fact is, Peterkin, that we shall have to go in for a long chase. There is no doubt about it. I see that there are at least four men in their canoe, and if one of them is Mbango, as we have reason to believe, a stout and expert arm guides them. But ho! give way! ‘never venture, never win.’”

With that we all plied our paddles with our utmost might. The chase soon became very exciting. Ere long it became evident that the crews of the two canoes were pretty equally matched, for we did not, apparently, diminish the distance between us by a single inch during the next half-hour.

“What if it turns out not to be Mbango and his party after all?” suggested Peterkin, who wielded his light paddle with admirable effect.

Jack, who sat in the bow, replied that in that case we should have to make the best apology and explanation we could to the niggers, and console ourselves with the consciousness of having done our best.

For some time the rapid dip of our paddles and the rush of our canoe through the water were the only sounds that were heard. Then Peterkin spoke again. He could never keep silence for any great length of time.

“I say, Jack, we’ll never do it. If we had only another man, or even a boy.” (Peterkin glanced at Njamie’s little son, who lay sound asleep at the bottom of the boat.) “No, he won’t do; we might as well ask a mosquito to help us.”

“I say, lads, isn’t one of the crew of that canoe a woman?” said Jack, looking over his shoulder, but not ceasing for an instant to ply his paddle.

“Can’t tell,” answered Peterkin.—“What say you, Mak?”

“Ye-is, massa,” replied the guide, with some hesitation. “Me tink dat am be one ooman’s arm what wag de paddil. Oh! yis, me sartin sure now, dat am a ooman.”

“That being the case,” observed Jack, in a tone of satisfaction, “the chase won’t last much longer, for a woman’s muscles can’t hold out long at such a pace. Ho! give way once more.”

In less than five minutes the truth of Jack’s remark became apparent, for we began rapidly to overhaul the fugitives. This result acted with a double effect: while it inspirited us to additional exertion, it depressed those whom we were pursuing, and so rendered them less capable than before of contending with us. There was evidently a good deal of excitement and gesticulation among them. Suddenly the man in the stern laid down his paddle, and stooping down seized a gun, with which, turning round, he took deliberate aim at us.

“That’s rather awkward,” observed Jack, in a cool, quiet way, as if the awkwardness of the case had no reference whatever to him personally.

We did not, however, check our advance. The man fired, and the ball came skipping over the water and passed us at a distance of about two yards.

“Hum! I expected as much,” observed Jack. “When a bad shot points a bad gun at you, your best plan is to stand still and take your chance. In such a case the chance is not a bad one. Hollo! the rascal seems about to try it again. I say, boys, we must stop this.”

We had now gained so much on the fugitives that we had reason to hope that we might by signs enable them to understand that we were not enemies. We had to make the attempt rather abruptly, for as Jack uttered his last remark, the man in the stern of the canoe we were chasing, having reloaded his gun, turned round to aim at us again. At the same time the rest of the crew suddenly ceased to paddle, in order to enable their comrade to take a steady aim. It was evident that they rested all their hopes upon that shot disabling one of our number, and so enabling them to escape. Seeing this, Makarooroo in desperation seized his rifle and levelled it.

“No, no,” said Peterkin, hastily holding up his hand. “Give me your rifle, Mak; and yours, Ralph. Now then, stop paddling for a moment; I’ll try an experiment.”

So saying, he sprang to his feet, and grasping a rifle in each hand, held them high above his head, intending thus to show that we were well-armed, but that we did not intend to use our weapons.

The device was happily successful: the man in the other canoe lowered the gun with which he was in the act of taking aim at us.

“Now, boys, paddle slowly towards the bank,” cried Peterkin, laying down the rifles quickly and standing erect again with his empty hands extended in the air, to confirm the fugitives in regard to our good intentions. They understood the sign, and also turned toward the bank, where in a few minutes both parties landed, at the distance of about two hundred yards from each other.

“Mak, you had better advance alone,” said Jack. “If it is Mbango and his friends, they will know you at once. Don’t carry your rifle; you won’t need it.”

“Nay, Jack,” I interposed; “you do not act with your usual caution. Should it chance not to be Mbango, it were well that Mak should have his rifle and a companion to support him.”

“O most sapient Ralph,” said Peterkin, “don’t you know that Jack and I have nothing to do but sit down on this bank, each with a double-barrel in his hand, and if anything like foul play should be attempted, four of the enemy should infallibly bite the dust at the same time? But you’d better go with Mak, since you’re so careful of him. We will engage to defend you both.—Hollo, Puggy! take the line of our canoe here and fasten it to yonder bush.”

The latter part of this remark was addressed to Njamie’s little boy, whose name we had never learned, and who had been called Puggy by Peterkin—not, let me remark, in anything approaching to a contemptuous spirit. He evidently meant it as a title of endearment. We had tacitly accepted it, and so had the lad, who for some time past had answered to the name of Puggy, in utter ignorance, of course, as to its signification.

Mak and I now advanced unarmed towards the negroes, and in a few seconds we mutually recognised each other. I was overjoyed to observe the well-known face of Okandaga, who no sooner recognised her lover than she uttered a joyful shout and ran towards him. I at the same time advanced to Mbango, and grasping his hand shook it warmly; but that good-hearted chief was not satisfied with such a tame expression of good will. Seizing me by the shoulders, he put forward his great flat nose and rubbed mine heartily therewith. My first impulse was to draw back, but fortunately my better judgment came to my aid in time, and prevented me from running the risk of hurting the feelings of our black friend. And I had at that time lived long enough to know that there is nothing that sinks so bitterly into the human heart as the repulse, however slightly, of a voluntary demonstration of affection. I had made up my mind that if the dirtiest negro in all Africa should offer to rub noses with me, I would shut my eyes and submit.

I observed among the crew of Mbango’s canoe a female figure who instantly attracted my attention and awakened my sympathy. She was seated on a rock, paying no attention whatever to the events that were occurring so near to her, and which, for aught she could tell, might be to her matter of life or death. Her hands hung idly by her side; her body was bowed forward; her head drooped on her breast; and her whole appearance indicated a depth of woe such as I have never before seen equalled.

I pointed to her and looked at Mbango in surprise. He looked first at the woman and then at me, and shook his head mournfully; but being unable to speak to me, or I to him, of course I could not gather much from his looks.

I was about to turn to our guide, when the woman raised her head a little, so that her face was exposed. I at once recognised the features of Njamie, Mbango’s favourite wife, and I was now at no loss to divine the cause of her grief.

Starting up in haste, I ran away back at full speed towards the spot where our canoe lay. Jack and Peterkin, seeing how matters stood, were by that time advancing to meet us, and the little boy followed. I passed them without uttering a word, seized the boy by the wrist, and dragged him somewhat violently towards the place where his mother sat.

“Hollo, Ralph,” shouted Peterkin as I passed, “see that you don’t damage my Puggy, else you’ll have to—”

I heard no more. The next instant I stood beside Njamie, and placed her boy before her. I have never in my life witnessed such a mingling of intense eagerness, surprise, and joy, as was expressed by the poor woman when her eyes fell on the face of her child. For one moment she gazed at him, and the expressions I have referred to flitted, or rather flashed, across her dusky countenance; then giving utterance to a piercing shriek, she sprang forward and clasped her son to her bosom.

I would not have missed that sight for the world. I know not very well what my thoughts were at the time, but the memory of that scene has often since, in my musings, filled me with inexpressible gladness; and in pondering the subject, I have felt that the witnessing of that meeting has given additional force to the line in Scripture wherein the word “love” alone is deemed sufficiently comprehensive to describe the whole character of the Almighty.

Here, on the one hand, I beheld unutterable, indescribable woe; on the other hand, unutterable, inconceivable joy—both, I should suppose, in their extremest degree, and both resulting from pure and simple love. I pondered this much at the time; I have pondered it often since. It is a subject of study which I recommend to all who chance to read this page.

Chapter Twenty Five.

I Have a Desperate Encounter and a Narrow Escape.

The happiness that now beamed in the faces of Makarooroo, Okandaga, and Njamie was a sufficient reward to us for all the trouble we had taken and all the risk we had run on their account. Poor Njamie was exceedingly grateful to us. She sought by every means in her power to show this, and among other things, hearing us call her son by the name of Puggy, she at once adopted it, to the immense amusement and delight of Peterkin.

After the first excitement of our meeting had subsided somewhat, we consulted together as to what we should now do. On the one hand, we were unwilling to quit the scene of our hunting triumphs and adventures; on the other hand, Makarooroo and his bride were anxious to reach the mission stations on the coast and get married in the Christian manner.

“Our opposing interests are indeed a little perplexing,” said Jack, after some conversation had passed on the subject.—“No doubt, Mak, you and Mbango with his friends might reach the coast safely enough without us; but then what should we do without an interpreter?”

Our poor guide, whose troubles seemed as though they would never end, sighed deeply and glanced at his bride with a melancholy countenance as he replied—

“Me’ll go wid you, massa, an’ Okandaga’ll go to coast an’ wait dere for me come.”

“Ha!” ejaculated Peterkin, “that’s all very well, Mak, but you’ll do nothing of the sort. That plan won’t do, so we’ll have to try again.”

“I agree with you, Peterkin,” observed Jack. “That plan certainly will not do; but I cannot think of any other that will, so we must just exercise a little self-denial for once, give up all further attacks on the wild beasts of Africa, and accompany Mak to the coast.”

“Could we not manage a compromise?” said I.

“What be a cumprumoise?” asked Makarooroo, who had been glancing anxiously from one to the other as we conversed.

Peterkin laid hold of his chin, pursed up his mouth, and looked at me with a gleeful leer.

“There’s a chance for you, Ralph,” said he; “why don’t you explain?”

“Because it’s not easy to explain,” said I, considering the best way in which to convey the meaning of such a word.—“A compromise, Mak, is—is a bargain, a compact—at least so Johnson puts it—”

“Yes,” interposed Peterkin; “so you see, Mak, when you agree with a trader to get him an elephant-tusk, that’s a cumprumoise, according to Johnson.”

“No, no, Mak,” said I quickly; “Peterkin is talking nonsense. It is not a bargain of that kind; it’s a—a—You know every question has two sides?”

“Yis, massa.”

“Well, suppose you took one side.”

“Yis.”

“And suppose I took the other side.”

“Then suppose we were to agree to forsake our respective sides and meet, as it were, half-way, and thus hold the same middle course—”

“Ay, down the middle and up again; that’s it, Mak,” again interrupted Peterkin—“that’s a cumprumoise. In short, to put it in another and a clearer light, suppose that I were to resolve to hit you an awful whack on one side of your head, and suppose that Ralph were to determine to hit you a frightful bang on the other side, then suppose that we were to agree to give up those amiable intentions, and instead thereof to give you, unitedly, one tremendous smash on the place where, if you had one, the bridge of your nose would be—that would be a cumprumoise.”

“Ho! ha! ha! hi!” shouted our guide, rolling over on the grass and splitting himself with laughter; for Makarooroo, like the most of his race, was excessively fond of a joke, no matter how bad, and was always ready on the shortest notice to go off into fits of laughter, if he had only the remotest idea of what the jest meant. He had become so accustomed at last to expect something jocular from Peterkin, that he almost invariably opened his mouth to be ready whenever he observed our friend make any demonstration that gave indication of his being about to speak.

From the mere force of sympathy Mbango began to laugh also, and I know not how long the two would have gone on, had not Jack checked them by saying—

“I suspect we are not very well fitted to instruct the unenlightened mind,” (“Ho—hi!” sighed Makarooroo, gathering himself up and settling down to listen), “and it seems to me that you’ll have to try again, Peterkin, some other mode of explanation.”

“Very good, by all means,” said our friend.—“Now, Mak, look here. You want to go there” (pointing to the coast with his left hand), “and we want to go there” (pointing to the interior with his right hand.) “Now if we both agree to go there,” (pointing straight before him with his nose), “that will be a cumprumoise. D’ye understand?”

“Ho yis, massa, me compiperhend now.”

“Exactly so,” said I; “that’s just it. There is a branch of this river that takes a great bend away to the north before it turns towards the sea, is there not? I think I have heard yourself say so before now.”

“Yis, massa, hall right.”

“Well, let us go by that branch. We shall be a good deal longer on the route, but we shall be always nearing the end of our journey, and at the same time shall pass through a good deal of new country, in which we may hope to see much game.”

“Good,” said Jack; “you have wisdom with you for once, Ralph—it seems feasible.—What say you, Mak? I think it a capital plan.”

“Yis, massa, it am a copitle plan, sure ’nuff.”

The plan being thus arranged and agreed to, we set about the execution of it at once, and ere long our two canoes were floating side by side down the smooth current of the river.

The route which we had chosen led us, as I had before suspected, into the neighbourhood of the gorilla country, and I was much gratified to learn from Mbango, who had travelled over an immense portion of south-western Africa, that it was not improbable we should meet with several of those monstrous apes before finally turning off towards the coast. I say that I was much gratified to learn this; but I little imagined that I was at that time hastening towards a conflict that well-nigh proved fatal to me, and the bare remembrance of which still makes me shudder.

It occurred several weeks after the events just related. We had gone ashore for the purpose of hunting, our supply of provisions chancing at that time to be rather low. Feeling a desire to wander through the woods in solitude for a short time, I separated from my companions. I soon came to regret this deeply, for about an hour afterwards I came upon the tracks of a gorilla. Being armed only with my small-bore double rifle, and not being by any means confident of my shooting powers, I hesitated some time before making up my mind to follow the tracks.

At first I thought of retracing my steps and acquainting my comrades with the discovery I had made; but the little probability there was of my finding them within several hours deterred me. Besides, I felt ashamed to confess that I had been afraid to prosecute the chase alone; so, after pondering the matter a little, I decided on advancing.

Before doing so, however, I carefully examined the caps of my rifle and loosened my long hunting-knife in its sheath. Then I cautiously followed up the track, making as little noise as possible, for I was well aware of the watchfulness of the animal I was pursuing.

The footprints at first were not very distinct, but ere long I came on a muddy place where they were deeply imprinted, and my anxiety was somewhat increased by observing that they were uncommonly large—the largest I had ever seen—and that, therefore, they had undoubtedly been made by one of those solitary and gigantic males, which are always found to be the most savage.

I had scarcely made this discovery when I came unexpectedly on the gorilla itself. It was seated at the foot of a tree about fifty yards from the spot where I stood, the space between us being comparatively clear of underwood. In an instant he observed me, and rose, at the same time giving utterance to one of those diabolical roars which I have before referred to as being so terrible.

I halted, and felt an irresistible inclination to fire at once; but remembering the oft-repeated warnings of my companions, I restrained myself. At that moment I almost wished, I freely confess, that the gorilla would run away. But the monster had no such intention. Again uttering his horrible roar, he began slowly to advance, at the same time beating his drum-like chest with his doubled fist.

I now felt that my hour of trial had come. I must face the gorilla boldly, and act with perfect coolness. The alternative was death. As the hideous creature came on, I observed that he was considerably larger than the biggest we had yet seen; but, strange to say, this fact made no deeper impression upon me. I suppose that my whole mental and nervous being was wound up to the utmost possible state of tension. I felt that I was steady and able to brave the onset. But I was not aware of the severity of the test to which I was destined to be subjected. Instead of coming quickly on and deciding my fate at once, the savage animal advanced slowly, sometimes a step or two at a time, and then pausing for a moment ere it again advanced. Sometimes it even sat down on its haunches for a second or two, as if the weight of its overgrown body were too much for its hind legs; but it did not cease all that time to beat its chest, and roar, and twist its features into the most indescribable contortions. I suppose it took nearly five minutes to advance to within twelve yards of me, but those five minutes seemed to me an hour. I cannot describe the mental agony I endured.

When within ten yards of me I could restrain myself no longer. I raised my rifle, aimed at its chest, and fired. With a terrible roar it advanced. Again I fired, but without effect, for the gorilla rushed upon me. In despair, I drew my hunting-knife and launched it full at the brute’s chest with all my might. I saw the glittering blade enter it as the enormous paw was raised to beat me down. I threw up my rifle to ward off the fatal blow, and at the same moment sprang to one side, in the hope of evading it. The stock of the rifle was shattered to pieces in an instant, and the blow, which would otherwise have fallen full on my head or chest, was diverted slightly, and took effect on my shoulder, the blade of which was smashed as I was hurled with stunning violence to the ground. For one moment I felt as if I were falling headlong down a precipice; the next, I became unconscious.

On recovering, I found myself lying on my back at the bottom of what appeared to be a large pit. I must have lain there for a considerable time, for I felt cold and stiff; and when I attempted to move, my wounded shoulder caused me unutterable anguish. I knew, however, that I must certainly perish if I did not exert myself; so with much difficulty I crept out of the pit. The first object that met my eyes, on rising to my feet, was the carcass of my late antagonist; which, on examination, I found, though badly wounded by both bullets, had eventually been killed by the knife. It must have died almost immediately after giving me the blow that had hurled me into the pit. I had not observed this pit, owing to the screen of bushes that surrounded it, but I have now no doubt that it was the means of saving my life.

My recollections of what followed this terrible adventure are exceedingly confused. I remember that I wandered about in a state of dreamy uncertainty, endeavouring to retrace my steps to our encampment. I have a faint recollection of meeting, to my surprise, with Jack and Peterkin, and of their tender expressions of sympathy; and I have a very vivid remembrance of the agony I endured when Jack set my broken shoulder-blade and bandaged my right arm tightly to my side. After that, all was a confused dream, in which all the adventures I had ever had with wild beasts were enacted over again, and many others besides that had never taken place at all.

Under the influence of fever, I lay in a state of delirium for many days in the bottom of the canoe; and when my unclouded consciousness was at length restored to me, I found myself lying in a bed, under the hospitable roof of a missionary, the windows of whose house looked out upon the sea.

And now, reader, the record of our adventures is complete. During the few weeks that I spent with the kind missionary of the Cross, I gained strength rapidly, and amused myself penning the first chapters of this book. Makarooroo and Okandaga were married, and soon became useful members of the Christian community on that part of the African coast. Mbango and his friends also joined the missionary for a time, but ultimately returned to the interior, whither I have no doubt they carried some of the good influences that they had received on the coast along with them.

King Jambai proved faithful to his engagement. All our packages and boxes of specimens arrived safely at the coast; and when unpacked for examination, and displayed in the large schoolroom of the station, the gorillas, and other rare and wonderful animals, besides curious plants, altogether formed a magnificent collection, the like of which has not yet been seen in Great Britain, and probably never will be.

When I was sufficiently restored to stand the voyage, Jack and Peterkin and I embarked in a homeward-bound trading vessel, and taking leave of our kind friends of the coast, and of Makarooroo and Okandaga, who wept much at the prospect of separation from us, we set sail for Old England.

“Farewell,” said I, as we leaned over the vessel’s side and gazed sadly at the receding shore—“farewell to you, kind missionaries and faithful negro friends.”

“Ay,” added Peterkin, with a deep sigh, “and fare-you-well, ye monstrous apes; gorillas, fare-you-well!”

The End.

Chapter One.

Begins to Unfold the Tale of the Lions by Describing the Lion of the Tale.

We trust, good reader, that it will not cause you a feeling of disappointment to be told that the name of our hero is Brown—Tom Brown. It is important at the beginning of any matter that those concerned should clearly understand their position, therefore we have thought fit, even at the risk of throwing a wet blanket over you, to commence this tale on one of the most romantic of subjects by stating—and now repeating that our hero was a member of the large and (supposed to be) unromantic family of “the Browns.”

A word in passing about the romance of the family. Just because the Brown family is large, it has some to be deemed unromantic. Every one knows that two of the six green-grocers in the next street are Browns. The fat sedate butcher round the corner is David Brown, and the milkman is James Brown. The latter is a square-faced practical man, who is looked up to as a species of oracle by all his friends. Half a dozen drapers within a mile of you are named Brown, and all of them are shrewd men of business, who have feathered their nests well, and stick to business like burrs. You will certainly find that several of the hardest-working clergymen, and one or more of the city missionaries, are named Brown; and as to Doctor Browns, there is no end of them! But why go further? The fact is patent to every unprejudiced person.

Now, instead of admitting that the commonness of the name of Brown proves its owners to be unromantic, we hold that this is a distinct evidence of the deep-seated romance of the family. In the first place, it is probable that their multitudinosity is the result of romance, which, as every one knows, has a tendency to cause men and women to fall in love, and marry early in life. Brown is almost always a good husband and a kind father. Indeed he is a good, steady-going man in all the relations of life, and his name, in our mind at least, is generally associated with troops of happy children who call him “daddy,” and regard him in the light of an elephantine playmate. And they do so with good reason, for Brown is manly and thorough-going in whatever he undertakes, whether it be the transaction of business or romping with his children.

But, besides this, the multitudinosity of the Browns cuts in two directions. If there are so many of them green-grocers, butchers, and milkmen—who without sufficient reason are thought to be unromantic—it will be found that they are equally numerous in other walks of life; and wherever they walk they do so coolly, deliberately, good-humouredly, and very practically. Look at the learned professions, for instance. What a host of Browns are there. The engineers and contractors too, how they swarm in their lists. If you want to erect a suspension bridge over the British Channel, the only man who is likely to undertake the job for you is Adam Brown, C.E., and Abel Brown will gladly provide the materials. As to the army, here their name is legion; they compose an army of themselves; and they are all enthusiasts—but quiet, steady-going, not noisy or boastful enthusiasts. In fact, the romance of Brown consists very much in his willingness to fling himself, heart and soul, into whatever his hand finds to do. The man who led the storming party, and achieved immortal glory by getting himself riddled to death with bullets, was Lieutenant Brown—better known as Ned Brown by his brother officers, who could not mention his name without choking for weeks after his sad but so-called “glorious” fall. The other man who accomplished the darling wish of his heart—to win the Victoria Cross—by attaching a bag of gunpowder to the gate of the fortress and blowing it and himself to atoms to small that no shred of him big enough to hang the Victoria Cross upon was ever found, was Corporal Brown, and there was scarcely a dry eye in the regiment when he went down.

Go abroad among the barbarians of the earth, to China, for instance, and ask who is yonder thick-set, broad-chested man, with the hearty expression of face, and the splendid eastern uniform, and you will be told that he is Too Foo, the commander-in-chief of the Imperial forces in that department. If, still indulging curiosity, you go and introduce yourself to him, he will shake you heartily by the hand, and, in good English, tell you that his name is Walter Brown, and that he will be charmed to show you something of Oriental life if you will do him the favour to take a slice of puppy dog in his pagoda after the review! If there is a chief of a hill tribe in Hindustan in want of a prime minister who will be able to carry him through a serious crisis, there is a Brown at hand, who speaks not only his own language, but all the dialects and languages of Hindustan, who is quite ready to assume office. It is the same at the diggings, whether of Australia, California, or Oregon; and we are persuaded that the man whose habitation is nearest to the pole at this moment, whether north or south, is a Brown, if he be not a Jones, Robinson, or Smith!

Need more be said to prove that this great branch of the human family is truly associated with all that is wild, grand, and romantic? We think not; and we hope that the reader is now somewhat reconciled to the fact—which cannot be altered, and which we would not alter if we could—that our hero’s name is Tom Brown.

Tom was the son of a settler at the Cape of Good Hope, who, after leading the somewhat rough life of a trader into the interior of Africa, made a fortune, and retired to a suburban villa in Cape Town, there to enjoy the same with his wife and family. Having been born in Cape Town, our hero soon displayed a disposition to extend his researches into the unknown geography of his native land, and on several occasions lost himself in the bush. Thereafter he ran away from school twice, having been seized with a romantic and irresistible desire to see and shoot a lion! In order to cure his son of this propensity, Mr Brown sent him to England, where he was put to school, became a good scholar, and a proficient in all games and athletic exercises. After that he went to college, intending, thereafter, to return to the Cape, join his father, and go on a trading expedition into the interior, in order that he might learn the business, and carry it on for himself.

Tom Brown’s mother and sisters—there were six of the latter—were charming ladies. Everybody said what pleasant people the Browns were—that there was no nonsense about them, and that they were so practical, yet so lively and full of spirit. Mrs Brown, moreover, actually held the belief that people had souls as well as bodies, which required feeding in order to prevent starvation, and ensure healthy growth! On the strength of this belief she fed her children out of that old-fashioned, yet ever new, volume, the Bible, and the consequence was, that the Miss Browns were among the most useful members of the church to which they belonged, a great assistance to the clergymen and missionaries who waited those regions, and a blessing to the poor of the community. But we must dismiss the family without further remark, for our story has little or nothing to do with any member of it except Tom himself.

When he went to school in England, Tom carried his love for the lion along with him. The mere word had a charm for him which he could not account for. In childhood he had dreamed of lion-hunting; in riper years he played at games of his own invention which had for their chief point the slaying or capturing of lions. Zoological gardens and “wild beast shows” had for him attractions which were quite irresistible. As he advanced in years, Richard of the Lion-heart became his chief historical hero; Androcles and the lion stirred up all the enthusiasm of his nature. Indeed it might have been said that the lion-rampant was stamped indelibly on his heart, while the British lion became to him the most attractive myth on record.

When he went to college and studied medicine, his imagination was sobered down a little; but when he had passed his examinations and was capped, and was styled Dr Brown by his friends, and began to make preparations for going back to the Cape, all his former enthusiasm about lions returned with tenfold violence.

Tom’s father intended that he should study medicine, not with a view to practising it professionally, but because he held it to be very desirable that every one travelling in the unhealthy regions of South Africa should possess as much knowledge of medicine as possible.

One morning young Dr Brown received a letter from his father which ran as follows:—

“MY DEAR TOM,—A capital opportunity of letting you see a little of the country in which I hope you will ultimately make your fortune has turned up just now. Two officers of the Cape Rifles have made up their minds to go on a hunting excursion into the interior with a trader named Hicks, and want a third man to join them. I knew you would like to go on such an expedition, remembering your leaning in that direction in days of old, so I have pledged you to them. As they start three months hence, the sooner you come out the better. I enclose a letter of credit to enable you to fit out and start at once. Your mother and sisters are all well, and send love.—Your affectionate father, J.B.”

Tom Brown uttered a wild cheer of delight on reading this brief and business-like epistle, and his curious landlady immediately answered to the shout by entering and wishing to know “if he had called and if he wanted hanythink?”

“No, Mrs Pry, I did not call; but I ventured to express my feelings in regard to a piece of good news which I have just received.”

“La, sir!”

“Yes, Mrs Pry, I’m going off immediately to South Africa to hunt lions.”

“You don’t mean it, sir!”

“Indeed I do, Mrs Pry; so pray let me have breakfast without delay, and make up my bill to the end of the week; I shall leave you then. Sorry to part, Mrs Pry. I have been very comfortable with you.”

“I ’ope so, sir.”

“Yes, very comfortable; and you may be assured that I shall recommend your lodgings highly wherever I go—not that there is much chance of my recommendation doing you any good, for out in the African bush I sha’n’t see many men who want furnished lodgings in London, and wild beasts are not likely to make inquiries, being already well provided in that way at home. By the way, when you make up your bill, don’t forget to charge me with the tumbler I smashed yesterday in making chemical experiments, and the tea-pot cracked in the same good cause. Accidents will happen, you know, Mrs Pry, and bachelors are bound to pay for ’em.”

“Certainly, sir; and please, sir, what am I to do with the cupboard full of skulls and ’uman bones downstairs?”

“Anything you choose, Mrs Pry,” said Tom, laughing; “I shall trouble my head no more with such things, so you may sell them if you please, or send them as a valuable gift to the British Museum, only don’t bother me about them; and do take yourself off like a good soul, for I must reply to my father’s letter immediately.”

Mrs Pry retired, and Tom Brown sat down to write a letter to “J.B.” in which he briefly thanked him for the letter of credit, and assured him that one of the dearest wishes of his heart was about to be realised, for that still—not less but rather more than when he was a runaway boy—his soul was set upon hunting the lions.

Chapter Two.

Sport Begins in Earnest.

Time, which is ever on the wing, working mighty changes in the affairs of man, soon transported our hero from Mrs Pry’s dingy little back parlour in London to the luxuriant wilds of Africa.

There, on the evening of a splendid day, he sat down to rest under the grateful shade of an umbrageous tree, in company with Major Garret and Lieutenant Wilkins, both of whom had turned out to be men after Tom Brown’s own heart. They were both bronzed strapping warriors, and had entered those regions not only with a view to hunting lions, but also for the purpose of making collections of the plants and insects of the country, the major being a persevering entomologist, while the lieutenant was enthusiastically botanical. To the delight of these gentlemen they found that Tom, although not deeply learned on these subjects, was nevertheless extremely intelligent and appreciative.

The major was very tall, thin; strong, wiry, and black-bearded. The lieutenant was very short, thickset, deep-chested, and powerful. Tom himself was burly, ruddy, broad, and rather above middle size.

“Now this is what I call real felicity,” observed the major, pulling out a pipe which he proceeded to fill. Tom Brown followed his example, and Bob Wilkins, who was not a smoker, and had a somewhat facetious disposition, amused himself by quizzing his comrades and carving a piece of wood with his penknife.

“Does the real felicity, major, result from the tobacco or the surrounding circumstances?” asked Wilkins.

“From both, Bob,” replied the other with a smile, “and you need not spoil my felicity by repeating your well-known set of phrases about the evils of smoking, for I know them all by heart, and I dare say so does Tom.”

“Impossible,” said Wilkins; “I have not yet been two weeks in his company; he cannot, therefore, have heard a tithe of the irresistible arguments which I bring to bear on that pernicious practice, and which I hope some day to throw into shape and give to the public in the form of a bulky volume.”

“Which will end in smoke,” interrupted the major.

“In a literal sense, too,” added Tom Brown, “for it will be sold as waste-paper and be made up into matches.”

“We shall see,” retorted Wilkins, cutting carefully round the right nostril of a baboon’s head which he had carved on the end of a walking-stick; “meanwhile, major, as you are better acquainted than we are with this outlandish country, and have taken on yourself the leadership of the party, will you condescend to give Tom Brown and me some idea of your intended movements—that is, if smoke and felicity will permit you to do so?”

“With pleasure, my dear fellow,” said the major puffing vigorously for a few moments to get his pipe well alight. “It was my intention to make for Big Buffalo’s Village, or kraal as they call it here, and, getting the assistance of some of his sable Majesty’s subjects, hunt the country in his neighbourhood, but I heard from Hicks this morning, before we left the camp, that a band of traders, at a kraal not far from us, are about to start for the Zulu country, and it struck me that we might as well join forces and advance together, for I prefer a large party to a small one—there is generally more fun to be got out of it.”

“Would it be well to tie ourselves to any one?” asked Tom Brown. “I have always found that a small party is more manageable than a large one however, I do but throw out the suggestion in all humility.”

“He shall not necessarily be tied to them,” replied the major, re-lighting his pipe, which had a bad habit of going out when he talked; “we may keep company as long as we find it agreeable to do so, and part when we please. But what say you to the change of plan? I think it will bring us into a better hunting country.”

“Whatever you think best, major, will please me,” said Tom, “for I’m ignorant of everything here and place myself entirely under your directions.”

“And I am agreeable,” added Bob Wilkins.

“You are neither agreeable nor grammatical,” said the major.

“Well, if you insist on it, I’m agreed. But do put your pipe out, Tom, and let us resume our march, for we have a long way to go, and much work to do before reaching the camp to-night.”

Thus admonished, Tom Brown made an extinguisher of the end of his forefinger, put his short clay pipe in his waistcoat pocket, and, shouldering his rifle, followed his companions into the forest, on the edge of which they had been resting.

The country through which they passed was extremely beautiful, particularly in the eyes of our hero, for whom the magnificence of tropical vegetation never lost its charms. The three sportsmen had that morning left their baggage, in a wagon drawn by oxen, in charge of Hicks the trader, who had agreed to allow them to accompany him on a trading expedition, and to serve them in the capacity of guide and general servant. They had made a détour through the forest with a party of six natives, under the guidance of a Caffre servant named Mafuta, and were well repaid for the time thus spent, by the immense variety of insects and plants which the naturalists found everywhere. But that which delighted them most was the animal life with which the whole region teemed. They saw immense herds of wolves, deer of various kinds, hyenas, elands, buffalo, and many other wild beasts, besides innumerable flocks of water-fowl of all kinds. But they passed these unmolested, having set their hearts that day on securing higher game. As Wilkins said, “nothing short of a lion, an elephant, a rhinoceros, or hippopotamus” would satisfy them and that they had some chance of securing one or more of these formidable brutes was clear, because their voices had been several times heard, and their footprints had been seen everywhere.

About an hour after resuming their walk, the major went off in hot pursuit of an enormous bee, which he saw humming round a bush. About the same time, Wilkins fell behind to examine one of the numerous plants that were constantly distracting his attention, so that our hero was left for a time to hunt alone with the natives. He was walking a considerable distance in advance of them when he came to a dense thicket which was black as midnight, and so still that the falling of a leaf might have been heard. Tom Brown surveyed the thicket quietly for a few seconds, and observing the marks of some large animal on the ground, he beckoned to the Caffre who carried his spare double-barrelled gun. Up to this date our hero had not shot any of the large denizens of the African wilderness, and now that he was suddenly called upon to face what he believed to be one of them, he acquitted himself in a way that might have been expected of a member of the Brown family! He put off his shoes, cocked his piece, and entered the thicket alone—the natives declining to enter along with him. Coolly and very quietly he advanced into the gloomy twilight of the thicket, and as he went he felt as though all the vivid dreams and fervid imaginings about lions that had ever passed through his mind from earliest infancy were rushing upon him in a concentrated essence! Yet there was no outward indication of the burning thoughts within, save in the sparkle of his dark brown eye, and the flush of his brown cheek. As he wore a brown shooting-coat, he may be said to have been at that time Brown all over!

He had proceeded about fifty yards or so when, just as he turned a winding in the path, he found himself face to face with an old buffalo-bull, fast asleep, and lying down not ten yards off. To drop on one knee and level his piece was the work of an instant, but unfortunately he snapped a dry twig in doing so. The eyes of the huge brute opened instantly, and he had half risen before the loud report of the gun rang through the thicket. Leaping up, Tom Brown took advantage of the smoke to run back a few yards and spring behind a bush, where he waited to observe the result of his shot. It was more tremendous then he had expected. A crash on his right told him that another, and unsuspected, denizen of the thicket had been scared from his lair, while the one he had fired at was on his legs snuffing the air for his enemy. Evidently the wind had been favourable, for immediately he made a dead-set and charged right through the bush behind which our hero was concealed. Tom leaped on one side; the buffalo-bull turned short round and made another dash at him. There was only the remnant of the shattered bush between the two; the buffalo stood for a few seconds eyeing him furiously, the blood streaming down its face from a bullet-hole between the two eyes, and its head garnished with a torn mass of the bush. Again it charged, and again Tom, unable to get a favourable chance for his second barrel, leaped aside and evaded it with difficulty. The bush was now trampled down, and scarcely formed a shadow of a screen between them; nevertheless Tom stood his ground, hoping to get a shot at the bull’s side, and never for a single instant taking his eye off him. Once more he charged, and again our hero escaped. He did not venture, however, to stand another, but turned and fled, closely followed by the infuriated animal.

A few yards in front the path turned at almost right angles. Tom thought he felt the hot breath of his pursuer on his neck as he doubled actively round the corner. His enemy could neither diverge from nor check his onward career; right through a fearfully tangled thicket he went, and broke into the open beyond, carrying an immense pile of rubbish on his horns. Tom instantly threw himself on his back in the thicket to avoid being seen, and hoped that his native followers would now attract the bull’s attention, but not one of them made his appearance, so he started up, and just as the disappointed animal had broken away over the plain, going straight from him, he gave him the second barrel, and hit him high up on the last rib on the off side, in front of the hip. He threw up his tail, made a tremendous bound in the air, dashed through bush-thorns so dense and close that it seemed perfectly marvellous how he managed it, and fell dead within two hundred yards.

Note. If the reader should desire fuller accounts of such battles, we recommend to him African Hunting, a very interesting work, by W.C. Baldwin, Esquire, to whom, with Dr Livingstone, Du Chaillu, and others, I am indebted for most of the information contained in this volume,—R.M.B.

The moment it fell the natives descended from the different trees in which they had taken refuge at the commencement of the fray, and were lavish in their compliments; but Tom, who felt that he had been deserted in the hour of need, did not receive these very graciously, and there is no saying how far he might have proceeded in rebuking his followers (for the Brown family is pugnacious under provocation) had not the major’s voice been heard in the distance, shouting, “Hallo! look out! a buffalo! where are you, Tom Brown, Wilkins?”

“Hallo!” he added, bursting suddenly into the open where they were standing, “what’s this—a—buffalo? dead! Have ’ee killed him? why, I saw him alive not two minutes—”

His speech was cut short by a loud roar, as the buffalo he had been in chase of, scared by the approach of Wilkins, burst through the underwood and charged down on the whole party. They fled right and left, but as the brute passed, Wilkins, from the other side of the open, fired at it and put a ball in just behind the shoulder-blade. It did not fall, however, and the three hunters ran after it at full speed, Wilkins leading, Tom Brown next, and the major last. The natives kept well out of harm’s way on either side; not that they were unusually timid fellows, but they probably felt that where such able hands were at work it was unnecessary for them to interfere!

As the major went racing clumsily along—for he was what may be called an ill-jointed man, nevertheless as bold as a lion and a capital shot—he heard a clatter of hoofs behind him, and, looking over his shoulder, observed another buffalo in full career behind. He stopped instantly, took quick aim at the animal’s breast, and fired, but apparently without effect. There chanced to be a forked tree close at hand, to which the major rushed and scrambled up with amazing rapidity. He was knocked out of it again quite as quickly by the shock of the tremendous charge made by the buffalo, which almost split its skull, and rolled over dead at the tree-root, shot right through the heart.

Meanwhile Tom Brown and the lieutenant had overtaken and killed the other animal, so that they returned to camp well laden with the best part of the meat of three buffaloes.

Here, while resting after the toils of the day, beside the roaring camp-fires, and eating their well-earned supper, Hicks the trader told them that a native had brought news of a desperate attack by lions on a kraal not more than a day’s journey from where they lay.

“It’s not far out o’ the road,” said Hicks, who was a white man—of what country no one knew—with a skin so weather-beaten by constant exposure that it was more like leather than flesh; “if you want some sport in that way, I’d advise ’ee to go there to-morrow.”

“Want some sport in that way!” echoed Wilkins in an excited tone; “why, what do you suppose we came here for? Of course we’ll go there at once; that is, if my comrades have no objection.”

“With all my heart,” said the major with a smile as he carefully filled his beloved pipe.

Tom Brown said nothing; but he smoked his pipe quietly, and nodded his head gently, and felt a slight but decided swelling of the heart, as he murmured inwardly to himself, “Yes, I’ll have a slap at the lions to-morrow.”

Chapter Three.

In which Great Deeds are Done, and Tom Brown has a Narrow Escape.

But Tom was wrong. Either the report had been false, or the lions had a special intimation that certain destruction approached them; for our hunters waited two nights at the native kraal without seeing one, although the black king thereof stoutly affirmed that they had attacked the cattle enclosures nearly every night for a week past, and committed great havoc.

One piece of good fortune, however, attended them, which was that they unexpectedly met with the large party which the major had expressed his wish to join. It consisted of about thirty men, four of whom were sportsmen, and the rest natives, with about twenty women and children, twelve horses, seventy oxen, five wagons, and a few dogs; all under the leadership of a trader named Hardy.

Numerous though the oxen were, there were not too many of them, as the reader may easily believe when we tell him that the wagons were very large, clumsy, and heavily laden,—one of them, besides other things, carrying a small boat—and that it occasionally required the powers of twenty oxen to drag one wagon up some of the bad hills they encountered on the journey to the Zulu country.

The four sportsmen, who were named respectively Pearson, Ogilvie, Anson, and Brand, were overjoyed at the addition to the party of Tom Brown and his companions, the more so that Tom was a doctor, for the constitutions of two of them, Ogilvie and Anson, had proved to be scarcely capable of withstanding the evil effects of the climate. Tom prescribed for them so successfully that they soon regained their strength; a result which he believed, however, was fully as much due to the cheering effects of the addition to their social circle as to medicine.

Having rested at the kraal a few days, partly to recruit the travellers, and partly to give the lions an opportunity of returning and being shot, the whole band set forth on their journey to the Umveloose river, having previously rendered the king of the kraal and his subjects happy by a liberal present of beads, brass wire, blue calico, and blankets.

At the kraal they had procured a large quantity of provisions for the journey—amobella meal for porridge, mealies, rice, beans, potatoes, and water-melons; and, while there, they had enjoyed the luxury of as much milk as they could drink; so that all the party were in pretty good condition and excellent spirits when they left. But this did not last very long, for the weather suddenly changed, and rain fell in immense quantities. The long rank grass of those regions became so saturated that it was impossible to keep one’s-self dry; and, to add to their discomforts, mosquitoes increased in numbers to such an extent that some of the European travellers could scarcely obtain a wink of sleep.

“Oh dear!” groaned poor Wilkins, one night as he lay between the major and Tom Brown on the wet grass under the shelter of a bullock-wagon covered with a wet blanket; “how I wish that the first mosquito had never been born!”

“If the world could get on without rain,” growled the major, “my felicity would be complete. There is a particular stream which courses down the underside of the right shaft of the wagon, and meets with some obstruction just at the point which causes it to pour continuously down my neck. I’ve shifted my position twice, but it appears to follow me, and I have had sensations for the last quarter of an hour which induce me to believe that a rivulet is bridged by the small of my back. Ha! have you killed him this time?”

The latter remark was addressed to Tom Brown, who had for some time past been vigorously engaged slapping his own face in the vain hope of slaying his tormentors—vain, not only because they were too quick to be caught in that way, but also, because, if slain by hundreds at every blow, there would still have remained thousands more to come on!

“No,” replied Tom, with a touch of bitterness in his tone; “he’s not dead yet.”

“He?” exclaimed Wilkins; “do you mean to say that you are troubled by only one of the vile creatures?”

“Oh no!” said Tom; “there are millions of ’em humming viciously round my head at this moment, but one of them is so big and assiduous that I have come to recognise his voice—there! d’you hear it?”

“Hear it!” cried Wilkins; “how can you expect me to hear one of yours when I am engaged with a host of my own? Ah! but I hear that,” he added, laughing, as another tremendous crack resounded from Tom Brown’s cheek; “what a tough skin you must have, to be sure, to stand such treatment?”

“I am lost in admiration of the amiableness of your temper, Tom,” remarked the major. “If I were to get such a slap in the face as that, even from myself, I could not help flying in a passion. Hope the enemy is defeated at last?”

“I—I—think so,” said Tom, in that meditative tone which assures the listener that the speaker is intensely on the qui vive; “yes, I believe I have—eh—no—there he—oh!”

Another pistol-shot slap concluded the sentence, and poor Tom’s companions in sorrow burst into a fit of laughter.

“Let ’im bite, sir,” growled the deep bass voice of Hardy, who lay under a neighbouring wagon; “when he’s got his beak well shoved into you, and begins to suck, he can’t get away so quick, ’cause of havin’ to pull it out again! hit out hard and quick then, an’ you’re sure of him. But the best way’s to let ’em bite, an’ go to sleep.”

“Good advice; I’ll try to take it,” said Tom, turning round with a sigh, and burying his face in the blanket. His companions followed his example, and in spite of rain and mosquitoes were soon fast asleep.

This wet weather had a very depressing effect on their spirits, and made the region so unhealthy that it began ere long to tell on the weaker members of the sporting party; as for the natives, they, being inured to it, were proof against everything. Being all but naked, they did not suffer from wet garments; and as they smeared their bodies over with grease, the rain ran off them as it does off the ducks. However, it did not last long at that time. In a few days the sky cleared, and the spirits of the party revived with their health.

The amount of animal life seen on the journey was amazing. All travellers in Africa have borne testimony to the fact that it teems with animals. The descriptions which, not many years ago, were deemed fabulous, have been repeated to us as sober truth by men of unquestionable veracity. Indeed, no description, however vivid, can convey to those whose personal experience has been limited to the fields of Britain an adequate conception of the teeming millions of living creatures, great and small, four-footed and winged, which swarm in the dense forests and mighty plains of the African wilderness.

Of course the hunters of the party were constantly on the alert, and great was the slaughter done; but great also was the capacity of the natives for devouring animal food, so that very little of the sport could be looked upon in the light of life taken in vain.

Huge and curious, as well as beautiful, were the creatures “bagged.”

On one occasion Tom Brown went out with the rest of the party on horseback after some elephants, the tracks of which had been seen the day before. In the course of the day Tom was separated from his companions, but being of an easy-going disposition, and having been born with a thorough belief in the impossibility of anything very serious happening to him, he was not much alarmed, and continued to follow what he thought were the tracks of elephants, expecting every moment to fall in with, or hear shots from his friends.

During the journey Tom had seen the major, who was an old sportsman, kill several elephants, so that he conceived himself to be quite able for that duty if it should devolve upon him. He was walking his horse quietly along a sort of path that skirted a piece of thicket when he heard a tremendous crashing of trees, and looking up saw a troop of fifty or sixty elephants dashing away through a grove of mapani-trees. Tom at once put spurs to his horse, unslung his large-bore double-barrelled gun, and coming close up to a cow-elephant, sent a ball into her behind the shoulder. She did not drop, so he gave her another shot, when she fell heavily to the ground.

At that moment he heard a shot not far off. Immediately afterwards there was a sound of trampling feet which rapidly increased, and in a few moments the whole band of elephants came rushing back towards him, having been turned by the major with a party of natives. Not having completed the loading of his gun, Tom hastily rode behind a dense bush, and concealed himself as well as he could. The herd turned aside just before reaching the bush, and passed him about a hundred yards off with a tremendous rush, their trunks and tails in the air, and the major and Wilkins, with a lot of natives and dogs, in full pursuit. Tom was beginning to regret that he had not fired a long shot at them, when he heard a crash behind him, and looking back saw a monstrous bull-elephant making a terrific charge at him. It was a wounded animal, mad with rage and pain, which had caught sight of him in passing. Almost before he was aware of its approach it went crashing through the thicket trumpeting furiously, and tearing down trees, bushes, and everything before it.

Tom lay forward on the neck of his steed and drove the spurs into him. Away they went like the wind with the elephant close behind. In his anxiety Tom cast his eyes too often behind him. Before he could avoid it he was close on the top of a very steep slope, or stony hill, which went down about fifty yards to the plain below. To rein up was impossible, to go down would have been almost certain death to horse and man. With death before and behind, our hero had no alternative but to swerve, for the trunk of the huge creature was already almost over the haunch of his terrified horse. He did swerve. Pulling the horse on his haunches, and swinging him round at the same moment as if on a pivot, he made a bound to the left. The elephant passed him with a shriek like that of a railway engine, stuck out its feet before it, and went sliding wildly down the slope—as little boys are sometimes wont to do—sending dust, atones, and rubbish in a stupendous cloud before him. At the foot he lost his balance, and the last that Tom saw of him was a flourish of his stumpy tail as he went heels over head to the bottom of the hill. But he could not stop to see more; his horse was away with him, and fled over the plain on the wings of terror for a mile in the opposite direction before he consented to be pulled up.

Tom’s companions, meanwhile, had shot two elephants—one a cow, the other a pretty old calf, and on their way back to camp they killed a buffalo. The other hunters had been also successful, so that the camp resounded with noisy demonstrations of joy, and the atmosphere ere long became redolent of the fumes of roasting meat, while the black bodies of the natives absolutely glittered with grease.

On summing up the result of the day’s work, it was found that they had bagged six elephants, three elands, two buffaloes, and a variety of smaller game.

“A good bag,” observed the major as he sipped his tea; “but I have seen better. However, we must rest content. By the way, Pearson, they tell me you had a narrow escape from a buffalo-bull.”

“So I had,” replied Pearson, pausing in the midst of a hearty meal that he was making off a baked elephant’s foot; “but for Anson there I believe it would have been my last hunt.”

“How did he help you?” asked Tom Brown.

“Come, tell them, Anson, you know best,” said Pearson; “I am too busy yet to talk.”

“Oh, it was simple enough,” said Anson with a laugh. “He and I had gone off together after a small herd of buffaloes; Ogilvie and Brand were away following up the spoor of an elephant. We came upon the buffaloes unexpectedly, and at the first shot Pearson dropped one dead—shot through the heart. We were both on foot, having left our horses behind, because the ground was too stony for them. After a hard chase of two hours we came up with the herd. Pearson fired at a young bull and broke its leg, nevertheless it went off briskly on the remaining three, so I fired and shot off its tail. This appeared to tickle his fancy, for he turned at once and charged Pearson, who dropped his gun, sprang into a thorn-tree and clambered out of reach only just in time to escape the brute, which grazed his heel in passing. Poor fellow, he got such a fright—”

“False!” cried Pearson, with his mouth full of meat.

“That he fell off the tree,” continued Anson, “and the bull turned to charge again, so, out of pity for my friend, I stopped him with a bullet in the chest.”

“It was well done, Anson, I’m your debtor for life,” said Pearson, holding out his plate; “just give me a little more of that splendid foot and you’ll increase the debt immeasurably; you see the adventure has not taken away my appetite.”

As he said this a savage growl was heard close to the wagon beside which they were seated. It was followed by a howl from one of the dogs. They all sprang up and ran towards the spot whence the sound came, just in time to see a panther bounding away with one of the dogs. A terrific yell of rage burst from every one, and each hastily threw something or other at the bold intruder. Pearson flung his knife and fork at it, having forgotten to drop those light weapons when he leaped up. The major hurled after it a heavy mass of firewood. Hardy and Hicks flung the huge marrow bones with which they happened to be engaged at the time. Tom Brown swung a large axe after it, and Wilkins, in desperation, shied his cap at it! But all missed their mark, and the panther would certainly have carried off his prize had not a very tall and powerfully-built Caffre, named Mafuta, darted at it an assegai, or long native spear, which, wounding it slightly, caused it to drop its prey.

The poor dog was severely hurt about the neck; it recovered, however, soon afterwards. The same night on which this occurred, one of the oxen was killed by a lion, but although all the people were more or less on the alert, the monarch of the woods escaped unpunished.

At an early hour next morning the train of wagons got into motion, and the hunters went out to their usual occupation.

Chapter Four.

Tom Sees Wonderful Sights, and at last has his Dreams Fulfilled.

Thus the travellers advanced day by day—sometimes in sunshine, sometimes in rain, now successful in hunting and now unsuccessful—until they reached the Zulu country and the banks of the river Umveloose.

Here they called a halt for a time, and began to hunt vigorously in all directions, aiming at every species of game. Our hero’s first introduction to the river scenery was interesting, to himself at least, and singular. Having placed himself at the disposal of his friends to be appointed to whatever duty they pleased, he was sent off in the small boat belonging to the party with plenty of ammunition and provisions; Lieutenant Wilkins being his companion, and the tall Caffre, Mafuta, his guide and instructor in African warfare against the brute creation.

Between Tom Brown and this man Mafuta there had sprung up a species of friendship, which grew stronger the more they became acquainted with each other. Mafuta was an unusually honest, affectionate and straightforward Caffre, who had been much in the settlements, and could speak a little English. He first drew forth our hero’s regard by nursing him with almost womanly tenderness during a three-days’ severe illness at the beginning of the journey. Thereafter Tom gained his affection by repeated little acts of kindness, done in a quiet, offhand, careless way, as though he had pleasure in being kind, and did not care much whether the kindness were appreciated or not. He also excited his admiration by the imperturbable coolness and smiling good-humour with which he received every event in life; from the offer of an elephant steak to the charge of a black rhinoceros. Mafuta was also fond of Wilkins; but he worshipped Tom Brown.

On reaching the river the boat was launched on a part where there was nothing particularly striking to merit notice, so Tom said: “D’you know, Bob, I’ve taken a fancy to ramble alone for an hour along the banks of this river; will you, like a good fellow, get into the boat with Mafuta, and let me go along the banks on foot for a few miles. As your work will only be dropping down stream, you won’t find it hard.”

“By all means, Tom; a pleasant journey to you but see that you don’t fall into the jaws of a lion or a crocodile!”

Our hero smiled as he waved his hand to his companions, and, turning away, was soon lost to sight among the bushes.

Now the fact was that Tom Brown, so far from being the unromantic creature that his name is erroneously supposed to imply, had such a superabundance of romance in his composition that he had, for some time past, longed to get away from his companions, and the noise and bustle of the wagon train, and go off alone into the solitudes of the great African wilderness, there to revel in the full enjoyment of the fact that he was in reality far far away from the haunts of civilised men; alone with primeval Nature!

The day happened to be delightful. Not too hot for walking, yet warm enough to incline one of Tom’s temperament to throw open his vest and bare his broad bosom to any breeze that might chance to gambol through the forest. With characteristic nonchalance he pushed his wideawake off his forehead for the sake of coolness, and in so doing tilted it very much on one side, which gave him a somewhat rakish air. He carried his heavy double-barrelled gun on one of his broad shoulders with the butt behind him, and his right hand grasping the muzzle, while in his left he held a handkerchief, with which he occasionally wiped his heated brow. It was evident that Tom experienced the effects of the heat much, but he did not suffer from it. He perspired profusely, breathed heavily, and swaggered unwittingly, while a beaming smile played on his ruddy countenance, which told of peace with himself and with all mankind.

Not so, however, with brute kind, as became apparent after he had advanced about half a mile in a dreamy state down the banks of the quiet river, for, happening to observe something of a tawny yellow colour among the bushes, he brought his gun to the “present” with great precipitancy, cocked both barrels, and advanced with the utmost caution.

Up to this period he had not been successful in accomplishing his great wish—the shooting of a lion. Many a time had he heard the strong voices of the brutes, and once or twice had seen their forms dimly in the night sneaking round the bullocks wagons, but he had not yet managed to get a fair full view of the forest king, or a good shot at him. His heart now beat high with hope, for he believed that he was about to realise his ancient dream. Slowly, step by step, he advanced, avoiding the dense bushes, stepping lightly over the small ones, insinuating himself through holes and round stems, and conducting himself in a way that would have done credit to a North American Indian, until he gained a tree, close on the other side of which he knew the tawny object lay. With beating heart, but steady hand and frowning eye, he advanced another step and found—that the object was a yellow stone!

There was a sudden motion about Tom’s jaws, as if he had gnashed his teeth, and a short gasp issued from his mouth, but that was all. The compressed steam was off; a smile wrinkled his visage immediately after, and quietly uncocking his gun he threw it over his shoulder and resumed his march.

On rounding a point a few minutes after, he was again arrested by a scene which, while it charmed, amazed him. Often had he observed the multitudes of living creatures with which the Creator has peopled that great continent, but never before had he beheld such a concentrated picture as was presented at that moment. Before him lay a wide stretch of the river, so wide, and apparently currentless, that it seemed like a calm lake, and so perfectly still that every object on and around it was faithfully mirrored on its depths—even the fleecy clouds that floated in the calm sky were repeated far down in the azure vault below.

Every part of this beautiful scene teemed with living creatures of every sort and size, from the huge alligators that lay like stranded logs upon the mud-banks, basking in the sun, to the tiny plover that waded in cheerful activity among the sedges. There were tall reeds in many places, and among these were thousands of cranes, herons, flamingoes, and other members of that long-necked and long-legged family; some engaged in solemnly searching for food, while others, already gorged, stood gravely on one leg, as if that position assisted digestion, and watched with quiet satisfaction the proceedings of their companions. The glassy surface of the mirror was covered in places with a countless host of geese, widgeons, teals and other water-fowl either gambolling about in sport, or sleeping away a recent surfeit, and thousands of other small birds and beasts swarmed about everywhere, giving a sort of faint indication of the inconceivable numbers of the smaller creatures which were there, though not visible to the observer. But Tom’s interest was chiefly centred on the huge animals—the crocodiles and hippopotami—which sprawled or floated about.

Not far from the bush from behind which he gazed, two large crocodiles lay basking on a mudbank—rugged and rough in the hide as two ancient trees—the one using the back of the other as a pillow. A little beyond these three hippopotami floated in the water, only the upper parts of their heads and rotund bodies being visible. These lay so motionless that they might have been mistaken for floating puncheons, and the observer would have thought them asleep, had he not noticed an occasional turn of the whites of their small eyes, and a slight puff of steam and water from their tightly compressed nostrils.

Truly it was a grand sight; one calculated to awaken in the most unthinking minds some thoughts about the infinite power of Him who made them all. Tom’s mind did rise upwards for a little. Although not at that time very seriously inclined, he was, nevertheless, a man whose mind had been trained to think with reverence of his Creator. He was engaged in solemn contemplation of the scene before him, when a deep gurgling plunge almost under the bush at his feet aroused him. It was a hippopotamus which had been standing on the river-brink within six yards of the muzzle of his gun. Tom cocked and presented, but thinking that the position of the animal did not afford him a good chance of killing it, he waited, feeling sure, at all events, of securing one of the various huge creatures that were lying so near him.

It says much for Tom’s powers of wood-craft that he managed to advance as near as he did to these animals without disturbing them. Few hunters could have done it; but it must be remembered that our hero, like all other heroes, was a man of unusual and astonishing parts!

While he hesitated for a few moments, undecided whether to fire at the crocodiles or the hippopotami, one of the latter suddenly uttered a prolonged snort or snore, and opened a mouth of such awful dimensions that Tom’s head and shoulders would have easily found room in it. As he gazed into the dark red throat he felt that the wild fictions of untravelled men fell far short of the facts of actual life, in regard to grandeur and horribility, and it struck him that if the front half of a hippopotamus were sewed to the rear half of a crocodile there would be produced a monster incomparably more grand and horrible than the fiercest dragon St. George ever slew! While these ideas were passing quickly through his excited brain, the boat, which he had totally forgotten, came quietly round the bend of the river above him. But the sharp-eared and quick-eyed denizens of the wilderness were on the alert; it had scarcely shown its prow round the point of land, and the hippopotamus had not quite completed its lazy yawn, when the entire winged host rose with a rushing noise so thunderous, yet so soft and peculiar, that words cannot convey the idea of the sight and sound. At the same time, many grunts and snorts and heavy plunges told that sundry amphibious creatures had been disturbed, and were seeking safety in the clear stream.

Tom hesitated no longer. He aimed at the yawning hippopotamus and fired, hitting it on the skull, but at such an angle that the ball glanced off. If there was noise before, the riot and confusion now was indescribable! Water-fowl that had not moved at the first alarm now sprang in myriads from reeds and sedges, and darkened the very air. The two alligators just under Tom’s nose spun their tails in the air with a whirl of awful energy that seemed quite incompatible with their sluggish nature, and rushed into the river. The hippopotami dived with a splash that covered the water around them with foam, and sent a wave of considerable size to the shore. The sudden burst of excitement, noise, splutter, and confusion was not less impressive than the previous calm had been, but Tom had not leisure to contemplate it, being himself involved in the whirl. Four shots from the boat told him that his companions were also engaged. One of the crocodiles re-appeared suddenly as if to have another look at Tom, who discharged his second barrel at it, sent a ball into its brain, and turned it over dead. He reloaded in great haste, and was in the act of capping when he heard a loud shout in the direction of the boat, and looking up, observed that Wilkins was standing in the bow gesticulating violently. He listened for a moment, but could not make out what he said.

“Hallo!” he cried, “shout louder; I don’t hear you.”

Again Wilkins shouted at the top of his voice, and waved his arms more frantically than before. Tom could not make out the words. He judged, however, that no man would put himself to such violent physical exertion without good reason, so he turned and looked cautiously around him. Presently he heard a crashing sound in the bushes, and a few moments afterwards observed three buffaloes tearing along the path in which he stood. It was these that Wilkins had seen from the boat when he attempted in vain to warn his friend. Tom jumped behind a bush, and as they passed tried to fire, but the foliage was so dense that he failed to get a good aim. Reserving his fire, therefore, he dashed after them at full speed. After running some distance the buffaloes stood still, and the nearest bull turned round and looked at Tom, who instantly sent a two ounce ball crashing into his shoulder. This turned them, and they all three made off at once, but the wounded one fell behind. Tom therefore stopped to reload, feeling pretty sure of him. Starting off in pursuit, he gained on the wounded animal at every stride, and was about to fire again, when his limbs were for a moment paralysed, and his heart was made almost to stand still at the sight of three full-grown lions which sprang at the unfortunate brute from a neighbouring thicket. They had no doubt gone there to rest for the day, but the sight of a lame and bleeding buffalo was a temptation too strong for them. The lions did not leap upon him, but, seizing him with their teeth and claws, stood on their hind legs and tried to tear him down with terrible ferocity.

Our hero, who, as we have said, was for a few moments bereft of the power of action, could do nothing but stand and gaze in amazement. All the dreams of his youth and manhood were as nothing to this! The poor buffalo fought nobly, but it had no chance against such odds, and would certainly have been torn to pieces and devoured had not Tom recovered his self-possession in a few minutes. Creeping up to within thirty yards he fired at one of the lions with such good aim that it fell dead almost on the spot, having time only to turn and seize a bush savagely with its teeth ere it died. The second barrel was discharged, but not with the same effect. Another of the lions was wounded, and sprang into the bushes with an angry roar. The third merely lifted his head, looked at Tom for a moment as if with indignant surprise, and then went on tearing at the carcass as hard as ever.

With a feeling of thankfulness that this particular king of the forest had treated him so contemptuously, Tom slunk behind a tree and recharged his gun, after which he advanced cautiously and sent a ball crashing through the lion’s shoulder. It ought to have killed him, he thought, but it did not, for he made off as fast as possible, just as Wilkins and Mafuta arrived, panting, on the scene of action.

“What a magnificent fellow!” exclaimed Wilkins going up to the dead lion. “Bravissimo, Tom, you’ve done it at last.”

“Done it!” cried Tom, as he loaded hastily, “why, I’ve all but done three. Follow up the trail, man, as fast as you can. I’ll overtake you in no time!”

Wilkins did not wait for more, but dashed into the thicket after Mafuta, who had preceded him.

Tom was quickly on their heels, and they had not gone far when one of the wounded lions was found lying on the ground quite dead. The other was not overtaken, but, as Wilkins said, two lions, a buffalo, and a hippopotamus, which latter he had shot from the boat, was not a bad beginning!

That night they encamped under the shelter of a spreading tree, and as they reclined at full length between two fires, which were kindled to keep off the wild beasts, enjoying a pipe after having feasted luxuriously on hippopotamus steaks and marrow bones, Tom Brown remarked: “Well, my dream has been realised at last, and, upon my word, I have not been disappointed.”

Chapter Five.

More about Lions!

As we have now introduced our readers to the lion, we think it but right to say something about his aspect and character, as given by some of our best authorities.

Dr Livingstone, that greatest of African travellers, seems to be of opinion that untravelled men are prone to overrate the lion, both as to his appearance and courage. From him we learn that when a lion is met with in the day-time—a circumstance by no means uncommon in Africa—the traveller will be disappointed with the appearance of the animal which they had been accustomed to hear styled “noble” and “majestic”; that it is somewhat larger than the largest-sized dog, partakes very strongly of the canine features, and does not much resemble our usual drawings of lions, which he condemns as bearing too strong a resemblance to “old women’s faces in nightcaps.” The Doctor also talks slightingly of its roar, and says that having made particular inquiry as to the opinions of European travellers who have heard the roar of the lion and that of the ostrich, he found they invariably admitted that they could not detect any difference between the two when the animals were at a distance.

Now, really, although we are bound to admit that the Doctor’s opinion is of great weight, we cannot, without a humble protest, allow ourselves to be thus ruthlessly stripped of all our romantic notions in regard to the “king of beasts”! We suspect that the Doctor, disgusted with the “twaddle” that has undoubtedly been talked in all ages about the “magnanimity” of the “noble” lion and his “terrific aspect,” has been led unintentionally to underrate him. In this land we have opportunities of seeing and hearing the lion in his captive state; and we think that most readers will sympathise with us when we say that even in a cage he has at least a very grand and noble aspect; and that, when about to be fed, his intermittent growls and small roars, so to speak, have something very awful and impressive, which nothing like the bellowing of a bull can at all equal. To say that the roar of the ostrich is equal to that of the lion is no argument at all; it does not degrade the latter, it merely exalts the former. And further, in regard to aspect, the illustrations in Dr Livingstone’s own most interesting work go far to prove that the lion is magnificent in appearance.

Thus much we dare venture to say, because on these points we, with all men, are in a position to form a judgment for ourselves. We, however, readily believe the great traveller when he tells us that nothing he ever heard of the lion led him to ascribe to it a noble character, and that it possesses none of the nobility of the Newfoundland or St. Bernard Dogs. The courage of the lion, although not greater than that of most large and powerful animals, is, without doubt, quite sufficient! But he fortunately possesses a wholesome dread of man, else would he certainly long ere now have become king of Africa as well as of beasts. When encountered in the day-time, he usually stands a second or two gazing, then turns slowly round and walks leisurely away for a dozen paces or so, looking over his shoulder as he goes. Soon he begins to trot, and, when he thinks himself out of sight, bounds off like a greyhound. As a rule, there is not the smallest danger of a lion attacking man by day, if he be not molested, except when he happens to have a wife and young family with him. Then, indeed, his bravery will induce him to face almost any danger. If a man happens to pass to windward of a lion and lioness with cubs, both parents will rush at him, but instances of this kind ere of rare occurrence.

It would seem that light of any kind has a tendency to scare away lions. Bright moonlight is a safeguard against them, as well as daylight. So well is this understood, that on moonlight nights it is not thought necessary to tie up the oxen, which are left loose by the wagons, while on dark rainy nights it is deemed absolutely necessary to tether them, because if a lion chanced to be in the vicinity, he would be almost sure to attack, and perhaps kill, an ox, notwithstanding the vigilance of guards and the light of the camp-fires. He always approaches stealthily, like the cat, except when wounded; but anything having the appearance of a trap will induce him to refrain from making the last fatal spring. This is a peculiarity of the whole feline species. It has been found in India that when a hunter pickets a goat on a plain as a bait, a tiger has whipped it off so quickly by a stroke of his paw that it was impossible to take aim. To obviate this difficulty a small pit is dug, in the bottom of which the goat is picketed, with a small stone tied in its ear to make it cry the whole night. When the suspicious tiger sees the appearance of a trap he walks round and round the pit, thus giving the hunter in ambush a fair shot.

When a hungry lion is watching for prey, the sight of any animal will make him commence stalking it. On one occasion a man was very busy stalking a rhinoceros, when, happening to glance behind him, he found to his consternation that a lion was stalking him! he escaped by springing up a tree.

The strength of the lion is tremendous, owing to the immense mass of muscle around its jaws, shoulders, and forearms. What one hears, however, of his sometimes seizing an ox or a horse in his mouth and running away with it, as a cat does with a mouse, and even leaping hedges, etcetera, is nonsense. Dr Livingstone says that most of the feats of strength he has seen performed by lions consisted, not in carrying, but dragging or trailing the carcass along the ground.

He usually seizes his prey by the flank near the hind leg, or by the throat below the jaw. He has his particular likings and tit-bits, and is very expert in carving out the parts of an animal that please him best. An eland may be sometimes disembowelled by a lion so completely that he scarcely seems cut up at all, and the bowels and fatty parts of the interior form a full meal for the lion, however large or hungry he may be. His pert little follower the jackal usually goes after him, sniffing about and waiting for a share, and is sometimes punished for his impudent familiarity with a stroke of the lion’s paw, which of course kills him.

Lions are never seen in herds, but sometimes six or eight—probably one family—are seen hunting together. Much has been said and written about the courage of the lion, and his ability to attack and kill any other animal. His powers in this respect have been overrated. It is questionable if a single lion ever attacks a full-grown buffalo. When he assails a calf, the cow will rush upon him, and one toss from her horns is sufficient to kill him. The amount of roaring usually heard at night, when a buffalo is killed, seems to indicate that more than one lion has been engaged in the fight. They never attack any elephants, except the calves. “Every living thing,” writes Livingstone, “retires before the lordly elephant, yet a full-grown one would be an easier prey to the lion than a rhinoceros. The lion rushes off at the mere sight of this latter beast!”

When a lion grows too old to hunt game, he frequently retires to spend the decline of life in the suburbs of a native village, where he is well content to live by killing goats. A woman or a child happening to go out at night sometimes falls a prey also. Being unable, of course, to alter this style of life, when once he is reduced to it, he becomes habitually what is styled a “man-eater,” and from this circumstance has arisen the idea that when a lion has once tasted human flesh he prefers it to any other. In reality a “man-eater” is an old fellow who cannot manage to get anything else to eat, and who might perhaps be more appropriately styled a woman and child eater! When extreme old age comes upon him in the remote deserts, far from human habitations, he is constrained to appease the cravings of hunger with mice! The African lion is of a tawny colour, like that of some mastiffs. The mane in the male is large, and gives the idea of great power. In some the ends of the hair are black, and these go by the name of black-maned lions, but, as a whole, all of them look of a tawny yellow colour.

Having said thus much about his general character and appearance, we shall resume the thread of our story, and show how the lions behaved to Tom Brown and his friends the very night after the event narrated in the last chapter.

The hunters had got back to the wagons, and were about to turn in for the night, in order to recruit for the work of the following day, when the sky became overcast, and gave every indication of a coming storm. A buffalo bull had been shot by Pearson an hour before the arrival of our hero and his companions, and the Caffres were busily engaged on his carcass. A fire had been lighted, the animal cut up, and part of him roasted, and the natives alternately ate a lump of roasted flesh and an equal quantity of the inside raw! When the sky began to darken, however, they desisted for a time, and set about making preparations for the coming storm.

It burst upon them ere long with awful fury and grandeur, the elements warring with incredible vehemence. Rain fell in such floods that it was scarcely possible to keep the fires burning, and the night was so pitchy dark that the hand could scarcely be seen when held close to the eyes. To add to the horror of the scene, crashing peals of thunder appeared to rend the sky, and these were preceded by flashes of lightning so vivid that each left the travellers with the impression of being stone-blind.

After an hour or two the storm passed by, leaving them drenched to the skin. However, the fires were stirred up, and things made as comfortable as circumstances would admit of.

Just a little before daybreak they were all wakened by the bellowing of the oxen and the barking of dogs.

“Something there,” muttered Hicks, leaping up and seizing his gun.

The major, Tom Brown, Wilkins, Pearson, and the others were immediately on their feet and wide awake. There was just light enough to distinguish objects dimly when close at hand; but the surrounding woods resembled a wall of impenetrable darkness. Close to the wagon in which our hero lay the natives had erected a temporary hut of grass, about six feet high. On the top of this he saw a dark form, which, by the sound of his voice, he recognised to be that of a native named Jumbo, who was more noted for good nature and drollery than for courage. He was shouting lustily for a percussion-cap. Tom sprang on the top of the hut and supplied him with several caps, at the same time exclaiming:—

“Hallo! Jumbo, don’t make such a row. You’ll scare everything away.”

“Ho! Me wish um could,” said Jumbo, his teeth chattering in his head with fear as he listened to the dying groans of a poor ox, and heard the lions growling and roaring beside him. They were not more than fourteen yards off, but so dark was the night that they could not be seen. The ox, however, which was a black one, was faintly distinguishable; Tom Brown therefore aimed, as near as he could guess, about a foot above him and fired. No result followed. He had evidently missed. While he was re-loading, the major and Wilkins rushed forward and leaped on the hut, exclaiming eagerly, “Where are they? have you hit?” Immediately afterwards, Pearson, Brand, Ogilvie, and Anson rushed up and attempted to clamber on the hut.

“No room here,” cried the major, resisting them, “quite full outside—inside not safe!”

“But there’s no room on the wagon,” pleaded Pearson; “the niggers are clustering on it like monkeys.”

“Can’t help it,” replied the major, “there’s not an inch of—”

Here a tremendous roar interrupted him, and a loud report followed, as Jumbo and Wilkins, having caught sight of “something” near the carcass, fired simultaneously. Pearson and his companions in trouble vanished like smoke, while the major, failing to see anything, fired in the direction of the lions on chance. Tom also fired at what he felt convinced was the head of a lioness. Still the animals appeared to be unhurt and indifferent! The sportsmen were busy loading when Tom became aware, for one instant, that something was moving in the air. Next moment he was knocked backwards off the hut, head over heels, several times, having been struck full in the chest by a lion’s head. Half inclined to believe that he was killed he scrambled to his feet, still holding fast to his gun, however, like a true hunter, and rushed towards the wagon, where he found all the Caffres who could not get inside sticking on the outside, as Pearson had said, like monkeys. There was literally no room for more, but Tom cared not for that. He seized legs, arms, and hair indiscriminately, and in another moment was on the top of the living mass. He had leaped very smartly to this point of vantage, nevertheless he found Jumbo there before him, chattering worse than ever! The major and and Wilkins came up breathless next moment, clambered halfway up, slipped, and fell to the ground with a united roar; but making a second attempt, they succeeded in getting up. Wilkins at once presented in the direction of the lions and again fired. Whether any of them fell is a matter of dispute, but certain it is that Wilkins fell, for the recoil of the gun knocked him back, his footing being insecure, and he went down on the top of a tent which had been pitched on the other side of the wagon, and broke the pole of it. After this several more shots were fired, apparently without success. While they were reloading a lion leaped on a goat, which was tethered to the grass-hut, and carried it away before any one could fire. Not daring to descend from their places of security, there the whole party sat in the cold during the remainder of that night, listening to the growling of the lions as they feasted on their prey. It was not till grey dawn appeared that the enemy beat a retreat, and allowed the shivering travellers to get once more between the blankets. They had not lain long, however, when a double shot aroused them all, and they rushed out to find that Mafuta had killed a lioness! She was a splendid creature, and had succumbed to a bullet sent through her ribs. It was found on examination that another ball had hit her just behind the head, and travelling along the spine, had stuck near the root of the tail.

“Me no hab fire at head,” said Mafuta, with a disappointed look. “Me hit him in ribs wid wan bar’l, an’ miss him wid tother.”

“What is that you say?” cried Tom Brown examining the bullet-hole; “ha! I claim that lioness, because I fired at her head last night, and there you have the bullet-hole.”

“Cut out the ball and see,” said Hicks, drawing his knife.

When the ball was extracted it was indeed found to have been fired from Tom’s gun, so, according to sporting law in that region, which ordains that he who first draws blood claims the game, the lioness was adjudged to belong to Tom.

Our hero returned to his blankets once more, congratulating himself not a little on his good fortune, when his attention was arrested by two shots in succession at no great distance. Seizing his gun he ran to the place expecting to find that more game had been slain, but he only found Hardy standing over one of the oxen which was breathing its last. The lions had driven it mad with terror during the night, and the trader had been obliged to shoot it. This was a great misfortune, for it was about the best ox in the train.

Chapter Six.

Gives a Few Hints to Would-be Hunters, and a Friend in Need is Introduced.

In describing the principal incidents of a long journey, it is impossible to avoid crowding them together, so as to give a somewhat false impression of the expedition as a whole. The reader must not suppose that our hunters were perpetually engaged in fierce and deadly conflict with wild beasts and furious elements! Although travelling in Africa involves a good deal more of this than is to be experienced in most other parts of the world, it is not without its periods of calm and repose. Neither must it be imagined that the hunters—whom hitherto we have unavoidably exhibited in the light of men incapable of being overcome either by fatigues or alarms—were always in robust health, ready at any moment to leap into the grasp of a lion or the jaws of a crocodile. Their life, on the whole, was checkered. Sometimes health prevailed in the camp, and all went on well and heartily; so that they felt disposed to regard wagon-travelling—in the words of a writer of great experience—as a prolonged system of picnicking, excellent for the health, and agreeable to those who are not over-fastidious about trifles, and who delight in being in the open air. At other times, especially when passing through unhealthy regions, some of their number were brought very low by severe illness, and others—even the strongest—suffered from the depressing influence of a deadly climate. But they were all men of true pluck, who persevered through heat and cold, health and sickness, until, in two instances, death terminated their career.

It may not be out of place here to make a few remarks for the benefit of those ardent spirits who feel desperately heroic and emulative when reading at their own firesides, and who are tempted by descriptions of adventure to set their hearts on going forth to “do and dare,” as others have done and dared before them! All men are not heroes, and in many countries men may become average hunters without being particularly heroic. In Norway, for instance, and in North America, any man of ordinary courage may become a Nimrod; and even heroes will have opportunities afforded them of facing dangers of a sufficiently appalling nature, if they choose to throw themselves in their way; but in Africa a man must be really a hero if he would come off scatheless and with credit. We have proved this to some extent already, and more proof is yet to come. The dangers that one encounters in hunting there are not only very great and sufficiently numerous, but they are absolutely unavoidable. The writer before quoted says on this point: “A young sportsman, no matter how great among foxes, pheasants, and hounds, would do well to pause before resolving to brave fever for the excitement of risking the terrific charge of the elephant. The step of that enormous brute when charging the hunter, though apparently not quick, is so long that the pace equals the speed of a good horse at a canter. Its trumpeting or screaming when infuriated is more like what the shriek of a French steam-whistle would be to a man standing on the dangerous part of a railroad than any other earthly sound. A horse unused to it will sometimes stand shivering instead of taking his rider out of danger. It has happened often that the poor animal’s legs do their duty so badly that he falls and exposes his rider to be trodden into a mummy; or losing his presence of mind, the rider may allow the horse to dash under a tree, and crack his cranium against a branch. As one charge of an elephant has often been enough to make embryo hunters bid a final adieu to the chase, incipient Nimrods would do well to try their nerves by standing on railways till the engines are within a few yards of them, before going to Africa!”

Begging pardon for this digression, we return to our tale. While our sportsmen were advancing in company with the bullock-wagons one evening, at the close of a long and trying day, in which they had suffered a good deal from want of good water, they fell in with another party travelling in the opposite direction, and found that they belonged to the train of a missionary who had been on an expedition into the interior.

They gladly availed themselves of the opportunity thus afforded of encamping with a countryman, and called a halt for the night at a spot where a desert well existed.

As they sat round the fire that night, the missionary gave them some interesting and useful information about the country and the habits of the animals, as well as the condition of the natives.

“Those who inhabit this region,” said he, “have always been very friendly to us, and listen attentively to instruction conveyed to them in their own tongue. It is, however, difficult to give an idea to an Englishman of the little effect produced by our teaching, because no one can realise the degradation to which their minds have sunk by centuries of barbarism and hard struggling for the necessaries of life. Like most other savages, they listen with respect and attention to our talk; but when we kneel down and address an unseen Being, the position and the act often appear to them so ridiculous, that they cannot refrain from bursting into uncontrollable laughter. After a short time, however, they get over this tendency. I was once present when a brother missionary attempted to sing in the midst of a wild heathen tribe of natives who had no music in their composition, and the effect on the risible faculties of the audience was such that the tears actually ran down their cheeks.”

“Surely, if this be so,” said Tom Brown, “it is scarcely worth your while to incur so much labour, expense, and hardship for the sake of results so trifling.”

“I have not spoken of results, but of beginnings,” replied the missionary. “Where our efforts have been long-continued we have, through God’s blessing, been successful, I sincerely believe, in bringing souls to the Saviour. Of the effects of long-continued instruction there can be no reasonable doubt, and a mere nominal belief has never been considered by any body of missionaries as a sufficient proof of conversion. True, our progress has been slow, and our difficulties have been great; but let me ask, my dear sir, has the slowness of your own journey to this point, and its great difficulty, damped your ardour or induced you to think it scarcely worth your while to go on?”

“Certainly not,” replied Tom; “I don’t mean to give in yet. I confess that our ‘bag’ is not at present very large—nothing compared to what some sportsmen have had; but then if we persevere for a few months we are almost certain to succeed, whereas in your case the labour of many years seems to have been very much in vain.”

“Not in vain,” answered the other, “our influence has been powerfully felt, although the results are not obviously clear to every one who casts a mere passing glance at us and our field of labour. But you speak of persevering labour in hunting as being almost certain of success, whereas we missionaries are absolutely certain of it, because the Word, which cannot err, tells us that our labour is not in vain in the Lord, and, besides, even though we had no results at all to point to, we have the command, from which, even if we would, we cannot escape, ‘Go ye into all the world, and preach the gospel to every creature.’”

“Well, sir,” said the major, with the air of a man who highly approves of the philanthropic efforts of all men, so long as they do not interfere with the even tenor of his own way, “I am sure that your disinterested labours merit the gratitude of all good men, and I heartily wish you success. In the course of your remarks to-night you have happened to mention that peculiar bird the ostrich. May I ask if you have seen many of late?”

The missionary smiled at this very obvious attempt to change the subject of conversation, but readily fell in with the major’s humour, and replied—

“Oh yes, you will find plenty of them in the course of a few days, if you hold on the course you are going.”

“Is it true that he goes at the pace of a railway locomotive?” asked Wilkins.

“It is not possible,” replied the missionary, laughing, “to give a direct answer to that question, inasmuch as the speed of the locomotive varies.”

“Well, say thirty miles an hour,” said Wilkins.

“His pace is not far short of that,” answered the other. “When walking, his step is about twenty-six inches long, but when terrified and forced to run, his stride is from twelve to fourteen feet in length. Once I had a pretty fair opportunity of counting his rate of speed with a stop-watch, and found that there were about thirty steps in ten seconds; this, taking his average stride at twelve feet, gives a speed of twenty-six miles an hour. Generally speaking, one’s eye can no more follow the legs than it can the spokes of a carriage wheel in rapid motion.”

“I do hope we may succeed in falling in with one,” observed the major.

“If you do there is not much chance of your shooting it,” said the missionary.

“Why not?”

“Because he is so difficult to approach. Usually he feeds on some open spot where no one can approach him without being detected by his wary eye. However, you have this in your favour, that his stupidity is superior to his extreme caution. If a wagon should chance to move along far to windward of him, he evidently thinks it is trying to circumvent him, for instead of making off to leeward, as he might easily do, he rushes up to windward with the intention of passing ahead of the wagon, and sometimes passes so near the front oxen that one may get a shot at the silly thing. I have seen this stupidity of his taken advantage of when he was feeding in a valley open at both ends. A number of men would commence running as if to cut off his retreat from the end through which the wind came, and although he had the whole country hundreds of miles before him by going to the other end, he rushed madly on to get past the men, and so was speared, for it is one of his peculiarities that he never swerves from the course he has once adopted, but rushes wildly and blindly forward, anxious only to increase his speed. Sometimes a horseman may succeed in killing him by cutting across his undeviating course. It is interesting to notice a resemblance between this huge bird and our English wild duck or plover. I have several times seen newly-hatched young in charge of a cock-ostrich who made a very good attempt at appearing lame in order to draw off the attention of pursuers. The young squat down and remain immoveable, when too small to run far, but they attain a wonderful degree of speed when about the size of common fowls. It requires the utmost address of the bushmen, creeping for miles on their stomach, to stalk them successfully; yet the quantity of feathers collected annually shows that the numbers slain must be considerable, as each bird has only a few feathers in the wings and tail.”

“Well,” observed the major, shaking the ashes out of his pipe, “your account of the bird makes me hope that we shall fall in with him before our expedition is over.”

“Do you mean to be out long?”

“As long as we can manage, which will be a considerable time,” answered the major, “because we are well supplied with everything, except, I regret to say, medicine. The fact is that none of us thought much about that, for we have always been in such a robust state of health that we have scarce believed in the possibility of our being knocked down; but the first few weeks of our journey hither taught some of us a lesson when too late.”

“Ah, we are often taught lessons when too late,” said the missionary; “however, it is not too late on this occasion, for I am happy to say that I can supply you with all the physic you require.”

The major expressed much gratification on hearing this, and indeed he felt it, for the country into which they were about to penetrate was said to be rather unhealthy.

“You are very kind, sir,” he said; “my companions and I shall feel deeply indebted to you for this opportune assistance.”

“Are you quite sure,” asked the missionary pointedly, “that you are supplied with everything else that you require?”

“I think so,” replied the major. “Let me see—yes, I don’t know that we need anything more, now that you have so kindly offered to supply us with physic, which I had always held, up to the period of my residence in Africa, was fit only to be thrown to the dog.”

The missionary looked earnestly in the major’s face, and said—

“Excuse me, sir, have you got a Bible?”

“Well—a—really, my dear sir,” he replied, somewhat confusedly, “I must confess that I have not. The fact is, that it is somewhat inconvenient to carry books in such regions, and I did not think of bringing a Bible. Perhaps some one of our party may have one, however.”

None of the party replied to the major’s look except Tom Brown, who quietly said—

“There is one, I believe, in the bottom of my trunk; one of my sisters told me she put it there, but I cannot say positively that I have seen it.”

“Will you accept of one?” said the missionary, rising; “we start at an early hour in the morning, and before going I would like to remind you, gentlemen, that eternity is near—nearer perchance than we suppose to some of us, and that medicine is required for the soul even more than for the body. Jesus Christ, the great Physician, will teach you how to use it, if you will seek advice from himself. I feel assured that you will not take this parting word ill. Good night, gentlemen. I will give the drugs to your guide before leaving, and pray that God may prosper you in your way and give you success.”

There was a long silence round the camp-fire after the missionary had left. When night closed in, and the sportsmen had retired to rest, the minds of most of them dwelt somewhat seriously on the great truth which he had stated—that medicine is needed not only for the body but the soul.

Chapter Seven.

Describes River Hunting.

“Well, major, what are your orders for the day?” asked Tom Brown one fine morning after breakfast, while they were enjoying their usual pipe under the shade of a large umbrageous tree.

“You’d better try the river that we have just come to,” said the major.

“Do you think me amphibious, that you should always assign me that work?” asked Tom.

“Not exactly, Tom, but I know you are fond of telling fibs, and perhaps the amphibious animals may afford you some scope in that way. At all events they are capable of such astonishing feats that if you merely relate the truth about them you will be sure to get credit in England for telling fibs—like poor Mungo Park, who was laughed at all his life for a notorious drawer of the long-bow, although there never was a more truthful man.”

“People won’t judge us so harshly, major,” said Wilkins; “for so many African travellers have corroborated Mungo Park’s stories that the truth is pretty well known and believed by people of average education. But pray is it your lordship’s pleasure that I should accompany Tom? You know he cannot take care of himself, and no one of the party can act so powerfully as a check on his inveterate propensity to inordinate smoking as myself.”

“You must have studied Johnson’s dictionary very closely in your boyhood,” said Tom, puffing a prolonged cloud as a termination to the sentence.

“But, major, if you do condemn me to his company, please let us have Mafuta again, for Wilkins and I are like two uncongenial stones, and he acts as lime to keep us together.”

“Don’t you think that Hicks had better be consulted before we make arrangements?” suggested Pearson.

“Hear, hear,” cried Ogilvie; “and I should like to know what is to be done with Brand and Anson, for they are both very much down with fever of some sort this morning.”

“Leave Jumbo with them,” said Tom Brown; “he’s better at nursing than hunting. By the way, was it not he who nursed the native that died last night in the kraal?”

“It was, and they say he killed the poor nigger by careless treatment,” said Pearson.

“What nigger do you refer to?” asked Ogilvie.

“The one who died—but, I forgot, you were out after that hyena when it happened, and so I suppose have not heard of it,” said Pearson. “We had a funeral in the village over there last night, and they say that our fellow Jumbo, who it seems was once a friend of the sick man, offered to sit up with him last night. There is a rumour that he was an enemy of Jumbo’s, and that our cowardly scoundrel made this offer in order to have an opportunity of killing him in a quiet way. Hicks even goes the length of saying he is sure that Jumbo killed him, for when he saw the sick man last he was under the impression what he had got the turn, and gave him a powder that would have been certain to cure—”

“Or kill,” interrupted Tom Brown; “I’ve no faith in Hicks’s skill as a practitioner.”

“Of course not,” said Wilkins, “proverbial philosophy asserts and requires that doctors should disagree.”

“Be that as it may,” continued Pearson, “the native did die and was buried, so that’s an end of him, and yonder sits Jumbo eating his breakfast at the camp-fire as if he had done a most virtuous action. The fact is, I don’t believe the reports. I cannot believe that poor Jumbo, coward though he is, would be guilty of such an act.”

“Perhaps not,” said the major, rising, “but there’s no possibility of settling the question now, and here comes Hicks, so I’ll go and make arrangements with him about the day’s proceedings.”

“They have a primitive mode of conducting funerals here,” said Tom Brown when the major had left. “I happened to be up at the kraal currying favour with the chief man, for he has the power of bothering us a good deal if he chooses, and I observed what they did with this same dead man. I saw that he was very low as I passed the hut where he lay, and stopped to look on. His breath was very short, and presently he fell into what either might have been a profound sleep, or a swoon, or death; I could not be quite sure which, not being used to black fellows. I would have examined the poor man, but the friends kicked up a great row and shoved me off. Before the breath could have been well out of his body, they hoisted him up and carried him away to burial. I followed out of mere curiosity, and found that the lazy rascals had shoved the body into an ant-eater’s hole in order to save the trouble of digging a grave.”

While Tom and his friends were thus conversing over their pipes, their attention was attracted by a peculiar cry or howl of terror, such as they had never heard from any animal of those regions. Starting up they instinctively grasped their guns and looked about them. The utterer of the cry was soon obvious in the person of Jumbo, who had leaped up suddenly—overturning his breakfast in the act—and stood gazing before him with his eyes starting out of their sockets, his teeth rattling together like a pair of castanets, his limbs quivering, and in fact his whole person displaying symptoms of the most abject terror of which the human frame is capable.

The major and Hicks, who stood not far from him, were both unusually pale in the face, as they gazed motionless before them.

The fixedness of their looks directed the eyes of Tom Brown and his comrades towards a neighbouring thicket, where they beheld an object that was well calculated to inspire dread. It appeared to be a living skeleton covered with a black skin of the most ghastly appearance, and came staggering towards them like a drunken man. As it drew nearer Jumbo’s limbs trembled more and more violently and his face became of a leaden blue colour. At last he became desperate, turned round, dashed right through the embers of the fire, and fled wildly from the spot with a howl that ended in a shriek of terror.

“No wonder he’s terrified,” observed Tom Brown to his alarmed comrades; “I felt more than half certain the nigger was not dead last night, and now it is beyond question that they had buried him alive. Jumbo evidently thinks it’s his ghost!”

“Won’t he give his friend a fright?” said Wilkins, on observing that the poor man went staggering on in the direction of the kraal.

“He will,” said Hicks, laughing; “but they’ll make up for their haste by taking good care of him now. I declare I thought for a moment or two that it was a real ghost! Come now, gentlemen, if you want good sport you’ve got the chance before you to-day. The last party that passed this way left an old boat on the river. I dare say it won’t be very leaky. Some of you had better take it and go after the ’potimusses. There’s plenty of buffalo and elephants in this region also, and the natives are anxious to have a dash at them along with you. Divide yourselves as you choose, and I’ll go up to make arrangements with the old chief.”

In accordance with the trader’s advice the party was divided. Tom Brown, Wilkins, and Mafuta, as on a former occasion, determined to stick together and take to the boat. The others, under the major, went with Hicks and the natives after elephants.

“Another capital stream,” remarked Tom to his companion as they emerged from the bushes on the banks of a broad river, the surface of which was dotted here and there with log-like hippopotami, some of which were floating quietly, while others plunged about in the water.

“Capital!” exclaimed Wilkins, “now for the boat! According to directions we must walk upstream till we find it.”

As they advanced, they came suddenly on one of the largest crocodiles they had yet seen. It was lying sound asleep on a mud-bank, not dreaming, doubtless, of the daring bipeds who were about to disturb its repose.

“Hallo!” exclaimed Wilkins, cocking and levelling his gun, “what a splendid chance!”

It was indeed a splendid chance, for the brute was twenty feet long at least; the rugged knobs of its thick hide showed here and there through a coat of mud with which it was covered, and its partially open jaws displayed a row of teeth that might have made the lion himself shrink. The mud had partially dried in the sun, so that the monster, as it lay sprawling, might have been mistaken for a dead carcass, had not a gentle motion about the soft parts of his body given evidence of life.

Before Wilkins could pull the trigger, Mafuta seized him by the arm with a powerful grip.

“Hold on!” he cried with a look of intense anxiety, “what you go do? Fright all de ’potimus away for dis yer crackodl. Oh fy! go away.”

“That’s true, Bob,” said Tom Brown, who, although he had prepared to fire in case of need, intended to have allowed his friend to take the first shot; “’twould be a pity to lose our chance of a sea-cow, which is good for food, for the sake of a monster which at the best could only give us a fine specimen-head for a museum, for his entire body is too big to haul about through the country after us.”

Well, be it so, said Wilkins, somewhat disappointed, “but I’m determined to kick him up anyhow.”

Saying this he advanced towards the brute, but again the powerful hand of Mafuta seized him.

“What you do? want git kill altogidder? You is a fool! (the black had lost temper a little). Him got nuff strong in hims tail to crack off de legs of ’oo like stem-pipes. Yis, kom back?”

Wilkins felt a strong tendency to rebel, and the Caffre remonstrated in so loud a voice that the crocodile awoke with a start, and immediately convinced the obstinate hunter that he had at least been saved broken bones by Mafuta, for he never in his life before had seen anything like the terrific whirl that he gave his tail, as he dashed into the water some fifteen yards ahead. Almost immediately afterwards he turned round, and there, floating like a log on the stream, took a cool survey of the disturbers of his morning’s repose!

“It’s hard to refuse such an impudent invitation to do one’s worst,” said Wilkins, again raising his gun.

“No, you mustn’t,” cried Tom Brown, grasping his friend’s arm; “come along, I see the bow of the boat among the rushes not far ahead of us, and yonder is a hippopotamus, or sea-cow as they call it here, waiting to be shot.”

Without further delay they embarked in the boat, which, though small, was found to be sufficiently tight, and rowed off towards the spot where the hippopotamus had been seen. Presently his blunt ungainly head rose within ten feet of them. Wilkins got such a start that he tripped over one of the thwarts in trying to take aim, and nearly upset the boat. He recovered himself, however, in a moment, and fired—sending a ball into the brute which just touched the brain and stunned it. He then fired his second barrel, and while he was loading Tom put two more balls into it. It proved hard to kill, however, for they fired alternately, and put sixteen bullets—seven to the pound—into different parts of its head before they succeeded in killing it.

They towed their prize to the shore, intending to land and secure it, when a calf hippopotamus shoved its blunt nose out of the water close at hand, gazed stupidly at them and snorted. Tom at once shot it in the head, and it commenced to bellow lustily. Instantly the mother’s head cleft the surface of the water as she came up to the rescue and rushed at the boat, the gunwale of which she seized in her mouth and pulled it under.

“Quick!” shouted Tom, as he fired his second barrel into her ear.

Wilkins did not require to be urged, as the water was flowing into the boat like a deluge. He delivered both shots into her almost simultaneously, and induced her to let go! Another shot from Tom in the back of her neck entered the spine and killed her.

By this time a large band of natives had collected, and were gazing eagerly on the proceedings. They had come down from the kraal to enjoy the sport and get some of the meat, of which they are particularly fond. They were not disappointed in their expectations, for the hippopotami were very numerous in that place, and the sportsmen shot well. Four other animals fell before their deadly guns before another hour had passed, and as the bay was shallow the natives waded in to drag them ashore.

This was a very amusing scene, because crocodiles were so numerous that it was only possible for them to accomplish the work safely by entering the water together in large numbers, with inconceivable noise, yelling and splashing, in order to scare them away. They would not have ventured in singly, or in small numbers, on any account whatever; but on the present occasion, being numerous, they were very courageous, and joining hands, so as to form a line from the shore to the floating animals, soon dragged them out.

As the carcasses belonged to Hicks the trader, these black fellows knew well enough that they were not at liberty to do with them as they pleased, so they waited as patiently as they could for the glorious feast which they fondly hoped was in store for them.

When the sportsmen at last landed to look after their game, they found four fine sea-cows and the calf drawn up on the banks, side by side, with upwards of a hundred Caffres gazing at them longingly! Nothing could be more courteous than the behaviour of these savages when Mafuta cut off such portions as his party required; but no sooner was the remainder of the spoil handed over to them than there ensued a scene of indescribable confusion. They rushed at the carcasses like vultures, with assegais, knives, sticks, and axes, hallooing, bellowing, shoving, and fighting, in a manner that would have done credit to the wildest of the wild beasts by which they were surrounded! Yet there was a distinct sense of justice among them. It was indeed a desperate fight to obtain possession, but no one attempted to dispossess another of what he had been fortunate enough to secure. The strongest savages got at the carcasses first, and cut off large lumps, which they hurled to their friends outside the struggling circle. These caught the meat thus thrown, and ran with it, each to a separate heap, on which he deposited his piece and left it in perfect security.

In order to introduce a little more fair play, however, for the benefit of the weaker brethren, Mafuta dashed in among them with a terrible sjambok, or whip, of rhinoceros hide, which he laid about him with wonderful effect. In a very short time the whole of the meat was disposed of, not a scrap being left large enough to satisfy the cravings of the smallest conceivable crocodile that ever dwelt in that river!

The effects of this upon the native mind was immediate and satisfactory. That night the sportsmen received from the kraal large and gratifying gifts of eggs, bread, rice, beer, pumpkins, and all the produce of the land.

But we must not forestall. Before these dainties were enjoyed that night the other members of the expedition had to come in with the result of their day’s hunt. Let us therefore turn for a little to follow their footsteps.

Chapter Eight.

Shows that too High a Price is Sometimes Paid for Success in Hunting.

The successful commencement of this part of the day’s hunt was somewhat curiously brought about by the major.

Most people have a distinct and strong antipathy for some creature which has the power of inspiring them with a species of loathing, amounting almost to terror. Some who would face a mad bull coolly enough spring with disgust from a cockroach or a centipede. Others there are who would permit a mouse to creep about their person with indifference, but would shudder at the bare idea of a frog happening to get under their bedclothes. Now Major Garret’s peculiar horror was a serpent. He was a daring man by nature, and experience had made him almost foolhardy. He would have faced a lion, or an enraged elephant, any day without flinching, and cared nothing for a buffalo-bull, however mad, provided he had a trustworthy gun in his hand; but a serpent would cause him to leap into the air like a kangaroo, and if it chanced to come at him unawares he would fly from it like the wind, in a paroxysm of horror—if not fear!

There was no lack of serpents in that region to trouble the worthy major. Numbers of them, of all kinds and sizes, were to be seen. One in particular, which Mafuta killed with an assegai, was eight feet three inches long, and so copiously supplied with poison that one of the dogs which attacked it, and was bitten, died almost instantaneously, while another died in about five minutes. Tom Brown, on another occasion, knocked over one of the same species, and it continued to distil pure poison from the fangs for hours after its head was cut off. Besides these there were the puff-adders, which were very dangerous; and several vipers, as well as many other kinds which were comparatively harmless. But the poor major’s horror was so great as to cause him to regard the whole family in one light. He never paused to observe whether a serpent was poisonous. Enough for him that it was one of the hated race, to be killed in a violent hurry or fled from in tremendous haste!

This being the case, it is not to be regarded as a wonder that, when the party, early in the day, were passing a thicket out of which glided a very large serpent, the major should give a shout and incontinently discharge both barrels at it simultaneously. It chanced to be a python of great size, full fifteen feet long, and thicker than a man’s thigh, but a really harmless species of serpent. The major, however, did not know this, or did not care. His shots, although fired at random, hit the creature in the spine; nevertheless it retained power to raise its head fully five feet in the air, and to open its mouth in a very threatening manner within a few feet of the major’s face. This was more than he could bear. He turned, dropped his gun, and fled like a maniac, while his comrades, who had recognised the species of serpent, stood laughing at him heartily. He did not stop until he dashed headlong into a thicket, far away to the right of their line of march. Here the “wait-a-bit” thorns effectually checked his progress.

Now it chanced that in this very thicket, which would have been passed by unnoticed but for the python, there was a portly young female elephant with a very stout little daughter. Amazed at the very sudden and reckless intrusion of the sportsman, this anxious mother at once sounded her war-trumpet and charged. The major turned and fled back to his friends as fast as he had run away from them. The elephant did not follow, but the hunters, having discovered her retreat, were not slow to follow and attack her.

As they drew near, the mother elephant set herself on the danger side of her little one, and putting her proboscis over it, as if to assure it of protection, urged it to run, which it did pretty smartly. But neither of them galloped; their quickest pace was only a sharp walk, which, however, was quick enough to oblige the pursuers to run at full speed. The big one frequently glanced back, apparently to see if she were gaining ground, and then looked at her young one and ran after it, sometimes sideways, as if her feelings were divided between anxiety to protect her offspring and desire to revenge the temerity of her persecutors. The hunters kept about a hundred yards in her rear, and as they were pretty sure of securing her, the European sportsmen held back, in order to have an opportunity of witnessing the method of attack practised by the band of natives who were with them.

Presently they came to a rivulet, and the time spent by the elephants in descending and getting up the opposite bank enabled the natives to get within twenty yards of them, when they discharged their spears at them. The old one received the most of these in various parts of her body, for she did her best to shield the young one; but the latter received a few notwithstanding. After the first discharge the old one’s sides ran down with blood, and in a short time she bristled all over with spears like a monstrous porcupine. She soon seemed to give up all thought of defending her young, and began to flee for her life, so that the calf was quickly killed; but no sooner did the mother observe this, than all fear forsook her; she stopped in her career, turned round, and, with a shriek of rage, charged her pursuers, who fled right and left like a band of huge black monkeys. The elephant ran straight on and went right through the whole party, but came near no one. She then continued her flight, in the course of which she crossed several rivulets, and at each of these received fresh spears. Several times she turned and charged, but never in any ease did she run more than a hundred yards.

Gradually she grew weak from loss of blood, which poured from her like rain; and at last, when she was making a charge, she staggered round and sank down dead in a kneeling posture.

The natives were overjoyed of course at their success, and at the prospect of a baked elephant’s foot for supper, and Hicks was much pleased with the tusks, which were large and valuable. He surveyed them with a complacent smile, and observed that he had much need of a little ivory like that, for the expenses of a trading expedition were very heavy.

“But you have reason to expect a good deal in this part of the country,” said the major, “if all that is rumoured be true.”

“No doubt there is some truth in what is reported; we shall see. Meanwhile, yonder goes something to encourage us.”

He pointed towards an opening in a thicket close at hand, where an elephant was seen running towards them as if ignorant of their presence.

“Some one must be after that fellow,” said Hicks. About a dozen natives emerged from the thicket as he spoke. They were evidently driving the elephant, which was a large bull, towards the hunters for the purpose of letting them have a good shot; so the latter at once hid themselves. When the elephant drew near it seemed to suspect danger ahead, for it burned to the right when at a distance of about a hundred yards. This was a great disappointment, so the major, rather than be balked altogether, tried a long shot and broke the animal’s fore-leg. Then, running after him at a pace which even the supple natives could not equal, he got close up and sent a ball into his head, which stunned him; but it took four additional shots to kill him.

This was an unusually fortunate case, for elephants are not easily killed. The African elephant is in many respects different from that of India, and is never killed, like the Ceylon elephant, by a single ball in the brain. Dr Livingstone tells us that on one occasion, when he was out with a large party of natives, a troop of elephants were attacked by them, and that one of these, in running away, fell into a hole, and, before he could extricate himself, an opportunity was allowed for all the men to throw their spears. When the elephant rose he was like a huge porcupine, for each of the seventy or eighty men had discharged more than one spear at him. As they had no more, they sent for the Doctor to shoot him. He, anxious to put the animal at once out of pain, went up to within twenty yards, rested his gun on an ant-hill, so as to take steady aim; but though he fired twelve two-ounce bullets, all he had, into different parts, he could not kill it. As it was getting dark, they were obliged to leave it standing there, intending to return in the morning in the full expectation of finding it dead; but though they searched all that day, and went over more than ten miles of ground, they never saw it again!

The female elephant killed by our hunters at this time was a comparatively small one. Its height was eight feet eight inches. Many of those which were afterwards killed were of much greater height. Indian elephants never reach to the enormous size of the African elephant, which is distinguished from that of India by a mark that cannot be mistaken, namely, the ear, which in the African species is enormously large. That of the female just killed measured four feet five inches in length and four feet in breadth. A native has been seen to creep under an elephant’s ear so as to be quite covered from the rain. The African elephant has never been tamed at the Cape, nor has one ever been exhibited in England.

But to return to our hunters. Before that day had closed, the major and his friends had made good bags. The total result of the day’s hunt by both parties was, five sea-cows, four elephants, two buffaloes, a giraffe, and a number of birds of various kinds.

Of course this set the natives of the kraal into a ferment of joyous festivity, and the sportsmen rose very high in their estimation, insomuch that they overwhelmed them with gifts of native produce. Our hero was an especial favourite, because, on several occasions, he turned his medical and surgical knowledge to good account, and afforded many of them great relief from troubles which their own doctors had failed to cure or charm away.

Some time after this, when they were travelling through a comparatively dry district, they encamped near a pool of water, and the sights they saw there were most amazing; for all the animals in the neighbourhood flocked to the pool to slake their burning thirst.

After supper, instead of going to rest, Tom Brown and most of the party resolved to go and watch this pool—the moon being bright at the time. They had not lain long in ambush beside it when a troop of elephants came rushing into it, and began to drink with great avidity, spirting the water over each other and shrieking with delight. For some hours the hunters remained on the watch there, and saw animals of all kinds come down to drink—antelopes, zebras, buffaloes, etcetera, in great numbers.

Thus they passed through the country, enjoying themselves, and adding considerably to Hicks’s stock of ivory, when an incident occurred which threw a deep gloom over the party for some time.

One day they went out after some elephants which were reported to be near to their encampment, and about noon rested a little to refresh themselves. They had set out as a united party on this occasion accompanied by a large band of natives armed with spears. Just after leaving the spot where they rested, the major discovered that he had left his knife behind him, and went back to look for it, in company with Tom Brown. As it was only quarter of a mile off, or less, they foolishly left their guns behind them. On nearing the spot, Tom stopped a few moments, and bent down to examine a beautiful flower. The major walked on, but had not gone many paces when three lions walked out of a thicket not twenty paces off. Tom had risen, and saw the lions, and, for the first time in his life, felt a sensation about the heart which is popularly known as “the blood curdling in the vein.” The major, being totally unarmed, stopped, and stood motionless like a statue. The lions stopped also, being evidently taken by surprise at the sudden and unexpected apparition of a man! Had the major turned and fled, it is almost certain that his fate would have been sealed, but he stood firm as a rock, and Tom observed that he did not even change colour as he gazed with a fixed glassy stare at the lions.

Unused to such treatment, the animals winced under it. Their own glances became uneasy; then they turned slowly round and slunk away, with the air of creatures which know that they have been doing wrong! In a few moments they bounded off at full speed, their pace being accelerated by the terrible yell which burst simultaneously from Tom and the major, who found intense relief in this violent expression of their pent-up feelings!

But this, good reader, is not the gloomy incident to which we have referred. It was just after the occurrence of this minor episode in the proceedings of the day, that the party came upon fresh tracks of a troop of elephants, and set off in pursuit. The Englishmen were on horseback, having obtained steeds from a trader whom they had met farther south, but the natives—a very large band—were on foot.

While they were advancing through a somewhat open part of the country, four lions were seen on the top of a low sandhill, which was covered with bushes and a few stunted trees. It was at once resolved that they should be surrounded. Accordingly, the natives were ordered to form a wide ring round the hill.

“Now,” said Hicks, who assumed command of the party in virtue of his superior knowledge, “we must separate and advance from different directions, and be sure, gentlemen, that you don’t shoot the niggers. Look well before you. That hollow is a very likely place for one of them to run along, therefore the best shot among you had better go up there. Who is the best shot?”

The trader smiled knowingly, for he knew that the major esteemed himself the best.

“I think I am,” said Wilkins, with an air of great simplicity.

There was a general laugh at this, for it was well known that Wilkins was the worst shot of the party.

“Well, now,” said he with a good-natured smile, “since you have insulted me so grossly, I think myself entitled to name the best man; I therefore suggest Tom Brown.”

“Right,” said Pearson.

The others being all agreed, Tom consented, with becoming modesty, to take the post of honour and of danger.

“Are we to ride or walk?” he asked.

“Walk, of course,” said Hicks. “The ground is much too rough for horses.”

“And I trust, Tom,” said Wilkins, “that you will permit me to follow you. I am the worst shot, you know, and the worst and best should go together on the acknowledged principle that extremes meet.”

This being arranged, the sportsmen dismounted, fastened their horses to trees, and separated.

The circle of men gradually closed in and ascended the hill pretty near to each other. Presently Tom Brown observed one of the lions get upon a piece of rock. The major also saw him, and being anxious to secure the first shot, fired somewhat hastily and hit the rock on which the magnificent brute was standing, as if it had got up there to take a cool survey of the field. He bit at the spot struck, as a dog bites at a stick or stone thrown at him. Next moment Tom Brown sent a bullet straight into his heart, and his tail made a splendid flourish as he fell off his pedestal!

Almost immediately after two of the other lions broke cover, dashed towards the circle of men, went right through them and escaped. The courage of the natives proved unequal to the danger of facing such a charge. A great shout—partly, no doubt, of disappointment—was given when the lions escaped. This had the effect of causing the fourth lion to break cover and leap upon a rock as the first had done. The hunter nearest to him was Pearson, who was not farther off than shout thirty yards. He took good aim, fired both barrels at him, and tumbled him off the rock into a small bush beside it.

“He is wounded,” cried Hicks, “but not killed. Have a care!”

Pearson was loading his gun as fast as possible, when he heard a loud shout, and cries of “Look out!” “Take care!” Starting, and turning half round, he saw the animal in the act of springing on him. Before he could move he was struck on the head, and next moment the lion and he went down together. Growling horribly, the enraged brute seized poor Pearson and shook him as a terrier dog shakes a rat. Although stunned, he was able to turn a little to relieve himself of its weight, for the lion had placed one paw on the back of his head. Instantly the major, Tom Brown, and Hicks ran up and fired six shots into him almost simultaneously, and at a few yards’ distance. With a terrific roar he left Pearson, and, springing on Hicks, caught him by the leg. Mafuta immediately rushed at him with a spear, but was caught by the lion on the shoulder, and dragged down. Seeing this, Tom Brown caught up the spear and plunged it deep into the chest of the brute, which seized it savagely in his teeth and snapped it in two like a twig, throwing Tom down in the act; but another bullet from Wilkins, and the effects of the previous shots, caused him to drop down suddenly quite dead.

It was found on examination that the injuries received by poor Pearson were mortal. As could just speak, but could not move. A litter was therefore hastily prepared for him, and one also for Hicks, whose leg was severely injured, though fortunately not broken. Mafuta’s hurts were trifling, and Tom Brown had only received one or two scratches in his fall. In a short time the litters were ready, and the party returned to their encampment.

That night Pearson expressed a strong desire to have the Bible read to him, and Tom Brown, who had done all that professional skill could accomplish to relieve his comrade’s suffering body, sought out from the bottom of his box that precious book which the missionary had told him contained medicine for the soul. The dying man was very anxious. As gave Tom no rest, but questioned him eagerly and continuously during the whole night about the things which concerned his soul. His doctor could not assist him much, and keenly did he feel, at that time, how awful it is to postpone thoughts of eternity to a dying hour. As did his best, however, to comfort his friend, by reading passage after passage from the sacred book, dwelling particularly on, and repeating, this text—“The blood of Jesus Christ, His Son, cleanseth from all sin.” Towards morning Pearson fell into a lethargic sleep, out of which he never awoke. Next day they buried him under the shade of a spreading tree, and left him there—alone in the wilderness.

Chapter Nine.

The Last.

From this period everything like good fortune seemed to forsake the hunters. The trader’s wound became so painful that he resolved to return to the settlements, and accordingly their faces were turned southward.

But the way was toilsome, the heat intense, and the water scarce—more so than it had been on the outward journey. To add to their troubles, fever and ague attacked most of the white men, and one of them (Ogilvie) died on the journey.

At last Tom Brown, who had up to that time been one of the strongest of the party, broke down, and it was found to be necessary to leave him behind at a native village, for it would have been certain death to the others to have remained with him, and their doing so could have done him no good.

“I cannot tell you, Tom,” said the major, as he sat beside his friend’s couch the night before they parted, “how deeply it grieves me to leave you in this way, but you see, my dear fellow, that the case is desperate. You are incapable of moving. If we remain here the most of us will die, for I find that it is all I can do to drag one leg after the other, and I have grave doubts as to whether I shall ever get out of this rascally country alive. As to poor Bob Wilkins, he is in a worse condition than myself. Now, our intention is to leave you all the physic, push on as fast as possible to the nearest settlement, where we shall get more for ourselves, and send out a party of natives under some trustworthy trader to fetch you out of the country.”

“You are very kind, major,” said Tom languidly, “but I cannot allow you to leave me all the physic. Your own life may depend on having some of it, and—”

“There, don’t exhaust yourself, Tom, with objections, for Bob and I have made up our minds to do it. The very fact that every day we are getting nearer the habitable parts of the world will keep our spirits up and give us strength, and you may depend upon it, my poor fellow, that we won’t waste time in sending help to you.”

The major’s voice trembled a little, for he had become very weak, and had secret misgivings that he would never see his friend again.

“We are going to leave Mafuta with you,” he added quickly.

“That’s right,” exclaimed Tom, with an expression of satisfaction. “If any one is able to pull me through this bout, Mafuta is the man. By the way, major, will you do me the favour to open my portmanteau and fetch me the Bible you will find there. I mean to read it. Do you know I have been thinking that we are great fools to keep calling ourselves Christians when we have scarcely any of the signs of Christianity about us, and particularly in putting off the consideration of our souls’ interests to a time like this?”

“Upon my word, Tom, I agree with you,” said the major.

“Well, then,” said Tom, “like a good fellow, get the Bible for me, and let me advise you as a friend to make use of the one the missionary gave you. I mean to turn over a new leaf. My only fear is that if I get well I shall become as indifferent as I was before.”

“No fear of that, Tom, you are much too honest-hearted to be so changeable.”

“H’m, I don’t know,” said Tom, with an attempt at a smile; “I should not be easy if my salvation depended on the honesty of my heart. I rather fear, major, that your method of comforting me is not what the missionary would call orthodox. But good night, old fellow; I feel tired, and find it wonderfully difficult not only to speak but to think, so I’ll try to sleep.”

Saying this our hero turned on his side and soon fell into a quiet slumber, out of which he did not awake until late the following morning.

The major, meanwhile, sought for and found the Bible in his portmanteau, and laid it on his pillow, so that he might find it there on awaking. For a long time he and Wilkins sat by the sick man’s side next morning, in the hope of his awaking, that they might bid him good-bye; but Tom did not rouse up, so, being unwilling to disturb him, they left without having the sad satisfaction of saying farewell.

When Tom Brown awoke, late in the day, he found Mafuta sitting at his feet with a broad grin on his dusky countenance.

“What are you laughing at, you rascal?” demanded Tom, somewhat sternly.

“Me laffin’ at you’s face!”

“Indeed, is it then so ridiculous?”

“Yis, oh yis, you’s bery ri’clous. Jist no thicker dan de edge ob hatchet.”

Tom smiled. “Well, I’m not fat, that’s certain; but I feel refreshed. D’you know, Mafuta, I think I shall get well after all.”

“Ho, yis,” said Mafuta, with a grin, nodding his woolly head violently, and displaying a magnificent double row of teeth; “you’s git well; you had slep an’ swet mos’ bootiful. Me wish de major see you now.”

“The major; is he gone?”

“Yis, hoed off dis morrownin.”

“And Mr Wilkins?”

“Hoed off too.”

Tom Brown opened his eyes and stared silently for a few minutes at his companion.

“Then we are all alone, you and I,” he said suddenly.

“Yis, all alone, sept de two tousand Caffres ob de kraal; but dey is nobody—only black beasts.”

Tom laughed to hear his attendant talk so scornfully of his countrymen, and Mafuta laughed to see his master in such good spirits; after which the former became grave, and, feeling a slight twinge of hunger, made a sudden demand for food. Mafuta rose and left the tent, and Tom, turning on his side, observed the Bible lying on the pillow. He opened it, but forgot to read, in consequence of his attention being arrested by the extreme thinness of his hands. Recovering himself, he turned to the twenty-first psalm, but had only read the first verse when the book dropt from his fingers, and he again fell sound asleep.

This was the turning-point in his illness. He began to mend a little, but so slowly, that he almost lost heart once or twice; and felt convinced that if he did not make an attempt to get out of the unhealthy region, he should never regain strength.

Acting on this belief, he left the native village on foot, carrying nothing but his rifle, which seemed to him, in his weak condition, to be as heavy as a small cannon. Mafuta went on in advance, heavily laden with the blankets, a small tent, provisions, ammunition, etcetera, necessary for the journey.

At first Tom could scarcely walk a mile without sitting down several times to rest, on which occasions Mafuta endeavoured to cheer him up by threatening to leave him to his fate! This was a somewhat singular mode of stimulating, but he deemed it the wisest course, and acted on it. When Tom lay down under the shade of a tree, thoroughly knocked up, the Caffre would bid him farewell and go away; but in a short time he would return and urge him to make another attempt!

Thus Tom Brown travelled, day after day, under the broiling sun. During that period—which he afterwards described as the most dreadful of his life—fever and ague reduced him to a state of excessive weakness. In fact it was a battle between the dire disease and that powerful constitution for which the Brown family is celebrated. For a considerable time it appeared very doubtful how the battle would end.

One morning Tom was awakened by his faithful attendant to resume his weary journey. He got up with a heavy sigh, and almost fell down again from weakness.

“I think, Mafuta,” said Tom gravely, “that I’m pretty nearly used up. You’ll have to leave me, I fear, and make the best of your way out of this wretched country alone.”

“Dis a fuss-rate kontry,” said the Caffre quietly.

“Ah, true, Mafuta, I forgot for a moment that it is your native land. However, I am bound to admit that it is a first-rate country for sport—also for killing Englishmen. I don’t feel able to move a step.”

Tom sat down as he said this, and, uttering a sort of groan, leaned his back against a tree.

“W’at, yous no’ go fadder?”

“No,” said Tom, with some asperity, for he felt too much exhausted to speak.

“Berry good, me say good-bye.”

Mafuta nodded his head as he spoke, and, gravely shouldering his load, marched away.

Tom looked after him with a melancholy smile; for he quite understood the ruse by this time, and knew that he would return, although the simple native sincerely believed that his motives and intentions had been concealed with deep wisdom. Tom was not sorry to get a respite, and threw himself flat down, in order to make the most of it, but Mafuta was more anxious than usual about his companion that morning. He returned in ten minutes or so, having sat for that period behind a neighbouring tree to brood over his circumstances.

“Yous come on now, eh?” he said gently, regarding Tom with an anxious expression of countenance.

“Well, well,” replied our hero, getting up with a sort of desperate energy, “let’s push on; I can at all events walk till my legs refuse to carry me, and then it will not be I who shall have given in, but the legs!—eh, Mafuta?”

Smiling languidly at this conceit, Tom walked on, almost mechanically, for nearly twenty miles that day, with scarcely any shelter from the sun.

At night he reached a native village, the chief of which considerately let him rest in an old hut. When Tom flung himself down in a corner of this, he felt so ill that he called his servant and bade him fetch the package which contained his slender stock of medicine.

“Open it, Mafuta, and let’s see what we have left. I’m resolved to make some change in myself for better or worse, if I should have to eat up the whole affair. Better be poisoned at once than die by inches in this way.”

“No more kineen,” said the Caffre, as he kneeled by his master’s side, turning over the papers and bottles.

“No more quinine,” repeated Tom sadly; “no more life, that means.”

“Not’ing more bot tree imuttics, an’ small drop ludnum,” said Mafuta.

“Three emetics,” said Tom, “and some laudanum; come, I’ll try these. Mix the whole of ’em in a can, and be quick, like a good fellow; I’ll have one good jorum whatever happens.”

“Bot yous vil bost,” said Mafuta remonstratively.

“No fear. Do as I bid you.”

The Caffre obeyed, and Tom swallowed the potion. The result, however, was unsatisfactory, for, contrary to what was anticipated, they produced no effect whatever. To make matters worse, the hut in which they lay was overrun with rats, which were not only sleepless and active, but daring, for they kept galloping round the floor all night, and chasing one another over Tom’s body and face. After a time he became desperate.

“Here, Mafuta,” he cried, “strike a light, and get me a long feather of some sort out of a bird’s wings.”

The wondering native got up and did as he was commanded.

“Now, Mafuta, shove the feather down my throat. Don’t be afraid. I’ll give you a dig in the ribs if you go too far.”

The result of this operation was speedy and complete. The sick man was relieved. In a short time he fell into a deep sleep, which lasted for several hours. After this he awoke much refreshed, and having obtained some rice from the native chief, ate a little with relish.

Next day they resumed their journey, and travelled till four in the afternoon, when the fit of ague prostrated Tom for a couple of hours, as it had been in the habit of doing regularly at the same hour for some time past, leaving him in a very exhausted state of body, and much depressed in spirits.

In the course of a week, however, this extreme depression passed away, and he managed to get along; painfully, it is true, but creditably. They were fortunate enough, soon after, to meet with a trader, from whom our hero purchased two stout horses, and thenceforward the journey became more agreeable—at least Tom’s returning strength enabled him to enjoy it; for it could not be said that the fatigues or privations of the way had decreased; on the contrary, in some respects they had increased considerably.

One day, while Tom was ambling along the margin of a belt of thick wood, with his sable guide riding in advance, he came suddenly in sight of a herd of giraffes. He had been short of fresh meat for a couple of days, because, although there was no lack of game, his arm had not become sufficiently steady to enable him to take a good aim; and, being unwilling to resign the office of hunter to his attendant until reduced to the last extremity, he had taken all the chances that occurred, and had missed on every occasion!

Being determined not to miss this opportunity, he at once put spurs to his steed, and dashed after the giraffes at a breakneck pace. The ground was very rocky, uneven, and full of holes and scrubby bushes. The long-necked creatures at once set off at a pace which tried Tom’s steed, although a good one, to the utmost. There was a thick forest of makolani trees about a mile away to the left, towards which the giraffes headed, evidently with the intention of taking refuge there. Tom observed this, and made a détour in order to get between them and the wood. This made it necessary to put on a spurt to regain lost distance, but on such ground the speed was dangerous. He neared one of the animals, however, and was standing up in his stirrups, intent on taking a flying shot, when his horse suddenly put his foot in a hole, and fell so violently that he rolled heels over head several times like a hare shot in full career. Fortunately his rider was sent out of the saddle like a rocket, and fell a considerable distance ahead, and out of the way of the rolling horse. A friendly bush received him and saved his neck, but tore his coat to tatters. Jumping up, he presented at the giraffe, which was galloping off about two hundred yards ahead. In the fall the barrel of his rifle had been so covered with dead leaves and dust that he could not take aim. Hastily wiping it with his sleeve, he presented again and fired. The ball hit the giraffe on the hip, but it failed to bring him down. A second shot, however, broke his leg, and the stately animal rolled over. Before Tom reached him he was dead.

Thus the travellers were supplied with a sufficiency of meat for some days, and they pushed steadily forward without paying attention to the game, which happened to be very plentiful in that district, as their great desire was to get out of the unhealthy region as quickly as possible. Sometimes, however, they were compelled to shoot in self-defence.

Upon one occasion, while Mafuta was looking for water in the bush, he was charged by a black rhinoceros, and had a very narrow escape. Tom Brown was within sight of him at the time, engaged also in looking for water. He heard the crash of bushes when the monster charged, and looking hastily round, saw Mafuta make a quick motion as if he meant to run to a neighbouring tree, but the rhinoceros was so close on him that there was no time.

“Quick, man!” shouted Tom, in an agony of alarm as he ran to the rescue, for the Caffre had no gun.

But Mafuta, instead of taking this advice, suddenly stood stock still, as if he had been petrified!

Tom threw forward his rifle, intending, in desperation, to try the effect of a long shot, although certain that it was impossible to kill the rhinoceros even if he should hit, while the risk of killing his faithful servant was very great. Before he had time to fire, however, the animal ran past the motionless Caffre without doing him any injury!

Whether it is owing to the smallness of its eyes, or to the horns on its nose being in the way, we cannot tell, but it is a fact that the black rhinoceros does not see well, and Mafuta, aware of this defect, had taken advantage of it in a way what is sometimes practised by bold men. Had he continued to run he would certainly have been overtaken and killed; but, standing perfectly still, he was no doubt taken for a tree stump by the animal. At all events it brushed past him, and Mafuta, doubling on his track, ran to a tree, up which he vaulted like a monkey.

Meanwhile Tom Brown got within range, and sent a ball crashing against the animal’s hard sides without doing it any injury. The second barrel was discharged with no better result, except that a splinter of its horn was knocked off. Before he could reload, the rhinoceros was gone, and Tom had to content himself with carrying off the splinter as a memorial of the adventure.

That night the travellers made their encampment at the foot of a tree, on the lower branches of which they hung up a quantity of meat. Tom lay in a small tent which he carried with him, but Mafuta preferred to sleep by the fire outside.

During the day they had seen and heard several lions. It was therefore deemed advisable to picket the horses close to the tent, between it and the fire.

“Mafuta,” said Tom Brown, as he lay contemplating the fire on which the Caffre had just heaped fresh logs, “give me some more tea, and cook another giraffe steak. D’you know I feel my appetite coming back with great force?”

“Dat am good,” said Mafuta.

“Yes, that is undoubtedly good,” said Tom. “I never knew what it was to have a poor appetite until I came to this wonderful land of yours, and I assure you that I will not pay it another visit in a hurry—although, upon the whole, I’m very well pleased to have hunted in it.”

“W’at for you come because of?” asked Mafuta.

“Well, I came for fun, as the little boys in my country say. I came for change, for variety, for amusement, for relaxation, for sport. Do you understand any of these expressions?”

“Me not onderstan’ moch,” answered Mafuta with great simplicity of manner; “bot why you want for change? Me nivir wants no change?”

“Ah, Mafuta,” replied Tom with a smile, “you’re a happy man? The fact is, that we civilised people lead artificial lives, to a large extent, and, therefore, require a change sometimes to recruit our energies—that is, to put us right again, whereas you and your friends live in a natural way, and therefore don’t require putting right. D’you understand?”

“Not moch,” answered the Caffre, gazing into the fire with a puzzled look. “You say we lives nat’ral life an’ don’t need be put right; berry good, why you not live nat’ral life too, an’ no need be put right—be always right?”

Tom laughed at this.

“It’s not easy to answer that question, Mafuta. We have surrounded ourselves with a lot of wants, some of which are right and some wrong. For instance, we want clothes, and houses, and books, and tobacco, and hundreds of other things, which cost a great deal of money, and in order to make the money we must work late and early, which hurts our health, and many of us must sit all day instead of walk or ride, so that we get ill and require a change of life, such as a trip to Africa to shoot lions, else we should die too soon. In fact, most of our lives consists in a perpetual struggle between healthy constitutions and false modes of living.”

“Dat berry foolish,” said Mafuta, shaking his head. “Me onderstan’ dat baccy good, berry good, bot what de use of clo’es; why you not go nakit? s’pose ’cause you not black, eh?”

“Well, not exactly. The fact is—”

At this point the conversation was interrupted by the low murmuring growl of the lion. The two men gazed at one another earnestly and listened. Tom quietly laid his hand on his rifle, which always lay ready loaded at his side, and Mafuta grasped the handle of the knife that hung at his girdle. For some minutes they remained silent and motionless, waiting for a repetition of the sound, while the camp-fire glittered brightly, lighting up the expressive countenance of our hero, and causing the whites of Mafuta’s eyes to glisten. Again they heard the growl much nearer than before, and it became evident that the lion was intent on claiming hospitality. The horses pricked up their ears, snuffed the night air wildly, and showed every symptom of being ill at ease. Tom Brown, without rising, slowly cocked his rifle, and Mafuta, drawing his knife, showed his brilliant white teeth as if he had been a dog.

Gradually and stealthily the king of the forest drew near, muttering to himself, as it were, in an undertone. He evidently did not care to disturb the horses, having set his heart upon the meat which hung on the tree, and the anxious listeners in the tent heard him attempting to claw it down.

Tom Brown was hastily revolving in his mind the best mode of killing or scaring away this presumptuous visitor, when the lion, in its wanderings round the tree, tripped over one of the lines of the tent, causing it to vibrate. He uttered a growl of dissatisfaction, and seized the cord in his teeth.

“Look out, Mafuta!” exclaimed Tom, as he observed the shadow of the beast against the curtain.

He fired as he spoke.

A terrific roar followed, the canvas was instantly torn open, and the whole tent fell in dire confusion on the top of its inmates.

Tom Brown did not move. He always acted on the principle of letting well alone, and, feeling that he was unhurt, lay as still as a mouse, but Mafuta uttered a wild yell, sprang through the rent canvas, and bounded up the tree in violent haste. There he remained, and Tom lay quietly under the tent for full ten minutes without moving, almost without breathing, but as no sound was heard, our hero at last ventured to raise his head. Then he got slowly upon his knees, and, gently removing the incumbent folds of canvas, looked out. The sight that he beheld was satisfactory. An enormous lion lay stretched out at the font of the tree quite dead! His half random shot at the shadow had been most successful, having passed right through the lion’s heart.

Not long after this, Tom Brown reached the settlements, where he found the major and Wilkins, who had quite recovered from the effects of their excursion into the interior, and from whom he learned that a party had been sent off in search of himself.

Thereafter he went to the Cape, where he joined his father in business. He did not, however, give up hunting entirely, for he belonged to a family which, as we have said elsewhere, is so sternly romantic and full of animal life that many of its members are led to attempt and to accomplish great things, both in the spiritual and physical worlds, undamped by repeated rebuffs and failures. Moreover, he did not forget his resolutions, or his Bible, after he got well; but we are bound to add that he did forget his resolve never again to visit the African wilderness, for if report speaks truth, he was seen there many a time, in after years, with Mafuta, hunting the lions.

The End.

Table of Contents

R.M. Ballantyne

"The Settler and the Savage"

Chapter One.

The Wild Karroo.

Chapter Two.

Introduces a Cape Dutchman and his Family, and Shows the Uncertainty of Human Plans.

Chapter Three.

Describes the somewhat Curious Beginning of Settler-Life in South Africa.

Chapter Four.

Further Particulars of “Settlers’ Town,” and a Start made for the Promised Land.

Chapter Five.

Adventures and Incidents of the First Night in the “Bush”.

Chapter Six.

Spreading over the Land.

Chapter Seven.

The “Location.”

Chapter Eight.

Shows the Pleasures, Pains, and Penalties of Housekeeping in the Bush.

Chapter Nine.

Off to the Highlands and Black Snakes in the Bush.

Chapter Ten.

The Location on the River of Baboons.

Chapter Eleven.

Explorations and Hunting Experiences.

Chapter Twelve.

Gives some Account of a Great Lion-Hunt.

Chapter Thirteen.

Adventure with an Ostrich.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Bergenaars.

Chapter Fifteen.

Treats of the Zuurveld again, and one or two Surprising Incidents.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Great Floods of 1823.

Chapter Seventeen.

Treats of Hopes, Fears, and Prospects, besides describing a Peculiar Battle.

Chapter Eighteen.

Fairs, Fights, Free-Trade, Factions, and other Matters.

Chapter Nineteen.

Describes a Series of Early Risings.

Chapter Twenty.

Treats of the Delights, Dangers, and Distresses of the Wilderness.

Chapter Twenty One.

Treats of Matters too Numerous and Stirring to be briefly referred to.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Tells of Dark and Threatening Clouds, and War.

Chapter Twenty Three.

War.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Shows what befell a Trader and an Emigrant Band.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Treats of Various Strange Incidents, some Interesting Matters, and a Rescue.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Relates Incidents of the War and a Great Deliverance.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Fate of the Paramount Chief of Kafirland.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Results of War.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Last.

The End.

R.M. Ballantyne

"The Settler and the Savage"

Chapter One.

The Wild Karroo.

A solitary horseman—a youth in early manhood—riding at a snail’s pace over the great plains, or karroo, of South Africa. His chin on his breast; his hands in the pockets of an old shooting-coat; his legs in ragged trousers, and his feet in worn-out boots. Regardless of stirrups, the last are dangling. The reins hang on the neck of his steed, whose head may be said to dangle from its shoulders, so nearly does its nose approach the ground. A felt hat covers the youth’s curly black head, and a double-barrelled gun is slung across his broad shoulders.

We present this picture to the reader as a subject of contemplation.

It was in the first quarter of the present century that the youth referred to—Charlie Considine by name—rode thus meditatively over that South African karroo. His depression was evidently not due to lack of spirit, for, when he suddenly awoke from his reverie, drew himself up and shook back his hair, his dark eyes opened with something like a flash. They lost some of their fire, however, as he gazed round on the hot plain which undulated like the great ocean to the horizon, where a line of blue indicated mountains.

The truth is that Charlie Considine was lost—utterly lost on the karroo! That his horse was in the same lost condition became apparent from its stopping without orders and looking round languidly with a sigh.

“Come, Rob Roy,” said the youth, gathering up the reins and patting the steed’s neck, “this will never do. You and I must not give in to our first misfortune. No doubt the want of water for two days is hard to bear, but we are strong and young both of us. Come, let’s try at least for a sheltering bush to sleep under, before the sun goes down.”

Animated by the cheering voice, if not by the words, of its rider, the horse responded to the exhortation by breaking into a shuffling canter.

After a short time the youth came in sight of what appeared to be a herd of cattle in the far distance. In eager expectation he galloped towards them and found that his conjectures were correct. They were cattle in charge of one of that lowest of the human race, a Bushman. The diminutive, black-skinned, and monkey-faced creature was nearly naked. He carried a sheepskin kaross, or blanket, on his left shoulder, and a knobbed stick, or “kerrie,” in his right hand.

“Can you speak English?” asked Considine as he rode up.

The Bushman looked vacant and made no reply.

“Where is your master’s house?” asked the youth.

A stare was the only answer.

“Can’t you speak, you dried-up essence of stupidity!” exclaimed Charlie with impatience.

At this the Bushman uttered something with so many klicks, klucks, and gurgles in it that his interrogator at once relinquished the use of the tongue, and took to signs, but with no better success, his efforts having only the effect of causing the mouth of the Bushman to expand from ear to ear. Uttering a few more klicks and gurgles, he pointed in the direction of the setting sun. As Considine could elicit no fuller information he bade him a contemptuous farewell and rode away in the direction indicated.

He had not gone far when a dark speck became visible on the horizon directly in front.

“Ho! Rob,” he exclaimed, “that looks like something—a bush, is it? If so, we may find water there, who knows—eh? No, it can’t be a bush, for it moves,” he added in a tone of disappointment. “Why, I do believe it’s an ostrich! Well, if we can’t find anything to drink, I’ll try to get something to eat.”

Urging his jaded steed into a gallop, the youth soon drew near enough to discover that the object was neither bush nor ostrich, but a horseman.

The times of which we write were unsettled. Considine, although “lost,” was sufficiently aware of his whereabouts to understand that he was near the north-eastern frontier of Cape Colony. He deemed it prudent, therefore, to unsling his gun. On drawing nearer he became convinced from the appearance of the stranger that he could not be a Kafir. When close enough to perceive that he was a white man, mounted and armed much like himself, he re-slung his gun, waved his cap in token of friendship, and galloped forward with the confidence of youth.

The stranger proved to be a young man of about his own age—a little over twenty—but much taller and more massive in frame. He was, indeed, a young giant, and bestrode a horse suitable to his weight. He was clad in the rough woollen and leathern garments worn by the frontier farmers, or boers, of that period, and carried one of those long heavy flint-lock guns, or “roers,” which the Dutch-African colonist then deemed the most effective weapon in the universe.

“Well met!” exclaimed Considine heartily, as he rode up.

“Humph! that depends on whether we meet as friends or foes,” replied the stranger, with a smile on his cheerful countenance that accorded ill with the caution of his words.

“Well met, I say again, whether we be friends or foes,” returned Considine still more heartily, “for if we be friends we shall fraternise; if we be foes we shall fight, and I would rather fight you for love, hate, or fun, than die of starvation in the karroo.”

“What is your name, and where do you come from?” demanded the stranger.

“One question at a time, if you please,” answered the youth. “My name is Charles Considine. What is yours?”

“Hans Marais.”

“Well, Mr Marais, I come from England, which is my native home. In the coming I managed to get wrecked in Table Bay, landed at Capetown, joined a frontier farmer, and came up here—a long and roughish journey, as probably you know, and as my garments testify. On the way I lost my comrades, and in trying to find them lost myself. For two days nothing in the shape of meat or drink has passed my lips, and my poor horse has fared little better in the way of drink, though the karroo-bush has furnished him with food enough to keep his bones together. So now, you have my biography in brief, and if you be a man possessed of any powers of sympathy, you will know what to do.”

The young Dutchman held out his huge hand, which Considine grasped and shook warmly.

“Come,” he said, while a slight smile played on his bronzed countenance; “I have nothing here to give you, but if you will come with me to yon koppie you shall have both meat and drink.”

The koppie to which he referred was a scarce discernible knoll on the horizon.

Hans Marais seemed to be a man of few words, for he turned and galloped away, without for some time uttering another syllable to his companion. As for Considine, the thought of once more feasting on any sort of meat and drink was so fascinating, in his then ravenous condition, that he cared for nought else, and followed his guide in silence.

Soon the herbage on the plain became more luxuriant, and in half an hour the two horsemen found themselves riding among scattered groups of mimosa bushes, the thorns of which were from three to five inches long, while their sweet fragrance scented the whole atmosphere.

On reaching the ridge of one of the undulations of the plain, Hans Marais drew rein and gazed intently towards the distant horizon. At the same time Considine’s horse pricked up its ears, pawed the ground, and exhibited unwonted signs of a desire to advance.

“Hallo, Rob!” exclaimed its master, “what’s wrong with you?”

“Your horse has been gifted by his Maker with a power,” said Hans, “which has been denied to man. He scents water. But before he shall taste it he must help me to procure fresh meat. Do you see the boks on that koppie?”

“Do you mean those white specks like ostrich eggs on the hillock to the right of the big bush?”

“The same. These are springboks. Ride away down by that hollow till you get somewhat in their rear, and then drive them in the direction of that clump of bushes on our left, just under the sun.”

Without waiting for a reply Hans rode off at a gallop, and Considine proceeded to obey orders.

A few minutes sufficed to bring him close to the springboks, which beautiful antelopes no sooner observed him than, after one brief gaze of surprise, they bounded away in the direction of the bushes indicated by Hans,—conscious apparently of their superior fleetness, for they seemed in no great haste, but leaped about as if half in play, one and another taking an occasional spring of six feet or more into the air. As they passed the bushes towards which Considine drove them, a white puff was seen to burst from them, and the huge roer of Hans Marais sent forth its bellowing report. It seemed as if the entire flock of boks had received an electric shock, so high did they spring into the air. Then they dashed off at full speed, leaving one of their number dead upon the plain.

When Considine came up he found that Hans had already disembowelled the springbok, and was in the act of fastening the carcase on his horse behind the saddle. Remounting immediately, the hunter galloped towards a mound, on the top of which the bushes formed a dense brake. Skirting this till he reached the other side, he pulled up, exclaiming—

“There, you’ll find good water in the hollow; go drink, while I prepare supper on the koppie.”

Considine went off at once. Indeed, he could not have done otherwise, for his impatient horse took the bit in its mouth and galloped towards a small pool of water, which was so yellow with mud that it resembled thin pea-soup.

Thirsty though he was, the youth could not help smiling at his new friend’s idea of “good” water, but he was not in a condition to be fastidious. Jumping out of the saddle, he lay down on his breast, dipped his lips into the muddy liquid, and drank with as much enjoyment as if the beverage had been nectar—or Bass. Rob Roy also stood, in a state of perfect bliss, in the middle of the pool, sucking the water in with unwearied vigour. It seemed as if man and horse had laid a wager as to who should drink most. At last, the point of utmost capacity in both was reached, and they retired with a sigh of contentment, Rob Roy to browse on the plain, and his master to betake himself to the encampment on the knoll, where Hans Marais quickly supplied him with glorious steaks of springbok venison.

“Isn’t it an enjoyable thing to eat when one is hungry, eh?” said Considine, after half an hour’s silent devotion to the duty in hand.—“Why, where got you that?”

He referred to an ostrich egg which his companion had taken from a saddle-bag, and in one end of which he was busy boring a hole.

“Found it in the sand just before I found you,” said Hans. “Did you ever eat one?”

“No, never.”

“Well then, you shall do so now, and I’ll show you how the niggers here make an omelet.”

He planted the huge egg in the hot ashes as he spoke, and kept stirring its contents with a piece of stick until sufficiently cooked.

“Not bad,—eh?”

“Glorious!” exclaimed Considine, smacking his lips.

Both youths continued to smack their lips over the egg until it was finished, after which Charlie pronounced it not only a glorious but a satisfying morsel. This was doubtless true, for an ostrich egg is considered equal to twenty-four hen’s eggs.

Returning to the springbok steaks, the half-starved youth continued his repast, while Hans Marais, having finished, extended his huge frame beside the camp-fire, leaned upon his saddle, and smoked his pipe in benignant contemplation of his companion.

“This is pleasant!” said Charlie, pausing, with a sigh, and looking up.

“Ja, it is pleasant,” replied Hans.

“Ja!” repeated Charlie, quoting the Dutch “Yes” of the other; “are you a Dutchman?”

“I am; at least I am a Cape colonist descended from Dutchmen. Why are you surprised?”

“Because,” replied his companion, while he prepared another steak over the embers, “you speak English so well that I could not have known it. How came you to learn the language so perfectly?”

“My father, being wiser than some of his friends and neighbours,” said Hans, “sent me to Capetown to be educated. I suppose that is the reason. We dwelt in the western part of the colony then, and I was the eldest of the family. When a number of us Dutchmen left that part of the country—being disgusted with the Government,—and came up here, my brothers and sister had to be taken from school. This was a pity, for education taught me to know that education is an inestimable blessing—the want of it a heavy misfortune.”

“True,” remarked Considine. But being still too busy with the steaks to pursue the subject he merely added—“Does your father live near this?”

“About seven hours’ ride, which, as I daresay you know, is forty-two miles. You shall go home with me to-morrow.”

“How many are there of you?” asked Considine, looking at the young Dutchman over a bone. “Excuse my being so impolite,” he added, “but d’you know, one feels horribly like a tiger after a two days’ fast.”

“Don’t stand on ceremony,” said the other, with a laugh. “When you are satisfied we can converse. There are fifteen of us: father, mother, sister, and eleven boys besides myself. I’ll tell you about them all after supper; meanwhile I’ll go fetch the horses, for there are lions about, as I daresay you know, and some of them are nearly as ravenous as yourself.”

Hans rose, put his pipe in the band of his broad-brimmed hat, and sauntered heavily out of the thicket.

In a few minutes he returned, leading the horses, and then busied himself in surrounding the camp with an almost impenetrable wall of mimosa-thorn branches, the spikes of which were so tremendous that it seemed as if nothing smaller than an elephant could force its way through. This done, he sat down and quietly refilled his pipe, while Considine, having at last finished his meal, drew the embers of the fire together, disposed his limbs comfortably on the ground, lay back on his saddle, and prepared to enjoy a contemplative gaze at the cheering blaze and an interrogative conversation with his new friend.

“Do you smoke?” asked Hans.

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because it makes me sick, and I don’t like it.”

Hans looked surprised. This was a new idea to him, and he sat for some time pondering it; indeed, we may say with truth that he “smoked it” In a few minutes he looked earnestly at the youth, and asked why he came to the Cape.

“To make my fortune,” answered Considine.

“Fortunes are not easily made at the Cape,” was the grave reply. “My father has been making his fortune for the last quarter of a century, and it’s not made yet.—Why did you choose the Cape?”

“I didn’t choose it.”

“No?” said the Dutchman, with a look of surprise.

“No,” responded the Englishman; “my coming here was not a matter of choice: it was necessity. Come, I will make a confidant of you and relate my history. Don’t be alarmed, I won’t keep you up all night with prosy details. My life, as you may see, has not yet been a long one, and until this year it has been comparatively uneventful.”

He paused a few moments as if to recall the past, while his companion, picking his pipe with a mimosa thorn, settled himself to listen.

“Father, mother, brothers, and sisters I have none,” began Considine as he whittled a stick—a pastime, by the way, which is erroneously supposed to be an exclusively American privilege. “Neither have I grandfathers, grandmothers, aunts, nephews, nieces, or anything else of the sort. They all died either before or soon after I was born. My only living relation is an uncle, who was my guardian. He is a sea-captain, and a good man, but tough. I bear him no ill-will. I would not speak disrespectfully of him; but he is tough, and, I incline to think, no better than he should be. Infancy and boyhood with squalling and schooling I pass over. My uncle ordered me to study for the medical profession, and I obeyed. Wishing to see a little of the world before finishing my course, I sailed in a vessel bound for Australia. We touched at Table Bay in passing. Obtaining leave, I went ashore at Capetown. The ship also went ashore—without leave—in company with six other ships, during a terrific gale which sprang up in the night. Our vessel became a total wreck. The crew were saved, but my effects went with the cargo to the bottom. Fortunately, however, I had carried ashore with me the little cash I possessed.”

“I found the Capetown people very kind. One of them took me by the hand and offered me employment, but I preferred to proceed into the interior with a trader and work or shoot my way, in order to save my money. No trader being about to start at that time, I was obliged to accept the offer of a frontier farmer, who, for a small sum, agreed to allow me to accompany his waggons, on condition that I should make myself generally useful. I grudged the cash, but closed with the offer, and next day started on our journey of six hundred miles—such being the distance we had to go, according to my employer or comrade, Jan Smit.”

“Who?” exclaimed Hans, with sudden energy.

“Jan Smit,” repeated Considine. “Do you know him?”

“Ja—but go on,” said Hans, with a nod and a smile.

“Well, I soon found that my Dutch comrade—”

“He’s only half Dutch,” interrupted Hans. “His mother was Dutch, but his father is English.”

“Well, Dutch or English, he is the most unmitigated scoundrel I ever met.”

“Ja,” muttered Hans, “he is.”

“And I soon found that my trip of pleasure became a trip of torment. It is true we shot plenty of game—lions among the rest—but in camp the man was so unbearable that disgust counterbalanced all the pleasure of the trip. I tried hard to get the better of him by good-humour and jollity, but he became so insolent at last that I could not stand it. Three days ago when I asked him how far we were from his farm, he growled that it wasn’t far off now; whereupon I could not refrain from saying that I was glad to hear it, as we should soon have the pleasure of parting company. This put him in a rage. He kicked over the pot containing part of our breakfast, and told me I might part company then and there if I pleased. My temper does not easily go, but it went at last. I jumped up, saddled my horse, mounted, and rode away. Of course I lost myself immediately, and for two days have been trying to find myself, without success, mourning over my fate and folly, and fasting from necessity. But for my opportune meeting with you, Mr Marais, it might have gone hard with me and my poor horse, for the want of water had well-nigh floored us both.”

“You’ll never make your fortune by doctoring on the frontier,” said Hans, after a few minutes’ silence. “Nobody gets ill in this splendid climate—besides, we couldn’t afford to waste time in that way. People here usually live to a great age, and then go off without the assistance of a doctor. What else can you turn your hand to?”

“Anything,” replied Considine, with the overweening confidence of youth.

“Which means nothing, I suspect,” said the Dutchman, “for Jack-of-all-trades is proverbially master of none.”

“It may be so,” retorted the other, “nevertheless, without boasting, I may venture to assert—because I can prove it—that I am able to make tables, chairs, chests, and such-like things, besides knowing something of the blacksmith’s trade. In regard to doctoring, I am not entitled to practise for fees, not yet being full-fledged—only a third-year student—but I may do a little in that way for love, you know. If you have a leg, for instance, that wants amputating, I can manage it for you with a good carving-knife and a cross-cut saw. Or, should a grinder give you annoyance, any sort of pincers, small enough to enter your mouth, will enable me to relieve you.”

At this Hans smiled and displayed a set of brilliant “grinders,” which did not appear likely to give him annoyance for some time to come.

“Can you shoot?” asked Hans, laying his hand on his companion’s double-barrelled gun, which lay on the ground between them, and which, with its delicate proportions and percussion-locks, formed a striking contrast to the battered, heavy, flint-lock weapon of the Dutchman.

“Ay, to some extent, as the lions’ skins in Jan Smit’s waggon can testify.—By the way,” added Considine quickly, “you said that you knew Smit. Can you tell me where he lives? because I still owe him the half of the money promised for permission to accompany him on this trip, and should not like to remain his debtor.”

“Ja, I know where he lives. He’s a bad specimen of a Dutch farmer in every respect, except as to size. He lives quite close to our farm—more’s the pity!—and is one of those men who do their best to keep up bad feeling between the frontier-men and the Kafirs. The evil deeds of men such as he are represented in England, by designing or foolish persons, as being characteristic of the whole class of frontier farmers, hence we are regarded as a savage set, while, in my humble opinion, we are no worse than the people of other colonies placed in similar circumstances—perhaps better than some of them. Do you know anything of our past history?”

“Not much,” replied Considine, throwing away the remnant of the stick he had been whittling, and commencing on another piece. “Of course I know that the Cape was first doubled by the Portuguese commander Bartholomew Diaz in, I think, 1486, and after him by Vasco de Gama, and that the Dutch formed the first settlement on it under Van Riebeek in 1652, but beyond this my knowledge of Cape history and dates is hazy and confused. I know, however, that your forefathers mismanaged the country for about a century and a half, after which it finally came into possession of the British in 1806.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Hans, while a shade of displeasure flitted for a moment across his broad visage. “’Tis a pity your reading had not extended farther, for then you would have learned that from 1806 the colony has been mismanaged by your countrymen, and the last fruit of their mismanagement has been a bloody war with the Kafirs, which has only just been concluded. Peace has been made only this year, and the frontier is now at rest. But who will rebuild the burned homesteads of this desolated land? who will reimburse the ruined farmers? above all, who will restore the lost lives?”

The young Dutchman’s eyes kindled, and his stern face flushed as he spoke, for although his own homestead had escaped the ruthless savage, friends and kindred had suffered deeply in the irruption referred to, which took place in 1819, and one or two of his intimate comrades had found early graves in the wild karroo.

Considine, sympathising with his companion’s feelings, said, “I doubt not that you have much to complain of, for there is no colony under the sun that escapes from the evil acts of occasional bad or incompetent Governors. But pray do not extend your indignation to me or to my countrymen at large, for few of us know the true merits of your case. And tell me, what was the origin of the war which has just ended?”

The young farmer’s anger had passed away as quickly as it came. Letting his bulky frame sink back into the reclining position from which he had partially risen, he replied—

“Just the old story—self-will and stupidity. That domineering fellow Lord Charles Somerset, intending to check the plundering of the colony by Kafirs, chose to enter into treaties with Gaika as paramount chief of Kafirland, although Gaika himself told him plainly that he was not paramount chief. Of course the other chiefs were indignant, and refused to recognise such treaties. They did more: they made war on Gaika, and beat him, whereupon Somerset, instead of leaving the niggers to fight their own battles, must needs send a great commando of military and burghers to ‘restore’ Gaika to his so-called supremacy. This was done. The chief T’slambi was driven from his villages, and no fewer than 11,000 head of cattle were handed over to Gaika. While this was going on at the eastern frontier, the Kafirs invaded the colony at other points, drove in the small military posts, ravaged the whole land, and even attacked the military headquarters at Grahamstown, where, however, they were defeated with great slaughter. After this a large force was sent to drive them out of their great stronghold, the Fish River bush. This was successfully accomplished, and then, at last, the right thing was done. The Governor met the Kafir chiefs, when it was agreed that they should evacuate the country between the Great Fish River and the Keiskamma, and that the territory so evacuated should form neutral ground. So matters stand at present, but I have no faith in Kafirs. It is their pride to lie, their business to make war, and their delight to plunder.”

“But is it not the same with all savages?” asked Considine.

“Doubtless it is, therefore no savages ought to be trusted, as civilised men are trusted, till they cease to be savages. We trust them too much. Time will show.—By the way, I hear that a new move is about to be attempted. Rumour says that your Government is going to send out a strong party of emigrants to colonise the eastern frontier. Is this true?”

“It is,” replied Considine; “I wonder that you have not heard all about it before now.”

“Good reasons for that. For one thing, I have just returned from a long trip into the north-western districts, and I have not been in the way of hearing news for some time. Besides, we have no newspapers in the colony. Everything comes to us by word of mouth, and that slowly. Tell me about this matter.”

“There is little to tell,” returned Considine, replenishing the fire with a thick branch, which sent up a magnificent display of sparks and scared away a hyena and two jackals that had been prowling round the camp-fence. “The fact is that there is a great deal of distress in England just now, and a redundant population of idlers, owing to the cessation of continental wars. This seems to have put it into the heads of some people in power to encourage emigration to the eastern part of this colony. In the House of Commons 50,000 pounds have been voted in aid of the plan, and it seems that when the proposal was first made public, no fewer than 90,000 would-be emigrants applied for leave to come out here. Of these I believe 4000 have been selected, and twenty-three vessels chartered to convey them out. This is all I could learn before I left England, but I suppose we shall have more light on the subject ere many months have gone by.”

“A good plan,” said the Dutchman, with a grim smile, “but I pity the emigrants!”

As Considine’s head drooped at this point, and his eyes winked with that owlish look which indicates the approach of irresistible sleep, Hans Marais rose, and, spreading a large kaross or blanket of leopard skin on the ground, invited his companion to lie down thereon. The youth willingly complied, stretched himself beside the Dutchman, and almost instantly fell sound asleep. Hans spread a lighter covering over himself and his comrade, and, with his head on his saddle, lay for a long time gazing tranquilly at the stars, which shone with an intensity of lustre peculiar to that region of the southern hemisphere, while the yelling cries of jackals and the funereal moaning of spotted hyenas, with an occasional distant roar from the king of beasts, formed an appropriate lullaby.

Chapter Two.

Introduces a Cape Dutchman and his Family, and Shows the Uncertainty of Human Plans.

The break of day found Charlie Considine and Hans Marais galloping lightly over the karroo towards a range of mountains which, on the previous evening, had appeared like a faint line of blue on the horizon.

The sun was just rising in a blaze of splendour, giving promise of an oppressive day, when the horsemen topped a ridge beyond which lay the primitive buildings of a frontier farm.

Considine uttered an exclamation of surprise, and looked inquiringly at his companion.

“My father’s farm,” said Hans, drawing rein and advancing at a foot-pace.

“A lovely spot,” returned his companion, “but I cannot say much for the buildings.”

“They are well suited to their purpose nevertheless,” said Hans; “besides, would it be wise to build fine houses for Kafirs to burn?”

“Is being burnt by Kafirs the necessary end of all frontier farms?” asked Considine, with a smile.

“Not the necessary, but the probable end. Many a one has been burnt in times gone by, and many a one will be burnt again, if the Government and people in England do not recognise and admit the two great facts, that the interest as well as the main desire of the frontier settler is peace, while the chief delight as well as business of the Kafir is war. But I suppose that you, being an Englishman, will not believe that until conviction is forced on you by experience.—Come, I will introduce you to one of those colonists who are supposed to be such discontented fire-eaters; I think he will receive you hospitably.”

The young farmer put spurs to his horse as he spoke, and dashed away over the plain, closely followed by his new friend, who was not sorry to drop the conversation, being almost entirely ignorant of the merits of the question raised.

The style of the group of buildings to which they drew near was not entirely unfamiliar to Considine, for he had passed one or two similar farms, belonging to Cape Dutchmen, on his trip from the sea-coast to the interior. There were about this farm, however, a few prominent points of difference. The cottages, being built of sun-dried bricks, were little better than mud-huts, but there were more of them than Considine had hitherto seen on such farms, and the chief dwelling, in particular, displayed some touches of taste which betokened superior refinement in the inhabitants. The group lay in a hollow on the margin of an insignificant stream, whose course through the plain was marked by a thick belt of beautiful mimosa-bushes. Close to the houses, these mimosas, large enough to merit the title of trees, formed a green setting in which the farm appeared to nestle as if desirous of escaping the sunshine. A few cactus shrubs and aloes were scattered about in rear of the principal dwelling, in the midst of which stood several mud-huts resembling gigantic bee-hives. In these dwelt some of the Hottentot and other servants of the farm, while, a little to the right of them, on a high mound, were situated the kraals or enclosures for cattle and sheep. About fifty yards farther off, a clump of tall trees indicated the position of a garden, whose fruit-trees were laden with the blossoms or beginnings of a rich crop of peaches, lemons, oranges, apricots, figs, pears, plums, apples, pomegranates, and many other fruits and vegetables. This bright and fruitful gem, in the midst of the brown and apparently barren karroo, was chiefly due to the existence of a large enclosure or dam which the thrifty farmer had constructed about half a mile from the homestead, and the clear waters of which shimmered in the centre of the picture, even when prolonged drought had quite dried up the bed of its parent stream. The peaceful beauty of the scene was completed by its grand background of blue mountains.

A tall, powerful, middle-aged man, in a coarse cloth jacket, leathern trousers or “crackers,” and a broad-brimmed home-made hat, issued from the chief dwelling-house as the horsemen galloped up and drew rein. The sons of the family and a number of barking dogs also greeted them. Hans and Considine sprang to the ground, while two or three of the eleven brothers, of various ages—also in leathern crackers, but without coats or hats—came forward, kicked the dogs, and led the horses away.

“Let me introduce a stranger, father, whom I have found—lost in the karroo,” said Hans.

“Welcome to Eden! Come in, come in,” said Mynheer Conrad Marais heartily, as he shook his visitor by the hand.

Considine suitably acknowledged the hospitable greeting and followed his host into the principal room of his residence.

There was no hall or passage to the house. The visitor walked straight off the veldt, or plain, into the drawing-room—if we may so style it. The house door was also the drawing-room door, and it was divided transversely into two halves, whereby an open window could at any moment be formed by shutting the lower half of the door. There was no ceiling to the room. You could see the ridge-pole and rafters by looking up between the beams, on one of which latter a swallow—taking advantage of the ever open door and the general hospitality of the family—had built its nest. The six-foot sons almost touched the said nest with their heads; as to the smaller youths it was beyond the reach of most of them, but had it been otherwise no one would have disturbed the lively little intruder.

The floor of the apartment was made of hard earth, without carpet. The whitewashed walls were graced with various garments, as well as implements and trophies of the chase.

From the beams hung joints of meat, masses of dried flesh, and various kinds of game, large whips—termed sjamboks (pronounced shamboks)—made of rhinoceros or hippopotamus hide, leopard and lion skins, ostrich eggs and feathers, dried fruit, strings of onions, and other miscellaneous objects; on the floor stood a large deal table, and chairs of the same description—all home-made,—two waggon chests, a giant churn, a large iron pot, several wooden pitchers hooped with brass, and a side-table on which were a large brass-clasped Dutch Bible, a set of Dutch tea-cups, an urn, and a brass tea-kettle heated like a chafing-dish. On the walls and in corners were several flint-lock guns, and one or two of the short light javelins used by the Kafirs for throwing in battle, named assagais.

Three small doors led into three inner rooms, in which the entire family slept. There were no other apartments, the kitchen being an outhouse. On the centre table was spread a substantial breakfast, from which the various members of the family had risen on the arrival of the horsemen.

Considine was introduced to Mynheer Marais’ vrouw, a good-looking, fat, and motherly woman verging on forty,—and his daughter Bertha, a pretty little girl of eight or nine.

“What is Mynheer’s name?” was the matron’s first question.

Mynheer replied that it was Charles Considine.

“Was Mynheer English?”

“Yes,” Mynheer was proud to acknowledge the fact.

Mrs Marais followed up these questions with a host of others—such as, the age and profession of Mynheer, the number of his relatives, and the object of his visit to South Africa. Mynheer Marais himself, after getting a brief outline of his son’s meeting with the Englishman, backed the attack of his pleasant-faced vrouw by putting a number of questions as to the political state of Europe then existing, and the chances of the British Government seriously taking into consideration the unsatisfactory condition of the Cape frontier and its relations with the Kafirs.

To all of these and a multitude of other questions Charlie Considine replied with great readiness and good-humour, as far as his knowledge enabled him, for he began quickly to appreciate the fact that these isolated farmers, who almost never saw a newspaper were thirsting for information as to the world in general as well as with regard to himself in particular.

During this bombardment of queries the host and hostess were not forgetful to supply their young guest with the viands under which the substantial table groaned, while several of the younger members of the family, including the pretty Bertha, stood behind the rest and waited on them. With the exception of the host and hostess, none of the household spoke during the meal, all being fully occupied in listening eagerly and eating heartily.

When the Dutch fire began to slacken for want of ammunition, Considine retaliated by opening a British battery, and soon learned that Marais and his wife both claimed, and were not a little proud of, a few drops of French blood. Their progenitors on the mother’s side, they said, were descended from one of the French Huguenot families which settled in the colony after the revocation of the Edict of Nantes.

“You see,” said Mynheer Marais, with a quiet smile of satisfaction, as he applied a boiled cob of mealies or Indian corn to his powerful teeth, “our family may be said to be about two-thirds Dutch and one-third French. In fact, we have also a little English blood in our veins, for my great-grandfather’s mother was English on the father’s side and Dutch on the mother’s. Perhaps this accounts to some extent for my tendency to adopt some English and American ideas in the improvement of my farm, which is not a characteristic of my Cape-Dutch brethren.”

“So I have been told, and to some extent have seen,” said Considine, with a sly glance; “in fact they appear to be rather lazy than otherwise.”

“Not lazy, young sir,” returned Marais with some emphasis. “They are easy-going and easily satisfied, and not solicitous to add to their material comforts beyond a certain point—in short, contented with little, like Frenchmen, which is a praiseworthy condition of mind, commended in Holy Writ, and not disposed to make haste to be rich, like you English.”

“Ah, I see,” rejoined Considine, who observed a twinkle in the eyes of some of Mynheer’s stalwart sons.

“Yes,” pursued the farmer, buttering another mealie-cob, and commencing to eat it with infinite gusto, “you see, the Cape Dutchmen, although as fine a set of men as ever lived, are just a little too contented and slow; on the other hand, young sir, you English are much too reckless and fast—”

“Just so,” interrupted Considine, bowing his thanks to the hostess for a third venison-steak which she had put on his plate; “the Dutch too slow, the English too fast, so that three parts Dutch, two parts French, and one part English—like a dash of seasoning—is, it seems, the perfect Marais mixture.”

This remark produced a sudden and unintentional burst of laughter from the young Maraises, not so much on account of the excess of humour contained in it, as from the fact that never before had they heard a jest of any kind fabricated at the expense of their father, of whom they stood much in awe, and for whom they had a profound respect.

Conrad Marais, however, could take a joke, although not much given to making one. He smiled blandly over the edge of his mealie-cob.

“You’re right, sir,—right; the mixture is not a bad one. The Dutch element gives steadiness, the English vigour, and the French spirit.—By the way, Arend,” he continued, turning to one of his stout olive-branches, “talking of spirit reminds me that you will have to go to work at that leak in the dam with more spirit than usual, for we can’t afford to lose water in this dry weather. It is not finished, I think?”

“No, father, but we hope to get it done this afternoon.”

“That’s well. How many of you are at it?”

“David and I, with six Totties. Old Sam is ill, and none of the others can be spared to-day.”

“Can’t some of your brothers help?” asked the farmer. “Losing water is as bad almost as losing gold.”

“Joseph meant to come, but he started at six this morning to look after the cattle. We hear that the Kafirs carried off some of Jan Smit’s sheep yesterday.”

“The black scoundrels!” exclaimed Conrad Marais, with a growl and a frown, “they are never at rest, either in times of peace or of war.”

The frown passed as quickly as it came, and the genial smile habitual to the farmer resumed its place on his countenance as he ran his fingers through the thick masses of his iron-grey hair, and rose from the table.

“Come, Mr Considine,” he said, putting on his hat, “are you disposed for a ride? I take a look round the farm every morning to see that things are going straight. Will you join me?”

Of course Considine gladly assented, and Hans said he would accompany them, while the other sons—except of course the younger ones, and the baby who was Bertha’s special charge—went out to their various avocations.

A few minutes later the three horsemen were cantering over the plain.

During the ride, Considine was again questioned closely as to his future intentions and prospects, but without anything very satisfactory being evolved. At last Conrad Marais pulled up, after a long pause in the conversation, and while they advanced at a walk, said— “Well, I’ve been thinking, and here is the outcome. You want work, Mr Considine, and I want a workman. You’ve had a good education, which I count a priceless advantage. Some of my sons have had a little, but since I came here the young ones have had none at all worth mentioning. What say you to become a schoolmaster? You stop with me and give the youngsters as much as you think fit of whatever you know, and I’ll give you house-room and food, with a small salary and a hearty welcome. You need not bind yourself. If you don’t like it, you can leave it. If you do like it, you are welcome to stay as long as you please, and you’ll thus have an opportunity of looking about and deciding on your future plans. What say you?”

Considine received the opening sentences of this proposal with a smile, but as the farmer went on he became grave, and at length seriously entertained the idea. After having slept a night over it he finally resolved to accept the offer, and next day was fairly installed as dominie and a member of the farmer’s family. School-books were ferreted out from the bottom of family chests; a Hottentot’s (or Tottie’s) mud-hut was converted into a schoolroom; six of the farmer’s sons—beginning almost at the foot of the scale—formed a class. Reading, writing, and arithmetic were unfolded to youthful and not unwilling minds, even Latin was broached by the eldest of the six, and, during a separate hour in the evening, French was taught to Bertha. Everything, in short, was put in train, and, as Considine expressed it, “the Marais Academy was going full swing,” when an event occurred which instantly sent French and Latin to the right-about and scattered the three R’s to the four winds.

This was nothing less than an order from the Colonial Government to the Field Cornets on the frontier to engage waggons and oxen from the farmers, to be sent to Algoa Bay for the purpose of conveying the British immigrants—expected in a few weeks—from the coast to the various locations destined for their reception.

Among others, Conrad Marais was to send two waggons and spans of oxen, each span consisting of eighteen animals. Hans Marais was to go in charge, and Hans resolved to have Considine as a companion, for the journey down to the coast was long—about 160 miles,—and the two youths had formed so strong an attachment during their short acquaintance that Considine was as anxious to go as his friend could desire.

Conrad Marais, having no objection to this arrangement, the oxen were “inspanned,” and the day following that on which the order was received they set off towards the shores of the Indian Ocean.

Having to pass the residence of Jan Smit on the way, Considine seized the opportunity to visit his former cross-grained companion and pay his debt.

Jan Smit was in a more savage humour than usual when the young man walked up to his dwelling. The farmer’s back was towards him as he approached. He stood nervously switching a sjambok in his right hand, while he stormed in Dutch at three of his unfortunate people, or rather slaves. One was a sturdy Hottentot named Ruyter, one a Malay named Abdul Jemalee, both of whom had travelled with Considine on the up journey. The third was the Bushman whom he had encountered when lost on the karroo, and who, owing to his inveterate stupidity, had been named Booby.

They had all been implicated in the recent loss of cattle suffered by their savage master, who had already flogged the Bushman with the sjambok and was furiously interrogating the Hottentot. At last he gave him a tremendous cut across the shoulders, which immediately raised a dark red bar thereon.

Ruyter’s black eyes flashed. He did not wince, but drew himself quickly up like a man about to retaliate. Jan Smit observing and resenting the action, at once knocked him down.

Ruyter slowly rose and staggered away just as Considine came up. The youth could not resist the inclination to exclaim “Shame!”

“Who dares—” cried Jan Smit, turning fiercely round. He paused in mute surprise at sight of his former companion.

“I dare!” said Considine sternly; “many a time the word has been on my lips before, and now that it has passed them it may go. I came not here, however, to bully, or be bullied, but to pay my debt to you.”

He drew out a leathern purse as he spoke, and the Dutchman, whose spirit was quelled both by the manner and the matter of his visitor’s remark, led the way to his domicile.

The house resembled that of Conrad Marais in form, but in nothing else. Everything in and around it was dirty and more or less dilapidated. There was no dam, no garden,—nothing, in short, but the miserable dwelling and a few surrounding huts, with the cattle kraal.

Having paid his debt, Considine did not vouchsafe another word, but returned at once to the waggons. On the way he overtook Ruyter.

“My poor fellow,” he said, “have you no means of redress? Can you not complain to some one—some magistrate?”

“Complain!” exclaimed the Hottentot fiercely, “what de use of complain? No one care. Nobody listen—boh! no use complain.”

The man had learnt a smattering of English. He was a short but very powerful fellow, and with a more intellectual head and countenance than is common to his race.

“Where are you going just now, Ruyter?” asked Considine, feeling that it was best to change the subject just then.

“Go for inspan de waggin. Ordered down to Algoa Bay for bring up de white men.”

“Then we shall probably meet on the road,” said Considine, “for I am going to the same place.” As he spoke, they came to a point where the road forked. The Hottentot, with a sulky “Good-day,” took that path which led towards Jan Smit’s cattle kraal, while Considine followed the other and rejoined his waggons. The two friends mounted their horses, the drivers set the ox-teams in motion, and the huge waggons lumbered slowly over the karroo towards the rising sun.

Chapter Three.

Describes the somewhat Curious Beginning of Settler-Life in South Africa.

Leaping over time and space with that hilarious mental bound which is so easy and enjoyable to writers and readers, let us fold our wings at early morn in the month of May, and drop down on the heights in the vicinity of Algoa Bay.

The general aspect of the bay is sandy and sterile. On its blue waters many large vessels lie at anchor. Some of them are trim, with furled sails and squared yards, as if they had been there for a considerable time. Others have sails and spars loose and awry, as if they had just arrived. From these latter many an emigrant eye is turned wistfully on the shore. The rising ground on which we stand is crowned by a little fortress, or fortified barrack, styled Fort Frederick, around which are the marquees of the officers of the 72nd regiment. Below, on the range of sandhills which fringe the beach, are pitched a multitude of canvas tents, and among these upwards of a thousand men, women, and children are in busy motion. There are only one or two small wooden houses visible, and three thatched cottages. Down at the water’s edge, and deep in the surf, crowds of soldiers, civilians, and half-naked natives are busy hauling on the ropes attached to the large surfboats, which are covered to overflowing with human beings. Those in the boats, as well as those in the surf and on the beach, are in a state of high excitement, and more or less demonstrative, while the seamen from a neighbouring sloop of war, who manage the boats, shout to the people at the ropes. The replies of these are drowned, ever and anon, by the roar of falling “rollers.” These rollers, or great waves, calm though the morning be, come in with giant force from the mighty sea. They are the mere termination of the ocean-swell.

Reader, the scene before you marks an epoch of vast importance in South African history. It is the “landing of the British Settlers” in the year 1820. The spot is that on which now stands the flourishing commercial town of Port Elizabeth, styled, not inappropriately, by its inhabitants, the “Liverpool of South Africa.”

Standing near the stern of one of the surf-boats, his strong right hand grasping the gunwale, and his grave eyes fixed on the shore, one of the exiles from Scotland lifted his voice that day and said—

“Hech, sirs! it’s but a puir, ill-faur’d, outlandish sort o’ country. I wad fain hope the hieland hills of our location inland are mair pleasant-lookin’ than this.”

“Keep up your spirits, Sandy Black,” observed a sturdy Highlander who stood at his side; “those who know the country best say that our location is a splendid one—equal to Scotland itself, if not superior.”

“It may be so, Mr McTavish,” replied Sandy, in a doubtful tone of voice, “it may be so.”

“Hallo!” suddenly and loudly exclaimed a dapper little man, whose voice betokened him English.

“What is’t, Jerry?” demanded Sandy Black, turning his eyes seaward, in which direction Jerry was gazing.

The question needed no reply, for Sandy, and indeed all the various people in the barge who stood high enough on its sides or lading to be able to look over the gunwale, observed a mighty wave coming up behind them like a green wall.

“Haul hard!” roared the seamen in charge.

“Ay, ay,” shouted the soldiers on shore.

As they spoke the billow lifted the boat as if it had been a cork, fell under it with a deafening roar and bore it shoreward in a tumult of seething foam. Next moment the wave let it down with a crash and retired, leaving it still, however, in two or three feet of water.

“Eh, man, but that was a dunt!” exclaimed Sandy, tightening his hold on the gunwale, while several of his less cautious or less powerful neighbours were sent sprawling into the bottom of the boat among terrified women and children.

All was now bustle and tenfold excitement, for the soldiers on the beach hurried waist-deep into the sea for the purpose of carrying the future settlers on shore.

Thomas Pringle, the leader of the Scotch party, and who afterwards became known as the “South African poet” had previously landed in a gig. He gave an opportune hint, in broad Scotch, to a tall corporal of the 72nd Highlanders to be careful of his countrymen.

“Scotch folk, are they?” exclaimed the corporal, with a look of surprise at Pringle. “Never fear, sir, but we sal be carefu’ o’ them.”

The corporal was as good as his word, for he and his comrades carried nearly the whole party ashore in safety. But there were others there who owned no allegiance to the corporal. One of these—a big sallow Hottentot—chanced to get Jerry, surnamed Goldboy, on his shoulders, and, either by mischance or design, stumbled and fell, pitching Jerry over his head, just as another billow from the Indian Ocean was rushing to the termination of its grand career. It caught Jerry up in a loving embrace as he rose, and pitched him with a noisy welcome on the shore.

“Weel done, Jerry!” cried Sandy Black, who had just been overturned by the same wave from the shoulders of a burly Englishman—a previously landed settler—“you an’ me’s made an impressive landin’. Come, let’s git oot o’ the bustle.”

So saying the stout Lowlander seized his little English friend by the arm and dragged him towards the town of canvas which had within a few weeks sprung up like mushrooms among the sandhills.

Although wet from head to foot, each forgot his condition in the interest awakened by the strange sights and sounds around him. Their immediate neighbourhood on the beach was crowded with emigrants, as party after party was carried ashore shoulder-high by the soldiers, who seemed to regard the whole affair as a huge practical joke.

The noise was indescribable, because compound. There was the boisterous hilarity of people who felt their feet once more on solid ground, after a long and weary voyage; the shouting of sailors and bargemen in the boats, and of soldiers and natives on the beach; the talking and laughing of men and women who had struck up sudden friendships on landing, as well as of those who had crossed the sea together; the gambolling and the shrieking delight of children freed from the restraints of shipboard; the shouts of indignant Government officials who could not get their orders attended to; the querulous demands of people whose luggage had gone astray in process of debarkation; the bawling of colonial Dutch by gigantic Dutch-African farmers, in broad-brimmed hats and leathern crackers, with big tobacco-pipes in their mouths; the bellowing of oxen in reply to the pistol-shot cuts applied to their flanks by half-naked Hottentots and Bushmen, whose whips were bamboos of twenty feet or so in length, with lashes twice as long; the creaking of Cape-waggons, the barking of dogs, and, as a measured accompaniment to all, the solemn regular booming of the restless sea.

Disengaging themselves from the crowded beach, Sandy Black and Jerry Goldboy proceeded towards the town of tents among the sandhills. On their way they passed several large tarpaulin-covered depots of agricultural implements, carpenter’s and blacksmith’s tools, and ironware of all descriptions, which had been provided by Government to be sold to the settlers at prime cost—for this grand effort at colonisation was originated and fostered by the British Government.

“Weel, weel, did ever ’ee see the like o’ that, noo?” observed Sandy Black, as he passed some sandhills covered with aloes and cactuses and rare exotics, such as one might expect to find in English greenhouses.

“Well, yes,” replied Jerry Goldboy, “them are hodd lookin’ wegitables. I can’t say that I’ve much knowledge of such-like myself, ’avin’ bin born an’ bred in London, as I’ve often told you, but they do seem pecooliar, even to me.—I say, look ’ere; I thought all the people ’ere was settlers.”

Sandy, who was a grave man of few words, though not without a touch of sly humour, replied, “Weel, so they are—an’ what than?”

“Why, w’at are them there?” demanded Jerry, pointing to several marquees pitched apart among some evergreen bushes.

“H’m! ’ee may ask that,” replied the Scot; but as he did not add more, his companion was content to regard his words as a confession of ignorance, and passed on with the remark, “haristocrats.”

Jerry was so far right. The marquees referred to belonged to the higher class of settlers, who had resolved to forsake their native land and introduce refinement into the South African wilds. The position chosen by them on which to pitch their tents, and the neatness of everything around, evinced their taste, while one or two handsome carriages standing close by betokened wealth. Some of the occupants, elegantly dressed, were seated in camp-chairs, with books in their hands, while others were rambling among the shrubbery on the little eminences and looking down on the bustling beach and bay. The tents of these, however, formed an insignificant proportion of the canvas town in which Sandy Black and his friend soon found themselves involved.

“Settlers’ Camp,” as it was called, consisted of several hundred tents, pitched in parallel rows or streets, and was occupied by the middle and lower class of settlers—a motley crew, truly. There were jolly farmers and pale-visaged tradesmen from various parts of England, watermen from the Thames, fishermen from the seaports, artisans from town and country, agricultural labourers from everywhere, and ne’er-do-weels from nowhere in particular. England, Scotland, Ireland, were represented—in some cases misrepresented,—and, as character was varied, the expression of it produced infinite variety. Although the British Government had professedly favoured a select four thousand out of the luckless ninety thousand who had offered themselves for emigration, it is to be feared that either the selection had not been carefully made, or drunkenness and riotous conduct had been surprisingly developed on the voyage out. Charity, however, requires us to hope that much of the excitement displayed was due to the prospect of being speedily planted in rural felicity in the wilds of Africa. Conversation, at all events, ran largely on this theme, as our wanderers could easily distinguish—for people talked loudly, and all tent-doors were wide open.

After wandering for some time, Sandy Black paused, and looking down at his little friend with what may be called a grave smile, gave it as his opinion that they had got lost “in Settlers’-toon.”

“I do believe we ’ave,” assented Jerry. “What’s to be done?”

“Gang to the best hotel,” suggested Sandy.

“But where is the best ’otel?”

“H’m! ’ee may ask that.”

A burst of noisy laughter just behind them caused the lost ones to turn abruptly, when they observed four tall young men of gentlemanly aspect sitting in a small military tent, and much amused apparently at their moist condition.

“Why, where did you two fellows come from?” asked one of the youths, issuing from the tent.

“From England and Scotland,” replied Jerry Goldboy promptly.

“From the sea, I should say,” returned the youth, “to judge from your wet garments.”

“Ay, we’ve been drookit,” said Sandy Black.

“Bring ’em in, Jack,” shouted one of the other youths in the tent.

“Come inside,” said he who was styled Jack, “and have a glass of whisky. There’s nothing like whisky to dry a wet skin, is there, Scotty?”

To this familiar appeal Sandy replied, “m–h’m,” which word, we may add for the information of foreigners, is the Scotch for “Yes.”

“Sit down there on the blankets,” said the hospitable Jack, “we haven’t got our arm-chairs or tables made yet. Allow me to introduce my two brothers, James and Robert Skyd; my own name is the less common one of John. This young man of six feet two, with no money and less brain, is not a brother—only a chum—named Frank Dobson. Come, fill up and drink, else you’ll catch a cold, or a South African fever, if there is such a thing. Whom shall I pledge?”

“My name is Jerry Goldboy,” said the Englishman; “your health, gentlemen.”

“’Am Sandy Black,” said the Scot; “here’s t’ee.”

“Well, Mr Black and Mr Coldboy”—Goldboy, interposed Jerry—“I speak for my brothers and friend when I wish you all success in the new land.”

“Do talk less, Jack,” said Robert Skyd, the youngest brother, “and give our friends a chance of speaking—Have you come ashore lately!”

“Just arrived,” answered Jerry.

“I thought so. You belong to the Scotch party that goes to Baviaans River, I suppose?” asked Frank Dobson.

This question led at length to a full and free account of the circumstances and destination of each party, with which however we will not trouble the reader in detail.

“D’ee ken onything aboot Baviaans River?” inquired Sandy Black, after a variety of subjects had been discussed.

“Nothing whatever,” answered John Skyd, “save that it is between one and two hundred miles—more or less—inland among the mountains, and that its name, which is Dutch, means the River of Baboons, its fastnesses being filled with these gentry.”

“Ay, I’ve heard as much mysel’,” returned Sandy, “an’ they say the craters are gey fierce. Are there ony o’ the big puggies in the Albany district?”

“No, none. Albany is too level for them. It lies along the sea-coast, and is said to be a splendid country, though uncomfortably near the Kafirs.”

“The Kawfirs. Ay. H’m!” said Sandy, leaving his hearers to form their own judgment as to the meaning of his words.

“An’ what may your tred be, sir?” he added, looking at John Skyd.

The three brothers laughed, and John replied—

“Trade? we have no trade. Our profession is that of clerks—knights of the quill; at least such was our profession in the old country. In this new land, my brother Bob’s profession is fun, Jim’s is jollity, and mine is a compound of both, called joviality. As to our chum Dobson, his profession may be styled remonstrance, for he is perpetually checking our levity, as he calls it; always keeping us in order and snubbing us, nevertheless we couldn’t do without him. In fact, we may be likened to a social clock, of which Jim is the mainspring, Bob the weight, I the striking part of the works, and Dobson the pendulum. But we are not particular, we are ready for anything.”

“Ay, an’ fit for nothin’,” observed Sandy, with a peculiar smile and shrug, meant to indicate that his jest was more than half earnest.

The three brothers laughed again at this, and their friend Dobson smiled. Dobson’s smile was peculiar. The corners of his mouth turned down instead of up, thereby giving his grave countenance an unusually arch expression.

“Why, what do you mean, you cynical Scot!” demanded John Skyd. “Our shoulders are broad enough, are they not? nearly as broad as your own.”

“Oo’ ay, yer shoothers are weel aneugh, but I wadna gie much for yer heeds or haunds.”

Reply to this was interrupted by the appearance, in the opening of the tent, of a man whose solemn but kindly face checked the flow of flippant conversation.

“You look serious, Orpin; has anything gone wrong?” asked Frank Dobson.

“Our friend is dying,” replied the man, sadly. “He will soon meet his opponent in the land where all is light and where all disputes shall be ended in agreement.”

Orpin referred to two of the settlers whose careers in South Africa were destined to be cut short on the threshold. The two men had been earnestly religious, but, like all the rest of Adam’s fallen race, were troubled with the effects of original sin. They had disputed hotly, and had ultimately quarrelled, on religious subjects on the voyage out. One of them died before he landed; the other was the man of whom Orpin now spoke. The sudden change in the demeanour of the brothers Skyd surprised as well as gratified Sandy Black. That sedate, and literally as well as figuratively, long-headed Scot, had felt a growing distaste to the flippant young Englishers, as he styled them, but when he saw them throw off their light character, as one might throw off a garment, and rise eagerly and sadly to question Orpin about the dying man, he felt, as mankind is often forced to feel, that a first, and especially a hasty, judgment is often incorrect.

Stephen Orpin was a mechanic and a Wesleyan, in virtue of which latter connection, and a Christian spirit, he had been made a local preacher. He was on his way to offer his services as a watcher by the bedside of the dying man.

This man and his opponent were not the only emigrants who finished their course thus abruptly. Dr Cotton, the “Head” of the “Nottingham party,” Dr Caldecott and some others, merely came, as it were like Moses, in sight of the promised land, and then ended their earthly career. Yet some of these left a valuable contribution, in their children, to the future colony.

While Black and his friend Jerry were observing Orpin, as he conversed with the brothers Skyd, the tall burly Englishman from whose shoulders the former had been hurled into the sea, chanced to pass, and quietly grasped the Scot by the arm.

“Here you are at last! Why, man, I’ve been lookin’ for you ever since that unlucky accident, to offer you a change of clothes and a feed in my tent—or I should say our tent, for I belong to a ‘party,’ like every one else here. Come along.”

“Thank ’ee kindly,” answered Sandy, “but what between haverin’ wi’ thae Englishers an’ drinkin’ their whusky, my freen’ Jerry an’ me’s dry aneugh already.”

The Englishman, however, would not listen to any excuse. He was one of those hearty men, with superabundant animal spirits—to say nothing of physique—who are not easily persuaded to let others follow their own inclinations, and who are so good-natured that it is difficult to feel offended with their kindly roughness. He introduced himself by the name of George Dally, and insisted on Black accompanying him to his tent. Sandy being a sociable, although a quiet man, offered little resistance, and Jerry, being a worshipper of Sandy, followed with gay nonchalance.

Chapter Four.

Further Particulars of “Settlers’ Town,” and a Start made for the Promised Land.

Threading his way among the streets of “Settlers’ Town,” and pushing vigorously through the crowds of excited beings who peopled it, George Dally led his new acquaintances to a tent in the outskirts of the camp—a suburban tent, as it were.

Entering it, and ushering in his companions, he introduced them as the gentlemen who had been capsized into the sea on landing, at which operation he had had the honour to assist.

There were four individuals in the tent. A huge German labourer named Scholtz, and his wife. Mrs Scholtz was a substantial woman of forty. She was also a nurse, and, in soul, body, and spirit, was totally absorbed in a baby boy, whose wild career had begun four months before in a furious gale in the Bay of Biscay. As that infant “lay, on that day, in the Bay of Biscay O!” the elemental strife outside appeared to have found a lodgment in his soul, for he burst upon the astonished passengers with a squall which lasted longer than the gale, and was ultimately pronounced the worst that had visited the ship since she left England. Born in a storm, the infant was baptised in a stiff breeze by a Wesleyan minister, on and after which occasion he was understood to be Jabez Brook; but one of the sailors happening to call him Junkie on the second day of his existence, his nurse, Mrs Scholtz, leaped at the endearing name like a hungry trout at a gay fly, and “Junkie” he remained during the whole term of childhood.

Junkie’s main characteristic was strength of lungs, and his chief delight to make that fact known. Six passengers changed their berths for the worse in order to avoid him. One who could not change became nearly deranged towards the end of the voyage, and one, who was sea-sick all the way out, seriously thought of suicide, but incapacity for any physical effort whatever happily saved him. In short, Junkie was the innocent cause of many dreadful thoughts and much improper language on the unstable scene of his nativity.

Besides these three, there was in the tent a pretty, dark-eyed, refined-looking girl of about twelve. She was Gertrude Brook, sister and idolater of Junkie. Her father, Edwin Brook, and her mother, dwelt in a tent close by. Brook was a gentleman of small means, but Mrs Brook was a very rich lady—rich in the possession of a happy temper, a loving disposition, a pretty face and figure, and a religious soul. Thus Edwin Brook, though poor, may be described as a man of inexhaustible wealth.

Gertrude had come into Dally’s tent to fetch Junkie to her father when Sandy Black and his friends entered, but Junkie had just touched the hot teapot, with the contents of which Mrs Scholtz was regaling herself and husband, and was not in an amiable humour. His outcries were deafening.

“Now do hold its dear little tongue, and go to its popsy,” said Mrs Scholtz tenderly. (Mrs Scholtz was an Englishwoman.)

We need not say that Junkie declined obedience, neither would he listen to the silvery blandishments of Gertie.

“Zee chile vas born shrieking, ant he vill die shrieking,” growled Scholtz, who disliked Junkie.

The entrance of the strangers, however, unexpectedly stopped the shrieking, and before Junkie could recover his previous train of thought Gertie bore him off in triumph, leaving the hospitable Dally and Mrs Scholtz to entertain their visitors to small talk and tea.

While seated thus they became aware of a sudden increase of the din, whip-cracking, and ox-bellowing with which the camp of the settlers resounded.

“They seem fond o’ noise here,” observed Sandy Black, handing his cup to Mrs Scholtz to be refilled.

“I never ’eard such an ’owling before,” said Jerry Goldboy; “what is it all about?”

“New arrivals from zee interior,” answered Scholtz; “dere be always vaggins comin’ ant goin’.”

“The camp is a changin’ one,” said Dally, sipping his tea with the air of a connoisseur. “When you’ve been here as long as we have you’ll understand how it never increases much, for although ship after ship arrives with new swarms of emigrants from the old country, waggon after waggon comes from I don’t know where—somewheres inland anyhow—and every now an’ then long trains of these are seen leaving camp, loaded with goods and women and children, enough to sink a small schooner, and followed by crowds of men tramping away to their new homes in the wilderness—though what these same new homes or wilderness are like is more than I can tell.”

“Zee noise is great,” growled Scholtz, as another burst of whip-musketry, human roars, and bovine bellows broke on their ears, “ant zee confusion is indesgraibable.”

“The gentlemen whose business it is to keep order must have a hard time of it,” said Mrs Scholtz; “I can’t ever understand how they does it, what between landing parties and locating ’em, and feeding, supplying, advising, and despatching of ’em, to say nothing of scolding and snubbing, in the midst of all this Babel of bubbledom, quite surpasses my understanding. Do you understand it, Mr Black?”

“Ay,” replied Sandy, clearing his throat and speaking somewhat oracularly. “’Ee must know, Mrs Scholtz, that it’s the result of organisation and gineralship. A serjeant or corporal can kick or drive a few men in ony direction that’s wanted, but it takes a gineral to move an army. If ’ee was to set a corporal to lead twunty thoosand men, he’d gie them orders that wad thraw them into a deed lock, an’ than naethin’ short o’ a miracle could git them oot o’t. Mony a battle’s been lost by brave men through bad gineralship, an’ mony a battle’s been won by puir enough bodies o’ men because of their leader’s administrative abeelity, Mrs Scholtz.”

“Very true, Mr Black,” replied Mrs Scholtz, with the assurance of one who thoroughly understands what she hears.

“Noo,” continued Sandy, with increased gravity, “if thae Kawfir bodies we hear aboot only had chiefs wi’ powers of organisation, an’ was a’ united thegither, they wad drive the haul o’ this colony into the sea like chaff before the wind. But they’ll niver do it; for, ’ee see, they want mind—an’ body withoot mind is but a puir thing after a’, Mrs Scholtz.”

“I’m not so shure of zat,” put in Scholtz, stretching his huge frame and regarding it complacently; “it vould please me better to have body vidout mint, zan mint vidout body.”

“H’m! ’ee’ve reason to be pleased then,” muttered Black, drily.

This compliment was either not appreciated by Scholtz, or he was prevented from acknowledging it by an interruption from without; for just at the moment a voice was heard asking a passer-by if he could tell where the tents of the Scotch party were pitched. Those in the tent rose at once, and Sandy Black, issuing out found that the questioner was a handsome young Englishman, who would have appeared, what he really was, both stout and tall, if he had not been dwarfed by his companion, a Cape-Dutchman of unusually gigantic proportions.

“We are in search of the Scottish party,” said the youth, turning to Sandy with a polite bow; “can you direct us to its whereabouts?”

“I’m no’ sure that I can, sir, though I’m wan o’ the Scotch pairty mysel’, for me an’ my freen hae lost oorsels, but doobtless Mister Dally here can help us. May I ask what ’ee want wi’ us?”

“Certainly,” replied the Englishman, with a smile. “Mr Marais and I have been commissioned to transport you to Baviaans river in bullock-waggons, and we wish to see Mr Pringle, the head of your party, to make arrangements.—Can you guide us, Mr Dally?”

“Have you been to the deputy-quartermaster-general’s office?” asked Dally.

“Yes, and they directed us to a spot said to be surrounded by evergreen bushes near this quarter of the camp.”

“I know it—just outside the ridge between the camp and the Government offices.—Come along, sir,” said Dally; “I’ll show you the way.”

In a few minutes Dally led the party to a group of seven or eight tents which were surrounded by Scotch ploughs, cart-wheels, harrows, cooking utensils fire-arms, and various implements of husbandry and ironware.

“Here come the lost ones!” exclaimed Kenneth McTavish, who, with his active wife and sprightly daughter Jessie, was busy arranging the interior of his tent, “and bringing strangers with them too!”

While Sandy Black and his friend Jerry were explaining the cause of their absence to some of the Scotch party, the young Englishman introduced his friend and himself as Charles Considine and Hans Marais, to the leader, Mr Pringle, a gentleman who, besides being a good poet, afterwards took a prominent part in the first acts of that great drama—the colonisation of the eastern frontier of South Africa.

It is unnecessary to trouble the reader with all that was said and done. Suffice it to say that arrangements were soon made. The acting Governor, Sir Rufane Donkin, arrived on the 6th of June from a visit to Albany, the district near the sea on which a large number of the settlers were afterwards located, and from him Mr Pringle learned that the whole of the Scotch emigrants were to be located in the mountainous country watered by some of the eastern branches of the Great Fish River, close to the Kafir frontier. The upper part of the Baviaans, or Baboons, River had been fixed for the reception of his particular section. It was also intended by Government that a piece of unoccupied territory still farther to the eastward should be settled by a party of five hundred Highlanders, who, it was conjectured, would prove the most effective buffer available to meet the first shock of invasion, should the savages ever attempt another inroad.

Mr Pringle laid this proposed arrangement before a council of the heads of families under his charge; it was heartily agreed to, and preparations for an early start were actively begun.

On the day of his arrival Sir Rufane Donkin laid the foundation of the first house of the now wealthy and flourishing, though not very imposing, town of Port Elizabeth, so named after his deceased wife, to whose memory an obelisk was subsequently erected on the adjacent heights.

A week later, a train of seven waggons stood with the oxen “inspanned,” or yoked, ready to leave the camp, from which many similar trains had previously set out. The length of such a train may be conceived when it is told that each waggon was drawn by twelve or sixteen oxen. These were fastened in pairs to a single trace or “trektow” of twisted thongs of bullock or buffalo hide, strong enough for a ship’s cable. Each waggon had a canvas cover or “till” to protect its goods and occupants from the sun and rain, and each was driven by a tall Dutchman, who carried a bamboo whip like a salmon fishing-rod with a lash of thirty feet or more. A slave, Hottentot or Bushman, led the two front oxen of each span.

Like pistol-shots the formidable whips went off; the oxen pulled, tossed their unwieldy horns, and bellowed; the Dutchmen growled and shouted; the half-naked “Totties” and Bushmen flung their arms and legs about, glared and gasped like demons; the monstrous waggons moved; “Settlers’ Town” was slowly left behind, and our adventurers, heading for the thorny jungles of the Zwartkops River, began their toilsome journey into the land of hope and promise.

“It’s a queer beginning!” remarked Sandy Black, as he trudged between Hans Marais and Charlie Considine.

“I hope it will have a good ending,” said Considine.

Whether that hope was fulfilled the reader shall find out in the sequel.

Meanwhile some of the English parties took their departure by the same route, and journeyed in company till points of divergence were reached, where many temporary friendships were brought to a close, though some there were which, although very recently formed, withstood firmly the damaging effects of time, trial, sorrow, and separation.

Chapter Five.

Adventures and Incidents of the First Night in the “Bush”.

A Night-Bivouac under the mimosa-bushes of the Zwartkops River. The Cape-waggons are drawn up in various comfortable nooks; the oxen are turned loose to graze; camp-fires are kindled. Round these men and women group themselves very much as they do in ordinary society. Classes keep by themselves, not because one class wishes to exclude the other, but because habits, sympathies, interests, and circumstances draw like to like. The ruddy glare of the camp-fires contrasts pleasantly with the cold light of the moon, which casts into deepest shadow the wild recesses of bush and brake, inducing many a furtive glance from the more timid of the settlers, who see an elephant, a buffalo, or a Cape “tiger” in every bank and stump and stone. Their suspicions are not so wild as one might suppose, for the neighbouring jungle, called the Addo Bush, swarms with these and other wild animals.

The distance travelled on this first day was not great; the travellers were not much fatigued, but were greatly excited by novelty, which rendered them wakeful. If one had gone round to the numerous fires and played eavesdropper, what eager discussion on the new land he would have heard; what anxious speculations; what sanguine hopes; what noble plans; what ridiculous ideas; what mad anticipations—for all were hopeful and enthusiastic.

Round one of these fires was assembled the family and retainers of our Highland farmer, Kenneth McTavish, among whom were Sandy Black and Jerry Goldboy. They had been joined by Charlie Considine, who felt drawn somewhat to Sandy. Quite close to these, round another fire, were grouped the three bachelor brothers Skyd, with their friend Dobson. At another, within earshot of these, were Edwin Brook and his wife, his daughter Gertrude, Scholtz and his wife, Junkie, George Dally, and Stephen Orpin, with bluff Hans Marais, who had somehow got acquainted with the Brook family, and seemed to prefer their society to that of any other.

Down in a hollow under a thick spreading mimosa bush was the noisiest fire of all, for there were assembled some of the natives belonging to the waggons of Hans and Jan Smit. These carried on an uproarious discussion of some sort, appealing frequently to our friend Ruyter the Hottentot, who appeared to be regarded by them as an umpire or an oracle. The Hottentot race is a very inferior one, both mentally and physically, but there are among them individuals who rise much above the ordinary level. Ruyter was one of these. He had indeed the sallow visage, high cheek-bones, and dots of curly wool scattered thinly over his head, peculiar to his race, but his countenance was unusually intelligent, his frame well made and very powerful, and his expression good. He entered heartily into the fun of attempting to teach the Hottentot klick to some of the younger men among the emigrants, who were attracted to his fire by the shouts of laughter in which the swarthy slaves and others indulged. Abdul Jemalee, the Malay slave, was there; also Booby the Bushman—the former grave and silent, almost sad; the latter conducting himself like a monkey—to which animal he seemed closely related—and evoking shouts of laughter from a few youths, for whose special benefit he kept in the background and mimicked every one else.

“What a noisy set they are over there!” observed Edwin Brook, who had for some time been quietly contemplating the energetic George Dally, as he performed the duties of cook and waiter to his party.

“They are, sir,” replied Dally, “like niggers in general, fond of showing their white teeth.”

“Come, Gertie, your mother can spare you now; let’s go over and listen to them.”

Gertie complied with alacrity, and took her father’s arm.

“Oh!” she exclaimed, with a little scream, as a thorn full five inches long gave her a wicked probe on the left shoulder.

Hans Marais sprang up and gallantly raised the branch which had touched her.

“It is only Kafirs who can run against mimosa thorns with impunity,” said the handsome young Dutchman.

Gertie laughed, remarked that mimosa thorns, like South African gentlemen, were unusually long and sharp, and passed on.

Hans sat down on the ground, filled his large pipe, and gazed dreamily into the fire, with something of the sensation of a hunter when he makes a bad shot.

“Now then, Goliath,” said the ever busy George Dally; “move your long legs out o’ that. Don’t you see the pot’s about to bile over?”

Hans quietly obeyed.

“If I chanced to be alongside o’ that Tottie over there just now,” continued George, “I’d be inclined to stop his noise with a rap on his spotted pate.”

“You’d have to make it a heavy rap, then, to produce any effect,” said Hans, taking a long draw at his pipe, “for he belongs to a hard-headed race.”

The truth of the young farmer’s words was verified just then in a way that was alarming as well as unexpected.

One of the heavy waggons, which had been delayed behind the others by some trifling accident, came lumbering up just as Hans spoke. There was a softish sandy spot in advance of it, into which one of the front wheels plunged. The tilt caught on part of the waggon to which Ruyter belonged. To prevent damage the active Hottentot sprang forward. In doing so he tripped and fell. At the same instant a tremendous crack of the whip and a shout produced a wrench at the waggon, the hind wheel of which went over Ruyter’s head and crushed it into the ground!

A roar of consternation followed, and several eager hands carefully dug out the poor man’s head. To the surprise of all, the five-ton waggon had not flattened it! The sand was so soft that it had not been squeezed at all—at least to any damaging extent,—a round stone having opportunely taken much of the pressure on itself, so that the Hottentot soon revived, and, beyond a headache, was little the worse of the accident. He returned to his place at the fire, but did not resume his part in the discussions, which were continued as noisily as before.

In strong contrast with the other groups were those of the Dutch-African boers who had brought the waggons to the Bay. Most of them were men of colossal stature. They sat apart, smoking their huge pipes in silent complacency and comfort, amused a little at the scenes going on around them, but apparently disinclined to trouble themselves about anything in particular.

Supper produced a lull in the general hum of conversation, but when pipes were lit the storm revived and continued far into the night. At last symptoms of weariness appeared, and people began to make arrangements for going to rest.

These arrangements were as varied as the characters of the emigrants.

Charlie Considine and Hans Marais, now become inseparable comrades, cleared and levelled the ground under a mimosa-bush, and, spreading their kaross thereon, lay down to sleep. George Dally, being an adaptable man, looked at the old campaigners for a few minutes, and then imitated their example. Little Jerry Goldboy, being naturally a nervous creature, and having his imagination filled with snakes, scorpions, tarantulas, etcetera, would fain have slept in one of the waggons above the baggage—as did many of the women and children—if he had not been laughed out of his desire by Dally, and induced to spread his couch manfully on the bare ground.

It must not be supposed, however, that Jerry, although timid, was cowardly. On the contrary, he was bold as a lion. He could not control his sensitively-strung nervous system, but instead of running away, like the coward, he was prone to rush furiously at whatever startled him, and grapple with it.

Some families pitched their tents, others, deeming curtains a needless luxury in such magnificent weather, contented themselves with the shelter of the bushes.

Meanwhile the Hottentot attendants replenished the fires, while the boers unslung their huge guns and placed them so as to be handy; for, although elephants and lions were not nearly so numerous as they once had been in that particular locality, there was still sufficient possibility of their presence, as well as of other nocturnal wanderers in the African wilds, to render such precaution necessary. The whole scene was most romantic, especially in the eyes of those who thus bivouacked for the first time in the wilderness. To them the great waggons; the gigantic Cape-oxen—which appeared to have been created expressly to match the waggons as well as to carry their own ponderous horns; the wild-looking Hottentots and Bushmen; the big phlegmatic Dutchmen; the bristling thorns of the mimosas, cropping out of comparative darkness; the varied groups of emigrants; the weird forms of the clumps of cactus, aloes, euphorbias, and other strange plants, lit up by the fitful glare of the camp-fires, and canopied by the star-spangled depths of a southern sky—all seemed to them the unbelievable creations of a wild vision.

Poor Jerry Goldboy, however, had sufficient faith in the reality of the vision to increase his nervous condition considerably, and he resolved to lie down with his “arms handy.” These arms consisted of a flint-lock blunderbuss, an heirloom in his father’s family, and a bowie-knife, which had been presented to him by an American cousin on his leaving England. Twice during that day’s march had the blunderbuss exploded owing to its owner’s inexperience in fire-arms. Fortunately no harm had been done, the muzzle on each occasion having been pointed to the sky, but the ire of the Dutch driver in front of Jerry had been aroused, and he was forbidden to reload the piece. Now, however, observing the preparations above referred to, he felt it to be his duty to prepare for the worst, and quietly loaded his bell-mouthed weapon with a heavy charge of buckshot.

“What’s that you’re after, boy?” asked George Dally, who was making some final arrangements at the fire, before lying down for the night.

“Oh, nothing,” replied Jerry, with a start, for he had thought himself unobserved, “only seein’ to my gun before turnin’ in.”

“That’s right,” said George. “Double-load it. Nothin’ like bein’ ready for whatever may turn up in a wild country like this. Why, I once knew a man named Snip who said he had been attacked one night in South America by a sarpint full forty feet long, and who saved his life by means of a blunderbuss, though he didn’t fire at the reptile at all.”

“Indeed, how was that?” asked Jerry.

“Why, just because his weapon was bell-mouthed an’ loaded a’most to the muzzle. You see, the poor fellow was awoke out of a deep sleep and couldn’t well see, so that instead o’ firin’ at the brute, he fired his blunderbuss about ten yards to one side of it, but the shot scattered so powerfully that one o’ the outside bullets hit a stone, glanced off, and caught the sarpint in the eye, and though it failed to kill the brute on the spot, the wound gave it such pain that it stood up on its tail and wriggled in agony for full five minutes, sending broken twigs and dry leaves flying about like a whirlwind, so Snip he jumped up, dropped his weapon, an’ bolted. He never returned to the encampment, and never saw the big snake or his blunderbuss again.”

“What a pity! then he lost it?” said Jerry, looking with some anxiety at a decayed branch, to which the flickering flame gave apparent motion.

“Yes, he lost the blunderbuss, but he saved his life,” replied Dally, as he lay down near his little friend and drew his blanket over him. “You’d better put the gun between us, my boy, to be handy to both—an’ if anything comes, the one of us that wakes first can lay hold of it and fire.”

There was, we need scarcely observe, a strong spice of wickedness in George. If he had suggested a lion, or even an elephant, there would have been something definite for poor Jerry’s anxious mind to lay hold of and try to reason down and defy, but that dreadful “anything” that might come, gave him nothing to hold by. It threw the whole zoological ferocities of South Africa open to his unanchored imagination, and for a long time banished sleep from his eyes.

He allowed the blunderbuss to remain as his friend had placed it, and hugged the naked bowie-knife to his breast. In addition to these weapons he had provided himself with a heavy piece of wood, something like the exaggerated truncheon of a policeman, for the purpose of killing snakes, should any such venture near his couch.

The wild shrieks of laughter at the neighbouring Hottentot fire helped to increase Jerry’s wakefulness, and when this at last lulled, the irritation was kept up by the squalling of Master Junkie, whose tent was about three feet distant from Jerry’s pillow, and who kept up a vicious piping just in proportion to the earnestness of Mrs Scholtz’s attempts to calm him.

At last, however, the child’s lamentations ceased, and there broke upon the night air a sweet sound which stilled the merriment of the natives. It was the mellow voice of Stephen Orpin singing a hymn of praise, with a number of like-minded emigrants, before retiring to rest. Doubtless some of those who had already retired, and lay, perchance, watching the stars and thinking dreamily of home, were led naturally by the sweet hymn to think of the home in the “better land,” which might possibly be nearer to some of them than the old home they had left for ever—ay, even than the new “locations” to which they were bound.

But, whatever the thoughts suggested, the whole camp soon afterwards sank into repose. Tent-doors were drawn and curtains of waggon-tilts let down. The boers, sticking their big pipes in their hatbands, wrapped themselves in greatcoats, and, regardless of snake or scorpion, stretched their limbs on the bare ground, while Hottentots, negroes, and Bushmen, rolling themselves in sheepskin karosses, lay coiled up like balls with their feet to the fire. Only once was the camp a little disturbed, during the early part of the night, by the mournful howl of a distant hyena. It was the first that the newcomers had heard, and most of those who were awake raised themselves on their elbows eagerly to listen.

Jerry was just dropping into slumber at the time. He sat bolt upright on hearing the cry, and when it was repeated he made a wild grasp at the blunderbuss, but Dally was beforehand. He caught up the weapon, and this probably saved an explosion.

“Come, lie down, you imp!” he said, somewhat sternly.

Jerry obeyed, and his nose soon told that he had reached the land of dreams.

Dally then quietly drew the charge of shot, but left the powder and laid the piece in its former position. Turning over with the sigh of one whose active duties for the day have been completed, he then went to sleep.

Gradually the fires burned low, and gave out such flickering uncertain light, when an occasional flame leaped up ever and anon, that to unaccustomed eyes it might have seemed as though snakes were crawling everywhere, and Jerry Goldboy, had he been awake, would have beheld a complete menagerie in imagination. But Jerry was now in blessed oblivion.

When things were in this condition, that incomprehensible subtlety, the brain of Junkie Brook—or something else—so acted as to cause the urchin to give vent to a stentorian yell. Strong though it was, it did not penetrate far through the canvas tent, but being, as we have said, within a few feet of Jerry’s ear, it sounded to that unhappy man like the united, and as yet unknown, shriek of all the elephants and buffaloes in Kafirland.

Starting up with a sharp cry he stretched out his hand towards the blunderbuss, but drew it back with a thrill of horror. A huge black snake lay in its place!

To seize his truncheon was the act of a moment. The next, down it came with stunning violence on the snake. The reptile instantly exploded with a bellowing roar of smoke and flame, which roused the whole camp.

“Blockhead! what d’you mean by that?” growled George Dally, turning round sleepily, but without rising, for he was well aware of the cause of the confusion.

Jerry shrank within himself like a guilty thing caught in the act, and glanced uneasily round to ascertain how much of death and destruction had been dealt out. Relieved somewhat to see no one writhing in blood, he arose, and, in much confusion, replied to the numerous eager queries as to what he had fired at. When the true state of affairs became manifest, most of the Dutchmen, who had been active enough when aroused by supposed danger, sauntered back to their couches with a good-natured chuckle; the settlers who had “turned out” growled or chaffed, according to temperament, as they followed suit, and the natives spent half an hour in uproarious merriment over Booby’s dramatic representation of the whole incident, which he performed with graphic power and much embellishment.

Thereafter the camp sank once more into repose, and rested in peace till morning.

Chapter Six.

Spreading over the Land.

With the dawn next morning the emigrants were up and away. The interest of the journey increased with every novel experience and each new discovery, while preconceived notions and depressions were dissipated by the improved appearance of the country.

About the same time that the Scotch “party” left the Bay, several of the other parties set out, some large and some small, each under its appointed leader, to colonise the undulating plains of the Zuurveld.

Soon the pilgrims became accustomed to the nightly serenade of hyena and jackal—also to breakneck steeps, and crashing jolts, and ugly tumbles. But they were all hopeful, and most of them were young, and all, or nearly all, were disposed to make light of difficulties.

The country they were about to colonise had been recently overrun by Kafir hordes. These had been cleared out, and driven across the Great Fish River by British and Colonial troops, leaving the land a wilderness, with none to dispute possession save the wild beasts. It extended fifty miles along the coast from the Bushman’s River to the Great Fish River, and was backed by an irregular line of mountains at an average distance of sixty miles from the sea.

Leaving the Zwartkops River, not only the Scottish party, but all the other parties, filed successively away in long trains across the Sundays River, over the Addo Hill and the Quagga Flats and the Bushman’s River heights, until the various points of divergence were reached, when the column broke into divisions, which turned off to their several locations and overspread the land.

There was “Baillie’s party,” which crossed Lower Albany to the mouth of the Great Fish River, and on the way were charmed with the aspect of the country, which was at that time enriched and rendered verdant by recent rains, and enlivened by the presence of hartebeests, quaggas, springboks, and an occasional ostrich. There was, however, a “wash” of shadow laid on part of the pleasant picture, to counteract the idea that the Elysian plains had been reached, in the shape of two or three blackened and ruined farms of the old Dutch colonists—sad remains of the recent Kafir war—solemn reminders of the uncertainties and possibilities of the future.

Then there was the “Nottingham party.” They took possession of a lovely vale, which they named Clumber, in honour of the Duke of Newcastle, their patron. “Sefton’s party” settled on the Assegai Bush River and founded the village of Salem, afterwards noted as the headquarters of the Reverend William Shaw, a Wesleyan, and one of the most able and useful of South Africa’s missionary pioneers. Wilson’s party settled between the Waay-plaats and the Kowie Bush, across the path of the elephants, which creatures some of the party, it is said, attempted to shoot with fowling-pieces. Of the smaller parties, those of Cock, Thornhill, Smith (what series of adventurous parties ever went forth without a “Smith’s party”?), Osler, and Richardson, located themselves behind the thicket-clad sand hills of the Kowie and Green Fountain. But space forbids us referring, even in brief detail, to the parties of James and Hyman and Dyson, and Holder, Mouncey, Hayhurst, Bradshaw, Southey; and of Scott, with the Irish party, and that of Mahony, which at the “Clay Pits,” had afterwards to meet the first shock of every Kafir invasion of Lower Albany. Among these and other parties there were men of power, who left a lasting mark on the colony, and many of them left numerous descendants to perpetuate their names—such as Dobson, Bowker, Campbell, Ayliffe, Phillips, Piggott, Greathead, Roberts, Stanley, and others too numerous to mention.

But with all these we have nothing to do just now. Our present duty is to follow those sections of the great immigrant band with the fortunes of which our tale has more particularly to do.

At the points of separation, where the long column broke up, a halt was made, while many farewells and good wishes were said.

“So you’re gaun to settle thereawa’?” said Sandy Black to John Skyd and his brothers as they stood on an eminence commanding a magnificent view of the rich plains and woodlands of the Zuurveld.

“Even so, friend Black,” replied John, “and sorry am I that our lot is not to be cast together. However, let’s hope that we may meet again ere long somewhere or other in our new land.”

“It is quite romantic,” observed James Skyd, “to look over this vast region and call it our own,—at least, with the right to pick and choose where we feel inclined. Isn’t it, Bob?”

To this Bob replied that it was, and that he felt quite like the children of Israel when they first came in sight of the promised land.

“I hope we won’t have to fight as hard for it as they did,” remarked Frank Dobson.

“It’s my opeenion,” said Sandy Black, “that if we haena to fight for it, we’ll hae to fight a bit to keep it.”

“Perhaps we may,” returned John Skyd, “and if so, fighting will be more to my taste than farming—not that I’m constitutionally pugnacious, but I fear that my brothers and I shall turn out to be rather ignorant cultivators of the soil.”

Honest Sandy Black admitted that he held the same opinion.

“Well, we shall try our best,” said the elder Skyd, with a laugh; “I’ve a great belief in that word ‘try’.—Goodbye, Sandy.” He held out his hand.

The Scot shook it warmly, and the free-and-easy brothers, after bidding adieu to the rest of the Scotch party, who overtook them there, diverged to the right with their friend Frank Dobson, and walked smartly after their waggons, which had gone on in advance.

“Stoot chields they are, an’ pleesant,” muttered Sandy, leaning both hands on a thick cudgel which he had cut for himself out of the bush, “but wofu’ ignorant o’ farmin’.”

“They’ll make their mark on the colony for all that,” said a quiet voice at Sandy’s elbow.

Turning and looking up, as well as round, he encountered the hazel eyes and open countenance of Hans Marais.

“Nae doot, nae doot, they’ll mak’ their mark, but it’ll no’ be wi’ the pleugh, or I’m sair mista’en. Wull mair o’ the settlers be pairtin’ frae us here?”

Hans, although ignorant of the dialect in which he was addressed, understood enough to make out its drift.

“Yes,” he replied, “several parties leave us at this point, and here comes one of them.”

As he spoke, the cracking of whips announced the approach of a team. A moment later, and a small Hottentot came, round a bend in the road, followed by the leading pair of oxen. It was the train of Edwin Brook, who soon appeared, riding a small horse. George Dally walked beside him. Scholtz, the German, followed, conversing with the owner of the waggon. In the waggon itself Mrs Brook, Mrs Scholtz, and Junkie found a somewhat uneasy resting-place, for, being new to the style of travel, they had not learned to accommodate themselves to jolts and crashes. Gertie preferred to walk, the pace not being more than three miles an hour.

“Oh, father!” said Gertie, running up to the side of her sire, with girlish vivacity, “there is the tall Dutchman who was so polite to me when I was pricked by the thorn bush.”

“True, Gertie, and there also is the Scot who was so free and easy in giving his opinion as to the farming powers of the brothers Skyd.”

“Your road diverges here, sir,” said Hans, as Brook rode up; “I fell behind my party to bid you God-speed, and to express a hope that we may meet again.”

“Thanks, friend, thanks,” said Brook, extending his hand. “I am obliged for the aid you have rendered me, and the advice given, which latter I shall no doubt find valuable.—You are bound for the highlands, of course,” he added, turning to Sandy Black. “We of the Albany lowlands must have a friendly rivalry with you of the highlands, and see who shall subdue the wilderness most quickly.”

This remark sent the Scot into a rather learned disquisition as to the merits and probable prospects of a hill as compared with a low-lying region, during which Hans Marais turned to Gertie. Being so very tall, he had to stoop as well as to look down at her pretty face, though Gertie was by no means short for her age. Indeed, she was as tall as average women, but, being only twelve, was slender and girlish.

“How very tall you are, Mr Marais!” she exclaimed, with a laugh, as she looked up.

“True, Gertie,” said Hans, using the only name which he had yet heard applied to the girl; “true, we Cape-Dutchmen are big fellows as a race, and I happen to be somewhat longer than my fellows. I hope you don’t object to me on that account?”

“Object? oh no! But it is so funny to have to look up so high. It’s like speaking to father when he’s on horseback.”

“Well, Gertie, extra height has its advantages and its inconveniences. Doubtless it was given to me for some good end, just as a pretty little face and figure were given to you.”

“You are very impudent, Mr Hans.”

“Am I? Then I must ask your pardon. But tell me, Gertie, what do you think of the new life that is before you?”

“How stupid you are, Hans! If the new life were behind me I might be able to answer, but how can I tell how I shall like what I don’t know anything about?”

“Nay, but you know something of the beginning of it,” returned the young Dutchman, with an amused smile, “and you have heard much of what is yet to come. What do you think of the prospect before you?”

“Think of the prospect?” repeated Gertie, knitting her brows and looking down with a pretended air of profound thought; “let me see: the prospect as I’ve heard father say to mother,—which was just a repetition of what I had heard him previously say to these queer brothers Skyd—is a life in the bush—by which I suppose he means the bushes—in which we shall have to cut down the trees, plough up the new soil, build our cottages, rear our sheep and cattle, milk our cows, make our butter, grow our food, and sometimes hunt it, fashion our clothing, and protect our homes. Is that right?”

“Well, that’s just about it,” was the answer; “how do you like that prospect?”

“I delight in it,” cried the girl, with a flash in her brilliant black eyes, while she half laughed at her own sudden burst of enthusiasm. “Only fancy! mother milking the cows, and me making butter, and Scholtz ploughing, and Dally planting, and nurse tending Junkie and making all sorts of garments, while father goes out with his gun to shoot food and protect us from the Kafirs.”

“’Tis a pleasant picture,” returned Hans, with a bland smile, “and I hope may be soon realised—I must bid you goodbye now, Gertie, we separate here.”

“Do you go far away?” asked the girl, with a touch of sadness, as she put her little hand into that of the young giant.

“A goodish bit. Some six or eight days’ journey from here,—according to the weather.”

“You’ll come and see us some day, won’t you, Hans?”

“Ja—I will,” replied Hans, with emphasis.

The whips cracked again, the oxen strained, the lumbering waggons groaned as they moved away, and while the Scotch band passed over the Zuurbergen range and headed in the direction of the Winterberg mountains, their English friends spread themselves over the fertile plains of Albany.

A few days of slow but pleasant journeying and romantic night-bivouacking brought the latter to their locations on the Kowie and Great Fish River.

On the way, the party to which Edwin Brook belonged passed the ground already occupied by the large band of settlers known as “Chapman’s party,” which had left Algoa Bay a few weeks before them in an imposing procession of ninety-six waggons. They had been accompanied to their future home by a small detachment of the Cape Corps, the officer in command of which gave them the suggestive advice, on bidding them goodbye, never to leave their guns behind them when they went out to plough! Although so short a time located, this party had produced a marvellous change in the appearance of the wilderness, and gave the settlers who passed farther eastward, an idea of what lay before themselves. Fields had already been marked out; the virgin soil broken up; timber cut, and bush cleared; while fragile cottages and huts were springing up here and there to supplant the tents which had given the first encampments a somewhat military aspect. Grotesque dwellings these, many of them, with mats and rugs for doors, and white calico or empty space for windows. It was interesting, in these first locations, to mark the development of character among the settlers. Those who were practical examined the “lie” of the land and the nature of the soil, with a view to their future residence. Timid souls chose their sites with reference to defence. Men of sentiment had regard to the picturesque, and careless fellows “squatted” in the first convenient spot that presented itself. Of course errors of judgment had to be corrected afterwards on all hands, but the power to choose and change was happily great at first, as well as easy.

As Brook’s party advanced, portions of it dropped off or turned aside, until at last Edwin found himself reduced to one family besides his own. Even this he parted from on a ridge of land which overlooked his own “location,” and about noon of the same day his waggons came to a halt on a grassy mound, which was just sufficiently elevated to command a magnificent view of the surrounding country.

“Your location,” said his Dutch waggon-driver, with a curious smile, as though he should say, “I wonder what you’ll do with yourselves.”

But the Dutchman made no further remark. He was one of the taciturn specimens of his class, and began at once to unload the waggon. With the able assistance of Brook and his men, and the feeble aid of the “Tottie,” or Hottentot leader of the “span” of oxen, the boxes, ploughs, barrels, bags, cases, etcetera, which constituted the worldly wealth of the settlers, were soon placed on the green sward. Then the Dutchman said “goeden-dag,” or farewell, shook hands all round, cracked his long whip, and went off into the unknown wilderness, leaving the Brook family to its reflections.

Chapter Seven.

The “Location.”

In the midst of the confused heap of their property, Edwin Brook sat down on a large chest beside his wife and daughter, and gazed for some time in silence on his new estate and home.

To say truth, it was in many respects a pleasant prospect. A bright blue sky overhead, a verdant earth around. Grassy hills and undulations of rich pasture-land swept away from their feet like a green sea, until stopped in the far distance by the great blue sea itself. These were dotted everywhere with copses of the yellow-flowered mimosa-bush, through openings in which the glitter of a stream could be seen, while to the left and behind lay the dark masses of a dense jungle filled with arboreous and succulent plants, acacias and evergreens, wild-looking aloes, tall euphorbias, quaint cactuses, and a great variety of flowering shrubs—filled also, as was very soon discovered, with antelopes, snakes, jackals, hyenas, leopards, and other wild creatures. The only familiar objects which broke the wild beauty of the scene were the distant white specks which they knew to be the tents just put up by those settlers who chanced to be their “next neighbours.”

“May God protect and bless us in our new home!” said Edwin Brook, breaking the silence, and reverently taking off his cap.

A heartfelt “Amen” was murmured by Mrs Brook and Gertie, but a strange, though not unpleasant, feeling of loneliness had crept over their spirits, inducing them to relapse into silence, for they could not avoid realising strongly that at last they were fairly left alone to fight the great battle of life. Edwin Brook in particular, on seeing the long team of the Dutch driver disappear over a distant ridge, was for the first time deeply impressed with, as it were, the forsaken condition of himself and his family. It was plain that he must take root there and grow—or die. There was no neighbouring town or village from which help could be obtained in any case of emergency; no cart or other means of conveyance to remove their goods from the spot on which they had been left; no doctor in case of sickness; no minister in cases either of joy or sorrow—except indeed (and it was a blessed exception) Him who came to our world “not to be ministered unto, but to minister.”

Strong in the comfort that this assurance gave, Edwin Brook shook off the lethargy that had been stealing over him, and set about the duties of the present hour. The tent had to be pitched, the trunks and boxes conveyed into it, a fire kindled, the kettle boiled, the goods and chattels piled and secured from the weather, firewood cut to prepare for the night-bivouac, etcetera.

Much of this work was already in progress, for George Dally,—with that ready resource and quiet capacity of adaptation to circumstances which he had displayed on the voyage out and on the journey to the location,—had already kindled a fire, sent Scholtz to cut firewood, and was busy erecting the tent when Brook joined him.

“That’s right, George,” he said, seizing a tent-peg and mallet; “we have plenty to do here, and no time to waste.”

“Very true, sir,” replied George, touching his cap, for George was an innately respectful man—respectful to all, though with a strong tendency to humorous impudence; “very true, sir; that’s just what I thought when I see you a-meditatin’, so I went to work at once without wastin’ any time.”

“Is zat enough?” asked Scholtz, staggering up at the moment with a heavy load of firewood, which he threw on the ground.

The question was put to George, for whom the big German had a special regard, and whose orders he consequently obeyed with unquestioning alacrity, although George had no special right to command.

“Enough!” exclaimed George, with a look of surprise, “why, zat is not enough to scare a weasel with, much less a elephant or a—a platzicumroggijoo.”

George was ignorant of South African zoology, and possessed inventive powers.

“Bring ten times as much,” he added; “we shall have to keep a blazin’ bonfire agoin’ all night.”

Scholtz re-shouldered his axe, and went off to the jungle with a broad grin on his broader countenance.

He was a man who did not spare himself, yet of a temperament that kicked at useless labour, and of a size that forbade the idea of compulsion, but George Dally could have led him with a packthread to do anything.

Before he had reached the jungle, and while the smile was yet on his visage, his blood was curdled and his face elongated by a most appalling yell! It was not exactly a war-whoop, nor was it a cry of pain, though it partook of both, and filled the entire family with horror as they rushed to the tent on the mound from which the cry had issued.

The yell had been given by Junkie, who had been bitten or stung by something, and who, under the combined influence of surprise, agony, and wrath, had out-Junkied himself in the fervour and ferocity of his indignant protest.

The poor child was not only horrified, but inconsolable. He wriggled like an eel, and delivered a prolonged howl with intermittent bursts for full half an hour, while his distracted nurse and mother almost tore the garments off his back in their haste to discover the bite or the brute that had done it.

“It must have bin a serpent!” cried the nurse, agonising over a knotted string.

“Perhaps a tarantula,” suggested Gertie, who only clasped her hands and looked horrified.

“Quick!” exclaimed Mrs Brook, breaking the unmanageable tape.

“Ze chile is growing black and vill bust!” murmured Scholtz in real alarm.

It did seem as if there were some likelihood of such a catastrophe, for Junkie’s passion and struggles had rendered him blue in the face; but it wes found that the bite or sting, whichever it was, had done little apparent damage, and as the child cried himself out and sobbed himself to sleep in half an hour without either blackening or bursting, the various members of the family were relieved, and resumed their suspended labours.

The shades of evening had fallen, and, among other orbs of night, the stars of that much too highly complimented constellation, the “Southern Cross,” had for some time illumined the sky before these labours were completed, and the wearied Brook family and household retired to rest, with weapons ready at hand and fires blazing. Wild beasts—to whose cries they were by that time accustomed—soon began their nightly serenade and carried it on till morning, but they were not wild enough to disturb the newcomers with anything more formidable than sound.

Next morning early, George Dally was the first to bestir himself. On taking a general view of surrounding nature he observed a thin column of smoke rising above the tree-tops in the direction of the stream or river to which reference has already been made.

“Perhaps it’s Kafirs,” thought George.

Following up that thought he returned to what we may style his lair—the place where he had spent the night—under a mimosa-bush, and there girded himself with a belt containing a long knife. He further armed himself with a fowling-piece. Thus accoutred he sallied forth with the nonchalant air of a sportsman taking his pleasure. Going down to the stream, and following its course upwards, he quickly came in sight of the camp-fire whose smoke had attracted his attention. A tall man in dishabille was bending over it, coaxing the flame to kindle some rather green wood over which a large iron pot hung from a tripod. The fire was in front of a large, but not deep, cavern, in the recesses of which three slumbering figures were visible.

Drawing cautiously nearer, George discovered that the man at the fire was John Skyd, and of course jumped to the conclusion that the three slumbering figures were his brothers and friend. These enterprising knights of the quill, having found what they deemed a suitable spot, had selected a cave for their residence, as being at once ready and economical.

Now, George Dally, being gifted with a reckless as well as humorous disposition, suddenly conceived the idea of perpetrating a practical joke. Perhaps Junkie’s performances on the previous evening suggested it. Flinging his cap on the ground, he ran his fingers through his thick hair until it stood up in wild confusion, and then, deliberately uttering a hideous and quite original war-whoop, he rushed furiously towards the cave.

The brothers Skyd and company proved themselves equal to the occasion, for they received him at the cavern mouth with the muzzles of four double-barrelled guns, and a stern order to halt!

Next moment the muzzles were thrown up as they exclaimed in surprise—

“Why, Dally, is it you?”

“Didn’t you hear it?” gasped George, supporting himself on the side of the cavern.

“Hear what?”

“The war-whoop!”

“Of course we did—at least we heard a most unearthly yell. What was it?”

“We’d best go out and see,” cried George, cocking his gun; “if it was Kafirs the sooner we follow them up the better.”

“Not so, friend George,” said Frank Dobson, in a slightly sarcastic tone. “If it was Kafirs they are far beyond our reach by this time, and if they mean us harm we are safer in our fortress here. My opinion is that we should have our breakfast without delay, and then we shall be in a fit state to face our foes—whether they be men or beasts.”

Acting on this suggestion, with a laugh, the brothers leaned their guns against the wall of the cavern and set about the preparation of breakfast in good earnest.

Meanwhile George gravely assented to the wisdom of their decision, and sat down to his morning pipe, while he questioned the brothers as to their intentions.

They pointed out to him the spot where they thought of commencing agricultural operations and the site of their future dwelling—close, they said, to the cave, because that would be conveniently near the river, which would be handy for both washing, drinking, and boiling purposes.

“That’s true—wery true,” said George, “but it seems to me you run a risk of bein’ washed away, house and all, if you fix the site so low down, for I’ve heard say there are floods in these parts now and again.”

“Oh, no fear of that!” said Robert Skyd, who was the quietest of the three brothers; “don’t you see the foundation of our future house is at least ten feet above the highest point to which the river seems to have risen in times past?”

“Ah, just so,” responded George, with the air of a man not convinced.

“Besides,” added John Skyd, lifting the iron pot off the fire and setting it down, “I suppose that floods are not frequent, so we don’t need to trouble ourselves about ’em.—Come, Dally, you’ll join us?”

“No, thank ’ee. Much obleeged all the same, but I’ve got to prepare breakfast for our own party.—Goin’ to begin plantin’ soon?”

“As soon as ever we can get the soil broken up,” replied Dobson.

“Studied farmin’?” inquired George.

“Not much, but we flatter ourselves that what we do know will be of some service to us,” said John.

Dally made no reply, but he greatly doubted in his own mind the capacity of the brothers for the line of life they had chosen.

His judgment in this respect was proved correct a week later, when he and Edwin Brook had occasion to visit the brothers, whom they found hard at work ploughing and sowing.

“Come, this looks business-like!” exclaimed Brook heartily, as he shook hands with the brothers; “you’ve evidently not been idle. I have just come to ask a favour of you, gentlemen.”

“We shall grant it with pleasure, if within our powers,” said Robert Skyd, who leaned on a spade with which he had been filling in a trench of about two feet deep.

“It is, that you will do me and Mrs Brook the pleasure of coming over to our location this afternoon to dinner. It is our Gertie’s birthday. She is thirteen to-day. In a rash moment we promised her a treat or surprise of some sort, but really the only surprise I can think of in such an out-of-the-way place is to have a dinner-party in her honour. Will you come?”

The brothers at once agreed to do so, remarking, however, that they must complete the sowing of their carrot-seed before dinner if possible.

“What did you say you were sowing?” asked Brook, with a peculiar smile.

“Carrot-seed,” answered Robert Skyd.

“If your carrot-seed is sown there,” said George Dally, pointing with a broad grin to the trench, “it’s very likely to come up in England about the time it does here,—by sendin’ its roots right through the world!”

“How? what do you mean?”

“The truth is, my dear sir,” said Brook good-humouredly, “that you’ve made a slight mistake in this matter. Carrot-seed is usually sown in trenches less than an inch deep. You’d better leave off work just now and come over to my place at once. I’ll give you some useful hints as we walk along.”

The knights of the quill laughed at their mistake, and at once threw down their implements of husbandry. But on going over their farm, Brook found it necessary to correct a few more mistakes, for he discovered that the active brothers had already planted a large quantity of Indian corn, or “mealies,” entire, without knocking it off the cobs, and, in another spot of ground, a lot of young onions were planted with the roots upwards!

“You see, Miss Gertie,” said John Skyd, when commenting modestly on these mistakes at dinnertime, “my brothers and I have all our lives had more to do with the planting of ‘houses’ and the growth of commercial enterprise than with agricultural products, but we are sanguine that, with experience and perseverance, we shall overcome all our difficulties. Have you found many difficulties to overcome!”

Gertie was not sure; she thought she had found a few, but none worth mentioning. Being somewhat put out by the question, she picked up a pebble—for the dinner was a species of picnic, served on the turf in front of Mr Brook’s tent—and examined it with almost geological care.

“My daughter does not like to admit the existence of difficulties,” said Mrs Brook, coming to the rescue, “and to say truth is seldom overcome by anything.”

“Oh, ma, how can you?” said Gertie, blushing deeply.

“That’s not true,” cried Mr Brook; “excuse me, my dear, for so flat a contradiction, but I have seen Gertie frequently overcome by things,—by Junkie’s obstinacy for instance, which I verily believe to be an insurmountable difficulty, and I’ve seen her thoroughly overcome, night after night, by sleep.—Isn’t that true, lass?”

“I suppose it is, father, since you say so, but of course I cannot tell.”

“Sleep!” continued Brook, with a laugh, “why, would you believe it, Mr Skyd, I went into what we call the nursery-tent one morning last week, to try to stop the howling of my little boy, and I found him lying with his open mouth close to Gertie’s cheek, pouring the flood of his wrath straight into her ear, and she sound asleep all the time! My nurse, Mrs Scholtz, told me she had been as sound as that all night, despite several heavy squalls, and notwithstanding a chorus of hyenas and jackals outside that might almost have awakened the dead.—By the way, that reminds me: just as I was talking with nurse that morning we heard a most unearthly shriek at some distance off. It was not the least like the cry of any wild animal I have yet heard, and for the first time since our arrival the idea of Kafirs flashed into my mind. Did any of you gentlemen happen to hear it?”

The brothers looked at each other, and at their friend Dobson, and then unitedly turned their eyes on George Dally, who—performing the combined duties of cook and waiter, at a fire on the ground, not fifteen feet to leeward of the dinner-party—could hear every word of the conversation.

“Why, yes,” said John Skyd, “we did hear it, and so did your man Dally. We had thought—”

“The truth is, sir,” said George, advancing with a miniature pitchfork or “tormentor” in his hand; “pardon my interrupting you, sir,—I did hear the screech, but as I couldn’t say exactly for certain, you know, that it was a Kafir, not havin’ seen one, I thought it best not to alarm you, sir, an’ so said nothing about it.”

“You looked as if you had seen one,” observed Frank Dobson, drawing down the corners of his mouth with his peculiar smile.

“Did I, sir!” said George, with a simple look; “very likely I did, for I’m timersome by nature an’ easily frightened.”

“You did not act with your wonted wisdom, George, in concealing this,” said Edwin Brook gravely.

“I’m afraid I didn’t sir,” returned George meekly.

“In future, be sure to let me know every symptom of danger you may discover, no matter how trifling,” said Brook.

“Yes, sir.”

“It was a very tremendous yell, wasn’t it, Dally?” asked John Skyd slily, as the waiter-cook was turning to resume his duties at the fire.

“Wery, sir.”

“And alarmed us all dreadfully, didn’t it?”

“Oh! dreadfully, sir—’specially me; though I must in dooty say that you four gentleman was as bold as brass. It quite relieved me when I saw your tall figurs standin’ at the mouth o’ your cavern, an’ the muzzles o’ your four double-guns—that’s eight shots—with your glaring eyes an’ pale cheeks behind them!”

“Ha!” exclaimed John Skyd, with a grim smile—“but after all it might only have been the shriek of a baboon.”

“I think not, sir,” replied George, with a smile of intelligence.

“Perhaps then it was the cry of a zebra or quagga,” returned John Skyd, “or a South African ass of some sort.”

“Wery likely, sir,” retorted George. “I shouldn’t wonder if it was—which is wery consolin’ to my feelin’s, for I’d sooner be terrified out o’ my wits by asses of any kind than fall in with these long-legged savages that dwell in caves.”

With an appearance of great humility George returned to his work at the fire.

It was either owing to a sort of righteous retribution, or a touch of that fortune which favours the brave, that George Dally was in reality the first, of this particular party of settlers, to encounter the black and naked inhabitant of South Africa in his native jungle. It was on this wise.

George was fond of sport, when not detained at home by the claims of duty. But these claims were so constant that he found it impossible to indulge his taste, save, as he was wont to say, “in the early morn and late at eve.”

One morning about daybreak, shouldering his gun and buckling on his hunting-knife, he marched into the jungle in quest of an antelope. Experience had taught him that the best plan was to seat himself at a certain opening or pass which lay on the route to a pool of water, and there bide his time.

Seating himself on a moss-covered stone, he put his gun in position on his knee, with the forefinger on the trigger, and remained for some time so motionless that a North American Indian might have envied his powers of self-restraint. Suddenly a twig was heard to snap in the thicket before him. Next moment the striped black and yellow skin of a leopard, or Cape tiger, appeared in the opening where he had expected to behold a deer. Dally’s gun flew to his shoulder. At the same instant the leopard skin was thrown back, and the right arm of a tall athletic Kafir was bared. The hand grasped a light assagai, or darting spear. Both men were taken by surprise, and for one instant they glared at each other. The instance between them was so short that death to each seemed imminent, for the white man’s weapon was a deadly one, and the cast of the lithe savage would doubtless have been swift and sure.

In that instant of uncertainty the white man’s innate spirit of forbearance acted almost involuntarily. Dally had hitherto been a man of peace. The thought of shedding human blood was intensely repulsive to him. He lowered the butt of his gun, and held up his right hand in token of amity.

The savage possessed apparently some of the good qualities of the white man, for he also at once let the butt of his assegai drop to the ground, although he knew, what Dally was not aware of, that considering the nature of their weapons, he placed himself at a tremendous disadvantage in doing so—the act of throwing forward and discharging the deadly fire-arm being much quicker than that of poising and hurling an assagai.

Without a moment’s hesitation George Dally advanced and held out his right hand with a bland smile.

Although unfamiliar with Kafir customs, he had heard enough from the Dutch farmers who drove the ox-teams to know that only chiefs were entitled to wear the leopard skin as a robe. The tall form and dignified bearing of the savage also convinced him that he had encountered no ordinary savage. He also knew that the exhibition of a trustful spirit goes a long way to create good-will. That his judgment was correct appeared from the fact of the Kafir holding out his hand and allowing George to grasp and shake it.

But what to do next was a question that puzzled the white man sorely, although he maintained on his good-natured countenance an expression of easy nonchalance.

Of course he made a vain attempt at conversation in English, to which the Kafir chief replied, with dignified condescension, by a brief sentence in his own tongue.

As George Dally looked in his black face, thoughts flashed through his brain with the speed of light. Should he kill him outright? That would be simple murder, in the circumstances, and George objected to murder, on principle. Should he suddenly seize and throw him down? He felt quite strong enough to do so, but after such a display of friendship it would be mean. Should he quietly bid him good morning and walk away? This, he felt, would be ridiculous. At that moment tobacco occurred to his mind. He quietly rested his gun against a tree, and drew forth a small roll of tobacco, from which he cut at least a foot and handed it to the chief. The dignity of the savage at once gave way before the beloved weed. He smiled—that is, he grinned in a ghastly way, for his face, besides being black, was streaked with lines of red ochre—and graciously accepted the gift. Then George made an elaborate speech in dumb-show with hands, fingers, arms, and eyes, to the effect that he desired the Kafir to accompany him to his location, but the chief gravely shook his head, pointed in another direction and to the sun, as though to say that time was on the wing; then, throwing his leopard-skin robe over his right shoulder with the air of a Spanish grandee, he turned aside and strode into the jungle.

George, glad to be thus easily rid of him, also turned and hurried home.

This time he was not slow to let his employer know that he had met with a native.

“It behoves us to keep a sharp look-out, George,” said Brook. “I heard yesterday from young Merton that some of the settlers not far from his place have had a visit from the black fellows, who came in the night, and while they slept carried off some of the sheep they had recently purchased from an up-country county Dutchman. We will watch for a few nights while rumours of this kind are afloat. When all seems quiet we can take it easy. Let Scholtz take the first watch. You will succeed him, and I will mount guard from the small hours onward.”

For some days this precaution was continued, but as nothing more was heard of black marauders the Brook family gradually ceased to feel anxious, and the nightly watch was given up.

Chapter Eight.

Shows the Pleasures, Pains, and Penalties of Housekeeping in the Bush.

“Don’t you think this a charming life?” asked Mrs Brook of Mrs Merton, who had been her guest for a week.

Mrs Merton was about thirty years of age, and opinionated, if not strong-minded, also rather pretty. She had married young, and her eldest son, a lad of twelve, had brought her from her husband’s farm, some three miles distant from that of Edwin Brook.

“No, Mrs Brook, I don’t like it at all,” was Mrs Merton’s emphatic reply.

“Indeed!” said Mrs Brook, in some surprise.

She said nothing more after this for some time, but continued to ply her needle busily, while Mrs Scholtz, who by some piece of unusual good fortune had got Junkie to sleep, plied her scissors in cutting out and shaping raw material.

The two dames, with the nurse and Gertie, had agreed to unite their powers that day in a resolute effort to overtake the household repairs. They were in a cottage now, of the style familiarly known as “wattle and dab,” which was rather picturesque than permanent, and suggestive of simplicity. They sat on rude chairs, made by Scholtz, round a rough table by the same artist. Mrs Brook was busy with the rends in a blue pilot-cloth jacket, a dilapidated remnant of the “old England” wardrobe. The nurse was forming a sheep skin into a pair of those unmentionables which were known among the Cape-colonists of that period by the name of “crackers.” Mrs Merton was busy with a pair of the same, the knees of which had passed into a state of nonentity, while other parts were approaching the same condition. Gertie was engaged on a pair of socks, whose original formation was overlaid by and nearly lost in subsequent deposits.

“Why do you like this sort of life, Mrs Brook?” asked Mrs Merton suddenly.

“Because it is so new, so busy, so healthy, so thoroughly practical. Such a constant necessity for doing something useful, and a constant supply of something useful to do, and then such a pleasant feeling of rest when at last you do get your head on a pillow.”

“Oh! it’s delightful!” interpolated Gertie in a low voice.

“Well, now, that is strange. Everything depends on how one looks at things.—What do you think, Mrs Scholtz?” asked Mrs Merton.

“I’ve got no time to think, ma’am,” replied the nurse, giving the embryo crackers a slice that bespoke the bold fearless touch of a thorough artist. “When Junkie’s not asleep he keeps body and brain fully employed, and when he is asleep I’m glad to let body and brain alone.”

“What is your objection to this life, Mrs Merton?” asked Mrs Brook, with a smile.

“Oh! I’ve no special objection, only I hate it altogether. How is it possible to like living in a wilderness, with no conveniences around one, no society to chat with, no books to read, and, above all, no shops to go to, where one is obliged to drudge at menial work from morning till night, and one’s boys and girls get into rags and tatters, and one’s husband becomes little better than a navvy, to say nothing of snakes and scorpions in one’s bed and boots, and the howling of wild beasts all night? I declare, one might as well live in a menagerie.”

“But you must remember that things are in a transition state just now,” rejoined Mrs Brook. “As we spread and multiply over the land, things will fall more into shape. We shall have tailors and dressmakers to take the heavy part of our work in this way, and the wild beasts will retire before the rifle and the plough of civilised man; no doubt, also, shops will come in due course.”

“And what of the Kafirs?” cried Mrs Merton sternly. “Do you flatter yourself that either the plough or the rifle will stop their thievish propensities? Have we not learned, when too late—for here we are, and here we must bide,—that the black wretches have been at loggerheads with the white men ever since this was a colony, and is it not clear that gentle treatment and harsh have alike failed to improve them?”

“Wise treatment has yet to be tried,” said Mrs Brook.

“Fiddlesticks!” returned Mrs Merton impatiently. “What do you call wise treatment?”

“Gospel treatment,” replied Mrs Brook.

“Oh! come now, you know that that has also been tried, and has signally failed. Have we not heard how many hundreds of so-called black converts in this and in other colonies are arrant hypocrites, or at all events give way before the simplest temptations?”

“I have also heard,” returned Mrs Brook, “of many hundreds of so-called white Christians, whose lives prove them to be the enemies of our Saviour, and who do not even condescend to hypocrisy, for they will plainly tell you that they ‘make no pretence to be religious,’ though they call themselves Christians. But that does not prove gospel treatment among the English to have been a failure. You have heard, I daresay, of the Hottentot robber Africaner, who was long the terror and scourge of the district where he lived, but who, under the teaching of our missionary Mr Moffat, or rather, I should say, under the influence of God’s Holy Spirit, has led a righteous, peaceful, Christian life for many years. He is alive still to prove the truth of what I say.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” returned Mrs Merton, with a decisive compression of her lips.

“Well, many people have testified to the truth of this, and some of these people have seen Africaner and have believed.”

“Humph!” returned Mrs Merton.

This being an unanswerable argument, Mrs Brook smiled by way of reply, and turned a sleeve inside out, the better to get at its dilapidations. Changing the subject, she desired Gertie to go and prepare dinner, as it was approaching noon.

“What shall I prepare, mother?” asked Gertie, laying down her work.

“You’d better make a hash of the remains of yesterday’s leg of mutton, dear; it will be more quickly done than the roasting of another leg, and we can’t spare time on cookery to-day. I daresay Mrs Merton will excuse—”

“Mrs Brook,” interrupted Mrs Merton, with that Spartan-like self-denial to which she frequently laid claim, without, however, the slightest shadow of a title, “I can eat anything on a emergency. Have the hash by all means.”

“And I’m afraid, Mrs Merton,” continued Mrs Brook, in an apologetic tone, “that we shall have to dine without bread to-day—we have run short of flour. My husband having heard that the Thomases have recently got a large supply, has gone to their farm to procure some, but their place is twelve miles off, so he can’t be back till night. You won’t mind, I trust?”

Mrs Merton vowed that she didn’t mind, became more and more Spartanic in her expression and sentiments, and plied her needle with increased decision.

Just then Gertie re-entered the cottage with a face expressive of concern.

“Mother, there’s no meat in the larder.”

“No meat, child? You must be mistaken. We ate only a small part of yesterday’s leg.”

“Oh! ma’am,” exclaimed the nurse, dropping the scissors suddenly, and looking somewhat guilty, “I quite forgot, ma’am, to say that master, before he left this morning, and while you was asleep, ma’am, ordered me to give all the meat we had in the house to Scholtz, as he was to be away four or five days, and would require it all, so I gave him the leg that was hanging up in the larder, and master himself took the remains of yesterday’s leg, bidding me be sure to tell George to kill a sheep and have meat ready for dinner.”

“Oh, well, it doesn’t matter,” said Mrs Brook; “we shall just have to wait a little longer.”

Nurse looked strangely remorseful.

“But, ma’am—” she said, and paused.

“Well, nurse!”

“I forgot, ma’am—indeed I did—to tell George to kill a sheep.”

Mrs Brook’s hands and work fell on her lap, and she looked from Mrs Scholtz to her visitor, and from her to the anxious Gertie, without speaking.

“Why, what’s the matter?” asked Mrs Merton.

“My dear,” replied Mrs Brook, with a touch of solemnity, “George Dally, our man, asked me this morning if he might go into the bush to cut rafters for the new kitchen, and I gave him leave, knowing nothing of what arrangements had been made before—and—and—in short, there’s not a man on the place, and—there’s nothing to eat.”

The four females looked at each other in blank silence for a few seconds, as the full significance of their circumstances became quite clear to them.

Mrs Merton was the first to recover.

“Now,” said she, while the Spartanic elements of her nature became intensified, “we must rise to this occasion like true women; we must prove ourselves to be not altogether dependent on man; we must face the difficulty, sink the natural tenderness of our sex, and—and—kill a sheep!”

She laid down the crackers on the table with an air of resolution, and rose to put her fell intent in execution.

But the carrying out of her plan was not so easy as the good lady had, at the first blush of the thing, imagined it would be. In the first place, like other heroes and heroines, she experienced the enervating effects of opposition and vacillating purpose in others.

“You must all help me,” she said, with the air of a commander-in-chief.

“Help you to kill a sheep, ma’am?” said Mrs Scholtz, with a shudder, “I’ll die first! I couldn’t do it, and I wouldn’t, for my weight in gold.”

Notwithstanding the vehemence of her protestation, the nurse stood by and listened while the other conspirators talked in subdued tones, and with horrified looks, of the details of the contemplated murder.

“I never even saw the dreadful deed done,” said Mrs Brook, becoming pale as she thought of it.

“Oh, mamma! much better go without meat; we could dine on cakes,” suggested Gertie.

“But my love, there is not a cake or an ounce of flour in the house.”

“Women!” exclaimed Mrs Merton severely, “we must rise to the occasion. I am hungry now, and it is not yet noon; what will be our condition if we wait till night for our dinner?”

This was a home-thrust. The conspirators shuddered and agreed to do the deed. Gertie, in virtue of her youth, was exempted from taking any active part, but an unaccountable fascination constrained her to follow and be a witness—in short, an accomplice.

“Do you know where—where—the knife is kept?” asked Mrs Merton.

Mrs Scholtz knew, and brought it from the kitchen.

It was a keen serviceable knife, with a viciously sharp point. Mrs Merton received it, coughed, and hurried out to the sheep-fold, followed by her accomplices.

To catch a sheep was not difficult, for the animals were all more or less tame and accustomed to gentle treatment by the females, but to hold it was quite another thing. Mrs Merton secured it by the head, Mrs Scholtz laid hold of the tail, and Mrs Brook fastened her fingers in the wool of its back. Each female individually was incapable of holding the animal, though a very small one had been purposely selected, but collectively they were more than a match for it. After a short struggle it was laid on its side, and its feet were somewhat imperfectly secured with a pocket-handkerchief.

“Now, ma’am,” cried Mrs Scholtz, holding tight to the tail and shutting her eyes, “do be quick.”

Mrs Merton, also shutting her eyes, struck feebly with the knife. The others, having likewise shut their eyes, waited a few seconds in a state of indescribable horror, and then opened them to find that the Spartan lady had missed her mark, and planted her weapon in the ground! So feeble, however, had been the stroke that it had barely penetrated an inch of the soil.

“Oh, Mrs Merton!” exclaimed Mrs Brook remonstratively.

Mrs Merton tried again more carefully, and hit the mark, but still without success.

“It won’t go in!” she gasped, as, on opening her eyes a second time, she found only a few drops of blood trickling from a mere scratch in the sheep’s neck; “I—I can’t do it!”

At that moment the unfortunate animal suddenly freed its head from the Spartan matron’s grasp. A sharp wriggle freed its tail and feet, and in another moment it burst away from its captors and made for a shallow pond formed by Edwin Brook for a colony of household ducks.

Roused to excessive indignation by the weakness and boastfulness of Mrs Merton, Mrs Scholtz sprang to her feet and gave chase. The others joined. Hunger, shame, determination, disappointment, combined to give them energy of purpose. The sheep rushed into the pond. Mrs Scholtz recklessly followed—up to the knees—caught it by the horns, and dragged it forth.

“Give me the knife!” she shouted.

Mrs Merton hurriedly obeyed, and the nurse, shutting her eyes, plunged it downwards with a wild hysterical shriek.

There was no mistake this time. Letting the animal go, she fled, red-handed, into the innermost recess of the cottage, followed by her horrified friends.

“Oh! what have I done?” groaned Mrs Scholtz; burying her face in her hands.

Mrs Brook and the others—all shuddering—sought to soothe her, and in a short time they regained sufficient composure to permit of their returning to the victim, which they found lying dead upon the ground.

Having thus got over the terrible first step, the ladies hardened themselves to the subsequent processes, and these they also found more difficult than they had anticipated. The skinning of a sheep they did not understand. Of the cutting up they were equally ignorant, and a terrible mess they made of the poor carcass in their varied efforts. In despair Mrs Brook suggested to Mrs Scholtz, who was now the chief and acknowledged operator, that they had better cut it up without skinning, and singe off the wool and skin together; but on attempting this Mrs Scholtz found that she could not find the joints, and, being possessed of no saw, could not cut the bones; whereupon Mrs Merton suggested that she should cut out four slices from any part that would admit of being penetrated by a knife, and leave the rest of the operation to be performed by Dally on his return. This proposal was acted on. Four fat slices were cut from the flanks and carried by Gertie to the kitchen, where they were duly cooked, and afterwards eaten with more relish than might have been expected, considering the preliminaries to the feast.

This was one of those difficulties that did not occur to them again. It was a preventable difficulty, to be avoided in future by the exercise of forethought; but there were difficulties and troubles in store against which forethought was of little avail.

While they were yet in the enjoyment of the chops which had caused them so much mental and physical pain, they were alarmed by a sudden cry from Junkie. Looking round they saw that urchin on his knees holding on to the side of his home-made crib, and gazing in blank amazement at the hole in the wall which served for a window. And well might he gaze, for he saw the painted face of a black savage looking in at that window!

On beholding him Mrs Merton uttered a scream and Mrs Brook an exclamation. Mrs Scholtz and Gertie seemed bereft of power to move or cry.

Perhaps the Kafir took this for the British mode of welcoming a stranger. At all events, he left the window and entered by the door. Being quite naked, with the exception of the partial covering afforded by a leopard-skin robe, his appearance was naturally alarming to females who had never before seen a native of South Africa in his war-paint. They remained perfectly still, however, and quite silent, while he went through the cottage appropriating whatever things took his fancy. He was the native whom we have already introduced as having been met by George Dally, though of course the Brook household were not aware of this.

A few other savages entered the cottage soon after, and were about to follow the example of their chief and help themselves, but he sternly ordered them to quit, and they submissively obeyed.

When he had gone out, without having condescended to notice any of the household, Master Junkie gave vent to a long-suspended howl, and claimed the undivided attention of Mrs Scholtz, whose touching blandishments utterly failed in quieting him. The good nurse was unexpectedly aided, however, by the savage chief, who on repassing the window, looked in and made his black face supernaturally hideous by glaring at the refractory child. Junkie was petrified on the spot, and remained “good” till forgetfulness and sleep overpowered him.

Meanwhile Mrs Merton swooned into a chair—or appeared to do so—and Mrs Brook, recovering from her first alarm, went out with Gertie to see what the black marauders were about.

They were just in time to see the last tail of their small flock of sheep, and their still smaller herd of cattle, disappear into the jungle, driven by apparently a score of black, lithe, and naked devils, so ugly and unearthly did the Kafirs seem on this their first visit to the unfortunate settlers.

It was a peculiarly bitter trial to the Brooks, for the herd and flock just referred to had been acquired, after much bargaining, from a Dutch farmer only a few days before, and Edwin Brook was rather proud of his acquisition, seeing that few if any of the settlers had at that time become possessors of live stock to any great extent. It was, however, a salutary lesson, and the master of Mount Hope—so he had named his location—never again left his wife and family unguarded for a single hour during these first years of the infant colony.

Chapter Nine.

Off to the Highlands and Black Snakes in the Bush.

While the settlers of this section were thus scattering far and wide, in more or less numerous groups, over the fertile plains of Lower Albany, the Scotch party was slowly, laboriously, toiling on over hill and dale, jungle and plain, towards the highlands of the interior.

The country through which the long line of waggons passed was as varied as can well be imagined, being one of the wildest and least inhabited tracts of the frontier districts. The features of the landscape changed continually from dark jungle to rich park-like scenery, embellished with graceful clumps of evergreens, and from that again to the sterility of savage mountains or parched and desert plains. Sometimes they plodded wearily over the karroo for twenty miles or more at a stretch without seeing a drop of water. At other times they came to a wretched mud hovel, the farm-house of a boer, near a permanent spring of water. Again, they were entangled among the rugged, roadless gorges and precipices of a mountain range, through which no vehicle of European construction could have passed without absolute demolition, and up parts of which the Cape-waggons were sometimes compelled to go by means of two teams,—that is, from twenty to thirty or more oxen,—being attached to each. At other times they had to descend and re-ascend the precipitous banks of rivers whose beds were sometimes quite dry and paved with mighty boulders.

“It’s an unco’ rough country,” observed Sandy Black to Charlie Considine, as they stood watching the efforts of a double team to haul one of their waggons up a slope so rugged and steep that the mere attempt appeared absolute madness in their eyes.

Considine assented, but was too much interested in the process to indulge in further remark.

“Gin the rope brek,” continued Sandy, “I wadna gie muckle for the waggon. It’ll come rowin’ an’ stottin’ doon the hill like a bairn’s ba’.”

“No fear of the rope,” said Hans Marais, as he passed at the moment to render assistance to Ruyter, Jemalee, Booby, and some others, who were shouting at the pitch of their voices, and plying the long waggon-whips, or the short sjamboks, with unmerciful vigour.

Hans was right. The powerful “trektow” stood the enormous strain, and the equally powerful waggon groaned and jolted up the stony steep until it had nearly gained the top, when an unfortunate drop of the right front wheel into a deep hollow, combined with an unlucky and simultaneous elevation of the left back wheel by a stone, turned the vehicle completely over on its side. The hoops of the tilt were broken, and much of the lading was deposited in a hollow beside the waggon, but a few of the lighter and smaller articles went hopping, or, according to Sandy Black, “stottin’” down the slope, and were smashed to atoms at the bottom.

Ruyter, Booby, and Jemalee turned towards Hans Marais with a shrinking action, as if they expected to feel the sjambok on their shoulders, for their own cruel master was wont on occasions of mischance such as this to visit his men with summary punishment; but Hans was a good specimen of another, and, we believe, much more numerous class of Cape-Dutchmen. After the first short frown of annoyance had passed, he went actively to work, to set the example of unloading the waggon and repairing the damage, administering at the same time, however, a pretty sharp rebuke to the drivers for their carelessness in not taking better note of the form of the ground.

That night in talking over the incident with Ruyter, Considine ventured again to comment on the wrongs which the former endured, and the possibility of redress being obtained from the proper authorities.

“For I am told,” he said, “that the laws of the colony do not now permit masters to lash and maltreat their slaves as they once did.”

Ruyter, though by nature a good-humoured, easy-going fellow, was possessed of an unusually high spirit for one of his race, and could never listen to any reference to the wrongs of the Hottentots without a dark frown of indignation. In general he avoided the subject, but on the night in question either his wonted reticence had fled, or he felt disposed to confide in the kindly youth, from whom on the previous journey from Capetown he had experienced many marks of sympathy and good-will.

“There be no way to make tings better,” he replied fiercely. “I knows noting ’bout your laws. Only knows dey don’t work somehow. Allers de same wid me anyhow, kick and cuff and lash w’en I’s wrong—sometimes w’en I’s right—and nebber git tanks for noting.”

“But that is because your master is an unusually bad fellow,” replied Considine. “Few Cape farmers are so bad as he. You have yourself had experience of Hans Marais, now, who is kind to every one.”

“Ja, he is good master—an’ so’s him’s fadder, an’ all him’s peepil—but what good dat doos to me!” returned the Hottentot gloomily. “It is true your laws do not allow us to be bought and sold like de slaves, but dat very ting makes de masters hate us and hurt us more dan de slaves.”

This was to some extent true. At the time we write of, slavery, being still permitted in the British colonies, the Dutch, and other Cape colonists, possessed great numbers of negro slaves, whom it was their interest to treat well, as being valuable “property,” and whom most of them probably did treat well, as a man will treat a useful horse or ox, though of course there were—as there always must be in the circumstances—many instances of cruelty, by passionate and brutal owners. But the Hottentots, or original natives of the South African soil, having been declared unsaleable, and therefore not “property,” were in many cases treated with greater degradation by their masters than the slaves, were made to work like them, but not cared for or fed like them, because not so valuable. At the same time, although not absolute slaves, the Hottentots were practically in a state of servitude, in which the freedom accorded to them by Government had, by one subterfuge or another, been rendered inoperative. Not long before this period the colonists possessed absolute power over the Hottentots, and although recent efforts had been made to legislate in their favour, their wrongs had only been mitigated,—by no means redressed. Masters were, it is true, held accountable by the law for the treatment of their Hottentots, but were rarely called to account; and the Hottentots knew too well, from sad experience, that to make a complaint would be in many cases worse than useless, as it would only rouse the ire of their masters and make them doubly severe.

“You say de Hottentots are not slaves, but you treat us all de same as slaves—anyhow, Jan Smit does.”

“That is the sin of Jan Smit, not of the British law,” replied Considine.

Ruyter’s face grew darker as he rejoined fiercely, “What de use of your laws if dey won’t work? Besides, what right hab de white scoundril to make slave at all—whether you call him slave or no call him slave. Look at Jemalee!”

The Hottentot pointed with violent action to the Malay, who, with a calm and sad but dignified mien, stood listening to the small-talk of Booby, while the light of the camp-fire played fitfully on their swarthy features.

“Well, what of Jemalee!” asked Considine.

“You know dat him’s a slave—a real slave?”

“Yes, I know that, poor fellow.”

“You never hear how him was brought up here?”

“No, never—tell me about it.”

Hereupon the Hottentot related the following brief story.

Abdul Jemalee, a year or two before, had lived in Capetown, where his owner was a man of some substance. Jemalee had a wife and several children, who were also the property of his owner. Being an expert waggon-driver, the Malay was a valuable piece of human goods. On one occasion Jan Smit happened to be in Capetown, and, hearing of the Malay’s qualities, offered his master a high price for him. The offer was accepted, but in order to avoid a scene, the bargain was kept secret from the piece of property, and he was given to understand that he was going up country on his old master’s business. When poor Jemalee bade his pretty wife and little ones goodbye, he comforted them with the assurance that he should be back in a few months. On arriving at Smit’s place, however, the truth was told, and he found that he had been separated for ever from those he most loved on earth. For some time Abdul Jemalee gave way to sullen despair, and took every sort of abuse and cruel treatment with apparent indifference, but, as time went on, a change came over him. He became more like his former self, and did his work so well, that even the savage Jan Smit seldom had any excuse for finding fault. On his last journey to the Cape, Smit took the Malay with him only part of the way. He left him in charge of a friend, who agreed to look well after him until his return.

Even this crushing of Jemalee’s hope that he might meet his wife and children once more did not appear to oppress him much, and when his master returned from Capetown he resumed charge of one of the waggons, and went quietly back to his home in the karroo.

“And can you tell what brought about this change?” asked Considine.

“Oh ja, I knows,” replied Ruyter, with a decided nod and a deep chuckle; “Jemalee him’s got a powerful glitter in him’s eye now and den—bery powerful an’ strange!”

“And what may that have to do with it?” asked Considine.

Ruyter’s visage changed from a look of deep cunning to one of childlike simplicity as he replied— “Can’t go for to say what de glitter of him’s eye got to do wid it. Snakes’ eyes glitter sometimes—s’pose ’cause he can’t help it, or he’s wicked p’raps.”

Considine smiled, but, seeing that the Hottentot did not choose to be communicative on the point, he forbore further question.

“What a funny man Jerry Goldboy is!” said Jessie McTavish, as she sat that same evening sipping a pannikin of tea in her father’s tent.

From the opening of the tent the fire was visible.

Jerry was busy preparing his supper, while he kept up an incessant run of small-chat with Booby and Jemalee. The latter replied to him chiefly with grave smiles, the former with shouts of appreciative laughter.

“He is funny,” asserted Mrs McTavish, “and uncommonly noisy. I doubt if there is much good in him.”

“More than you think, Mopsy,” said Kenneth (by this irreverent name did the Highlander call his better-half); “Jerry Goldboy is a small package, but he’s made of good stuff, depend upon it. No doubt he’s a little nervous, but I’ve observed that his nerves are tried more by the suddenness with which he may be surprised than by the actual danger he may chance to encounter. On our first night out, when he roused the camp and smashed the stock of his blunderbuss, no doubt I as well as others thought he showed the white feather, but there was no lack of courage in him when he went last week straight under the tree where the tiger was growling, and shot it so dead that when it fell it was not far from his feet.”

“I heard some of the men, papa,” observed Jessie, “say that it was Dutch courage that made him do that. What did they mean by Dutch courage?”

Jessie, being little more than eight, was ignorant of much of the world’s slang.

“Cape-smoke, my dear,” answered her father, with a laugh.

“Cape-smoke?” exclaimed Jessie, “what is that?”

“Brandy, child, peach-brandy, much loved by some of the boers, I’m told, and still more so by the Hottentots; but there was no more Cape-smoke in Jerry that day than in you. It was true English pluck. No doubt he could hardly fail to make a dead shot at so close a range, with such an awful weapon, loaded, as it usually is, with handfuls of slugs, buckshot, and gravel; but it was none the less plucky for all that. The old flint-lock might have missed fire, or he mightn’t have killed the brute outright, and in either case he knew well enough it would have been all up with Jerry Goldboy.”

“Who’s that taking my name in vain?” said Jerry himself, passing the tent at the moment, in company with Sandy Black.

“We were only praising you, Jerry,” cried Jessie, with a laugh, “for the way in which you shot that tiger the other day.”

“It wasn’t a teeger, Miss Jessie,” interposed Sandy Black, “it was only a leopard—ane o’ thae wee spottit beasts that they’re sae prood o’ in this country as to ca’ them teegers.”

“Come, Sandy,” cried Jerry Goldboy, “don’t rob me of the honour that is my due. The hanimal was big enough to ’ave torn you limb from limb if ’e’d got ’old of you.”

“It may be sae, but he wasna a teeger for a’ that,” retorted Black.—“D’ee know, sir,” he continued, turning to McTavish, “that Mr Pringle’s been askin’ for ’ee?”

“No, Sandy, but now that you’ve told me I’ll go to his tent.”

So saying the Highlander rose and went out, to attend a council of “heads of families.”

Hitherto we have directed the reader’s attention chiefly to one or two individuals of the Scotch party, but there were in that party a number of families who had appointed Mr Pringle their “head” and representative. In this capacity of chief-head, or leader, Mr Pringle was in the habit of convening a meeting of subordinate “heads” when matters of importance had to be discussed.

While the elders of the party were thus engaged in conclave at the door of their leader’s tent, and while the rest were busy round their several fires, a man with a body much blacker than the night was secretly gliding about the camp like a huge snake, now crouching as he passed quickly, but without noise, in rear of the thick bushes; now creeping on hands and knees among the waggons and oxen, and anon gliding almost flat on his breast up to the very verge of the light thrown by the camp-fires. At one and another of the fires he remained motionless like the blackened trunk of a dead tree, with his glittering eyes fixed on the settlers, as if listening intently to their conversation.

Whatever might be the ultimate designs of the Kafir—for such he was—his intentions at the time being were evidently peaceful, for he carried neither weapon nor shield. He touched nothing belonging to the white men, though guns and blankets and other tempting objects were more than once within reach of his hand. Neither did he attempt to steal that which to the Kafir is the most coveted prize of all—a fat ox. Gradually he melted away into the darkness from which he had emerged. No eye in all the emigrant band saw him come or go in his snake-like glidings, yet his presence was known to one of the party—to Ruyter the Hottentot.

Soon after the Kafir had taken his departure, Ruyter left his camp-fire and sauntered into the bush as if to meditate before lying down for the night. As soon as he was beyond observation he quickened his pace and walked in a straight line, like one who has a definite end in view.

The Hottentot fancied that he had got away unperceived, but in this he was mistaken. Hans Marais, having heard Considine’s account of his talk with Ruyter about Jemalee, had been troubled with suspicions about the former, which led to his paying more than usual attention to him. These suspicions were increased when he observed that the Hottentot went frequently and uneasily into the bushes, and looked altogether like a man expecting something which does not happen or appear. When, therefore, he noticed that after supper, Ruyter’s anxious look disappeared, and that, after looking carefully round at his comrades, he sauntered into the bush with an overdone air of nonchalance, he quietly took up his heavy gun and followed him.

The youth had been trained to observe from earliest childhood, and, having been born and bred on the karroo, he was as well skilled in tracking the footprints of animals and men as any red savage of the North American wilderness. He took care to keep the Hottentot in sight, however, the night being too dark to see footprints. Lithe and agile as a panther, he found no difficulty in doing so.

In a few minutes he reached an open space, in which he observed that the Hottentot had met with a Kafir, and was engaged with him in earnest conversation. Much however of what they said was lost by Hans, as he found it difficult to get within ear-shot unobserved.

“And why?” he at length heard the savage demand, “why should I spare them for an hour?”

He spoke in the Kafir tongue, in which the Hottentot replied, and with which young Marais was partially acquainted.

“Because, Hintza,” said Ruyter, naming the paramount chief of Kafirland, “the time has not yet come. One whose opinion you value bade me tell you so.”

“What if I choose to pay no regard to the opinion of any one?” demanded the chief haughtily.

Ruyter quietly told the savage that he would then have to take the consequences, and urged, in addition, that it was folly to suppose the Kafirs were in a condition to make war on the white men just then. It was barely a year since they had been totally routed and driven across the Great Fish River with great slaughter. No warrior of common sense would think of renewing hostilities at such a time—their young men slain, their resources exhausted. Hintza had better bide his time. In the meanwhile he could gratify his revenge without much risk to himself or his young braves, by stealing in a quiet systematic way from the white men as their herds and flocks increased. Besides this, Ruyter, assuming a bold look and tone which was unusual in one of his degraded race, told Hintza firmly that he had reasons of his own for not wishing the Scotch emigrants to be attacked at that time, and that if he persisted in his designs he would warn them of their danger, in which case they would certainly prove themselves men enough to beat any number of warriors Hintza could bring against them.

Lying flat on the ground, with head raised and motionless, Hans Marais listened to these sentiments with much surprise, for he had up to that time regarded the Hottentot as a meek and long-suffering man, but now, though his long-suffering in the past could not be questioned, his meekness appeared to have totally departed.

The Kafir chief would probably have treated the latter part of Ruyter’s speech with scorn, had not his remarks about sly and systematic plunder chimed in with his own sentiments, for Hintza was pre-eminently false-hearted, even among a race with whom successful lying is deemed a virtue, though, when found out, it is considered a sin. He pondered the Hottentot’s advice, and apparently assented to it. After a few moments’ consideration, he turned on his heel, and re-entered the thick jungle.

Well was it for Hans Marais that he had concealed himself among tall grass, for Hintza chanced to pass within two yards of the spot where he lay. The kafir chief had resumed the weapons which, for convenience, he had left behind in the bush while prowling round the white man’s camp, and now stalked along in all the panoply of a savage warrior-chief; with ox-hide shield, bundle of short sharp assagais, leopard-skin robe, and feathers. For one instant the Dutchman, supposing it impossible to escape detection, was on the point of springing on the savage, but on second thoughts he resolved to take his chance. Even if Hintza did discover him, he felt sure of being able to leap up in time to ward off his first stab.

Fortunately the Kafir was too much engrossed with his thoughts. He passed his white enemy, and disappeared in the jungle.

Meanwhile the Hottentot returned to the camp—assuming an easy-going saunter as he approached its fires—and, soon after, Hans Marais re-entered it from an opposite direction. Resolving to keep his own counsel in the meantime, he mentioned the incident to no one, but after carefully inspecting the surrounding bushes, and stirring up the watch-fires, he sat down in front of his leader’s tent with the intention of keeping guard during the first part of the night.

Chapter Ten.

The Location on the River of Baboons.

The Scotch immigrants at last found themselves in the wild mountain-regions of the interior, after a weary but deeply interesting march of nearly two hundred miles.

They had now arrived at the mouth of the Baboons or Baviaans river, one of the affluents of the Great Fish River, and had already seen many of the wild inhabitants of its rugged glen.

Their particular location was a beautiful well-watered region among the mountains which had been forfeited by some of the frontier boers at the time of their insurrection against the English Government some years before. They had now crossed the Great Fish River, and, though still within the old boundary of the colony, were upon its utmost eastern verge. The country beyond, as we are told by Pringle, in his graphic account of the expedition, (see Note 1) “for a distance of seventy miles, to the new frontier at the Chumi and Keisi rivers, had been, the preceding year, forcibly depeopled of its native inhabitants, the Kafirs and Ghonaquas, and now lay waste and void, ‘a howling wilderness,’ occupied only by wild beasts, and haunted occasionally by wandering banditti of the Bushman race (Bosjesmen), who were represented as being even more wild and savage than the beasts of prey with whom they shared the dominion of the desert.”

Just before their arrival at this point, the old waggons, with the drivers who had accompanied them from Algoa Bay, were exchanged for fresh teams and men, and here Ruyter, Jemalee, and Booby left them, to proceed over a spur of one of the mountain ranges to Jan Smit’s farm on the karroo. But Hans Marais, having taken a fancy to some of the Scotch men, determined to proceed with them until he had seen them fairly established in their new homes. Of course Charlie Considine accompanied Hans.

In a wild spot among the mountains they were hospitably received at the solitary abode of a field-cornet named Opperman, who said that he had orders to assist them with an escort of armed boers over the remaining portion of their journey, and to place them in safety on their allotted ground. This remaining portion, he told them, was up the Baviaans River glen, and, although little more than twenty-five miles, would prove to be harder than any part of the journey they had yet encountered.

Remembering some of the breakneck gorges of the Zuurberg, Jerry Goldboy said that he didn’t believe it possible for any route to be worse than that over which they had already passed, to which Sandy Black replied with a “humph!” and an opinion that “the field-cornet o’ the distric’ was likely to know what he was speakin’ aboot.” But Jerry never had been, and of course never could be, convinced by reason. “Nothing,” he candidly admitted, “but hard facts had the least weight with him.”

“’Ee’ve got hard fac’s noo, Jerry,” said Sandy, about noon of the following day, as he threw down the axe with which he had been hewing the jungle, and pulled off his hat, from the crown of which he took a red cotton handkerchief wherewith to wipe his thickly-beaded brow.

Jerry could not deny the truth of this, for he also had been engaged since early morning with a South African axe nearly as large as himself, in assisting to out a passage up the glen.

Not only was there no road up this mountain gorge, but in some parts it was scarcely possible to make one, so rugged was the ground, so dense the jungle. But the preliminary difficulties were as nothing compared to those which met them further up; yet it was observable that the Dutch waggoners faced them with the quiet resolution of men accustomed to the overcoming of obstacles.

“You’d go up a precipice, Hans, I do believe, if there was no way round it,” said Considine, as he gazed in admiring wonder at his tall friend driving his oxen up an acclivity that threatened destruction to waggon, beasts, and men.

“At ony rate he’d try,” remarked Sandy Black, with one of his grave smiles.

Hans was too busy to heed these remarks, if he heard them, for the oxen, being restive, claimed his undivided attention, and the wielding of the twenty-foot whip taxed both his arms, muscular though they were.

When the long line of emigrants had slowly defiled through the poort, or narrow gorge, of the mountains from which Baviaans River issues into the more open valley where it joins the Great Fish River, they came suddenly upon a very singular scene, and a still more singular man. In the middle of the poort they found a small farm, where tremendous precipices of naked rock towered all round, so as to leave barely sufficient space on the bank of the river for the houses and cattle-folds, with a well-stocked garden and orchard. There was also a small plot of corn-land on the margin of the stream.

“’Tis a little paradise!” exclaimed Kenneth McTavish, as he and Considine joined a knot of men on a knoll, whence they had a good view of the little farm.

“It’s an unco’ rocky paradise,” observed Sandy Black, “an’ the angelic appendages o’ wings wadna be unsuitable to its inhabitants, for it seems easier to flee oot o’t ower the precipices than to scramble intil’t ower the rocks an’ rooten trees. I wonder wha it belangs to.”

Hans Marais, who came up at the moment, explained that it belonged to a Dutch boer named Prinsolo, who had been a leader some years before in a rebellion, but had been pardoned and allowed to retain his lands. “You’ve sometimes said you thought me a big fellow, Considine,” remarked Hans, “and I can’t gainsay you, but you shall see a much bigger fellow if Prinsolo is at home, for he’s a giant even among Cape Dutchmen. We call him Groot Willem (Big William), for he is burly and broad as well as tall—perhaps he is taking his noon nap,” added Hans, moving forward. “He seldom lets even a single waggon come so near without—ah! I thought so.”

As he spoke a peculiarly deep bass yawn was heard inside the principal house of the farm to which the party now drew near. Next moment a heavy thump sounded, as if on the floor, and immediately after there issued from the open door a veritable giant in his shirt-sleeves. Groot Willem was rough, shaggy, and rugged, as a giant ought to be. He was also sluggish in his motions, good-humoured, and beaming, as many of the Dutch giants are. Appropriately enough, on beholding the settlers, he uttered a deep bass halloo, which was echoed solemnly by the mighty cliffs at his back. It was neither a shout of alarm nor surprise, for he had long been aware that this visit was pending, but a hasty summons to his household to turn out and witness the stirring and unwonted sight.

It might have been supposed that a giant, whose kindred had been deprived of their lands by the British Government, and some of whom had been executed for high treason, would have regarded the British immigrants with no favourable eye, but Groot Willem appeared to have a large heart in his huge body, for he received the advance-guard of the party with genuine hospitality. Perhaps he was of an unusually forgiving spirit; or it may be that his innate sense of justice led him to recognise the demerit of himself and his kindred; or perchance he was touched by the leniency extended to himself; but, whatever the cause, he shook the newcomers heartily by the hand, said he regarded them as next door-neighbours, started the echoes of the precipices—which he styled Krantzes—and horrified the nearest baboons with shouts of bass laughter at every word from himself or others which bore the remotest semblance to a joke, and insisted on as many of the strangers as could be got into his house, drinking to their better acquaintance in home-made brandy. The same deadly beverage was liberally distributed to the men outside, and Groot Willem wound up his hospitalities by loading the party with vegetables, pomegranates, lemons, and other fruits from his garden as he sent them on their way rejoicing. Soon afterwards he followed them, to aid in forcing a passage up the valley.

In return, as a slight acknowledgment of gratitude, Hans supplied the giant with a little powder and lead, and Mr Pringle gave his family a few Dutch tracts and hymn-books.

“Wonders’ll niver cease in this land!” said Sandy Black to Jerry Goldboy as they left the farm.

“That’s true, Sandy; it’s a houtrageous country.”

“To think,” continued the Scot, “that we should foregather wi’ Goliath amang the heeland hills o’ Afriky; an’ him fond o’ his dram tae—Hech, man! look there—at the puggies.”

He pointed as he spoke to a part of the precipice where a group of baboons were collected, gazing indignantly and chattering furiously at the intruders on their domain.

The ursine baboon is not naturally pugnacious, but neither is he timid or destitute of the means of defence. On the contrary, he is armed with canine teeth nearly an inch long, and when driven to extremities will defend himself against the fiercest wolf-hound. He usually grapples his enemy by the throat with his fore and hind paws—takes a firm bite with his formidable tusks, and tears and tugs till he sometimes pulls away the mouthful. Many a stout baboon has in this manner killed several dogs before being overpowered. It is said that even the leopard is sometimes attacked and worried by baboons, but it is only collectively and in large bands that they can oppose this powerful enemy, and baboons are never the aggressors. It is only in defence of their young that they will assail him.

The strong attachment of these creatures to their young is a fine trait in their character. This quality has been shown on many occasions, especially when the creatures have been engaged in orchard-robbing,—for they are excessively fond of fruit and remarkably destitute of conscience. On such occasions, when hunted back to the mountains with dogs, the females, when separated accidentally from their young, have been seen to return to search for them through the very midst of their pursuers, being utterly regardless of their own safety.

The group to which Black now directed attention consisted of several females with a number of young ones. They were all huddled in a cleft of the precipice, looking down in apparent surprise at the strangers. On a neighbouring height sat a big old satyr-like male, who had been placed there as a sentinel. Baboons are wise creatures, and invariably place sentinels on points of vantage when the females and their young are feeding on the nutritious bulbs and roots that grow in the valleys. The old gentleman in question had done his duty on the first appearance of the human intruders. He had given a roar of warning; the forty or fifty baboons that were down near the river had scampered off precipitately, dashed through the stream, or leaped over it where narrow, hobbled awkwardly on all-fours over the little bit of level ground, and clambered with marvellous agility up the cliffs, till they had gained the ledge from which they now gazed and chattered, feeling confident in the safety of their position.

“Did iver ’ee see the like? They’re almost human!” said Sandy.

“Just look at that big grandmother with the blue face and the little baby on ’er back!” exclaimed Jerry.

“How d’you know she’s a grandmother?” asked Considine.

“W’y, because she’s much fonder of the baby than its own mother could be.”

As he spoke, one of the party below them fired, and the echoes sprang in conflict from the surrounding heights, as a bullet whizzed over their heads and hit the rocks, sending a shower of harmless chips and dust among the baboons.

With a shriek of consternation they scattered and fled up the heights at racing speed.

A burst of laughter from the settlers,—all the more hearty that no damage had been done,—increased the terror inspired by the shot, and seemed to invest the animals with invisible wings.

“Tally-ho!” shouted Considine in excitement.

“The black ane for ever!” cried Sandy.

“I’ll back the grey one with the short tail,” said Kenneth McTavish, coming up at the moment, “although she has two little ones clinging to her.”

“Ten to one,” cried Jerry, bending eagerly forward, “on the blue-nosed grandmother wi’ the baby on her back!”

It did indeed seem as if Jerry’s favourite was going to reach the top of the crags before any of the other horrified creatures, for she was powerful as well as large, and her burden was particularly small. The infant required no assistance, but clung to its dam with its two little hands like a limpet, so that she could use her limbs freely. But an unusually long and vigorous bound chanced to loosen the little one’s grasp. It fell off with a pitiful shriek, and, with an imploring upward look on its miserable countenance, clasped its little hands in mute despair.

Granny or mamma,—we know not which,—with the quick intuition of a great general, took in the whole position like a flash of light. She turned on the ledge she had gained and dropped her tail. Baby seized it and clambered up. Then away she went like a rocket, and before the little one had well regained its former position she had topped the ridge full two yards ahead of the whole troop!

“Well done!” cried McTavish.

“Huzza!” shouted Jerry.

“Brute!” exclaimed Considine, striking up the muzzle of a gun which was pointed at the grandmother and child by a panting young idiot who rushed up at the moment, “would you commit murder?”

The gun exploded and sent its ball straight to the new moon, which, early though it was, had begun to display the washed-out horns of its first quarter in the sky.

“Confound you!” cried the so-called Brute, who was by no means a coward, throwing down his gun and hitting Considine a heavy blow on the chest.

Charlie “returned” on the forehead and sent the Brute head over heels on the turf, but he sprang up instantly, and there would certainly have been a battle-royal if Groot Willem, who opportunely appeared, had not seized Considine by the arm, while Hans Marais grasped the Brute by the neck, and rendered further action impossible. A moment sufficed to cool the youths, for the “Brute” was young, and they both shook hands with a laugh and a mutual apology.

Soon after leaving the giant’s farm the travellers reached a point where the main stream was joined by a subsidiary rivulet. Its corresponding valley branched off to the right, about eight miles in length, containing fine pasturage and rich alluvial soil. It extended eastward behind the back of the Kahaberg, where the settlers observed the skirts of the magnificent timber forests which cover the southern fronts of that range, stretching over the summits of the hills at the head of the glen. To this valley, and the wooded hills which bound it, was given the name of Ettrick Forest, while the main valley itself was named Glen Lynden.

Not far from this point the apology for a waggon track ended altogether, and thenceforth the settlers found the route difficult and dangerous to a degree far exceeding their previous experiences or their wildest conceptions. Jerry Goldboy had now “facts” enough to overturn all his unbelief. The axe, crowbar, pick, and sledge-hammer were incessantly at work. They had literally to hew their path through jungles and gullies, and beds of torrents and rocky acclivities, which formed a series of obstructions that tested the power of the whole party,—Groot Willem and the allies included,—to the uttermost.

Of course the difficulties varied with the scenery. Here the vale was narrow and gorge-like, with just sufficient room for the stream to pass, while precipices of naked rock rose abruptly like rampart walls to a height of many hundred feet. These in some places seemed actually to overhang the savage-looking pass, or “poort,” through which the waggons had to struggle in the very bed of the stream. Elsewhere it widened out sufficiently to leave space along the river-bank for fertile meadows, which were picturesquely sprinkled with mimosa trees and evergreen shrubs, and clothed with luxuriant pasturage up to the girths of the horses. Everywhere the mountains rose around, steep and grand, the lower declivities covered with good pasturage, the cliffs above, of freestone and trap, frowning in wild forms like embattled ramparts whose picturesque sides were sprinkled with various species of succulent plants and flowering aloes.

For five days did they struggle up this short glen; two of these days being occupied in traversing only three miles of a rugged defile, to which they gave the name of Eildon Cleugh. But “nothing is denied to well-directed labour.” They smashed two waggons, damaged all the others, half-killed their oxen, skinned all their knuckles, black-and-blued all their shins, and nearly broke all their hearts, till at length they passed through the last poort of the glen and gained the summit of an elevated ridge which commanded a magnificent view to the extremity of the vale.

“And now, Mynheer,” said the field-cornet in charge of their escort, “there lies your country.”

“At last!—thank God,” said the leader of the band, looking round on their beautiful though savage home with feelings of deep gratitude for the happy termination of their long and weary travels.

The toil of journeying was now succeeded by the bustle and excitement of settling down.

Their new home was a lovely vale of about six or seven miles in length, and varying from one to two in breadth, like a vast basin surrounded on all sides by steep and sterile mountains, which rose in sharp wedge-like ridges, with snow-clad summits that towered to an estimated height of five thousand feet above the level of the sea. The contrast between the warm peaceful valley and the rugged amphitheatre of mountains was very great. The latter, dark and forbidding—yet home-like and gladdening to the eyes of Scotsmen—suggested toil and trouble, while the former, with its meandering river, verdant meadows, groves of sweet-scented mimosa-trees, and herds of antelopes, quaggas, and other animals pasturing in undisturbed quietude, filled the mind with visions of peace and plenty. Perchance God spoke to them in suggestive prophecy, for the contrast was typical of their future chequered career in these almost unknown wilds of South Africa.

Left by their escort on the following day—as their English brethren had been left in the Zuurveld of Lower Albany—to take root and grow there or perish, the heads of families assembled, and their leader addressed them.

“Here, at last,” said he, “our weary travels by sea and land have come to an end. Exactly six months ago, to a day, we left the shores of bonny Scotland. Since then we have been wanderers, without any other home than the crowded cabin at sea and the narrow tent on shore. Now we have, through God’s great goodness and mercy, reached the ‘Promised Land’ which is to be our future home, our place of rest. We have pitched our tents among the mimosa-trees on the river’s margin, and our kind Dutch friends with the armed escort have left us. We are finally left to our own resources; it behoves us therefore, kindred and comrades, to proceed systematically to examine our domain, and fix our several locations. For this purpose I propose that an armed party should sally forth to explore, while the rest shall remain to take care of the women and children, and guard the camp.”

Acting on this advice, an exploration party was at once organised, and set forth on foot, as they had at that time no horses or live stock of any kind—save one dog, which had been purchased by the “Brute” (whose proper name, by the way, was Andrew Rivers) from Groot Willem on the way up.

They found the region most desirable in all respects. Open grassy pastures were interspersed everywhere with clumps and groves of mimosa-trees, while the river, a gurgling mountain-brook, meandered musically through the meadows. From grove and thicket sprang the hartebeest and duiker. From their lairs among the reeds and sedges of the river rushed the reitbok and wild hog; while troops of quaggas appeared trotting on the lower declivities of the hills.

“A magnificent region truly!” remarked Kenneth McTavish as they returned home at night.

“’Eaven upon earth!” said Jerry Goldboy, with quiet enthusiasm.

“What splendid scenery!” exclaimed Charlie Considine,—who was addicted to the pencil.

“What glorious sport!” cried his former antagonist, Rivers,—who was fond of the rod and gun.

“And what aboot the Kawfirs and Bushmen?” asked Sandy Black, who, to use his own language, “could aye objec’.”

“Time enough to think of them when they appear,” said Rivers.

“I don’t believe they’re half so bad as people say,” cried Goldboy stoutly.

“Maybe no,” rejoined Black. “The place is paradise to-day, as you sagaciously remarked, Jerry, but if the Kawfirs come it’ll be pandemonium to-morry. It’s my opinion that we should get oursel’s into a defensible camp as soon as we can, an’ than gae aboot our wark wi’ easy minds. Ye mind what Goliath and Hans Marais said before they left us, aboot keepin’ a sharp look-oot.”

As no one replied to this, the Scot changed the subject by asking Considine when he meant to leave.

“Not till Hans Marais comes over the hills to fetch me,” was the reply. “He has taken upon himself to give me extended leave of absence. You know, Sandy, that I fill the office of Professor in his father’s house, and of course the Marais sprouts are languishing for want of water while the schoolmaster is abroad, so I could not take it on myself to remain longer away, if Hans had not promised to take the blame on his own shoulders. Besides, rain in Africa is so infrequent, that the sprouts won’t suffer much from a week, more or less, of drought. Your leader wishes me to stay for a few days, and I am anxious to see how you get on. I’ll be able to help a bit, and take part in the night-watches, which I heard Mr Pringle say he intends to institute immediately.”

On the day following a site was fixed for the commencement of the infant colony, and the tents, etcetera, were removed to it. The day after being Sunday, it was unanimously agreed to “rest” from labour, and to “keep it holy.”

It was an interesting and noteworthy occasion, the assembling of the Scotch emigrants on that Sabbath day to worship God for the first time in Glen Lynden. Their church was under the shade of a venerable acacia-tree, close to the margin of the stream, which murmured round the camp. On one side sat the patriarch of the party with silvery locks, the Bible on his knee, and his family seated round him,—the type of a grave Scottish husbandman. Near to him sat a widow, who had “seen better days,” with four stalwart sons to work for and guard her. Beside these were delicate females of gentle blood, near to whom sat the younger brother of a Scotch laird, who wisely preferred independence in the southern wilds of Africa to dependence “at home.” Besides these there were youths and maidens, of rougher though not less honest mould—some grave, others gay, but all at that time orderly and attentive, while their leader gave forth the beautiful hymn which begins:

“O God of Bethel! by whose hand

Thy people still are fed,”

and followed it with a selection of prayers from the English Liturgy, and a discourse from a volume of sermons.

While they were singing the last Psalm a beautiful antelope, which had wandered down the valley,—all ignorant of the mighty change that had taken place in the prospects of its mountain home,—came suddenly in sight of the party, and stood on the opposite side of the river gazing at them in blank amazement.

Andrew Rivers, who sat meekly singing a fine bass, chanced to raise his head at the time. Immediately his eyes opened to their full extent, and the fine bass stopped short, though the mouth did not close. With the irresistible impulse of a true sportsman he half rose, but Sandy Black, who sat near, caught him by the coat-tails and forced him firmly though softly down.

“Whist, man; keep a calm sough!”

The young man, becoming instantly aware of the impropriety of his action, resigned himself to fate and Sandy, and recovered self-possession in time to close the interrupted line with two or three of the deepest notes in the bass clef.

The innocent antelope continued to listen and gaze its fill, and was finally permitted to retire unmolested into its native jungle.

Note 1. See Narrative of a Residence in South Africa, by Thomas Pringle, late Secretary to the Anti-Slavery Society.

Chapter Eleven.

Explorations and Hunting Experiences.

Oh, they were happy times, these first days of the infant colony, when every man felt himself to be a real Robinson Crusoe,—with the trifling difference of being cast on heights of the mainland, instead of an islet of the sea, and with the pleasant addition of kindred company!

So rich and lovely was their domain that some of the facetious spirits, in looking about for sites for future dwellings, affected a rollicking indifference to situations that would have been prized by any nobleman in making choice of a spot for a shooting-box.

“Come now, McTavish,” said Considine, on one of their exploring expeditions, “you are too particular. Yonder is a spot that seems to have been made on purpose for you—a green meadow for the cattle and sheep, when you get ’em; stones scattered here and there, of a shape that will suit admirably for building purposes without quarrying or dressing; a clump of mimosa-trees to shelter your cottage from winds that may blow down the valley, and a gentle green slope to break those that blow up; a superb acacia standing by itself on a ready-made lawn where your front door will be, under which you may have a rustic seat and table to retire to at eventide with Mrs McTavish and lovely young Jessie, to smoke your pipe and sip your tea.”

“Or toddy,” suggested Sandy Black.

“Or toddy,” assented Considine.

“Besides all this, you have the river making a graceful bend in front of your future drawing-room windows, and a vista of the valley away to the left, with a rocky eminence on the right, whence baboons can descend to rob your future orchard at night, and sit chuckling at you in safety during the day, with a grand background of wooded gorges,—or corries, as you Scotch have it, or kloofs, according to the boers—and a noble range of snow-clad mountains to complete the picture!”

“Not a bad description for so young a man,” said McTavish, surveying the spot with a critical eye; “quite in our poetical leader’s style. You should go over it again in his hearing, and ask him to throw it into verse.”

“No; I cannot afford to give away the valuable produce of my brain. I will keep and sell it some day in England. But our leader has already forestalled me, I fear. He read to me something last night which he has just composed, and which bears some resemblance to it. Listen:—

“‘Now we raise the eye to range

O’er prospect wild, grotesque, and strange;

Sterile mountains, rough and steep,

That bound abrupt the valley deep,

Heaving to the clear blue sky

Their ribs of granite bare and dry.

And ridges, by the torrents worn,

Thinly streaked with scraggy thorn,

Which fringes Nature’s savage dress,

Yet scarce relieves her nakedness.

But where the Vale winds deep

below,

The landscape hath a warmer glow

There the spekboom spreads its bowers

Of light green leaves and lilac flowers;

And the aloe rears her crimson crest,

Like stately queen for gala drest

And the bright-blossomed bean-tree shakes

Its coral tufts above the brakes,

Brilliant as the glancing plumes

Of sugar-birds among its blooms,

With the deep-green verdure blending

In the stream of light descending.’

“Something or other follows, I forget what, and then:—

“‘With shattered rocks besprinkled o’er,

Behind ascends the mountain hoar,

Where the grin satyr-faced baboon

Sits gibbering to the rising moon,

Or chides with hoarse or angry cry

Th’intruder as he wanders by.’

“There—I can’t remember the rest of it,” said Considine, “and I’m not even sure that what I’ve quoted is correct, but you see Mr Pringle’s mind has jumped before mine,—and higher.”

“Man, it’s no’ that bad,” observed Black, with emphasis. “Depend on’t—though I mak’ nae pretence to the gift o’ prophecy—he’ll come oot as a bard yet—the bard o’ Glen Lynden maybe, or Sooth Afriky.—Hech, sirs!” added Sandy, pointing with a look of surprise to a tree, many of the pendent branches of which had peculiar round-shaped birds’-nests attached to them, “what’s goin’ on there, think ’ee?”

The tree to which the Scot directed attention overhung the stream, and down one of its branches a snake was seen twining itself with caution. It evidently meant to rob one of the nests, for the little owner, with some of its companions, was shrieking and fluttering round the would-be robber. This kind of bird has been gifted with special wisdom to guard its home from snakes. It forms the entrance to its pendent nest at the bottom instead of the top, and hangs the nest itself at the extreme point of the finest twigs, so that the snake is compelled to wriggle downwards perpendicularly, and at last has to extend part of its body past the nest, in order to be able to turn its head upwards into the hole. Great, unquestionably, is a snake’s capacity to hold on by its tail, but this holding on as it were to next-to-nothing is usually too much for it. While the explorers were watching, the snake turned its head upwards for the final dive into the nest, but its coils slipped, and it fell into the water amid triumphant shrieks from the little birds. Nothing daunted, however, the snake swam ashore and made another attempt—with the same result. Again it made the trial; a third time it failed, and then, in evident disgust, went off to attack some easier prey.

While Considine and his companions were thus out in search of good localities on which to plant future homesteads, the greater part of the settlers were engaged, at a spot which they had named Clifton, in erecting temporary huts of the wattle-and-dab order. Mr Pringle himself, with a bold fellow named Rennie, remained to guard the camp, as they had reason to fear a surprise from Bushmen marauders, known at that time to be roaming the neighbourhood. More than once the sentinels were tempted to fire into a band of baboons, whom they not unnaturally mistook for Bushmen!

Other parties were sent out to cut wood and reeds, which they had to carry into camp, sometimes two or three miles, on their shoulders, while some were despatched into the kloofs to hunt, provisions having by that time grown scarce. Not being a sportsman himself, and not feeling sure of the power of his men, who were at that time unaccustomed to the gun, Mr Pringle wisely sent two of the party to the nearest station—about forty miles distant—to inquire about a supply of provisions and a few horses, which were expected from the Government-farm of Somerset.

The first hunting party sent out was not a select one, the people generally being too eager about examining and determining their immediate locations to care about sport. It consisted of young Rivers and Jerry Goldboy. The former was appointed, or rather allowed, to go, more because of his sporting enthusiasm than because of any evidence he had yet given of his powers, and the latter merely because he desired to go. For the same reason he was permitted to arm himself with his blunderbuss. Rivers carried a heavy double-barrelled fowling-piece. He was a stout active impulsive young fellow, with the look of a capable Nimrod.

“You’d have been better with a fowling-piece, or even a Dutch roer,” said Rivers, casting a doubtful look at the blunderbuss as they entered the jungle and began to ascend one of the nearest subsidiary glens or kloofs.

“Well now, sir,” said Jerry respectfully, “I don’t agree with you. A man who goes a-shootin’ with a fowlin’-piece or a Dutch gun must ’ave some sort o’ capacity for shootin’—mustn’t ’e, sir?”

“Well, I suppose he must.”

“W’ereas,” continued Jerry, “a man who goes a-shootin’ with a blunderbuss don’t require no such qualification—that’s w’ere it is, sir.”

“D’you mean to say that you can’t shoot?” asked Rivers, with a look of surprise.

“No more, sir,” replied Jerry with emphasis, “than the weathercock of a Dutch Reformed Church. Of course I know ’ow to load—powder first, ball or shot arterwards; it’s usually gravel with me, that bein’, so to speak, ’andy and cheap. An’ I knows w’ich end o’ the piece to putt to my shoulder, likewise ’ow to pull the trigger, but of more than that I’m hinnocent as the babe unborn. Ah! you may laugh, sir, but after all I’m a pretty sure shot. Indeed I seldom miss, because I putt in such a ’eavy charge, and the ’buss scatters so fearfully that it’s all but impossible to miss—unless you fairly turn your back on the game and fires in the opposite direction.”

“You’re a pleasant hunting companion!” said Rivers. “Do you know the importance of always keeping the muzzle of your gun away from the unfortunate fellow you chance to be shooting with?”

“Ho, yes, sir. The dangerous natur’ of my weapon is so great that I’ve adopted the plan of always walking, as you see, with what the milingtary call ‘shouldered arms,’ which endangers nothin’ but the sky—includin’ the planetory system—except w’en I ’appens to fall, w’en, of course, it’s every man lookout for hisself. But there’s one consolation for you, sir,—my blunderbuss don’t go off easy. It takes two pulls of the trigger, mostly, to bring fire out o’ the flint, and as I often forget to prime—there’s a third safeguard in that, so to speak.”

Further converse was interrupted by the sudden bursting of a duiker, or large antelope, from a thicket close beside them. Both sportsmen levelled their pieces, but, the jungle there being dense, the animal vanished before either could fire. With the eager haste of tyros, however, they ran stumbling after it until they came to an open stretch of ground which led them to the edge of a small plain. Here they simultaneously discovered that no duiker was to be seen, though they observed a troop of quaggas far out of range, and a hartebeest in the distance. The former, observing them, kicked up their heels, and dashed away into the mountains. The latter, a handsome creature, the size of an average pony and fleet as a stag, bounded into the jungle.

“No use going after these,” said Rivers, with a wistful gaze.

“No, sir,—none w’atever.”

“Better keep to the jungle and be ready next time,” said the young sportsman. “We mustn’t talk, Jerry.”

“No, sir; mum’s the word. But ’ow if we should meet with a lion?”

“Shoot it of course. But there is no such luck in store for us.”

After this the hunters proceeded with greater caution. As they kept in the thick bush, they frequently startled animals, which they heard leaping up and bursting through the underwood, but seldom got a glimpse, and never a shot.

“Tantalising, ain’t it, sir?”

“Hush!”

They issued on another open space at this point, and, seeing a thick bed of sedges near the margin of a stream, proceeded towards it, separating from each other a few yards in order to cover the ground.

There was a sudden and violent shaking in the sedges on their approach, as if some large animal had been aroused from sleep, but the tall reeds prevented its being seen.

“Look out, Jerry, and keep more on the other side—there—Hallo!”

As he spoke, a creature called by the Dutch colonists a reit-vark, or reed-swine, whose quick starts and sharp stoppages betrayed its indecision, at length made up its mind and rushed out of the reeds in wild alarm close to Rivers, who, although ready, was incapable of restraining himself, and fired in haste. The ball nevertheless slightly grazed the animal’s side.

With a shriek of intense agony, such as only a brute of the porcine tribe can utter, the reit-vark swerved aside and ran straight, though unintentionally, at Jerry Goldboy.

Self-control not being Jerry’s forte, he uttered a great cry, presented the blunderbuss with both hands, shut his eyes, and fired. The butt of his piece came back on his chest and floored him, and the half-pound of gravel charge went into the forehead of the reit-vark, which dropped with a final groan, whose clear import was—“no earthly use in struggling after that!” Recovering himself, Jerry was jubilant over his success. Rivers was almost envious.

They proceeded, but killed nothing more afterwards, though they saw much. Among other things, they saw a footprint in the sand which filled them with interest and awe.

It was that of a lion! During the journey up from the coast they had seen much game, large and small, of every kind, except the Cape “tiger” and the lion. They had indeed, once or twice, heard the peculiar growl or gurr of the former, but until this day none of the party had seen even the footprint of the king of beasts. Of course the interest and excitement was proportional. Of course, also, when the subject was discussed round the camp-fires that night, there was a good deal of “chaffing” among the younger men about the probability of a mistake as to the nature of the footprints by such unaccustomed sportsmen; but Rivers was so confident in his statements, and Jerry was so contemptuous in his manner of demanding whether there was any difference between the paw of a cat and a lion, except in size, and whether he was not perfectly familiar with a cat’s paw, that no room for scepticism remained.

It had been a threatening day. Muttered thunder had been heard at intervals, and occasional showers,—the first that had assailed them since their arrival in the glen. The night became tempestuous, cold, and very dark, so that soon all were glad to seek the shelter of the tents or of the half-finished wattle-and-dab huts, except the sentinels. Of these, two were appointed for every watch. Masters and servants shared this disagreeable duty equally. Particularly disagreeable it was that night, for the rain came down in such torrents that it was difficult to keep the fires alight despite a good supply of firewood.

About midnight the sleeping camp was aroused by the roar of a lion close to the tents. It was so loud and so tremendous that some of the sleepy-heads thought for a moment a thunderstorm had burst upon them. Every one was up in a second—the men with guns, pistols, swords, and knives. There was no mistaking the expression of the roar—the voice of fury as well as of power.

“Whereaboots is the brute?” cried Sandy Black, who, roused to unwonted excitement by the royal voice, issued from his tent in a red nightcap and drawers, with a gun in one hand and a carving-knife in the other.

“Here!” “There!” “In this direction!” “No, it isn’t!” “I say it is!” and similar exclamations, burst from every one. The uncertainty was probably occasioned partly by the mode the animal has of sometimes putting his mouth close to the ground when he roars, so that the voice rolls along like a billow; partly also by the echo from a mountain-rock which rose abruptly on the opposite bank of the river. Finding it impossible to decide the question of direction, the party fired volleys and threw firebrands in all directions, and this they did with such vigour that his kingship retired without uttering another sound.

It was a grand, a royal, almost a humorous mode of breaking a spell—the spell of unbelief in lions,—which some of the party had been under up to that moment. They remained under it no longer!

As if to confirm and fix the impression thus made, this lion,—or another,—gave some of the party a daylight interview. George Rennie, McTavish, Considine, Black, and others, had gone up the river to cut reeds in the bed of the stream. While they were busily engaged with their sickles, up rose a majestic lion in their very midst!

“Preserve us a’!” exclaimed Black, who was nearest to him.

Jerry Goldboy turned to seize his blunderbuss. The lion leaped upon the bank of the river, turned round and gazed upon the men.

“Let go!” exclaimed Jerry in a hoarse whisper, endeavouring to shake off the vice-like grip that Black had laid on his arm.

“Keep quiet, man,” growled Black sternly.

The rest of the party were wise enough not to interfere with the lion. They were at that time inexperienced. To have wounded him would have brought disaster, perhaps death, on some of them. George Rennie (who afterwards became a celebrated lion-hunter) was emphatic in advising caution. After gazing in quiet surprise on the intruders for a minute or so, he turned and retired; first slowly, and then, after getting some distance off, at a good round trot.

This was the first sight they had of the royal beast. Afterwards, during the winter and spring, they had frequent visits from lions, but did not suffer actual damage from them. They also, in course of time, dared to “beard the lion in his den,”—but of that more anon.

The labour of the settlers at this time—before oxen and horses were procured—was very severe. Of course this had the effect of weeding the little company of some of its chaff in the shape of lazy and discontented men. One said that he “had not been engaged to work by day, and watch by night, as well as living in constant fear of being scalped by savages or devoured by wild beasts.” The observation being true and unanswerable, he was “graciously permitted to retire from the service,” and returned to Algoa Bay. But on the whole there was little murmuring, and no rebellion. By degrees difficulties were smoothed down. A squatter on one of the forfeited farms, about eight miles off, who with his family lived solely on flesh and milk, was engaged to lend a hand with his waggon and oxen to “flit” the families to their various locations. He also sold the settlers a few sheep. In time, more sheep and oxen were purchased from the Dutch farmers on the Tarka, a river on the other side of the mountains. Hottentots came from Somerset with flour. Thatched huts replaced the tents. A few horses were obtained. Gardens were cleared and enclosed. Trenches for irrigation were cut. Trees were rooted out, and ploughs were set to work. Ten armed Hottentots were sent by the magistrates of the district to which they belonged, to guard and relieve them of night-watches, and with these came the news that ten of their friend Opperman’s cattle, and seven belonging to their neighbour the squatter, had been carried off by Bushmen.

At this point Sandy Black aroused the admiration of the ten Hottentots by setting to work one morning in September—the beginning of spring in South Africa—with a Scotch plough, which was guided entirely by himself and drawn by only two oxen. His dark-skinned admirers had never seen any other plough than the enormous unwieldy implement then in use among the Dutch, which had only one handle, no coulter, was usually drawn by ten or twelve oxen, and managed by three or four men and boys.

By degrees those of the party who were good linguists began to pick up Dutch. Mr Pringle, especially, soon became familiar enough with it to be able to hold a Dutch service on Sundays, in addition to the English, for the benefit of the Hottentot guards. He also added a slight knowledge of medicine to his other qualifications, and was thus enabled to minister to the wants of body and soul, at a time when the people had no regular physician or professional minister of the Gospel.

The arrival of horses gave the settlers opportunities of making more extended and more thorough explorations of their own domain, and the daily routine of life was varied and enlivened by an occasional visit from the Tarka boers, whom they found good-natured and hospitable—also very shrewd at a bargain!

Thus they took root and began to grow.

But before many of these things occurred Hans Marais came over the mountains, according to promise, and “Professor” Considine was fain to bid the Scotch settlers farewell, promising, however, to return and visit them on some future day.

Chapter Twelve.

Gives some Account of a Great Lion-Hunt.

Although the lion’s roar had been frequently heard by the settlers of Glen Lynden, some months elapsed before they came into actual conflict with his majesty. By that time the little colony had taken firm root. It had also been strengthened by a few families of half-castes or mulattos.

One morning it was discovered that a horse had been carried off by a lion, and as his track was clearly traceable into a neighbouring kloof, the boldest men of the settlement, as well as some Dutchmen who chanced to be there at the time, were speedily assembled for a regular hunt after the audacious thief.

It was a great occasion, and some of the men who became noted for prowess in after years began their career on that day. George Rennie, who ultimately acquired the title of the Lion-hunter, came to the rendezvous with a large elephant-gun on his shoulder; also his brother John, fearless and daring as himself. Then followed the brothers Diederik and Christian Muller,—frank, free, generous-hearted Dutchmen, who were already known as among the most intrepid lion-hunters of South Africa; and Arend Coetzer of Eland’s-drift; and Lucas Van Dyk, a tall dark muscular man of about six feet two, with a bushy black beard, and an eye like an eagle’s, carrying a gun almost as long and unwieldy as himself; and Slinger, Allie, and Dikkop, their sturdy Hottentot servants, with Dugal, a half-tamed Bushman, the special charge of Mr Pringle. These and several others were all armed with gun and spear and knife.

Soon our friend Sandy Black, who had been summoned from work in his garden, joined them with a rusty old flint-lock gun. He was followed by young Rivers, with a double-barrelled percussion of large calibre, and by Kenneth McTavish, accompanied by his wife and Jessie, both imploring him earnestly, “not to be rash, and to keep well out of danger!”

“Oh! Kenneth,” entreated Mrs M, “do be careful. A lion is such a fearful thing!”

“My dear, it’s not a ‘thing’, it’s an animal,” growled Kenneth, trying to induce his wife to go home.

“Yes, but it is so dangerous, and only think, if it should get hold of you—and I know your headstrong courage will make you do something foolhardy—what is to become of me and Jessie?”

It was evident from the tone of McTavish’s reply that he did not care much what should become of either wife or daughter just then, for he saw that his male friends were laughing at him, but he was fortunately relieved by Jerry Goldboy coming up at the moment—with the blunderbuss on his shoulder—and informing Mrs McTavish that her “pet,” a lamb which had been recently purchased from one of the Tarka boers, was at large, with two or three hungry dogs looking earnestly at it!

The good lady at once forsook the old goat, and ran back with Jessie to the rescue of the pet lamb.

“What have ’ee putt i’ the ’buss?” asked Sandy Black of Jerry, with a sly look, as the latter joined the group of hunters.

“Well, d’you know, I ain’t quite sure,” replied Jerry in some confusion; “I—I was called out so suddenly that I ’ad scarce time to think.”

“Think!” repeated Black; “it doesna tak’ muckle time to think hoo to load a gun, but to be sure your gun is a pecooliar ane.”

“Well, you see,” returned Jerry, with the troubled look still on his countenance, “it does require a little consideration, because it would be useless to load with my ordinary charge of gravel for a lion. Then I feared to put in large stones, lest they should jam in the barrel an’ bu’st the hold thing. So I collected a lot of hold buttons and a few nails, besides two or three thimbles, but—”

“Weel,” said Black, as his friend paused, “thae sort o’ slugs wull at least gie the lion a peppery sort o’ feeling, if naethin’ waur.”

“Yes, but, d’you see,” continued Jerry, “there was a silver tea-spoon on the table when I made the collection of things, and after I had loaded I I couldn’t find the tea-spoon, and I fear—”

Just at that moment Groot Willem galloped upon the scene and was received with a hearty cheer.

The Hottentots were now sent on in advance to trace out the “spoor”—in other words, the track of the lion.

On the way one of the Dutchmen entertained those of the settlers who were inexperienced with an account of the mode in which lion-hunts should be conducted. The right way to go to work, he said, was to set the dogs into the cover and drive the lion into the open, when the whole band of hunters should march forward together and fire either singly or in volleys. If he did not fall, but should grow furious and advance upon his assailants, then they should stand close in a circle and turn their horses with their heads from the foe, horses being usually much frightened at the sight of a lion. Some should hold the bridles, while others should kneel and take careful aim at the approaching enemy, which would crouch now and then as if to measure his distance and calculate the power of his spring. When he crouched, that was the time to shoot him fair in the head. If they should miss, which was not unlikely, or only wound the lion, and the horses should get frantic with tenor at his roars, and break loose, there was reason to fear that serious mischief might follow.

No Red Indian of the backwoods ever followed the “trail” of beast or foe more unerringly than these Hottentots and mulattos tracked that lion through brushwood and brake, over grass and gravel, where in many places, to an unskilled eye, there was no visible mark at all. Their perseverance was rewarded: they came upon the enemy sooner than had been expected. At the distance of about a mile from the spot where he had killed the horse they found him in a straggling thicket.

From this point of vantage he would by no means come out. The dogs were sent in, and they barked furiously enough, but the lion would not condescend to show fight. After some hours spent in thus vainly heating about the bush, George Rennie became impatient and resolved to “storm” the stronghold! In company with his brother John, and another man named Ekron, he prepared to enter the thicket where the lion was concealed, and persuaded three of the mulattos to follow in rear, and be ready to fire if their assault should prove abortive.

It was of no use that Lucas, Van Dyk, and the Mullers, and other experienced Dutchmen, tried to dissuade them from their enterprise by assuring them that it was a ridiculous as well as reckless mode of attack, and would be almost certainly attended with fatal consequences. The brothers Rennie, as yet inexperienced, were obstinate. They were bent on attacking the lion in his den.

While this arrangement was being made the soul of Jerry Goldboy became unfortunately inflated with a desire to distinguish himself. Spiritually brave, though physically nervous, he made a sudden resolve to shoot that lion or die in the attempt! Without uttering a word he cocked his blunderbuss, and, before any one could prevent him, made a bold dash into the jungle at a point where the hounds were clamouring loudest.

“Save us a’, the body’s gane gyte!” exclaimed Sandy Black, promptly following. “Come on, freen’s, or he’s a deed man.”

Sandy’s impulse was suddenly arrested by a roar from the lion so tremendous that it appeared to shake the solid earth. Next moment Jerry beheld a large animal bound with a crash through the brake straight at him. His heart leaped into his mouth, but he retained sufficient vitality to present and fire. A wild yell followed, as the animal fell dead at his feet, and Jerry found that he had lodged the whole collection of buttons, nails, and miscellaneous articles, along with the tea-spoon, in the head of the best hound, which had been scared by the monarch’s appalling roar!

It is difficult to say whether laughter or indignant growls were loudest on the occurrence of this, but it is certain that the brothers Rennie entered the thicket immediately after, despite the almost angry remonstrances of the more knowing men, advanced to within about fifteen paces of the spot where the lion lay crouched among the gnarled roots of an evergreen bush with a small space of open ground on one side of it.

“Now then, boys,” said George Rennie, casting a hasty glance over his shoulder at the mulatto supports, “steady, and take good aim after we fire.”

He put the elephant gun to his shoulder as he spoke, his brother and comrade did the same; a triple report followed, and the three heavy balls, aimed with deadly precision, struck a great block of red stone behind which the lion was lying.

With a furious growl he shot from his lair like the bolt from a cross-bow. The mulattos instinctively turned and fled without firing a shot. The three champions, with empty guns, tumbled over each other in eager haste to escape the dreaded claws—but in vain, for with one stroke he dashed John Rennie to the ground, put his paw on him, and looked round with that dignified air of grandeur which has doubtless earned for his race the royal title. The scene was at once magnificent, thrilling, and ludicrous. It was impossible for the other hunters to fire, because while one man was under the lion’s paw the others were scrambling towards them in such a way as to render an aim impossible.

After gazing at them steadily for a few seconds the lion turned as if in sovereign contempt, scattered the hounds like a pack of rats, and, with a majestic bound over bushes upwards of twelve feet high, re-entered the jungle. With a feeling of indignation at such contemptuous treatment, George Rennie re-charged his gun in haste, vowing vengeance against the whole feline race—a vow which he fully redeemed in after years. His brother John, who was injured to the extent of a scratch on the back and a severe bruise on the ribs by the rough treatment he had received, arose and slowly followed his example, and Groot Willem, growling in a tone that would have done credit to the lion himself, and losing for the moment the usual wisdom of his countrymen in such encounters, strode savagely into the jungle, followed by Sandy Black and Jerry, the latter of whom appeared to labour under a sort of frenzied courage which urged him on to deeds of desperate valour. At all events he had recharged his piece of ordnance to the very muzzle with a miscellaneous compound of sand, stones, and sticks—anything, in short, that would go down its capacious throat,—and, pushing wildly past Groot Willem, took the lead.

It was perhaps well for these strangely-assorted hunters that the lion had made up his mind to quit the jungle. A few minutes later he was seen retreating towards the mountains, and the chase was renewed, with hounds and Hottentots in full cry. They came up with him in a short time at bay under a mimosa-tree by the side of a streamlet. He lashed his tail and growled fiercely as he glared at the dogs, which barked and yelped round him, though they took good care to keep out of reach of his claws. While they stirred up his wrath to the boiling point, they at the same time distracted his attention, so that a party of Hottentots, getting between him and the mountain side, took up a position on a precipice which overlooked the spot where he stood at bay. Suddenly the lion appeared to change his mind. Turning as before, and clearing all obstacles at a bound, he took refuge in a dense thicket, into which a heavy fire was poured without any effect. Again George Rennie lost patience. He descended from the height accompanied by a favourite little dog, and threw two large stones into the thicket. His challenge was accepted on the spot. The lion leaped out with a roar, and was on the point of making another bound, which would certainly have been fatal to the hunter, but the little dog ran boldly up and barked in his face. The momentary interruption saved Rennie, who leaped backward, but the dog was instantly killed with a flashing pat from the royal paw. At the same moment a volley was fired by the Hottentots from the heights. Unfortunately the position of Rennie rendered it impossible for the Mullers or any of the other expert shots to fire.

Whether the volley had taken effect was uncertain, but it at all events turned the lion from his purpose. He wheeled round, and, abandoning the bush, took to a piece of open ground, across which the hunters and dogs followed him up hotly.

The lion now took refuge in a small copse on a slight eminence. Diederik and Christian Muller were in advance, Groot Willem on his mighty charger came next. Van Dyk was running neck and neck with Jerry Goldboy, who flourished the blunderbuss over his head and yelled like a very demon. It was obvious that he was mad for the time being. The rest came up in a confused body, many of the men on foot having kept up with the horsemen.

The Rennies, having by that time become wiser, gave up their reckless proceedings, and allowed Christian Muller, who was tacitly acknowledged the leader of the party, to direct. He gave the signal to dismount when within a short distance of the copse, and ordered the horses to be tied together as the different riders came up. This was quickly done, and of course all possibility of retreat was thus cut off. The plan was to advance in a body up the slope, leaving the horses in charge of the Hottentots.

The preparations did not take long, but before they were completed a growl was heard, then a terrific roar, and the lion, who had made up his mind to act on the offensive, burst from the thicket and bore down on the party, his eyeballs glaring with rage. Being thus taken by surprise they were unprepared. His motion was so rapid that no one could take aim—except, indeed, Jerry, who discharged his piece at the sky, and, losing his balance, fell back with a wild halloo. Selecting one of the horses, the lion darted furiously at it. The affrighted animal sprang forward, and, in so doing, wheeled all the other horses violently round. The lion missed his aim, but faced about and crouched at a distance of only ten yards for another spring. It was a terrible moment! While the monster was meditating on which victim he should leap, Christian Muller was taking quick but deadly aim. If he should merely wound the brute, certain death to some one of the party would have been the instantaneous result. Most of them knew this well.

Knowing also that Muller was cool and sure, they breathlessly awaited the result. Only three or four seconds were spent in aiming, but instants become minutes in such a case. Some of the men almost gasped with anxiety. Another moment, and Christian fired. The under jaw of the lion dropped, and blood gushed front his mouth. He turned round with a view to escape, but George Rennie shot him through the spine. Turning again with a look of vengeance, he attempted to spring, but the once powerful hind-legs were now paralysed. At the same moment, Groot Willem, Van Dyk, Sandy Black, and McTavish put balls into different parts of his body, and a man named Stephanus put an end to his existence by shooting him through the brain.

It was a furious combat while it lasted, and a noble enemy had been subdued, for this lion, besides being magnificent of aspect even in death, measured full twelve feet from the point of his nose to the tip of his tail.

Chapter Thirteen.

Adventure with an Ostrich.

Time passed rapidly, and the settlers, both highland and lowland, struck their roots deeper and deeper into the soil of their adoption—watched and criticised more or less amiably by their predecessors, the few Dutch-African farmers who up to that time had struggled on the frontier all alone.

One day Hans Marais was riding with Charlie Considine on the karroo, not far from the farm-house. They had been conversing on the condition and prospects of the land, and the trials and difficulties of the British settlers. Suddenly they came on an ostrich sitting on its eggs under a bush. The bird rose and ran on seeing the horsemen.

“I daresay the cock-bird is not far off,” observed Hans, riding up to the nest, which was merely a slight hollow scraped in the sandy soil, and contained a dozen eggs. “He is a gallant bird; guards his wife most faithfully, and shares her duties.”

“I’ve sometimes thought,” said Considine musingly, “that the ostrich might be tamed and bred on your farms. With such valuable feathers it would be worth while to try.”

“You are not the first who has suggested that, Charlie. My own mother has more than once spoken of it.”

“Stay a minute,” said Considine; “I shall take one of the eggs home to her.”

“Not fit to eat. Probably half hatched,” said Hans.

“No matter,” returned the other, dismounting.

“Well, I’ll ride to the ridge and see if the papa is within hail.”

Hans did but bare justice to the cock ostrich when he said he was a gallant bird. It is within the mark to say that he is not only a pattern husband, but a most exemplary father, for, besides guarding his wife and her nest most jealously by day, he relieves her at night, and sits himself on the nest, while his better-half takes food and relaxation.

While Hans rode forward a few hundred yards, the cock, which chanced to be out feeding on the plain, observed his wife running excitedly among the bushes, and at the same moment caught a glimpse of the Dutchman.

Seven-league boots could not have aided that ostrich! With mighty strides and outstretched wings the giant bird rushed in furious rage to defend its nest. Hans saw it, and, instantly putting spurs to his horse, also made for the nest, but the ostrich beat him.

“Look out, Charlie!” shouted Hans.

Charlie did look out, somewhat anxiously too, turning his head nervously from side to side, for while the thunder of hoofs and the warning cry of Hans assailed him on one side, a rushing and hissing sound was heard on the other. The suspense did not last long. A few seconds later, and the ostrich appeared, bearing down on him with railway speed. He raised his gun and fired, but in the haste of the moment missed. The cap of the second barrel snapped. He clubbed his gun, but, before he could raise it, the ferocious bird was on him. Towering high over his head, it must have been between eight and nine feet in height. One kick of its great two-toed foot sufficed. The ostrich kicks forward, as a man might when he wishes to burst in a door with his foot, and no prize-fighter can hit out with greater celerity, no horse can kick with greater force. If the blow had taken full effect it would probably have been fatal, but Considine leaped back. It reached him, however—on the chest,—and knocked him flat on the nest, where he lay stunned amid a wreck of eggs.

The vicious bird was about to follow up its victory by dancing on its prostrate foe, when Hans galloped up. The bird turned on him at once, with a hiss and a furious rush. The terrified horse reared and wheeled round with such force as almost to throw Hans, who dropped his gun in trying to keep his seat. Jumping into the air, and bringing its foot down with a resounding smack, the bird sent its two formidable nails deep into the steed’s flank, from which blood flowed copiously. The horse took the bit in its teeth, and ran.

Hans Marais was very strong, but fear was stronger. The horse fairly ran off, and the ostrich pursued. Being fleeter than the horse, it not only kept up with ease, but managed ever and anon to give it another kick on flank, sides, or limbs. Hans vainly tried to grasp his assailant by the neck. If he succeeded in this he knew that he could easily have choked it, for the ostrich’s weak point is its long slender neck—its strong point being its tremendous leg, the thigh of which, blue-black, and destitute of feathers, resembles a leg of mutton in shape and size.

At last Hans bethought him of his stirrup. Unbuckling it, he swung it by the leather round his head, and succeeded, after one or two attempts, in hitting his enemy on the head with the iron. The ostrich dropped at once and never rose again.

Returning to the nest with his vanquished foe strapped to his saddle, he found Considine sitting somewhat confused among the egg-débris, much of which consisted of flattened young ones, for the eggs were in an advanced state of incubation.

“Why, Charlie, are you going to try your hand at hatching?” cried Hans, laughing in spite of himself.

Considine smiled rather ruefully. “I believe my breast-bone is knocked in. Just help me to examine; but first catch my horse, like a good fellow.”

It was found on examination that no bones were broken, and that, beyond a bruise, Considine was none the worse of his adventure.

One egg was found to have survived the general destruction. This was taken to the farm and handed to Mrs Marais, and that amiable lady adopted and hatched it! We do not mean to assert that she sat upon it, but having discovered, from mysterious sounds inside, that the young ostrich contained in it was still alive, and, being a woman of an experimental tendency, she resolved to become a mother to it. She prepared a box, by lining it with a warm feather pillow, above which she spread several skin karosses or blankets, and into this she put the egg. Every morning and every evening she visited the nest, felt the egg to ascertain its temperature, and added or removed a blanket according to circumstances. How the good woman knew the proper temperature is a mystery which no one could explain, but certain it is that she succeeded, for in a few days the little one became so lively in its prison as to suggest the idea that it wanted out. Mrs Marais then listened attentively to the sounds, and, having come to a decision as to which end of the egg contained the head of the bird, she cracked the shell at that point and returned it to the nest.

Thus aided, the infant ostrich, whose head and feet lay in juxtaposition, began life most appropriately with its strongest point—put its best foot foremost; drove out the end of its prison with a kick, and looked astonished. One or two more kicks and it was out. Next time its foster-mother visited the nest she found the little one free,—but subdued, as if it knew it had been naughty,—and with that “well—what—next?” expression of countenance which is peculiar to very young birds in general.

When born, this little creature was about the size of a small barn-door hen, but it was exceeding weak as well as long in the legs, and its first efforts at walking were a mere burlesque.

The feeding of this foundling was in keeping with its antecedents. Mrs Marais was a thoroughgoing but incomprehensible woman. One would have thought that boiled sheep’s liver, chopped fine, and hens’ eggs boiled hard, were about the most violently opposed to probability in the way of food for an ostrich, old or young. Yet that is the food which she gave this baby. The manner of giving it, too, was in accordance with the gift.

Sitting down on a low stool, she placed the patient—so to speak—on its back, between her knees, and held it fast; then she rammed the liver and egg down its throat with her fingers as far as they would reach, after which she set it on its legs and left it for a few minutes to contemplation. Hitching it suddenly on its back again, she repeated the operation until it had had enough. In regard to quantity, she regulated herself by feeling its stomach. In the matter of drink she was more pronounced than a teetotaler, for she gave it none at all.

Thus she continued perseveringly to act until the young ostrich was old enough to go out in charge of a little Hottentot girl named Hreikie, who became a very sister to it, and whose life thence-forward was spent either in going to sleep under bushes, on the understanding that she was taking care of baby, or in laughing at the singular way in which her charge waltzed when in a facetious mood.

There is no doubt that this ostrich would have reached a healthy maturity if its career had not been cut short by a hyena.

Not until many years after this did “ostrich-farming” and feather-exporting become, as it still continues, one of the most important branches of commercial enterprise in the Cape Colony; but we cannot avoid the conclusion, that, as Watt gave the first impulse to the steam-engine when he sat and watched the boiling kettle, so Mrs Marais opened the door to a great colonial industry when she held that infant ostrich between her knees, and stuffed it with minced eggs and liver.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Bergenaars.

“So you like the study of French?” said Charlie Considine, as he sat one morning beside Bertha Marais in the porch of her father’s dwelling.

“Yes, very much,” answered the girl. She said no more, but she thought, “Especially when I am taught it by such a kind, painstaking teacher as you.”

“And you like to live in the wild karroo?” asked the youth.

“Of course I do,” was the reply, with a look of surprise.

“Of course. It was a stupid question, Bertha; I did not think at the moment that it is home to you, and that you have known no other since you were a little child. But to my mind it would be a dull sort of life to live here always.”

“Do you find it so dull?” asked Bertha, with a sad look.

“No, not in the least,” replied the youth, quickly. “How could I, living as I do with such pleasant people, like one of their own kith and kin, hunting with the sons and teaching the daughters—to say nothing of scolding them and playing chess, and singing and riding. Oh no! I’m anything but dull, but I was talking generally of life in the karroo. If I lived alone, for instance, like poor Horley, or with a disagreeable family like that of Jan Smit—by the way, that reminds me that we have heard news of the three runaways, Ruyter, Jemalee, and Booby.”

“Oh! I’m so glad,” cried Bertha, her fair face brightening up with pleasure, “for I am very fond of Ruyter. He was so kind to me that time he found me lying near Smit’s house, when my pony ran away and threw me, and I felt so miserable when I heard that his master was cruel and often beat him with a sjambok. Often and often since he ran away—and it must be nearly a year now—I have prayed God that he might come back, and that Jan Smit might become good to him—What have you heard?”

Considine’s face wore a troubled look. “I fear,” he said, “the news will distress you, for what I heard was that the three men, driven to desperation by the harsh treatment received from their master, have joined one of the fiercest of these gangs of robbers, called the Bergenaars—the gang led, I believe, by Dragoener. It was Lucas Van Dyk, the hunter, who told me, and he is said to be generally correct in his statements.”

Bertha’s nether lip quivered, and she hid her face in her hands for a few moments in silence.

“Oh! I’m so sorry—so sorry,” she said at length, looking up. “He was so gentle, so kind. I can’t imagine Ruyter becoming one of those dreadful Bergenaars, about whose ferocious cruelty we hear so much—his nature was so different. I can’t believe it.”

“I fear,” rejoined Considine gently, “that it is true. You know it is said that oppression will drive even a wise man mad, and a man will take to anything when he is mad.”

“It could not drive a Christian to such a life,” returned the girl sadly. “Oh! I wish he had become a Christian when Stephen Orpin spoke to him, but he wouldn’t.”

“When did Orpin speak to him, and what did he say?” asked Considine, whose own ideas as to Christianity were by no means fixed or clear.

“It was just after that time,” rejoined Bertha, “when Jan Smit had had him tied to a cart-wheel, and flogged so terribly that he could not walk for some days. Orpin happened to arrive at the time with his waggon—you know he has taken to going about as a trader,—and he spoke a great deal to Ruyter about his soul, and about Jesus coming to save men from sin, and enabling them to forgive their enemies; but when Ruyter heard about forgiving his enemies he wouldn’t listen any more. Pointing to his wounds, he said, ‘Do you think I can forgive Jan Smit?’”

“I don’t wonder,” said Considine; “it is too much to expect a black fellow smarting under the sjambok to forgive the man who applies it—especially when it is applied unjustly, and with savage cruelty.”

Bertha was not gifted with an argumentative spirit. She looked anxiously in the face of her companion, and murmured some broken sentences about the Lord’s Prayer and the Golden Rule, and wound up by saying hesitatingly, “How can we ask forgiveness if we do not forgive?”

“You are right, Bertha,” was Considine’s rejoinder, uttered gravely; “but, truly, a man must be more than a man to act on such principles. Think, now of the state of things at the present time with regard to the settlers. The ‘rust,’ as they call that strange disease which has totally ruined the first year’s crop of wheat, has thrown the most of them into difficulties, and in the midst of this almost overwhelming calamity down came the Kafirs on the Albany District, and the Bergenaars, of whom we have just been speaking, not, like men, to fight openly—that were endurable,—but like sly thieves in the dead of night, to carry off sheep and cattle from many of the farms—in some cases even killing the herdsmen. Now, what think you must be the feelings of the settlers towards these Kafirs and runaway robbers?—can they forgive?”

Bertha didn’t know. She thought their feelings must be very harsh. Diverging from the question, however, she returned to the first regret—namely, that her friend Ruyter had joined the Bergenaars.

“Hallo! Considine, hi! where are you?” came the sonorous voice of Conrad Marais in the distance, interrupting the conversation. Next moment the hearty countenance of the farmer followed his voice round the corner of the house.

“Come, get your gun, my boy!” he cried in some excitement. “These villains have been down last night and carried off two spans of my best oxen, besides killing and devouring several sheep.”

Considine started up at once.

“We shall be off in half an hour,” continued the farmer; “Hans is away gathering one or two neighbours, and the people are almost ready.”

“Do you accompany them?” asked Considine.

“Of course I do. Come along.”

The youth required no urging. In a few minutes he was armed and mounted, galloping in company with a score of horsemen—black, brown, and white—towards the cattle-kraals. Here was already assembled by Hans a troop of mounted men, among whom were Jan Smit and his three sons, David, Jacob, and Hendrik, also the hunter Van Dyk. After a brief consultation, in which Van Dyk took a prominent part, they rode off at a smart gallop.

We change the scene now to a large and dark cavern up among the wild heights of the Winterberg mountains.

It was evening, but the sun had still a considerable distance to descend before finding its bed on the western horizon. A faint gleam of day entered the cave, which was further illuminated by three fires, over which a band of savage-looking dark-skinned men were roasting chops and marrow-bones. Abdul Jemalee the Malay slave and Booby the Bushman were there, assisting at the feast. At the inner end of the cave, seated beside two men, was Ruyter the Hottentot. He was a good deal changed from the rough but careless and jolly fellow whom we first introduced to the reader. There was a stern severity on his countenance, coupled with a touch of sadness when in repose, but when called into action, or even when conversing, the softer feeling vanished, and nothing remained but the lines indicative of a stern settled purpose. Most of the robbers around him had like himself fled from harsh masters, and become hardened in a career of crime. The expression of almost every countenance was vindictive, sensual, coarse. Ruyter’s was not so. Unyielding sternness alone marked his features, which, we have elsewhere remarked, were unusually good for a Hottentot. Being a man of superior power he had become the leader of this robber-band. It was only one of many that existed at that time among the almost inaccessible heights of the mountain-ranges bordering on the colony. His companions recognised the difference between themselves and their captain, and did not love him for it, though they feared him. They also felt that he was irrevocably one of themselves, having imbrued his hands in white man’s blood more than once, and already made his name terrible on that part of the frontier.

“They should be here by this time,” said Ruyter, in Dutch, to one of the men at his side. “Why did you send them off before I returned?”

He said this with a look of annoyance. The man replied that he had acted according to the best of his judgment and had been particular in impressing the leader of the party that he was not to touch the flocks of old Marais, but to devote himself entirely to those of Jan Smit.

To this Ruyter observed with a growl that it was not likely they would attend to such orders if Marais’ herds chanced to be handy, but the robber to whom he spoke only replied with a sly smile, showing that he was of the same opinion.

Just then a man rushed into the cave announcing the fact that their comrades were returning with plenty cattle and sheep, but that they were pursued.

Instantly the chops and marrow-bones were flung aside, and the robbers, hastily arming, mounted their horses and descended to the rescue.

The band of which Ruyter had become leader had existed some time before he joined. It was a detachment from a larger band who acknowledged as their chief a desperado named Dragoener. This Bushman had been in the service of Diederik Muller, but, on being severely flogged by a hot-tempered kinsman of his master, had fled to the mountains, vowing vengeance against all white men. It is thus that one white scoundrel can sometimes not only turn a whole tribe of savages into bitter foes of the white men in general, but can bring discredit on his fellows in the eyes of Christian people at a distance, who have not the means of knowing the true state of the case. Be this as it may, however, Dragoener with his banditti soon took ample revenge on the colonists for the sjamboking he had received.

Not long previous to the period of which we write he had been reinforced by Ruyter, Jemalee, Booby, and several other runaway slaves, besides some “wild Bushmen,”—men who had never been in service, and were so called to distinguish them from men who had been caught, like our friend Booby, and “tamed.” A few deserters from the Cape Corps, who possessed fire-arms, had also joined him.

Thus reinforced, Dragoener and his lieutenant had become bolder than ever in their depredations. One of his bands had recently carried off a large number of cattle and horses from the Tarka boers, who had called out a commando and gone in pursuit. Driven into a forest ravine, and finding it impossible to retain possession of their booty, the robbers had cut the throats of all the animals, and, scattering into the jungle, made their escape. Another band had frequently annoyed the Scotsmen at Baviaans River.

When therefore the band under Ruyter heard of the approach of their comrades with booty, and of the pursuit by colonists, they went to the rescue, somewhat emboldened by recent successes. On meeting their comrades, who were driving the cattle and horses before them in frantic haste, they were told that the pursuers were in strong force, and numbered among them several of the boldest men and best shots on the frontier.

There was no time for holding a council of war. Ruyter at once divided his men into two bands. With the larger, well armed, and having two or three deserters with muskets, he crept into the woods to lay an ambush for the enemy. The other band was ordered to continue driving the cattle with utmost speed, and, in the event of being overtaken, to cut the animals’ throats and each man look out for himself.

If Ruyter’s men had been as bold and cool as himself they might have checked the pursuit, but when the hunter Van Dyk, who knew their ways, advanced in front of his comrades by a path known to himself, discovered their ambush and sent a bullet through the head of one of their number, they awaited no further orders but rose en masse, fled through the jungle, and made for the mountains.

Van Dyk, reloading in hot haste, followed swiftly, but he had not taken three steps when Charlie Considine was at his heels. He had dismounted and followed Van Dyk. The other pursuers made a détour on horseback to cut off the robbers as they passed over some open ground in advance. In attempting this they came on a spot where the ground was strewn with the dead or dying cattle. With a yell of rage they pushed on, but utterly failed, for the bandits had headed in another direction and gained the cliffs, where pursuit on horseback was impossible. Knowing that it would have been equally fruitless to continue the chase on foot, they returned to the point where Van Dyk and Considine had entered the jungle, fully expecting to find them there, as it would have been madness, they thought, for two unsupported men to follow up the flying band. To their surprise they found no one there.

“We must follow their spoor, boys,” said Conrad Marais, with an anxious look; “they cannot be far off, but we must not leave them unsupported in the jungle with such a lot of black villains flying about.”

Action was at once taken. The most experienced men dismounted and traced the spoor, with the unerring certainty of bloodhounds. But they shouted and searched in vain till night compelled them to desist.

Meanwhile Van Dyk and Considine had been captured by the Bergenaars.

When Charlie overtook the hunter, as already described, his ardent spirit and strong supple limbs enabled him to outrun his more massive though not less enthusiastic companion. A short run soon convinced the hunter that there was no chance of a clothed white man overtaking a more than half-naked native in a thorny jungle. Indeed, he was already well convinced by former experience of this fact, and had intended to engage in pursuit for only a short time, in order if possible to obtain a flying shot at one or two of the robbers, but his young comrade’s resolute continuance of the chase forced him to hold on longer than he desired.

“Stop! stop, young fellow,” he shouted with stentorian voice; “stop, I say! You’ll only waste your breath for no good,” he shouted.

But Considine heard him not. He had caught sight of one of the bandits who seemed to be losing strength, and, being himself sound in wind and limb, he recklessly determined to push on.

“I’ll leave you to your fate,” roared Van Dyk, “if you don’t stop.”

He might as well have roared to a mad buffalo. Considine heeded or heard not.

“It won’t do,” growled the hunter in a stern soliloquy as he stopped a moment to tighten his belt. “Well, well, I little thought, Van Dyk, that you’d be brought to such a miserable fix as this, in such a stupid way too. But he mustn’t be left to the Bushmen’s tender mercies.”

The hunter’s swart countenance grew darker as he spoke, for he well knew the extremity of danger into which the reckless youth was compelling him to run, but he did not hesitate. Instead, however, of following in the steps of one who was fleeter of foot than himself, he made a détour to the right. In an hour he reached a cliff under which, he knew, from the form of the valley up which the pursuit had been conducted, his young companion must needs pass. The route he had taken was a short cut. He had headed Considine and saw him, a few minutes later, in the gorge below, in full pursuit of the robber.

“H’m!” grunted Van Dyk, as he sat down on a rock and examined the priming of his great elephant-gun, “I thought as much! The black scoundrel is just playing with him—decoying the young idiot on till he gets him surrounded by his comrades; but I’ll spoil his game, though it’s like to be the last shot I’ll ever fire.”

A low quiet sigh escaped from the hunter as he watched the two men and awaited the proper moment.

He was evidently right in his conjecture, for, as they drew near the cliff, the black man looked over his shoulder once or twice and slackened his pace. The next moment he gave a shout which proved to be a signal, for two of the robbers sprang out from the bushes and seized Considine, almost before he had seen them. Vigorously he struggled, and would perhaps have thrown off both, had not the man he had been chasing turned and run to aid the others.

Quickly but steadily Van Dyk raised his gun and covered this man. Next moment the muzzle was struck aside, the ball flew harmlessly into the jungle, and the hunter was pinioned, overthrown, and rendered helpless by four of the robbers, who had been watching his motions all the time.

Van Dyk was not taken much by surprise. He knew that such danger was probable, and had done his best to avoid it. With that self-command which a life of constant danger in the woods had taught him, he bowed to the inevitable, and quietly submitted to be bound and led away.

Mean while Ruyter, for it was he who had been chased, came up in time to assist in securing his victim.

“What, Ruyter, is it you?” exclaimed Considine in amazement.

When the robber-chief became aware who he had captured, an expression of deep annoyance or regret crossed his face, but it quickly passed into one of stern almost sulky determination, as he ordered the two men, in Dutch, to make the bonds secure. He deigned no reply to the prisoner’s question. He did not even appear to recognise him, but strode on in front, while the two robbers drove the youth up into the rocky fastnesses of the mountains.

That night our hero found himself seated in the deepest recesses of a cavern by the side of his comrade Van Dyk. The arms of both were firmly bound behind their backs, but their legs were free, their captors knowing well that a scramble among such giddy and rugged heights without the use of the hands was impossible. In the centre of the cavern sat the robbers round a small fire on which some of them were cooking a few scraps of meat.

“A pretty mess you’ve led yourself and me into, young fellow!” said the hunter sternly.

“Indeed I have,” replied Considine, with a very penitent air, “and I would give or do anything to undo the mischief.”

“Ja—always the same with wild-caps like you,” returned the other,—“ready to give anything when you’ve got nothing, and to do anything when you’re helpless. How much easier it would have been to have given a little heed and shown a little common sense when you had the chance!”

There was a touch of bitterness, almost fierceness, in the hunter’s tone, which, knowing the man’s kindly nature, Considine could not quite understand.

“Do you know what them reptiles there are saying?” continued Van Dyk after a brief pause.

“No, their language is mere gibberish to me.”

“They’re discussin’ the best method of puttin’ us out of existence,” said the hunter, with a grim smile. “Some of ’em want to cut our throats at once and have done with it; some would like to torture us first; others are in favour of hangin’, but all agree that we must be killed to prevent our tellin’ the whereabouts of their hiding-place up here,—all except one, the one you gave chase to this afternoon. He advises ’em to let us go, but he don’t seem very earnest about it.”

“I think I know the reason of his favouring us,” said Considine, with a look of hope.

“Indeed?”

“Yes; he once journeyed with me from Capetown to the karroo, and probably he feels a touch of regard for his old travelling companion.”

“H’m! I wouldn’t give much for his regard,” growled Van Dyk. “The reed is slender, but it’s the only one we have to lean on now. However, we’ve got a reprieve, for I heard ’em say just now that they’ll delay executing us till to-morrow, after reaching one of their other and safer retreats in the mountains.”

The prisoners were put into a smaller cave, close to the large one, that night. Their bonds were made more secure, and, as an additional precaution, their legs were tied. Two men were also appointed to guard the entrance of their prison.

About midnight the camp was perfectly still, and the only sounds that broke the silence were the tinkling of a neighbouring rill and the footfall of the sentinels. Van Dyk and Considine were lying uneasily on the bare ground, and thinking of the tragic fate that awaited them on the morrow, when they observed the dim figure of a man approaching from the innermost end of the cavern with a drawn knife in his right hand. Both started up and leant on their elbows; more than this they could not do. They felt some alarm, it is true, but both came to the same conclusion—that it is foolish to cry out before you are hurt.

The figure bent over Van Dyk, and whispered in his ear. Next moment the hunter stood on his feet with his limbs free.

“You were right, young sir,” he said to Considine as he stooped over him and cut his bonds; “there is a touch of humanity in the rascally Hottentot after all. Come; he bids us follow him. Knows a secret passage out o’ the cave, no doubt.”

The black-bearded huntsman turned as he spoke, and followed the dim figure, which melted into the depths of the cavern as if it had been a spirit. A few minutes’ gliding through darkness tangible, and they found themselves in the open air among thick bushes. Though the night was very dark there was sufficient light to enable Considine to see the glittering of white teeth close to his face, as a voice whispered in broken English—“You’s better tink twice when you try for to chases Tottie next time! Go; Van Dyk, him’s old hand in de bush, will guide you safe.”

Before morning Considine was back in Conrad Marais’ parlour, relating his adventures among the Bergenaars with a half-belief that the whole affair was nothing more than a romantic dream.

Chapter Fifteen.

Treats of the Zuurveld again, and one or two Surprising Incidents.

Seated one evening at the door of their dug-out hut or cavern on the banks of the river, the three brothers Skyd discussed the affairs of the colony and smoked their pipes.

“Never knew such a country,” said John Skyd, “never!”

“Abominable!” observed James.

“Detestable!” remarked Robert.

“Why don’t you Skyd-addle then?” cried Frank Dobson. “If I thought it as bad as you do, I’d leave it at once. But you are unjust.”

“Unjust!” echoed John Skyd; “that were impossible. What could be worse? Here have we been for three years, digging and ploughing, raking and hoeing, carting and milking, churning and—and—and what the better are we now? Barely able to keep body and soul together, with the rust ruining our wheat, and an occasional Kafir raid depriving us of our cattle, while we live in a hole on the river’s bank like rabbits; with this disadvantage over these facetious creatures, that we have more numerous wants and fewer supplies.”

“That’s so,” said Bob; “if we could only content ourselves with a few bulbous roots and grass all would be well, but, Frank, we sometimes want a little tea and sugar; occasionally we run short of tobacco; now and then we long for literature; coffee sometimes recurs to memory; at rare intervals, especially when domestic affairs go wrong, the thought of woman, as of a long-forgotten being of angelic mould, will come over us. Ah! Frank, it is all very well for you to smile, you who have been away enjoying yourself for months past hunting elephants and other small game in the interior, but you have no notion how severely our failures are telling on our spirits. Why, Jim there tried to make a joke the other day, and it was so bad that Jack immediately went to bed with a sick-headache.”

“True,” said Jack solemnly, “quite true, and I couldn’t cure that headache for a whole day, though I took a good deal of Cape-smoke before it came on, as well as afterwards.”

“But, my dear chums,” remonstrated Dobson, “is it not—”

“Now don’t ask, ‘Is it not your own fault?’ with that wiseacre look of yours,” said John Skyd, testily tapping the bowl of his pipe on a stone preparatory to refilling it. “We are quite aware that we are not faultless; that we once or twice have planted things upside down, or a yard too deep, besides other little eccentricities of ignorance; but such errors are things of the past, and though we now drive our drills as straight as once, heigho! we ruled our account-books, things don’t and won’t improve.”

“If you had not interrupted me, Jack, you might have spared much breath and feeling. I was about to say, Is it not a fact that many of the other settlers are beginning to overcome their difficulties though you are not? True, it has now been found that the wheat crops, on which we at first expected almost entirely to depend, have for three seasons proved an entire failure, and sheep do not thrive on our sour grass pasturage, though they seem to have done admirably with the Scotch at Baviaans River; but have not many of those around us been successful in raising rye, barley, oats, and Indian corn? have they not many herds of healthy cattle? are not pumpkins and potatoes thriving pretty well, and gardens beginning to flourish? Our roasted barley makes very fair coffee, and honey is not a bad substitute for sugar.”

“You have made a successful bag this trip, I see, by your taking such a healthy view of our circumstances,” said Bob.

“Yes, I’ve done very well,” returned Dobson; “and I find the hunter’s life so congenial, and withal so profitable, that I’m really thinking of adopting it as a profession. And that brings me to the object of my visit here to-night. The fact is, my dear fellows, that men of your genius are not fit for farmers. It takes quiet-going men of sense to cultivate the soil. If you three were to live and dig to the age of Methuselah you’d never make a living out of it.”

“That’s plain speaking,” said John, with a nod, “and I agree with you entirely.”

“I mean to speak plainly,” rejoined Dobson, “and now what I propose is, that you should give it up and join me in the ivory business. It will pay, I assure you.”

Here their friend entered into a minute and elaborate account of his recent hunting expedition, and imparted to John Skyd some of his own enthusiasm, but James and Robert shook their heads. Leaving them to think over his proposal, their friend went to make a call on the Brooks of Mount Hope.

“Drat that boy! he’s escaped again, and after mischief I’ll be bound!” was the first sound that saluted him as he walked towards the house. It was Mrs Scholtz’s voice, on the other side of the hedge with which the garden was surrounded. The remark was immediately followed by a piercing shriek from the nurse, who repeated it again and again. Dobson could see her through an opening in the branches, standing helpless, with her hands clasped and eyeballs glaring. Thoroughly alarmed, he dashed towards the gate. At the same moment the voice of a child was heard:—

“Oh, look!—look ’ere, nuss, ain’t I cotched a pritty ting—such a pritty ting!”

Springing through the gate, Dobson beheld Master Junkie, staggering up the track like a drunken man, with one hand clasped tight round the throat of a snake whose body and tail were twining round the chubby arm of its captor in a vain effort at freedom, while its forked tongue darted out viciously. It was at once recognised as one of the most deadly snakes in the country.

“Ain’t it a booty?” cried Junkie, confronting Dobson, and holding up his prize like the infant Hercules, whom he very much resembled in all respects.

Dobson, seizing the child’s hand in his own left, compressed it still tighter, drew his hunting-knife, and sliced off the reptile’s head, just as Edwin Brook with his wife and daughter, attracted by the nurse’s outcry, rushed from the cottage to the rescue. Scholtz and George Dally at the same time ran out respectively from stable and kitchen.

Mrs Scholtz had gone into a hysterical fit of persistent shrieking and laughter, which she maintained until she saw that her darling was saved; then, finishing off with a prolonged wail, she fell flat on the grass in a dead faint.

Junkie at the same moment, as it were, took up the cry. To be thus robbed of his new-found pet would have tried a better temper than his. Without a moment’s hesitation he rushed at Frank Dobson and commenced violently to kick his shins, while he soundly belaboured his knees with the still wriggling tail of the poor snake.

“What a blessing!” exclaimed Mrs Brook, grasping Dobson gratefully by the hand.

“What a mercy!” murmured Gertie, catching up the infant Hercules and taking him off to the cottage.

“What a rumpus!” growled Dally, taking himself off to the kitchen.

Scholtz gave no immediate expression to his feelings, but, lifting his better half from the grass, he tucked her under one of his great arms, and, with the muttered commentary, “zhe shrieckz like von mad zow,” carried her off to his own apartment, where he deluged her with cold water and abuse till she recovered.

“Your arrival has created quite a sensation, Dobson,” said Edwin Brook, with a smile, as they walked up to the house.

“Say, rather, it was opportune,” said Mrs Brook; “but for your prompt way of using the knife our darling might have been bitten. Oh! I do dread these snakes, they go about in such a sneaking way, and are so very deadly. I often wonder that accidents are not more frequent, considering the numbers of them that are about.”

“So do I, Mrs Brook,” returned Dobson; “but I suppose it is owing to the fact that snakes are always most anxious to keep out of man’s way, and few men are as bold as your Junkie. I never heard of one being collared before, though a friend of mine whom I met on my last visit to the karroo used sometimes to catch hold of a snake by the tail, whirl it round his head, and dash its brains out against a tree.”

“You’ll stay with us to-day, Dobson!” said Brook.

Frank, involuntarily casting a glance at the pretty face of Gertie—who had by that time attained to the grace of early womanhood,—accepted the invitation, and that day at dinner entertained the family with graphic accounts of his experiences among the wild beasts of the Great Fish River jungles, and dilated on his prospects of making a fortune by trading in ivory. “If that foolish law,” he said, “had not been made by our Governor, prohibiting traffic with the Kafirs, I could get waggon-loads of elephants’ tusks from them for an old song. As it is, I must knock over the elephants for myself—at least until the laws in question are rescinded.”

“The Governor seems to have a special aptitude,” said Brook, with a clouded brow, “not only for framing foolish laws, but for abrogating good ones.”

The Governor referred to was Lord Charles Somerset, who did more to retard the progress of the new settlements on the frontiers of Kafirland than any who have succeeded him. Having complicated the relations of the colonists and Kafirs, and confused as well as disgusted, not to say astonished, the natives during his first term of office, he went to England on leave of absence, leaving Sir Rufane Shaw Donkin to act as Governor in his place.

Lord Charles seems to have been a resentful as well as an incapable man, for immediately after his return to the colony in 1821 he overturned the policy of the acting Governor, simply because he and Sir Rufane were at personal enmity. The colony at that time, and the Home Government afterwards, approved of the wise measures of the latter. He had arranged the military forces on the frontier so as to afford the new settlers the greatest possible amount of protection; the Cape corps men had been partly placed at their disposal, both to assist and defend; those who found their allotted farms too small, had them increased to the extent of the farms of their Dutch neighbours; acceptable public officers were appointed; provisions were supplied on credit, and everything, in short, had been done to cheer and encourage the settlers during the period of gloom which followed their first great calamity, the failure of the wheat-crops. All this was upset on the return of Lord Charles Somerset. With a degree of tyranny and want of judgment worthy of a mere “Jack-in-office,” he immediately removed from the magistracy of the British Settlement of Albany a favourite and able man, to make room for one of his own protégés and supporters. He withdrew troops from one of the most important frontier villages (in a strategic point of view), and stopped the formation of a road to it, thus compelling the settlers to desert it and leave their standing crops to the surprised but pleased Kafirs, who were perplexed as well as emboldened by the vacillating policy of white Governors! In addition to this he gave permission to the savage chief Macomo to occupy the land so vacated, thus paving the way for future wars. Instead of encouraging traffic with the Kafirs he rendered it illegal. He issued a proclamation forbidding all public meetings for political purposes; he thwarted the philanthropic and literary Pringle and Fairbairn in their attempts to establish a newspaper, and drove the former from the colony. But why proceed? We cite these facts merely to account for the cloud on Edwin Brook’s brow, and for the fact that at this time many of the British settlers, who would gallantly have faced the “rust” and other troubles and difficulties sent to them by Providence, could not bear the oppression which “driveth a wise man mad,” but, throwing up all their hopes and privileges as settlers, scattered themselves far and wide over the colony. This, as it happened, was much to the advantage of themselves and the old Dutch settlers with whom they mingled. Those of them who remained behind, however, continued to fight the battle against oppression and circumstances most manfully.

Long and patiently did Mrs Brook listen to her visitor and husband while they indignantly discussed these subjects.

“But why,” said she, at last giving vent to her feelings, “why does the Government at home not remove such an incapable and wicked Governor and give us a better?”

“Because, my dear,” replied Edwin, with a smile, “the incapable and wicked Governor happens to possess almost despotic power, and can gain the ear of men in high places at home, so that they are deceived by him, while all who venture to approach them, except through this Governor, are regarded with suspicion, being described as malcontents. And yet,” continued Brook, growing warm at the thought of his wrongs, “we do not complain of those at home, or of the natural disadvantages of the country to which we have been sent. We settlers are actuated by one undivided feeling of respect and gratitude to the British Government, which future reverses will never efface; but it is peculiarly hard to have been sent to this remote and inaccessible corner of the globe, and to be left to the control of one individual, who misrepresents us and debars us the right to express our collective sentiments. Why, we might as well be living under the dominion of the Turk. But a word in your ear, Frank Dobson; meetings have been held, private ones, while you were away in the bush, and our case has been properly represented at last, and a Royal Commission of Inquiry is to be sent out to put things right. So there’s hope for us yet! The clouds which have been so long lowering, are, I think, beginning to clear away.”

While the sanguine settler was thus referring to the clouds of adversity which had for more than two years hovered over the young settlement, the natural clouds were accumulating overhead in an unusually threatening manner. Long periods of drought are frequently followed in South Africa by terrible thunderstorms. One of them seemed to be brewing just then.

“I fear Hans and Considine will get wet jackets before they arrive,” said Frank Dobson, rising and going to the window.

“Hans and Considine!” exclaimed Gertie, with a flush; “are they here?”

“Ay, they came with me as far as Grahamstown on business of some sort.—By the way, what a big place that is becoming, quite a town! When we saw it first, you remember, it was a mere hamlet, the headquarters of the troops.”

“It will be a city some day,” prophesied Brook as he put on an old overcoat that had hitherto survived the ravages of time; “you see all our comrades who have discovered that farming is not their vocation are hiving off into it, and many of them, being first-rate mechanics, they have taken to their trades, while those with mercantile tendencies have opened stores. You shall see that things will shake into their proper places, and right themselves in time, and this will become a flourishing colony, for the most of us are young and full of British pluck, while the climate, despite a few trifling disadvantages, is really splendid.”

Edwin Brook spoke heartily, as he clapped his hat firmly on, preparatory to going out to make things secure against the expected storm.

At the same moment the South African storm-fiend (an unusually large though not frequently obtrusive one) laughed in a voice of thunder and nearly dashed in the windows with a tempest of wind and rain! As if his voice had called up spirits from the “vasty deep,” two horsemen suddenly appeared approaching at full speed. One of them was of unusual size.

“Here they come just in time!” exclaimed Gertie, clapping her hands in excitement.

The girl spoke and acted there. Then she blushed for the woman interfered!

Hans Marais reached the quince hedge first and sprang off his steed. Charlie Considine came second. With a wild whoop he caused his steed to leap the garden gate and dismounted at the cottage door.

Then there was a hearty welcoming and inquiring, and shaking of bands, while the travellers were congratulated on having just escaped the storm.

While this was going on at Mount Hope, the Skyds were actively engaged in gathering in their rattle and otherwise making their place secure. They had more than once been warned that their position was one of danger, but being young, athletic, and rollicking, they had not cared hitherto to remove their humble dwelling. It was time enough to do that, they said, when “lovely woman” should come on the scene and render improvement in domicile necessary. Bob Skyd had more than once attempted to induce a “lovely woman” to invade the land and enlighten the cave, but somehow without success!

“We shall have it stiff,” said John, as the three brothers approached their burrow.

“And heavy,” added Bob.

James made no remark, but opened the door. It was growing dark at the time and inside their cavern only a dim light prevailed.

“Why—what’s—hallo! I say—”

Jim leaped back with a look of alarm. The brothers gazed in and saw, in the region of their bed (which held three easily), a pair of glaring eyeballs.

The brothers, although not superstitious, were by no means free from human weakness. At the same time they were gifted with a large share of animal courage. With beating heart John struck a light, and held up a flaming brimstone match. This caused the eyes to glare with fearful intensity, and revealed a distinct pair of horns. At that moment the match went out. With anxious trepidation another light was struck, and then it was discovered that a recently purchased goat had, under a wrong impression, taken possession of the family bed.

Laughing at this, they lit a tallow candle, which was stuck into that most convenient of candlesticks—an empty bottle.

The brothers, although not proficients, were mechanical in their way. One had set up the household bed; another had constructed a table, which had broken down only six times since their arrival; and the third had contrived a sofa. This last was Jim’s work. It was a masterpiece in its way, of simplicity, and consisted of two rough planks laid on two mounds of earth, the whole being covered with a piece of chintz which fell in a curtain to the floor. This curtain, like love, covered a multitude of improprieties, in the shape of old boots, dirty linen, miscellaneous articles, and a sea-chest.

Sitting down on the sofa, John Skyd laughed long and heartily at the scene with the goat. His laugh suddenly ceased, and was replaced by an exclamation and a look of anxious surprise. “Something” had moved under the sofa! Snakes occurred to their minds at once, and the deadly character of South African snakes was well known.

“Look out, boys,” cried John, leaping on the sofa, and seizing a sword which hung on a peg just above it.—“Fetch the light.”

Bob quickly obeyed and revealed the tail of a large cobra disappearing among the improprieties. Jim ran to a rude cupboard where pistols and ammunition were kept, and began to load with small shot.

“This way I hold it closer to the wall,” said John, in an earnest voice; “I see one of his coils at the back of the sofa. Now then, steady—there!”

He made a deadly thrust as he spoke and pinned the snake to the ground, but evidently by the wrong coil, for in a moment its angry head was seen twining up towards the handle of the sword.

“Quick, Jim—the pistol!”

Jim was ready and Bob raised the curtain of the sofa, while John stood in readiness to let go the sword and bolt if the reptile should prove to be capable of reaching his hand.

“Fire, Jim, fire! look sharp!” cried John Skyd.

Jim took aim and fired. The candle was put out by the concussion.

In the dark John could risk the danger no longer. He let go the sword and sprang with a shout upon the bed. Bob and Jim made for the same place of refuge, and, tumbling over each other, broke the pint bottle and the candle. Securing a fragment of the latter they proceeded once more to strike a light, with quaking hearts, while a horrible hissing and lashing was heard under the sofa. At last light was again thrown on the scene, and when the curtain was cautiously raised the cobra was seen to be writhing in its death-agonies—riddled with shot, and still pinned with the sword.

This scene closed most appropriately with a flash of lightning and a tremendous clap of thunder,—followed, immediately, by cataracts of rain.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Great Floods of 1823.

All that night and all next day rain came down on the land in continuous floods. The settlers had previously been visited with occasional storms, which had roused some alarm among the timid and done a little damage, but nothing like this had yet befallen them. The water appeared to descend in sheets, and not only did the great rivers wax alarmingly, but every rill and watercourse became a brawling river.

The Skyds, and one or two others who, like themselves, had built too near the edge of streams, were the first to suffer.

“This won’t do,” said John Skyd, on the evening of the second day, as he and his brothers sat in front of their cavern gazing at the turbid river, which, thick and yellow as pea-soup, was hurrying trees, bushes, and wrack in formidable masses to the sea. “We must shift our abode. Come along.”

Without a word more the brothers entered their cave, and began to carry out their goods and chattels. They were strong and active, but they had miscalculated the rapidity of the flood. Fortunately most of their valuables were removed to higher ground in time, but before all was got out a sudden increase in the rushing river sent a huge wave curling round the entire piece of ground on which their farm lay. It came on with devastating force, bearing produce, fences, fruit-trees, piggeries, and every movable thing on its foaming crest. The brothers dropped their loads and ran. Next moment the cavern was hollowed out to twice its former size, and the sofa, the rude cupboard, the sea-chest, and family bed were seen, with all the miscellaneous improprieties, careering madly down the yellow flood.

In their trousers and shirt-sleeves—for they had thrown off their coats, as all active men do in an emergency—the brothers watched the demolition of their possessions and hopes in solemn silence.

“I think,” said John at length, with a sigh, “I’ve made up my mind to join Frank Dobson now.”

Bob and Jim smiled grimly, but said never a word.

Meanwhile the settlers of Mount Hope farm were not idle. Although not fully alive to the danger of the storm, they saw enough to induce a course of rapid action. Goods and cattle were removed from low-lying buildings to higher ground, but the dwelling-house, being on the highest point in the neighbourhood—with the exception of the hills themselves—was deemed safe.

In these arrangements the family were ably assisted by the unexpected accession of their friends. Hans, Considine, and Dobson taxed their activity and strength to the utmost, so that things were soon put in a state of security. Dobson did, indeed, think once or twice of his old chums on the river, but a feeling of gallantry prevented his deserting the ladies in the midst of danger, and besides, he argued, the Skyds are well able to look after themselves.

Just as this thought passed through his mind the chums in question appeared upon the scene, announcing the fact that their entire farm had been swept away, and that the water was still rising.

“Well, it can’t rise much higher now,” said Edwin Brook, after condoling with his young friends on their misfortunes, “and the moment it begins to abate we shall go down to save all we can of your property. You know, my poor fellows, that I shall be only too glad to help you to the utmost of my power in such a sad extremity as this.”

The brothers thanked their neighbour, and meanwhile aided the others in removing the farm-produce and implements to higher ground.

Night at length settled down on the scene, and the wearied party returned to the cottage for food and rest.

“Do you think, Mr Marais,” said Gertie, looking up timidly at the handsome young Dutchman, “that the worst of it is over?”

Hans, who felt somewhat surprised and chilled by the “Mister,” replied that he hoped it was.

But Hans was wrong. Late that night, after they had all lain down to rest, Edwin Brook, feeling sleepless and uneasy, rose to look out at the window. All was comparatively still, and very dark. There was something grey on the ground, he thought, but judged it to be mist. The noise of the storm, with the exception of rushing streams, had gone down, and though it still rained there was nothing very unusual to cause alarm. He lay down again and tried to sleep, but in vain. Then he thought he heard the sound of the river louder than before. At the same time there was a noise that resembled the lapping of water round the frame of the house.

Jumping up, he ran to his door, opened it, discovered that the supposed mist was water, and that his dwelling was an island in a great sea.

To shout and rouse the household was the work of an instant. His guests were men of promptitude. They had merely thrown themselves down in their clothes, and appeared in an instant. Mrs Brook and Gertie were also ready, but Mrs Scholtz, being fond of comfort, had partially undressed, and was distracted between a wild effort to fasten certain garments, and restrain Junkie, who, startled by the shout, was roaring lustily.

“Not a moment to lose!” said Brook, running hastily into the room, where all were now assembled. “Everything is lost. We must think only of life. Lend a helping hand to the women, friends—mind the boy.—Come, wife.”

Brook was sharp, cool, and decisive in his manner. Seizing his wife round the waist, he hurried her out into the dark night, stepping, as he did so, above the ankles in rising water.

Dobson, Considine, and the three brothers turned with a mutual impulse towards Gertie, but Hans Marais had already taken possession of her, and, almost carrying her in his powerful arms, followed her father.

“Come, my howlin’ toolip,” said George Dally, “you’re my special and precious charge. Shut up, will you!”

He seized the child and bore him away with such violence that the howling was abruptly checked; while Scholtz, quietly gathering his still half-clad spouse under an arm, followed with heavy stride.

The others, each seizing the object that in his eyes appeared to be most valuable—such as a desk or workbox,—sprang after the household and left the house to its fate. They first made for the cattle-kraals, but these were already flooded and the cattle gone. Then they tried a barn which stood a little higher, but it was evidently no place of refuge, for the stream just there was strong, and broke against it with violence.

“To the hills,” shouted Hans, lifting Gertie off the ground altogether, as if she had been a little child.

There was no time for ceremony. Edwin Brook lifted his wife in the same manner, for the water was deepening at every step, and the current strengthening. The darkness, which had appeared dense at first, seemed to lighten as they became accustomed to it, and soon a terrible state of things became apparent. Turbid water was surging among the trees and bushes everywhere, and rushing like a mill-race in hollows. One such hollow had to be crossed before the safety of the hills could be gained. The water reached Edwin’s waist as he waded through. To prevent accident, John Skyd and Considine waded alongside and supported him. James Skyd performed the same office for Hans, and Bob waded just below Scholtz and his burden—which latter, in a paroxysm of alarm, still tried frantically to complete her toilet.

The hills were reached at last, and the whole party was safe—as far, at least, as the flood was concerned—but a terrible prospect lay before them. The farm of Mount Hope was by that time a sea of tumultuous water, which seemed in the darkness of the night to be sweeping away and tearing up trees, bushes, and houses. Behind and around them were the hills, whose every crevice and hollow was converted into a wild watercourse. Above was the black sky, pouring down torrents of rain incessantly, so that the very ground seemed to be turning into mud, and slipping away from beneath their feet. Fortunately there was no wind.

“To spend the night here will be death to the women and child,” said Edwin Brook, as they gathered under a thick bush which formed only a partial shelter; “yet I see no way of escape. Soaked as they are, a cavern, even if we can find one, will not be of much service, for our matches are hopelessly wet.”

“We must try to reach Widow Merton’s farm,” said John Skyd. “It is only three miles off and stands on highish ground.”

“It’s a bad enough road by daylight in fine weather,” said George Dally, on whose broad shoulder Junkie had fallen sound asleep, quite regardless of damp or danger, “but in a dark night, with a universal flood, it seems to me that it would be too much for the ladies. I know a cave, now, up on the hill-side, not far off, which is deep, an’ like to be dryish—”

“Never do,” interrupted Hans Marais, to whose arm Gertie clung with a feeling that it was her only hope; “they’d die of cold before morning. We must keep moving.”

“Yes, let us try to reach the widow’s farm,” said poor Mrs Brook anxiously, “I feel stronger, I think; I can walk now.”

“Zee vidow is our only chanze.—Hold up, mein vrow,” said Scholtz, taking a firmer grasp of his wife, who, having leisure to think and look about her now, felt her heart begin to fail. “I know zee road vell,” continued Scholtz. “It is bad, but I have zeen vurse. Ve must carry zee vimen. Zey could not valk.”

As the women made no objection, those who had carried them from the house again raised them in their arms—Mrs Scholtz insisting, however, on being treated a little less like a sack of old clothes—and the march along the hill-side was begun.

George Dally, knowing the way best, was set in advance to take the responsibility of guide as well as the risk of being swept away while fording the torrents. The brothers Skyd, being free from precious burdens, marched next, to be ready to support the guide in case of accident, and to watch as well as guard the passage of dangerous places by those in rear. Then followed in succession Mr Brook with his wife, Charlie Considine, Hans with Gertie, and Scholtz with his vrow, the procession closing with Frank Dobson and Junkie, the latter having been transferred to Frank when Dally took the lead.

It was a slow as well as dangerous march on that dreary night, because every step had to be taken with care, and the rivulets, white though they were with foam, could scarcely be seen in the thick darkness. Many a fall did they get, too, and many a bruise, though fortunately no bones were broken. Once George Dally, miscalculating the depth of a savage little stream, stepped boldly in and was swept away like a flash of light. Jack Skyd made a grasp at him, lost his balance and followed. For a moment the others stopped in consternation, but they were instantly relieved by hearing a laugh from George a few yards down the stream as he assisted Skyd to land. At another time Scholtz was not careful enough to follow exactly in the footsteps of Hans, and, while crossing a torrent, he put his foot in a deep hole and went down to the armpits, thereby immersing his vrow up to her neck. A wild shriek from the lady was followed by “Zounds! hold me op!” from the man.

Hans turned short round, stretched out his long right arm—the left being quite sufficient to support Gertie,—and, seizing the German’s shaggy hair with a mighty grip, held on till one of the Skyds returned to the rescue.

It was also a melancholy march on that dismal night, for poor Edwin Brook was well aware, and fully alive to the fact, that he was a ruined man. His labour for the previous three years was totally lost, and his property swept entirely away. Only life was spared,—but for that he felt so thankful as to feel his losses slightly at the time. The brothers Skyd were also painfully alive to the fact that they were ruined, and as they staggered and stumbled along, a sinking of heart unusual to their gay and cheerful natures seemed to have the effect of sinking their steps deeper in the soft mire through which they waded.

Only two of the party were in any degree cheerful. Gertie, although overwhelmed by the sudden calamity, which she had yet very imperfectly realised, felt a degree of comfort—a sort of under-current of peace—at being borne so safely along in such powerful arms; and Hans Marais, huge and deep-chested though he was, felt a strange and mysterious sensation that his heart had grown too large for his body that night. It perplexed him much at the time, and seemed quite unaccountable!

The storm had revelled furiously round the widow Merton’s wattle-and-dab cottage, and the water had risen to within a few feet of its foundations, but the effect on her mind was as nothing compared with that produced by the sudden storming of her stronghold by the Mount Hope family in the dead of night, or rather in the small hours of morning. The widow was hospitable. She and her sons at once set about making the unfortunates as comfortable as the extent of their habitation and the state of their larder would admit.

But the widow Merton was not the only one of the Albany settlers who had to offer hospitality during the continuance of that terrible catastrophe of 1823, and Edwin Brook’s was not the only family that was forced to accept it.

All over the land the devastating flood passed like the besom of destruction. Hundreds of those who had struggled manfully against the blight of the wheat crops, and Kafir thefts, and bandit raids, and oppression on the part of those who ought to have afforded aid and protection, were sunk to the zero of misfortune and despair by this overwhelming calamity, for in many cases the ruin was total and apparently irremediable. Everywhere standing crops, implements of husbandry, and even dwellings, were swept away, and whole families found themselves suddenly in a state of utter destitution. The evil was too wide-spread to admit of the few who were fortunate enough to escape rendering effectual assistance to the many sufferers, for it was obvious that hundreds of pounds would not be sufficient to succour the infant colony.

In this extremity God’s opportunity was found. The hearts of men and women far away, at Capetown, in India, and in England, were touched by the story of distress; generosity was awakened and purses were opened. Men such as HE Rutherfoord of Capetown, the Reverend Doctor Philip, the Reverend W Shaw, and others like-minded, entered heartily into the work of charity, and eventually some ten thousand pounds were distributed among those who had suffered. To many this was as life from the dead. Some who would never have recovered the blow took heart again, braced their energies anew, and ere long the wattle-and-dab cottages were rebuilt, the gardens replanted, and the lands cultivated as before.

The existence of the settlement was saved, but its prosperity was not yet secured. The battle had gone sorely against the valiant band of immigrants, and very nearly had they been routed, but the reinforcements had enabled them to rally and renew the fight. Still, it was a fight, and much time had yet to come and go before they could sit down in the sunshine of comparative peace and enjoy the fruits of their industry.

Meanwhile the oppressions and mismanagements of the Colonial Government went on as before. It were useless in a tale like this to inflict details on our readers. Suffice it to say that in the distribution of lands, in treaties with the Kafirs, in the formation of laws for the protection of Hottentots and slaves, in the treatment of the settlers, a state of things was brought about which may be described as confusion worse confounded, and the oppressed people at last demanded redress with so loud a voice that it sounded in England, and produced the Royal Commission of Investigation already referred to in a previous chapter.

The arrival of the gentlemen composing this Commission followed close on the Floods of 1823. The event, long looked for and anxiously desired, was hailed with a degree of eager delight scarcely to be understood except by those who had gone through the previous years of high-handed oppression, of weary wrangling and appeal, and of that hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. Expectation was raised to the highest pitch, and when it was heard that the Commissioners had reached Capetown preparations were made in Grahamstown to give them a warm reception.

Chapter Seventeen.

Treats of Hopes, Fears, and Prospects, besides describing a Peculiar Battle.

Mounted on a pair of sturdy ponies Hans Marais and Charlie Considine galloped over the plains of the Zuurveld in the direction of Grahamstown. The brothers Skyd had preceded them, Edwin Brook was to follow.

It was a glorious day, though this was nothing unusual in that sunny clime, and the spirits of the young men were high. Excitement has a tendency to reproduce itself. Hans and his friend did not feel particularly or personally interested in the arrival of the Royal Commissioners, but they were sympathetic, and could not resist surrounding influences. Everywhere they overtook or passed, or somehow met with, cavaliers on the road—middle-aged and young—for old men were not numerous there at that time—all hastening to the same goal, the “city of the settlers,” and all had the same tale to tell, the same hopes to express. “Things are going to be put right now. The Commissioners have full powers to inquire and to act. We court investigation. The sky is brightening at last; the sun of prosperity will rise in the ‘east’ ere long!”

In Grahamstown itself the bustle and excitement culminated. Friends from the country were naturally stirred by meeting each other there, besides being additionally affected by the object of the meeting. Crowds gathered in the chief places of the fast rising town to discuss grievances, and friends met in the houses of friends to do the same and draw up petitions.

At last the Commissioners arrived and were welcomed by the people with wild enthusiasm.

Abel Slingsby, an impulsive youth, and a friend of Hans Marais, who had just been married to a pretty neighbour of Hans in the karroo, and was in Grahamstown on his honeymoon, declared that he would, without a moment’s hesitation, throw up his farm and emigrate to Brazil, if things were not put right without delay.

“No, you wouldn’t,” said his pretty bride, with an arch look; “you’d take time to think well over it and consult with me first.”

“Right, Lizzie, right; so I would,” cried Slingsby, with a laugh. “But you must admit that we have had, and still have, great provocation. Just think,” he added, with returning indignation, “of free-born British subjects being allowed no newspaper to read except one that is first revised by a jealous, despotic Governor, and of our being obliged to procure a ‘pass’ to entitle us to go about the country, as if we were Kafirs or Hottentots—to say nothing of the insolence of the Jacks-in-office who grant such ‘passes,’ or the ridiculous laws regarding the natives—bah! I have no patience to recount our wrongs—Come, Hans, let’s go out and see what’s doing; and don’t forget, Liz, to have candles ready for the illumination, and tell the Tottie to clean my gun. I must be ready to do them honour, like other loyal subjects.”

The young men sallied forth and found that the Commissioners had been received by the authorities with sullen courtesy.

“A clear sign that the authorities know themselves to be in the wrong,” said Considine, “for honest men always court open investigation.”

“This attitude looks like rebellion against the British Government on the part of the colonial authorities,” said Hans. “I shouldn’t wonder if we were to get a surprise from them while in such a mood.”

Evening drew on apace, and crowds of people moved about to witness the illumination and other evidences of rejoicing, while some of the more enthusiastic sought to express their sentiments by firing a volley with small arms. According to an eye-witness, (see Note 1) the signal was taken up at once, and, the example spreading like wildfire, the hills soon resounded on all sides with a noise that might have been mistaken for the storming of the town. This was a demonstration the authorities could not brook. The necessary orders were given and soon the bugles of the garrison sounded the assembly at Scott’s Barracks, while the trumpets of the Mounted Rifles at Fort England sent squadrons of horse thundering up Bathurst Street to assist in the terrible emergency caused by blank cartridges and joyous hurrahs! Parties of infantry patrolled the streets, making prisoners in all directions, and the people assembled in Church Square to see the illuminations were surrounded by troops. The leading men there, foreseeing the advantage that would result so their cause by such a style of repressing public opinion, advised those around them to keep quiet and be true to their principles.

Hans Marais and his friends happened to be in Church Square at the time, and at once fell in with and acted on the peaceful advice, though the impulsive Slingsby found it difficult to restrain his British spirit.

“See,” he said, pointing to a gentleman who approached, “there goes the Reverend Mr Geary. Do you know him, Hans? He’s a man of the true sort. Let me tell you in your ear that I heard he has got into bad odour in high quarters for refusing to have anything to do with a ‘proscription list’ furnished by the Governor, which contains the names of persons who are to be shunned and narrowly watched—some of these persons being the best and most loyal in the colony.”

As he spoke the clergyman referred to was stopped by a friend, and they overheard him express much gratification at the arrival of the Commissioners, and a hope that abuses would soon be reformed, at the same time stating his determination not to be a party man.

Unfortunately for the clergyman there were minions of the Government within earshot at the time. His words were reported, and, shortly afterwards, he was summarily removed.

Just then some of the Cape Corps men charged part of the crowd and scattered it. At the same time various persons were arrested. Among these was the indignant Slingsby. Unable to restrain his ire he called out “Shame!” and was instantly pounced upon by a serjeant and party of infantry. Immediately becoming sensible of his folly, after a momentary struggle he suffered himself to be led quietly away, but looked over his shoulder as he was marched off to the “tronk,” and said hurriedly—

“Console Lizzie, Hans!”

With a look of sympathy, Hans assured his friend that he would do so, without fail, and then, with Considine, proceeded to the house where poor Lizzie had already lit up the windows and got the gun in readiness.

“They dare not keep him long,” said Hans, in his vain attempts to comfort the weeping bride, “and depend upon it that the conduct of the authorities this evening will go a long way to damage their own cause and advance that of the settlers.”

Hans was right. Slingsby was liberated the following morning. The Commissioners turned out to be able men, who were not to be hoodwinked. True, a considerable period elapsed before the “report” afterwards made by them took effect, and for some time the settlers continued to suffer; but in the following year the fruits of the visit began to appear. Among other improvements was the creation of a Council to advise and assist the Governor—consisting of seven members, including himself,—whereby a wholesome check was put upon his arbitrary power. Trial by jury was also introduced, and the power of magistrates was modified. These and other more or less beneficial changes took place, so that there was reason to believe a time of real prosperity had at length dawned.

But the settlers were not yet out of the furnace.

Providence saw fit to send other troubles to try them besides unjust and foolish men in power. There was still another plague in store.

One day Charlie Considine rode towards the farm which had now for several years been his home.

The young members of the Marais family had grown learned under his care, and he was now regarded as a son by old Marais and his wife, while the children looked on him as an elder brother. Charlie had not intended to stay so long, and sometimes his conscience reproved him for having given up his profession of medicine, but the longer he stayed with those sweet-tempered Dutch-African farmers with whom his lot had been cast the more he liked them, and the more they liked him. What more natural then that he should stay on from day to day, until he became almost one of themselves? When people are happy they desire no change.

But it must not be supposed that the youth’s office was a sinecure. The young Marais were numerous, and some of them were stupid,—though amiable. The trouble caused by these, however, was more than compensated by the brightness of others, the friendship of Hans, and the sunshine of Bertha. The last by the way, had now, like Gertrude Brook, sprung into a woman, and though neither so graceful nor so sprightly as the pretty English girl, she was pre-eminently sweet and lovable.

Well, one day, as we have said, Charlie Considine rode towards the farm. He had been out hunting alone, and a springbok tied across the horse behind him showed that he had been successful.

Rousing himself from a reverie, he suddenly found himself in the midst of a scene of surpassing beauty. In front lay a quiet pond, whose surface was so still that it might have been a sheet of clear glass. On his left the familiar mountain-range beyond the farm appeared bluer and nearer than usual, owing to the intense heat. To the right the undulating karroo, covered with wild-flowers, and dotted with clumps of mimosa-bush, terminated abruptly in a lake which stretched away, in some places like a sea, to the horizon. Islands innumerable studded the smooth surface of this lake, and were reflected in its crystal depths. Not a breath of air riffled its surface, and there was a warm sunny brightness, a stillness, a deep quietude, about the whole scene which were powerfully suggestive of heavenly peace and rest.

“Glorious!” exclaimed Considine, reining up to a walking pace. “How delicious while it lasts, and yet how evanescent! Does it not resemble my life here? That cannot last.”

Charlie was not given to moralising, but somehow he could not help it that day. With an unusually profound sigh he shook the reins and cantered towards the lake. It was not the first time he had seen it, and he knew full well that it would not bar his progress. Even as he gave vent to the sigh the glassy waters trembled, undulated, retreated, and, under the influence of a puff of air, slowly melted away, leaving the waterless karroo in its place.

Truly it is no wonder that thirsty travellers in African deserts have, from time immemorial, rushed towards these phantom waters of the well-known mirage, to meet with bitter disappointment! The resemblance is so perfect that any one might be deceived if unacquainted with the phenomenon. (See note 2.)

On coming within sight of the farm, Considine observed columns of thick smoke rising from various parts of the homestead. With a vague feeling of alarm he put spurs to his horse. Drawing quickly nearer he perceived that the smoke arose from the garden, and that the people seemed to be bustling about in a state of violent activity. Stretching out at full speed, he was soon at the garden gate, and found that all the bustle, energising, and shouting went on at the end farthest from the gate. As he threw the reins over a post and sprang in he could see through the trees that every one in the establishment was engaged in a wild frantic fight, in which sticks and stones, bushes and blankets, were used indiscriminately. The smoke that rose around suggested fire on the plains, and he ran in haste to render assistance.

It was a goodly garden that he passed through. Fruit-trees of every kind were so laden with golden treasures that many of the branches, unable to bear the strain, had given way and the superabundance trailed upon the earth. Vegetables of all kinds covered the borders with luscious-looking bulbs and delicious green leaves, while grapes, currants, figs, etcetera, half smothered their respective bushes. Through this rich display of plenty Considine dashed, and, on reaching the wall at the further end, found Conrad Marais with his wife and daughter, sons, servants, and slaves, engaged in furious conflict with—locusts!

The enemy had come on them suddenly and in force. The ground was alive with them. Armies, legions, were there—not full-grown flying locusts, but young ones, styled foot-gangers, in other words, crawlers, walkers, or hoppers,—and every soul in the establishment had turned out to fight.

Even the modest Bertha was there, defending a breach in the garden wall with a big shawl, dishevelled in dress and hair, flushed in face, bold and resolute in aspect, laying about her with the vigour of an Amazon. The usually phlegmatic Conrad defended another weak point, while his at other times amiable spouse stood near him making fearful and frequent raids upon the foe with the branch of of a thorn-tree. Hans, like Gulliver among the Lilliputs, guarded a gate in company with four of his brothers, and they toiled and moiled like heroes, while perspiration rolled in streams from their blazing faces. Elsewhere men and women, boys and girls—black, brown, and yellow—exerted themselves to the uttermost.

Never was fortress more gallantly defended, never were ramparts more courageously assailed. Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands, were slain under that garden wall—hundreds of thousands, millions, hopped over their comrades’ backs and continued the assault with unconquerable pluck. The heroes of ancient Greece and Rome were nothing to them. Horses, cattle, and sheep were driven in among them and made to prance wildly, not in the hope of destroying the foe—as well might you have attempted to blot out the milky way,—but for the purpose of stemming the torrent and turning, if possible, the leading battalions aside from the garden. They would not turn aside. “On, hoppers, on—straight on!” was their watchword. “Death or victory” must have been their motto!

At one spot was a hollow trench or dry ditch leading towards an outhouse which intervened between the locusts and the garden. No storming party was detailed to carry the point. Where the numbers were so vast as to cover the whole country, that was needless. They marched in columns, and the columns that chanced to come up to the point voluntarily and promptly undertook the duty. They swarmed into the ditch. Considine and a small Hottentot boy observed the move, and with admirable skill kept the advancing column in check until a fire was kindled in the ditch. It was roused to a pitch of fierce heat that would have satisfied Nebuchadnezzar himself, and was then left, for other points of danger in the walls claimed more vigorous attention. Onward hopped and crawled the enemy and stormed the fire. The leading files were roasted alive, those following tumbled over their dead bodies into the flames. Had the rest wished to take warning by the fate of their comrades—which they did not—they would have found it impossible to escape, for those behind pushed them on. The fire was filled with the dead, overwhelmed by the dying, fairly put out by both, and the victorious army marched over in triumph. Then the outhouse met them, but they scorned to turn aside, although there was a four foot wall, which one might have supposed more practicable. They walked straight up the outhouse and over it, and were triumphantly descending the other side in myriads before they were discovered and met, with shrieks of vengeance, by Mrs Marais.

“It’s of no use, lads,” gasped old Marais, pausing for a moment to recover breath; “the place is doomed.”

“Don’t say so, father,” cried Hans.—“Come on, boys! we’ve nearly stopped them at this gate.”

Nearly,—but not quite! A few minutes later and the strength of the garrison began to fail.

“How long—has this—lasted?” asked Considine, pausing for a moment beside Bertha, and panting violently.

“Since—breakfast,” gasped the exhausted girl; “we—dis—covered them—just after you—left us.—See! they come!”

“Hallo! this way, Hans! bring the flags!” shouted Considine, observing the tremendous body of reserves which were following up the success of the stormers of the fire.

It is a curious fact that the waving of flags had been found of more avail on that occasion than most other means. The beating of the enemy with bushes and blankets was no doubt very effective, but it killed, scattered, and confused them, so that they pressed, as it were blindly, on their fate, whereas the flag-waving appeared to touch a cord of intelligence. They saw it, were obviously affected though not killed by it, and showed a tendency to turn aside. It was however only a tendency; soon the advance was resumed in force. The human giants were beaten—fairly overwhelmed. The wall was scaled and the garden finally entered by countless myriads of this truly formidable though individually contemptible enemy.

Thus are the strong at times confounded by things that are weak!

Had these been flying instead of pedestrian locusts they might, perhaps, have been turned aside by fires, for this is sometimes done. When a farmer sees a cloud of them coming—a cloud, it may be, of three miles in length by half a mile in breadth or more—he kindles fires round his garden and fields, raises a dense smoke, and may sometimes, though not often, succeed in preventing them from alighting. But the younger or jumping locusts, strong in the stupidity of youth, cannot be turned aside thus. Nothing, indeed, but a rushing stream will stop them; even a mighty river, if not rapid, is insufficient. Stagnant pools they cross by drowning the leading multitudes, until a bridge—not “of sighs,” but—of death is formed, of size sufficient to carry them over. They even cross the great Orange River thus in places where its flow is calm. In Africa they pass in such countless swarms, both winged and wingless, that their approach is viewed with dismay, for where they rest they devour every green thing, and flocks and herds are left utterly destitute, so that starvation or change of ground is unavoidable. They usually begin their march, or flight, after sunrise, and encamp at sunset—and woe betide the luckless farmer on whose lands they chance to fix their temporary abode.

Locust-swarms are followed by a little bird—named springkaan-vogel or locust-bird—which comes in such dense flocks as almost to darken the air. These locust-birds are about the size of a swallow, with numerous speckles like a starling. They live exclusively on locusts—follow them, build their nests, rear their young in the midst of them, and devour them. But this is by no means the locust’s only enemy. Every animal, domestic and wild, destroys and eats him. Cattle, sheep, horses, fowls, dogs, antelopes—all may be seen devouring him with greediness. He even eats himself, the cannibal! for if any of his comrades get hurt or meet with accidents in travelling, as they often do, the nearest fellow-travellers fall on, kill and devour the unfortunates without delay.

The only human beings who rejoice at sight of the terrible locusts are the Bushmen. These have neither herds, flocks nor crops to lose, and though the wild animals on which they subsist are by these insects driven away, the Bushmen care little, for they delight in fresh locusts, follow them up, feed on them, and preserve quantities by drying them for future use.

Before morning the splendid garden of Conrad Marais was a leafless, fruitless wilderness. Not a scrap of green or gold was left. And his case was by no means singular. The whole colony was more or less visited by this plague at that time, and thus the reviving spirits of the settlers were once again knocked down by a crushing blow.

Note 1. Reverend A.A. Dugmore, the Reminiscences of an Albany Settler, page 23.

Note 2. The author, having seen the mirage while riding on the karroo, writes from personal experience.

Chapter Eighteen.

Fairs, Fights, Free-Trade, Factions, and other Matters.

In the heart of the wild mountain scenery of the frontier a grim-looking fort had been built to keep the Kafirs in check. It was named Fort Wilshire, and a truly warlike place it was, with its high walls and cannon, its red troops of the line, green rifles, and blue artillery. Lying remote from civilised men, it was a dreary enough place to the troops stationed there, though, with that ready spirit of adaptation to circumstances which characterises the British soldier, the garrison dispelled some of its ennui by hunting.

At one period of the year, however, the little frontier fortress thoroughly changed its silent and solitary character. The Government, yielding at last to earnest entreaties and strong representations, had agreed to permit, under certain restrictions, the opening of trade with the Kafirs. A periodical “fair” was established and appointed to be held under the guns of Fort Wilshire. The colonial traders, full of energy and thirsting for opportunity, took advantage of the “fair,” and assembled in hundreds, while the Kafirs, in a species of unbelieving surprise, met them in thousands to exchange wares. It was a new idea to many of these black sons and daughters of nudity, that the horns which they used to throw away as useless were in reality valuable merchandise, and that the gum, which was to be had for the gathering, could procure for them beads and buttons, and brass-wire and cotton, with many other desirable things that caused their red mouths to water.

On the day in which we introduce the scene to the reader some of the colonial traders had already arrived at the fair. These were not all of the same calibre. Some, of small means, had commenced modestly with a shoulder-bundle and went through the new land, as peddlers and packmen in older lands had done before them. Others, with more means, had set up the horse-pack, or the cart, and all aspired, while some had attained, to the waggon. These penetrated to every part of the frontier, supplying the Dutch boers with luxuries hitherto undreamed of, which, ere long, became necessities, obtaining from them sheep and cattle in exchange, with a fair proportion of their hoarded rix-daalers. The traders then returned to the towns, sold their stock, purchased fresh supplies, and went back to the interior. Thus was laid the foundation of a commerce which was destined in future years to become of great importance not only to the colony but to the world.

The opening of trade with the Kafirs had added materially to the prosperity of the traders, and those assembled at Fort Wilshire represented all the different classes.

Among the crowds who encamped under the fort guns, Stephen Orpin, the Wesleyan, represented those who stood on the first round of the mercantile ladder. Orpin was stout of limb, broad of shoulder, strong of heart, and empty of pocket; he therefore carried a pack in which were to be found not only gloves, neckerchiefs, and trinkets for the women, as well as gaudy waistcoats, etcetera, for the men, but New Testaments, tracts, and little books in the Dutch language wherewith Stephen hoped to do good to the souls of his customers. Orpin had come to the “fair” with the double view of trading and holding intercourse on spiritual things with the Kafirs. He longed to preach Christ, the crucified Saviour, to the heathen. Of such men, thank God, there always have been, and we believe always will be, many in the world—men in regard to whom bigots are apt to say, “Lord, forbid him, for he followeth not with us,” but of whom the Lord said, “Forbid him not, for he that is not against us is on our part.”

Among those who had attained to the enviable ox-waggon were our friends John Skyd and Frank Dobson. Possessing a remnant of their means when they gave up farming, two of the brothers, James and Robert, established a small general store in Grahamstown, while John and Frank set up a joint waggon and took to hunting and trading on a large scale. Of course they bought all their supplies of brass-wire, beads and buttons, powder and shot etcetera, from the Skyd store, and sold their ivory, etcetera, at the same place, with mutual benefit.

It was a strange and stirring sight to behold the long files of Kafir women, straight and graceful as Venus in body, ugly almost as baboons in visage, coming to the fair from all parts of the land with enormous loads on their heads of ox-hides, horns, gum, and elephants’ tusks. Threading the narrow bush-paths in long single files, they came from hillside and thicket towards the great centre of attraction. Gradually the crowd thickened. Kafir chiefs with leopard-skins thrown over their otherwise naked bodies stalked about with an assumption of quiet dignity which they found it difficult to maintain amid the excitement and temptations of the fair. Swarthy groups found shelter among the trees that fringed the Keiskamma below the post—the women resting after having gladly laid down their burdens; their lords sitting on their heels with knob-kerrie in hand, jealously guarding their property. The great chief himself was there, laying seignorial taxation on his people, and even condescending to beg for the white man’s brandy.

“Come with me,” said Orpin to a newly made Dutch friend; “I’m told you understand Kafir, and I want you to interpret for me. Will you?”

The Dutchman said “Ja,” and went, for Orpin had a persuasive tongue and pleasant manner which induced all sorts of men to aid him. And so they two went down into the bush among the dark-skinned crew, and Stephen preached in their wondering ears the “old, old story” of the Cross—a story which is never told entirely in vain, though many a time it does seem as if the effect of it were woefully disproportioned to the efforts of those who go forth bearing the precious seed.

Meanwhile Skyd and Dobson were driving lucrative bargains in another part of the field, speaking wonderful Kafir in the midst of a Babel of Dutch and English that was eminently suggestive of the ancient “tower” itself.

Besides the difficulties of language there were troubles also in reference to trade, for Kafirs, although savage, are fastidious. The men were as particular about their necklaces as any beau could be about the cut of his coat and the women were at times very hard to please in the matter of turban-covers and kaross back-stripes. But after much haggling the contending parties came to terms, to their mutual benefit and satisfaction.

In another part of the market there seemed to be a tendency to riot. Either bargaining was more hotly carried on there, or spirits of a pugnacious tendency were congregated. Among them was a tall powerful Kafir, who had been evidently treated to a glass of something stronger than water. He was not tipsy, he was only elevated, but the elevation roused his ire to such an extent that he began to boast loudly that he could fight any one, and flourished his sticks or kerries in a defiant manner. Kafirs always fight with two sticks, one to hit with, the other to guard.

A trader from the Green Isle chanced to pass this man, and to be jostled by him. Every one knows of the world’s opinion of the Irishman’s love for fighting. Pat became nettled.

“Arrah!” says he, “yer mighty fond o’ swagger, but I’ll tache you manners, you black baste! Come on!”

The big Kafir came on at once, and made a blow at Pat’s head with his knob-kerrie that would have ended the fight at once if it had taken effect, but the Irishman, well trained in the art, guarded it neatly, and returned with a blow so swift and vigorous that it fell on the pate of the savage like a flail. As well might Pat have hit a rock. If there is a strong point about a black man, it is his head. The Irish man knew this, but had forgotten it in the first flush of combat. He became wiser. Meanwhile a crowd of excited traders and Kafirs gathered round the combatants and backed them.

The Kafir made another wild swoop at his enemy’s skull, but the blow was easily turned aside. Pat returned with a feint at his foe’s head, but came down with terrible force on the inside of his right knee. The Kafir dropped his sticks, seized his knee with both hands, stood on one leg, and howled in agony.

Scorning to strike a defenceless foe, Paddy gave him a dab on the end of his already flat nose, by way of reminding him that he was off his guard. The Kafir took the hint, caught up his sticks and sprang at his opponent with the yell of a hyena, whirling aloft both sticks at once. The Irishman had to leap aside, and, as he did so, drew from the Kafir a shriek of pain by hitting him sharply on the left shin, adding to the effect immediately by a whack under the right eye that might have finished an average ox. The Kafir fell, more, however, because of the pain of the double blow, than because of its force, for he rolled about bellowing for a few seconds. Then, jumping up, he renewed the fight. There is no saying how long it might have lasted had not a party of troops chanced to pass just then, who separated the combatants and dispersed the crowd.

The “fair,” however, was made use of not only as an occasion for trading, preaching, and fighting, but for plotting. Chiefs met there in peace, who might otherwise have failed to meet except in battle, and these, with chiefs of banditti from the mountains, and malcontents from all quarters, concocted and hatched designs against the well-being of individuals and of the public at large.

At this time the colonists, besides being troubled by savage thieves, were threatened with disturbance from the inter-tribal feuds of the savages themselves. One tremendous Zulu monster of the name of Chaka—who excelled Nero himself in cruelty—was driving other tribes of Kafirs down into the colony, and designing chiefs were beginning to think or hope that the opportunity had arrived for carrying out their favourite idea of driving the white man into the sea.

In a dark forest glade, not far from the fort, and within hearing of its bugle-calls, Stephen Orpin walked up and down with one of the malcontents.

“I tell you, Ruyter, it is in vain to join with the Kafirs,” said Orpin. “If all the Hottentots in Africa were to unite with them, you would not be strong enough to crush the white man.”

“Why not?” demanded the Hottentot angrily, in his broken English; “we be strong as you, and brave.”

“But you are not so well armed,” said Orpin.

“Fact,” returned the freebooter, “but time vill make dat all squaar. Smugglers bring guns to we, an’ pooder. Ver’ soon be all right.”

“Listen, Ruyter, you are like a child. You know nothing. The land from which the white man comes will never suffer him to be driven out of Africa. England is rich in everything, and will send men to fill the places of those who fall. Besides, I think God is on the white man’s side, because the white man in the main intends and tries to do good. Just think of the ‘fair.’ The black man wants beads and brass wire and cotton, and many other things—the white man brings these things from over the sea. On the other hand the white man wants hides, horns, ivory—the black man can supply these things. They meet to exchange, good is done by each to the other. Why should they fight?”

“For revenge,” said Ruyter darkly.

“No doubt revenge is sweet to you, but it is sinful,” returned Orpin. “Besides, the sweetness does not last long; and will it, let me ask, make the black man happier or the white man more sorrowful in the long-run? You should think of others, not only of yourself, Ruyter.”

“Does Jan Smit ever tink of oders—of anybody but hisself?”

“Perhaps not, but Conrad Marais does, and so do many other men of like mind. God, the Father of all men, is a God of peace, and does not permit His children to gratify feelings of revenge. Jesus, the Saviour of lost man, is the Prince of peace; He will not deliver those who wilfully give way to revenge.”

“I no want deliverance,” said the robber chief sternly.

“I know that,” replied Orpin, “and it was to deliver you from that state of mind that Jesus came. Think, Ruyter, think—”

He was interrupted at this point by the sound of an approaching ox-waggon. Ruyter, being a well-known outlaw, did not dare to show himself at the fair, although not a whit worse in any respect than most of the Kafir chiefs who walked openly there unchallenged. He shrank back into the shelter of the jungle while the trader awaited the coming up of the waggon.

“Aha, here you are, Orpin—not kept you waiting long, I hope?” said John Skyd as he followed his waggon into the glade.

“Not long,” answered the trader; “but we must make the most of our time now, for the day is far spent.”

“It is, but I could not manage to get away sooner. We had to lay in a supply of powder and lead for the hunt, besides many other things. Dobson will be here with the other waggon immediately—he’s not fifty yards behind,—and then we shall start fair for the elephant-ground. You’re quite sure that you know the way, I suppose?”

“I would not undertake to guide you if I were not sure.”

In a few minutes Dobson came up with the second waggon, and the whole party set forth on a hunting expedition into the interior, under the guidance of Stephen Orpin, who had already wandered so much about the colony that he was beginning to be pretty well acquainted with a great extent of the border line.

About the same time that Skyd and Dobson went off to the interior another party of hunters and explorers set out on an expedition from the Scottish settlement of Glen Lynden. But before touching on this, we will turn aside to relate an incident which affected the movements of both parties, and has reference to a small though not unimportant personage of our story.

Chapter Nineteen.

Describes a Series of Early Risings.

One fine morning early, high up among the krantzes and dark jungles of a kloot or mountain gorge, which branched off from Glen Lynden, a noble specimen of an African savage awoke from his night’s repose and stretched himself.

He had spent the night among the lower branches of a mimosa-bush, the opening into which was so small that it was a wonder how his large body could have squeezed through it. Indeed, it would have been quite impossible for him to have gained the shelter of that dark retreat if he had not possessed a lithe supple frame and four powerful legs furnished with tremendous claws.

We should have mentioned, perhaps, that our noble savage was a magnificent leopard—or Cape “tiger.”

As he stretched himself he laid back his head, shut his eyes, and yawned, by which act he displayed a tremendous collection of canines and grinders, with a pink throat of great capacity. The yawn ended in a gasp, and then he raised his head and looked quietly about him, gently patting the ground with his tail, as a man might pat his bedclothes while considering what to do next. Not unlike man, he lay down at full length and tried to go to sleep again, but it would not do. He had evidently had his full allowance, and therefore got up and stretched himself again in a standing position. In this act, bending his deep chest to the ground, he uttered a low gurr of savage satisfaction, sank his claws into the soil, and gently tore a number of tough roots into shreds. Sundry little creatures of various kinds in the neighbourhood, hearing the gurr, presented their tails to the sky and dived into their little holes with incredible rapidity.

The leopard now shook off dull sloth, and, lashing his sides in a penitential manner with his tail, glided through the opening in the mimosa-bush, bounded into the branches of a neighbouring tree, ran nimbly out to the end of one of them, and leaping with a magnificent spring over a gully, alighted softly on the turf at the other side. Trotting calmly into an open space, he stopped to take a survey of surrounding nature.

Breakfast now naturally suggested itself. At least we may suppose so from a certain eager look which suddenly kindled in the leopard’s eye, and a wrinkling of his nose as a bird flitted close over his head. At that moment a species of rabbit, or cony, chanced to hop round the corner of a rock. The lightning-flash is not quicker than the spring with which the Cape-tiger traversed the twenty feet between himself and his prey.

The result was very effectual as regarded the cony, but it was not much to gurr about in the way of breakfast. It was a mere whet to the appetite, which increased the desire for more.

Advancing down the kloof with that stealthy gliding motion peculiar to the feline race, the leopard soon came in sight of a fine bushbok, whose sleek sides drew from him an irrepressible snicker of delight. But the bushbok was not within spring-range. He was at the foot of a low precipice. Creeping to the top of this with great caution the leopard looked over with a view to estimate distance. It was yet too far for a spring, so he turned at once to seek a better way of approach. In doing so he touched a small stone, which rolled over the krantz, bounded from crag to cliff, and, carrying several other stones larger than itself along with it, dashed itself at the very feet of the bushbok, which wisely took to its heels and went off like the wind.

Sulky beyond all conception, the leopard continued to descend the kloof until he reached a narrow pass from which were visible, not far off, the abodes of men. Here he paused and couched in quiet contemplation.

Now there was another early waking on that fine morning, though not quite so early as the one just described. Master Junkie Brook, lying in a packing-box, which served as an extempore crib, in the cottage of Kenneth McTavish, opened his large round eyes and rubbed them. Getting up, he observed that Mrs Scholtz was sound asleep, and quietly dressed himself. He was a precocious child, and had learned to dress without assistance. The lesson was more easily learned than beings living in civilised lands might suppose, owing to the fact that he had only two garments—a large leather jacket and a pair of leather trousers, one huge button in front, and one behind, holding the latter securely to the former. A pair of veltschoen and a fur cap completed a costume which had been manufactured by the joint efforts of his mother and sister and Mrs Scholtz. The husband of the last, on seeing it for the first time, remarked that it “vas more like me garb of a man of dirty zan a boy of dree.” The garb had been made of such tough material that it seemed impossible to wear it out, and of such an extremely easy fit that although the child had now lived in it upwards of two years there were not more than six patches on it anywhere.

How Junkie got to the Baviaans River may perhaps perplex the reader. It is easily explained. Hans had invited all or any of the Brook family to visit his father’s farm on the karroo. Gertie catching a cold, or in some other way becoming feeble, wanted a change of air. Her father, recalling the invitation, and happening to know that Hans was in Grahamstown at the time, drove her over with Mrs Scholtz and Junkie to make the thing proper, and offered a visit of all three. You may be sure Hans did not refuse to take them to his home in his new cart. After spending some time there Mrs Scholtz took a fancy that she would like to go with Hans on one of his frequent excursions to Glen Lynden, but she would not leave Junkie behind. Hans objected to Junkie at first, but finally gave in, and thus the little hero found his way to the River of Baboons.

When dressed—which was soon done, as he omitted washing—Junkie began to consider what he had best do. Mischief, of course, but of what sort? That was the question.

His room was on the ground floor, and had a lattice window which opened like a door into the back premises. He pushed the window and found that it opened. What a chance! Mrs Scholtz was still asleep, and snoring. Absence without leave was his chief delight. In two minutes he was deep in the jungle, panting. Knowing from long and bitter experience that he would be pursued by the inveterate Mrs Scholtz, the urchin ran up the kloof, bent on placing the greatest possible space between him and his natural enemy in the shortest possible time. In this way he was not long of drawing near to the leopard’s point of observation.

No doubt that keen-sighted animal would quickly have observed the child, if its attention had not at the moment been attracted by other and equally mischievous game. A troop of baboons came down the kloof to pilfer the white man’s fruit and vegetables. They had evidently risen late for breakfast, and were in a hurry to reach their breakfast parlour before the white man should awake. There were a dozen or so of females, several huge males, and quite a crowd of children of various ages, besides one or two infants clinging to their mothers’ waists.

It was pitiful to see the sad anxious faces of these infants. Perhaps they knew their parents’ errand and disapproved of it. More probably they felt their own weakness of frame, and dreaded the shocks sustained when their heedless mothers bounded from rock or stump like balls of india-rubber. They were extremely careless mothers. Even Junkie, as he stood paralysed with terror and surprise, could not avoid seeing that. The troop was led by a great blue-faced old-man baboon with a remarkably saturnine expression. On reaching the top of the rock which the leopard had just vacated, the old man called a halt. The others came tumbling awkwardly towards him on all-fours, with the exception of several of the youngsters, who loitered behind to play. One of these, a very small bad little boy-baboon, deliberately turned aside to explore on his own account. He came down near to the foot of the rock where the leopard had concealed himself. Catching sight of his glaring enemy, the bad boy uttered a terrified squawk. Instantly all the males, headed by the old man, rushed to the rescue. Powerful though he was, the leopard was cowardly at heart. A large troop of baboons had some time ago made mince-meat of his own grandmother. Remembering this, he sloped under a bank, glided round a corner of the cliff, bounded over a bush, and sought refuge in a thicket.

It was at this moment, while in the act of bounding, that he caught sight of Junkie, but being confused at the moment, and ashamed of having been twice foiled, he slunk away with his tail between his legs and concealed himself among the branches of an old gnarled and favourite tree.

The bad boy-baboon was the only one who had seen the leopard; the old males therefore had to content themselves with a few fierce looks round in all directions, and several defiant roars. Born and bred in the midst of alarms, however, they were soon composed enough to resume their descent on the white man’s stores—to the great relief of the petrified Junkie, of whom in their alarm they took no notice, regarding him, possibly, as a badly executed statue of a baboon.

Junkie quickly recovered himself, and, seeing the baboons descend the kloof, thought it safer, as well as more in accord with his original plans, to ascend.

Gladly, hopefully, did the leopard observe his decision and watch his progress. To him the tide of fortune seemed to have taken a favourable turn, for Junkie, in the innocence of his heart, made straight for the gnarled tree.

But one of the many slips so often quoted with reference to cups and lips was at this time impending over the unfortunate leopard.

There was yet one other early riser that morning—namely Booby the Bushman. In pursuance of his calling, that ill-used and misguided son of the soil arose about daybreak with much of his native soil sticking to his person, and, with a few other desperadoes like himself, made a descent on Glen Lynden—not, by any means, the first that his fraternity had made. Not so bloodthirsty as the leopard, quite as mischievous as Junkie, and much more cunning than the baboons, Booby chanced to arrive at the gorge already mentioned just at the time when Junkie was approaching it. There was, if you will, somewhat of a coincidence here in regard to time, but there was no coincidence in the fact of such characters selecting the same route, because whoever passed up or down that kloof must needs go by the gorge.

Slowly Junkie picked his way up the ragged path towards the gnarled tree. The leopard, scarcely believing in his good luck, licked his lips. Rapidly the Bushman and his men descended the same path.

They rode on horses—stolen horses, of course. The leopard heard the clatter of hoofs and looked back. Junkie drew nearer to the gnarled tree; the leopard looked forward. Never was savage beast more thoroughly perplexed. Anxiety glared in his eyes; exasperation grinned in his teeth; indecision quivered in the muscles of his tail. Just at that moment Booby caught sight of his spotted skin. Had the leopard been less perturbed he would have been too wise to allow his carcass to appear. A poisoned arrow instantly quivered in his flank. It acted like a spur; with an angry growl and a clear bound of no one knows how many feet, he re-entered the jungle and fled to the mountains.

Petrified again, Junkie remained motionless till the Bushmen robbers rode up. Booby knew that his leopard was safe, for a poisoned arrow is sure to kill in time, so he did not care to hasten after it just then, but preferred to continue his approach to the white man’s habitations. Great, then, was his amazement when he all but rode over Junkie.

Amazement was quickly succeeded by alarm. His knowledge of the white man’s ways and habits told him at once the state of affairs. The appearance of Junkie in the company of “tigers” and baboons, was, he knew well, a mere juvenile indiscretion. He also knew that parental instincts among white men were keen, and thence concluded that discovery and pursuit would be immediate. His own plans were therefore not only defeated, but his own safety much endangered, as his presence was sure to be discovered by his tracks. “Let’s be off instanter,” was the substance of Booby’s communication to his brethren. The brethren agreed, but Booby had lived among white men, and although his own particular master was a scoundrel, there were those of his household—especially among the females—who had taught him something of Christian pity. He could not leave the child to the tender mercies of wild beasts. He did not dare to convey him back to the cottage of Kenneth McTavish. What was he to do? Delay might be death! In these circumstances he seized the horrified Junkie by the arm, swung him on the pommel of his saddle, and galloped away up the kloof and over the mountains into the deepest recesses of Kafirland.

When Mrs Scholtz awoke that morning, rubbed her eyes, looked up and discovered that Junkie’s crib was empty, she sprang from her bed, perceived the open lattice, and gave vent to an awful scream. In barbarous times and regions a shriek is never uttered in vain. The McTavish household was instantly in the room, some of them in deshabille—some armed—all alarmed.

“Oh my!—oh me!” cried Mrs Scholtz, leaping back into bed with unfeminine haste, “he’s gone!”

“Who’s gone?” asked McTavish.

“Junkie!”

“What! where? when? how? why?” said Mrs McTavish, Jessie, and others.

Mrs Scholtz gasped and pointed to the lattice; at the same time she grasped her garments as a broad hint to the men. They took it hastily.

“Come, boys, search about, and one of you saddle up. Go, call Groot Willem,” was the master’s prompt order as he turned and left the room.

Six Hottentots, a Bushman, and a Bechuana boy obeyed, but those who searched sought in vain. Yet not altogether in vain—they found Junkie’s “spoor,” and traced it into the jungle. While two followed it, the others returned and “saddled up” the horses. Groot Willem chanced to be on a visit to the Highlanders at the time.

“What a pity,” he said, coming out of his room and stretching himself (it was quite an impressive sight to see such a giant stretch himself!) “that the hunters are off. They might have helped us.”

The giant spoke with good-humoured sarcasm, believing that the urchin would assuredly be found somewhere about the premises, and he referred to the departure of an exploring and hunting party under George Rennie, which had left Glen Lynden the previous day for the interior.

But when Groot Willem with his companions had ridden a considerable way up the kloof, and found Junkie’s spoor mingling with that of baboons, he became earnest. When he came to the gnarled tree and discovered that it was joined by that of horses and Cape tigers, he became alarmed.

A diligent examination was made. Drops of blood were found on the ground. The leopard itself was ultimately discovered stone dead in a thicket with the poisoned arrow in its side, the horse-spoor was followed up a long way, and then it was pretty clearly seen that the child had been carried off by marauders of some sort.

Of course a thorough search was made and pursuit was immediately instituted. Groot Willem and McTavish pushed on promptly to follow the spoor, while men were sent back to the glen for a supply of ammunition, etcetera, in case of a prolonged search becoming necessary.

The search was ably planned and vigorously carried out; but all in vain. Junkie had departed that life as thoroughly as if he had never been, and Mrs Scholtz remained at Glen Lynden the very personification of despair.

We shall now turn to the exploring party which had left the Baviaans River on the previous day.

About this time the rumours of war among the natives of the vast and almost unknown interior of the land had become unusually alarming. A wandering and warlike horde named the Fetcani had been, for some time past, driving all the other tribes before them, and were said at last to be approaching the Winterberg frontier of the colony. In order to ascertain what foundation there was for these reports, as well as to explore the land, the party under Rennie was sent out. Among those who formed this party were Charlie Considine, Hans Marais, Sandy Black and his satellite Jerry Goldboy, Andrew Rivers, Diederik and Christian Muller, and the tall black-bearded hunter Lucas Van Dyk, besides Slinger, Dikkop, and other Hottentots and Bushmen.

“This is what I call real enjoyment,” said Considine, as he rode with Hans, somewhat in advance of the cavalcade;—“splendid weather, magnificent scenery, lots of game big and little, good health and freedom. What more could a man wish?”

“Ja,” said Hans quietly; “you have reason to be thankful—yet there is more to wish for.”

“What more?” asked Considine.

“That the whole world were as happy as yourself,” said Hans, looking full at his friend with a bland smile.

“And so I do wish that,” returned Considine with enthusiasm.

“Do you?” asked Hans, with a look of surprise.

“Of course I do; why do you doubt it?” asked his friend, with a perplexed look.

Hans did not reply, but continued to gaze at the mountain-range towards which the party was riding.

And, truly, it was a prospect which might well absorb the attention and admiration of men less capable of being affected by the beauties of nature than Hans Marais.

They were passing through a verdant glen at the foot of the mountains, the air of which was perfumed with wild flowers, and filled with the garrulous music of paroquets and monkeys. In front lay the grand range of the Winterberg, with its coronet of rocks, its frowning steeps, its grassy slopes, and its skirts feathered over with straggling forest,—all bathed in the rich warm glow of an African sunset.

“You have not answered me, Hans,” said Considine, after a pause. “Why do you think I am indifferent to the world’s happiness?”

“Because,” replied the other, with an expression unusually serious on his countenance, “I do not see that you make any effort—beyond being good-natured and amiable, which you cannot help—to make the world better.”

Considine looked at his friend with surprise, and replied, with a laugh—“Why, Hans, you are displaying a new phase of character. Your remark is undoubtedly true—so true indeed that, although I object to that commonplace retort,—‘You’re another,’—I cannot help pointing out that it applies equally to yourself.”

“It is just because it applies equably to myself that I make it,” rejoined Hans, with unaltered gravity. “You and I profess to be Christians, we both think that we are guided by Christian principles—and doubtless, to some extent, we are, but what have we done for the cause that we call ‘good,’ that is good? I speak for myself at all events—I have hitherto done nothing, absolutely nothing.”

“My dear fellow,” said Considine, with a sudden burst of candour, “I believe you are right, and I plead guilty; but then what can we do? We are not clergymen.”

“Stephen Orpin is not a clergyman, yet see what he does. It was seeing what that man does, and how he lives, that first set me a-thinking on this subject. He attends to his ordinary calling quite as well as any man of my acquaintance, and, I’ll be bound, makes a good thing of it, but any man with half an eye can see that he makes it subservient to the great work of serving the Saviour, whom you and I profess to love. I have seen him suffer loss rather than work on the Lord’s day. More than once I’ve seen him gain discredit for his so-called fanaticism. He is an earnest man, eagerly seeking an end which is outside himself, therefore he is a happy man. To be eager in pursuit, is to be in a great degree happy, even when the pursuit is a trifling one; if it be a great and good one, the result must be greater happiness; if the pursuit has reference to things beyond this life, and ultimate success is hoped for in the next, it seems to me that lasting as well as highest happiness may thus be attained. Love of self, Charlie, is not a bad motive, as some folk would falsely teach us. The Almighty put love of self within us. It is only when love of self is a superlative affection that it is sinful, because idolatrous. When it is said that ‘love is the fulfilling of the law,’ it is not love to God merely that is meant, I think, but love to Him supremely, and to all created things as well, self included, because if you can conceive of this passion being our motive power, and fairly balanced in our breasts—God and all created beings and things occupying their right relative positions,—self, although dethroned, would not be ignored. Depend on it, Charlie, there is something wrong here.”

The young Dutchman smote himself heavily on his broad chest, and looked at his friend for a reply.

What that reply was we need not pause to say. These two young men ever since their first acquaintance had regarded each other with feelings akin to those of David and Jonathan, but they had not up to this time opened to each other those inner chambers of the soul, where the secret springs of life keep working continually in the dark, whether we regard them or not—working oftentimes harshly for want of the oil of human intercourse and sympathy. The floodgates were now opened, and the two friends began to discourse on things pertaining to the soul and the Saviour and the world to come, whereby they found that their appreciation and enjoyment of the good things even of this life was increased considerably. Subsequently they discovered the explanation of this increased power of enjoyment, in that Word which throws light on all things, where it is written that “godliness is profitable for the life that now is, as well as that which is to come.”

Chapter Twenty.

Treats of the Delights, Dangers, and Distresses of the Wilderness.

“Afar in the desert,”—far beyond the frontier settlements of the colony, far from the influences of civilisation, in the home of the wild beast and the savage, the explorers now ride under the blaze of the noontide sun.

They had passed over mountain and dale into the burning plains of the karroo, and for many hours had travelled without water or shelter from the scorching heat. Lucas Van Dyk, who guided them, said he knew where water was to be got, but there was no possibility of reaching it before evening. This announcement was received in silence, for not a drop of the life-giving fluid had passed the lips of man or beast since an early hour on the previous day, and their powers of endurance were being tried severely. The insupportable heat not only increased the thirst, but rendered the hunters less able to bear it. All round them the air quivered with the radiation from the glaring sand, and occasionally the mirage appeared with its delicious prospects of relief, but as the Dutchmen knew the ground well, none were deceived by it, though all were tantalised. Compressing their lips, and urging their wearied cattle to the utmost, they pushed steadily on, no sound breaking the stillness of the desert save the creak of a waggon-wheel or the groan of an exhausted animal.

At last Charlie Considine sought to relieve his feelings by conversation.

“This is one of the unpleasant experiences of African travel.”

Hans Marais, to whom the remark was made, replied “Ja,” but as he added nothing more, and looked stern, Charlie relapsed into silence.

Ere long one of the weaker oxen fell. The party halted a few minutes, while the Hottentot drivers plied their cruel whips unmercifully, but in vain. One more merciful than the drivers was there—death came to release the poor animal. Immediately, as if by magic, vultures appeared in the burning sky. From the far-off horizon they came sailing by twos and threes, as if some invisible messenger, like death himself, had gone with lightning-speed to tell that a banquet awaited them.

No time was wasted; a brief word from the leader sufficed. The dying ox was released from the yoke that had galled it so long, and the party proceeded. Before they were a mile off the ox was dead, its eyes were out, its carcass torn open, and the obscene birds were gorging themselves. Before night it was an empty skeleton covered with a dried hide! Not many hours would suffice to remove the hide and leave only the bleaching bones. Such remains are familiar objects on South African roadsides.

That evening, according to their leader’s prophecy, water was reached. It was a thick muddy pool, but it sufficed to relieve them all, and a night of comparative comfort followed a day of suffering.

Next morning, just after breakfast, a herd of springboks was observed, and several of the more eager of the party dashed off in pursuit. Among these was Considine, Hans, Andrew Rivers, and Jerry Goldboy. The two last were always first in the mad pursuit of game, and caused their placid Dutch friends no little anxiety by the scrapes they frequently ran themselves into.

“Follow them, they’ll get lost,” said Van Dyk to a group of Hottentots.

Two of these, Slinger and Dikkop, obeyed the order.

The antelopes were on a distant sandhill in the plain. There were two groups of them. Riven and Jerry made for one of these. Becoming suddenly imbued with an idea worthy of a hunter, Jerry diverged to the right, intending to allow his companion to start the game, while he should lie in wait for it under the shelter of a bush. Unfortunately the game took the opposite direction when started, so that Jerry was thrown entirely out. As it chanced, however, this did not matter much, for Jerry’s horse, becoming unmanageable, took to its heels and dashed away wildly over the plain, followed by Dikkop the Hottentot.

“Mind the ant-bear holes!” shouted Dikkop, but as he shouted in Dutch Jerry did not understand him, and devoted himself to vain endeavours to restrain the horse. At first the animal looked after itself and avoided the holes referred to, but as Jerry kept tugging furiously at the reins it became reckless, and finally put a fore-leg into a hole. Instantly it rolled over, and the hunter flew off its back, turning a complete somersault in the air.

A low shrub grows in the karroo, called the ill-tempered thorn. It resembles a mass of miniature porcupine quills, an inch or two in length, planted as thickly as possible together, with the needle-points up and bristling. On one of these shrubs poor Jerry alighted!

“Oh! ’eavens, this is hagony!” he groaned, jumping up and stamping, while Dikkop almost fell off his horse with laughing.

To hide his mirth he bolted off in pursuit of Jerry’s charger, which he soon caught and brought back, looking supernaturally grave.

“We will rejoin the ’unters, Dikkop,” said Jerry, in the tone of a man who endeavours to conceal his sufferings.

“Ja, Mynheer,” said Dikkop.

Whatever Jerry Goldboy might have said, that Hottentot would have replied “Ja, Mynheer,” for he understood not a word of English.

Jerry mounted with an ill-suppressed groan and rode back to the party, leaning very much forward in the saddle, while Dikkop followed, showing the white teeth in his dirty black visage from ear to ear.

Rivers soon afterwards returned with a springbok behind him, but there was no appearance of Considine or Hans. As, however, the latter was known to be an experienced traveller, no anxiety was felt for them, and the main party proceeded on its way. When night came they found that a well, on which they had counted, was dried up, and were therefore obliged to lie down without water. Several shots were fired after dark to guide the absent ones, but no reply was made. Still, those in camp felt no anxiety, knowing that Hans was quite able to take care of himself.

And so he was, truly, but he could not take care of a hot-headed youth who was as eager as Jerry in the chase, and much more daring.

At first he and Considine ran together after the springboks; then Hans got near enough, dismounted, and shot one. While he was busy fastening the carcass on his horse, Considine continued to pursue the others; going at full speed, he was soon far away on the horizon. Still Hans would have been able to see him if he had not got among some scattered groups of mimosa-bushes, which were sufficiently large to conceal him. When he remounted and looked around, his friend was not to be seen. He saw a few springboks, however, racing on the horizon in the direction in which Considine had galloped, and concluded somewhat hastily that they were pursued by his friend. Away he went, therefore, but soon discovered that he was mistaken. He turned then, and rode quickly back, blaming himself for not having followed the footprints of his friend’s horse. This he now did, and at last came up with him, but at so late an hour, and at such a distance from the line of march, that a bivouac in the plain was inevitable.

“Oh, Hans,” he said, “I’m so glad you’ve found me! I had no idea that one could get so easily lost in an open plain.”

“You’ve had enough experience too, one would think, to have remembered the vastness of the karroo,” said Hans, dismounting and making the fastenings of the springbok more secure, “A man soon dwindles to the size of a crow in plains like this, when you gallop away from him. Men not accustomed to them misjudge distances and sizes in a wonderful way. I remember once being out hunting with a fellow who mistook a waggon for a springbok!—But come, mount; we must ride on to a better camping-place than this, and be content to sleep without blankets to-night.”

“I hope the camping-place is not far off, for I’m parched with thirst,” said Considine, mounting and following at a smart gallop.

“I’m sorry for you,” returned Hans, “for you’ll see no water this night. To-morrow we’ll start early and get to the waggons by breakfast-time.”

This was depressing news to Considine, for the heat of the day and exertions of the chase had, as he expressed it, almost dried him up. There was nothing for it, however, but patience.

About sunset they came to a place where were some old deserted huts. In one of these they resolved to pass the night, though, from certain holes in the side, it was evidently used at times as an abode by beasts of prey. Having flint and steel, they made a fire, and while thus engaged were serenaded by the distant and dolorous howls of a hyena and the inharmonious jabberings of a jackal.

“Pleasant company!” observed Considine as he roasted a steak over the fire.

“Ja,” replied Hans, who, being a more expert cook, was already busy with a rib.

The melancholy hoot of an owl seemed to indicate that the animal kingdom agreed with the sentiment, and the young men laughed. They were not, however, disposed to talk much. After a silent supper they lay down and slept soundly, quite oblivious of the prowlers of the night, who came, more than once, near to the door of the hut.

It was late next day when they awoke. Hans likewise missed his way, and though he afterwards discovered his mistake, they found it impossible to regain the track of their companions before sunset. All that day they were compelled to travel without tasting a drop of water, and their poor horses became so fatigued as to be scarcely equal to more than a walking pace. As Hans knew that water was not far off, he pushed on after sunset, so as to have the shorter distance to travel to it in the morning.

“It is very tantalising,” he said, drawing rein when the darkness of the night rendered travelling almost impossible, “to know that our friends cannot be far off, and yet be unable to reach them.”

“Hadn’t we better fire a shot?” asked Considine.

“Not of much use, I fear, but there can be no harm in trying.”

The shot was fired and was instantly replied to by a tremendous roar from a lion, apparently close to where they stood. No wood was near them to make a fire, nothing but tufts of grass; they therefore pushed on towards a range of dark mountains as fast as their jaded steeds would go.

“Halt a moment,” said Hans in a low voice.

They stopped and listened. The approach of the lion in rear was distinctly heard.

“We cannot escape from him, Charlie,” said Hans, as they again urged their horses onward, “and in the dark we cannot take aim at him. Our only chance is to reach yonder pass or glen that looms like a black cleft in the hills, and clamber up some precipice, whence we can pelt him with stones.”

He spoke in quick, earnest tones. They soon entered the gorge and were greeted by the grunt of a baboon and the squalling of its young ones, which helped to increase the savage aspect of the towering cliffs on either side. They had not proceeded far when the lion gave another tremendous roar, which, echoing from cliff to cliff, gave the luckless hunters the feeling of having got into the very heart of a lion’s den. No suitable place to scramble up being found, they pushed madly on over a track of sand and bushes, expecting every instant to see the monster bound upon them. But the defile was shorter than Hans had supposed. On issuing from it they were cheered by the moon rising bright in the east, and found that their enemy had ceased to follow them at that point. Still, though weary, and with their tongues cleaving to the roofs of their mouths, they continued their march for several hours, and lying down at last, they scarcely knew how or there, they went to sleep with a prayer for protection and deliverance on their parched lips.

The weary wanderers passed that night in a very paradise, bathing in cool streams and slaking their thirst nearly, but never quite, to the full. There was always a peculiar desire to drink again, and, even then, to wish for more! Heavenly music, too, sounded in their ears, and the sweet shade of green trees sheltered them.

It was daybreak when they were roused from these delights by a hyena’s howl, and awoke to find that they were speechless with thirst, their eyes inflamed, and their whole frames burning.

Saddling the horses at once, they rode forward, and in a couple of hours reached a hill near the top of which there was a projecting rock.

“Don’t let me raise your hopes too high,” said Hans, pointing to the rock, “but it is just possible that we may find water there.”

“God grant it!” said Considine.

“Your horse is fresher than mine,” said Hans, “and you are lighter than I am—go first. If there is water, hail me—if not, I will wait your return.”

With a nod of assent the youth pushed forward, gained the rock, and found the place where water had once been, a dry hole!

For a few minutes he stood gazing languidly on the plain beyond the ridge. Despair had almost taken possession of his breast, when his eye suddenly brightened. He observed objects moving far away on the plain. With bated breath he stooped and shaded his eyes with his hand. Yes, there could be no doubt about it—a party of horsemen and bullock-waggons! He tried to cheer, but his dry throat refused to act. Turning quickly, he began to descend the hillside, and chanced to cough as he went along. Instantly he was surrounded by almost a hundred baboons, some of gigantic size, which came fearlessly towards him. They grunted, grinned, and sprang from stone to stone, protruding their mouths and drawing back the skin of their foreheads, threatening an instant attack. Considine’s gun was loaded, but he had lived long enough in those regions to be fully aware of the danger of wounding one of these creatures in such circumstances. Had he done so he would probably have been torn to pieces in five minutes. He therefore kept them off with the muzzle of his gun as he continued the descent. Some of them came so near as to touch his hat while passing projecting rocks. At last he reached the plain, where the baboons stopped and appeared to hold a noisy council as to whether they should make a great assault or not. He turned and levelled his gun.

“Come,” thought he at that moment, “don’t do it, Charlie. You have escaped. Be thankful, and leave the poor brutes alone.”

Obeying the orders of his conscience, he re-shouldered his gun and returned to his friend, whom he found reclining under a low bush, and informed him of what he had seen. The young Dutchman jumped up at once, and, mounting, rode round a spur of the hill and out upon the plain. In an hour they had overtaken their comrades, but great was their dismay on finding that they had long ago consumed every drop of water, and that they were suffering from thirst quite as much as themselves.

“Never mind,” said Lucas Van Dyk; “let me comfort you with the assurance that we shall certainly reach water in a few hours.”

The hunter was right. Some hours before sunset the oxen and horses quickened their pace of their own accord—sure sign that they had scented water from afar. Shortly after, they came in sight of a stream. The excitement of all increased as they pushed forward. They broke into a wild run on nearing the stream; and then followed a scene which is almost indescribable. The oxen were cast loose, the riders leaped to the ground, and the whole party, men, oxen, and horses, ran in a promiscuous heap into the water.

“Wow, man, Jerry, hae a care; ee’ll be squizzen atween the beasts,” said Sandy Black, as the active Jerry passed him in the race.

The Scot’s warning was not without reason, for next moment Jerry was up to the knees in the stream between two oxen, who, closing on each other, almost burst him. Easing off, they let him drop on hands and knees, and he remained in that position drinking thankfully. The whole place was quickly stirred up into a muddy compound like pea-soup, but neither man nor beast was particular. They struggled forward and fell on their knees—not inappropriately—to drink. One man was pushed down by an ox, but seemed pleased with the refreshing coolness of his position, and remained where he was drinking. Another in his haste tumbled over the edge of the bank and rolled down, preceded by an impatient horse, which had tripped over him. Both gathered themselves up, somehow, with their lips in the water,—and drank! Young Rivers, happening to gain the stream at a point where oxen and horses were wedged together tightly, tried to force in between them, but, failing in this, he stooped to crawl in below them. At that moment Slinger the “Tottie” gave a yell in Dutch, and said that a horse was trampling on him; whom Dikkop consoled by saying that he was fast in the mud—and so he was, but not too fast to prevent drinking. Meanwhile the Dutchmen and the knowing ones of the party restrained themselves, and sought for better positions where the water was clearer. There they, likewise, bent their tall heads and suggested—though they did not sing—the couplet:

“Oh that a Dutchman’s draught might be

As deep as the ro–o–olling Zuyder-Zee!”

The limit of drinking was capacity. Each man and beast drank as much as he, or it, could hold, and then unwillingly left the stream, covered with mud and dripping wet! Oh, it was a delicious refreshment, which some thought fully repaid them for the toil and suffering they had previously undergone. The aspect of the whole band may be described in the language of Sandy Black, who, beholding his friends after the fray, remarked that they were all “dirty and drookit.”

Chapter Twenty One.

Treats of Matters too Numerous and Stirring to be briefly referred to.

Soon after this the explorers passed beyond the level country, and their sufferings were for the time relieved. The region through which they then passed was varied—hilly, wooded, and beautiful, and, to crown all, water was plentiful. Large game was also abundant, and one day the footprints of elephants were discovered.

To some of the party that day was one of deepest interest and excitement.

Charlie Considine, who was, as we have said, an adept with the pencil, longed to sit down and sketch the lordly elephant in his native haunts. Andrew Rivers and Jerry Goldboy wanted to shoot him, so did George Rennie and the Mullers and Lucas Van Dyk. More moderate souls, like Sandy Black, said they would be satisfied merely to see him, while Slinger and Dikkop, with their brethren, declared that they wanted to eat him.

At last they came in sight of him! It was a little after mid-day. They were traversing at the time a jungle so dense that it would have been impassable but for a Kafir-path which had been kept open by wild animals. The hunters had already seen herds of quaggas, and buffaloes, and some of the larger sorts of antelopes, also one rhinoceros, but not yet elephants. Now, to their joy, the giant tracks of these monsters were discovered. Near the river, in swampy places, it was evident that some of them had been rolling luxuriously in the ooze and mud. But it was in the forests and jungles that they had left the most striking marks of their habits and mighty power, for there thorny brakes of the most impenetrable character had been trodden flat by them, and trees had been overturned. In traversing such places the great bull-elephant always marches in the van, bursting through everything by sheer force and weight, breaking off huge limbs of the larger trees with his proboscis when these obstruct his path, and overturning the smaller ones bodily, while the females and younger members of the family follow in his wake.

A little further on they came to a piece of open ground where the elephants had torn up a number of mimosa-trees and inverted them so that they might the more easily browse on the juicy roots. It was evident from appearances that the animals had used their tusks as crowbars, inserting them under the roots to loosen their hold of the earth, and it was equally clear that, like other and higher creatures, they sometimes attempted what was beyond their strength, for some of the larger trees had resisted their utmost efforts.

As these signs multiplied the hunters proceeded with increased vigilance and caution, each exhibiting the peculiarity of his character, more or less, by his look and actions. The Mullers, Van Dyk, Rennie, Hans, and other experienced men, rode along, calmly watchful, yet not so much absorbed as to prevent a humorous glance and a smile at the conduct of their less experienced comrades. Considine and Rivers showed that their spirits were deeply stirred, by the flash of their ever-roving eyes, the tight compression of their lips, the flush on their brows, and the position of readiness in which they carried their guns—elephant-guns, by the way, lent them by their Dutch friends for the occasion. Sandy Black rode with a cool, sober, sedate air, looking interested and attentive, but with that peculiar twinkle of the eyes and slightly sarcastic droop at the corners of the mouth which is often characteristic of the sceptical Scotsman. On the other hand, Jerry Goldboy went along blazing with excitement, while every now and then he uttered a suppressed exclamation, and clapped the blunderbuss to his shoulder when anything moved, or seemed to move, in the jungle.

Jerry had flatly refused to exchange his artillery for any other weapon, and having learned that small shot was useless against elephants, he had charged it with five or six large pebbles—such as David might have used in the slaying of Goliath. Mixed with these was a sprinkling of large nails, and one or two odd buttons. He was a source of constant and justifiable alarm to his friends, who usually compelled him either to ride in front, with the blunderbuss pointing forward, or in the rear, with its muzzle pointing backward.

“There go your friends at last, Jerry,” said Van Dyk, curling his black moustache, with a smile, as the party emerged from a woody defile into a wide valley.

“What? where? eh! in which direction? point ’em out quick!” cried Jerry, cocking the blunderbuss violently and wheeling his steed round with such force that his haunch hit Sandy Black’s leg pretty severely.

“Hoot, ye loupin’ eedyit!” growled the Scot, somewhat nettled.

Jerry subdued himself with a violent effort, while the experienced hunters pointed out the elephants, and consulted as to the best plan of procedure.

There were fifty at least of the magnificent animals scattered in groups over the bottom and sides of a valley about three miles in extent; some were browsing on the succulent spekboom, of which they are very fond. Others were digging up and feeding among the young mimosa-thorns and evergreens. The place where the hunters stood was not suitable for an attack. It was therefore resolved to move round to a better position. As they advanced some of the groups of elephants came more distinctly into view, but they seemed either not to observe, or to disregard, the intruders.

“Why not go at ’em at once?” asked young Rivers in an impatient whisper.

“Because we don’t want to be killed,” was the laconic reply from Diederik Muller.

“Don’t you see,” explained Van Dyk, with one of his quiet smiles, “that the ground where the nearest fellows stand is not suitable for horsemen?”

“Well, I don’t see exactly, but I’ll take your word for it.”

While they were speaking, and riding through a meadow thickly studded over with clumps of tall evergreens, Considine observed something moving over the top of a bush close ahead of him.

“Look out there!” he exclaimed, but those in advance had already turned the corner of a bush, and found themselves within a hundred paces of a huge male elephant.

Jerry at once pointed the blunderbuss and shut his eyes, and would infallibly have pulled the trigger, if Sandy Black, who had in some measure become his keeper, had not seized his wrist and wrenched the weapon from his grasp.

“Man, ye’ll be the death o’ somebody yet,” he said in a low stern tone.

Jerry at once became penitent and on giving a solemn promise that he would not fire till he obtained permission, received his weapon back.

“Een groot gruwzaam karl,” whispered one of the Hottentots, in broken Dutch.

“My certie, but he is a great gruesome carl!” said Black, echoing in Scotch the Dutchman’s expression as he gazed in admiration.

“He’s fourteen feet high if he’s an inch,” observed George Rennie.

The scent and hearing of the elephant are both keen, but his sight is not very good. As the wind chanced to blow from him to the hunters he had not perceived them. This was fortunate, for it would have been highly dangerous to have attacked him in such ground. They wheeled round therefore and galloped away towards some scattered rocks, whence they could better approach him on foot. Dismounting, the leaders formed a hasty plan of operations, and immediately proceeded to put it in execution.

It may have been that their explanation of the plan was not lucid, or that Jerry Goldboy’s head was not clear, but certain it is that after having been carefully told what to do, he dashed into the jungle after Sandy Black and did what seemed right in his own eyes.

Black kept close to the heels of Hans Marais, and so did Considine, but Jerry soon began to pant with excitement; then he stumbled and fell. Before recovering himself from a “wait-a-bit” thorn he had been left out of sight behind. He pushed valiantly on however and came to a small open plain, where he looked anxiously round, but his comrades were nowhere to be seen. Just then a shot was fired, it was followed quickly by another, and then was heard, above the shouting of excited Hottentots, the shrill screaming of wounded and enraged elephants. Jerry heard the tremendous sounds for the first time, and quaked in his spinal marrow.

Observing the smoke of a shot on the opposite side of the little plain, he proceeded to cross over hastily, but had barely gained the middle of the open space when the shrill screams were repeated with redoubled fury. At the same time Jerry heard cries of warning, coupled with his own name. He looked right and left in alarm, not knowing where the threatened danger was likely to come from. He was not kept long in suspense. Behind him he heard the crackling and crashing of branches caused by elephants bursting through the wood. Then a large female with three young, but by no means small, ones issued from the edge of the jungle and made straight at the unfortunate man. Jerry turned and ran, but he had no chance; the elephants gained on him so fast that he felt, with an awful sickening of the heart, it was not possible to reach the rocky ground beyond the meadow, where he might have been safe. With the courage of despair he faced about and fired straight in the face of the old female, which ran him down with a shriek of indignation. She had only one tusk, but with that she made a prod at Jerry that would have quickly ended his days if it had not missed the mark and gone deep into the ground. She then caught him by the middle with her trunk, threw him between her fore-feet, and attempted to tread him to death. This she certainly would have accomplished, but that Jerry was remarkably agile and very small; the ground being soft and muddy was also in his favour. Once she set her foot on his chest, and he felt the bones bending. Of course had the creature’s full weight pressed it, Jerry would have been cracked like a walnut, but the monster’s foot was rounded and wet, and, the poor man making a desperate wrench, it slipped into the mud; then she trod on his arm, and squeezed it into the ground without snapping the bone. Thus stamping and wriggling for a few seconds, the two fought on for vengeance and for life, while George Rennie, Hans, and the two Mullers ran to the rescue and fired a volley. This caused the animal to wince and look up. Jerry, taking advantage of the pause, jumped up and dived out from below her between her hind-legs—alighting on his head and turning a complete somersault. He regained his feet just as she turned round again to seize him. At that critical moment Lucas Van Dyk put a ball in her head, and Considine sent another into the root of her trunk, which induced her to turn and join her screaming offspring in the bushes.

The hunters pursued, while Jerry, covered with mud and bruises, and scarcely able to run, made off in the opposite direction. He had scarcely reached the shelter of some broken ground, when the enormous male elephant which had been previously encountered, came running past, either to the rescue of its mate, or flying in alarm at the firing. It caught one of the Hottentots who had loitered in rear of the attacking party, carried him some distance in its trunk, and then, throwing him on the ground, brought its four feet together and trod and stamped on him for a considerable time. The unfortunate man was killed instantly. It left the corpse for a little, and then returned to it, as if to make quite sure of its deadly work, and, kneeling down, crushed and kneaded the body with its fore-legs. Then seizing it again with its trunk, it carried it off and threw it into the jungle.

This delay on the elephant’s part gave the hunters time to return from the destruction of the female, and with several successful shots to kill the male.

“’Tis a heavy price to pay for our sport,” said Considine sadly, as he stood with his companions gazing on the body of the Hottentot, which was trodden into a shapeless mass.

“Hunters don’t go out for mere sport,” said Lucas Van Dyk, “they do it in the way of business—for ivory and hides. Of course they must take the chances of a risky trade.”

This sad incident naturally cast a gloom over the party, and they remained there only long enough to cut out the tusks of the male elephant and stow them away with choice parts of the meat in their waggon.

After quitting the valley they fell in with the party under John Skyd and Frank Dobson, and led by Stephen Orpin. They were much surprised to find with these their friends Kenneth McTavish and Groot Willem, who soon accounted for their unexpected appearance. They had been steadily tracing the spoor of poor Junkie, had lost and re-found it several times and, during their pursuit, had crossed the waggon-tracks of Skyd and his party, whom they followed up, in the faint hope that they might have heard or seen something to guide them in their search. In this they were disappointed.

After a brief council of war it was resolved to join their forces and continue the search after Junkie.

Proceeding on their way, they fell in with a wounded Kafir. He lay dying under a bush, and made no attempt to escape, although he evidently regarded the white men as enemies. Having been reassured on this point, and comforted with a piece of tobacco, he told them that his village had been attacked by the Fetcani and completely destroyed, with all the women and children—only a few of the wounded warriors like himself having escaped, to perish in the jungle. The Fetcani he described as the most ferocious warriors ever seen. They did not use the ordinary assagai or throwing spear, but a short stabbing one, and invariably closed at once with their foes with irresistible impetuosity.

On being questioned about prisoners, and reference being made to white men’s children, he said that he had heard of a white boy who was brought to a village a day’s march or more from where they then were, but added that the Fetcani hordes had gone off to destroy that village just after destroying his own, and that he had no doubt it was by that time reduced to ashes and all its inhabitants slain.

On hearing this, and learning the direction of the village in question, the hunters went off at full gallop, leaving the waggons to follow their spoor.

It was nearly sunset when they came to an eminence beyond which lay the Kafir town of which they were in search. The first glance showed that something unusual was going on in it—at the same time it relieved their fears to observe that it was not yet destroyed. The mud hovels, like huge beehives, in which the Kafirs dwelt, were not yet burnt, and the only smoke visible was that which rose from cooking fires. But it was quite plain that the people, who in the distance seemed to swarm in and about the place like black ants, were in wild excitement.

“No doubt they’ve heard that the Fetcani are coming,” said Groot Willem, riding to the highest point of the ridge on which they stood. “The place seems pretty strong. I think we might do worse than go lend the niggers a helping hand till we’ve made inquiries about the lad.”

Lucas Van Dyk echoed this sentiment, and so did Stephen Orpin, but there were others who thought it best to let the niggers fight their own battles.

“Well, friends,” said Kenneth McTavish, “you may hold what opinion you like on that point, but my business just now is to go into that town and see if I can find Junkie Brook. The sooner I do so the better, so let those who choose follow me.”

He rode off at a brisk trot, and was followed by the whole party. On reaching the town they halted, and the principal chief, Eno, came out to meet them. One of the Hottentots being called to interpret, the hunters were informed that the Fetcani had threatened to attack the town, and that the inhabitants were busy putting themselves in a state of defence. They were glad, said the chief, to see the white men, and hoped they would stay to assist him.

To this Stephen Orpin replied through the interpreter. Stephen somehow fell naturally into the position of spokesman and chief of the party in positions where tact and eloquence or diplomacy were wanted, though in the hunting-field he held a very subordinate place.

He told Eno that the white men had come to seek for a white boy who had been stolen from one of the frontier settlements, and that he had heard the boy was in his, Eno’s, town. That he was glad to hear it, though of course he did not suppose Eno had stolen the boy, seeing that none of his people had been yet near the colony. That he and his friends now came to claim the boy, and would be glad to aid them in defending the town, if attacked while they were in it.

In reply the chief said he knew nothing about a white boy being in his town, but would make inquires.

While this conference was going on, a man was seen to approach, running at full speed. He fell from exhaustion on arriving, and for some moments could not speak. Recovering, he told that he had just escaped from a band of two hundred Fetcani warriors, who were even then on their way to attack the town.

Instantly all was uproar and confusion. The warriors, seizing their shields and spears, sallied forth under their chief to meet the enemy—a few of the youngest being left behind to guard the women and children. A party of the Hottentots under Kenneth McTavish also remained to guard the town, while the rest set off to aid the Kafirs. They were compelled, however, to ride back a short distance to meet the waggons, and obtain a supply of ammunition. Thus a little time was lost, and before they could reach the scene of action the Kafirs had met with the Fetcani warriors, been thoroughly beaten, and put to flight.

On the appearance, however, of the horsemen the pursuers halted.

“Now, lads,” cried Groot Willem, “a steady volley and a charge home will send them to the right about.”

“Better fire over their heads,” said Orpin earnestly. “We are not at war with these men. Let us not kill if we can help it.”

“I agree with that heartily,” cried Charlie Considine.

“So do I,” said Hans. “Depend on’t the sound will suffice for men who perhaps never saw fire-arms before.”

“Quite right, Maister Marais,” said Sandy Black, with grave approval, “an’ if oor charge is only heeded by Groot Willem an’ Jerry Goldboy, tak’ my word for’t thae Fit-canny craters’ll flee like chaff before the wund.”

“Very good,” said Groot Willem, with a grin.—“Come along, Jerry.”

The dauntless little man answered the summons with delight, and the whole party approached the wondering Fetcani at a trot. Halting when within about eighty yards, they fired a volley from horseback over the heads of the enemy. Then, through the smoke, they charged at full speed like thunderbolts, Groot Willem roaring like a mad buffalo-bull, Jerry Goldboy shrieking like a wounded elephant, and energising fearfully with legs, arms, reins, and blunderbuss, while the others shouted or laughed in wild excitement.

The Fetcani, as Sandy Black had prophesied, could not stand it. Turning their backs to the foe, they fled as only panic-stricken and naked niggers can fly, and were soon scattered and lost in the jungle.

While this was going on far out on the plain, Kenneth McTavish had much ado to keep the people quiet in the town—so great was their dread of falling into the hands of the ferocious Fetcani. But when the wounded warriors began to come in, breathless, gashed, and bleeding, with the report of their disaster, he found it impossible to restrain the people. The young warriors ignominiously left the place and fled, while the women followed, carrying their children and such of their worldly goods as they were loath to leave behind. For some time McTavish managed to restrain the latter, but when at last the hunters came thundering back after their bloodless victory, the poor women, fancying they were the enemy, flung down goods, and even babies, and ran.

The horsemen called out to assure them they were friends, but their terror was too great to permit of their comprehending, and they continued to fly.

“Come, Charlie, we must head these poor creatures, and drive them back,” said Hans, as he rode over ground which was strewn with utensils, mantles, and victuals, among which many little black and naked children were seen running, stumbling, tottering, or creeping, according to age and courage.

Followed by the other horsemen, they rode ahead of the flying multitude, and, cracking their whips menacingly in front, with an occasional charge, they succeeded in staying the flight and turning the poor women back. No sooner did these comprehend how matters stood than they turned, and caught up their little ones with as much affection and thankfulness as if they had just shown a readiness to die for, rather than forsake, them.

Among these children was one who, although as black as the ace of spades in body and face, had light curly flaxen hair. He ran about in a wild unaccountable manner, darting hither and thither, from side to side.

McTavish and the others, who had by that time dismounted, and were standing at their horses’ heads amused spectators of the scene, looked at this urchin in surprise, until they observed that he was endeavouring to escape from a stout young woman who did her best to catch him. She had nearly succeeded, when he suddenly doubled like a hare and bore straight down on the horsemen. Seeing this, the woman gave in, and, turning, fled to the town, while the little fellow ran and clasped the Highlander by the knees.

“Oh! Miss’r Tavish!” he cried, and looked up.

“Ah! why—it’s Junkie!” cried the Highlander, catching the child up in his arms and hugging him, by which means he left a dark imprint of him on his own breast and face.

It was indeed Junkie—naked as on the day of his birth, greased from head to foot, and charcoaled as black as the King of Ashantee!

Although an object of the deepest interest to the white men, poor Junkie was not at that moment personally attractive. He was, however, unspeakably happy at seeing white and familiar faces once more. He was also very much subdued, and had obviously profited by the rude teaching he had undergone in Kafirland, for his obedience to orders was prompt and unquestioning.

The first important matter was to clean Junkie. This was only partially effected, and with difficulty. The next was to clothe him. This was done, on the spur of the moment, with pocket-handkerchiefs, each hunter contributing one till the costume was complete. A large red cotton one formed a sort of plaid; a blue one with a hole in the middle, through which his head was thrust, served as a pretty good poncho or tippet; a green one with white spots, tied round the loins, did duty as a tunic or kilt; and one of crimson silk round the head formed a gorgeous turban.

Returning to the village, the hunters found Eno the chief, and, after expressing much satisfaction at having arrived in time to lend him effectual aid at so critical a period, they presented him with gifts of brass wire and cotton cloth, from the stores in Skyd and Dobson’s waggons.

The chief expressed his gratitude in glowing terms, and begged the hunters to stay with him for some time. But this they would not do, as it was important to return to the colony, and report what they had seen without delay. Notwithstanding their professions of gratitude, however, these rascals stole as many small articles front the waggons as they could lay hands on, and would doubtless have taken all that the hunters possessed, if they had not been impressed by their valour, and by the dreadful firearms which they carried.

This accidental skirmish was the first meeting of the colonists with the Fetcani. It was not till two years later that the Government felt constrained to take active measures against these savages.

The Fetcani, or Mantatee hordes, having been driven from their own country by the bloodthirsty Zulu chief Chaka, had been preying upon other tribes for many years, and at last, in 1827, they precipitated themselves on the Tambookies, and afterwards on the Galekas, threatening to extirpate these Kafirs altogether, or to drive them into the colony as suppliants and beggars. In this extremity the Kafir chief Hintza urgently craved assistance.

It was granted. A body of the colonists sent out by Government, under Major Dundas of the Royal Artillery, defeated the warlike Fetcani, who were afterwards utterly routed and scattered, and their dreaded power finally annihilated, near the sources of the Umtata river, by a body of troops under Colonel Somerset. Hintza’s warriors were present at that affair, to the number of about twenty thousand, and they hovered about during the engagement admiringly, though without rendering assistance. But when the enemy were routed and in confused retreat, they fell upon them, and, despite the remonstrances of the white men, committed the most appalling atrocities, mutilating the dead, and cutting off the arms and legs of the living, in order the more easily to obtain their brass rings and ornaments.

This warlike episode did not, however, affect the general condition of the frontier. The settlers, having overcome the misfortunes of the first years, began to prosper and multiply, troubled a good deal, no doubt, by the thievish propensities of their ungrateful black neighbours, but on the whole enjoying the fruit of their labours in comparative peace for several years.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Tells of Dark and Threatening Clouds, and War.

The exigencies of our somewhat acrobatic tale require, at this point, that we should make a considerable bound. We shall beg the obliging reader to leap with us into the year 1834.

Hans Marais, moustached, bearded, bronzed, and in the prime of life, sits at the door of a cottage recently built close to that of his father. Beside him sits his wife—formerly Miss Gertrude Brook, and now as sweet and pretty a young woman as you would find in a month’s ride through a country where sweet pretty women were, and still are, very numerous in proportion to the population.

Whether it was that Hans was timid, or Gertie shy, we cannot tell, but somehow it is only three months since they began their united career, and Hans considers himself to have married rather “late in life.” Gertie, being now twenty-six, begins to think herself quite an old woman. It is evident, however, that this ancient couple wear well, and are sufficiently happy—if we may presume to judge from appearances.

“Gertie,” said Hans, patting the fingers which handed him his big Dutch pipe, “I fear that my father is determined to go.”

“Do you think so?” said Gertie, while a sad expression chased the sunshine from her face.

“Yes, he says he cannot stand the treatment we Cape-Dutchmen receive from the British Government, and that he means to give up his farm, take his waggons and goods, and treck away to the north, with the friends who are already preparing to go, in search of free lands in the wilderness where the Union Jack does not fly.”

“I must be very stupid, Hans,” returned his wife, with a deprecating smile, “for although I’ve heard your father discussing these matters a good deal of late, I cannot quite understand them. Of course I see well enough that those men who approve of slavery must feel very much aggrieved by the abolition, but your father, like yourself and many others, is not one of these—what then does he complain of?”

“Of a great deal, Gertie,” replied Hans, with an amused glance at her perplexed face, “and not only in connection with slavery, but other things. It would take hours of talk to tell you all.”

“But can’t you give me some sort of idea of these things in a few words?”

“Yes; at least I’ll try,” said Hans. “I need scarcely tell you that there has been a sort of ill-will in the Cape-Dutch mind against the British Government—more’s the pity—ever since the colony passed into the possession of England, owing partly to their not understanding each other, partly to incompetent and tyrannical Governors pursuing unwise policy, partly to unprincipled or stupid men misrepresenting the truth in England, and partly to the people of England being too ready to swallow whatever they are told.”

“What! is all the fault on the side of the English?” interrupted Gertie, with a laugh.

“Hear me out, wife,” returned Hans—“partly owing to foolish Dutchmen rebelling against authority, and taking the law into their own hands, and partly to rascally Dutchmen doing deeds worthy of execration. Evil deeds are saddled on wrong shoulders, motives are misunderstood, actions are exaggerated, judges both here and in England are sometimes incompetent, prejudice and ignorance prevent veils from being removed, and six thousand miles of ocean, to say nothing of six hundred miles of land, intervene to complicate the confusion surrounding right or wrong.”

“Dear me! what an incomprehensible state of things!” said Gertie, opening her blue eyes very wide.

“Rather,” returned Hans, with a smile; “and yet there are sensible Englishmen and sensible Cape-Dutchmen who are pretty well agreed as to the true merits of the questions that trouble us. There is the abolition of slavery, for instance: many on both sides are convinced as to the propriety of that, but nearly all are agreed in condemning the way in which it is being gone about, believing that the consequences to many of the slaveholders will be ruinous. But it is useless to go into such matters now, Gertie. Right or wrong, many of the Dutch farmers are talking seriously of going out of the colony, and my father, I grieve to say, is among the number.”

“And you, Hans?”

“I will remain on the old homestead—at least for a time. If things improve we may induce father to return; if not, I will follow him into the wilderness.”

“And what of Considine?” asked Gertie.

“He remains to help me to manage the farm. There is no chance for him in the present exasperated state of my father’s mind. He unhappily extends his indignation against England to Englishmen, and vows that my sister Bertha shall never wed Charlie Considine.”

“Is he likely to continue in that mind?”

“I think so.”

“Then there is indeed no chance for poor Charlie,” was the rejoinder, “for Bertha Marais will never marry in direct opposition to her father’s wishes. Heigho! ’Tis the old story about the course of true love.”

“He may change—he will change his mind, I think,” said Hans, “but in the meantime he will go off into the wilderness, carrying Bertha along with him. I would have gone with him myself without hesitation, had it not been that I cannot bear to think of tearing you away just yet from the old people, and I may perhaps do some good here in the way of saving the old home.”

Hans looked round with a somewhat mournful gaze at the home of his childhood, which bore evidences of the preparations that were being made by Conrad Marais to leave it.

That evening a large party of disaffected boers arrived at the homestead of Conrad Marais, with waggons, wives, children, goods, and arms, on their way to the far north. Some of these men were sterling fellows, good husbands and fathers and masters, but with fiery independent spirits, which could not brook the restraints laid on them by a Government that had too frequently aroused their contempt or indignation. Others were cruel, selfish savages who scorned the idea that a man might not “wallop his own nigger,” and were more than half pleased that the abolition of slavery and its consequences gave them a sort of reason for throwing off allegiance to the British Crown, and forsaking their homes in disgust; and some there were who would have been willing to remain and suffer, but could not bear the idea of being left behind by their kindred.

Next morning Conrad completed the loading of his waggons, placed his wife and children—there was still a baby!—in them, mounted his horse with the sons who yet remained with him, and bade farewell to the old home on the karroo. He was followed by a long train of his compatriots’ waggons. They all crossed the frontier into Kafirland and thenceforth deemed themselves free!

This was the first droppings of a shower—the first leak of a torrent—the first outbreak of that great exodus of the Dutch-African boers which was destined in the future to work a mighty change in the South African colony.

Hans and Gertie accompanied the party for several hours on their journey, and then, bidding them God-speed, returned to their deserted home.

But now a cloud was lowering over the land which had been imperceptibly, though surely, gathering on the horizon for years past.

We have said that hitherto the colony, despite many provocations, thefts, and occasional murders, had lived in a state of peace with the Kafirs—the only time that they took up arms for a brief space being in their defence, at Hintza’s request, against the Fetcani.

Latterly, we have also observed, the British settlers had toiled hard and prospered. The comforts of life they had in abundance. Trade began to be developed, and missions were established in Kafirland. Among other things, the freedom of the press had been granted them after a hard struggle! The first Cape newspaper, the South African Commercial Advertiser, edited by Pringle the poet and Fairbairn, was published in 1824, and the Grahamstown Journal, the first Eastern Province newspaper, was issued by Mr Godlonton in 1831. Schools were also established. Wool-growing began to assume an importance which was a premonition of the future staple of the Eastern Provinces. Savings-banks were established, and, in short, everything gave promise of the colony—both east and west—becoming a vigorous, as it was obviously a healthy, chip of the old block.

But amongst all this wheat there had been springing up tares. With the growing prosperity there were growing evils. A generous and well-meant effort on the part of Christians and philanthropists to give full freedom and rights to the Hottentots resulted to a large extent in vagabondism, with its concomitant robbery. The Kafirs, emboldened by the weak, and exasperated by the incomprehensible, policy of the Colonial Government at that time, not only crossed the border to aid the Hottentot thieves in their work, and carry off sheep and cattle by the hundred, but secretly prepared for war. Behind the scenes were the paramount chief Hintza, the chief Macomo, and others. The first, forgetting the deliverance wrought for him by the settlers and British troops in 1828, secretly stirred up the Kafirs, whilst the second, brooding over supposed wrongs, fanned the flame of discontent raised among the Hottentots by the proposal of a Vagrancy Act.

When all is ready for war it takes but a spark to kindle the torch. The Kafirs were ready; the British, however, were not. The settlers had been peacefully following their vocations, many of the troops, which ought to have been there to guard them, had been unwisely withdrawn, and only a few hundred men remained in scattered groups along the frontier. The armed Hottentots of the Kat River—sent there as a defence—became a point of weakness, and required the presence of a small force to overawe them and prevent their joining the Kafirs. At last the electric spark went forth. A farmer (Nell) was robbed of seven horses, which were traced to the kraal of a chief on the neutral territory. Restoration was refused. A military patrol was sent to enforce restitution. Opposition was offered, and the officer in command wounded with an assagai. Hintza began to retreat and plunder British traders who were residing in his territory under his pledged protection, and at length a trader named Purcell was murdered near the chief’s kraal and his store robbed. Then Macomo began hostilities by robbing and murdering some farmers on the lower part of the Kat River, and two days afterwards the Kafir hordes, variously estimated at from eight to fifteen thousand men, burst across the whole frontier, wrapped the eastern colony in the smoke and flames of burning homesteads, scattered the unprepared settlers, demolished the works of fourteen years’ labour, penetrated to within twenty miles of Algoa Bay, and drove thousands of sheep and cattle back in triumph to Kafirland.

Chapter Twenty Three.

War.

It was at this juncture—the Christmas-tide of 1834, and the summer-time in South Africa—that a merry party was assembled under the shade of umbrageous trees that crowned a little knoll from which could be seen the blue smoke curling from a prosperous-looking homestead in the vale below. It was a party of settlers enjoying their Christmas festivities in the open air. Hans Marais and Charlie Considine were among them, but, feeling less inclined than was their wont to join in the hilarity of the young folks, they had sauntered into the shrubbery and conversed sadly about the departure of Conrad Marais and his family, and of the unsettled state of the frontier at that time.

While they talked, an armed band of savages had crept past them unperceived, and advanced stealthily towards the party of revellers on the knoll. Coming suddenly across the tracks of these savages, Hans cast an anxious look at his companion, and said quickly—

“Look here, Charlie—the spoor of Kafirs! Let’s go—”

The sentence was cut short by a wild war-cry, which was immediately followed by shouts of men and screams of women.

Turning without another word, the two friends ran back to the knoll at full speed, drawing their hunting-knives, which were the only weapons they happened to carry at the time.

On reaching the knoll a fearful scene presented itself. The Kafirs had already killed every man of the party—having come on them unawares and thrown their assagais with fatal precision from the bushes. They were completing the work of death with shouts and yells of fierce delight. Not a woman was to be seen. They had either been dragged into the bushes and slain, or had sought refuge in flight.

With a mighty shout of rage Hans and Considine dashed into the midst of the murderers, and two instantly fell, stabbed to the heart. Seizing the assagais of these, they rushed through the midst of their foes, and, as if animated by one mind, made for the homestead below. To reach the stables and get possession of their horses and rifles was their object.

The savages, of whom there were about thirty, were so taken aback by the suddenness and success of this onset that for a few seconds they did not pursue. Then, probably guessing the object of the fugitives, they uttered a furious yell and followed them down the hill. But Hans and Considine were active as well as strong. They kept well ahead, gained the principal house, and secured their rifles. Then, instead of barricading the doors and defending themselves, they ran out again and shot the two Kafirs who first came up.

Well did the savages know the deadly nature of the white man’s rifle, although at that time they had not themselves become possessed of it. When their comrades fell, and the two white men were seen to kneel and take deliberate aim at those who followed, the whole party scattered right and left and took refuge in the bush.

But the friends did not fire. These were not the days of breech-loaders. Prudently reserving their fire, they made a rush towards the stables, “saddled up” in a few seconds, and, mounting, rode forth at a gallop straight back to the blood-stained hillock. To rescue, if possible, some of the females was their object. Regardless of several assagais that whizzed close to them, they galloped hither and thither among the bushes, but without success.

“Let’s try yonder hollow,” cried Considine, pointing as he spoke.

The words had scarce left his lips when a host of some hundreds of Kafirs, with the shields, assagais and feathers of savage warriors, burst out of the hollow referred to. They had probably been attracted by the two shots, and instantly rushed towards the white men.

Hans Marais dismounted, kneeled to take steadier aim, fired, and shot the foremost warrior. Then, springing on his steed at a bound, he galloped away, loading as he went, and closely followed by his friend. Having reloaded, Hans pulled up and again leapt to the ground. This time Considine, appreciating his plan, followed his example, and both were about to kneel and fire when they perceived by a burst of smoke and flame that the farm-buildings had been set on fire.

In a straight line beyond, two other columns of dense smoke indicated the position of two neighbouring farms, and a third column, away to the right, and further removed from the line of the frontier, suddenly conveyed to the mind of Hans the fact that a general rising of the Kafirs had taken place. Instead of firing, he rose and remounted, exclaiming—

“Home, Charlie—home!”

At the moment a shout was heard in another direction. Turning round, they observed a body of a dozen or so of mounted Kafirs making straight towards them. To have killed two or four of these would have been easy enough to first-rate shots armed with double-barrels, but they knew that those unhurt would continue the chase. They therefore turned and fled in the direction of their own home. Their steeds were good and fresh, but their pursuers were evidently well mounted, for they did not seem to lose ground.

In the kitchen of Conrad Marais’s homestead Gertie stood that day, busily employed in the construction of a plum-pudding, with which she meant to regale Hans and Charlie on their return. And very pretty and happy did Gertie look, with her white apron and her dark hair looped up in careless braids, and her face flushed with exertion, and her pretty round arms bared to the dimpled elbows and scarcely capable of being rendered whiter by the flour with which they were covered.

A young Hottentot Venus of indescribable ugliness assisted in retarding her.

“The master will be here soon,” said Gertie, wiping the flour and pieces of dough off her hands; “we must be quick. Is the pot ready?”

Venus responded with a “Ja,” and a grin which displayed a splendid casket of pearls.

Just then the clatter of hoofs was heard.

“Why, here they come already, and in such a hurry too!” said Gertie in surprise, untying her apron hastily.

Before the apron was untied, however, Hans had pulled up at the door and shouted “Gertie!” in a voice so tremendous that his wife turned pale and came quickly to the door.

“Oh, Hans! what—”

“Come, darling, quick!”

There was no time for more. Hans held out his hand. Gertie took it mechanically.

“Your foot on my toe. Quick!”

Gertie did as she was bid, and felt herself swung to the saddle in front of her husband, who held her in his strong right arm, while in the grasp of his huge left hand he held the reins and an assagai.

Poor Gertie had time, in that brief moment, to note that Charlie Considine sat motionless on his panting horse, gazing sternly towards the karroo, and that a cloud of dust was sweeping over the plain towards them. She guessed too surely what it was, but said not a word, while her husband leaped his horse through a gap in the garden wall in order to reach the road by a short cut. Double-weighted thus, the horse did not run so well as before. Considine was frequently obliged to check his pace and look back.

The stern frown on the Dutchman’s brow had now mingled with it a slightly troubled look.

“Go on. I’ll follow immediately,” said Considine as he reined in.

“Don’t be foolhardy,” cried Hans, with an anxious look as he shot past.

Without replying, Considine dismounted, knelt on a slight eminence on the plain, and deliberately prepared to fire.

The pursuing savages observed the act, and when within about six or seven hundred yards began to draw rein.

Charlie Considine knew his rifle well; although not sighted for such a range, it was capable of carrying the distance when sufficiently elevated, and practice had accustomed him to long-range shots. He aimed a little above the head of the foremost rider, fired, and killed his horse. With the second barrel he wounded one of the Kafirs. At the same moment he observed that his late home was wrapped in flames, and that the cattle and sheep of Conrad Marais, which had been left in charge of Hans, were being driven off by the savages towards the mountains.

This was enough. Remounting, Charlie followed his friend, and was rejoiced to find on looking back that the Kafirs had ceased their pursuit.

“Strange,” he said on overtaking Hans, “that they should have given in so easily.”

“It is not fear that influences them,” returned his friend, with deeply knitted brows; “the reptiles know there is a pass before us, and they will surely try to cut us off. They know all the short cuts better than I do. Push on!”

Urging their horses to their utmost speed, the fugitives soon approached a more broken country, and skirted the mountain range through which the pass referred to by Hans led into level ground beyond. It was a narrow track through jungle, which was dense in some places, open in others. They were soon in it, riding furiously. At one of the open spaces they caught a glimpse of a mounted Kafir making towards a part of the pass in advance of them. Hans pulled up at once, and looked eagerly, anxiously round, while he pressed the light form of Gertie tighter to his breast.

“We must fight here, Charlie,” he said, as he made for a little mound which was crowned with a few bushes. “If you and I were alone we might risk forcing a passage, but—come; they observe our intention.”

A few bounds placed them on the top of the mound, where they took shelter among the bushes. These were scarcely thick enough to cover the horses, but among them was found a hole or crevice into which Hans told his wife to creep. She had barely found refuge in this place, when several assagais whizzed over their heads. Sheltering themselves behind stones, Hans and Considine looked eagerly in the direction whence the assagais had been thrown, and the former observed the ears of a horse just appearing over a bush. He fired at the spot where he conjectured the rider must be, and a yell told that he had not missed his mark. At the same moment his companion observed part of a Kafir’s form opposite to him, and, firing, brought him to the ground.

Seeing this the other savages made a rush at the mound, supposing probably that both guns were empty. They had either forgotten about or were ignorant of double-barrelled weapons. Two more shots killed the two leading Kafirs, and the rest turned to fly, but a gigantic fellow shouted to them fiercely to come on, and at the same moment leaped on Charlie Considine with such force that, although the latter struck him heavily with the butt of his rifle, he was borne to the ground. The triumph however was momentary. Next instant Hans Marais seized him, stabbed him in the throat, and hurled him back among his comrades, a lifeless corpse. Charlie, recovering himself, pointed his unloaded gun at the savages, who recoiled, turned, and fled back to the cover of the opposite bush.

“Now is our time,” said Hans, dragging his wife from the place of shelter. “Mount and make a dash before they recover.”

While speaking Hans was acting. In another moment Gertie was in her old place, Considine in the saddle, and the two men made a bold push for life.

It turned out as the Dutchman had conjectured. The Kafirs had left all parts of the surrounding jungle to join in the assault on the mound, and when the fugitives made a dash through them, only a few had presence of mind to throw their assagais, and these missed their mark. A few bounds carried Hans and Charlie once more in advance of their enemies, but the clatter of hoofs immediately afterwards told that they were hotly pursued.

There is no saying how the chase might have ended, if they had not met with a piece of good fortune immediately afterwards. On emerging from the other end of the pass, they almost ran into a small patrol of Cape Mounted Rifles, who, attracted by the shots and cries in the pass, were galloping to the rescue.

They did not halt to ask questions, but, with a hearty cheer and a friendly wave of the hand from the officer in command, dashed into the pass and met the pursuing savages in the very teeth.

Of course the latter turned and fled, leaving, however, several of their comrades dead on the ground.

During this early period of the war the whole defending force of the frontier consisted of only between seven and eight hundred men, composed of Cape Mounted Rifles and the 75th regiment, with a few of the Artillery and Engineers, and these had to be broken up into numerous small companies, who were sent here and there where succour was most needed.

With this little patrol, Hans, Gertie, and Considine bivouacked that night, and, travelling with them, soon afterwards reached Grahamstown.

The sight of the country as they approached was a sad one. From all quarters, men, women, children, vehicles, horses, cattle, and sheep, were crowding into the town as a place of refuge. At first the settlers nearest the eastern frontier, taken by surprise, fled to temporary rallying-points. These, however, had to be abandoned for stronger places of refuge. On entering the town they found that the greatest confusion and excitement prevailed. The church had been set apart as an asylum for the women and children, who had to put up, however, with the undesirable accompaniments of fire-arms and gunpowder. Public meetings were being held; picquets of armed citizens were being despatched to watch the main roads. All the houses were thronged to suffocation with refugees—white, brown, and black. The streets, squares, yards, gardens, and other vacant places were crowded by night, and the surrounding hills by day, with the flocks and herds that had been saved from the invaders, while the lowing and bleating of these were mingled with the sobs and wails of the widow and fatherless.

“What misery!” exclaimed Gertie, as she rode slowly through the crowds by the side of her husband, mounted on a horse lent her by one of the patrol, “Oh, how I dread to hear the news from home!”

Gertie referred to her father’s home, about the condition of which she knew nothing at the time.

“Where shall we go to seek for news?” she asked anxiously.

“To the barracks,” replied Hans.

“You need not be anxious, I think,” said Considine; “if anything very serious had happened, it is likely the patrol who rescued us would have heard some account of it before leaving Grahamstown.

“Don’t you think?” he added, turning to Hans, “that we had better inquire first at Dobson’s place?”

At that moment they were passing a large store, over the door of which was a blue board with the words “Dobson, Skyd, and Company” emblazoned in large white letters thereon.

The store itself presented in its windows and interior an assortment of dry goods, so extensive and miscellaneous as to suggest the idea of one being able to procure anything in it—from a silk dress to a grindstone. It was an extremely full, prosperous-looking store, and in the midst of it were to be seen, sitting on the counters, James and Robert Skyd, both looking bluffer and stronger than when we last met them, though scarcely a day older. James and Robert were the managing partners of this prosperous firm; Dobson and John Skyd were what the latter styled the hunting partners. Robert Skyd had recently married a pretty Grahamstown girl, and her little boy—then about one year old—was, so said his father, the sleeping partner of the firm, who had been vaguely hinted at by the “Company” long before he was born. Indeed, the “Company” had been prudently inserted with special reference to what might “turn up” in after years. At the time the firm was formed, it had been suggested that it should be styled Dobson, Skyd, and Sons, but as it was possible nothing but daughters might fall to the lot of any of them, “Company” was substituted as being conveniently indefinite. Dobson took precedence in the title in virtue of his having brought most capital into the firm. He had invested his all in it—amounting to three pounds four and nine-pence halfpenny. John Skyd had contributed half-a-crown, which happened to be a bad one. James brought nothing at all, and Robert entered it a little in debt for tobacco.

The great waggon of the hunting partners, loaded with hides, horns, and ivory, stood at the door of the store, as Gertie and her protectors passed, having just arrived from a successful trip into Kafirland, and fortunately escaped the outbreak of the war.

Fastening their bridles to one of its wheels, Hans, Gertie, and Considine entered. The first face they saw was that of Edwin Brook, into whose arms Gertie ran with a wild cry of joy.

“Why, Hans Marais!” cried James Skyd, jumping off the counter and grasping his big friend by the hand, while Robert seized that of Considine, “where have you dropped from?—But I need scarcely ask, for all the world seems to be crowding into the town. Not hurt, I hope?” he added, observing the blood which stained his friend’s dress.

“Not in person,” answered Hans, with a smile, returning his cordial grasp.

“And what of property!” asked Edwin Brook, looking round.

“All gone,” returned Hans sadly. “I rose this morning a reasonably wealthy man—now, I am a beggar. But tell me, what of your family, Mr Brook?”

“All saved, thank God,” was the reply. “Junkie, dear boy, who is the most active young fellow in the land, managed to—Ah! here he comes, and will speak for himself.”

As he spoke a tall strapping youth of about fifteen entered, opened wide his laughing blue eyes on seeing Hans, and, after a hearty greeting, told with some hesitation that he had chanced to be out hunting on foot in the jungles of the Great Fish River when the Kafirs crossed the frontier, and had managed, being a pretty good runner, to give his father warning, so that the family had time to escape. He did not tell, however, that he had, in a narrow pass, kept above sixty Kafirs in check with his own hand and gun until George Dally could run to the house for his weapons and ammunition, and that then the two held a hundred of them in play long enough to permit of the whole family escaping under the care of Scholtz.

“But,” said Edwin Brook, who related all this with evident satisfaction, “I am like yourself, Hans, in regard to property. Mount Hope is a blackened ruin, the farm is laid waste, and the cattle are over the borders.”

“And where is Mrs Brook?” asked Considine.

“In this house. Up-stairs. Come, Gertie is getting impatient. Let us go to see her.”

“Now, friends,” said Considine to the brothers Skyd, who had by that time been joined by the hunting partners, “there is a matter on which we must consult and act without delay.”

Here he told of Conrad Marais’s departure with the boers across the frontier, and added that if the party was to be saved at all it must be gone about instantly.

“You can’t go about it to-day, Charlie,” said John Skyd, “so don’t give way to impatience. For such a long trip into the enemy’s country we must go well armed and supplied.”

“I will brook no delay,” said Considine, with flushing countenance. “If it had not been for the necessity of bringing Gertie here in safety, Hans and I would have set out at once and alone on their spoor. Is it not so?”

Hans nodded assent.

“No, friends,” he said, turning to the brothers with decision, “we must be off at once.”

“What! without your suppers?” exclaimed Bob Skyd; “but to be serious, it won’t be possible to get things ready before to-morrow. Surely that will do, if we start at daybreak. Besides, the party with your father, Hans, is a strong one, well able to hold out against a vastly superior force of savages. Moreover, if you wait we shall get up a small body of volunteers.”

Hans and Charlie were thus constrained unwillingly to delay. At grey dawn, however, they rode out of Grahamstown at the head of a small party, consisting of the entire firm of Dobson and Skyd, inclusive of Junkie, whose father granted him permission to go. His mother silently acquiesced. Mrs Scholtz violently protested; and when she found that her protests were useless, she changed them into pathetic entreaties that Junkie would on no account whatever go to sleep in camp with wet feet.

As soon as the invasion took place, an express had been sent to Capetown, and the able Governor, Sir Benjamin D’Urban, took instant and energetic measures to undo, as far as possible, the mischief done by his predecessors. Colonel (afterwards Sir Harry) Smith was despatched to the frontier, and rode the distance—six hundred miles—in six days.

Arriving in Grahamstown, he took command with a firm hand, organised the whole male population into a warlike garrison, built barricades across the streets, planted cannon in commanding positions, cleared the town of flocks and herds, which were breeding a nuisance, sent them to the open country with a cattle guard, and prepared not only to defend the capital, but to carry war into the enemy’s country. In short, he breathed into the people much of his own energy, and soon brought order out of confusion.

The state of affairs in the colony had indeed reached a terrible pass. From all sides news came in of murder and pillage. The unfortunate traders in Kafirland fared ill at that time. One of these, Rodgers, was murdered in the presence of his three children. A man named Cramer was savagely butchered while driving a few cattle along the road. Another, named Mahony, with his wife and son-in-law, were intercepted while trying to escape to the military post of Kafir Drift, and Mahony was stretched a corpse at his wife’s feet, then the son-in-law was murdered, but Mrs Mahony escaped into the bush with two of her children and a Hottentot female servant, and, after many hardships, reached Grahamstown. A mounted patrol scouring the country fell in with a farm-house where three Dutchmen, in a thick clump of bushes, were defending themselves against three hundred Kafirs. Of course the latter were put to flight, and the three heroes—two of them badly wounded—were rescued. Nearly everywhere the settlers, outnumbered, had to fly, and many were slain while defending their homes, but at the little village of Salem they held their ground gallantly. The Wesleyan chapel, mission-house, and schoolhouse, were filled with refugees, and although the Kafirs swooped down on it at night in large numbers and carried off the cattle, they failed to overcome the stout defenders. Theopolis also held out successfully against them—and so did the Scottish party at Baviaans River, although attacked and harassed continually.

During an attack near the latter place a Scottish gentleman of the Pringle race had a narrow escape. Sandy Black was with him at the time. Three or four Kafirs suddenly attacked them. Mr Pringle shot one, Sandy wounded another. A third ran forward while Pringle was loading and threw an assagai at him. It struck him with great force on the leathern bullet-pouch which hung at his belt. Sandy Black took aim at the savage with a pistol.

“Aim low, Sandy,” said Pringle, continuing to load.

Sandy obeyed and shot the Kafir dead, then, turning round, said anxiously—

“Are ’ee stickit, sir?”

“I’m not sure, Sandy,” replied Pringle, putting his hand in at the waist of his trousers, “there’s blood, I see.”

On examination it was found that the assagai had been arrested by the strong pouch and belt, and had only given him a trifling scratch, so that the gallant and amiable Mr Dods Pringle lived to fight in future Kafir wars. (See Note 1.)

In another place, near the Kat River, thirty men were attacked by a hundred and fifty Kafirs. The latter came on with fury, but five of the farmers brought down seven of the enemy at the first discharge, and thereafter poured into them so rapid and destructive a fire that they were seized with panic, and fled, leaving seventy-five of their number dead.

Instances of individual heroism might be endlessly multiplied, but we think this is enough to show the desperate nature of the struggle which had begun.

In the course of one fortnight the labours of fourteen years were annihilated. Forty-four persons were murdered, 369 dwellings consumed, 261 pillaged, and 172,000 head of live-stock carried off into Kafirland and irretrievably lost; and what aggravated the wickedness of the invasion was the fact that during a great part of the year the Governor had been engaged in special negotiations for a new—and to the Kafirs most advantageous—system of relations, with which all the chiefs except one had expressed themselves satisfied.

Writing on the condition of the country Colonel Smith said: “Already are seven thousand persons dependent on Government for the necessaries of life. The land is filled with the lamentations of the widow and the fatherless. The indelible impressions already made upon myself by the horrors of an irruption of savages upon a scattered population, almost exclusively engaged in the peaceful occupations of husbandry, are such as to make me look on those I have witnessed in a service of thirty years, ten of which in the most eventful period of war, as trifles to what I have now witnessed, and compel me to bring under consideration, as forcibly as I am able, the heartrending position in which a very large portion of the inhabitants of this frontier are at present placed, as well as their intense anxiety respecting their future condition.”

Sir Benjamin D’Urban, arriving soon afterwards, constituted a Board of Relief to meet the necessities of the distressed; and relief committees were established in Capetown, Stellenbosch, Graaff-Reinet, and other principal towns, while subscriptions were collected in Mauritius, Saint Helena, and India.

Soon after the arrival of Colonel Smith, burgher forces were collected; troops arrived with the Governor on the scene of action, and the work of expelling the invader was begun in earnest. Skirmishes by small bodies of farmers and detachments of troops took place all over the land, in which the Dutch-African colonists and English settlers with their descendants vied with each other, and with the regulars, in heroic daring. Justice requires it to be added that they had a bold enemy to deal with, for the Kafirs were physically splendid men; full of courage and daring, although armed only with light spears.

Note 1. The author had the pleasure of spending a night last year (1876) under the hospitable roof of Mr Pringle, shortly before his death, and saw the identical assagai, which was bent by the force with which it had been hurled against him on that occasion.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Shows what befell a Trader and an Emigrant Band.

Stephen Orpin, with the goods of earth in his waggon and the treasures of heaven in his hand, chanced to be passing over a branch of the Amatola Mountains when the torch of war was kindled and sent its horrid glare along the frontier. Vague news of the outbreak had reached him, and he was hastening back to the village of Salem, in which was his bachelor home.

Stephen, we may remark in passing, was not a bachelor from choice. Twice had he essayed to win the affections of Jessie McTavish, and twice had he failed. Not being a man of extreme selfishness, he refused to die of a broken heart. He mourned indeed, deeply and silently, but he bowed his head, and continued, as far as in him lay, to fulfil the end for which he seemed to have been created. He travelled with goods far and wide throughout the eastern districts of the colony, became a walking newspaper to the farmers of the frontier, and a guide to the Better Land to whoever would grant him a hearing.

But Stephen’s mercantile course, like that of his affections, did not run smooth. At the present time it became even more rugged than the mountain road which almost dislocated his waggon and nearly maddened his Hottentot drivers, for, when involved in the intricacies of a pass, he was suddenly attacked by a band of “wild” Bushman marauders. The spot chanced to be so far advantageous that a high precipice at his back rendered it impossible to attack him except in front, where the ground was pretty open.

Orpin was by no means a milksop, and, although a Christian man, did not understand Christianity to teach the absolute giving up of all one’s possessions to the first scoundrel who shall demand them. The moment, therefore, that the robbers showed themselves, he stopped the waggon at the foot of the precipice, drew his ever-ready double-barrelled large-bore gun from under the tilt, and ran out in front, calling on his men to support him. Kneeling down, he prepared to take a steady aim at the Bushman in advance, a wild-looking savage in a sheepskin kaross and armed with an assagai. The robbers were evidently aware of the nature of a gun, for they halted on seeing the decided action of the trader.

“Come on!” shouted Orpin to his men, looking back over his shoulder; but his men were nowhere to be seen: they had deserted him at the first sight of the robbers, and scrambled away into the jungle like monkeys.

To resist some dozens of savages single-handed Stephen knew would be useless, and to shed blood unnecessarily was against his principles. He therefore made up his mind at once how to act. Rising and turning round, he discharged his gun at the precipice, to prevent the Bushmen from accidentally doing mischief with it; then, sitting down on a piece of fallen rock, he quietly took out his pipe and began to light it.

This was not meant as a piece of bravado, but Stephen was eccentric, and it occurred to him that there was a “touch of nature” in a pipe which might possibly induce the Bushmen to be less rude to him personally than if he were to stand by and look aggrieved while his waggons were being pillaged.

In this conjecture he was right. The robbers rushed towards the waggon without doing him any harm. One of them, however, picked up the gun in passing. Then the leader seized the long whip and drove the waggon away, leaving its late owner to his meditations.

Stephen would have been more than human if he could have stood the loss of all his earthly goods with perfect equanimity. He groaned when the oxen began to move, and then, feeling a desperate desire to relieve his feelings, and a strong tendency to fight, he suddenly shut his eyes, and began to pray that the robbers might be forgiven, and himself enabled to bear his trials in a becoming manner. Opening his eyes again, he beheld a sturdy Bushman gazing at him in open-mouthed surprise, with an uplifted assagai in his hand. Stephen judged that this was the chief of the band, who had remained behind to kill him. At all events, when he ceased to pray, and opened his eyes, the Bushman shut his mouth, and poised his assagai in a threatening manner.

Unarmed as he was, Stephen knew that he was at the man’s mercy. In this dilemma, and knowing nothing of the Bushman language, he put powerful constraint on himself, and looked placidly at his wallet, in which he searched earnestly for something, quite regardless, to all appearances, of the deadly spear, whose point was within ten feet of his breast.

The Bushman’s curiosity was awakened. He waited until Stephen had drawn a lump of tobacco from his pouch—which latter he took care to turn inside out to show there was nothing else in it. Rising quietly, the trader advanced with a peaceful air, holding the tobacco out to the Bushman, who looked suspicious—and distrustfully shook his assagai; but Stephen took no heed. Stopping within a couple of yards of him, he held out the tobacco at the full length of his arm. The Bushman hesitated, but finally lowered his assegai and accepted the gift. Stephen immediately resumed his pipe, and smiled pleasantly at his foe.

The Bushman appeared to be unable to resist this. He grinned hideously; then, turning about, made off in the direction of his comrades as fast as his naked legs could carry him.

It was Booby, the follower of Ruyter the Hottentot, who had thus robbed the unfortunate trader, and, not two hours afterwards, Ruyter himself fell in with Stephen, wending his way slowly and sadly down the glen.

Desiring his men to proceed in advance, the robber chief asked Orpin to sit down on a fallen tree beside him, and relate what had happened. When he had done so, Ruyter shook his head and said in his broken English—

“You’s bin my friend, Orpin, but I cannot help you dis time. Booby not under me now, an’ we’s bof b’long to Dragoener’s band. I’s sorry, but not can help you.”

“Never mind, Ruyter, I daresay you’d help me if you could,” said Stephen, with a sigh; then, with an earnest look in the Hottentot’s face, he continued, “I’m not, however, much distressed about the goods. The Lord who gave them has taken them away, and can give them back again if He has a mind to; but tell me, Ruyter, why will you not think of the things we once spoke of—that time when you were so roughly handled by Jan Smit—about your soul and the Saviour?”

“How you knows I not tink?” demanded the Hottentot sharply.

“Because any man can know a tree by its fruit,” returned Orpin. “If you had become a Christian, I should not now have found you the leader of a band of thieves.”

“No, I not a Christian, but I do tink,” returned Ruyter, “only I no’ can onderstan’. De black heathen—so you calls him—live in de land. White Christian—so you calls him—come and take de land; make slabe ob black man, and kick ’im about like pair ob ole boots—I not onderstan’ nohow.”

“Come, I will try to make you understand,” returned Orpin, pulling out the New Testament which he always carried in his pocket. “Some white men who call themselves Christians are heathens, and some black men are Christians. We are all,—black and white,—born bad, and God has sent us a Saviour, and a message, so that all who will, black or white, may become good.” Orpin here commenced to expound the Word, and to tell the story of the Cross, while the Hottentot listened with rapt attention, or asked questions which showed that he had indeed been thinking of these things since his last meeting with the trader, many years before. He was not very communicative, however, and when the two parted he declined to make any more satisfactory promise than that he would continue to “tink.”

Stephen Orpin spent the night alone in a tree, up which he had climbed to be more secure from wild beasts. Sitting there, he meditated much, and came to the conclusion that he ought in future to devote himself entirely to missionary labours. In pursuance of that idea, he made his way to one of the Wesleyan mission stations in Kafirland.

On the road thither he came to a Kafir kraal, where the men seemed to be engaged in the performance of a war-dance.

On being questioned by these Kafirs as to who he was, and where he came from, Orpin replied, in his best Kafir, that he was a trader and a missionary.

The chief looked surprised, but, on hearing the whole of Orpin’s story, a cunning look twinkled in his eyes, and he professed great friendship for the missionaries, stating at the same time that he was going to one of the Wesleyan stations, and would be glad to escort Orpin thither. Thereafter he gave orders that the white man should be taken to one of his huts and supplied with a “basket” of milk.

The white man gratefully acknowledged the kind offer, and, asking the name of the friendly chief, was informed that it was Hintza. Just then a court fool or jester stepped forward, and cried aloud his announcements of the events of the day, mixed with highly complimentary praises of his master. Stephen did not understand all he said, but he gathered thus much,—that the warriors had been out to battle and had returned victorious; that Hintza was the greatest man and most courageous warrior who had ever appeared among the Kafirs, to gladden their hearts and enrich their bands; and that there was great work yet for the warriors to do in the way of driving certain barbarians into the sea—to which desirable deed the heroic, the valiant, the wise, the unapproachable Hintza would lead them.

Orpin feared that he understood the meaning of the last words too well, but, being aware that Hintza was regarded by the colonists as one of the friendliest of the Kafir chiefs, he hoped that he might be mistaken.

Hintza was as good as his word, and set out next day with a band of warriors, giving the white man a good horse that he might ride beside him. On the way they came on a sight which filled Orpin with sadness and anxiety. It was the ruins of a village, which from the appearance of the remains had evidently been occupied in part by white men. He observed that a gleam of satisfaction lit up Hintza’s swarthy visage for a moment as he passed the place.

Dismounting, the party proceeded to examine the ruins, but found nothing. The Kafirs were very taciturn, but the chief said, on being pressed, that he believed it had been a mission station which wicked men of other tribes had burned.

On the outbreak of this war some of the missionaries remained by their people, others were compelled to leave them.

The station just passed had been deserted. At the one to which Hintza was now leading Orpin the missionaries had remained at their post. There he found them still holding out, but in deep dejection, for nearly all their people had forsaken them, and gone to the war. Even while he was talking with them, crowds of the bloodstained savages were returning from the colony, laden with the spoils of the white man, and driving thousands of his sheep and cattle before them. In these circumstances, Stephen resolved to make the best of his way back to Salem. On telling this to Hintza, that chief from some cause that he could not understand, again offered to escort him. He would not accompany him personally, he said, but he would send with him a band of his warriors, and he trusted that on his arrival in the colony he would tell to the great white chief (the Governor) that he, Hintza, did not aid the other Kafir tribes in this war.

Stephen’s eyes were opened by the last speech, and from that moment he suspected Hintza of treachery.

He had no choice, however, but to accept the escort. On the very day after they had started, they came to a spot where a terrible fight had obviously taken place. The ground was strewn with the mangled corpses of a party of white men, while the remains of waggons and other signs showed that they had formed one of the bands of Dutch emigrants which had already begun to quit the colony. The savages made ineffectual attempts to conceal their delight at what they saw, and Orpin now felt that he was in the power of enemies who merely spared his life in the hope that he might afterwards be useful to them.

The band which escorted him consisted of several hundred warriors, a few of whom were mounted on splendid horses stolen from the settlers. He himself was also mounted on a good steed, but felt that it would be madness to attempt to fly from them. On the second day they were joined—whether by arrangement or not Orpin had no means of judging—by a band of over a thousand warriors belonging to a different tribe from his escort. As the trader rode along in a dejected state of mind, one of the advance-guard or scouts came back with excited looks, saying that a large band of Dutch farmers was encamped down in a hollow just beyond the rise in front of them. The chief of the Kafirs ordered the scout sternly to be silent, at the same time glancing at Orpin. Then he whispered to two men, who quietly took their assagais and stationed themselves one on either side of their white prisoner—for such he really was.

Orpin now felt certain that the group of principal men who drew together a little apart were concerting the best mode of attacking the emigrant farmers, and his heart burned within him as he thought of them resting there in fancied security, while these black scoundrels were plotting their destruction. But what could he do—alone and totally unarmed? He thought of making a dash and giving the alarm, but the watchful savages at his side seemed to divine his intentions, for they grasped their assagais with significant action.

“A desperate disease,” thought Orpin, “requires a desperate remedy. I will try it, and may succeed—God helping me.” A thought occurred just then. Disengaging his right foot from the stirrup, he made as if he were shortening it a little, but instead, he detached it from the saddle, and taking one turn of the leather round his hand, leaped his horse at the savage nearest him and struck him full on the forehead with the stirrup-iron. Dashing on at full speed, he bent low, and, as he had hoped, the spear of the other savage whizzed close over his back. The act was so sudden that he had almost gained the ridge before the other mounted Kafirs could pursue. He heard a loud voice, however, command them to stop, and, looking back, saw that only one Kafir—the leader—gave chase, but that leader was a powerful man, armed, and on a fleeter horse than his own. A glance showed him the camp of the emigrant farmers in a hollow about a mile or so distant. He made straight for it. The action of the next few seconds was short, sharp, and decisive.

The Dutchmen, having had a previous alarm from a small Kafir band, were prepared. They had drawn their waggons into a compact circle, closing the apertures between and beneath them with thorn-bushes, which they lashed firmly with leather thongs to the wheels and dissel-booms or waggon-poles. Within this circle was a smaller one for the protection of the women and children.

Great was the surprise of the farmers when they heard a loud shout, and beheld a white man flying for his life from a solitary savage. With the promptitude of men born and bred in the midst of alarms, they seized their guns and issued from their fortified enclosure to the rescue, but the Kafir was already close to Orpin, and in the act of raising his assagai to stab him.

Seeing the urgency of the case, Conrad Marais, who was considered a pretty good shot among his fellows, took steady aim, and, at the risk of hitting the white man, fired. The right arm of the savage dropped by his side and the assagai fell to the ground, but, plucking another from his bundle with his left hand, he made a furious thrust. Stephen Orpin, swaying aside, was only grazed by it. At the same time he whirled the stirrup once round his head, and, bringing the iron down with tremendous force on the skull of his pursuer, hurled him to the ground.

“Stephen Orpin!” exclaimed Conrad Marais in amazement, as the trader galloped up.

“You’ve got more pluck than I gave you credit for,” growled Jan Smit.

“You’ll need all your own pluck presently,” retorted Orpin, who thereupon told them that hundreds of Kafirs were on the other side of the ridge, and would be down on them in a few minutes. Indeed, he had not finished speaking when the ridge in question was crossed by the black host, who came yelling on to the attack,—the few mounted men leading.

“Come, boys, let’s meet them as far as possible from the waggons,” cried Conrad.

The whole band of farmers, each mounted and carrying his gun, dashed forward. When quite close to the foe they halted, and, every man dismounting, knelt and fired. Nearly all the horsemen among the enemy fell to the ground at the discharge, and the riderless steeds galloped over the plain, while numbers of the footmen were also killed and wounded. But most of those savages belonged to a fierce and warlike tribe. Though checked for a moment, they soon returned to the attack more furiously than before. The Dutch farmers, remounting, galloped back a short distance, loading as they went; halting again, they dismounted and fired as before, with deadly effect.

There is no question that the white men, if sufficiently supplied with ammunition, could have thus easily overcome any number of the savages, but the waggons stopped them. On reaching these, they were obliged to stand at bay, and, being greatly outnumbered, took shelter inside of their enclosure. Of course their flocks and herds, being most of them outside, were at once driven away by a small party of the assailants, while the larger proportion, with savage yells and war-cries, made a furious attack on their position.

Closing round the circle, they endeavoured again and again to break through the line or to clamber over the waggon-tilts, and never did savage warriors earn a better title to the name of braves than on that occasion. Even the bristling four and six-inch thorns of the mimosa-bushes would not have been able to turn back their impetuous onset if behind these the stout Dutchmen, fighting for wives and children, had not stood manfully loading and firing volleys of slugs and buckshot at arm’s-length from them. The crowded ranks of the Kafirs were ploughed as if by cannon, while hundreds of assagais were hurled into the enclosure, but happily with little effect, though a few of the defenders—exposing themselves recklessly—were wounded.

While Conrad Marais was standing close to the hind-wheels of one of the waggons, watching for a good shot at a Kafir outside, who was dodging about for the double purpose of baulking Conrad’s intention and thrusting an assagai into him, another active Kafir had clambered unobserved on the tilt of the waggon and was in the very act of leaning over to thrust his spear into the back of the Dutchman’s neck when he was observed by Stephen Orpin, who chanced to be reloading his gun at the moment.

With a loud roar, very unlike his usual gentle tones, Orpin sprang forward, seized a thick piece of wood like a four-foot rolling-pin, and therewith felled the savage, who tumbled headlong into the enclosure.

“Oh, father!” exclaimed a terrified voice at that moment, while a light touch was laid on Conrad’s shoulder.

“What brings you here, Bertha?” said Conrad, with an impatient gesture. “Don’t you know—”

“Come, quick, to mother!” cried the girl, interrupting.

No more was needed. In a moment Conrad was in the central enclosure, where, crowded under a rude erection of planks and boxes, were the women and children. An assagai had penetrated an unguarded crevice, and, passing under the arm of poor Mrs Marais, had pinned her to the family trunk, against which she leaned.

“Bertha could not pull it out,” said Mrs Marais, with a faint smile on her pale face, “but I don’t think I’m much hurt.”

In a moment her husband had pulled out the spear, found that it had penetrated her clothing, and only grazed her breast, took time merely to make sure of this, and then, leaving her in Bertha’s hands, returned to the scene of combat.

He was not an instant too soon. A yell was uttered by the savages as they rushed at a weak point, where the thorn-bush defences had been broken down. The point appeared to be undefended. They were about to leap through in a dense mass when ten Dutchmen, who had reserved their fire, discharged a volley simultaneously into the midst of them. It was a ruse of the defenders to draw the savages to that point. Whilst the Kafirs tumbled back over heaps of dead and dying, several other farmers thrust masses of impenetrable mimosa bush into the gap and refilled it. This discomfiture checked the assailants for a little; they drew off and retired behind the ridge to concert plans for a renewed and more systematic attack.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Treats of Various Strange Incidents, some Interesting Matters, and a Rescue.

While the emigrant farmers were thus gallantly defending themselves, the party under Hans Marais and Charlie Considine was hastening on their spoor to the rescue.

Their numbers had been increased by several volunteers, among whom were George Dally and Scholtz, also David, Jacob, and Hendrik, the sons of Jan Smit, who had made up their minds not to follow the fortunes of their savage-tempered sire, but who were at once ready to fly to his rescue on learning that he was in danger. While passing through the country they were further reinforced by a band of stout burghers, and by four brothers named Bowker. There were originally seven brothers of this family, who afterwards played a prominent part in the affairs of the colony. One of these Bowkers was noted for wearing a very tall white hat, in which, being of a literary turn of mind, he delighted to carry old letters and newspapers. From this circumstance his hat became known as “the post-office.”

Although small, this was about as heroic a band of warriors as ever took the field—nearly every man being strong, active, a dead shot well trained to fight with wild beasts, and acquainted with the tactics of wilder men.

Proceeding by forced marches, they soon drew near to that part of the country where the beleaguered farmers lay.

One evening, having encamped a little earlier than usual, owing to the circumstance of their having reached a fountain of clear good water, some of the more energetic among them went off to search for game. Among these were the brothers Bowker.

“There’s very likely a buffalo or something in that bush over there,” said Septimus Bowker, who was the owner of the “post-office” hat. “Come, Mr Considine, you wanted to— Where’s Considine?”

Every one looked round, but Considine and Hans were not there. One of the Skyds, however, remembered that they had fallen behind half an hour before, with the intention of procuring something fresh for supper.

“Well, we must go without him. He wanted to shoot a buffalo. Will no one else go?”

No one else felt inclined to go except Junkie Brook, so he and the four Bowkers went off, Septimus pressing the “post-office” tightly on his brows as they galloped away.

They had not far to go, game of all kinds being abundant in that region, but instead of finding a buffalo or gnu, they discovered a lioness in a bed of rushes. The party had several dogs with them, and these went yelping into the rushes, while the brothers stationed themselves on a mound, standing in a row, one behind another.

The brother with the tall white hat stood in front. Being the eldest, he claimed the post of honour. They were all fearless men and crack shots. Junkie was ordered to stand back, and complied with a bad grace, being an ardent sportsman.

“Look out!” exclaimed the brother in front to the brothers in rear.

“Ready!” was the quiet response.

Next moment out came the lioness with a savage growl, and went straight at Septimus, who cocked his gun as coolly as if he were about to slay a sparrow.

While the enraged animal was in the act of bounding, Septimus fired straight down its throat and suddenly stooped. By so doing he saved his head. Perhaps we should say the tall white hat saved it, for the crushing slap which the lioness meant to give him on the side of the head took effect on the post-office, and scattered its contents far and wide. Spurning Septimus on the shoulders with her hind-legs as she flew past, the lioness made at the brothers. Firm as the Horatii stood the other three. Deliberate and cool was their action as they took aim. Junkie followed suit, and the whole fired a volley, which laid the lioness dead at their feet.

Gathering himself up, Septimus looked with some concern at the white hat before putting it on. Remarking that it was tough, he proceeded to pick up its literary contents, while his brothers skinned the lioness. Shortly afterwards they all returned to camp.

Passing that way an hour or so later, Hans Marais and Charlie Considine came upon the spoor of the lioness.

“I say, Charlie,” called out Hans, “there must be a lion in the vley there. I’ve got the spoor. Come here.”

“It’s not in the vley now,” replied Charlie; “come here yourself; I’ve found blood, and, hallo! here’s a newspaper! Why, it must be a literary lion! Look, Hans, can you make out the name?—Howker, Dowker, or something o’ that sort. Do lions ever go by that name?”

“Bowker,” exclaimed Hans, with a laugh. “Ah! my boy, there’s no lion in the vley if the Bowkers have been here; and see, it’s all plain as a pikestaff. They shot it here and skinned it there, and have dragged the carcass towards that bush; yes, here it is—a lioness. They’re back to camp by this time. Come, let’s follow them.”

As they rode along, Hans, who had been glancing at the newspaper, turned suddenly to his companion.

“I say, Charlie, here’s a strange coincidence. It’s not every day that a man finds a Times newspaper in the wilds of Southern Africa with a message in it to himself.”

“What do you mean, Hans?”

“Tell me, Charlie, about that uncle of whom you once spoke to me—long ago—in rather disrespectful tones, if not terms. Was he rich?”

“I believe so, but was never quite certain as to that.”

“Did he like you?”

“I rather think not.”

“Had you a male cousin or relative of the same name with yourself whom he did like?”

“Then allow me to congratulate you on your good fortune, and read that,” said Hans, giving him the newspaper.

Charlie read.

“If this should meet the eye of Charles Considine, formerly of Golden Square, Hotchester, he is requested to return without delay to England, or to communicate with Aggard, Ale, and Ixley, Solicitors, 23a Fitzbustaway Square, London.”

“Most amazing!” exclaimed Considine, after a pause, “and there can be no doubt it refers to me, for these were my uncle’s solicitors—most agreeable men—who gave me the needful to fit me out, and it was their chief clerk—a Roman-nosed jovial sort of fellow, named Rundle something or other—who accompanied me to the ship when I left, and wished me a pleasant voyage, with a tear, or a drop of rain, I’m not sure which, rolling down his Roman nose. Well, but, as I said before, isn’t it an astonishing coincidence?”

“It wasn’t you who said that before, it was I,” returned Hans, “but we must make allowance for your state of mind. And now, as we’re nearing the camp, what is it to be—silence?”

“Silence, of course,” said Charlie. “There’s no fear of Bowker reading the advertisements through, he has far too much literary taste for that, and even if he did, he’s not likely to stumble on this one. So let’s be silent.”

There was anything but silence in the camp, however, when the friends reached it and reported their want of luck; for the warriors were then in the first fervour of appealing their powerful appetites.

Next morning they started at sunrise.

Early in the day they came on the mangled remains of the emigrant farmers before referred to. At first it was supposed this must be the remnant of the band they were in search of, but a very brief examination convinced them, experienced as they were in men and signs, that it was another band. Soon after, they came in sight of the party for which they were searching, just as the Kafirs were making a renewed attack. Already a few volleys had been fired by the Dutchmen, the smoke of which hung like a white shroud over the camp, and swarms of savages were yelling round it.

“The cattle and flocks have been swept away,” growled Frank Dobson.

“But the women and children must be safe as yet,” said Considine, with a sigh of relief.

“Now, boys,” cried Hans, who had been elected captain, “we must act together. When I give the word, halt and fire like one man, and then charge where I lead you. Don’t scatter. Don’t give way to impetuous feelings. Be under command, if you would save our friends.”

He spoke with quick, abrupt vigour, and waited for no reply or remark, but, putting himself where he fancied a leader should be, in front of the centre of his little line, set off in the direction of the emigrants’ camp at a smart gallop. As the horsemen drew near they increased their pace, and then a yell from the savages, and a cheer from their friends, told that they had been observed by the combatants on both sides. The Kafirs were seen running back to the ridge on the other side of the camp, and assembling themselves hurriedly in a dense mass.

On swept the line of stalwart burghers, over the plain and down into the hollow in dead silence. The force of their leader’s character seemed to have infused military discipline into them. Most of them kept boot to boot like dragoons. Even Dally and Scholtz kept well in line, and none lagged or shot ahead. As they passed close to the camp without drawing rein, the Dutchmen gave them an enthusiastic cheer, but no reply was made, save by Junkie, who could not repress a cry of fierce delight. Down deeper into the hollow they went, and up the opposite slope,—the thunder of their tread alone breaking the stillness.

“Halt!” cried the leader in a deep loud voice.

They drew up together almost as well as they had run. Next moment every man was on the ground and down on one knee; then followed the roar of their pieces, and a yell of wild fury told that none had missed his mark. Before the smoke had risen a yard they were again in the saddle. No further order was given. Hans charged; the rest followed like a wall at racing speed, with guns and bridles grasped in their left hands and sabres drawn in their right.

The savages did not await the onset. They turned, scattered, and fled. Many were overtaken and cut down. The Dutchmen sallied from the camp and joined in the pursuit. The Kafirs were routed completely, and all the cattle and flocks were recovered.

That same day there was a hot discussion over the camp-fires as to whether the emigrant farmers should return at once to the colony or wait until they should gather together some of the other parties of emigrants which were known to have crossed the frontier. At last it was resolved to adopt the latter course, but the wives and families were to be sent back to Fort Wilshire under the escort of their deliverers, there to remain till better times should dawn.

“Charlie,” said Conrad Marais, as he walked up and down with his friend, “I must stick by my party, but I can trust you and Hans. You’ll be careful of the women and little ones.”

“You may depend on us,” replied Considine, with emphasis.

“And you needn’t be afraid to speak to Bertha by the way,” said Conrad, with a peculiar side glance.

Charlie looked up quickly with a flush.

“Do you mean, sir, that—that—”

“Of course I do,” cried the stout farmer, grasping his friend by the hand; “I forgive your being an Englishman, Charlie, and as I can’t make you a Dutchman, the next best I can do for you is to give you a Dutch wife, who is in my opinion better and prettier than any English girl that ever lived.”

“Hold!” cried Considine, returning the grasp, “I will not join you in making invidious comparisons between Dutch and English; but I’ll go farther than you, and say that Bertha is in my opinion the best and prettiest girl in the whole world.”

“That’ll do, lad, that’ll do. So, now, we’ll go see what the Totties have managed to toss us up for breakfast.”

Before the sun set that night the emigrant farmers, united with another large band, were entrenched in a temporary stronghold, and the women and children, with the rescue party—strengthened by a company of hunters and traders who had been in the interior when the war broke out, were far on their way back to Fort Wilshire.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Relates Incidents of the War and a Great Deliverance.

On reaching the frontier fort it was found to be in a state of excitement bustle, and preparation.

News had just been received that the treacherous chief Hintza, although professedly at peace with the colony, was secretly in league with the invading chiefs, and the Governor was convinced of the necessity of taking vigorous measures against him. The savages, flushed with success, and retiring for a time to their own land with the cattle they had carried off, found in Hintza one ready to aid them in every way. It transpired that he had not only allowed the stolen cattle to be secreted in his territory, but many of his own people were “out” with the confederate chiefs fighting against the colonists, while traders under his protection had by his orders been seized and plundered. A message had therefore been sent to Hintza requiring him at once and decidedly to declare his intentions. To this, instead of a reply, the savage chief sent one of his braves, whose speech and conduct showed that his wily master only wished to gain time by trifling diplomacy. The brave was therefore sent back with another message, to the effect that if he, Hintza, should afford any of the other chiefs shelter or protection, and did not restore the booty concealed in his territory, he would be treated as an enemy. It was also proposed that himself should come and have an interview with the Governor, but this invitation he declined. Sir Benjamin D’Urban, therefore, resolved to menace the truculent chief in his own dominions, and when Hans Marais with his band entered the square of the little fort, he found the troops on the point of setting out.

The force consisted of a body of regulars and a burgher band collected from all parts of the colony. Among them were hardy Englishmen from the Zuurveld, tough with the training of fourteen years in the wilderness, and massive Dutchmen from the karroo, splendid horsemen and deadly shots.

While the bustle was at its height a party of horsemen galloped up to the gate, headed by a giant. It turned out to be a contingent from Glen Lynden, under Groot Willem of Baviaans River, with Andrew Rivers, Jerry Goldboy, and several of the Dutch farmers of the Tarka in his train.

“Ho! here you are,” cried Groot Willem in his hearty bass roar, as he leaped to the ground and seized Hans Marais by the hand. “All well at Eden—eh?”

“Burnt out,” said Hans quietly.

The giant looked aghast for a moment. Then his friend ran hurriedly over the main points of his story. But there was no time for talk. While salutations were being exchanged by the members of the various parties thus assembled, Sir Benjamin appeared, mounted his horse, gave orders to several of his officers, and spoke a few words to Groot Willem and Hans. In a few minutes the troops were marched out of the fort, and next day reached the right bank of the Kei River.

This was the western boundary of Hintza’s particular territory. On arriving, the Governor issued general orders to the effect that Hintza was not “to be treated as an enemy.” No kraals were to be burnt, no gardens or fields pillaged, and no natives meddled with, unless hostilities were first begun by them, and that no act of violence should be committed until due notice of the commencement of hostilities had been given. “You see,” said Sir Benjamin in a private conversation with one of his staff, “I am resolved to take every possible precaution to avoid giving cause of complaint to the great chief, and to endeavour by mild forbearance to maintain peace. At the same time, it is essential that I should act with vigour because undue forbearance is always misinterpreted by savages to mean cowardice, and only precipitates the evils we seek to avoid.”

On arriving at a spot where a trader named Purcell had been plundered and murdered, the troops were met by several “councillors” from Hintza and from the chief Booko, who were still a day’s journey distant. To these the Governor said:—

“Go, tell the Great Chief that I request an interview with himself, because I desire that peace should be between us, and that justice should be done. I will not cease to advance until such interview is obtained, and it will depend on his own conduct whether Hintza is treated by the British Government as a friend or a foe.”

But the Great Chief was doggedly bent on meeting his fate. He returned no answer to the message, and the troops moved on. Arriving at the mission station of Butterworth, they found it destroyed, and here they were met by a large body of Fingoes—native slaves—who eagerly offered their services to fight against their cruel masters the Kafirs. These Fingoes—destined in after years to make a deep impression on the colony—were the remains of eight powerful nations, who, broken up and scattered by the ferocious Chaka and his Zulu hordes, had taken refuge with Hintza, by whom they were enslaved and treated in the most brutal manner. He gave them generally the name of Fingo, which means dog. Their eager offer to serve under the British Chief was therefore most natural, but Sir Benjamin declined their services at the time, as war had not yet been declared.

Soon after, a detachment of thirty men was sent back to the colony with despatches, in charge of an ensign named Armstrong, who was waylaid and murdered by some of Hintza’s Kafirs. The Governor, finding that his overtures were treated with studied neglect, and that hostilities were thus begun, called to him a Kafir councillor and warrior, and said—

“Your master has treated all my messages with contempt. He is in secret alliance with the chiefs who have invaded our colony. He has received and concealed cattle stolen from the white men. A British trader has been deliberately murdered in his territory, near his own residence, and under his protection, and no steps have been taken to punish the murderers. Violence and outrage have been committed by him on British traders, and missionaries living under his safeguard have been forced to flee to the Tambookie chief to save their lives. I will no longer treat with him. Since Hintza is resolved on war, he shall have it. I will now take the Fingoes under my special protection, make them subjects of the king of England, and severely punish any who commit violence upon them. I will also carry off all the cattle I can find.—Go, tell your master his blood shall be on his own head.”

This message, which was followed up by prompt action, the capture of considerable numbers of cattle, and a successful attack on one of his principal kraals, brought the great chief to his senses—apparently, but not really, as the sequel will show. He sent in four messengers with proposals, but the Governor refused to treat with any one except Hintza himself. Terrified at last into submission, he entered the camp with a retinue of fifty followers, and was courteously received by the commander-in-chief.

During the course of these proceedings detached parties were frequently sent hither and thither to surprise a kraal or to capture cattle, and the two parties under Groot Willem and Hans Marais, having arrived at Fort Wilshire at the same time, were allowed to act pretty much in concert.

One night they found themselves encamped in a dark mountain gorge during a thunderstorm.

“Well, well,” said Jerry Goldboy to Junkie, who with Scholtz had taken refuge under the very imperfect shelter of a bush, “it’s ’orrible ’ard work this campaigning; specially in bad weather, with the point of one’s nose a’most cut off.”

Jerry referred to a wound which an assagai aimed at his heart had that day inflicted on his nose. The wound was not severe, but it was painful, and the sticking-plaster which held the point of his unfortunate member in its place gave his countenance an unusually comical appearance.

“Is it very zore, boy?” asked Scholtz.

“Zore! I wish you ’ad it, an’ you wouldn’t ’ave to ask,” returned Jerry.

“How did you come by it?” asked Junkie, looking grave with difficulty.

“Well, it ain’t easy to say exactly. You see it was getting dark at the time, and I was doin’ my best to drive a thief of a hox down a place in the kloof where it had to stand upright, a’most, on its front-legs, with its tail whirlin’ in the hair. An’ I ’adn’t much time to waste neither, for I knew there was Kafirs all about, an’ the troops was gettin’ a’ead of me, an’ my ’oss was tied to a yellow-wood tree at the foot o’ the kloof, an’ I began to feel sort o’ skeery with the gloomy thickets all around, an’ rugged precipices lookin’ as if they’d tumble on me, an’ the great mountains goin’ up to ’eaven—oh! I can tell you it was—it was—”

“In short, the most horrible sight you ever saw,” said Junkie, drawing his blanket tighter round his shoulders, and crouching nearer to the bulky form of Scholtz for protection from the wind which was rising.

“Yes, Junkie, it was—the most ’orrible sight I ever saw, for wild savageness, so I drew my sword and gave the hox a prog that sent ’im ’ead over ’eels down the kloof w’ere ’e broke ’is back. Just at that werry moment—would you mind takin’ your toe out o’ my neck, Junkie? it ain’t comfortable: thank you.—Well, as I was sayin’, at that very moment I spied a black fellow stealin’ away in the direction of my ’oss. He saw me too, but thought I didn’t see ’im. Up I jumps, an’ run for the ’oss. Up ’e jumps an’ run likewise. But I was nearer than ’im, an’ a deal faster—though I don’t mean to boast—”

“An’ a deal frighteneder,” suggested Junkie.

“P’raps, ’owever I got to the ’oss first. I didn’t take time to mount, but went leap-frog over ’is tail slap into the saddle, which gave the hold ’oss such a skeer that ’e bolted! The Kafir ’e gave a yell an’ sent ’is assagai after me, an’ by bad luck I looks round just as it went past an’ all but took off the point of my nose. Wasn’t it unlucky?”

“Unlucky! you ungrateful man,” growled Scholtz. “You should be ver’ glad de assagai did not stick you in de neck like von zow.—Is zat rain vich I feels in ze back of mine head?”

“Like enough. There’s plenty of it, anyhow,” said Junkie, trying to peer through the gloom in the direction of the tents occupied by a small body of regular troops which accompanied them.

As he did so a sudden squall struck the tents, levelling two with the ground, and entirely whisking off one, which, after making a wild circle in the air, was launched over a precipice into thick darkness, and never more seen!

Lying under another bush, not far distant, Considine and Hans lay crouched together for the purpose at once of keeping each other warm and presenting the smallest possible amount of surface to the weather. They did not sleep at first, and being within earshot of the bush under which the brothers Skyd had sheltered themselves, found sufficient entertainment in listening to their conversation.

“We scarce counted on this sort of thing,” said John Skyd, “when, fifteen years ago, we left the shores of old England for ‘Afric’s southern wilds.’”

“That’s true, Jack,” was Bob Skyd’s reply, “and I sometimes think it would have been better if we had remained at home.”

“Craven heart! what do you mean?” demanded James.

“Ay, what do you mean?” repeated Dobson; “will nothing convince you? It is true we made a poor job of the farming, owing to our ignorance, but since we took to merchandise have we not made a good thing of it—ain’t it improving every day, and won’t we rise to the very pinnacle of prosperity when this miserable war is over.”

“Supposing that we are not killed in the mean-time,” said Stephen Orpin, who formed one of the group.

“That is a mere truism, and quite irrelevant,” retorted Dobson.

“Talking of irrelevant matters, does any one know why Sandy Black and McTavish did not come with Groot Willem?” asked Orpin.

To this John Skyd replied that he had heard some one say a party of the Glen Lynden men had gone off to root out a nest of freebooters under that scoundrel Ruyter, who, taking advantage of the times, had become more ferocious and daring than ever.

“Yet some say,” observed Dobson, “that the Hottentot robber is becoming religious or craven-hearted, I don’t know which.”

“Perhaps broken-hearted,” suggested Orpin.

“Perhaps. Anyhow it is said his followers are dissatisfied with him for some reason or other. He does not lead them so well as he was wont to.”

While the white men were thus variously engaged in jesting over their discomforts, or holding more serious converse, their sable enemies were preparing for them a warm reception in the neighbouring pass. But both parties were checked and startled by the storm which presently burst over them. At first the thunder-claps were distant, but by degrees they came nearer, and burst with deafening crash, seemingly close overhead, while lightning ran along the earth like momentary rivulets of fire. At the same time the windows of heaven were opened, and rain fell in waterspouts, drenching every one to the skin.

The storm passed as suddenly as it came, and at daybreak was entirely gone, leaving a calm clear sky.

Sleepy, wet, covered with mud, and utterly miserable, the party turned out of their comfortless bivouac, and, after a hasty meal of cold provisions, resumed their march up the kloof.

At the narrowest part of it, some of the troops were sent in advance as skirmishers, and the ambush was discovered. Even then they were in an awkward position, and there can be no question that if the natives had been possessed of fire-arms they would have been cut off to a man. As it was, the savages came at them with dauntless courage, throwing their assagais when near enough, and hurling stones down from the almost perpendicular cliffs on either side. But nothing could resist the steady fire of men who were, most of them, expert shots. Few of the white men were wounded, but heaps of the Kafirs lay dead on each other ere they gave way and retreated before a dashing charge with the bayonet.

Oh! it was a sad sight,—sad to see men in the vigorous health of early youth and the strong powers of manhood’s prime cast lifeless on the ground and left to rot there for the mistaken idea on the Kafirs’ part that white men were their natural enemies, when, in truth, they brought to their land the comforts of civilised life; sad to think that they had died for the mistaken notion that their country was being taken from them, when in truth they had much more country than they knew what to do with—more than was sufficient to support themselves and all the white men who have ever gone there, and all that are likely to go for many years to come; sad to think of the stern necessity that compelled the white men to lay them low; sadder still to think of the wives and mothers, sisters and little ones, who were left to wail unavailingly for fathers and brothers lost to them for ever; and saddest of all to remember that it is not merely the naked savage in his untutored ignorance, but the civilised white man in his learned wisdom, who indulges in this silly, costly, murderous, brutal, and accursed game of war!

Returning from the fight next day with a large herd of captured cattle, the contingent found that Hintza had agreed unconditionally to all the proposals made to him by the Governor; among others that he should restore to the colonists 50,000 head of cattle and 1000 horses,—one half to be given up at once, the remainder in the course of a year.

The deceitful chief was thus ready in his acquiescence, simply because he had no intention whatever of fulfilling his engagements. To blind his white enemies the more effectually, he himself offered to remain in the camp as a hostage, with his followers. Two other chiefs, Kreli and Booko, also joined him. This seemingly gracious conduct won for Hintza so much confidence that orders were immediately given to evacuate his territory. He became the guest of Colonel Smith, and the Governor presented him with numerous conciliatory gifts. Thereafter the camp was broken up and the Governor took his departure.

No sooner was his back turned than Hintza’s people commenced a general massacre of the Fingoes. About thirty were murdered in cold blood near to Colonel Somerset’s camp.

Full of indignation, when he heard this, the Governor summoned Hintza to his presence and related what had occurred.

“Well, and what then?” was the Kafir’s cool reply, “are they not my dogs?”

Sir Benjamin met this by giving orders that Hintza and all the people with him should be put under guard, and held as hostages for the safety of the Fingoes. He instantly despatched messengers to stop the carnage, and said that if it continued after three hours he would shoot two of Hintza’s suite for every Fingo killed. He added, moreover, that if he found there was any subterfuge in the message they sent—as he had discovered to have been the case in former messages—he would hang Hintza, Kreli, and Booko on the tree under which they were sitting.

In less than ten minutes the messengers of the chiefs were scampering off at full speed in different directions with orders! So potent was the power of this vigorous treatment that within the short time specified the massacre was stopped.

But the Governor knew well the character of the men with whom he had to deal. To have left the Fingoes in their hands after this would have been tantamount to condemning them to suffer the revengeful wrath of their cruel masters, who would no doubt have resumed the massacre the instant the troops were withdrawn. Sir Benjamin therefore collected them together, along with the few missionaries and other British subjects who had found temporary refuge at the station of Clarkeburg. He placed them under the care of the Reverend Mr Ayliffe, for whom the Fingoes expressed sincere regard, and transported the whole body in safety across the Kei.

“An amazing sight,” observed Charlie Considine to a knot of his comrades, as they reined up on the top of a knoll, and watched the long line of Fingoes defiling before him like an antediluvian black snake trailing its sinuous course over the land, with a little knot of red-coats in front, looking like its fiery head, and sundry groups of burghers, and other troops, here and there along its body, like parti-coloured legs and claws. The length of this mighty snake may be estimated when it is said that of the Fingo nation not fewer than 2000 men, 5600 women, and 9200 children, with 22,000 cattle, were led across the Kei into the colony at that time.

The whole scene, with its multitudinous details, was a commingling of the ludicrous, the touching, and the sublime. It was mirth-provoking to observe the wild energy of the coal-black men, as they sprang from side to side, with shield and assagai, driving in refractory cattle; the curious nature of the bundles borne by many of the women; the frolicking of the larger children and the tottering of the smaller ones, whose little black legs seemed quite unequal to the support of their rotund bodies. It was touching to see, here and there, a stalwart man pick up a tired goat and lay it on his shoulders, or relieve a weary woman of her burden—or catch up a stumbling little one that had lost its mother, and carry it along in his arms. And it was a sublime thought that this great army was being led, like the Israelites of old, out of worse than Egyptian bondage, into a Christian colony, as the adopted sons and daughters of a civilised Government.

It was, in one sense, a “nation born in a day,” for the Fingoes were destined, in after years, to become the faithful allies of their white deliverers, and the creators of much additional wealth in the colony,—a raw native material which at that time gladdened, and still rejoices, the hearts of those missionaries who look to the Fingoes with reasonable hope, as likely to become, in time, the bearers of the Gospel to their kindred in the wilds of Central Africa.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Fate of the Paramount Chief of Kafirland.

Meanwhile Hintza, not having shown sufficient readiness and alacrity in redeeming his promises, was held as a hostage in the hands of the white man. He was, however, treated with the utmost consideration, and when he proposed to accompany a division of the troops, in order to exercise to the utmost his personal influence in recovering from his people the cattle and horses due, and to apprehend the murderers, according to treaty, he was allowed to do so, not only quite free in person, but even with his weapons in his hands.

Colonel Smith, however, who commanded the force, distinctly told the chief through an interpreter, that if he attempted to escape he would instantly be shot.

The force consisted of detachments of the Cape Mounted Rifles, the 72nd regiment, and the corps of Guides—350 men in all.

Towards the afternoon of the day on which they marched, a circumstance occurred which justified Colonel Smith’s suspicions as to Hintza’s sincerity. They had reached a streamlet and encamped, when one of the guides reported to him that two Kafirs, with five head of cattle, were near the camp, and that Hintza, on the plea that they would be afraid to approach, had sent one of his people to bring them in.

On being questioned, the chief declined to give any explanation on the subject, and the Kafirs not only did not come in, as they were ordered, but made off, and carried the horse of Hintza’s messenger along with them! The suspicion excited by this circumstance was increased by the evasive answers given to the Colonel’s repeated inquiries as to the point on which Hintza wished the troops to march.

“We are going right,” was the only answer that could be elicited from the taciturn savage.

After crossing the range of the Guadan Hills, the troops bivouacked on the Guanga, and here Hintza became more communicative, said that he wished them to march towards the mouth of the Bashee, by a route which he would point out, and that they must move at midnight. This was done, and they continued to move forward till eight o’clock in the morning, observing as they went the spoor of numerous herds of cattle that had been driven in that direction quite recently.

The men, being tired, were then halted for refreshment.

At this point Hintza became particularly uneasy at the vigilance with which he was watched.

“What have the cattle done,” he said testily, “that you should want them? and why should my subjects be deprived of them?”

“Why do you ask such questions, Hintza?” replied Colonel Smith; “you know well the many outrages committed on the colonists by your people, and the thousands of cattle that have been stolen. It is in redress of these wrongs that we demand them.”

The chief looked stern, but made no rejoinder. He appeared to recover himself, however, after breakfast, and was in high spirits while on the march. He rode a remarkably strong horse that day, which he appeared very anxious to spare from fatigue—dismounting and leading him up every ascent.

As the party advanced, the tracks of numerous cattle were still found leading onward, but the animals themselves were nowhere to be seen.

“You see,” remarked the chief, with a touch of sarcasm in his tone as he rode beside the Colonel, “you see how my subjects treat me: they drive their cattle from me in spite of me.”

“I do not want your subjects’ cattle, Hintza,” was the Colonel’s pointed reply; “I want, and will have, the colonial cattle which they have stolen.”

“Then,” returned the chief, “allow me to send forward my councillor Umtini to tell my people I am here, that they must not drive away their cattle, and that the cattle of your nation will be alone selected.”

Although it was quite evident that the chief meditated mischief it was thought best to agree to this proposal. Accordingly, the councillor, after being enjoined to return that night, which he promised to do, mounted and left the camp at full speed, accompanied by an attendant.

There was ground for uneasiness and much caution in all this, for those who knew Hintza best were wont to say that he possessed in a high degree all the vices of the savage—ingratitude, avarice, cunning, and cruelty, and his treatment of the traders and missionaries under his protection, as well as his secret encouragement of the border chiefs, fully bore out their opinion.

“Now!” exclaimed the chief in high spirits when Umtini had left, “you need not go on to the Bashee, you will have more cattle than you can drive on the Xabecca.”

The path the troops were passing was a mere cattle-track leading up hill, from the bed of the Xabecca river, among tangled brushwood, and occasionally passing through a cleft in the rocks. Colonel Smith was the only member of the party who rode up the hill; Hintza and the others led their homes. On drawing near to the summit, the chief and his attendants mounted and rode silently but quickly past the Colonel into the bushes.

One of the guides observing the action called to the Colonel, who immediately shouted, “Hintza, stop!”

The savage had no intention of stopping, but, finding himself entangled in the thicket, was compelled to return to the track. He did so with such coolness and with such an ingenuous smile, that the Colonel, who had drawn a pistol, felt half ashamed of his suspicions, and allowed the chief to ride forward as before.

At the top of the steep ascent the country was quite open. The Xabecca river was seen in front with a few Kafir huts on its banks. Here the chief set off at full speed in the direction of the huts.

Colonel Smith and three of the guides pursued. The latter were quickly left behind, but the Colonel, being well mounted, kept up with the fugitive. Spurring on with violence, he soon overtook him.

“Stop, Hintza!” he shouted.

But Hintza was playing his last card. He urged his horse to greater exertion, and kept stabbing at his pursuer with an assagai.

The Colonel drew a pistol, but it snapped. A second was used with like ill success. He then spurred close up, struck the chief with the butt end of the pistol, and, in so doing, dropped it. Hintza looked round with a smile of derision, and the Colonel, hurling the other pistol at him, struck him on the back of the head. The blow was ineffectual. Hintza rode on; the troops followed as they best could. They were now nearing the huts. At length, making a desperate effort, the Colonel dashed close up to the chief. Having now no weapon, he seized him by the collar of his kaross, or cloak, and, with a violent effort, hurled him to the ground. Both horses were going at racing speed. The Colonel, unable to check his, passed on, but before he was beyond reach the agile savage had leaped to his feet, drawn another assagai from the bundle which he carried, and hurled it after his enemy. So good was the aim that the weapon passed within a few inches of the Colonel’s body.

The act afforded time to those behind to come up. Although Hintza turned aside instantly and ran down the steep bank of the Xabecca, the foremost of the guides—named Southey—got within gun-shot and shouted in the Kafir tongue to the chief to stop. No attention being paid to the order, he fired, and Hintza fell, wounded in the left leg. Leaping up in a moment, he resumed his flight, when Southey fired again, and once more the chief was hit and pitched forward, but rose instantly and gained the cover of the thicket which lined the bank of the river. Southey leaped off his horse and gave chase, closely followed by Lieutenant Balfour of the 72nd regiment. The former kept up, and the latter down, the stream.

They had proceeded thus in opposite directions some distance when Southey was startled by an assagai striking the cliff on which he was climbing. Turning sharply, he saw Hintza’s head and his uplifted arm among the bushes within a few feet of him. The savage was in the act of hurling another assagai. Quick as thought the guide levelled his gun and fired. The shot completely shattered the upper part of Hintza’s skull, and next instant a mangled corpse was all that remained of the paramount chief of Kafirland.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Results of War.

“Peace at last!” said Edwin Brook to George Dally, on arriving at his ravaged and herdless farm in the Zuurveld, whither George had preceded him.

“Peace is it, sir? Ah, that’s well. It’s about time too, for we’ve got a deal to do—haven’t we, sir?”

George spoke quite cheerily, under the impression that his master required comforting.

“You see, sir, we’ve got to go back pretty well to where we was in 1820, and begin it all over again. It is somewhat aggrawatin’! Might have been avoided, too, if they’d kep’ a few more troops on the frontier.”

“Well, Jack, the treaty is signed at last,” said Robert Skyd to his brother, as he sat on his counter in Grahamstown, drumming with his heels.

“Not too soon,” replied John Skyd, taking a seat on the same convenient lounge. “It has cost us something: houses burnt all over the settlement, from end to end; crops destroyed; cattle carried off, and, worst of all, trade almost ruined—except in the case of lucky fellows like you, Bob, who sell to the troops.”

“War would not have broken out at all,” returned Bob, “if the Kafirs had only been managed with a touch of ordinary common sense in times past. Our losses are tremendous. Just look at the Kafir trade, which last year I believe amounted to above 40,000 pounds,—that’s crushed out altogether in the meantime, and won’t be easily revived. Kafirs in hundreds were beginning to discard their dirty karosses, and to buy blankets, handkerchiefs, flannels, baize, cotton, knives, axes, and what not, while the traders had set up their stores everywhere in Kafirland—to say nothing of your own business, Jack, in the gum, ivory, and shooting way, and our profits thereon. We were beginning to flourish so well, too, as a colony. I believe that we’ve been absorbing annually somewhere about 150,000 pounds worth of British manufactured articles—not to mention other things, and now—Oh, Jack, mankind is a monstrous idiot!”

“Peace comes too late for us, Gertie,” said Hans Marais to his wife, on their return to the old homestead on the karroo, which presented nothing but a blackened heap of dry mud, bricks, and charred timbers; herds and flocks gone—dreary silence in possession—the very picture of desolation.

“Better late than never,” remarked Charlie Considine sadly. “We must just set to work, re-stock and re-build. Not so difficult to do so as it might have been, however, owing to that considerate uncle of mine. We’re better off than some of our poor neighbours who have nothing to fall back upon. They say that more than 3000 persons have been reduced to destitution; 500 farm-houses have been burnt and pillaged; 900 horses, 55,000 sheep and goats, and above 30,000 head of cattle carried off, only a few of which were recovered by Colonel Smith on that expedition when Hintza was killed. However, we’ll keep up heart and go to work with a will—shan’t we, my little wife!”

Bertha—now Bertha Considine—who leaned on Charlie’s arm, spoke not with her lips, but she lifted her bright blue eyes, and with these orbs of light declared her thorough belief in the wisdom of what ever Charlie might say or do.

“They say it’s all settled!” cried Jerry Goldboy, hastily entering Kenneth McTavish’s stable.

“What’s all settled?” demanded Sandy Black.

“Peace with the Kafirs,” said Jerry.

“Peace wi’ the Kawfirs!” echoed Sandy, in a slightly contemptuous tone. “H’m! they should never hae had war wi’ them, Jerry, my man.”

“But ’aving ’ad it, ain’t it well that it’s hover?” returned Jerry.

“It’s cost us a bonnie penny,” rejoined Black.

“Nae doot Glen Lynden has come off better than ither places, for we’ve managed to haud oor ain no’ that ill, but wae’s me for the puir folk o’ the low country! An’ I’ll be bound the Imperial Treasury’ll smart for’t. (See Note 1.) But it’s an ill wind that blaws nae gude. We’ve taken a gude slice o’ land frae the thievin’ craters, for it’s said Sir Benjamin D’Urban has annexed all the country between the Kei and the Keiskamma to the colony. A most needfu’ addition, for the jungles o’ the Great Fish River or the Buffalo were jist fortresses where the Kawfirs played hide-an’-seek wi’ the settlers, an’ it’s as plain as the nose on my face that peace wi’ them is not possible till they’re driven across the Kei—that bein’ a defensible boundary.”

“So, they say that peace is proclaimed,” said Stephen Orpin to a pretty young woman who had recently put it out of his power to talk of his “bachelor home at Salem.” Jessie McTavish had taken pity on him at last!

“Indeed!” replied Jessie, with a half-disappointed look; “then I suppose you’ll be going off again on your long journeys into the interior, and leaving me to pine here in solitude?”

“That depends,” returned Orpin, “on how you treat me! Perhaps I may manage to find my work nearer home than I did in days gone by. At all events I’ll not go into Kafirland just now, for it’s likely to remain in an unsettled state for many a day. It has been a sad and useless war, and has cost us a heavy price. Think, Jessie, of the lives lost—forty-four of our people murdered during the invasion, and eighty-four killed and thirty wounded during the war. People will say that is nothing to speak of, compared with losses in other wars; but I don’t care for comparisons, I think only of the numbers of our people, and of the hundreds of wretched Kafirs, who have been cut off in their prime and sent to meet their Judge. But there has been one trophy of the war at which I look with rejoicing; 15,000 Fingoes rescued from slavery is something to be thankful for. God can bring good out of evil. It may be that He will give me employment in that direction ere long.”

These various remarks, good reader, were uttered some months after the events recorded in the last chapter, for the death of the great chief of Kafirland did not immediately terminate the war. On the contrary, the treaty of peace entered into with Kreli, Hintza’s son and successor, was scouted by the confederate chiefs, Tyali, Macomo, etcetera, who remained still unsubdued in the annexed territory, and both there, and within the old frontier, continued to commit murders and wide-spread depredations.

It was not until the Kafirs had been hunted by our troops into the most impregnable of their woody fortresses, and fairly brought to bay, that the chiefs sent messengers to solicit peace. It was granted. A treaty of peace was entered into, by which the Kafirs gave up all right to the country conquered, and consented to hold their lands under tenure from the British Sovereign. It was signed at Fort Wilshire in September.

Thereafter Sir Benjamin D’Urban laid down with great wisdom and ability plans for the occupation and defence of the annexed territory, so as to form a real obstruction to future raids by the lawless natives—plans which, if carried out, would no doubt have prevented future wars, and on the strength of which the farmers began to return to their desolated farms, and commence re-building and re-stocking with indomitable resolution. Others accepted offers of land in the new territory, and a few of the Dutch farmers, hoping for better times, and still trusting to British wisdom for protection, were prevailed on to remain in the colony at a time when many of their kindred were moving off in despair of being either protected, understood, or fairly represented.

Among these still trusting ones was Conrad Marais. Strongly urged by Hans and Considine, he consented to begin life anew in the old home, and went vigorously to work with his stout sons.

But he had barely begun to get the place into something like order when a shell was sent into the colony, which created almost as much dismay as if it had been the precursor of another Kafir invasion.

Conrad was seated in a friend’s house in Somerset when the said shell exploded. It came in the form of a newspaper paragraph. He looked surprised on reading the first line or two; then a dark frown settled on his face, which, as he read on, became pale, while his compressed lips twitched with suppressed passion.

Finishing the paragraph, he crushed the newspaper up in his hand, and, thrusting it into his pocket, hastened to the stable, where he saddled his horse. Leaping on its back as if he had been a youth of twenty, he drove the spur into its flanks and galloped away at full speed—away over the dusty road leading from Somerset to the hills: away over the ridge that separates it from the level country beyond; and away over the brown karroo, until at last, covered with dust and flecked with foam, he drew up at his own door and burst in upon the family. They were concluding their evening meal.

“Read that!” he cried, flinging down the paper, throwing himself into a chair, and bringing his fist down on the table with a crash that set cups and glasses dancing.

“There!” he added, pointing to the paragraph, as Hans took up the paper—“that despatch from Lord Glenelg—the British Colonial Secretary—at the top of the column. Read it aloud, boy.”

Hans read as follows:—

“‘In the conduct which was pursued towards the Kafir nation by the colonists and the public authorities of the colony, through a long series of years, the Kafirs had ample justification of the late war; they had to resent, and endeavour justly, though impotently, to avenge a series of encroachments; they had a perfect right to hazard the experiment, however hopeless, of extorting by force that redress which they could not expect otherwise to obtain, and the claim of sovereignty over the new province must be renounced. It rests upon a conquest resulting from a war in which, as far as I am at present enabled to judge, the original justice is on the side of the conquered, not of the victorious party.’”

“Mark that!” cried Conrad, starting to his feet when Hans had finished, and speaking loud, as if he were addressing the assembled colony instead of the amazed members of his own family,—“mark that: ‘the claim of sovereignty over the new province must be renounced.’ So it seems that the Kafirs are not only to be patted on the back for having acted the part of cattle-lifters for years, but are to be invited back to their old haunts to begin the work over again and necessitate another war.”

He stopped abruptly, as if to check words that ought not to be uttered. There was a momentary silence in the group as they looked at each other. It was broken by Conrad saying to his youngest son, in a voice of forced calmness—

“Go, lad, get me a fresh horse. I will rouse the Dutch-African farmers all over the colony. The land is too hot to hold us. We cannot hope to find rest under the Union Jack!”

We can sympathise strongly with the violent indignation of the honest Dutchman, for, in good truth, not only he and his kindred, but all the people of the colony, were most unjustly blamed and unfairly treated by the Government of that day. Nevertheless Conrad was wrong about the Union Jack. The wisest of plans are open to the insidious entrance of error. The fairest flag may be stained, by unworthy bearers, with occasional prostitution. A Secretary of State is not the British nation, nor is he even, at all times, a true representative of British feeling. Many a deed of folly, and sometimes of darkness, has unhappily been perpetrated under the protection of the Union Jack, but that does not alter the great historical fact, that truth, justice, fair-play, and freedom have flourished longer and better under its ample folds than under any other flag that flies on the face of the whole earth.

But Conrad Marais was not in a position to consider this just then. The boy who is writhing under the lash of a temporarily insane father, is not in a position to reflect that, in the main, his father is, or means to be, just, kind, loving, and true. Conrad bolted a hasty supper, mounted the fresh steed, and galloped away to rouse his kindred. And he proved nearly as good as his word. He roused many of them to join him in his intended expatriation, and many more did not need rousing. Some had brooded over their wrongs until they began to smoulder, and when they were told that the unprovoked raid of the Kafir thieves was deemed justifiable by the Government which ought to have protected their frontier, but had left them to protect themselves, the fire burst into a flame, and the great exodus began in earnest. Thus, a second time, did Conrad and his family, with many others, take to the wilderness. On this occasion the party included Hans and Charlie Considine, with their families.

There was still wanting, however, that last straw which renders a burden intolerable. It was laid on at the time when slavery was abolished.

The Abolition Act was carried into effect on the 1st December 1834, at which time the accursed system of slavery was virtually brought to an end in the colony, though the slaves were not finally freed from all control till 1838. But the glory of this noble work was sullied not a little by the unjust manner in which, during these four years, the details relative to the payment of compensation to slave-owners were carried out. We cannot afford space here to go into these details. Suffice it to say that, as one of the consequences, many families in the colony were ruined, and a powerful impulse was given to the exodus, which had already begun. The leading Dutch-African families in Oliphant’s Hock, Gamtoos River, along the Fish River, and Somerset, sold their farms—in many cases at heavy loss, or for merely nominal sums—crossed the border, and bade a final adieu to the land of their fathers. These were followed by other bands, among whom were men of wealth and education, from Graaff-Reinet, Uitenhage, and Albany, until a mighty host had hived off into the far north. Through many a month of toil and trouble did this host pass while traversing the land of the savage in scattered bands. Many a sad reverse befell them. Some were attacked and cut off; some defended themselves with heroism and passed on, defying the Kafirs to arrest their progress, until at last they reached the distant lands on which their hearts were set—and there they settled down to plough and sow, to reap and hunt and build, but always with arms at hand, for the savage was ever on the watch to take them at a disadvantage or unawares.

Thus were laid the foundations of the colony of Natal, the Orange Free State, and the Transvaal Republic.

Note 1. The war of 1884-6 cost the Treasury 800,000 pounds, and the colonists lost in houses, stock, etcetera, 288,625 pounds.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Last.

With peace came prosperity. This was not indeed very obvious at first, for it took a long time to reconcile the unfortunates of the eastern provinces to their heavy losses, and a still longer time to teach them to forget. Nevertheless, from this time forward the march of the settlers of 1820, commercially, intellectually, and religiously, became steady, regular, and rapid.

No doubt they suffered one or two grievous checks as years rolled on. Again and again they had to fight the Kafir savage and drive him back into his native jungles, and each time they had more trouble in doing so than before, because the Kafir was an apt pupil, and learned to substitute the gun for the assagai; but he did not learn to substitute enlightened vigour for blind passion, therefore the white man beat him as before.

He did more than that. He sought to disarm the savage, and, to a large extent, succeeded. He disarmed him of ignorance by such means as the Lovedale Missionary Institution near Alice; the Institution near Healdtown, and other seminaries,—as well as by mission stations of French, Dutch Reformed, Wesleyan, English, and Scotch churches scattered all over Kafirland; he taught the savage that “the fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom,” and that industry is the high-road to prosperity. Some of the black men accepted these truths, others rejected them. Precisely the same may be said of white men all over the world. Those who accepted became profitable to themselves and the community. Those who rejected, continued slaves to themselves, and a nuisance to everybody. Again we remark that the same may be said of white men everywhere. White unbelievers continued to pronounce the “red” Kafir an “irreclaimable savage,” fit for nothing but coercion and the lash. Black unbelievers continued to curse the white man as being unworthy of any better fate than being “driven into the sea,” and, between the two, missionaries and Christians, both black and white, had a hard time of it; but they did not give in, for, though greatly disheartened at times, they remembered that they were “soldiers” of the cross, and as such were bound to “endure hardness.”

Moreover, missionaries and Christians of all colours and kinds, doubtless remembered their own sins and errors. Being imperfect men, they had in some cases—through prejudice and ignorance, but never through design—helped the enemy a little; or, if they did not remember these errors and aims, they were pretty vigorously reminded of them by white opponents, and no doubt the thought of this humbled them to some extent, and enabled them to bow more readily to chastisement. Then they braced themselves anew for the gospel-fight—the only warfare on earth that is certain to result in blessing to both the victors and the vanquished.

If any of the missionaries held with Lord Glenelg in his unwise reversal of the good Sir Benjamin D’Urban’s Kafir policy, they must have had the veil removed from their eyes when that nobleman himself confessed his error with a candour that said much for his heart; reversed his own decrees, and fell back upon that very plan which at first he had condemned in such ungenerous terms. His recantation could not, however, recall the thousands of Dutch-African farmers whom he helped to expatriate. Perhaps it was well that it should be so, for good came out of this evil,—namely, the reclamation of vast tracts of the most beautiful and fertile regions of the earth from the dominion of darkness and cruelty.

But what of those whose fortunes we have been following, during this period of peace and prosperity?

Some of them remained in the colony, helped on these blessings, and enjoyed them. Others, casting in their lot with the wanderers, fought the battles and helped to lay the foundations of the new colonies.

First, Charlie Considine. That fortunate man—having come into the possession of a considerable sum of money, through the uncle who had turned out so much “better than he should be,” and having become possessed of a huge family of sons and daughters through that Gertie whom he styled the “sugar of his existence,”—settled in Natal along with his friends Hans and Conrad Marais. When that fertile and warm region was taken possession of by the British, he refused to hive off with the Marais, and continued to labour there in the interests of truth, mercy, and justice to the end of his days.

Junkie Brook, with that vigour of character which had asserted itself on the squally day of his nativity, joined Frank Dobson and John Skyd in a hunting expedition beyond the Great Orange River; and when the Orange Free State was set up by the emigrant Dutchmen, he and his friends established there a branch of the flourishing house of Dobson, Skyd, and Company. Being on the spot when South Africa was electrified by the discovery (in 1866-67) of the Diamond Fields of that region, they sent their sons, whose name was legion, to dig, and soon became diamond merchants of the first water, so that when Junkie visited his aged parents on the Zuurveld—which he often did—he usually appeared with his pockets full of precious stones!

“I’ve found a diamond this time, nurse,” he said, on the occasion of one of these visits, “which is as big—oh!—as—as an ostrich-egg! See, here it is,” and he laid on the table a diamond which, if not quite as big as the egg of the giant bird, was large enough to enable him, with what he had previously earned, to retire comfortably from the business in favour of his eldest son.

The sudden acquisition of riches in this way was by no means uncommon at that time, for the “Fields” were amazingly prolific, and having been discovered at a crisis of commercial depression, were the means, not only of retrieving the fortunes of South Africa, but of advancing her to a condition of hitherto unparalleled prosperity.

Mrs Scholtz—by that time grown unreasonably fat—eyed the diamond with a look of amused contempt; she evidently did not believe in it. Patting the hand of her former charge, she looked up in his laughing face, and said, with a shake of her head—

“Ah! Junkie, I always said you was a wonderful child.”

Sitting on a bench in front of the house—no longer domestics, but smoking their pipes there as “friends” of the family, who had raised themselves to a state of comparative affluence—George Dally and Scholtz, now aged men, commented on the same diamond.

“It’ll make his fortune,” said George.

“Zee boy vas always lucky,” remarked Scholtz; “zince I began to varm for myself I have not zeen so big a stone.”

“Ah! Scholtz,” returned his friend, “the hotel business has done very well for me, an I don’t complain, but if I was young again I’d sell off and have a slap at the ‘Fields.’”

“Zat vould only prove you vas von fool,” said Scholtz quietly.

“I believe it would,” returned George.

In regard to the Scotch party at Glen Lynden, we have to record that they continued to persevere and prosper. Wool became one of the staple articles of colonial commerce, and the hills of the Baviaans River sent a large contingent of that article to the flourishing seaport of the eastern provinces.

Of course the people multiplied, and the sturdy sons of the South African highlands did credit to their sires, both in the matter of warring with the Kafir and farming on the hills.

Sandy Black stuck to his farm with the perseverance of a true Scot, and held his own through thick and thin. He married a wife also, and when, in later years, the native blacks made a sudden descent on his homestead, they were repulsed by a swarm of white Blacks, assisted by an army of McTavishes, and chased over the hills with a degree of energy that caused them almost to look blue!

Andrew Rivers, being a man of progressive and independent mind, cast about him in a state of uncertainty for some years, devoting himself chiefly to hunting, until the value of ostrich feathers had induced far-sighted men to domesticate the giant bird, and take to “farming” ostriches—incubating them by artificial as well as natural means. Then Rivers became an ostrich-farmer. He was joined in this enterprise by Jerry Goldboy, and the two ultimately bought a farm on the karroo and settled down. Rivers had a turn for engineering, and set himself to form a huge dam to collect rain near his dwelling. From this reservoir he drew forth constant supplies, not only to water flocks and herds, but to create a garden in the karroo, which soon glowed with golden fruit.

In this he set a good example, which has been followed with great success by many men of enterprise in those regions; and there is no doubt, we think, that if such dams were multiplied, Artesian wells sunk, and railways run into the karroos, those fine, though comparatively barren regions of South Africa, would soon begin to blossom like the rose.

Thus, what between ostrich feathers, wool, horses, cattle, and enterprise, Rivers and Goldboy made themselves comfortable. Like other men of sense, they married. Thereafter the garden had to be considerably enlarged, for the golden fruit created by the streams which had been collected and stored by Rivers, proved quite inadequate to the supply of those oceans of babies and swarms of Goldboys that flooded the karroo, and filled its solitudes with shouts and yells that would have done credit to the wildest tribe of reddest Kafirs in the land.

Some of these descendants, becoming men of energy, with roving dispositions like their sires, travelled into the far north, and west, and helped to draw forth the copper ore, and to open the mines of Great Namaqua-land—thus aiding in the development of South Africa’s inexhaustible treasure-house, while others of them, especially the sons of Jerry, went into the regions of the Transvaal Republic, and there proved themselves Goldboys in very truth, by successfully working the now celebrated gold-fields of that region.

Stephen Orpin did not give up trade, but he prosecuted it with less and less vigour as time went on, and at last merely continued it as a means of enabling him to prosecute the great object of his life, the preaching of the gospel, not merely to those whom men style par excellence the “heathen,” but to every one who was willing to listen to the good news—redemption from sin! Ah! there was great fervour in Stephen Orpin’s tones when he said, as he often did— “Men and women, I do not come here to make you good, which, in the estimation of more than one half of the so-called Christian world, means goody. My desire is to open your eyes to see Jesus, the Saviour from sin. Who among you—except the young—does not know the power of sin; our inability to restrain bad and vicious habits; our passionate desire to do what we know is wrong; our frequent falling from courses that we know to be right? It is not that hell frightens us; it is not that heaven fails to attract us. These ideas trouble us little—too little. It is present misery that torments. We long and desire to have, but cannot obtain; we fight and strive, but do not succeed, or, it may be, we do succeed, and discover success to be failure, for we are disappointed, and then feel a tendency towards apathetic indifference. If, however, our consciences be awakened, then the torment takes another form. We are tempted powerfully, and cannot resist. We cannot subdue our passions; we cannot restrain our tempers. No wonder. Has not God said, ‘Greater is he who ruleth his own spirit, than he who taketh a city?’ The greatest conqueror is not so great as he who conquers himself. What then? Is there no deliverance from sin? Yes, there is. ‘Sin shall not have dominion over you,’ are the words of Him who also said, ‘Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.’”

“Stephen Orpin,” cried a sturdy sinner, in whose ears these words were preached, “do you know all that to be true? Can you speak from experience of this deliverance, this rest?”

“Yes,” cried Stephen, starting up with a sudden impulse, “I do know it—partly by some deliverances that have been wrought for me, partly from some degree of rest attained to, and much, very much, from the firm assurance I have that, but for God’s forbearing and restraining mercy, I should have been a lost soul long long ago. Man, wherein I have failed in obtaining deliverance and rest, it has been owing to my sin, not to failure in the Lord’s faithfulness.”

But Stephen did not travel so far or so long as had been his wont in days gone by. A wife and family, in the village of Salem, exercised an attractive influence, fastening him, as it were, to a fixed point, and converting his former erratic orbit into a circle which, with centripetal force, was always drawing nearer to its centre.

In the course of his early wanderings Orpin managed to search out Ruyter the Hottentot robber, and so influenced him as to induce him to give up his lawless career, and return to the colony. Ruyter drew with him Abdul Jemalee, Booby the Bushman, and one or two others, who settled down to peaceful occupations.

The Malay in particular—slavery being by that time abolished—returned to Capetown, and there found his amiable wife and loving children ready to receive him with open arms. It is true the wife was somewhat aged, like himself, and his children were grown up—some of them even married,—but these little matters weighed nothing in his mind compared with the great, glorious fact, that he was reunited to them in a land where he might call his body his own!

If Jemalee had been a man of much observation, he might have noted that many important changes had taken place in Capetown and its surroundings during his long absence. A new South African college had been erected; a library which might now stand in the front rank of the world’s libraries had been collected; the freedom of the press had been largely taken advantage of, and education generally was being prosecuted with a degree of rigour that argued well for the future of the colony—especially in Stellenbosch, Wellington, and neighbouring places. But Abdul Jemalee was not a man of observation. He did not care a straw for these things, and although we should like much to enlarge on them, as well as on other topics, we must hold our hand—for the new and eastern, not the old and western provinces of South Africa claim our undivided attention in this tale.

There is no necessary antagonism, however, between these two—‘East’ and ‘West.’ Circumstances and men have at present thrown a few apples of discord into them, just as was the case with England and Scotland of old; with the North and South in the United States of late; but, doubtless, these apples, and every other source of discord, will be removed in the course of time, and South Africa will ere long become a united whole, with a united religious and commercial people, under one flag, animated by one desire—the advancement of truth and righteousness among themselves, as well as among surrounding savages,—and extending in one grand sweep of unbroken fertility from the Cape of Good Hope to the Equator.

The End.

Letter 1.

“A Life on the Ocean Wave.”

South Africa.

DEAR PERIWINKLE,—Since that memorable, not to say miserable, day, when you and I parted at Saint Katherine’s Docks, (See Note 1), with the rain streaming from our respective noses—rendering tears superfluous, if not impossible—and the noise of preparation for departure damaging the fervour of our “farewell”—since that day, I have ploughed with my “adventurous keel” upwards of six thousand miles of the “main,” and now write to you from the wild Karroo of Southern Africa.

The Karroo is not an animal. It is a spot—at present a lovely spot. I am surrounded by—by nature and all her southern abundance. Mimosa trees, prickly pears, and aloes remind me that I am not in England. Ostriches, stalking on the plains, tell that I am in Africa. It is not much above thirty years since the last lion was shot in this region, (See Note 2), and the kloofs, or gorges, of the blue mountains that bound the horizon are, at the present hour, full of “Cape-tigers,” wild deer of different sorts, baboons, monkeys, and—but hold! I must not forestall. Let me begin at the beginning.

The adventurous keel above referred to was not, as you know, my own private property. I shared it with some two hundred or so of human beings, and a large assortment of the lower animals. Its name was the “Windsor Castle”—one of a magnificent line of ocean steamers belonging to an enterprising British firm.

There is something appallingly disagreeable in leave-taking. I do not refer now to the sentiment, but to the manner of it. Neither do I hint, my dear fellow, at your manner of leave-taking. Your abrupt “Well, old boy, bon voyage, good-bye, bless you,” followed by your prompt retirement from the scene, was perfect in its way, and left nothing to be desired; but leave-takings in general—how different!

Have you never stood on a railway platform to watch the starting of an express?

Of course you have, and you have seen the moist faces of those two young sisters, who had come to “see off” that dear old aunt, who had been more than a mother to them since that day, long ago, when they were left orphans, and who was leaving them for a few months, for the first time for many years; and you have observed how, after kissing and weeping on her for the fiftieth time, they were forcibly separated by the exasperated guard; and the old lady was firmly, yet gently thrust into her carriage, and the door savagely locked with one hand, while the silver whistle was viciously clapt to the lips with the other, and the last “goo–ood—bye—d–arling!” was drowned by a shriek, and puff and clank, as the train rolled off.

You’ve seen it all, have you not, over and over again, in every degree and modification? No doubt you have, and as it is with parting humanity at railway stations, so is it at steamboat wharves.

There are differences, however. After you had left, I stood and sympathised with those around me, and observed that there is usually more emotion on a wharf than on a platform—naturally enough, as, in the case of long sea voyages, partings, it may be presumed, are for longer periods, and dangers are supposed to be greater and more numerous than in land journeys,—though this is open to question. The waiting process, too, is prolonged. Even after the warning bell had sent non-voyagers ashore, they had to stand for a considerable time in the rain while we cast off our moorings or went through some of those incomprehensible processes by which a leviathan steamer is moved out of dock.

After having made a first false move, which separated us about three yards from the wharf—inducing the wearied friends on shore to brighten up and smile, and kiss hands, and wave kerchiefs, with that energy of decision which usually marks a really final farewell—our steamer remained in that position for full half an hour, during which period we gazed from the bulwarks, and our friends gazed from under their dripping umbrellas across the now impassable gulf in mute resignation.

At that moment a great blessing befell us. A boy let his cap drop from the wharf into the water! It was an insignificant matter in itself, but it acted like the little safety-valve which prevents the bursting of a high-pressure engine. Voyagers and friends no longer looked at each other like melancholy imbeciles. A gleam of intense interest suffused every visage, intelligence sparkled in every eye, as we turned and concentrated our attention on that cap! The unexpressed blessing of the whole company, ashore and afloat, descended on the uncovered head of that boy, who, all unconscious of the great end he was fulfilling, made frantic and futile efforts with a long piece of stick to recover his lost property.

But we did at last get under weigh, and then there were some touches of real pathos. I felt no disposition to note the humorous elements around when I saw that overgrown lad of apparently eighteen summers, press to the side and wave his thin hands in adieu to an elderly lady on shore, while tears that he could not, and evidently did not care to restrain, ran down his hollow cheeks. He had no friend on board, and was being sent to the Cape for the benefit of his health. So, too, was another young man—somewhere between twenty and thirty years—whose high colour, brilliant eye, and feeble step told their own tale. But this man was not friendless. His young wife was there, and supported him with tender solicitude towards a seat. These two were in the after-cabin. Among the steerage passengers the fell disease was represented in the person of a little boy. “Too late” was written on the countenances of at least two of these,—the married man and the little boy.

As to the healthy passengers, what shall I say of them? Need I tell you that every species of humanity was represented?

There were tall men, and short men, as well as men broad and narrow,—mentally, not less than physically. There were ladies pretty, and ladies plain, as well as grave and gay. Fat and funny ones we had, also lean ones and sad. The wise and foolish virgins were represented. So too were smokers and drinkers; and not a few earnest, loving, and lovable, men and women.

A tendency had been gaining on me of late to believe that, after passing middle-life, a man cannot make new and enthusiastic friendships. Never was I more mistaken. It is now my firm conviction that men may and do make friendships of the closest kind up to the end of their career. Of course the new friends do not, and cannot, take the place of the old. It seems to me that they serve a higher purpose, and, by enabling one to realise the difference between the old and the new, draw the cords of ancient friendship tighter. At all events, you may depend upon it, my dear Periwinkle, that no new friend shall ever tumble you out of the niche which you occupy in my bosom!

But be this as it may, it is a fact that in my berth—which held four, and was full all the voyage—there was a tall, dark, powerful, middle-aged man, an Englishman born in Cape Colony, (See Note 3), who had been “home” for a trip, and was on his way out again to his African home on the great Karroo. This man raised within me feelings of disgust when I first saw him in the dim light of our berth, because he was big, and I knew that a big man requires more air to fill his lungs than a little one, and there was no superabundant air in our berth—quite the reverse. This man occupied the top berth opposite to mine. Each morning as I awoke my eyes fell on his beard of iron-grey, and I gazed at his placid countenance till he awoke—or I found his placid countenance gazing at me when I awoke. From gazing to nodding in recognition is an easy step in ordinary circumstances, but not when one’s head is on one’s pillow. We therefore passed at once, without the ceremony of nodding, into a quiet “good morning.” Although reticent, he gradually added a smile to the “good morning,” and I noticed that his smile was a peculiarly pleasant one. Steps that succeed the “first” are generally easy. From disliking this man—not on personal, but purely selfish grounds—I came to like him; then to love him. I have reason to believe that the attachment was mutual. His name—why should I not state it? I don’t think he would object—is Hobson.

In the bunk below Hobson lay a young Wesleyan minister. He was a slender young fellow,—modest and thoughtful. If Hobson’s bunk had given way, I fear that his modesty and thoughtfulness might have been put to a severe test. I looked down upon this young Wesleyan from my materially exalted position, but before the voyage was over I learned to look up to him from a spiritually low position. My impression is that he was a “meek” man. I may be mistaken, but of this am I certain, that he was one of the gentlest, and at the same time one of the most able men in the ship.

But, to return to my berth—which, by the way, I was often loth to do, owing to the confined air below, and the fresh glorious breezes on deck—the man who slept under me was a young banker, a clerk, going out to the Cape to make his fortune, and a fine capable-looking fellow he was, inclined rather to be receptive than communicative. He frequently bumped me with his head in getting up; I, not unfrequently, put a foot upon his nose, or toes, in getting down.

What can I say about the sea that has not been said over and over again in days of old? This, however, is worthy of record, that we passed the famous Bay of Biscay in a dead-calm. We did not “lay” one single “day” on that “Bay of Biscay, O!” The “O!” seems rather awkwardly to imply that I am not stating the exact truth, but I assure you that it is a fact. More than this, we had not a storm all the way to the Cape. It was a pure pleasure excursion—a sort of yacht voyage—from beginning to end; very pleasant at the time, and delightful now to dwell upon; for, besides the satisfaction of making a new friend like Hobson, there were others to whom I was powerfully drawn, both by natural sympathy and intellectual bias.

There was a Wesleyan minister, also an Englishman, born in South Africa, and of the race of Anak, with whom, and his amiable wife, and pretty children, I fraternised ardently. My soul was also gladdened by intercourse with a clergyman of the Dutch-Reformed Church, well-known in the Cape, and especially in the Transvaal—who, with his pleasant wife and daughter, was on his way back to South Africa after a brief trip to Europe. He was argumentative; so, you know, am I. He was also good-tempered, therefore we got on well.

It would be an endless business to name and describe all the passengers who were personally attractive, and who were more or less worthy of description. There were, among others, a genial and enthusiastic Dutch-African legislator of the Cape; a broad-shouldered but retiring astronomer; also a kindly Cape merchant; and a genial English banker, with their respective wives and families. I had the good fortune to sit in the midst of these at meals, close to Captain Hewat, who is unquestionably, what many of us styled him, a “trump.” He is also a Scotchman. There was likewise a diamond-digger, and another man who seemed to hate everybody except himself. There were also several sportsmen; one of whom, a gallant son of Mars, and an author, had traversed the “Great Lone Land” of British America, and had generally, it seemed to me, “done” the world, with the exception of Central Africa, which he was at last going to add to his list. There were also troops of children, who behaved remarkably well considering the trials they had to undergo; and numerous nurses, some of whom required more attention than all the ladies put together.

You will now, no doubt, expect an account of romantic adventures on the deep, and narrow escapes, and alarms of fire, and men overboard, and thrilling narratives. If so, your expectations are doomed to disappointment. We fished for no sharks, we chased no whales, we fell in with no slavers or pirates. Nevertheless we saw flying fish, and we had concerts and lectures; and such delightful perambulations of the decks, and such charming impromptu duets and glees and solos on retired parts of the deck in moonlight nights, and such earnest discussions, and such genial companionship! Truly that voyage was one of those brilliant episodes which occur only once in a lifetime, and cannot be repeated; one of those green spots in memory, which, methinks, will survive when all other earthly things have passed away.

I will write no more about it, however, at present. Neither will I proceed in what is usually considered the natural manner with my epistles—namely, step by step. Arrivals, cities, travelling, roads, inns, and all such, I will skip, and proceed at one bound to that which at the present moment is to me most interesting, merely remarking that we reached Capetown, (of which more hereafter), in November,—the South African summer—after a voyage of twenty-five days.

I am now sojourning at Ebenezer-Hobson’s residence on the Karroo.

Letter 2.

Hunting Springboks on the Karroo.

To start for the hunting-field at seven in the morning in a carriage and six, smacks of royalty and sounds luxurious, but in South Africa there are drawbacks connected therewith.

Hobson’s farm is, as I have said, on the Karroo—those vast plains which at some seasons resemble a sandy desert, and at others are covered with rich verdure and gorgeous flowers. They are named after the small, succulent, Karroo-bush, which represents the grass of other plains, and is excellent food for cattle, sheep, and ostriches.

These plains embrace a considerable portion of the territory of the Cape. The Karroo is pre-eminently lumpy. Its roads in most places are merely the result of traffic. They, also, are lumpy. Our carriage was a native “cart,” by which is meant a plain and powerful machine with springs that are too strong readily to yield. Five of our team were mules, the sixth was a pony.

Our party at starting numbered five, but grew as we progressed. We took with us provisions and fodder for two days. The driving was undertaken by Hobson’s nephew, assisted by his eldest son—“Six-foot Johnny.” There was a double necessity for two drivers. To hold the reins of five kicking mules and a prancing pony required both hands as well as all the strength of the cousin, though he was a powerful fellow, and the management of the whip claimed both arms, and all the strength, as well as the undivided attention of his assistant. The whip was a salmon-rod in appearance, without exaggeration. It had a bamboo handle somewhere between twelve and fourteen feet long, with a proportionate lash. The operator sometimes found it convenient to stand when he made a cast with his fishing-rod weapon. He was an adept with it; capable, it seemed to me, of picking a fly off one of the leader’s ears.

There was some trouble in keeping our team quiet while rifles, ammunition, provisions, etcetera, were being stowed in the cart.

At last the cousin gave the word. Six-foot Johnny made a cast. The lash grazed the leader’s flank with a crack that might have shamed a small revolver. The mules presented first their noses, then their heels to the sky; the cart leaped from the ground, and we were off—bumping, rattling, crashing, swinging, over the wild Karroo, followed by some half-dozen horses led by two mounted Hottentot attendants.

My friend Hobson, greatly to our grief, did not accompany us, owing to inflamed eyes, but I shared the back seat of the cart with his brother Jonathan, a tall strapping man of middle age and modest mien, who seemed to me the perfect type of a colonial hero.

In an hour or so we came to the solitary farm of a Mr Green, who regaled us with a sumptuous breakfast, and lent me a spur. I had the liberal offer of two spurs, but as, in hunting with the rifle, it is sometimes advisable to sit on one’s right heel, and memory during the excitement of the chase is apt to prove faithless, I contented myself with one spur,—feeling pretty confident that if I persuaded the left side of my horse to go, the right side could not well remain behind.

Mr Green joined us. Thereafter we came to the residence of a Mr Priest, who also joined us with his son, and thus we sped on over the flat sandy plains, inhaling the sweet scent of mimosa blossom, glowing in the fervid sunshine, and picking up comrades here and there, until about noon we reached the scene of our intended operations.

This was a vast, almost level plain named the Plaat River Flats. It lay between two rivers, was eight or ten miles wide and upwards of twenty miles in length—a mighty ocean, as it were, of short, compact Karroo, with a boundless horizon like the sea in all directions save one, where a great South African mountain range intercepted the view. Here and there a few clumps of mimosa bushes rose like islets, and lent additional interest to the scene.

We “outspanned”, that is, we unyoked, and “off-saddled” here for luncheon, and found shelter from the sun under a mimosa, which was large enough to merit being styled a tree. Its thorns were from four to six inches in length.

The party had now swelled to fourteen—all stout hardy descendants of the English, Scotch, or Dutch settlers, who had originally peopled the land; good rifle shots, and splendid horsemen. One of them was conspicuous by his brawny arms, which were burnt to a deep brown in consequence of his preferring to hunt and work at all times with shirt sleeves rolled up above the elbows. Another struck me as having the broadest pair of shoulders I ever saw in a man of his size.

“Capital water here,” said Green to me, on alighting beside the mimosa-thorn.

“Indeed,” said I, thirsting for some, “where is it?”

“Here! come; I’ll show you.”

He led me to a spot among the bushes where lay a small pond of thin mud the colour of weak tea with milk.

“There you are,” said Green.

I looked at him inquiringly.

He looked at me and smiled.

I laughed.

Green grinned, and assured me that it was “first-rate water.”

He dipped a cup, as he spoke, and drank it. So did his comrades, with evident satisfaction, though the liquid was so opaque that I could not see the bottom of a tea-cup when it was full.

There could be no further doubt on the point. These reckless and jovial South Africans—European by extraction though they were, and without a drop of black blood in their veins—had actually accommodated themselves to circumstances so far as to consider liquid mud good water! More than that, I found that most of the party deemed it a sufficient beverage, for they were all temperance men, if not total abstainers. Still further, I followed their example, drank of that yellow pond, and actually enjoyed it. Subsequently I made the discovery that there were small animals in it; after that I preferred it in the form of tea, which was quickly infused by our active Hottentots.

The discovery above referred to was made when Green, (or Brownarms, or Broadshoulders, I forget which), was quaffing a cup of the cold element. Having drained it he spat out the last mouthful, and along with it a lively creature like a small shrimp, with something like a screw-propeller under its tail!

Enjoying our tea under the shade of the mimosa, we rested for an hour, and then, saddling our steeds and slinging on rifles and cartridge-pouches, we mounted, and sallied forth upon the plain.

A glorious sensation of freedom came over me as I felt my horse’s springy step,—a sensation which brought powerfully back the memory of those days when I first galloped over the American prairies. Surely there must be a sympathy, a mesmeric influence, between a horse and his rider which sends a thrill through each. Hobson had lent me his own favourite horse, Rob Roy. He was a charming creature; well made, active, willing, and tender in the mouth, but, best of all, he “trippled” splendidly.

Trippling is a favourite gait in South Africa, especially among the Dutch farmers. It is something between pacing and ambling, a motion so easy that one scarce rises at all from the saddle. We trippled off into the vast plain towards the horizon, each horseman diverging a little from his comrades, like a fleet of fishing-boats putting out to sea. Most of the party rode without coats, for the sky was cloudless, and we looked for a broiling day. Brownarms, I observed, had his sleeves rolled up, as usual, to the shoulder. Six-foot Johnny rode a cream-coloured pony, which, like himself, enjoyed itself intensely, and seemed ready for anything. Each man grasped his rifle by the middle with the right hand, and rested the stock on his thigh.

Being a stranger to the work, I had been supplied with a Hottentot as well as a horse,—to guide me and carry my rifle; but I scorned to ride without my weapon, and did not at first see the necessity of a guide in the circumstances. Ultimately I was only too glad to avail myself of his services!

The South Africans call Hottentots “boys,” whatever their age or size may be. My “boy” was named Michael. He was a small wiry man of twenty or thirty,—more or less,—with a dirty brown face, dirty brown garments, and a dirty brown horse. Though a bad one to look at, it was a marvellous horse to go. Michael had a cavernous red mouth, and magnificent white teeth. Likewise he was gifted with a strong sense of the ludicrous, as I have reason to know.

We advanced slowly into the plain at first, and gradually scattered until some of the party began to look like mere specks in the distance. Presently I saw two or three of them break into a gallop, and observed a few moving spots of white on the horizon. I looked anxiously at my boy. He returned the gaze with glittering eyes and said “bok.”

“Boks! are they?” said I, applying my spur and making a leap over an ant-bear hole.

Rob Roy stretched his legs with a will, but a howl from Michael caused me to look round. He was trending off in another direction, and pointing violently towards something. He spoke nothing but Dutch. My acquaintance with that tongue was limited to the single word “Ja.”

He was aware of this, and his visage became all eyes and mouth in his frantic effort to assure me it would be wise were I to follow his lead.

I turned at once and galloped alongside of him in faith.

It soon became clear what he aimed at. The horsemen on the far off horizon were driving the springboks towards the stream which bounded one side of the great plain, Mike was making for the bushes that bordered that stream in the hope of reaching them before the boks should observe us.

Oh! it was a glorious burst, that first race over the wild Karroo, on a spirited steed, in the freshness of early morning—

With the silent bushboy alone by my side,

for he was silent, though tremendously excited. His brown rags fluttered in the self-made breeze, and his brown pony scrambled over the ground quite as fast as Rob Roy. We reached a clump of underwood in time, and pulled up, panting, beside a bush which was high enough to conceal the horses.

Anxiously we watched here, and carefully did I look to my rifle,—a double-barrelled breech-loading “Soaper-Henry,”—to see that it was loaded and cocked, and frequently did I take aim at stump and stone to get my hand and eye well “in,” and admiringly, with hope in every lineament, did Michael observe me.

“See anything of them, Mike?” I asked.

I might as well have asked a baboon. Mike only grinned, but Mike’s grin once seen was not easily forgotten.

Suddenly Mike caught sight of something, and bolted. I followed. At the same moment pop! pop! went rifles in different parts of the plain. We could not see anything distant for the bushes, but presently we came to the edge of an open space, into which several springboks were trotting with a confusedly surprised air.

“Now, Sar,—now’s you chance,” said Mike, using the only English sentence he possessed, and laying hold of the bridle of my horse.

I was on the ground and down on one knee in such a hurry, that to this day I know not by what process I got off the horse.

Usually, when thus taken by surprise, the springboks stop for a moment or two and gaze at the kneeling hunter. This affords a splendid though brief chance to take good aim, but the springboks were not inquisitive that day. They did not halt. I had to take a running shot, and the ball fell short, to my intense mortification. I had sighted for three hundred yards. Sighting quickly for five hundred, while the frightened animals were scampering wildly away, I put a ball in the dust just between the legs of one.

The leap which that creature gave was magnificent. Much too high to be guessed at with a hope of being believed! The full significance of the animal’s name was now apparent. Charging a breech-loader is rapid work, but the flock was nine hundred or a thousand yards off before I could again take aim. In despair I fired and sent a bullet into the midst of them, but without touching one.

I now turned to look at the “boy,” who was sitting on his pony with both eyes nearly shut, and a smile so wide that the double row of his teeth were exposed to the very last grinders!

But he became extremely grave and sympathetic as I turned towards him, and made a remark in Dutch which was doubtless equivalent to “better luck next time.”

Remounting I rode to the edge of the clump of bushes and found several of my companions, some of whom carried the carcasses of springboks at their cruppers. Hope revived at once, and I set off with them in search of another flock.

“You’ve failed, I see,” remarked my friend Jonathan Hobson in a sympathetic tone.

Ah! what a blessed thing is sympathy!

“Yes,” said I; “my shots fell short.”

“Don’t let that discourage you,” returned Jonathan, “you’re not used to the Karroo. Distance is very deceptive. Sighting one’s rifle is the chief difficulty in these regions, but you’ll soon come to it.”

Another flock of springboks was discovered at this moment on a distant knoll, towards which we trotted, trippled, and cantered. We quickly scattered,—each man taking his own course. Six-foot Johnny, already burdened with a buck, went off at reckless speed. He soon came near enough to cause the game to look up inquiringly. This made him draw rein, and advance with caution in a sidling and indirect manner. In a few minutes the boks trotted off. We were now within long range, and made a dash at racing-speed to head them. The creatures absolutely played with us at first, and performed some of their astounding leaps, as if for our special amusement. Had they set off at full speed at once we should not have had a chance, for they are fleeter than horses. Their manner of leaping is à la indiarubber ball. It is not a bound forwards, but a “stott” straight upwards,—six, eight, or nine feet, without apparent effort, and displaying at each bound a ridge, or fold, of pure white hair on their backs which at other times is concealed.

We now “put on a spurt,” and the leading men got near enough—between two and three hundred yards. They dismounted, dropped their bridles, and kneeled to take aim. Brownarms fired and brought one down—so did Broadshoulders. Six-foot Johnny, in his eagerness, let the cream pony stumble, somehow, and went over its head—also over his own, and landed on his knees. The bok he was after stopped to gaze at the catastrophe. Johnny, profiting by his position, took aim and tumbled it over.

Mike was by this time leading me towards an animal. We got within three hundred yards when it began to stretch out. Further pursuit being useless, I pulled up, leaped off, kneeled, fired, and missed again—the ball, although straight, falling short. With wild haste I scrambled on Rob Roy—who, by the way, stood as still as a stone when left with the bridle thrown over his head and hanging from his nose. The horses were trained to this.

Loading as I ran we soon came to a bok which had been turned by some of the other hunters. Again I raced, pulled up, leaped off, and fired. The pop! pop! was now going on all over the plain, and balls were whistling everywhere. Again my bok refused to stop to look at me—as he ought to have done—and again I missed. Michael’s eyes were now quite shut, and his jaws visible to the wisdom teeth—supposing he possessed any.

Growing reckless under disappointment I now dashed away in pursuit of animals that had been scattered by the fusillade, and fired right and left at all ranges between two and ten hundred yards, but without any other effect than that of driving up the dust under two or three of them, and causing many of their astounding leaps. Soon the rest of the party were scattered so far on the plain as to be utterly out of sight and hearing. As far as sensation went, my “Tottie” and I were as lonely in that wilderness as was Mungo Park in days gone by.

All this time the sun was blazing in the sky with unclouded and fervent heat. It had been 110 degrees in the shade at Ebenezer a day or two before, therefore I judged it to have been much the same on this occasion. There was not a breath of wind. Everything was tremulous with heat.

Suddenly I beheld, with the deepest interest, a magnificent lake with beautiful islets scattered over its crystal breast. Often had I read of the mirage of African deserts, and much had I thought about it. Now, for the first time, it was before me. Never was deception more perfect. If I had not known that no such lake existed in the region I should have been almost ready to stake my life on the reality of what I saw. No wonder that thirsty travellers in unknown regions should have so often pushed forward in eager pursuit of this beautiful phantom.

“Things are not what they seem,” truly! This applies to many terrestrial things, but to none of them more thoroughly than to the mirage.

While I was looking at it, the form of the lake altered sufficiently to have dispelled the illusion, if I had been labouring under it. In a few minutes it passed away altogether, but only to reappear elsewhere.

Another curious effect, and rather absurd mistake, resulted from the different densities in the super-heated atmosphere which caused this mirage. Fancying that I saw two springboks on the horizon I pointed them out to my boy.

“Ja!” said Mike, nodding his head and riding towards them at a smart canter. As we advanced I observed that the boks began to grow rather larger than life, and that Mike slackened his pace and began to grin. It turned out that the objects were two carts with white canvas hoods, and when we came up to them we found they belonged to a party who had come out to join us, but who, up to that hour, had been unable to discover us in the vast hunting-field!

After directing them to our camp we proceeded on our way. That is to say Mike did. For myself, I was completely lost, and if left to myself should have been quite unable to return to camp.

While galloping along, revelling in the sunshine—in the love of which I will not yield to cats—we came suddenly on the largest snake I had yet seen. It was, I believe, a cobra, must have been fully six feet long, if not more, and was gliding with an easy sinuous motion over the plain as fast apparently, as a man’s ordinary running-pace. I observed that it did not get out of the way of small bushes, but went straight through them without the smallest check to its speed. It suddenly dived into a hole and disappeared. It is said that when snakes take to a hole to escape pursuit, some of them have a habit of causing their heads to stop abruptly at the entrance, and allowing their bodies and tails to flip past like the lash of a whip, so that if the pursuer were to thrust in his hand to grasp the tail he would be met by the fangs! As the bite of most South African snakes means death, if the part be not cut out, or otherwise effectually treated, handling them is carefully avoided. Nevertheless my friend Jonathan—when a younger man, let us hope!—was in the habit of occasionally catching deadly snakes by the tail, swinging them round his head, and dashing out their brains on a stone or tree!

Soon we perceived two of our comrades driving a flock of springboks towards the river. Mike at once diverged towards a clump of bushes which it seemed probable they would pass. In ten minutes we were down in a hollow, with the horses hid behind a mimosa-thorn. The boks had not seen us, being too much taken up with their pursuers; they came straight towards us.

“Now, sar,” whispered Mike once again, while his eyes glared with glee, “now’s you chance!”

I went down on one knee, carefully sighted the rifle, and looked up. The foremost bok was within good range. I fired and missed! “Desolation!” said I, cramming in another cartridge while the flock diverged to the left.

There was no hope now of anything but a running shot. I aimed carefully. The smoke cleared off, the flock dashed on, but—one bok lay prone upon the earth. Bang! went my second barrel, and another bok, leaping into the air, fell, rose, fell again, then rose and ran on.

Mike was now jubilant. The whole internal structure of his mouth was disclosed to view in his satisfaction, as he viewed the prostrate animal. I may add that although we did not find the wounded bok that evening, we found him next day.

With our prize strapped behind Mike’s saddle we rode in triumph into camp, a little before sunset, and found most of our companions assembled, busy preparing supper and making other arrangements for camping out on the veldt—as they call the plain. Some had been successful, some had failed, but a good many springboks had been killed, and all were hearty as crickets and hungry as hyenas.

To kindle fires, boil tea, roast venison steaks, spread blankets on the ground, and otherwise attend to the duties of the bivouac, was now the order of the hour. The moon rose while we were thus engaged, and mingled her pale light with the ruddy blaze of camp-fires. We spoke little and ate much. Then followed the inevitable pipe and the pleasant chat, but we were all too ready for rest to care about keeping it up long. I was constrained to take the bed of honour in the cart. The others stretched their limbs on the Karroo, and in ten minutes every man was in the land of nod.

Next day we mounted at daybreak and renewed the hunt, but I will say no more about it than that we bagged twenty-six springboks amongst us, and that Six-foot Johnny, having killed the greatest number of animals, returned home “King of the hunt,” with a scrap of ostrich feather in his cap.

Letter 3.

Somerset—The British Settlers—Original “Owners”—Native Church-Going.

On my way to the Karroo I had to pass through Somerset East, and it so fell out that I fell in with a countryman from Edinburgh, who chanced to be going to Somerset in the same “passenger-cart” with myself. His name must have been a novelty once, though much of its freshness is worn off now—it was Brown.

Our cart had a hood; the roads were very bad, and the behaviour of that hood was stupendous! Its attachment to the cart was, so to speak, partial; therefore it possessed a semi-independent motion which was perplexing. You could not count on its actions. A sudden lurch of the cart to right or left did, of course, carry the hood with it, and, counting on that, you laid your sudden plans to avoid collision; but the elasticity of the hood enabled it to give you a slap on the face before obeying its proper impulse. So, too, it would come down on your head unexpectedly, or, without the slightest provocation, would hit you on the neck behind. I learned with painful certainty in that cart that I had a “small” to my back! It seemed to me that it grew large before the journey was over.

Brown was an intelligent man,—not an unusual state of things with the “Browns.” He had two pretty daughters with him, aged eight and twelve respectively. We got on well together, and crossed the Zuurberg range in company on the last day of the year.

It was over passes in this range that the settlers of 1820 went in long trains of Cape wagons, with wives and little ones, and household goods, and civilised implements of husbandry, and weapons of defence, with high hopes and strong courage, and with their “lives in their hands,” to subdue the wilderness. It was from these heights that they looked over the beautiful and bush-clad plains of “Albany,” which lay before them as the lot of their inheritance.

The breaking up and scattering of the various “parties” was most eloquently and graphically told by the Reverend H.H. Dugmore in a lecture delivered at Grahamstown, on the occasion of the “British Settlers’ Jubilee,” in May 1870—fifty years after the arrival of the “fathers.” (See Note 4) I quote one passage, which gives a good idea of the manner in which the land was taken up.

“And now the Sunday’s River is crossed, and the terrible old Ado Hill is climbed, and Quaggas Flat is passed, and the Bushman’s river heights are scaled. The points of divergence are reached, and the long column breaks into divisions. Baillie’s party made their way to the mouth of the Fish River, where, it was said, the ‘Head’ had been allowed to choose a territory, and where he hoped to realise imaginations of commercial wealth by founding a seaport town. And the Duke of Newcastle’s protégés from Nottingham took possession of the beautiful vale of Clumber, naming it in honour of their noble patron. And Wilson’s party settled between the plains of Waay-plaats and the Kowie bush, right across the path of the elephants, some of which they tried to shoot with fowling-pieces. And Sefton’s party founded the village of Salem, the religious importance of which to the early progress of the settlement, is not to be estimated by its present size and population. These four were the large parties. The smaller ones filled up the intervening spaces between them. Behind the thicket-clad sandhills of the Kowie and Green Fountain, and extending over the low plains beyond Bathurst, were the locations of Cock’s, Thornhill’s, Ostler’s, Smith’s, and Richardson’s parties. Skirting the wooded Kloofs from Bathurst towards the banks of the Klienemonden, were ranged the parties of James and Hyman. It was the latter who gravely announced to Captain Trapps, the Bathurst magistrate, the discovery of ‘precious stones’ on his location; and which the angry gentleman, jealous of the reserved rights of Government, found, on further inquiry, were only ‘precious big ones!’ The rich valley of Lushington afforded a resting-place to Dyason’s party. Holder’s people called their location New Bristol; which never, however, acquired any resemblance to Old Bristol. Passing on towards the front, there were Mouncey’s party, Hayhurst’s party, Bradshaw’s party, Southey’s party, stretching along the edge of the wide plains of the Round Hill, and drinking their Western waters. The post of honour and of danger was the line of the Kap River. This was occupied by the party of Scott below Kafir Drift, and by the Irish party above it. The forlorn hope of the entire settlement was Mahony’s party at the clay pits, who had to bear the first brunt of every Kafir depredation in the Lower Albany direction. Names thicken as we proceed from Waay-plaats towards Grahamstown. Passing Greathead’s location, we come among the men of Dalgairns at Blauw Krantz. Then those of Liversage about Manly’s Flats. John Stanley, ‘Head of all Parties,’ as he styled himself, belonged to the same neighbourhood. Turvey’s party were in Grobblaar’s Kloof; William Smith’s at Stony Vale, Dr Clarke’s at Collingham. Howard’s, Morgan’s, and Carlisle’s, bring us by successive steps to the neighbourhood of Grahamstown.

“My ‘reminiscences’ are those of an Albany settler; but I do not forget that there was another party, who, though locally separated from the main body, occupied a position, the importance of which developed itself in the after-history of the settlement. I refer to the Scotch party, who were located on the Baviaans River, among mountains and glens that have been rendered classic by the poetry of their leader and historic by the gallant deeds and endurance of his compatriots in the after-struggles of the frontier. I need make no particular reference, however, to the early circumstances of that body of men, as in Pringle’s African Sketches they have a most graphically-written history of their own.”

Thus, in 1820, was the land overrun and taken possession of by the “British Settlers.” It had once been the land of the Hottentots, but had never at any time rightfully belonged to the Kafirs, who, after wrongfully entering it and rendering themselves by their thievish disposition and deceit an unbearable nuisance, were finally driven out of it in 1819.

The idea of Government in sending the settlers out to occupy these vacated lands was, that a convenient buffer might thus be placed on the frontier of the colony to keep the savages in check. That these settlers and their descendants received many a rude shock, and played their part nobly, has been proved, and is admitted on all hands. That they received less encouragement and help from those who induced them to emigrate than might have been expected, is equally certain.

Brown and I chatted, more or less, of these things as we toiled up the slopes of the Zuurberg, where the original settlers had toiled fifty-five years before us, and in the afternoon came to a pretty good inn, where a small misfortune befell us. While we were indulging in a cup of tea, one of our horses escaped. We had crossed the mountain range by that time, and the truant had a fine range of undulating country to scamper over. That animal gave us some trouble, for, although nearly a dozen men went, after him on horseback, he kept dodging about actively with many flourishes of heels and tail during the whole afternoon.

When one is in no hurry, and the weather is fine, a delay of this kind is rather pleasant than otherwise. While men and boys were engaged in the fruitless chase, I wandered off into the bush in the hope of stumbling on a tortoise or a snake, or some other creature that I had previously been accustomed to see in zoological collections, but the reptiles kept close, and refused to show themselves. I came, however, on a gigantic beehive; at least it resembled one in appearance, though the smoke that issued from a hole in its top suggested humanity. There was also a hole in one side partially covered by a rickety door. Close beside it stood a little black creature which resembled a fat and hairless monkey. It might have been a baboon. The astonished gaze and grin with which it greeted me warranted such an assumption, but when it suddenly turned and bolted through the hole into the beehive, I observed that it had no tail—not even a vestige of such a creation,—and thus discovered that it was a “Tottie,” or Hottentot boy. The sublime, the quaint, the miserable, the ridiculous, and the beautiful, were before me in that scene. Let me expound these five “heads” in order.

On my left rose the woody slopes and crags of the Zuurberg, above whose summits the white hills and towers and gorgeous battlements of cloud-land rose into the bright blue sky. Around me were groups of flowering mimosa bushes, with thorns from three to six inches long, interspersed with which were curious aloes, whose weird leafy tops gave them the aspect of shrubs growing upside down with their roots scrambling aimlessly in the air. In front stood the native hut, the wretchedness of whose outside was only equalled by the filth and poverty-stricken aspect within. Near to this were several native children, as black as coal, as impudent-looking as tom-tits, and as lively as crickets. Beyond all lay the undulating plains studded with flowering shrubs of varied form and hue, and bathed in golden sunshine.

There is something sad, ay, and something mysterious, to me in the thought that such a lovely land had been, until so recently, the home of the savage and the scene of his wicked and ruthless deeds.

On New Year’s day I dined in a public restaurant in Somerset,—in a strange land with strangers. But the strangers were not shy. Neither was I. There were about a dozen of us at table, and before dinner was half over we were as sociable as if we had been bosom friends from infancy. We even got to the length of warm discussion, and I heard some sentiments expressed regarding natives and “native policy,” with which I could not agree; but, being ignorant on the subject at the time, I stuck to general principles. It seemed to me that some of the speakers must have been born with their brains turned the wrong way. This idea recalls to memory the curious fact that, during my first walk in Somerset, I saw a mounted Hottentot policeman wearing his helmet with the fore part to the back, because its rear peak was longer, and a better sunshade, than the front.

The same tendency to sacrifice appearance to utility is observable among the Malays of Capetown, who treat their sou’-westers similarly.

My first visit to a native church was on a Sunday,—the hottest Sunday I ever spent. The congregation was entirely black and brown. It, also, was hot, so that the church was by no means cool. Whatever depth, or want of depth, there might have been in the Christianity of these people, the garb and the bearing of civilisation were very obvious and very pleasant to behold. Their behaviour was most orderly and modest, though, probably, many of them had gone there to display their finery.

Taking my place near the pulpit I saw them to advantage. The church was pretty full. I sat down beside a very stout Hottentot girl, whose dress of showy chintz was as much a subject of interest to herself as of indifference to the congregation. There were marvellous contrasts and surprising harmonies displayed in that church, with not a few discords. Childlike good-humour sat on every countenance. When Mr Green ascended the pulpit eager expectancy gleamed in every jet-black eye. When the psalm was given out the preparatory clearing of throats and consequent opening of thick red lips and revelation of splendid rows of teeth all over the church had quite a lighting-up effect on the scene. They sang heartily and well of course,—all black people do so, I think. Just opposite me sat a young man with a countenance so solemn that I felt sure he had made up his mind to “be good,” and get the full benefit of the services. His black cheeks seemed to glisten with earnestness; his thick lips pouted with devotional good-will. I do not write in ridicule, but merely endeavour to convey my full meaning. He wore a superfine black dress coat, a gaudy vest, and buff corduroy trousers so short that they displayed to advantage his enormous bare feet. Beside him was an elderly man with tweed trousers, a white shirt and brown shooting coat, and a face not quite so solemn but very sedate. Some of the men had boots, some had black silk hats, others wideawakes,—which of course they removed on entering. It seemed to me that there was among them every part and variety of costume from morning to evening dress, but no individual could boast of being complete in himself.

As for the women, they were indescribable. Some of them wore little more than a blanket, others were clothed in the height of European fashion,—or something like it,—and all had evidently put on their “Sunday’s best.” One stout and remarkably healthy young woman appeared in a brilliant skirt, and an indescribable hat with ostrich feathers on her woolly head. She sat herself down close beside me and went to sleep at the beginning of the sermon—not out of irreverence, I am persuaded, but from heat. In this state she continued swaying to and fro to the end of the discourse, occasionally drooping, as though she meant to make a pillow of my shoulder, which she would certainly have done, but for a more modestly clad Hottentot girl at her other side, who, evidently scandalised, kept poking at her continuously with her elbow. In justice to the congregation I am bound to add, that I saw very few sleepers. They were most attentive and earnest, despite the distracting elements of a humorous kind that obtruded themselves.

Somerset East is a pretty town on the Little Fish River, at the foot of the Boschberg mountains, which rise abruptly from the plain. It boasts of banks, a newspaper, several churches, and the Gill College,—an imposing edifice which was erected by private endowment. In regard to its inhabitants, all I can say is, that the few members I had the pleasure of meeting there during a three days’ sojourn were exceedingly hospitable and kind.

Letter 4.

Adventures with Ostriches.

Ostrich-farming is no child’s play. It involves risk in more ways than one, and sometimes taxes both the courage and strength of the farmer.

In ordinary circumstances the ostrich is a mild, inoffensive creature—indeed the female is always so; but when a male ostrich is what I may style nesting—when, enclosed in a large field or paddock, he guards his wives and his eggs—no lion of the desert, no tiger of the jungle or kloof, is more ferocious or more savagely bent on the death of any or all who dare to intrude on his domain.

The power of the ostrich, too, is quite equal to his strength of will. He stands from seven to nine feet in height, and is very heavy.

His tremendous legs are his only weapons, and his kick is almost, if not quite, equal to that of a horse. Possessing enormous feet, with two toes on each, the horny points of which can cut and rip like cold chisels, he rushes at an adversary and kicks, or hits out, straightforward, like a prize-fighter. No unarmed man on earth could stand long before a furious male ostrich without being killed. But there are one or two weak points about him, which abate somewhat the danger of his attack. In the first place his power lies only in his mighty legs, the thighs of which—blue-grey and destitute of feathers—are like two shoulders of mutton. With his beak he can do nothing, and his long neck is so weak that if you can only lay hold of it and pull his head to the ground you are comparatively safe, for he cannot kick effectively in that position, and devotes all his energies, when thus caught, to useless attempts to pull his head out of your grasp. But, then, how are you to get hold of that neck—the root of which stands nearly as high as your own head—in the face of two claws that go like battering-rams wrought by lightning? As well might you attempt to lay hold of a prize-fighter’s nose while his active fists are darting out at you.

A powerful, active man has been known, when attacked while unarmed, to spring on the bird, grasp a wing with one arm and the body with the other, and hug it, but there is great danger in this method, because in the attempt you are pretty sure to receive at least one kick, and that, if it takes effect, will be quite sufficient to put you out of action. It also requires much power of endurance, for, hugging a creature that is strong enough to dance about and lift you off your legs in its wild efforts to get rid of you, must be hard work. Supposing that you do succeed, however, in holding on until you work your way along to the neck and get the head into custody, then you can without much difficulty choke the bird, but a male ostrich costs about 150 pounds, and one hesitates to choke 150 pounds, even for the sake of one’s life, especially when the valuable bird belongs to one’s friend.

Another and perhaps the best plan, if you are caught unarmed, is to lie down. An ostrich cannot kick you when you lie flat on the ground, he can only dance on you, and although that process is unpleasant it is not necessarily fatal.

The ostrich is easily killed by a blow on the neck with a stout stick, but this is as objectionable as the choking process, on the ground of cost. In short, the only legitimate method of meeting a savage papa, in his own field, is with a strong forked pole eight or nine feet long, with which you catch the bird at the root of the neck, and thus keeping him at pole’s-length, let him kick and hiss away to his heart’s content till he is tired, or until assistance comes to you, or until you work him near a wall, when you may jump over and escape, for an ostrich will not jump.

Often have I gone, thus armed, with my friend Hobson to feed the nesting ostriches. The risk of attack, I may mention in passing, is not great when two men go together, because the bird seems undecided which foe to attack, and generally ends by condescending to pick at the mealies, (Indian corn), which are thrown down to him.

One morning Hobson and his eldest son Six-foot Johnny and I mounted our steeds and rode away to the field in which one of the male ostriches dwelt with his meek brown wives. The wives are always brown, the husbands are jet-black, with the exception of those magnificent and pure white feathers in wings and tail which are so much prized and worn by the fair dames of Europe. Hobson carried a sack of mealies at his saddle-bow.

There were several male birds on the farm, all of which were distinguished by name. There were “Master,” and “David Marais,” and “Black Jack,” and “Blind-boy,” (minus one eye!) and “Gouws,” etcetera. Our visit that morning was to David Marais. David was by far the fiercest of the lot, but he was excessively fond of mealies, and could be attracted—though by no means appeased—by these.

“Johnny,” said Hobson, as we cantered along by the side of the little stream which caused a strip of bright fertility to wind like a green-snake over the brown Karroo, and which was, as it were, the life-blood of the farm, “Johnny, I want you to go to the nest and count the eggs, while I keep David in play.”

“Very well, father.”

The order, and the quiet acceptance of it, did not seem to involve much, yet Johnny had been ordered on somewhat dangerous service that morning, for David Marais was intensely watchful as well as savage. Several of the other males, although capable of giving way to temper, were so far amiable that my friend and I had frequently gone into their enclosures with our forked sticks and mealies, and had received no worse at their hands than a threatening attitude or a suspicious look, which passed away when the food was thrown down; but David’s temper was such that we never ventured into his paddock, contenting ourselves by throwing the mealies over the hedge or wall that bounded the field. This field, or enclosure, by the way, was not a small piece of ground which one could take in at a glance. It was more than a mile in extent, undulating in form, with a stream bisecting it, and mimosa bushes scattered here and there, so that from any one point you could not see the entire field, or ascertain its exact form or size. Sometimes, on going into such a field, one has to look about for the birds—also to “look out” for them, as they are prone to sudden assault!

But David Marais required no looking for. His large eagle-eye had detected us from afar, and we found him at the nearest extremity of the nearest angle of his grounds ready to give us battle, pacing slowly to and fro, with that peculiar motion of the wings which indicates suppressed wrath.

We rode along close to his hedge a short distance, and he marched with us, brushing against the hedge and showing an anxious desire to get at us. If there had been a gap in that hedge he would have charged like a thunderbolt, but there was no gap, and it is a strange fact that an ostrich cannot leap—at least he will not. The merest trifle of an obstruction—a bit of wall or hedge over which he could step with perfect ease—is sufficient to check his advance and keep him in; that is, if he walks up to it, but he is a stupid bird, and if he runs up to such an obstruction he may tumble over it, gather himself up on the other side, and so continue the charge.

On reaching a part of the hedge which dipped into a hollow, Hobson dismounted and opened the sack with the peace-offering. The bird, after breasting up to the hedge and finding it impassable, sat down on what may be styled his elbows, scraped his wings on the ground, and rolled his head and neck about in a fashion that is indescribable. This, I was told, was his method of rousing himself, or of relieving his feelings. It looked more like making a fool of himself. A handful of mealies seemed to irritate him at first, but by degrees the temptation became too strong. He commenced to pick a few seeds—ready, however, on the smallest provocation, to forsake them, charge up to the hedge, and hiss at us.

“Now, Johnny, I’ll keep him in play,” said Hobson senior. “You go round to the nest. Keep well down in the hollows, else he’ll be sure to see you.”

Johnny at once rode off. The suspicious David looked after him and showed a tendency to retire in the direction of his nest, but Hobson raised his forked stick over the hedge and made a demonstration therewith. This was more than enough.

Inflated with rage David at once accepted the challenge, and rushed back to the hedge, over which another handful of mealies were thrown at him, but mealies had lost much of their power by that time. Thus, with alternate taunt and temptation was the false attack maintained by the father, while the real attack was made by the son, at the other extremity of the fortress.

I followed the real attack. We did not go direct. The bird would at once have made for its nest had we done so. We rode off in the direction in which we had come until out of sight, and then, making a long circuit at full gallop, came round to the other end of the enclosure, from which point the enemy could not be seen.

There was a wall to cross, then a deep hollow through which the little stream ran, then a belt of pretty thick bushes, beyond which, on the open plain, the nest was known to lie—if I may call that a nest which is a mere hollow in the sand, in which the eggs are laid. Here the female sits all day while the male marches about on guard. At night the male sits while the female goes about and feeds. They are most attentive parents, and there is a fitness in this arrangement as regards colour, for the brown female squatted on the brown Karroo is almost invisible in daylight, while the black male is equally invisible during the darkness of the night.

“You mustn’t come with me,” said Johnny, dismounting; “it would only increase the chance of my being seen by David.”

I was detailed, therefore, to the inglorious duty of holding the horses, while my young friend made the assault alone.

He leaped the wall, descended into the bed of the stream, scrambled up the opposite bank, crossed the clump of small wood, and came out into the open. Now a short piece of this open—fifty yards or so, perhaps—was visible from the lower end of the field, where Hobson and David were still coquetting with each other. Johnny tried to skulk over this open ground. He might as well have sought to evade the eyes of Argus. The long-sighted bird caught the very first glint of his cap. Insult and mealies were alike unavailing now. He forsook the sire and made at the son with his great compass-like legs, covering the ground in tremendous as well as rapid strides. No race-horse ever cleared the ground like David Marais! Johnny saw that the “game was up.” Applying his own long legs to the ground with a will, he rushed at the nest. The female bounced up, ran a few yards, and squatted in helpless stupidity. Johnny counted the eggs, turned, and fled. Not a moment too soon! Indeed he was too late, for the ostrich was already close up, and Johnny’s retreat by the way he had come was cut off; but he turned at a sharp angle, and made for another clump of bushes, through which he plunged with a wild hilarious laugh, into the safe retreat of the river-bed. David Marais could not follow there, but he doubtless consoled himself with the reflection that he had gallantly defended his wife and little ones, and had beaten the enemy from the field!

Nothing of all this had I seen, for the belt of bushes hid the actors from view, but I heard the ringing laugh with rather anxious surprise, and saw Johnny emerge immediately after from the banks of the stream, flushed and panting from his adventure.

That I do not exaggerate the power and ferocity of these birds, may be gathered from an incident which occurred to Hobson himself, and which he related on our way home.

One morning he rode to the enclosure of the bird named Master, and entered, intending to feed him and his wife with mealies. Master must have risen off his wrong side that morning, for, instead of amiably accepting his breakfast, he made a sudden and furious rush at his benefactor. Hobson’s horse wheeled round and bolted,—no wonder, with the claw of an ostrich acting as a spur on his flank! The horse was so frightened that he fairly ran away. Master ran after him, and, being much fleeter, kept on kicking his legs and flanks, so that they were soon covered with blood, and once he kicked so high as to cut the crupper. The horse became almost mad with terror, and quite ungovernable. It was chased round and round the place, the walls being too high to leap, and the gate having been closed. At last the horse dashed madly into a mimosa bush, and stuck fast. The impetuous Master followed, but, before he could back out, Hobson caught him by the throat in his powerful grasp. He held on until Master choked. Not wishing to kill the bird, he then let go, and Master dropped like a stone. Hobson then galloped to the river, but Master, who recovered immediately, came rushing on to renew the attack. Hobson, however, had found shelter and safety behind some bushes in the bed of the stream.

Not long after our visit to David Marais, I went with Six-foot Johnny to the territory which belonged to Blind-boy. That sagacious bird was not so blind but that, with his one eye, he observed us coming, and met us more than half-way. Knowing him to be, comparatively, a peaceable bird, and being mounted, we entered the enclosure and rode towards him. From certain symptoms and rufflings of the feathers and cockings of the tail, however, my companion knew that Blind-boy was not as amiable as might have been wished.

“Take care,” said Johnny.

“Why?” said I.

“Because he’s angry.”

The signs of wrath did not appear to me very obvious, but I afterwards came to understand that, in an ostrich, a small amount of demonstration means an extreme depth of anger.

We rode slowly forward. Blind-boy advanced as slowly, with a dangerous motion of the wings.

“Keep on this side of the ditch,” said Johnny. “Now, then, we’d better be off.”

Before I well understood that it was advisable to get out of the bird’s way, my companion had put spurs to his horse, and was off like an arrow. Or ever I was aware what my horse meant to do, I was almost thrown to the ground. He whirled on his hind-legs—without orders,—and went off like the wind. Nothing but a natural tendency to hold tight with my knees prevented me from being left beside Blind-boy. We went at racing-speed to the gate, and then found, on looking back, that we might have spared ourselves the rush, for Blind-boy was standing as we left him! The ditch had proved an impassable barrier, and he was gazing after us in apparent wonder at our haste. My own wonder at the smart behaviour of my horse was removed when Johnny told me that it was the identical steed his father had ridden when attacked, as I have described, by Master.

Johnny himself was once assaulted, trampled on, and severely cut about the head, by one of these same ostriches, and might have been killed if his father had not chanced to be at hand. Johnny was younger at the time, and, in the foolish ardour of youth, attempted to rise when knocked down. This gave the ostrich the opportunity of once and again repeating his blows. If the lad had lain still he would have suffered less. I might draw a beautiful moral on submission and humility out of this, but won’t.

Strange to say, the male ostrich loses nearly all his courage when out of his own proper paddock or domain. This was illustrated to me one morning in the case of Gouws. We were walking by the side of his enclosure, and he was advancing to meet us in his own warlike style, when we observed that the gate was open. Before we could get near to close it Gouws marched through. If we had entered his grounds an attack would have been highly probable, but no sooner did he find himself outside the accustomed wall than the spirit in him changed. He looked confusedly round at the unfamiliar objects, then dropped his defiant tail, and fled.

It cost us the better part of a forenoon, with temperature at 105 degrees in the shade, before we succeeded in driving that bird back into his own paddock, and all that time he was running away from us, overwhelmed, apparently, with fear!

Letter 5.

More about Ostriches—Karroo Gardens—A Ride with Bonny—Sketching under Difficulties—Anecdotes and Incidents.

Ah, those were happy days, when, with a congenial spirit, I drove and galloped over the South African plains. There was not much in the way of thrilling incidents, to be sure, and nothing whatever of wild adventure, but there was novelty in everything, and possibilities enough to keep the spirit ever on the alert.

We used to ride out sometimes after steenboks,—small brown creatures, that made little show when bagged, but then there were huge and horrid vultures to remind one of the sandy desert, and there were pauws—gigantic birds that were splendid eating; and the very thought that I trod on land which little more than quarter of a century back had been marked by the print of the royal lion was in itself sufficient to arouse unwonted interest, which was increased by the knowledge of the fact that the kloofs or glens and gorges of the blue hills on the horizon were at that time the natural homes of leopards or “Cape-tigers” and huge baboons.

These animals are, however, extremely wary. The baboons go about in troops, and are wont to leave a trusty old-man baboon on guard, while the rest go down at early morn to rob the settler of his fruits and vegetables. If the old man happens to see or scent danger he gives a signal and the troop flies helter-skelter to the nearest cliffs. They are therefore not easily got at by hunters. As to “tigers,” they go about stealthily like cats. I was told there was not a chance of getting a shot at them, unless I went out with dogs and a hunting party for the purpose. As this could not be accomplished at the time, I had to content myself with smaller game.

Bonny, (one of Hobson’s younger sons), and I went out one day after breakfast to try for a steenbok before dinner. There were plenty of them in the stretches of bush-land that dotted the Karroo in the immediate neighbourhood of the farmhouse.

Stretching out at a gallop with that light-hearted cheerfulness which is engendered by bright weather, fresh air, and a good mount, we skirted the river where Hreikie nursed her little flock.

Hreikie was a small Hottentot girl, as lightly clad as was compatible with propriety. Her face was dirty brown, her mouth large, her nose a shapeless elevation with two holes in the front of it. Her head was not covered, but merely sprinkled with tight woolly knobs or curls the size of peas. Each knob grew apart from its neighbour knob, and was surrounded, so to speak, by bald or desert land. This style of hair was not peculiar to Hreikie alone, but to the whole Hottentot race. Hreikie’s family consisted of thirty-three young ostriches, which, though only a few weeks of age, stood, I think, upwards of two feet high. Some of them had been brought out by artificial incubation—had been heated, as it were, into existence without maternal aid. These birds, Bonny said, had been already purchased for 15 pounds sterling apiece, and were deliverable to the purchaser in six months. They were fed and guarded all day and housed each evening with tender solicitude by their Hottentot stepmother, whom the birds evidently regarded as their own natural parent.

We swept on past the garden, where, on a previous morning, Bonny and I had killed a deadly green-tree snake upwards of five feet long, and where, on many other mornings, he and I, with sometimes other members of the family entered into strong temptation among the magnificent fruit. We used to overcome the temptation by giving way to it! There were plums, peaches, figs, apples, apricots, grapes, nectarines, and other fruits, with which the trees were so laden that some of the branches had given way and their luscious loads were lying on the ground. Cartloads of these were given away to friends, and to any one, as there was no market for their disposal.

Many splendid gardens like this exist on what is sometimes styled the barren Karroo; but the land is anything but barren. All it requires is a copious supply of water, and wherever farmers have taken the trouble to form dams and store the heavy though infrequent rains, gardens of the most prolific kind have been the result. The Karroo-bush itself, which gives name to these plains, is a succulent plant, which thrives in the almost waterless soil, and forms a rich pasturage for sheep and cattle. Hobson’s garden—copiously watered by streams led out from his large dams—was a beautiful shady oasis of green and gold, in the midst of what, to some eyes, might have appeared a desert, but which, if irrigated properly, would become a perfect paradise of fertility.

We cantered on over the plain, till the garden and the farm looked in the distance like ships at sea, and rode among the bushes that crowned a rising ground. We set up some guinea-fowl and other birds, and startled a hare, but let them go, as our aim was steenboks. The little boks, however, were not on the knoll that day, so away we went again at a gallop until the garden and the farm went down on the horizon.

Sometimes we kept together and chatted, at other times we diverged and skirted small clumps of underwood on opposite sides. At one time, while separated from Bonny, I saw a large stone lying on the ground. As I looked, the stone began to crawl! It was a tortoise, fully as large as a soup-tureen. The sight of an animal in its “native wilds,” which you have all your life been accustomed to see in zoological gardens, has something peculiar, almost absurd, in it. As it is with animals, so it is with other objects. I remember being impressed with this idea, for the first time, in the south of France, when I beheld a tree covered with lemons—a fruit which, up to that period, had been connected in my mind with grocers’ windows and brown sugar!

I turned aside and dismounted. The sluggish tortoise stopped, recognised in me an enemy, and drew in its head and feet. After lifting and looking at him I set him down. Then it occurred to me that some one had said a tortoise could carry a man. I stepped upon this one’s back forthwith. He lay perfectly still for some time. At last with great caution the head and feet were protruded. Another pause, as if of meditation, then the feet were applied to the ground; they pushed and strained, until finally the creature advanced about two inches, and then stopped! This was not much, but it was sufficient to prove his great strength, and to convince me that a large tortoise could easily have walked off with a little boy.

I found Bonny dismounted and waiting.

“No steenboks to-day, I fear,” he said.

“We must have a shot at something, Bonny,” said I, dismounting, and sitting down on an anthill. Having been a fair average shot in a rifle corps in Scotland I took careful aim at a small bush, bent on doing credit to the British Volunteers. The result was a “bull’s-eye.”

“Capital!” exclaimed Bonny; “if you shoot like that you’ll kill plenty of boks.”

Half an hour later I was passing round the left of a knoll, while Bonny took the right. Up leaped a steenbok, which ran a hundred yards or so, and stopped to look at me. I was already off the horse and down in the Hythe position. A careful aim was again taken. The result was “a miss!” while the small deer vanished like the smoke of my rifle. So great is the difference between target-practice and hunting!

It was time now to think of returning for dinner. I was thoroughly lost by that time in the vast plain—like a ship at sea without a compass. But Bonny was as knowing in Karroo-craft as a Kentucky hunter is in wood-craft. He steered as true a course for home as if he had smelt the leg of mutton that was roasting at the fire. Probably he did—in imagination! Soon the two ships reappeared on the horizon; our fleet nags quickly transformed them into the garden and the farm, and in half an hour we were relating our mild adventure round Hobson’s hospitable board.

“I’m going to visit brother Jonathan after dinner: will you come?” said my host.

“Yes, with pleasure,” said I, “but first, while you have your siesta, (midday nap), I will go into the opposite field and make that long-talked-of sketch of your house.”

“Very good; I’ll send for you when the cart is ready. There are some ostriches in the field, but you don’t need to mind them, for they are quite young, although full-grown.”

It is a common custom among South Africans to take a nap in the heat of the day during summer. They dine early, and the power of the sun at that part of the day renders work almost impossible. I could not at first fall in with this custom; therefore, while the family retired, I took my sketch-book and colours and went off to the field.

There was a mound, whence I could obtain a good view of the house with its surroundings, the cattle-kraal or enclosure, the course of the little stream, with one of the small dams or lakelets, and the garden, the whole backed by the blue mountain range on the horizon.

The sun was blazing fiercely, but, as before remarked, I delight in heat. Selecting a stone I sat down, opened my book and colour-box, and began. To those who don’t know it, I may say that sketching is a most fascinating and engrossing species of work. I soon forgot where I was, forgot Hobson, forgot time, forgot every thing in fact except the glowing face of nature, when a sound recalled me. I looked round and observed eight or ten huge ostriches stalking towards me with slow funereal gait. I felt somewhat uneasy,—for their youth, of which Hobson had assured me, was in no way indicated by their huge bodies and dreadful legs. However, I had taken the precaution to carry my forked stick, and drawing it nearer continued at my work with an easier mind. If they meant war I knew escape to be hopeless, for the nearest wall was a quarter of a mile off.

The females halted at a respectful distance, but two of the largest black males came stalking close up to me and stood still, gazing intently, first with one eye, then with the other, at a distance of about six yards.

Meanwhile some of the females sat down, and one of them put herself in an attitude so absurd that I introduced her into the drawing. Presently the largest male advanced a little nearer, and kept somewhat behind me. This was embarrassing. It occurred to me that, in the art of war, an attacking party is supposed to have the advantage of one that is assaulted. I therefore rose, brought my fork to the charge, and went at the bird with a furious roar. It turned and ran a few yards, but stopped when I stopped, and began to return slowly, as before, the moment I had sat down. As it drew nearer I observed that it eyed my colour-box curiously. Stories about the peculiar taste of these giant birds recurred to me. People say they will eat anything. Their digestive powers have passed into a proverb. The day before I had given an ostrich a large apple, which it coolly bolted, and I could trace the progress of the apple by the lump in its throat as it passed rather slowly down. Some one—Bonny I rather think—had told me he had seen an ostrich accept and swallow a bottle of shoe-blacking! Anything bright is sure to attract the eye of an ostrich and be coveted. I trembled for my colour-box, and, seizing my fork, charged again.

About this time Bonny himself came to say that the cart was ready. We therefore packed up and came away. The ostriches, he said, were too young to think of molesting us, though he admitted that they would probably have swallowed the colour-box if I had allowed them. They followed us down to the gate, and finally saw us safely off their premises.

“Father once had an ostrich,” said Bonny, as we walked towards the house, “that caught a couple of thieves for him.”

“Indeed! how was that, Bonny?”

“You are aware that Kafirs are terrible thieves?” he replied.

“Yes, I’ve been given to understand that they have propensities that way.”

“Oh! but you have no idea how clever they are at it, and the Totties are just as bad, if not worse. On one occasion we had a nest of eggs in the field over there, which we had left to be hatched in the natural way by the hen-ostrich. One night it rained very hard—so hard that we feared the young ones would be drowned in the nest, so brother Johnny was sent to look after them. He took two Totties with him. It was very dark, but he found the nest with the cock bird sitting on it. You know the cock always sits at night. Well, Johnny took him by the nose and pulled him off the nest, and gave him to the two Totties to hold. It was hard work, but they kept his head well down, so that he couldn’t kick. Johnny soon bagged all the little ones, leaped over the wall, and then called out to let go the cock. It was so dark that he couldn’t see very well. He could only hear a scuffle, and then saw the two men bounding over the wall like indiarubber balls while the cock went bang against it like a battering-ram. We got the little ones home all safe, but, would you believe it? these rascally Totties had managed to pull out all the best wing-feathers while they were holding the cock—each feather worth, perhaps, twenty shillings or more—and got clear away with them to the canteen, where they can always sell stolen goods.

“But that is not what I was going to tell you,” continued Bonny. “It was about two Kafir thieves who were going round the country stealing. They came to our place one evening, and, in the course of their depredations, happened to cross one of the fields where a pair of our ostriches had a nest. The cock had not yet commenced his night duty on the nest. He caught sight of the two Kafirs, and was down on them instantly like lightning. They took refuge in a mimosa-thorn, and there he kept them all night. It was no use their trying to make a bolt for it, because twice or three times their speed could not have saved them from the ostrich. There they remained, and there father found them next morning, when he rode out to feed the birds.”

The sturdy sons of this Karroo farmer had no light duty to perform each day. The farm was twenty miles in length, and of variable breadth. There were no crops raised on it, save the fruit of the splendid garden already mentioned, some grapes, and a few mealies. The sources of gain were ostriches and their feathers, Angora goat hair, (mohair), horses, sheep-wool, and cattle, looking after which kept father and sons pretty constantly in the saddle. It was a dashing style of life, requiring robust health and spirits. I have seen one or both of the boys return of an evening—after having been up at five or six, and out all day,—scarce able to decide whether to eat or sleep! Counting and guarding the flocks formed a part of the duty.

One evening the report was brought that a horse and thirteen bucks had disappeared. The Kafir thief had driven them off in the direction of Somerset. There he had been questioned closely as to where he came from, etcetera. His replies not being satisfactory, the animals were seized and put in the pound, whence they were afterwards reclaimed, while the thief escaped being put in the “tronk,” or jail, by a sudden dart into the jungle of the Boschberg!

My friend and I were soon on the road which led to the farm of his brother Jonathan. It stood about two miles distant. On our way we had to pass one corner of the private domain of Black Jack, or David Marais, I forget which—I think it was the former. He was there ready for us, and evidently in a rage at the mere possibility of our intrusion, for the wings were going like flails and the tail was up. Hobson pulled up to look at him for a minute. I got down and went to the wall, knowing that it afforded perfect security. Black Jack came up slowly, as if he meant no mischief. I leant over the wall, which was breast-high, and poked fun at him. In an instant, like a flash of light, he came at me. I saw his great claw over my head, and almost before I could jump back, a couple of heavy stones were driven violently off the top of the wall. To bolt and jump into the cart was almost an involuntary and instantaneous impulse on my part, though there was no need for haste, because the furious biped could not leap the wall.

“Yes,” remarked my friend, with a quiet chuckle, as we drove along; “I expected as much. Black Jack is in a bad humour to-day.”

The farm of Jonathan lay at the side of the stream which watered that of his brother. It was a pretty place. We drove through the stream to get to the house. On entering we found Jonathan standing in his hall, besprinkled with his own blood, and smiling. He was one of those tall, thin, powerful sort of men, with genial good-humour wrinkling the corners of their eyes, who seem to be ready to smile at everything, pleasant or otherwise, that befalls them.

“Hallo! what’s wrong, Jonathan?” asked his brother, with a touch of tenderness in his tone.

“Nothing particular,” replied the other; “I’ve just had a tussle with one of my birds. He wriggled out of the stick and kicked me.”

On more particular inquiry we found that Jonathan and his son—another powerful six-footer—had gone that morning to search for eggs, which they felt sure must have been laid somewhere about the enclosed field. To keep the male bird in play while the search was being made, the father took his forked stick, met the cock in single combat, clapped the fork on his neck, and let him kick away. All might have gone well, for the father, besides being strong, was accustomed to such work; but the bird, instead of keeping up a straightforward assault, as it ought to have done, turned its back to its foe, wriggled its neck, in some inexplicable manner, out of the fork, and before it could be refixed had given Jonathan several tremendous kicks. One of these nearly tore his trousers to pieces, and another cut him across the right wrist into the bone. This rendered his right arm powerless for the moment, and it might have gone ill with him, had not his son, who was still in sight, observed what had occurred, and run back to the rescue. As it was, the father’s wrist was severely, though I hope not permanently, damaged.

On a certain occasion three friends visited Ebenezer. One of these—we shall call him Squib—was a sporting character, and anxious to have a shot at the guinea-fowl which abounded on the farm. Hobson, with his usual kindness, readily agreed to pilot him and his friends.

“The ground, however,” said Hobson, “is part of the domain which belongs to one of my ostriches, whose temper is uncertain. I don’t feel sure of him. Perhaps it would be better—”

“Oh! never mind that,” interrupted Squib; “we’re not afraid of ostriches. Come along.”

“Very well,” returned the host, “come along.”

And along they went to the domain of Gouws, who was found pacing solemnly inside the wall of his enclosure. His wings were active, and his tail was cocked. Otherwise he was calm enough to all appearance. Hobson knew that the bird was in a rage, and said so, but his friends, who were young and reckless, insisted on entering the enclosure.

They did so, and Gouws followed them with a stately air, but did not attack, being no doubt perplexed by numbers.

They walked in Indian file, Hobson being the last of the line.

“I could turn him with a bit of a bush,” said Squib, glancing at Gouws, who was drawing gradually nearer to the party. “Just cut one for me, Hobson, will you, like a good fellow?”

Hobson turned aside and stooped to cut a branch from a mimosa bush.

Just then the ostrich, which had marched ahead of the party, turned sharp round and charged. Poor Squib tripped, by good luck, and fell as the bird passed over him. It kicked down the other two, and sprang on the shoulders of the stooping Hobson, who fell and gashed his finger as the bird tumbled over him.

The whole party rose with marvellous celerity, and the sportsmen rushed towards the boundary wall, while Gouws scrambled on his long legs and ran after them. Had the distance been great, their chance of escape would have been small. As it was, Gouws overtook one of the party just as he reached a part of the wall which had been mended with mimosa-thorn bushes. With one tremendous kick he sent the unfortunate man into the midst of the thorns, where he would certainly have given him further punishment had he not been attracted by a yell of alarm from another of the party. Poor Squib was not fleet of foot or active. He made a clumsy attempt to vault the wall, which his companions had already leaped. Leaving his thorn-pierced victim, Gouws made at Squib, applied his huge foot to his person, with a slap that must have forcibly recalled the days of childhood, and sent him over the wall with undignified haste. It is generally believed that Squib has not gone guinea-fowl shooting among ostriches since that day!

The profits on ostrich feathers are very considerable. I do not profess to give statistical information in these pages, but merely touch lightly on what came under my observation. At one farm which I visited near Capetown I was told that the owner had cleared 2500 pounds in one year. Timid men are sometimes alarmed by depressions in the trade in feathers, and some of them have sold off their birds at heavy loss; but bold and hopeful men continue to persevere and prosper, as such men always will in every trade all the world over. That ostrich-farming has been found worthy of zealous attention is proved by the fact that, while in 1865 there were only between eighty and ninety birds in the colony, in 1875 there were upwards of 22,000. (In 1925 there were 239,000.)

Some days afterwards, I pretty well completed my circle of knowledge on this subject by witnessing the birth of an ostrich!

Hobson and I rode that day over to a lovely place named Glenbonny, on the edge of that part of the Karroo where the mountainous lands begin. It was a charming ride of forty miles—there and back—with a pleasant visit, and a rest between. Here dwelt relatives of my friend—a family named Berrington—one daughter of which, (with wealth of golden hair), had been a shipmate on the voyage out. The principal neighbours of this family were tigers and baboons. There was a minor population of deer, hyenas, hares, coneys, monkeys, and moles, but no human beings of any kind. Their dwelling was low and flat-roofed, the walls being coated with mud, so that its aspect outside was not imposing, but inside we found substantial comfort if not luxury, refinement, and hospitality. This is not an infrequent combination in the outlying districts of the Cape, where the nature of life and things is such that wealth, education, and refinement are often found robed in a modest homespun garb, and housed in a mere hut.

Among other objects of interest inside we found ostriches—very little ones—in divers stages of progression. There was one, the size of an ordinary fowl, which had been in existence—after egg life I mean—a few days, and swaggered about the premises like an impudent child. There was another baby—weak in the understanding, physically as well as mentally—which staggered about in a drunken manner, with an insane tendency to use its tail as a support. This creature was kept in existence by having its food forcibly crammed down its throat, the amount given each meal being gauged not by appetite but by the tension of its stomach. Last, and least, there was one which had succeeded in bursting out one end of its native egg that morning. Its already tremendous toes protruded, and were engaged in further efforts to get out when we arrived. While we were at dinner that day the creature effected its liberation, and entered on the staggering and stuffing phase of its career.

All these birds, and many others, had been nursed into life through a hot-air and warm blanket incubator, by the amiable lady of the house, and were destined to spend the early part of their lives under the care of some Hottentot stepmother.

Letter 6.

Over the Plains—Lion and Tiger Reminiscences—Frontier Forces and Escaped Convicts—Monkeys and Prickly Pears—A Veteran Settler’s Experiences of Kafir Warfare—Story of the Dutch Farmers’ Rising in 1815.

It was a sad day that on which I left the Karroo and bade farewell to Ebenezer.

I had gone there in absolute ignorance of men and things, and had found a hearty welcome in the abode of a warm-hearted Christian family and a romantic region, full, to me, of new ideas, experiences, circumstances, and sensations.

Hobson drove me in his cart. Our destination was the mountain region of Baviaans, or Baboons, River.

The first part of our route lay across the Karroo and over the mountain range which separated us from the town of Somerset East. As we sped along, drawn by two powerful horses, over the ocean-like plains, we were silent at first, but gradually the cheering influence of rapid motion and fine weather began to tell. Our spirits rose, and Hobson related numerous anecdotes, historical and adventurous, from the rich stores of a good memory.

About noon we outspanned beside a stream and allowed the horses to have a roll. Under the shade of a bush we lay and chatted, while our eyes roamed over the rolling plains to the blue mountain range which formed its northern boundary.

“There,” said my friend, pointing towards the mountains, “is the spot where one of the last lions was seen in this part of the country. There were plenty of them here once, and the last one disappeared in 1840, only thirty-six years ago.”

He then related the incident connected with the lion referred to. The following is the substance of it.

Early in the year 1840 a runaway soldier was travelling through that part of the country. He was on his way to Graaff-Reinet in search of work. At that time farmhouses were very few and far between in that region. The wearied soldier came one evening to the house of a Boer named Smit, not many miles from the spot where Hobson and I were reposing.

Smit was a surly fellow, and refused shelter to the traveller, who was therefore obliged to continue his journey during the night. Next day the unfortunate man’s mangled body was found not far off, a few yards from the foot of a small tree. The traces revealed clearly that he had been killed by a lion, whose footprints had been seen and voice heard for some time in the neighbourhood. On the approach of the lion the man had sought refuge in the small tree just mentioned, but being little better than a large bush, it failed him in the hour of need. Even when perched on the highest branch that would bear him, he was not beyond the spring of the lion. It had caught him, torn him down, and devoured his breast and arms, after which it left him.

This was the last lion in that region that succeeded in taking human life. Six months later the last lion of all made his appearance. He was evidently a less ferocious animal, and made his final exit in a rather humorous manner. In his prowling about he chanced to find an old Dutchman, and pounced upon him, but the old man had his wits about him. At first sight of his enemy he let himself go limp as if dead. Lions are particular. They don’t like dead meals; they prefer to kill their own dinners. After pouncing on his prey the lion put his mouth to the old fellow’s ear and roared. If he was not deaf for life after that he ought to have been! At all events he was deaf at the time to the remark, for he paid no attention to it whatever. Then the lion pawed him a little, lay down on him, rolled him about as a cat plays with a mouse, and ultimately couched a few yards off to watch jealously for the slightest sign of life. But the Dutchman was a splendid actor. Even in breathing he managed to remain motionless, and at last the lion sneaked away overwhelmed with disappointment. Then the old man slowly lifted his head, rose, congratulated himself, and returned home in a thankful state of mind.

Although lions had finally taken themselves off, and retired to safer and more distant retreats, the mountain glens of the neighbourhood were, as I have already said, still inhabited by leopards of large size and dangerous temper.

“They are powerful and savage fellows,” said my friend, as he rose to inspan, “and few men like to face them unless assisted by a party, and with good dogs. One friend of mine, a doctor, used to boast that he could stare a leopard out of countenance. At last one was caught in a trap, and the doctor tried the experiment, but only got knocked over and his nose scratched for his pains. There was a curious instance, once, of a Fingo going mad in consequence of being bitten by a leopard. The madness took the form of his feigning to be a leopard, and there was no doubt as to his insanity, for he continually growled and scratched and snapped with his teeth, and finished off by jumping through a glass door.—Now then, the cart’s ready; in you go.”

I jumped in, and off we went again over the sweet-scented plain,—now on a good bit of road, now on a bad; often forsaking the track altogether, and occasionally plunging into holes that knocked our heads against the hood, and tried our springs to the uttermost, till evening at last found us among the hills, where a rough-and-ready inn afforded us shelter for the night.

Passing through Somerset we came to a place named Cookhouse Drift, where there is a bridge over the Great Fish River.

We also met here with seven troopers of the frontier, armed and mounted police, as tight and serviceable a set of young fellows as one could wish to see—clad in corduroy, thorough-going, rough-and-ready colonial cavalry—and well-trained to bush fighting. They were out after seven escaped convicts, and had caught one, a big Kafir, who was handcuffed, and seemed sulky when I looked at him.

At another place, where the prickly pear was very prolific, and the bush so dense that it formed a pretty safe retreat to escaped convicts, as well as baboons and tigers, we discovered a band of Kafirs celebrating a wedding.

The prickly pears, which were ripe at this time, we found to be very pleasant and refreshing, but we had to handle them with care, as they were covered with prickles so fine that they pierced the skin and broke off the pear with the least touch. The great evil of prickly pear thorns is that it is almost impossible to extract them, and although it can scarcely be said that they cause pain, the irritation they produce is great and prolonged. The monkeys know this well!

I was greatly amused once, while delayed at a road-side inn, by the antics of a monkey with a prickly pear. I had fed him with part of one, of which he seemed passionately fond. Wishing to know whether monkeys as well as men were cautious in handling the fruit, I pulled another by means of a couple of sticks. The usual mode of proceeding is to rub the pear on the ground with a bunch of grass, and thus remove the prickles, when it may be handled with impunity. Without doing this, however, I lifted the pear with my sticks and handed it to Jacko. He looked at it earnestly for a few seconds, then at me with a round mouth and reproachful eyes, as though to say, “You don’t mean that, do you?”

I smiled and nodded.

Jacko looked again at the pear and put one finger towards it with great caution, but drew back and looked up at me again, as if to say, “Won’t you help me?”

I smiled again and shook my head, whereupon he went to work with the most gingerly and delicate touches, as if he were handling red-hot iron. At last he managed to tear a hole in the skin, into which he inserted his black nose, and greedily devoured the contents. Despite his caution, however, I noticed that Jacko kept scratching his hands pretty steadily for some time afterwards.

As we advanced into the hills the roads became unimaginably bad. In one place our track had been carried away by a flood, and the boulder-covered bed of the torrent was our only road.

At last we got up into the mountain region of Glen Lynden, the place to which the Scotch settlers were sent by Government in 1820, under the care of Thomas Pringle, the “African poet,” who, among other pieces, wrote the beautiful poem which begins:

“Afar in the desert I love to ride,

With the silent bushboy alone by my side.”

The descendants of the 1820 men now occupy these valleys. Both in physique and character they do credit to their sires.

Here I met one of the few survivors of the original settlers, Mr Dodds Pringle, and brother to the poet. (This happened about 1876.) Although upwards of seventy, and a large, stout man, I saw him mount his horse with the activity of a man of thirty. At his house in Glen Lynedock, where I spent a night, they showed me an assagai, or Kafir spear, which had been bent into the form of a half-moon against his, (Mr Pringle’s), stomach! It happened thus:

He was out fighting with the rest of the farmers in the war of 1851, and one day was attacked by Kafirs, one of whom flung his assagai at him with tremendous force. Mr Pringle had just fired his rifle, and was reloading when the assagai struck him. It was arrested, however, in its deadly flight by his belt and bullet-pouch. The savage rushed forward, intending to finish his adversary by a thrust from a short spear, but old Pringle guarded the thrust with one hand, while, with the other, he drew a pistol and shot the Kafir through the heart. At that moment another savage ran at him, but a comrade of Pringle suddenly came on the scene and the savage turned to fly. The comrade took aim at him.

“Be cool, and take him low,” said Pringle, undoing his belt to examine his wound.

The comrade fired, and the savage fell.

“Are you killed?” asked the comrade, turning to Pringle and glancing at the bent assagai.

“I don’t know,” replied the other, with a serious look, as he thrust his hand under his waist-belt, “there’s no hole that I can find, anyhow.”

The hand, when withdrawn, was covered with blood, but it was found on examination that the wound was slight, thanks to the providential interposition of the thick bullet-pouch. The old gentleman is now naturally fond of showing the weapon which had so nearly proved fatal.

Advancing into the Baviaans River District we passed through many places of historic interest, and scenery that must have reminded the Scottish settlers of the rugged glens to which they had bidden farewell for ever.

Among other places, Hobson pointed out a small cavern, high up on the cliffs, which was the scene of a cruel affray not many years before the arrival of the Scotch settlers in the district.

As it illustrates the wild frontier life of those times, and bears on the subject of the grievances of early colonists, I shall relate it.

There was a Dutch Boer, a farmer named Bezuidenhout, who, in the year 1815, dwelt in the lonely and wild recesses of the Baviaans River District. He seems to have been a passionate, headstrong man. The Dutch Boers were generally honest, sterling men, though at that time very ignorant, being far removed from the means of instruction. But the Dutchmen, not less than others, had wild and foolish men amongst them who were easily misled by unprincipled adventurers.

Bezuidenhout seems to have been one of these; at all events he was savage enough to treat one of his Hottentot servants so ill that he was cited to appear before the Court of his district, and was foolish enough to resist the summons. A messenger was therefore sent to arrest him, and as he was known to be a daring character, and had threatened to shoot any limb of the law who should dare to approach his residence, twenty men of the Cape Corps, under Lieutenant Rousseau accompanied the messenger.

On reaching the mountain home of Bezuidenhout they found him prepared. He and a powerful half-caste in his employment were found sheltered behind the high wall of a cattle enclosure, well armed. The Dutchman called to the soldiers to stop, else he would shoot the first man. Disregarding the threat, the lieutenant extended his men in skirmishing order, and attacked. Bezuidenhout fired, happily missed, and retreated into his house, whence he passed by a back-door into the thick jungle in rear. They lost him for a time, but finally traced him to a steep krantz, or precipice, up the almost inaccessible face of which he and his follower had taken refuge in a small cavern. The muzzles of their rifles were seen protruding from the entrance. Lieutenant Rousseau therefore crept up warily, until he reached a ledge above the aperture, from which point he challenged the farmer to surrender, telling him the reason of his being there, and assuring him of personal safety.

The man replied he would die rather than submit. The Lieutenant endeavoured to persuade him to surrender, but he was obdurate. Night was approaching. The officer was anxious to get his men out of these dark kloofs in daylight. He therefore ordered them to ascend in two bodies. They did so, reached the cave, and rushed to the entrance, from which Bezuidenhout fired, but without effect, the muzzle of his rifle having been thrown up. At the same moment one of the soldiers fired into the cavern, and shot the farmer dead on the spot. The servant surrendered, and on entering the place it was found that a large quantity of ammunition had been collected there, evidently with a view to standing a siege.

After the departure of the military, the relations and friends of the unfortunate and misguided man assembled to bury him, and, over his grave, they vowed to avenge his death. A brother of Bezuidenhout spoke to them, and so wrought on their feelings that a great number of the farmers of that and the neighbouring districts ultimately assembled under arms, with the avowed intention of ridding themselves altogether of British interference! They went still further, and took a step which might have been much more serious. They sent Cornelius Faber, a brother-in-law of the Bezuidenhouts, to the Kafir chief Gaika for the purpose of rousing that savage and his hordes to attack the Colony.

Of course the Government was obliged to frustrate such an attempt with all possible speed. Troops were immediately sent against the rebels, under Colonel Cuyler. One of the rebel leaders, named Prinsloo, was captured at a critical moment, and the main body, amounting to between three and four hundred, was finally met with. But before proceeding to extremities, a field-commandant, William Nel, volunteered to go alone among the rebels, and reason with them. He did so, and was so far successful as to shake the resolution of some, for, although disaffected, many of these men were by no means so foolish as their leaders. Indeed, many of them had been threatened and coerced into rebellion. Seeing the effect of Nel’s remonstrances, Faber, Bezuidenhout, and other leaders, assembled their forces at a place called Slachters Nek, and exacted from them an oath to remain faithful to each other until they had expelled the tyrants from the frontier.

Next morning Colonel Cuyler proceeded to attack them. On his approach thirty or more of them threw down their arms in token of surrender; the remainder, seeing that resistance would be hopeless, retired into the fastnesses of Baviaans River. There they were followed and surrounded, and an attempt was made to bring them to submission, but during the night most of them managed to escape by familiar mountain passes.

The principal leaders, rejecting all terms, escaped with their wagons, families, and goods to the Winterberg Mountains, bordering on Kafirland, where they hoped to be safe; but, being followed up hotly by a body of troops under Major Fraser, they were eventually overtaken and surrounded in a deep kloof. Here six of them were brought to bay, among whom were Faber, with his wife, his son—a lad of fourteen years,—and John Bezuidenhout. These, retiring behind the wagons, a skirmish began, which was not concluded until one of the soldiers was killed, another wounded, Bezuidenhout shot, and Faber and his wife and son severely wounded. Then the party were taken prisoners.

Subsequently fifty or sixty of the other rebels were captured and taken to Capetown. Of these, thirty-nine of the most culpable were tried on the charge of high treason. Six were condemned to death; the others, after being compelled to witness the execution of their leaders, were to undergo various degrees of punishment, according to their proved guilt. One of the six had the capital sentence commuted to transportation for life, and the remaining five ringleaders were executed.

Letter 7.

Lion-Hunting, etcetera, in the Early Days—Bushmen and their Troubles.

It is deeply interesting to tread in the footsteps of bold adventurous men, and visit the scenes which have been rendered classic by their deeds of heroic daring or of patient endurance. So I found it during my brief sojourn in the regions of Baviaans River, where, upwards of fifty years before, my countrymen had faced, fought, and subdued the savage, the wilderness, and the wild-beast.

The every-day life of the early settlers of this region cannot be better illustrated than by a brief quotation from the diary of one of them.

“October 1st.—Arrival of the Somerset wagon with flour, seed-corn, etcetera. I discharged the servant Sandy from the party, gave him a pass, countersigned by the Deputy-Landdrost, and sent him off with the Somerset wagon towards Grahamstown. This lad has turned out to be at once a fool and a blackguard, and quite beyond hope of reform.

“4th.—A sharp frost last night blighted all our early potatoes, pumpkins, melons, kidney-beans, etcetera. It appears we had sown some of our seed too early.

“8th, Sunday.—A troop of about twenty quaggas galloped through the corner of our gardens during divine service.

“9th.—A herd of hartebeests passed close to our huts, pursued by a pack of six wild dogs (Hyaena venatica). Fired at the latter, but without effect. This day Mr John Rennie, being out hunting on Hyndhope Fells, fell in with two wild Bushmen, dressed in sheepskins. They ran off on his approach, but made no demonstration of hostility. He came upon six hyenas devouring a hartebeest, and brought me its skull and horns.

“11th.—Visited by three Boers from the Tarka—desirous of exchanging horses and cattle for guns and ammunition. Completed my map of the location.

“16th.—Surprised by a slight fall of snow; weather chill and cloudy. The laughing hyena heard near the folds last night. The sound truly horrible.

“21st.—Fine weather. Killed a large yellow snake.

“23rd.—Received a visit from our district clergyman, the Reverend J. Evans of Cradock. He brought a packet from the Landdrost conveying letters from the Colonial Secretary, assuring me of the continued support of the Government, and giving us the agreeable intelligence that a party of emigrants from the West of Scotland were speedily expected out, who would be located close beside us. Received also very pleasant letters from Scotland, from Dr Philip, and from our parted comrade Mr Elliott. Religious service in the evening by Mr Evans. All much pleased and comforted.

“24th.—Mr G. Rennie, who at my request had gone with a party of Hottentots to explore the country beyond the mountains towards the Koonap River, returned with a very favourable report of it. Abundance of wood, water, and rich pasturage. He saw a great deal of large game, and the recent traces of elephants. Shot a gnu and hartebeest.

“November 1st.—The weather warm and serene, like the finest summer weather in England. Two snakes and a large scorpion killed. Turtle-doves, touracoos, thrushes, finches, and other birds of beautiful plumage become numerous.

“6th.—Violent storm of thunder. The peals fearfully loud. Magnificent clouds at sunset.

“15th.—A tiger-wolf broke into the kraal last night, and killed several sheep.

“22nd.—A wolf-trap constructed, with the aid of the Hottentots, of large stones and timber.

“29th.—A wolf caught in the trap.

“December 4th.—A heavy rain for three days swells the river to an unfordable size. All the dry beds of torrents filled with furious floods.

“7th.—Weather again warm and serene. Mr G. Rennie kills another wild-boar at Glen Vair.

“19th.—My brother John finds stone fit for millstones, and with the aid of one of the Hottentots begins to construct a small mill.

“29th.—My father narrowly escapes being gored by a furious ox. Blight appears in the wheat.

“30th.—Receive a large packet of letters and newspapers from Scotland. All deeply interested. This is the first packet of British newspapers that has reached us.”

How all the Robinson-Crusoe blood in one’s veins is stirred by such a diary! Truly I sometimes almost regret that I was not born to become a pioneer settler in the African wilds!

However, it is some comfort to have the privilege of paying a flying visit to these same wilds, which in many respects are quite as wild now as they were then. The lions, elephants, quaggas, and some others of the large game, it is true, have taken themselves off to remoter wilds, but the leopards, hyenas, baboons, antelopes, still inhabit these kloofs, while snakes, scorpions, and the like are as plentiful as ever.

Talking of baboons reminds me that these creatures are said to sleep sometimes on a ledge of rock on the face of a precipice for security against lurking foes. I was assured that sometimes a row of them may be seen in such a situation sitting sound asleep, with their faces in their hands, against the precipice, and their tails hanging over the ledge. Of course I do not vouch for the truth of such reports. I am answerable only for what I profess to have seen.

The highest type of monkey suggests the lowest type of man in Africa. This is the Bushman, or, as the Dutch have it, Bosjesman. He is a branch of the Hottentot race, and a very miserable, stunted branch; nevertheless he is very far indeed removed from the baboon. He has no tail, for certain; at least if he has, he conceals it effectually. He wears garments, which no monkey does, and he speaks, which no monkey ever did.

No thanks to the white man, however, if the poor Bushman is not a baboon with the spirit of a tiger, for he has been most shamefully treated in time past. It is true the Bushmen were arrant thieves, and committed great havoc among the frontier farmers at various times, and it was both natural and right that these farmers should defend their homes and property. But it was neither right nor natural that these unfortunate natives should have been so cruelly dealt with.

When the Scotch party settled at Glen Lynden, their troubles with wild-beast pilferers were augmented occasionally by the appearance of Bosjesman-thieves.

“In the beginning of October,” writes Mr Pringle, “we were somewhat alarmed by the discovery of a band of predatory Bushmen, lurking among the rocks and caverns of the wild mountains between us and the valley of the Tarka. Lieutenant Pettingal, an officer of engineers, who was then in our valley, engaged in the Government survey of the country, discovered this horde in searching for some of his horses that were missing. Suspecting, from the traces, that they had been carried off by Bushmen, he went out with an armed troop in pursuit, and came upon a party of these wild marauders in one of the most savage recesses of the neighbouring mountains. They were at breakfast, on a grey horse which they had slaughtered, and had steaks roasting on the fire cut out of the flank, with the hide still upon them. Pettingal, enraged by the supposed loss of his best blood-horse, poured in a volley upon them; but, apparently, without effect, for they all scrambled off with inconceivable agility among the rocks and bushes. He recovered, however, some of his own horses, and eight belonging to our neighbour which were tied up under an overhanging cliff near the top of a mountain.”

There were no Bushmen running wild among the beautiful hills and valleys of Glen Lynden when Hobson and I entered it, but the region was not free, as I have related, from naked Kafirs, and it is still noted for its population of hairy baboons.

Letter 8.

Rain! Rain! Rain!—Baboons River—Seahorse Kloof—We hunt the Hills on Horseback in spite of Rain—Floods and Accidents—Part from Hobson—Mail-Carts and Diamond-Diggers.

Rain is a blessed refreshment to the thirsty land; it is a life-giving cordial to the thirsty soul; but when rain descends in torrents and without cessation during the greater part of one’s brief holiday, or at any other very unseasonable period, and when one is not thirsty, it becomes depressing, to say the least.

Thus was I treated by rain during my week in Baviaans River. Hobson and I had at last pushed up into the very heart of that wild mountain region,—the allotted home of the Scottish settlers of 1820, the scene of many Kafir raids and battles.

For months before we had lived in perpetual sunshine. Hobson had sighed for a drop of rain. Sometimes South Africans have to sigh for a twelve-month before relief is sent. Even while I write, the colony is suffering excessively from drought, and many farmers have been ruined. On the Karroo I had almost come to forget the sensation of being rained upon, and an umbrella there would have appeared as great an impropriety as a muslin overcoat in Nova Zembla. Nevertheless, no sooner did we arrive at Seahorse Kloof than the windows of heaven were opened, and the rain came down steadily night and day, while the sky presented a universal grey that would have done credit to the Scottish Highlands. It was too bad!

My main object in penetrating to these rugged wilds was to visit one of the Pringles, a relative of personal friends on the borders of my own land. Finding that Mr Pringle was absent from home, we turned aside to visit a cousin of Hobson’s, a Mr John Edwards, who dwelt in what appeared to me the fag-end of the world,—a lonely farmhouse, at the head of the mountain gorge named Seahorse Kloof.

“It’s a splendid country,” said Hobson, “with lots of game, and Edwards is a noted hunter, besides being a capital fellow.”

What more could man desire? We arrived full of hope and spirits, received a hearty welcome, and awoke next day to find the sky grey, as I have said, and the rain descending steadily.

Of course we hoped against hope, but as day after day came and went, our hopes and spirits sank. Then there came a reaction that is not uncommon in the circumstances,—we grew desperate, and began to enjoy our misery. We got out our rifles, took up a sheltered position in the shed of an outhouse, and blazed away from dripping morn to pouring eve at empty bottles, amongst which we did tremendous execution.

Of course, also, we relieved the tedium of enforced indoor life by song and talk, but these resources could not make up for lost time, and the depth to which I had been sunk was revealed to me by the sudden rebound of joy when, after a week of heavy wet, there was a break in the universal grey and the sun came feebly out. Blessed sun, if thou wert to roast me alive, methinks I would love thee still!

Before this happened, however, we had a few brief intervals of modified dripping. During one of these, in which the rain all but ceased for a forenoon, I resolved to go out into one of the mountain gorges for a ramble alone. My host lent me his double barrel—one barrel being for shot, the other rifled.

“It is loaded,” said he, “the right with shot, the left with ball.”

“Very good,” said I; “expect a tiger when I return.”

My host smiled. Leopards were there, truly, but as he knew, and as I have elsewhere mentioned, they never show themselves except when driven out of their retreats by dogs. To say truth, I only wanted a walk, expected to kill a rabbit or a crow, and hoped faintly for a buck. None of these things did I see, but I found a small coney, at which I fired the shot barrel. To my surprise there came no report from the gun, merely a feeble spirt. I afterwards learned that one of “the boys” had loaded it the day before with a miniature charge for small birds. Hope increased as I pushed further up into the Kloof, and fancy began to play. Although there was no chance of seeing “tigers,” it was something to know that such creatures were really there; that I was actually in the native home of “wild-beasts.” The floor of my host’s parlour was covered with the beautiful spotted skins of animals which had been shot or trapped by himself. One of these measured about nine feet, which, allowing three for the tail, gives a body of six feet long.

As the day advanced rain again began to fall, but nothing could damp me now. I had almost worked myself into the belief that I was tiger-hunting! I advanced with cautious tread, looked earnestly into dark caverns, and passed under the deep shadow of thick and tangled bushes with feelings of awe. I even indulged my wayward fancy by thinking of Gordon Cumming and Livingstone; did my best to mistake gnarled roots for big snakes, and red stones for couching leopards. At last, while in the sombre twilight of a dense mass of underwood, I actually did see a bit of brown hair moving. I threw forward my rifle with a promptitude worthy of Hawkeye himself, but experienced no shock of excitement, for the object was so palpably a small rabbit, or coney, that imagination sternly refused to deceive me. Baboons had been heard barking on the evening of our arrival. I looked out for these, but saw none. In short, none of the inhabitants of wood, glen, or mountain, save myself, were foolish enough to go out in such weather. Nevertheless I returned to the house happy and ready for supper.

On Saturday morning the sunshine, which I have before mentioned, gladdened our eyes and hearts. The weather seemed at last favourable. Edwards at once ordered out horses and rifles, and away we went—four of us—up the mountains after game. It was a new experience in regard to riding. Horses, I knew, were capable of travelling over exceedingly rough roads, and trained ones could even ascend staircases, but I now learned that horses can climb precipices. Never saw anything like it before; never even imagined it!

Our prospects were fair, but they were false, for, ere long, the rain began again. However, we were reckless by that time and defied it. Riding up the kloof that I had traversed on foot, we sighted bucks but got no shot. Gaining the top of the kloof we saw more bucks—out of range. We passed over the shoulder of the mountain into another glen, and skirted the top of a precipice. While descending some slopes at an angle of I know not what, the use of our cruppers became strikingly apparent. I began, for the first time in my life, to feel anxiety as to the strength of a horse’s tail. In going up such places the saddle girths were severely tried, but the mane kept one from slipping down one’s perpendicular animal.

Coming to a comparatively level stretch we sank into a silently reflective and forgetful mood, while the rain-drops dribbled down our noses, sopped from our mackintoshes to our saddles, whence they re-ascended, through the capillary influence of garments, to our necks, and soon equalised our humidity.

“Look out!” shouted Edwards, suddenly. We all obeyed, and saw a brown buck labouring up a slope so steep that running was out of the question. I stuck my heels into my steed and faced him at the slope. He took it. He would have taken the side of a house, I think, if told to. But he gasped with the frantic nature of his efforts. I felt as if he were leaping up the slope, kangaroo fashion, on his hind-legs. On reaching the top, the antelope was observed disappearing in the distance. It was of no use weeping. Rain would have washed the tears away.

“Look out!” again shouted our host; “get off!”

We all obeyed, cocked our guns, and gazed. A herd of antelopes! just visible in the mist. We all fired, and missed.

“Very mysterious,” muttered one of our number,—I forget which.

We loaded hastily, but not quickly. Our guns were muzzle-loaders, and rain does not facilitate loading. In trying to force a bullet down, my ramrod slipped, and I cut my knuckles severely.

“You’ve drawn first blood, anyhow,” savagely muttered one of us,—I forget who.

We mounted again, and let me tell you that mounting on a steep hillside in a long wet mackintosh with a big rifle, bleeding knuckles, and a heavy heart, is difficult as well as disagreeable.

To increase our enjoyment, Edwards again shouted, “Get off!” We did so with more than military obedience, and I saw a buck standing not more than a hundred yards in front of me. I gave him the rifled barrel. He hopped. Then the shot barrel. He winced and fled, but presently stopped and lay down. Edwards ran towards him, kneeled, fired, and broke his leg. Between us all we managed to kill him, and then turned homewards.

The only noteworthy incident that occurred on the way back was the starting of a troop of baboons, which went scampering down the cliffs in consternation like balls of brown hair. We also descended some broken ground, so steep that it was almost impossible to keep the saddle. Looking at Edwards, I observed that the ears of his horse appeared between his feet, while its tail waved over his head like a dragoon’s plume. At last we were compelled to dismount and lead our animals, our minds being sometimes divided between the danger of missing our footing in front, and being tumbled on by our steeds behind.

Thus we hunted on the Baviaans River mountains in adverse circumstances, and returned home moderately pleased, though not particularly successful.

The rains had by that time flooded the whole country, and rendered travelling almost impossible. The river was running wildly past the house, and there was no bridge over it.

We held a consultation on Monday as to our departure. The weather was fine at last, but the river flooded. The tortuous nature of its bed necessitated five or six crossings in the course of twelve miles. Were they fordable? was the question. “We shall go and try,” was Hobson’s final decision. “Try” is the watchword of all true pioneers. We saddled and set forth. Hobson drove the cart, with my portmanteau. During the first part of the journey I was to accompany Edwards on horseback. We had a Hottentot servant with us, who rode one horse and led another.

It was a most enjoyable ride in the bright sunshine that day. Everything was fresh, green, and glittering after the long-continued rain. Baboons were seen on the way, and shouted at us, whether in defiance, derision, or encouragement, is best known to themselves. All the “drifts” or fords were passed in safety till we came to the last on Baviaans River. Here the powerful stream rose to our saddles, and the opposite bank had been so much washed away that it seemed impossible to get the cart up.

“I’ll cross,” said Edwards, “and if necessary we’ll cut a slope in the bank.”

In he went, floundered through, and managed to ascend the opposite bank, though not without a severe struggle, for besides being high and steep, it was very wet—coated, in fact, with soft mud.

The Tottie with the led horse followed his master. I followed the Tottie—close in his steps, so as to get the benefit of his experience, either by imitating or avoiding his example. We gained the opposite side. I saw the Hottentot’s horse rise before me as if mounting a staircase. He slipped, and floundered on his nose and knees. The led horse disconcerted him. Just then my own horse made a bound up the bank, and pawed the mud for a moment. “Slack the reins! give him his head!” shouted Edwards. I did so. With a mighty plunge and a groan the sturdy animal bore me to the top of the bank in safety. I turned and saw the Tottie’s horse throw up its head and fore legs, as if imploringly, to the skies, and fall backwards. The Tottie himself appeared for a moment in the form of a spread-eagle, and then horse and man went back with a sounding splash into the river.

Hobson, who had been all the time enjoying the spectacle, now crossed with the cart; but, on taking the bank, despite their utmost efforts, the powerful pair stuck fast on their knees and noses. Meanwhile the Hottentot scrambled out with his animals, none the worse for the plunge.

As the horses could not move the cart an inch in their semi-perpendicular position, we unharnessed them, and the four of us, by slow degrees, working one wheel at a time, zig-zagged the cart upward a few feet, when horses were once more attached, and the crossing was finally accomplished.

That evening we came to “Smith’s farm,” one of the places where the Diamond-field coaches stop to change horses. It was beyond the mountains at the commencement of the great rolling plains. Here I had arranged to await the arrival of the mail-cart, and proceed viâ Bedford to Grahamstown.

And here, with deep regret, I bade farewell to my friend Hobson—a true-hearted, well-educated Englishman, born in the colony; the son of one of the “1820 settlers;” a brave, bold, fearless, loving man, who hunted lions, leopards, elephants, zebras, and all the large game of Africa in his youth, and was “out” in the war,—a warm friend, a splendid type of those hardy men whose lot it is to subdue the wilderness.

There were several hours to pass before the arrival of the mail-cart. Smith and his people were busy, and, as there were no guests at the time in that lonely road-side inn, I had plenty of leisure to bask in the sunshine, sketch the cactus bushes that abounded there, (See Note 5), gaze dreamily over the boundless Karroo, and meditate sadly on friendships and partings.

The first thing that struck me on turning from Smith’s humble abode to ramble on the plains was the presence of a bad smell—a very bad smell! I brought my nose to bear in various directions, but could discover no cause. Having nothing to do I applied myself with diligence to the investigation, all the more earnestly that I found it impossible to get out of the tainted atmosphere. Regarding the heavens steadily, for it was very calm, and making up my mind as to the direction which the little wind that there was came from, I followed my nose, and was led by it to the decaying carcass of an ox which lay not a hundred yards from Smith’s door. My opinion of Smith was lowered! When I passed to windward of the carcass, the bad smell ceased.

I mention this, not because it is an interesting incident, but because it is a feature of South African travel. Wherever you go on the Karroo, there you will find the rotting remains of poor creatures, which, having “died in harness,” are cast loose for the benefit of the vultures. These ill-looking and disgusting birds are most useful scavengers. They scent the quarry from afar—so far, indeed, as to be beyond the vision of human eyes. You may gaze round you far and near in the plains, and behold no sign of any bird; but kill one of your horses and leave it dead on the plain, and straightway, from various quarters of the heavens, you will see little specks which grow and float, and circle and grow, until they assume the ugly form and huge proportions of unclean vultures, which will perch on the carcass, and make away with it in a remarkably short space of time. It was only the skin and bones of the ox which rendered themselves obnoxious at Smith’s. Vultures had cleared out of it every morsel of flesh some days before.

As I have said, there are no roads worthy of the name in many parts of the Karroo. Those that exist are often in such a dilapidated condition that travellers sometimes find it more pleasant to forsake them and drive over the rugged veldt. This can be easily understood when it is remembered that the roads are traversed by the celebrated “Cape wagons,” which are of enormous size and weight, requiring from sixteen to twenty oxen to draw them. Such vehicles finding a hollow in a road, soon make it a deep hole, which finally becomes an impassable cavern. In drawing, struggling, and fighting with these wagons, sick and weakly animals constantly succumb, are left to die, and thus vultures are supplied with a continual feast, while carcasses and skulls, and bleaching bones, are familiar objects by the roadsides on the plains.

At last the mail-cart arrived, and I secured a place.

It is usually a small two-wheeled vehicle drawn by four horses, the driver of which seems to think that every one ought to possess an iron frame as callous as his own. The cart has a species of canvas hood, such as I have described in a former letter, stretched on a movable frame. It serves the purpose of a monstrous parasol. You get into this cart, the team is cleverly started by, it may be, a smart fellow, and driven away with the speed at which mails ought to travel; or it is wildly started by a conceited driver, who sets out with a plunge, and continues his course with a prolonged crash, as though the fate of empires reposed in his mail-bags. You come to a ditch; you go in with a plunge, and come out with a jerk. Your head hits the back of the hood when you go in, your nose hits the back of the driver when you come out. A rut in the road causes one wheel to descend suddenly about eighteen inches; or an unavoidable lump of that height produces the same effect; the hood gives you a deliberate punch on the head. Before you have quite recovered, it gives you another. A miniature precipice appears. This was caused by the latest waterspout choosing to cut the road instead of follow it. The mail-cart does not pause. Its springs were made, apparently, to spring. It descends. For one instant you are left in the air, the next you resume your seat—with violence. This sort of thing does not last long, however, for you quickly become wise. You acquire the habit of voluntarily stiffening your backbone at the ditches, of yielding to the ruts, and of holding on at the precipices. Still, with all your precautions, you suffer severely. I have been seriously informed that, during some of their plunges on what may be called stormy roads, men have been jolted bodily out of mail-carts at the Cape, and I can easily believe it.

The Diamond-field mail was full, but they kindly made room for me, and plastered my portmanteau, like an excrescence, on the other baggage.

The drive to Bedford was too short to admit of much familiar intercourse with the diggers,—if diggers they were. Subsequently I met with a successful digger, who told me a good deal about the diamond-fields. He was a Scot, who had left a lucrative claim to be managed by a partner while he took a trip to the “old country.” His account of diamond digging inclined me to think that coal-heaving is a much easier occupation, and more remunerative on the whole, except in the case of lucky diggers. This Scot showed me what he called a “big diamond,” and allowed me to make a careful drawing of it. He could not guess at its value. If it had been a pure diamond like the “star of South Africa,” it would have been worth many thousands of pounds, but it was not pure. According to digger parlance it was “off-colour,” and, therefore, not excessively valuable. Still it was a precious gem, and would doubtless fetch several hundreds of pounds. Of course it was unpolished, but even in that state was very beautiful. It weighed seventy-eight carats. The “star of South Africa,” above referred to, was a pure and magnificent gem. It was found by a Hottentot, named Swartzboy, sold by him for 400 pounds, and disposed of the same day for 12,000 pounds—so, at least, runs one account of the matter.

Late in the evening we reached Bedford.

As we started next morning at break of day my personal knowledge of that flourishing town is too limited to warrant many remarks thereon. It may be that the vision of ghostly houses passing our cart in the morning mists suggested to my sleepy imagination the idea of a town, but I cannot remember that it did. Possibly the fact that the population numbered above 1000 may have occurred to my mind, but I think not. It is more probable that the mind, if it operated at all, pictured the population as recumbent and snoring. Indeed, the only thing that memory will recall, when severely taxed, in regard to Bedford, is—bed, its first syllable.

Letter 9.

Crossing the Great Fish River—Travelling at the Cape as it is to be—Grahamstown, her Early Struggles and Present Prosperity.

Travelling in South Africa is occasionally interrupted by sudden storms of rain which convert dry beds of streams into roaring torrents, and perennial rivers into devastating floods.

At the Great Fish River I came on a specimen of the mighty power of water in the ruins of a splendid bridge. The great floods of the previous year had carried one-half of it away. The other half—denuded of its flooring and all its woodwork, and standing out against the sky a mere skeleton of iron girders—still connected the left bank of the river with the massive tower of masonry in the middle. From this tower to the other bank was a gulf impassable to horse or cart. The great river itself flows in a deep channel. It was still somewhat flooded. From its high banks we saw it roaring more than forty feet beneath the level of the bridge. It was clear to the most ignorant eye that fording the stream was impossible. I looked inquiringly at the driver.

“You’ll have to go over on the rope,” he said, with a sardonic smile.

“The rope?” said I, with an earnest gaze at the impassable gulf.

“Yes, the rope. There’s a man crossing now.”

I looked again, and observed something like a cobweb on the sky between the central pier and the opposite bank. There was a black spot that resembled a spider moving slowly along the cobweb. It was a fellow-man!

“And the mails and the luggage?” I asked.

“Go over same way.”

“The cart and horses?”

“Don’t go over at all. Get fresh ones on other side. There was once a box on the river for hauling them over, but it’s been damaged.”

The process of crossing was begun at once.

The driver and some workmen shouldered the bags and baggage, while the passengers—of whom there were three—followed to the central pier.

To men with heads liable to giddiness the passage from the bank to the pier would have been trying, for, the floor having been carried away, we had to walk on the open girders, looking down past our feet to the torrent as to a miniature Niagara. The distance of forty feet seemed changed to four hundred from that position. Fortunately none of us were afflicted with giddy heads.

The flat space on the tower-top gained, we found two workmen engaged in tying our baggage to a little platform about four feet square, which was suspended by ropes to a couple of little wheels. These wheels travelled on a thick cable,—the spider web before referred to. The contrivance was hauled to and fro by a smaller line after the manner of our rocket apparatus for rescuing life at sea, and, when we passengers afterwards sat down on it with nothing but the tight grip of our hands on an iron bar to save us from falling into the flood below, we flattered ourselves that we had attained to something resembling the experience of those who have been saved from shipwreck.

Many people hold the erroneous doctrine that travellers and traffic create railways, whereas all experience goes to prove that railways create travellers and traffic. Of course at their first beginnings railways were formed by the few hundreds of travellers who were chiefly traffickers, but no sooner were they called into being than they became creative,—they turned thousands of stay-at-homes into travellers; they rushed between the great centres of industry, sweeping up the people in their train, and, with a grand contempt of littleness in every form, caught up the slow-going cars and coaches of former days in their huge embrace, and whirled them along in company with any number you chose of tons and bales of merchandise; they groaned up the acclivities of Highland hills, and snorted into sequestered glens, alluring, nay, compelling, the lonely dwellers to come out, and causing hosts of men, with rod and gun and hammer and botanical box, to go in; they scouted the old highroads, and went, like mighty men of valour, straight to the accomplishment of their ends, leaping over and diving under each other, across everything, through anything, and sticking at nothing, until over lands where, fifty years ago, only carts and coaches used to creep and poor pedestrians were wont to plod, cataracts of travellers now flow almost without intermission night and day—the prince rolling in his royal bedroom from palace to palace; the huntsman flying to the field, with his groom and horse in a box behind him; the artisan travelling in comfort to his daily toil, with his tools and a mysterious tin of victuals at his feet; thousands on thousands of busy beings hurrying through the land where one or two crawled before; shoals of foreigners coming in to get rid of prejudices and add “wrinkles to their horns,” while everything is cheapened, and, best of all, knowledge is increased by this healthy—though, it may be, rather rapid—moving about of men and women.

Thus railways have created travellers and traffic. But they have done much more; they have turned road-side inns into “grand hotels”; they have clambered up on the world’s heights, and built palatial abodes on the home of the mountain-hare and the eagle, where weak and worn invalids may mount without exertion, and drink in health and happiness with the freshest air of heaven.

The principle cannot be disputed that the creation of railways between great centres of industry has a direct tendency to stimulate that industry and to create other subsidiary industries with their travellers on business and travellers for pleasure. If railways ran over the Karroo, adventurous capitalists would come from all ends of the earth to see it; they would buy land when they found a convenient mode of running their produce to the markets of the large towns and the ports on the coast; they would start ostrich farms and breed horses, and grow wool, and build mighty dams, and sink artesian wells, as the French have done with some success I believe in Algiers. If railways were run up to the diamond-fields, adventurous diggers would crowd in hundreds to the great pit of Kimberley; some would succeed; those who failed would gravitate into the positions for which they were fitted by nature in a land where the want of labourers is a confessedly perplexing evil. The population would not only be increased by much new blood from without, but by that which results from prosperity and wealth within; off shoot, and as yet unimagined, enterprises would probably become numerous; additional lines would be pushed on into the gold regions; all sorts of precious gems and minerals, including “black diamonds,” are known to be abundant in the Transvaal, and,—but why go on? Those who agree with me understand these matters so well as to require no urging. As for those who don’t agree:

“The man convinced against his will

Is of the same opinion still.”

What I have written is for the benefit of those who know little or nothing about South Africa. I will only add to it my own conviction, (See Note 6), that the day is not far distant when a Cape man will breakfast one morning in Capetown, and dine next day at Port Elizabeth, (510 miles), run on to Grahamstown, (84 miles), to sup with a friend there take the early train to Graaff-Reinet, (160 miles), so as to have time for luncheon and a chat with a friend or relation before the starting of the night train for Kimberley, (280 miles), where he has to assist at the marriage of a sister with a diamond-digger who intends to spend his honeymoon at the Cliff Hotel amid the romantic scenery of the Catberg, and finish off with a week or two at Snowy Retreat, a magnificent hotel, (yet to be), on the tiptop of the Compassberg mountain.

This brings me back to the point at which I diverged—the Great Fish River, which takes its rise in the Sneewberg range.

What tremendous floods are implied in the carrying away of this bridge! What superabundance of water in that so-called land of drought! What opportunities for engineering skill to catch and conserve the water, and turn the “barren land” into fruitful fields! Don’t you see this, Periwinkle? If not, I will say no more, for, according to the proverb, “a nod is as good as a wink to the blind horse.”

Having crossed the bridge in safety we continued our journey in the new vehicle with fresh horses, and reached Grahamstown at four in the afternoon.

Between sixty and seventy years is not a great age for a city. Indeed, as cities go, Grahamstown may be called quite infantile. Nevertheless this youthful city has seen much rough work in its brief career.

Grahamstown was born in smoke, and cradled in war’s alarms. It began life in 1812, at which time the thieving and incorrigible Kafirs were driven across the Great Fish River—then the colonial boundary—by a strong force of British and Burgher troops under Colonel Graham. During these disturbed times it was established as headquarters of the troops which guarded the frontier.

When the infant was seven years old its courage and capacity were severely put to the proof. In the year 1818-19—just before the arrival of the “British settlers,”—it was deemed necessary to interfere in the concerns of contending Kafir chiefs, and to punish certain tribes for their continued depredations on the colony. For these ends, as well as the recovery of stolen cattle, a strong force was sent into Kafirland. While the troops were absent, a body of Kafirs assembled in the bush of the Great Fish River, from which they issued to attack Grahamstown. They were led by a remarkable man named Makana. He was also styled the Lynx.

This Kafir, although not a chief, rose to power by the force of a superior intellect and a strong will. He was well-known in Grahamstown, having been in the habit of paying it frequent visits, on which occasions he evinced great curiosity on all subjects, speculative as well as practical.

Makana appears to have been an apt scholar. Being a man of eloquence as well as originality, he soon acquired ascendency over most of the great chiefs of Kafirland, was almost worshipped by the people, who acknowledged him a warrior-chief as well as a prophet, and collected around him a large body of retainers. It has been thought by some that Makana was a “noble” savage, and that although he imposed on the credulity of his countrymen, his aim was to raise himself to sovereign power in order to elevate the Kafir race nearer to a level with Europeans.

But whatever be the truth regarding his objects, the invasion of Kafirland by the white men gave Makana an opportunity of which he was not slow to avail himself. His followers had suffered, with others, from the proceedings of the troops, and his soul was fired with a desire to be revenged and “drive the white men into the sea,”—a favourite fate, in the Kafir mind, reserved for the entire colonial family!

Makana was general enough to perceive that nothing effective could be accomplished by the mere marauding habits to which his countrymen were addicted. He had learned that “union is strength,” and, making use of his spirit-rousing power of eloquence, went about endeavouring to concentrate the aims of the savages and to direct their energies. In these efforts he was in some measure successful. He pretended to have received heavenly revelations, and to have been sent by the great spirit to avenge their wrongs; predicted certain success to the enterprise if his followers only yielded implicit obedience to his commands, and thus managed to persuade most of the various clans to unite their forces for a simultaneous attack on the headquarters of the British troops. He told them that he had power to call from their graves the spirits of their ancestors to assist them in the war, and confidently affirmed that it was decreed that they were to drive the white men across the Zwartkops River into the ocean, after which they should “sit down and eat honey!”

Early on the morning of the 22nd April 1819 this singular man led his force of 9000 sable warriors towards Grahamstown, and the affair had been conducted with so great secrecy that the few troops there were almost taken by surprise.

Enemies in the camp are always to be more dreaded than open foes. Makana had taken care to provide himself with a spy and informer, in the person of Klaas Nuka, the Government Interpreter to Colonel Wilshire, who was at that time in command of the troops. Three days previous to the attack, this villain—well aware of Makana’s approach—informed the Colonel that Kafirs had been seen in the precisely opposite direction. The unsuspecting Colonel at once fell into the trap. He detached the light company of the 38th regiment to patrol in the direction pointed out. Thus was the garrison of the town, which consisted of 450 European soldiers and a small body of mounted Hottentots, weakened to the extent of 100 men.

On that same April morning Colonel Wilshire was quietly inspecting a detachment of the mounted Cape Corps, when the Hottentot Captain Boezac, chief of a band of buffalo-hunters, informed him that he had just received information of Makana’s advance. The Colonel, mounted on a fleet charger, at once rode off with an escort of ten men to reconnoitre. He came unexpectedly on the enemy in a ravine not far from the town. They were taking a rest before rushing to the assault, and so sure were these poor savages of their irresistible power, that thousands of their wives and children followed them with their mats, pots, and cooking-jars ready to take possession of the place!

Colonel Wilshire retreated instantly, and there was need for haste. The Kafirs pursued him so closely that he reached his troops only a few minutes before them.

The small band of defenders more than made up for the difference in numbers, by the deadly precision of their fire. The Kafirs came on in a dense sable mass, led by their various chiefs, and generalled by the Lynx, who had impressed his followers with the belief that the muskets of the foe were charged only with “hot water!”

The field pieces of the troops were loaded with shrapnel shells, which at the first discharge mowed long lanes in the advancing masses, while musketry was discharged with deadly effect. But Kafirs are stern and brave warriors. On they came with wild cries, sending a shower of short spears, (assagais), before them, which, however, fell short. Regardless of the havoc in their ranks, they still came on, and the foremost men were seen to break short their assagais, with the evident intention of using them more effectively as daggers in hand-to-hand conflict. This was deliberately done by Makana’s orders, and showed his wisdom, for, with the great bodily strength, size, and agility of the Kafirs, and their overwhelming numbers, the attack, if promptly and boldly made at close quarters, could not have failed of success.

At this moment the Hottentot Captain Boezac created a diversion. He rushed with his band of a hundred and thirty men to meet the foe. These buffalo-hunters had among them some of the coolest and best marksmen in the country. Singling out the boldest of those who advanced, and were encouraging their followers in the final charge, Boezac and his men laid low many of the bravest chiefs and warriors. This gave the Kafirs a decided check. The troops cheered and fired with redoubled speed and energy. Lieutenant Aitcheson of the Artillery plied the foe with a withering fire of grapeshot. Boezac and his hunters, turning their flank, pressed them hotly in rear, and the Hottentot cavalry charged. The Kafirs recoiled, though some of the boldest, scorning to give in, rushed madly among the soldiers, and perished fighting. Then a wild panic and a total rout ensued, and the great host was scattered like chaff, and driven into the ravines.

Brief though this fight had been, the carnage among the Kafirs was terrible. One who was an eye-witness of the fight tells us that the bodies of about 2000 Kafir warriors strewed the field of battle, and that many others perished of their wounds in the rivulet leading down to the Cape Corps’ barracks. Nuka, the faithless interpreter, was shot, but Makana escaped.

A few months afterwards, however, he delivered himself up, and the other chiefs sued for peace. With Makana’s surrender the war of 1819 ended. The Lynx himself was sent prisoner to Robben Island. After nearly two years’ confinement he attempted to escape in a boat with some other prisoners, but the boat was upset in the surf on Blueberg beach, and Makana was drowned, while his companions escaped.

As Grahamstown grew in years and size, she bore her part well, both in the suffering and the action which the colony has been called on to endure and undertake, during all the vicissitudes of its career—in peace and in war. What that part has been would take a volume to tell.

She is now a large and beautiful town—the capital of the Eastern Province—situated on the slopes of the Zuurberg range, near the head waters of the Kowie River, 1760 feet above the sea, and thirty-six miles distant therefrom. She is also the focus where all the roads from the interior converge to enter the only available gap through the mountains—Howison’s Poort.

Very pleasant to dwell in is this “City of the Settlers”—alias the “city of gardens,” with its agreeable society, fresh breezes, and charming situation; its “twenty miles” of well-gravelled and tree-lined streets; its handsome shops and stores, its fine public buildings—notably the Cathedral, and the Albany Hall—its three great reservoirs, with their “twenty-four million gallons” of water, and its “twelve miles” of main pipes, by means of which its inhabitants are watered.

But I must not linger in Grahamstown now. When there in the body, I was sorely tempted to do so, too long, by the kindness of friends and the salubrity of the weather. Adieu, Grahamstown! thou art a green spot in memory, as well as in reality.

Letter 10.

Salem—A Peculiar Picnic—Polo under Difficulties—Lecturing and Singing—Sporting at Night.

Salem is, as it should be, a peaceful spot. It was not always so. There was a time when its inhabitants had to toil, so to speak, with the spade in one hand, and the musket in the other. It lies in a hollow of the great rolling plains, and was founded, like many of the eastern towns, in the memorable “1820,” when the “British settlers” came out, and a new era for the colony began.

The arrival of the original settlers at Salem is thus described by one who was a noted leader in the first days:

“Our Dutch wagon-driver intimating that we had at length reached our proper location, we took our boxes out of the wagon, and placed them on the ground. He bade us goeden dag, or farewell, cracked his long whip, and drove away, leaving us to our reflections. My wife sat down on one box, and I on another. The beautiful blue sky was above us, and the green grass beneath our feet. We looked at each other for a few moments, indulged in some reflections, and perhaps exchanged a few sentences; but it was no time for sentiment, and hence we were soon engaged in pitching our tent, and when that was accomplished, we removed into it our trunks and bedding. All the other settlers who arrived with us were similarly engaged, and in a comparatively short time the somewhat extensive valley of that part of the Assagai Bush River, which was to be the site of our future village, presented a lively and picturesque appearance.”

Soon the spade, the plough, and the axe began their subduing work. Some of the beautiful grassy slopes were turned up. Small clearings were made in the bush. Frail huts with doors of matting and windows of calico began to arise. Lime was found, white-wash was applied, and the huts began to “smile.” So did the waters of the stream when partially shorn of the bush-moustache by which, from time immemorial, they had been partially concealed; the first crops were sown, and the work of civilisation began. There was a ruinous “wattle and daub” edifice which had been deserted by a Dutch Boer before the arrival of the settlers. This was converted into a church, town-hall, and hospital.

The yell of the Kafir and the whizzing assagai afterwards disturbed the peace of Salem, and at that time the settlers proved that, though on peaceful plans intent, they could bravely hold their own; but it was peaceful enough, and beautiful, when I first beheld it.

At the door of a moderately handsome residence—which had succeeded the wattle-and-daub style of thing—I was heartily welcomed by my friend and his amiable spouse. Here I had the pleasure of enjoying a South African picnic.

A picnic is at all times interesting, doubly so when undertaken in peculiar circumstances. One of the peculiarities of this picnic was that the invitation to it was publicly given, and embraced the entire population. Another peculiarity was that the population, almost in its entirety, accepted the invitation. But there were still other peculiarities which will appear in the sequel.

The morning of the day fixed was bright and beautiful. This, indeed, was no peculiarity. Most of the mornings, days, and nights in that splendid region were of much the same stamp at that time. The spot fixed on for the scene of the picnic was about six miles from Salem, where a wild buffalo had been killed the week before.

The killing of this buffalo was an “event,” for that wild denizen of the African Bush had long ago retired before the rifle of the settler to safer retreats, and rarely returned to his old haunts. A band of buffaloes, however, had apparently taken a fancy to revisit the home of their childhood at this time. There was nothing to prevent them, for, although the country is “settled,” the original “Bush” is in many places sufficiently extensive and impervious to afford safe shelter to the wildest of animals. At all events, a band of buffaloes did come to the neighbourhood of Salem, and there met with a farmer-Nimrod, who “picked off” one of their number. I turned aside, during one of my rides, to visit the head and horns, which lay near his house.

The place of rendezvous for those who dwelt in the village was an open space in front of the church. Here, at an early hour, there assembled numerous equestrians, as well as vehicles of varied shape and character. I was mounted on a smart brown pony kindly lent by Mr Shaw, teacher of the flourishing school of Salem. My friend Caldecott bestrode a powerful steed suited to his size. When the gathering had reached considerable proportions, we started like an Eastern caravan.

Among the cavaliers there were stalwart men and fair damsels—also little boys and girls, prancing in anxiety to get away. There were carts, and gigs, and buggies, or things that bore some resemblance to such vehicles, in which were the more sedate ones of the gathering; and there were great “Cape wagons,” with fifteen or twenty oxen to each, containing whole families—from hale old “grannies” down to grannies’ weaknesses in the shape of healthy lumps of live lard clad in amazement and bibs. It was a truly grand procession, as, after toiling up the slope that leads from the valley of Salem, we debouched upon the wide plain, and assumed our relative positions—that is, the riders dashed away at speed, the carts and buggies, getting up steam, pushed on, and the oxen trailed along at their unalterable gait, so that, in a few minutes, the dense group spread into a moving mass which gradually drew itself out into an attenuated line, whereof the head ultimately became invisible to the tail.

My tall host led the way with enthusiastic vigour. He was a hearty, earnest man, who could turn quickly from the pleasant contemplation of the trivialities of life to the deep and serious consideration of the things that bear on the life to come.

One Sunday I rode over the plains with him to visit a native church in which it was his duty to conduct worship. The congregation was black and woolly-headed—Hottentots chiefly, I believe, though there may have been some Kafirs amongst them.

There is something very attractive to me in the bright, eager, childlike look of black men and women. The said look may be the genuine expression of feeling—it may be, for aught I can tell, the result of contrast between the dazzling whites of eyes and teeth, with liquid-black pupils and swarthy cheeks,—but that does not alter the fact that it is pleasant.

The Hottentot who translated my friend’s discourse, sentence by sentence, was a fine specimen—I won’t say of his race, but of humanity. He was full of intelligence and fire; caught the preacher’s meaning instantly, riveted with his glittering eye the attention of his audience, and rattled out his words with a power that was most impressive, and with the interspersion of those indescribable “clicks” with which the native language abounds.

But to return to the picnic.

As we advanced, groups and couples of cavaliers and carts and wagons joined the line of march from outlying farms, so that when we reached the rendezvous we must have formed a body of two hundred strong, or more.

The spot chosen was the summit of a woody knoll, from which we could survey all the country round, and look down upon the river with its miles and miles of dense bush, in which the buffaloes had vainly fancied themselves free from the danger of human foes.

Was there plenty of food at that picnic? I should think there was. South Africans do not live upon air, by any means—though air has a good deal to do with their living. These comely maidens and strapping boys had not been brought up on water-gruel. These powerful men and ruddy matrons, to say nothing of the aged and the juvenile, would not have gone to that knoll on the plain without a prospect of “strong meat” of some sort. There were pies and joints, buns and beef, cakes and coffee, tea and tongues, sugar and sandwiches, hams and hampers, mounds of mealies, oceans of milk, and baskets of bread and butter. I’m not sure whether there were wines or spirits. I culpably forget. Probably there were not, for “Good Templars” are powerful in that region, and so is temperance.

Did we do justice to the viands? Didn’t we? My notions of human capacity were enlarged that day. So was my own capacity—out of sympathy, coupled with the ride. But we did not linger over our food. Seated in groups near the margin of, and partly in, the bush, we refreshed ourselves in comparative silence. Then we grew noisy over our milk and tea. Some of us even got the length of singing and speech-making, but the younger portion of the band soon lost their appetites and dispersed—some to romp, some to ramble, others to engage in games.

A few of the more reckless among us extemporised a game of polo.

Most people know, though some may not, that this is a game played on horseback with a club and ball—a species of equestrian “hockey,” as it is styled in England, “shinty” in Scotland. To be well done it requires good and trained horses, a wide expanse of level country, and expert riders. Our state of preparation for the game may be understood when I say that we had indifferent and untrained horses, that the ground was very uneven and covered with huge ant-hills, while the riders were not expert—at least, not at polo.

We got sticks, however, and went at it. Half a dozen men cut and levelled several ant-hills, and marking off a square patch of ground, four of us—I won’t say who—were placed, one at each corner, while the ball, a football, was put in the middle of the square.

Our innocent horses stood quietly there till the signal was given to start. Then each cavalier essayed to reach the ball first. The sudden urging of the steeds to instant action seemed to confuse them. They did not spring, as they should have done like arrows from bows. One rider wildly kicked with his heels and shook his reins. The horse turned round, as if in contempt, from the ball. Another applied his whip with vehemence, but his horse only backed. A third shouted, having neither whip nor spur, and brought his polo-stick savagely down on his animal’s flank, but it plunged and reared. The only horse that behaved well was that of a gallant youth who wore spurs. A dig from these sent him into the field. He reached the ball, made a glorious blow at it, and hit the terrestrial ball by mistake. Before the mistake could be rectified three of the other players were up, flourishing their long clubs in reckless eagerness; the fourth rode into them; the horses then lost patience and refused obedience to orders—no wonder, for one club, aimed at the ball, fell on a horse’s shins, while another saluted a horse’s ear. Presently the ball spurted out from the midst of us; the horses scattered, and one was seen to rise on its hind-legs. Immediately thereafter one of the players—I won’t say which—was on the ground and his horse was careering over the plain! Regardless of this the other three charged, met in the shock of conflict; clubs met clubs, and ears, and shins—but not the ball—until finally an accidental kick, from one of the horses I think, sent it towards the boundary at a considerable distance from the players.

Then it was that the power of spurs became conspicuously apparent. While two of the champions backed and reared, the gallant youth with the armed heels made a vigorous rush at the ball, miraculously hit it, and triumphantly won the game.

On the whole it was a failure in one sense, but a great success in another, inasmuch as it afforded immense amusement to the spectators, and pleasant excitement as well as exercise to the performers.

It must not be supposed, however, that the energies of the whole picnic were concentrated on polo. The party, as I have said, had broken up into groups, one of which played hide-and-seek among the bushes on the knoll, while another engaged in a game which involved sitting in a circle, changing places, frequent collisions, constant mistakes on the part of the ignorant, and shouts of laughter, with rectifying advice on the part of the knowing.

All this time the sun was glowing as only a South African summer sun can glow, in a cloudless sky, and it was not until that sun had become red in the face, and sunk far down into the west, that the panting, but far from exhausted revellers saddled up and inspanned, and began to quit the scene.

Then it was, as my friend and I stood on the bush-topped knoll, that the magnificence of our picnic fully impressed us, for, as we surveyed the long line of riders, and trundling carts, and gigs, and carriages, and heavy Cape wagons with their creeping teams winding over the plain, the head of the column was seen almost on the horizon before the rear-guard had left the scene of our festivities. This was altogether one of the pleasantest days I had spent in the colony; the people were so hearty and vigorous, so varied in appearance, character, and age, so full of life and fun and good-will.

But it is not always in the sunshine that the good people of Salem enjoy themselves. The hunters among them occasionally go out shooting at night with the aid of a dark lantern, and the wretched creature which they pursue on such occasions is called a spring-hare. It seems a mixture of the hare and the kangaroo—its size and aspect being those of the former animal, while its long hind-legs and its action in springing resemble the latter. In running it does not use its fore legs, but bounds like the kangaroo.

Never having engaged in night-sporting—save in dreams—I agreed to accompany two Salem Nimrods on a hunt after spring-hares.

We went into the fields. That is all I can vouch for. It happened to be so dark that we might as well have been groping about in a coal-pit. My companions, however, knew the ground, which was fortunate, for walking over a rugged surface in the dark is not only confusing, but trying to the nerves, to say nothing of the temper. I followed faithfully and “close to heel,” like a well-trained dog.

“This way, Sir; mind the ditch.”

“Where? ah! all ri–ight!”

The last syllable was shot out of me like a bullet as I plunged into the ditch.

The Nimrod who carried the lantern opened the slide for a moment, revealed the rugged nature of the ground, and closed it when I had risen.

“It’s better farther on,” he said, encouragingly.

“Is it? Ah, that’s well.”

We came to a piece of ground which my feet and legs told me was covered with long rough grass and occasional bushes. Over this we stumbled, and here the rays of the lantern were directed far in advance of us, so as to sweep slowly round, bringing bushes, and grassy tufts, and stumps, and clods, into spectral view for a moment as the focus of light moved on.

“We never see their bodies,” said the lantern-bearer, slowly, as he peered earnestly in front, “we only see the sparkle of one eye when the light falls on it, and—then—we—fire—at—there, that’s one! Look, don’t you see his eye? Fire, Sir, fire!”

I raised my gun, and looked eagerly with all my eyes, but saw nothing. Never having been in the habit of firing at nothing, I hesitated.

“Ah, he’s gone! Never mind, we’ll soon see another.”

We stumbled on again. The surrounding gloom depressed me, but I revived under the influence of one or two false alarms, and a severe plunge into a deepish hole.

“There he is again, quite near,” whispered my light-bearer.

“Aim for the eye,” whispered the other.

The whispering, and intense silence that followed, coupled with the gloom, made me feel guilty. I saw nothing, but tried so hard to do so that I persuaded myself that I did, and attempted to aim.

“The sights of the gun are invisible,” I whispered somewhat testily.

Without a word the lantern was raised until the light glittered on the barrels. Then I saw nothing whatever except the gun! In sheer desperation I pulled the trigger. The tremendous appearance in the dark of the sheet of flame that belched forth, and the crash of the report in the silent night, gave me quite new ideas as to firearms.

“You’ve missed,” said the light-bearer.

As I had fired at nothing I felt inclined to reply that I had not—but refrained.

Again we stumbled on, and I began to grow melancholy, when another “there he goes” brought me to the “ready,” with eager eyes.

I saw it clearly enough this time. A diamond was sparkling in the blackness before me. I aimed and fired. There was a squeal and a rush. Instantly my friends dashed off in wild pursuit and I stood listening, not daring to move for fear of ditches. The sounds of leaping, stumbling, and crashing came to me on the night air for a few minutes; then my friends returned with the light, and with a poor little spring-hare’s lifeless and long-hind-legged body.

With this trophy I returned home, resolved never more to go hunting at night.

Letter 11.

Algoa Bay—Kafirs on the Coast—Difficulties Regarding Servants.

Standing on the shores of Algoa Bay, with the “Liverpool of South Africa”—Port Elizabeth—at my back, I attempted to realise what must have been the scene, in the memorable “1820,” when the flourishing city was yet unborn, when the whole land was a veritable wilderness, and the sands on which the port now stands were covered with the tents of the “settlers.”

Some of the surroundings, thought I, are pretty much as they were in those days. The shipping at anchor in the offing must resemble the shipping that conveyed the emigrants across the sea—except, of course, these two giant steamers of the “Donald Currie” and the “Union” lines. The bright blue sky, too, and the fiery sun are the same, and so are those magnificent “rollers,” which, rising, one scarce can tell when or where, out of a dead-calm sea, stand up for a few seconds like liquid walls, and then rush up the beach with a magnificent roar.

As I gazed, the scene was rendered still more real by the approach from seaward of a great surf-boat, similar to the surf-boats that brought the settlers from their respective ships to the shore. Such boats are still used at the port to land goods—and also passengers, when the breakers are too high to admit of their being landed in small boats at the wooden pier. The surf-boats are bulky, broad, and flat, strongly built to stand severe hammering on the sand, and comparatively shallow at the stern, to admit of their being backed towards the beach, or hauled off to sea through the surf by means of a rope over the bow.

As the surf-boat neared the shore, I heard voices behind me, and, turning round, beheld a sight which sent me completely back into the 1820 days. It was a band of gentlemen in black—black from the crowns of their heads to the soles of their feet, with the exception of their lips and teeth and eyes. Here was the Simon Pure in very truth. They were so-called Red Kafirs, because of their habit of painting their bodies and blankets with red ochre. At this time the paint had been washed off, and the blankets laid aside. They were quite naked, fresh from the lands of their nativity, and apparently fit for anything.

Shade of Othello!—to say nothing of Apollo—what magnificent forms the fellows had, and what indescribably hideous faces! They were tall, muscular, broad-shouldered, small waisted and ankled, round-muscled, black-polished—in a word, elegantly powerful. Many of them might have stood as models for Hercules. Like superfine cloth, they were of various shades; some were brown-black, some almost blue-black, and many coal-black.

They were coming down to unload the surf-boat, and seemed full of fun, and sly childlike humour, as they walked, tripped, skipped and sidled into the water. At first I was greatly puzzled to account for the fact that all their heads and throats were wrapped up, or swathed, in dirty cloth. It seemed as if every man of them was under treatment for a bad cold. This I soon found was meant to serve as a protection to their naked skins from the sharp and rugged edges and corners of the casks and cases they had to carry.

The labour is rather severe, but is well paid, so that hundreds of Kafirs annually come down from their homes in the wilderness to work for a short time. They do not, I believe, make a profession of it. Fresh relays come every year. Each young fellow’s object is to make enough money to purchase a gun and cattle, and a wife—or wives. As these articles cost little in Africa, a comparatively short attention to business, during one season, enables a man who left home a beggar to return with his fortune made! He marries, sets his wives to hoe the mealies and milk the cows, and thereafter takes life easy, except when he takes a fancy to hunt elephants, or to go to war for pastime. Ever after he is a drone in the world’s beehive. Having no necessity he need not work, and possessing no principle he will not.

As the boat came surging in on the foam, these manly children waded out to meet her, throwing water at each other, and skylarking as they went. They treated the whole business in fact as a rather good jest, and although they toiled like heroes, they accompanied their work with such jovial looks, and hummed such lilting, free-and-easy airs the while, that it was difficult to associate their doings with anything like labour.

Soon the boat grounded, and the Kafirs crowded round her, up to their waists sometimes in the water, and sometimes up to the arm-pits, when a bigger wave than usual came roaring in. The boat itself was so large that, as they stood beside it, their heads barely rose to a level with the gunwale. The boatmen at once began to heave and roll the goods over the side. The Kafirs received them on their heads or shoulders, according to the shape or size of each package—and they refused nothing. If a bale or a box chanced to be too heavy for one man, a comrade lent assistance; if it proved still too heavy, a third added his head or shoulder, and the box or bale was borne off.

One fellow, like a black Hercules, put his wrapper on his head, and his head under a bale, which I thought would crush him down into the surf, but he walked ashore with an easy springing motion, that showed he possessed more than sufficient power. Another man, hitting Hercules a sounding smack as he went by, received a mighty cask on his head that should have cracked it—but it didn’t. Then I observed the boatmen place on the gunwale an enormous flat box, which seemed to me about ten feet square. It was corrugated iron, they told me, of, I forget, how many hundredweight. A crowd of Kafirs got under it, and carried it ashore as easily as if it had been a butterfly. But this was nothing to a box which next made its appearance from the bowels of that capacious boat. It was in the form of a cube, and must have measured nine or ten feet in all directions. Its contents I never ascertained, but the difficulty with which the boatmen got it rested on the side of the boat proved its weight to be worthy of its size. To get it on the shoulders of the Kafirs was the next difficulty. It was done by degrees. As the huge case was pushed over the edge, Kafir after Kafir put his head or shoulder to it, until there were, I think, from fifteen to twenty men beneath the weight;—then, slowly, it left the boat, and began to move towards the shore.

Assuredly, if four or five of these men had stumbled at the same moment, the others would have been crushed to death, but not a man stumbled. They came ashore with a slow, regular, almost dancing gait, humming a low monotonous chant, as if to enable them to step in time, and making serio-comic motions with arms and hands, until they deposited safely in a cart a weight that might have tested Atlas himself!

It seemed obvious that these wild men, (for such they truly were), had been gifted with all the powers that most white men lay claim to,—vigour, muscle, energy, pluck, fun, humour, resolution. Only principle is wanted to make them a respectable and useful portion of the human family. Like all the rest of us they are keenly alive to the influence of kindness and affection. Of course if your kindness, forbearance, or affection, take the form of action which leads them to think that you are afraid of them, they will merely esteem you cunning, and treat you accordingly; but if you convince a Kafir, or any other savage, that you have a disinterested regard for him, you are sure to find him grateful, more or less.

One family with which I dined gave me to understand that this was the result of their own experience. At that very time they had a Kafir girl in training as a housemaid. Servants, let me remark in passing, are a Cape difficulty. The demand is in excess of the supply, and the supply is not altogether what it should be, besides being dear and uncomfortably independent. I suppose it was because of this difficulty that the family I dined with had procured a half-wild Kafir girl, and undertaken her training.

Her clothes hung upon her in a manner that suggested novelty. She was young, very tall, black, lithe as an eel, strong as a horse. She was obviously new to the work, and went about it with the air of one who engages in a frolic. But the free air of the wilderness had taught her a freedom of action and stride, and a fling of body that it was not easy to restrain within the confined precincts of a dining—room. She moved round the table like a sable panther—ready to spring when wanted. She had an open-mouthed smile of amused good-will, and an open-eyed “what-next—only-say-quick—and-I’ll-do-it” expression that was impressive. She seized the plates and dishes and bore them off with a giraffe-like, high-stepping action that was quite alarming, but she broke or spilt nothing. To say that she flung about, would be mild. It would not have been strange, I thought—only a little extra dash in her jubilant method of proceeding—if she had gone head-foremost through the dining-room window for the sake of bearing the mutton round by a shorter route to the kitchen.

The family expected that this girl would be reduced to moderation, and rendered faithful—as she certainly was intelligent—by force of kindness in a short time.

Of course in a country thus circumstanced, there are bad servants. The independence of the Totties is most amusing—to those who do not suffer from it. I was told that servants out there have turned the tables on their employers, and instead of bringing “characters” with them, require to know the characters of master and mistress before they will engage. It is no uncommon thing for a domestic to come to you and say that she is tired and wants a rest, and is going off to see her mother. Indeed it is something to her credit if she takes the trouble to tell you. Sometimes she goes off without warning, leaving you to shift for yourself, returning perhaps after some days. If you find fault with her too severely on her return, she will probably leave you altogether.

This naturally tries the temper of high-spirited mistresses—as does also the incorrigible carelessness of some servants.

A gentle lady said to me quietly, one day, “I never keep a servant after slapping her!”

“Is it your habit to slap them?” I asked with a smile.

“No,” she replied with an answering smile, “but occasionally I am driven to it. When a careless girl, who has been frequently cautioned, singes one’s linen and destroys one’s best dress, and melts one’s tea-pot by putting it on the red-hot stove, what can flesh and blood do?”

I admitted that the supposed circumstances were trying.

“The last one I sent off,” continued the lady, “had done all that. When she filled up her cup of iniquity by melting the tea-pot, I just gave her a good hearty slap on the face. I couldn’t help it. Of course she left me after that.”

I did not doubt it, for the lady was not only gentle in her manner, and pretty to boot, but was tall and stout, and her fair arm was strong, and must have been heavy.

Letter 12.

Port Elizabeth—Algoa Bay—Diamonds—Kafir Nobility.

Port Elizabeth may be described as the first-born city of the Eastern Province of the Cape of Good Hope. It came into being in 1820. It is now a flourishing seaport, full of energetic, busy, money-making men. It is the principal seaport of the Eastern Province, and the nearest point on the coast to the Diamond-fields—420 miles from De Beer’s New Rush, a distance which was traversed in about six days by coaches.

Among its more useful enterprises it has the honour of having sent out one pioneer of future commercial prosperity in the Eastern Province, for Port Elizabeth is the starting-point of one branch of that great railway system which is to revolutionise Africa. I do not say South Africa, but advisedly use the title of wider scope.

It is not every day that one can boast of having handled a tumbler full of diamonds. Being anxious to see a mass of those precious gems in an uncut condition, I appealed to a friend who had come out with me in the “Windsor Castle.”

He introduced me to a broker, who took me into a back office, opened a strong-box, took out a small packet, and, untying it, poured out a tumblerful of diamonds! They ranged from the size of a pin-head to that of a bean, and were varied in shade, from pure crystal to straw-colour. The broker then opened one or two separate parcels, each of which contained a specially large or fine diamond, varying in size from a pea to a hazelnut.

“That one,” he said, “may be worth four hundred pounds, and this, perhaps about five or six hundred.”

Looking at them, it was difficult to believe that they were other than paltry pebbles; yet these were the things for which men left home and kindred, pushed into the wilds of a savage land, toiled and moiled in the Great Pit at Kimberley, and too often sacrificed health, happiness, and life itself. Judging them from their looks, I would not have given sixpence for the entire lot—so true is it that we do wrong in judging uncut gems, as well as unknown men, by the “outward appearance.”

A very striking, and rather unfortunate instance of this false style of judgment occurred not many days afterwards in reference to some Kafir princes and chiefs: it was on the occasion of my quitting Port Elizabeth for Capetown.

We were to have started on a Saturday afternoon, but a gale said “no,” and we left on Sunday morning. Even then, although the gale had abated, a surf so magnificent was rolling into Algoa Bay that no ship’s boat could approach the jetty. This obliged the passengers to go off to the steamer in a surf-boat. Of course the boat could not approach nearer the dry sand than fifty yards or so. There she heaved about in oceans of boiling foam, while Kafirs carried us on board one by one. The Kafirs bore the women in their strong arms as children are carried, and put them over the gunwale tenderly, but the men were made to sit on their shoulders, as one sits on horseback, and were treated with less ceremony. A giant in ebony carried me off, and trotted as he went, to the delight of some of his comrades; but I was accustomed to riding, and patted his black head approvingly.

While standing on a commanding point in the stern, a fellow-passenger directed attention to a group of Kafirs who tried to keep apart from the others, and looked dignified. These, he told me, were a party of native princes, chiefs, and councillors, who had been brought fresh from their wilderness home—with their own consent, of course—and were being taken to Capetown for the purpose of being impressed with the wealth, power, grandeur, and vast resources of the white man. The other Kafirs, of whom there was a large gang, were common fellows, who chanced to be going by the same steamer as navvies to work on the Western railways. The difference between the navvies and their nobility was not great. Personally there was scarcely any, and the somewhat superior cloth of the robes worn by the latter made no great show.

The big boat was hauled off by a rope through the surf, the sail set, and we were soon alongside the ocean steamer whose iron sides rose above us like a city wall. There was nothing but an iron ladder, flat against this wall, by which to ascend. The heaving of the surf-boat was great. It approached the ladder and retreated from it in the most irregularly spasmodic manner. Only active men, accustomed to such feats, could get upon it. Kafirs, although active as kittens, are not accustomed to the sea, or to the motion of ships and boats. For them to ascend was a matter of great difficulty; for the women and children it was impossible.

But the difficulty had been provided for. Presently we saw a great cask like an overgrown hogs-head swing over the side and descend into the boat. It was caught by our sailors and placed on the stern-sheets. Several tars from the steamer descended to assist. The cask was large enough to hold three or four women besides a child or two. Amid much giggling and persuading it was filled, a signal given, steam applied, and the party was whirled aloft with a scream, and lowered on the vessel’s deck in safety.

The cask was again sent down. Meanwhile some of us had scrambled up the ladder, and a few of the Kafir navvies followed our example, but the most of them required a good deal of encouragement, and some strong persuasion, while others refused flatly to attempt it. All this time the black aristocrats looked on in grave silence. If I remember rightly there were a young prince, an old councillor, and two or three chiefs.

When those navvies that could be persuaded, or kicked up the ladder, had been disposed of, the sailors turned upon the timid ones and bundled them into the cask, neck and crop, four and five at a time. There was necessity for speed, and sailors are not wont to be delicate when this is the case. At last the aristocracy were approached. Whether the sailors knew who they were I cannot tell; it is probable that they did not, but judged by the “outward appearance.” They were “niggers,” that was enough for Jack.

“Come along, old boy,” said one, grasping the old councillor; but the councillor held back; Jack therefore gave him a powerful shove and he went into the cask head-foremost. Another man had seized the young prince at the same moment. That potentate—who in his own land possessed the power of life and death—turned round with dignity, and in doing so afforded an unlooked for opportunity to the sailor, who pushed him gently till he tripped against the cask and went in backwards, squeezing the old councillor almost flat.

“That’s your sort, Bill, fetch another!” cried Jack, as he packed the prince down.

One chief was quick-witted enough to submit and stepped in of his own accord. Another half-stepped and was half-thrust in.

“Hoist away!” shouted Bill.

At that moment a forgotten navvy caught Bill’s eye, he seized him by the neck; Jack helped; the man was thrown on the top of all, and went up next moment like a spread-eagle cover to the cask.

When this “lot” was lowered four or five of the Jack-tars on deck, who greatly enjoyed the fun, turned it suddenly over, and thus it was emptied of its human contents.

Even at that moment of humiliation the savage chiefs were true to themselves. They rose from the deck in dignified silence, the prince merely saying, sternly, to the gentleman who had charge of the party, “Was this what you brought me here for?”

It is but just to add that the gentleman in charge of these noble visitors did his best to prevent the outrage, but it had occurred suddenly, in the exuberance of “Jack’s” spirits, was over in a few seconds, and could not be undone.

These Kafir chiefs were afterwards feasted and fêted by the governor and gentry of Capetown, but I have my doubts whether they will ever forget or forgive the treatment received on that occasion in Algoa Bay.

To correct the false is more difficult than to imbibe the true. Did you ever think of that before? All my life have I been under the false impression that the Cape of Good Hope was the most southerly point of Africa. It is nothing of the sort. Cape Agulhas, not far distant, is the real extremity of South Africa. We doubled it on the 3rd of April.

Oh! Bartholomew Diaz and Vasco da Gama, what would you say if you knew that we “doubled the Cape”—the “Cape of Storms”—the “Cape of Torments”—in calm and sunshine, at the rate of thirteen knots or thereabouts, without a stitch of canvas, with ladies and gentlemen in every attitude of lazy ease upon our deck, and troops of children romping round them? How vast the difference between the “doublings” of the 15th and the 19th centuries! Then—the ships were small wooden tubs; now they are huge iron kettles. Then,—a few bold and sometimes turbulent spirits faced the dangers of unknown seas under the leadership of famous and heroic men; now, hundreds of men and women—timid and brave mixed undistinguishably—are carried in safety and comfort over the well-known ocean, by respectable captains of whom the world knows little or nothing beyond their names. Once in a lifetime was the daring feat attempted then. Once or twice a week is the trifling trip accomplished now.

But enough of moralising. Suffice it to say that we doubled the Cape without sails, without anxiety, without care, and with no triumph whatever,—but not without interest. Calm and sunny though it chanced to be, we could not look upon that barren, mountainous, rocky shore, without reflecting that it still is not less now than in days of old, the Stormy Cape, and that danger as appalling as that of yore may sometimes be encountered, while heroism quite as exalted as that of the ancient Portuguese navigators is sometimes displayed by modern Britons.

There is a point not far from Cape Agulhas—between it and the Cape of Good Hope—named Point Danger, where courage of the highest kind once calmly faced and fought with Death. On that Point, in February 1852, the Birkenhead was wrecked. It may be truly said that courage conquered on that occasion, because the end for which it fought was the deliverance of women and children from death, and this end was gained, though above 400 of the gallant men who fought the battle perished in the hour of victory.

The Birkenhead, a large iron steamer, was engaged in the transport of troops to the frontier, where war with the Kafirs raged at the time. These troops were detachments from several regiments under command of Colonel Seton of the 74th Highlanders. About two o’clock in the morning the vessel struck upon a rock near the well-named Point Danger, and so tremendous was the shock that her iron plates were driven in as if made of egg-shell. The cabin was immediately flooded, and it was evident that in a few minutes the vessel would be engulfed among the breakers.

None but those who have witnessed similar scenes can imagine the horrors of the situation. It was dark; the breakers roared around; the rugged and almost inaccessible shores of the Cape of Storms were on the one hand, the ocean on the other; men, women, and children were rushing about the decks in wild terror; sharks were known to be in these waters, and only two of the ship’s boats were available for service. In this moment of extremity God put it into the hearts of both officers and men to act with unexampled courage and wisdom.

To save all was manifestly out of the question. When people are in such circumstances it is too often “every man for himself;” the strong push aside the weak, fight for the boats, overcrowd and swamp them, and thus few, if any, are left to tell the tale. But it was not so with the heroes of the Birkenhead. At the word of command from Colonel Seton, the soldiers drew up on the reeling deck as if on parade, and obeyed his orders with steady calm, unflinching bravery. If there were any selfish spirits on board they were overawed by the heroism of the soldiers. The Colonel directed that the women and children and the sick should be put into the boats. This was quickly done, and these were all saved without a single exception—to the number of two hundred souls.

But while this was being accomplished the vessel was breaking up, and the fact that the men would be soon left to struggle in the waves was apparent to all; yet the noble officer continued to give his orders, and the not less noble men continued to obey, and saw the boats depart without a murmur. They were young soldiers too, who had never been under fire, and this “action” was the first and last that they and their leader were destined to fight. The vessel suddenly parted amidships, and though a few saved themselves by swimming and on floating pieces of wreck, the greater number perished—no fewer than 357 officers and soldiers—among whom was the Colonel—and sixty seamen, going down with the ship. It was a sad but splendid specimen of cool self-sacrificing courage, and of the power of discipline in moments of tremendous trial.

Letter 13.

The “Cape Doctor”—The Capetown Mine—Mules, Literature, and Customs-Officials.

It is pretty generally known that there is a “tablecloth” at Capetown. Its proper resting-place is Table Mountain. When the flat top of that celebrated hill is clear, (I write of the summer season), the thirty thousand inhabitants of Capetown may go forth in comfort if they can stand the blazing sunshine, but as surely as that pure white cloud—the tablecloth—rests on the summit of Table Mountain, so surely does the gale known as the “south-easter” come down like a wolf on the fold.

The south-easter is a sneezer, and a frequent visitor at the Cape in summer. Where it comes from no one can tell: where it goes to is best known to itself: what it does in passing is painfully obvious to all. Fresh from the Antarctic seas it swoops down on the southern shores of Africa, and sweeps over the land as if in search of a worthy foe. It apparently finds one in Table Mountain, which, being 3582 feet high, craggy and precipitous, meets the enemy with frowning front, and hurls him back discomfited—but not defeated.

Rallying on the instant, the south-easter rushes up over its cloud-capped head and round its rugged sides, and down its dizzy slopes, and falls with a shriek of fiendish fury on the doomed city. Oceans of sand and dust are caught up by it, whirled round as if in mad ecstasy, and dashed against the faces of the inhabitants—who tightly shut their mouths and eyes as they stoop to resist the onset. Then the south-easter yells while it sweeps dust, small stones, twigs, leaves, and stray miscellanies, right over Signal Hill into the South Atlantic.

This is bad enough, but it is a mere skirmish—only the advance guard of the enemy. Supposing this attack to have been commenced in the morning, the remainder of the day is marked by a series of violent assaults with brief intervals of repose. In rapid succession the south-easter brings up its battalions and hurls them on the mountain. It leaps over the moat and ramparts of the “castle” with fury, roars down the cannons’ throats, shrieks out at the touch-holes, and lashes about the town right and left, assaulting and violating, for the south-easter respects neither person nor place. It rattles roofs and windows, and all but overturns steeples and chimneys; it well-nigh blows the shops inside out, and fills them with dust; it storms the barracks and maltreats the soldiers; it compels the shutting up of sun-umbrellas, or reverses and blows them to ribbons; it removes hats and bonnets by the score, and sweeps up small pebbles in its mad career, so that one feels as if being painfully pelted with buck-shot; it causes the shipping to strain fearfully at its cables, and churns the waters of Table Bay into a seething mass of snow and indigo.

All this time the sun shines intensely in a cloudless sky, and beautifies the “cloth” which floats on Table Mountain, undulating on its surface, or pouring over its edge like a Niagara of wool, to be warmed into invisibility before tumbling half-way down the mighty precipice that backs the town.

Although I have compared the south-easter to an enemy, he is in reality a friend. The inhabitants call him the “Cape doctor,” because in the general clearance he sweeps away bad smells, the natural result of bad drainage.

But the south-easter was not blowing when I arrived at the ancient capital of South Africa. The “cloth” was drawn; the crags of the mountain, the white buildings and green groves of the town and suburbs, were unsullied by mist or dust as we steamed into the Bay, and the rugged outlines of the hills of the interior were distinctly visible through the warm haze.

The suburbs of the city are exceedingly beautiful, and here many of the principal inhabitants have built elegant mansions, to which they retire after the business of each day to escape the heat, dust, and smells of the town. A short line of railroad runs to these verdant spots at one side, while a tramway extends on the other. In another direction the railway runs by Stellenbosch and the Paarl to Wellington and Worcester.

It may surprise some people to be told that there is a mine—a rich and prolific mine—at Capetown. Nevertheless, such is undoubtedly the case.

This mine is more extensive and valuable than any of the diamond or gold mines of the Orange River or the Transvaal. Indeed it is one of the most extensive mines in the world. It is, as already said, exceedingly prolific, and is marked by one grand peculiarity, namely, that among those who devote themselves to the working of it there are no disappointed or unsuccessful diggers. Another peculiarity is, that very little capital is required to work it. The digger is not obliged to purchase “claims,” for it is almost if not altogether “Free.”

The only capital that must be sunk in it is Time, and of that even one hour a day will suffice to bring up vast stores of wealth from its unfathomable depths, while the labour bestowed tends to rest rather than to weary the body, at the same time that it enlarges the mind and invigorates the soul.

Still another peculiarity of this mine is, that its products are various and innumerable. You must go to Australia or to California for gold, to Golconda or Kimberley for diamonds, to Mexico or Spain for silver, to Cornwall for copper, tin, and lead, and to Sweden for iron; but in this mine you will find the various metals and gems in neighbouring “pockets” and nuggets, and seams and beds. Here you may gather the golden opinions of the ancients in close proximity to those of the moderns. Here you will find pearls of thought, sparkling gems of imagery, broad seams of satire, and silvery streams of sentiment, with wealth of wisdom and of wit. Hard iron-fisted facts also, and funny mercurial fancies are to be found here in abundance, and there are tons of tin in the form of rubbish, which is usually left at a pit’s mouth, and brings little or no “tin” to those who brought it to light, while there are voluminous layers of literary lead, whose weight and dulness render the working of them tedious;—but this need not, and does not, dishearten the digger, for in all mines the poor and worthless material is ever in excess of that which is valuable, and miserable indeed must be the spirit of him who should refuse to manipulate the “dirt” because the large nuggets and gems are few and far between. Throughout all the cuttings flow glittering brooks of knowledge, and also many crystal rivulets drawn from the pure waters of the River of Life.

The mine of which I write is the Public Library of Capetown.

And let it not be supposed that I exaggerate or over-estimate this mine. It unquestionably takes rank as one of the noted libraries of the world, and South Africa has reason to be proud of, and grateful to, the men who, by their enlightened schemes and liberality, were the means of creating what is at once a mine and a monument to the Cape.

But Capetown boasts of many other institutions which are well worthy of notice. It is—and has been since its foundation by Van Riebeek in 1652—the seat of Governments. (see note 7. )It is also the seat of the Supreme Court and of the University of the Cape of Good Hope. It possesses a first-rate “South African museum,” two cathedrals, many churches, a castle, fort, barracks, and other buildings too numerous to mention. Also a splendid breakwater, patent slip, and docks.

From the sublime to the ridiculous is well-known to be but a step. From mines of knowledge to matter-of-fact mules may seem a rather long step. If it is, the blame of my taking it must rest on the force of association. From the library you can walk in a few minutes to the docks, and docks has brought me to mules. I saw a ship-load of mules there, and it was a sight not to be forgotten.

Have you ever seen a fair stand-up fight between men and mules? It is not easy to say which of the two combatants is the more mulish. I went one day to the docks and chanced to witness a conflict. They were discharging the mules—the men were—from the hold of the small vessel which had brought them over sea from South America. “Victory or death” was undoubtedly the motto of each. Of course man prevailed because of superior power,—not obstinacy.

Many days, ay weeks, had these mules spent on the heaving deep; no doubt they had all been sea-sick, certainly they had been half killed, but when I went down into the hold of that ship, where there must have been at least fifty animals, the hundred ears of all of them lay quite flat, pinned to their necks as a desperate pirate might nail his colours to the mast, while deep unutterable hate and dogged resolution gleamed from every eye.

They were ranged along the sides of the ship in two rows. The rows had been full all the voyage, but when I saw them, half the animals had been got on shore, so that there was plenty of room for the remnant to career about and kick defiance at their human persecutors. What charmed me most was not the triumph of intelligence over brute force, but the application of brute force on both sides, with just sufficient mechanical addition on the part of the men to render their power irresistible.

When I entered the hold, the stench of which was almost overpowering, I could see nothing in the dim light, but I could hear the wild clattering of hoofs on wooden floors, the little shrieks of irrepressible fury, and the deep firmly uttered command—such as:—

“Now, then, Dick, look out!”

“Grab ’im!”

“Dig into ’im!”

“Twist ’is tail!”

“That’s it!”

“Hup!”

My eyes soon becoming accustomed to the dim light, I saw a trembling mule in the embrace of three men. It trembled with passion only. One had passed a stout sheet under it. Next moment there was an order to “hoist away,” and the mule went past me, with rigid limbs, high into the air, whence it was lowered I could not see whither, and disappeared.

Meanwhile the three men went viciously at another animal. They were unusually strong men, with immense chests, and brawny arms bared to the shoulders. They panted and perspired freely, and had been severely dishevelled by their recent struggles.

I saw the dim outline of a mule, in the dark recesses of the hold to which he had retired, crushing his companions against the bulk-heads of the ship. He evidently knew that his hour was come.

To this demon Dick advanced with a short rope in his hand. The mule eyed him with a gleam of malice. Its ears became, if possible, flatter. Dick made a loop on the rope, and leaning over the breast-high barricade between him and his adversary made a cast after the manner of South Americans, but the mule jerked his head aside, and the lasso missed him. While Dick was preparing for another cast, Tom came up behind him with a sly motion. The mule observed Tom, let fly both heels with a tremendous crash on the barrier, and bolted to the other end of the ship. There Harry met him with a stick, and turned him back whence he came.

Again Dick advanced, made a successful cast, and drew the noose tight. For a few moments a perfect shower of kicks was delivered at the barrier and on the sides of the ship, but the three men did not wait till the creature was exhausted: they had no time for that. Two of them hauled the mule’s head by main force to the edge of the barrier, the third leaning far over caught its tail, and instantly drew it broadside on. It was still some distance from the spot under the hatchway where the band and tackle were to be attached. Towards this Tom and Dick dragged the beast by the head, while Harry assisted with the tail. No power on earth could have made that mule walk! With its ears back and all its legs planted stiffly forward, it was made to slide in the required direction by main force. The place of execution reached, Dick jammed its head against the barrier, Tom hauled its tail taut over the same and made fast. There was no intentional cruelty in their actions, but difficult work had to be quickly done, and they could not afford to be squeamish. Obstinate violence had to be overcome by resolute vigour. The mule was now helplessly fixed, with its tongue hanging out and its eyes protruding. Nevertheless, in that condition it continued, without ceasing, to struggle and try to kick, and flatten its ears. It was a magnificent exhibition of determination to resist to the very death!—a glorious quality when exercised in a good cause, thought I—my mind reverting to patriots and martyrs.

Meanwhile Harry had passed the broad band under the mule, drawn it over its back, and attached the big hook to it. The signal was given to the men who managed the tackle on deck, and the animal bounded into empty space.

It was at that moment I made the discovery that a mule’s spirit resides in its legs. Its last act on earth, before leaving, was to deliver a concentrated double-kick at the barrier, but the instant it found itself in air its flattened ears sprung up with an air of horrified astonishment, and all its legs hung straight and rigid, the four hoofs coming together as if in abject supplication to any one, or anything, that could deliver. Not the smallest effort did it make; not a trace of self-will did it display, while it shot upwards through the hatchway nearly to the yard-arm, whence it obtained its first bird’s-eye view of Capetown docks. For one moment it hung, while it was being swung over the quay, whither it was lowered, and its feet once more came in contact with mother-earth. Then, but not till then, did the disease of its limbs depart, and the spirit of its ears and heels return. With a bound it sprang into the air, but, before it had time to think, a human enemy caught its rope, and drew its head tight to an iron post. Another such enemy cast off the broad band and tackle, and the creature was suddenly let go free. Its final act was to flourish its heels in the air, and utter a squeal of rage as it trotted into the midst of a group of its kindred which had already been treated in the same way.

A spirited literary commencement—the publication of newspapers—under men of great ability and high principle, bade fair to inaugurate an era of progress that might have quickly led the colony to a far greater height of moral, mental, and, by consequence, physical prosperity than it has ever yet attained; but a long struggle for freedom of the press followed, and in 1828 this freedom was secured. The sparkling streams thus set free have flowed and waxed in volume ever since.

There is a custom-house at Capetown. It is not because of being one of the noteworthy buildings of the port that I mention it, but because of its having been to me a personal nuisance on the occasion of my arrival in the colony. A fellow-passenger had informed me—whether rightly or wrongly I knew not and cared not—that watches, jewellery, and guns, were among the taxable articles. Knowing that my portmanteau contained no such articles, except a brass watch-guard, I presented myself to the official with an air of conscious innocence. I had hoped that, like many such officials in France and elsewhere, he would have been content with an assurance that I had “nothing to declare” and the offer of my keys, but I was mistaken. This particular official was perhaps a “new broom.” It may be that he had caught some smugglers not long before, and the excitement had not yet worn off. At all events, instead of allowing me to pass he ordered me to open my portmanteau.

While I was engaged in doing so he opened my shoulder-bag and eyed its contents curiously. They were not numerous. He found nothing contraband, and appearing somewhat disappointed applied his nose to it.

“It has a queer smell,” he remarked.

As the bag had frequently done duty at picnics and been loaded with flasks and sandwiches, I was not surprised. Besides, it occurred to me that no tax was levied on “queer smells,” though such a tax might have been, with advantage, levied on the town itself. It would certainly have produced an immense revenue. I smiled, however, in a pleasant manner and said nothing.

Having shut the bag this official opened the portmanteau, and began to examine each article in a way that would have rendered it probable he might have finished sometime within the next twenty-four hours. He slowly turned over my shirts and flannels as if he expected to find mines of jewellery in the folds thereof. Suddenly he came on the brass chain and his eye glittered, which was more than the chain did. It had to be re-deposited with a sigh. I began to grow despairing. Presently he took up a book and opened it. Was he going to refresh himself with a chapter? His turning over the leaves very slowly gave reason for the suspicion. Or did the obtuse creature expect to find watches and gun-barrels between the leaves? At last he shut the book, and, laying it down, proceeded to exhume a morning coat.

At this point one of his superiors told him that that was enough, to my immense relief, and the too-conscientious official allowed me to re-pack and lock-up my property.

Letter 14.

Stellenbosch, etcetera.

An agreeable surprise is not only interesting to the recipient, but sometimes to his friends. I received one at Capetown, which is worthy of record on several grounds.

For the proper explanation of that surprise I must turn aside for a little.

A mission started in the year 1860 for the Zambesi, where it was met, and for a time joined, by the great Dr Livingstone. Its leader, Bishop Mackenzie, who laid down his life in the cause, was a man as well as a missionary. By that I mean that he was manly,—a quality which is not sufficiently appreciated, in some quarters, as being a most important element in the missionary character.

While on his way up to the selected sphere of labour in Central Africa, the Bishop and his party, with Dr Livingstone, got into the region of the accursed slave-trade, and one day came unexpectedly on a band of slaves. They were chiefly women and children, bound together with sticks and chains, and herded by a few armed slave-dealers, who, having murdered their male defenders and burned their villages, were driving them to the coast for shipment to eastern lands—largely, it is said, to the land of the amiable Turk.

With characteristic zeal and energy Dr Livingstone advanced with a few men to set these poor wretches free. The slave-catchers did not await the onset: they bravely fired a shot or two and fled. To set the slaves free was naturally a most congenial work for the good Bishop who had gone there to free the black man from the slavery of sin. The sticks were cut, the bonds were unloosed, and the people were told that they were free to go back to their homes. Homes! Their homes were in ashes, and the brave hearts and stout arms that might have reared new homes were cold and powerless in death, while armed Arab and Portuguese bands were prowling about the land gathering together more victims. To send these unfortunates away would have been to insure their death or recapture. There was no alternative left but to keep and guard them.

Thus the Bishop suddenly found himself in possession of a small flock with which to begin his mission.

He accepted the charge, conducted them to the region where the mission was to be established, and finally settled down with them there.

Some time after this there came a rumour that a large and powerful band of slavers was approaching the settlement with many slaves in possession, and with the intention of attacking the tribe among whom the missionaries were located. What was now to be done? To have remained inactive until the slavers marched up to their huts would have been equivalent to suicide. It would have been worse, for it would have insured the putting to flight of the few men of the tribe—who it seems were not celebrated for courage—and the result would have been the overthrow of the mission and the recapture of the women and children who had already been delivered.

In these trying circumstances Bishop Mackenzie and his people came to the conclusion that self-defence called for vigorous action, and, with musket and rifle, sallied forth to meet the men-stealers, with the Bishop at their head.

On reaching the position of the enemy they paused at a distance of above six hundred yards. A group of Arab slavers were standing on a hill together. One of the mission party kneeled, and with an Enfield rifle sent a bullet over their heads. The effect was powerful! The slavers, accustomed to the smooth-bore musket, had thought themselves quite safe at such a distance. They were panic-stricken: perhaps the unexpected sight of white men aided the effect. At all events, when another bullet was dropped into the midst of them, they took to flight. The missionaries, like good generals, seized their opportunity, charged home, and chased the scoundrels into the woods. Thus, with little fighting, they gained an important victory, and became possessed of a second large band of slaves—chiefly women and children—who had been forsaken by their terrified captors.

These the Bishop resolved to add to his settlement. Indeed, as in the previous case, he had no alternative. They were at once liberated and conducted to the station, and one of the poor black children—a little girl named Dauma—was carried home by Mackenzie on his own shoulders.

Soon afterwards the mission failed in that quarter. Among other misfortunes disease attacked and carried off several of the chief Europeans of the party. The earnest enthusiastic Bishop himself died there in his Master’s cause, and left his bones in the swamps of the Shire River.

All this, and a great deal more, had I read with profound interest, many years before my visit to the Cape, and the whole subject had made a deep impression on my memory—especially the figure of the gallant Bishop returning from his raid on the men-stealers with the little wearied Dauma on his shoulders!

Well, one day I went to visit the “Saint George’s Orphanage for Girls,” in Capetown. I was conducted over the dormitories and schools, etcetera, and at last came to a class-room in which were assembled some hundred or so of black orphans—infants almost, most of them, and irresistibly comic in their little looks and actions.

It was here that I received the agreeable surprise before referred to. The teacher of this class was as black as her pupils.

“She is herself an orphan, one of the best girls in our school,” said Miss Arthur, referring to her. “She was saved from the slavers in Central Africa many years ago.”

“What!” I exclaimed, “the little girl who was saved by the missionaries of the Shire River?”

“The same.”

“And who was carried home on the shoulders of Bishop Mackenzie?”

“Yes; her name is Dauma.”

I shook hands with Dauma immediately, and claimed old acquaintance on the spot!

Chief among the many interesting visits which I paid while at Capetown was one to the beautiful towns of Stellenbosch and Wellington. Both are but a short distance from the capital, and connected with it by rail. The former is one of the oldest towns of the colony. Many of the French refugees settled there in 1685.

When, in 1684, Governor Van der Stell founded the lovely town of Stellenbosch, and led out the sparkling waters of its river to irrigate trees which afterwards became very giants of the forest, little did he, or his oppressive and tyrannical son and successor, imagine that they had sown the seed of that which was destined to become an academic grove, in the pleasant retirement of which lads and men should study the universal laws of matter and of mind.

That, however, which made the deepest impression on me during this visit was the manner in which the work of training the young is conducted. Everything seemed to be done with an amount of wisdom and vigour which cannot fail to tell most beneficially and extensively on future generations.

Well do I remember in days gone by, how, with my juvenile mind addled and my juvenile fingers tingling after an application of the “tawse,” I have stared at my arithmetic book in despair—hopelessly ignorant of the meaning of words and terms, utterly incapable of comprehending explanatory “rules,” passionately averse to learning in every form, and longingly anxious for the period of emancipation to arrive, when I should be old and big enough to thrash my master! No such feelings, sentiments, or difficulties can ever find a place in the breasts of those fortunate pupils whose happy lot has been cast in the Seminaries of Stellenbosch and Wellington.

Periwinkle, my friend, farewell.

ENDNOTES

Note 1. Near the Tower of London. The South African traffic is now carried on chiefly through the East India Docks, Poplar, from which the Union Castle liners depart. The mail boats proceed from Southampton.

Note 2. In 1840. See page 83. The author was writing in 1876.

Note 3. Known as the Province of the Cape of Good Hope, (or the Cape Province), since the establishment of the Union of South Africa in 1910.

Note 4. This deeply interesting lecture was published in Grahamstown as a pamphlet, entitled, The Reminiscences of an Albany Settler.

Note 5. The author was an artist as well as a writer of merit, and exhibited water-colour drawings at the Royal Scottish Academy.

Note 6. The map of the present railways on page vi will enable the reader to judge how far this has been realised.

Note 7. The Parliament of the Union of South Africa meets at Capetown, but Pretoria is now the seat of the Union Government.

Table of Contents

Blue Lights by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

ENDNOTE

The Fugitives by Ballantyne

Preface.

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Chapter Thirteen.

Chapter Fourteen.

Chapter Fifteen.

Chapter Sixteen.

Chapter Seventeen.

Chapter Eighteen.

Chapter Nineteen.

Chapter Twenty.

Chapter Twenty One.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

Chapter Thirty.

The Gorilla Hunters by Ballantyne

Chapter One.

In which the hunters are introduced.

Chapter Two.

Life in the wild woods.

Chapter Three.

Wherein I mount guard, and how I did it, etcetera.

Chapter Four.

Wherein will be found much that is philosophical.

Chapter Five.

Preparations for a grand hunt.

Chapter Six.

Dreaming and feeding and bloody work enlarged upon…

Chapter Seven.

We Circumvent the Natives.

Chapter Eight.

Peterkin distinguishes himself, and Okandaga is di…

Chapter Nine.

I discover a curious insect, and Peterkin takes a …

Chapter Ten.

Water Appreciated—Destructive Files, Etcetera.

Chapter Eleven.

How We Met With Our First Gorilla, And How We Serv…

Chapter Twelve.

Peterkin’s Schoolday Reminiscences.

Chapter Thirteen.

We get into “The Thick of it”—Great Success.

Chapter Fourteen.

Our Plans are Suddenly Altered—Wicked Designs Disc…

Chapter Fifteen.

An unexpected meeting—We fly, and I make a narrow …

Chapter Sixteen.

An unfortunate delay, and a terrible visitor.

Chapter Seventeen.

We visit a natural menagerie, see wonderful sights…

Chapter Eighteen.

Strange and terrible discoveries—Jack is made comm…

Chapter Nineteen.

Preparations for War, and Peculiar Drill.

Chapter Twenty.

A Warlike Expedition and a Victory.

Chapter Twenty One.

Arrangements for pursuing the enemy, and sudden ch…

Chapter Twenty Two.

We Meet with a Ludicrously Awful Adventure.

Chapter Twenty Three.

We see strange things, and give our negro friends …

Chapter Twenty Four.

A Long Chase, and a Happy Termination Thereof.

Chapter Twenty Five.

I Have a Desperate Encounter and a Narrow Escape.

Hunting the Lions by R.M. Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

The Settler and the Savage by R. M. Ballantyne

R.M. Ballantyne

"The Settler and the Savage"

Chapter One.

The Wild Karroo.

Chapter Two.

Introduces a Cape Dutchman and his Family, and Shows the Uncertainty of Human Plans.

Chapter Three.

Describes the somewhat Curious Beginning of Settler-Life in South Africa.

Chapter Four.

Further Particulars of “Settlers’ Town,” and a Start made for the Promised Land.

Chapter Five.

Adventures and Incidents of the First Night in the “Bush”.

Chapter Six.

Spreading over the Land.

Chapter Seven.

The “Location.”

Chapter Eight.

Shows the Pleasures, Pains, and Penalties of Housekeeping in the Bush.

Chapter Nine.

Off to the Highlands and Black Snakes in the Bush.

Chapter Ten.

The Location on the River of Baboons.

Chapter Eleven.

Explorations and Hunting Experiences.

Chapter Twelve.

Gives some Account of a Great Lion-Hunt.

Chapter Thirteen.

Adventure with an Ostrich.

Chapter Fourteen.

The Bergenaars.

Chapter Fifteen.

Treats of the Zuurveld again, and one or two Surprising Incidents.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Great Floods of 1823.

Chapter Seventeen.

Treats of Hopes, Fears, and Prospects, besides describing a Peculiar Battle.

Chapter Eighteen.

Fairs, Fights, Free-Trade, Factions, and other Matters.

Chapter Nineteen.

Describes a Series of Early Risings.

Chapter Twenty.

Treats of the Delights, Dangers, and Distresses of the Wilderness.

Chapter Twenty One.

Treats of Matters too Numerous and Stirring to be briefly referred to.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Tells of Dark and Threatening Clouds, and War.

Chapter Twenty Three.

War.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Shows what befell a Trader and an Emigrant Band.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Treats of Various Strange Incidents, some Interesting Matters, and a Rescue.

Chapter Twenty Six.

Relates Incidents of the War and a Great Deliverance.

Chapter Twenty Seven.

The Fate of the Paramount Chief of Kafirland.

Chapter Twenty Eight.

The Results of War.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

The Last.

The End.

Six Months at the Cape by R. M Ballantyne

COVER

TITLE PAGE

Letter 1.

Letter 2.

Letter 3.

Letter 4.

Letter 5.

Letter 6.

Letter 7.

Letter 8.

Letter 9.

Letter 10.

Letter 11.

Letter 12.

Letter 13.

Letter 14.

ENDNOTES