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Finished

by H. Rider Haggard · English · Gutenberg #1724 · 654,482 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Finished

Author: H. Rider Haggard


        
Release date: November 13, 2004 [eBook #1724]
                Most recently updated: February 22, 2021

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/1724

Credits: Christopher Hapka and David Widger


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK FINISHED ***

[Illustration]




Finished

by H. Rider Haggard


Contents

 INTRODUCTION

 CHAPTER I. ALLAN QUATERMAIN MEETS ANSCOMBE
 CHAPTER II. MR. MARNHAM
 CHAPTER III. THE HUNTERS HUNTED
 CHAPTER IV. DOCTOR RODD
 CHAPTER V. A GAME OF CARDS
 CHAPTER VI. MISS HEDA
 CHAPTER VII. THE STOEP
 CHAPTER VIII. RODD’S LAST CARD
 CHAPTER IX. FLIGHT
 CHAPTER X. NOMBÉ
 CHAPTER XI. ZIKALI
 CHAPTER XII. TRAPPED
 CHAPTER XIII. CETEWAYO
 CHAPTER XIV. THE VALLEY OF BONES
 CHAPTER XV. THE GREAT COUNCIL
 CHAPTER XVI. WAR
 CHAPTER XVII. KAATJE BRINGS NEWS
 CHAPTER XVIII. ISANDHLWANA
 CHAPTER XIX. ALLAN AWAKES
 CHAPTER XX. HEDA’S TALE
 CHAPTER XXI. THE KING VISITS ZIKALI
 CHAPTER XXII. THE MADNESS OF NOMBÉ
 CHAPTER XXIII. THE KRAAL JAZI




Ditchingham House, Norfolk,
May, 1917.


My dear Roosevelt,—

You are, I know, a lover of old Allan Quatermain, one who understands
and appreciates the views of life and the aspirations that underlie and
inform his manifold adventures.

Therefore, since such is your kind wish, in memory of certain hours
wherein both of us found true refreshment and companionship amidst the
terrible anxieties of the World’s journey along that bloodstained road
by which alone, so it is decreed, the pure Peak of Freedom must be
scaled, I dedicate to you this tale telling of the events and
experiences of my youth.

Your sincere friend,
H. RIDER HAGGARD.


To COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT,
Sagamore Hill, U.S.A.




INTRODUCTION


This book, although it can be read as a separate story, is the third of
the trilogy of which _Marie_ and _Child of Storm_ are the first two
parts. It narrates, through the mouth of Allan Quatermain, the
consummation of the vengeance of the wizard Zikali, alias The Opener of
Roads, or “The-Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born,” upon the royal
Zulu House of which Senzangacona was the founder and Cetewayo, our
enemy in the war of 1879, the last representative who ruled as a king.
Although, of course, much is added for the purposes of romance, the
main facts of history have been adhered to with some faithfulness.

With these the author became acquainted a full generation ago, Fortune
having given him a part in the events that preceded the Zulu War.
Indeed he believes that with the exception of Colonel Phillips, who, as
a lieutenant, commanded the famous escort of twenty-five policemen, he
is now the last survivor of the party who, under the leadership of Sir
Theophilus Shepstone, or Sompseu as the natives called him from the
Zambesi to the Cape, were concerned in the annexation of the Transvaal
in 1877. Recently also he has been called upon as a public servant to
revisit South Africa and took the opportunity to travel through
Zululand, in order to refresh his knowledge of its people, their
customs, their mysteries, and better to prepare himself for the writing
of this book. Here he stood by the fatal Mount of Isandhlawana which,
with some details of the battle, is described in these pages, among the
graves of many whom once he knew, Colonels Durnford, Pulleine and
others. Also he saw Ulundi’s plain where the traces of war still lie
thick, and talked with an old Zulu who fought in the attacking Impi
until it crumbled away before the fire of the Martinis and shells from
the heavy guns. The battle of the Wall of Sheet Iron, he called it,
perhaps because of the flashing fence of bayonets.

Lastly, in a mealie patch, he found the spot on which the corn grows
thin, where King Cetewayo breathed his last, poisoned without a doubt,
as he has known for many years. It is to be seen at the Kraal,
ominously named Jazi or, translated into English, “Finished.” The
tragedy happened long ago, but even now the quiet-faced Zulu who told
the tale, looking about him as he spoke, would not tell it all. “Yes,
as a young man, I was there at the time, but I do not remember, I do
not know—the Inkoosi Lundanda (i.e., this Chronicler, so named in past
years by the Zulus) stands on the very place where the king died—His
bed was on the left of the door-hole of the hut,” and so forth, but no
certain word as to the exact reason of this sudden and violent death or
by whom it was caused. The name of that destroyer of a king is for ever
hid.

In this story the actual and immediate cause of the declaration of war
against the British Power is represented as the appearance of the white
goddess, or spirit of the Zulus, who is, or was, called Nomkubulwana or
Inkosazana-y-Zulu, i.e., the Princess of Heaven. The exact
circumstances which led to this decision are not now ascertainable,
though it is known that there was much difference of opinion among the
Zulu Indunas or great captains, and like the writer, many believe that
King Cetewayo was personally averse to war against his old allies, the
English.

The author’s friend, Mr. J. Y. Gibson, at present the representative of
the Union in Zululand, writes in his admirable history: “There was a
good deal of discussion amongst the assembled Zulu notables at Ulundi,
but of how counsel was swayed it is not possible now to obtain a
reliable account.”

The late Mr. F. B. Fynney, F.R.G.S., who also was his friend in days
bygone, and, with the exception of Sir Theophilus Shepstone, who
perhaps knew the Zulus and their language better than any other
official of his day, speaking of this fabled goddess wrote: “I remember
that just before the Zulu War Nomkubulwana appeared revealing something
or other which had a great effect throughout the land.”

The use made of this strange traditional Guardian Angel in the
following tale is not therefore an unsupported flight of fancy, and the
same may be said of many other incidents, such as the account of the
reading of the proclamation annexing the Transvaal at Pretoria in 1877,
which have been introduced to serve the purposes of the romance.

Mameena, who haunts its pages, in a literal as well as figurative
sense, is the heroine of _Child of Storm,_ a book to which she gave her
own poetic title.

THE AUTHOR.


1916.




CHAPTER I.
ALLAN QUATERMAIN MEETS ANSCOMBE


You, my friend, into whose hand, if you live, I hope these scribblings
of mine will pass one day, must well remember the 12th of April of the
year 1877 at Pretoria. Sir Theophilus Shepstone, or Sompseu, for I
prefer to call him by his native name, having investigated the affairs
of the Transvaal for a couple of months or so, had made up his mind to
annex that country to the British Crown. It so happened that I, Allan
Quatermain, had been on a shooting and trading expedition at the back
of the Lydenburg district where there was plenty of game to be killed
in those times. Hearing that great events were toward I made up my
mind, curiosity being one of my weaknesses, to come round by Pretoria,
which after all was not very far out of my way, instead of striking
straight back to Natal. As it chanced I reached the town about eleven
o’clock on this very morning of the 12th of April and, trekking to the
Church Square, proceeded to outspan there, as was usual in the
Seventies. The place was full of people, English and Dutch together,
and I noted that the former seemed very elated and were talking
excitedly, while the latter for the most part appeared to be sullen and
depressed.

Presently I saw a man I knew, a tall, dark man, a very good fellow and
an excellent shot, named Robinson. By the way you knew him also, for
afterwards he was an officer in the Pretoria Horse at the time of the
Zulu war, the corps in which you held a commission. I called to him and
asked what was up.

“A good deal, Allan,” he said as he shook my hand. “Indeed we shall be
lucky if all isn’t up, or something like it, before the day is over.
Shepstone’s Proclamation annexing the Transvaal is going to be read
presently.”

I whistled and asked,

“How will our Boer friends take it? They don’t look very pleased.”

“That’s just what no one knows, Allan. Burgers the President is
squared, they say. He is to have a pension; also he thinks it the only
thing to be done. Most of the Hollanders up here don’t like it, but I
doubt whether they will put out their hands further than they can draw
them back. The question is—what will be the line of the Boers
themselves? There are a lot of them about, all armed, you see, and more
outside the town.”

“What do you think?”

“Can’t tell you. Anything may happen. They may shoot Shepstone and his
staff and the twenty-five policemen, or they may just grumble and go
home. Probably they have no fixed plan.”

“How about the English?”

“Oh! we are all crazy with joy, but of course there is no organization
and many have no arms. Also there are only a few of us.”

“Well,” I answered, “I came here to look for excitement, life having
been dull for me of late, and it seems that I have found it. Still I
bet you those Dutchmen do nothing, except protest. They are slim and
know that the shooting of an unarmed mission would bring England on
their heads.”

“Can’t say, I am sure. They like Shepstone who understands them, and
the move is so bold that it takes their breath away. But as the Kaffirs
say, when a strong wind blows a small spark will make the whole veld
burn. It just depends upon whether the spark is there. If an Englishman
and a Boer began to fight for instance, anything might happen. Goodbye,
I have got a message to deliver. If things go right we might dine at
the European tonight, and if they don’t, goodness knows where we shall
dine.”

I nodded sagely and he departed. Then I went to my wagon to tell the
boys not to send the oxen off to graze at present, for I feared lest
they should be stolen if there were trouble, but to keep them tied to
the trek-tow. After this I put on the best coat and hat I had, feeling
that as an Englishman it was my duty to look decent on such an
occasion, washed, brushed my hair—with me a ceremony without meaning,
for it always sticks up—and slipped a loaded Smith & Wesson revolver
into my inner poacher pocket. Then I started out to see the fun, and
avoiding the groups of surly-looking Boers, mingled with the crowd that
I saw was gathering in front of a long, low building with a broad
stoep, which I supposed, rightly, to be one of the Government offices.

Presently I found myself standing by a tall, rather loosely-built man
whose face attracted me. It was clean-shaven and much bronzed by the
sun, but not in any way good-looking; the features were too irregular
and the nose was a trifle too long for good looks. Still the impression
it gave was pleasant and the steady blue eyes had that twinkle in them
which suggests humour. He might have been thirty or thirty-five years
of age, and notwithstanding his rough dress that consisted mainly of a
pair of trousers held up by a belt to which hung a pistol, and a common
flannel shirt, for he wore no coat, I guessed at once that he was
English-born.

For a while neither of us said anything after the taciturn habit of our
people even on the veld, and indeed I was fully occupied in listening
to the truculent talk of a little party of mounted Boers behind us. I
put my pipe into my mouth and began to hunt for my tobacco, taking the
opportunity to show the hilt of my revolver, so that these men might
see that I was armed. It was not to be found, I had left it in the
wagon.

“If you smoke Boer tobacco,” said the stranger, “I can help you,” and I
noted that the voice was as pleasant as the face, and knew at once that
the owner of it was a gentleman.

“Thank you, Sir. I never smoke anything else,” I answered, whereon he
produced from his trousers pocket a pouch made of lion skin of
unusually dark colour.

“I never saw a lion as black as this, except once beyond Buluwayo on
the borders of Lobengula’s country,” I said by way of making
conversation.

“Curious,” answered the stranger, “for that’s where I shot the brute a
few months ago. I tried to keep the whole skin but the white ants got
at it.”

“Been trading up there?” I asked.

“Nothing so useful,” he said. “Just idling and shooting. Came to this
country because it was one of the very few I had never seen, and have
only been here a year. I think I have had about enough of it, though.
Can you tell me of any boats running from Durban to India? I should
like to see those wild sheep in Kashmir.”

I told him that I did not know for certain as I had never taken any
interest in India, being an African elephant-hunter and trader, but I
thought they did occasionally. Just then Robinson passed by and called
to me—

“They’ll be here presently, Quatermain, but Sompseu isn’t coming
himself.”

“Does your name happen to be Allan Quatermain?” asked the stranger. “If
so I have heard plenty about you up in Lobengula’s country, and of your
wonderful shooting.”

“Yes,” I replied, “but as for the shooting, natives always exaggerate.”

“They never exaggerated about mine,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Anyhow I am very glad to see you in the flesh, though in the spirit
you rather bored me because I heard too much of you. Whenever I made a
particularly bad miss, my gun-bearer, who at some time seems to have
been yours, would say, ‘Ah! if only it had been the Inkosi Macumazahn,
how different would have been the end!’ My name is Anscombe, Maurice
Anscombe,” he added rather shyly. (Afterwards I discovered from a book
of reference that he was a younger son of Lord Mountford, one of the
richest peers in England.)

Then we both laughed and he said—

“Tell me, Mr. Quatermain, if you will, what those Boers are saying
behind us. I am sure it is something unpleasant, but as the only Dutch
I know is ‘Guten Tag’ and ‘Vootsack’ (Good-day and Get out) that takes
me no forwarder.”

“It ought to,” I answered, “for the substance of their talk is that
they object to be ‘vootsacked’ by the British Government as represented
by Sir Theophilus Shepstone. They are declaring that they won the land
‘with their blood’ and want to keep their own flag flying over it.”

“A very natural sentiment,” broke in Anscombe.

“They say that they wish to shoot all damned Englishmen, especially
Shepstone and his people, and that they would make a beginning now were
they not afraid that the damned English Government, being angered,
would send thousands of damned English rooibatjes, that is, red-coats,
and shoot _them_ out of evil revenge.”

“A very natural conclusion,” laughed Anscombe again, “which I should
advise them to leave untested. Hush! Here comes the show.”

I looked and saw a body of blackcoated gentlemen with one officer in
the uniform of a Colonel of Engineers, advancing slowly. I remember
that it reminded me of a funeral procession following the corpse of the
Republic that had gone on ahead out of sight. The procession arrived
upon the stoep opposite to us and began to sort itself out, whereon the
English present raised a cheer and the Boers behind us cursed audibly.
In the middle appeared an elderly gentleman with whiskers and a stoop,
in whom I recognized Mr. Osborn, known by the Kaffirs as Malimati, the
Chief of the Staff. By his side was a tall young fellow, yourself, my
friend, scarcely more than a lad then, carrying papers. The rest stood
to right and left in a formal line. _You_ gave a printed document to
Mr. Osborn who put on his glasses and began to read in a low voice
which few could hear, and I noticed that his hand trembled. Presently
he grew confused, lost his place, found it, lost it again and came to a
full stop.

“A nervous-natured man,” remarked Mr. Anscombe. “Perhaps he thinks that
those gentlemen are going to shoot.”

“That wouldn’t trouble him,” I answered, who knew him well. “His fears
are purely mental.”

That was true since I know that this same Sir Melmoth Osborn as he is
now, as I have told in the book I called _Child of Storm_, swam the
Tugela alone to watch the battle of Indondakasuka raging round him, and
on another occasion killed two Kaffirs rushing at him with a right and
left shot without turning a hair. It was reading this paper that
paralyzed him, not any fear of what might happen.

There followed a very awkward pause such as occurs when a man breaks
down in a speech. The members of the Staff looked at him and at each
other, then behold! you, my friend, grabbed the paper from his hand and
went on reading it in a loud clear voice.

“That young man has plenty of nerve,” said Mr. Anscombe.

“Yes,” I replied in a whisper. “Quite right though. Would have been a
bad omen if the thing had come to a stop.”

Well, there were no more breakdowns, and at last the long document was
finished and the Transvaal annexed. The Britishers began to cheer but
stopped to listen to the formal protest of the Boer Government, if it
could be called a government when everything had collapsed and the
officials were being paid in postage stamps. I can’t remember whether
this was read by President Burgers himself or by the officer who was
called State Secretary. Anyway, it was read, after which there came an
awkward pause as though people were waiting to see something happen. I
looked round at the Boers who were muttering and handling their rifles
uneasily. Had they found a leader I really think that some of the
wilder spirits among them would have begun to shoot, but none appeared
and the crisis passed.

The crowd began to disperse, the English among them cheering and
throwing up their hats, the Dutch with very sullen faces. The
Commissioner’s staff went away as it had come, back to the building
with blue gums in front of it, which afterwards became Government
House, that is all except you. You started across the square alone with
a bundle of printed proclamations in your hand which evidently you had
been charged to leave at the various public offices.

“Let us follow him,” I said to Mr. Anscombe. “He might get into trouble
and want a friend.”

He nodded and we strolled after you unostentatiously. Sure enough you
nearly did get into trouble. In front of the first office door to which
you came, stood a group of Boers, two of whom, big fellows, drew
together with the evident intention of barring your way.

“Mynheeren,” you said, “I pray you to let me pass on the Queen’s
business.”

They took no heed except to draw closer together and laugh insolently.
Again you made your request and again they laughed. Then I saw you lift
your leg and deliberately stamp upon the foot of one of the Boers. He
drew back with an exclamation, and for a moment I believed that he or
his fellow was going to do something violent. Perhaps they thought
better of it, or perhaps they saw us two Englishmen behind and noticed
Anscombe’s pistol. At any rate you marched into the office triumphant
and delivered your document.

“Neatly done,” said Mr. Anscombe.

“Rash,” I said, shaking my head, “very rash. Well, he’s young and must
be excused.”

But from that moment I took a great liking to you, my friend, perhaps
because I wondered whether in your place I should have been daredevil
enough to act in the same way. For you see I am English, and I like to
see an Englishman hold his own against odds and keep up the credit of
the country. Although, of course, I sympathized with the Boers who,
through their own fault, were losing their land without a blow struck.
As you know well, for you were living near Majuba at the time, plenty
of blows were struck afterwards, but of that business I cannot bear to
write. I wonder how it will all work out after I am dead and if I shall
ever learn what happens in the end.

Now I have only mentioned this business of the Annexation and the part
you played in it, because it was on that occasion that I became
acquainted with Anscombe. For you have nothing to do with this story
which is about the destruction of the Zulus, the accomplishment of the
vengeance of Zikali the wizard at the kraal named Finished, and
incidentally, the love affairs of two people in which that old wizard
took a hand, as I did to my sorrow.

It happened that Mr. Anscombe had ridden on ahead of his wagons which
could not arrive at Pretoria for a day or two, and as he found it
impossible to get accommodation at the _European_ or elsewhere, I
offered to let him sleep in mine, or rather alongside in a tent I had.
He accepted and soon we became very good friends. Before the day was
out I discovered that he had served in a crack cavalry regiment, but
resigned his commission some years before. I asked him why.

“Well,” he said, “I came into a good lot of money on my mother’s death
and could not see a prospect of any active service. While the regiment
was abroad I liked the life well enough, but at home it bored me. Too
much society for my taste, and that sort of thing. Also I wanted to
travel; nothing else really amuses me.”

“You will soon get tired of it,” I answered, “and as you are well off,
marry some fine lady and settle down at home.”

“Don’t think so. I doubt if I should ever be happily married, I want
too much. One doesn’t pick up an earthly angel with a cast-iron
constitution who adores you, which are the bare necessities of
marriage, under every bush.” Here I laughed. “Also,” he added, the
laughter going out of his eyes, “I have had enough of fine ladies and
their ways.”

“Marriage is better than scrapes,” I remarked sententiously.

“Quite so, but one might get them both together. No, I shall never
marry, although I suppose I ought as my brothers have no children.”

“Won’t you, my friend,” thought I to myself, “when the skin grows again
on your burnt fingers.”

For I was sure they had been burnt, perhaps more than once. How, I
never learned, for which I am rather sorry for it interests me to study
burnt fingers, if they do not happen to be my own. Then we changed the
subject.

Anscombe’s wagons were delayed for a day or two by a broken axle or a
bog hole, I forget which. So, as I had nothing particular to do until
the Natal post-cart left, we spent the time in wandering about
Pretoria, which did not take us long as it was but a little dorp in
those days, and chatting with all and sundry. Also we went up to
Government House as it was now called, and left cards, or rather wrote
our names in a book for we had no cards, being told by one of the Staff
whom we met that we should do so. An hour later a note arrived asking
us both to dinner that night and telling us very nicely not to mind if
we had no dress things. Of course we had to go, Anscombe rigged up in
my second best clothes that did not fit him in the least, as he was a
much taller man than I am, and a black satin bow that he had bought at
Becket’s Store together with a pair of shiny pumps.

I actually met you, my friend, for the first time that evening, and in
trouble too, though you may have forgotten the incident. We had made a
mistake about the time of dinner, and arriving half an hour too soon,
were shown into a long room that opened on to the verandah. You were
working there, being I believe a private secretary at the time, copying
some despatch; I think you said that which gave an account of the
Annexation. The room was lit by a paraffin lamp behind you, for it was
quite dark and the window was open, or at any rate unshuttered. The
gentleman who showed us in, seeing that you were very busy, took us to
the far end of the room, where we stood talking in the shadow. Just
then a door opened opposite to that which led to the verandah, and
through it came His Excellency the Administrator, Sir Theophilus
Shepstone, a stout man of medium height with a very clever, thoughtful
face, as I have always thought, one of the greatest of African
statesmen. He did not see us, but he caught sight of you and said
testily—

“Are you mad?” To which you answered with a laugh—

“I hope not more than usual, Sir, but why?”

“Have I not told you always to let down the blinds after dark? Yet
there you sit with your head against the light, about the best target
for a bullet that could be imagined.”

“I don’t think the Boers would trouble to shoot me, Sir. If you had
been here I would have drawn the blinds and shut the shutters too,” you
answered, laughing again.

“Go to dress or you will be late for dinner,” he said still rather
sternly, and you went. But when you had gone and after we had been
announced to him, he smiled and added something which I will not repeat
to you even now. I think it was about what you did on the Annexation
day of which the story had come to him.

I mention this incident because whenever I think of Shepstone, whom I
had known off and on for years in the way that a hunter knows a
prominent Government official, it always recurs to my mind, embodying
as it does his caution and appreciation of danger derived from long
experience of the country, and the sternness he sometimes affected
which could never conceal his love towards his friends. Oh! there was
greatness in this man, although they did call him an “African
Talleyrand.” If it had not been so would every native from the Cape to
the Zambesi have known and revered his name, as perhaps that of no
other white man has been revered? But I must get on with my tale and
leave historical discussions to others more fitted to deal with them.

We had a very pleasant dinner that night, although I was so ashamed of
my clothes with smart uniforms and white ties all about me, and
Anscombe kept fidgeting his feet because he was suffering agony from
his new pumps which were a size too small. Everybody was in the best of
spirits, for from all directions came the news that the Annexation was
well received and that the danger of any trouble had passed away. Ah!
if we had only known what the end of it would be!

It was on our way back to the wagon that I chanced to mention to
Anscombe that there was still a herd of buffalo within a few days’ trek
of Lydenburg, of which I had shot two not a month before.

“Are there, by Jove!” he said. “As it happens I never got a buffalo;
always I just missed them in one sense or another, and I can’t leave
Africa with a pair of bought horns. Let’s go there and shoot some.”

I shook my head and replied that I had been idling long enough and must
try to make some money, news at which he seemed very disappointed.

“Look here,” he said, “forgive me for mentioning it, but business is
business. If you’ll come you shan’t be a loser.”

Again I shook my head, whereat he looked more disappointed than before.

“Very well,” he exclaimed, “then I must go alone. For kill a buffalo I
will; that is unless the buffalo kills me, in which case my blood will
be on your hands.”

I don’t know why, but at that moment there came into my mind a
conviction that if he did go alone a buffalo or something would kill
him and that then I should be sorry all my life.

“They are dangerous brutes, much worse than lions,” I said.

“And yet you, who pretend to have a conscience, would expose me to
their rage unprotected and alone,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye
which I could see even by moonlight. “Oh! Quatermain, how I have been
mistaken in your character.”

“Look here, Mr. Anscombe,” I said, “it’s no use. I cannot possibly go
on a shooting expedition with you just now. Only to-day I have heard
from Natal that my boy is not well and must undergo an operation which
will lay him up for quite six weeks, and may be dangerous. So I must
get down to Durban before it takes place. After that I have a contract
in Matabeleland whence you have just come, to take charge of a trading
store there for a year; also perhaps to try to shoot a little ivory for
myself. So I am fully booked up till, let us say, October, 1878, that
is for about eighteen months, by which time I daresay I shall be dead.”

“Eighteen months,” replied this cool young man. “That will suit me very
well. I will go on to India as I intended, then home for a bit and will
meet you on the 1st of October, 1878, after which we will proceed to
the Lydenburg district and shoot those buffalo, or if they have
departed, other buffalo. Is it a bargain?”

I stared at him, thinking that the Administrator’s champagne had got
into his head.

“Nonsense,” I exclaimed. “Who knows where you will be in eighteen
months? Why, by that time you will have forgotten all about me.”

“If I am alive and well, on the 1st of October, 1878, I shall be
exactly where I am now, upon this very square in Pretoria, with a
wagon, or wagons, prepared for a hunting trip. But as not unnaturally
you have doubts upon that point, I am prepared to pay forfeit if I
fail, or even if circumstances cause you to fail.”

Here he took a cheque-book from his letter-case and spread it out on
the little table in the tent, on which there were ink and a pen,
adding—

“Now, Mr. Quatermain, will it meet your views if I fill this up for
£250?”

“No,” I answered; “taking everything into consideration the sum is
excessive. But if you do not mind facing the risks of my
non-appearance, to say nothing of your own, you may make it £50.”

“You are very moderate in your demands,” he said as he handed me the
cheque which I put in my pocket, reflecting that it would just pay for
my son’s operation.

“And you are very foolish in your offers,” I replied. “Tell me, why do
you make such crack-brained arrangements?”

“I don’t quite know. Something in me seems to say that we _shall_ make
this expedition and that it will have a very important effect upon my
life. Mind you, it is to be to the Lydenburg district and nowhere else.
And now I am tired, so let’s turn in.”

Next morning we parted and went our separate ways.




CHAPTER II.
MR. MARNHAM


So much for preliminaries, now for the story.

The eighteen months had gone by, bringing with them to me their share
of adventure, weal and woe, with all of which at present I have no
concern. Behold me arriving very hot and tired in the post-cart from
Kimberley, whither I had gone to invest what I had saved out of my
Matabeleland contract in a very promising speculation whereof, today,
the promise remains and no more. I had been obliged to leave Kimberley
in a great hurry, before I ought indeed, because of the silly bargain
which I have just recorded. Of course I was sure that I should never
see Mr. Anscombe again, especially as I had heard nothing of him during
all this while, and had no reason to suppose that he was in Africa.
Still I had taken his £50 and he _might_ come. Also I have always
prided myself upon keeping an appointment.

The post-cart halted with a jerk in front of the _European Hotel_, and
I crawled, dusty and tired, from its interior, to find myself face to
face with Anscombe, who was smoking a pipe upon the stoep!

“Hullo, Quatermain,” he said in his pleasant, drawling voice, “here you
are, up to time. I have been making bets with these five gentlemen,”
and he nodded at a group of loungers on the stoep, “as to whether you
would or would not appear, I putting ten to one on you in drinks.
Therefore you must now consume five whiskies and sodas, which will save
them from consuming fifty and a subsequent appearance at the Police
Court.”

I laughed and said I would be their debtor to the extent of one, which
was duly produced.

After it was drunk Anscombe and I had a chat. He said that he had been
to India, shot, or shot at whatever game he meant to kill there,
visited his relations in England and thence proceeded to keep his
appointment with me in Africa. At Durban he had fitted himself out in a
regal way with two wagons, full teams, and some spare oxen, and trekked
to Pretoria where he had arrived a few days before. Now he was ready to
start for the Lydenburg district and look for those buffalo.

“But,” I said, “the buffalo probably long ago departed. Also there has
been a war with Sekukuni, the Basuto chief who rules all that country,
which remains undecided, although I believe some kind of a peace has
been patched up. This may make hunting in this neighborhood dangerous.
Why not try some other ground, to the north of the Transvaal, for
instance?”

“Quatermain,” he answered, “I have come all the way from England, I
will not say to kill, but to try to kill buffalo in the Lydenburg
district, with you if possible, if not, without you, and thither I am
going. If you think it unsafe to accompany me, don’t come; I will get
on as best I can alone, or with some other skilled person if I can find
one.”

“If you put it like that I shall certainly come,” I replied, “with the
proviso that should the buffalo prove to be non-existent or the pursuit
of them impossible, we either give up the trip, or go somewhere else,
perhaps to the country at the back of Delagoa Bay.”

“Agreed,” he said; after which we discussed terms, he paying me my
salary in advance.

On further consideration we determined, as two were quite unnecessary
for a trip of the sort, to leave one of my wagons and half the cattle
in charge of a very respectable man, a farmer who lived about five
miles from Pretoria just over the pass near to the famous Wonder-boom
tree which is one of the sights of the place. Should we need this wagon
it could always be sent for; or, if we found the Lydenburg
hunting-ground, which he was so set upon visiting, unproductive or
impossible, we could return to Pretoria over the high-veld and pick it
up before proceeding elsewhere.

These arrangements took us a couple of days or so. On the third we
started, without seeing you, my friend, or any one else that I knew,
since just at that time every one seemed to be away from Pretoria. You,
I remember, had by now become the Master of the High Court and were,
they informed me at your office, absent on circuit.

The morning of our departure was particularly lovely and we trekked
away in the best of spirits, as so often happens to people who are
marching into trouble. Of our journey there is little to say as
everything went smoothly, so that we arrived at the edge of the
high-veld feeling as happy as the country which has no history is
reported to do. Our road led us past the little mining settlement of
Pilgrim’s Rest where a number of adventurous spirits, most of them
English, were engaged in washing for gold, a job at which I once took a
turn near this very place without any startling success. Of the
locality I need only say that the mountainous scenery is among the most
beautiful, the hills are the steepest and the roads are, or were, the
worst that I have ever travelled over in a wagon.

However, “going softly” as the natives say, we negotiated them without
accident and, leaving Pilgrim’s Rest behind us, began to descend
towards the low-veld where I was informed a herd of buffalo could still
be found, since, owing to the war with Sekukuni, no one had shot at
them of late. This war had been suspended for a while, and the
Land-drost at Pilgrim’s Rest told me he thought it would be safe to
hunt on the borders of that Chief’s country, though he should not care
to do so himself.

Game of the smaller sort began to be plentiful about here, so not more
than a dozen miles from Pilgrim’s Rest we outspanned early in the
afternoon to try to get a blue wildebeeste or two, for I had seen the
spoor of these creatures in a patch of soft ground, or failing them
some other buck. Accordingly, leaving the wagon by a charming stream
that wound and gurgled over a bed of granite, we mounted our salted
horses, which were part of Anscombe’s outfit, and set forth rejoicing.
Riding through the scattered thorns and following the spoor where I
could, within half an hour we came to a little glade. There, not fifty
yards away, I caught sight of a single blue wildebeeste bull standing
in the shadow of the trees on the further side of the glade, and
pointed out the ugly beast, for it is the most grotesque of all the
antelopes, to Anscombe.

“Off you get,” I whispered. “It’s a lovely shot, you can’t miss it.”

“Oh, can’t I!” replied Anscombe. “Do you shoot.”

I refused, so he dismounted, giving me his horse to hold, and kneeling
down solemnly and slowly covered the bull. Bang went his rifle, and I
saw a bough about a yard above the wildebeeste fall on to its back. Off
it went like lightning, whereon Anscombe let drive with the left barrel
of the Express, almost at hazard as it seemed to me, and by some chance
hit it above the near fore-knee, breaking its leg.

“That was a good shot,” he cried, jumping on to his horse.

“Excellent,” I answered. “But what are you going to do?”

“Catch it. It is cruel to leave a wounded animal,” and off he started.

Of course I had to follow, but the ensuing ride remains among the more
painful of my hunting memories. We tore through thorn trees that
scratched my face and damaged my clothes; we struck a patch of antbear
holes, into one of which my horse fell so that my stomach bumped
against its head; we slithered down granite koppies, and this was the
worst of it, at the end of each chapter, so to speak, always caught
sight of that accursed bull which I fondly hoped would have vanished
into space. At length after half an hour or so of this game we reached
a stretch of open, rolling ground, and there not fifty yards ahead of
us was the animal still going like a hare, though how it could do so on
three legs I am sure I do not know. We coursed it like greyhounds, till
at last Anscombe, whose horse was the faster, came alongside of the
exhausted creature, whereon it turned suddenly and charged.

Anscombe held out his rifle in his right hand and pulled the trigger,
which, as he had forgotten to reload it, was a mere theatrical
performance. Next second there was such a mix-up that for a while I
could not distinguish which was Anscombe, which was the wildebeeste,
and which the horse. They all seemed to be going round and round in a
cloud of dust. When things settled themselves a little I discovered the
horse rolling on the ground, Anscombe on his back with his hands up in
an attitude of prayer and the wildebeeste trying to make up its mind
which of them it should finish first. I settled the poor thing’s doubts
by shooting it through the heart, which I flatter myself was rather
clever of me under the circumstances. Then I dismounted to examine
Anscombe, who, I presumed, was done for. Not a bit of it. There he sat
upon the ground blowing like a blacksmith’s bellows and panting out—

“What a glorious gallop. I finished it very well, didn’t I? You
couldn’t have made a better shot yourself.”

“Yes,” I answered, “you finished it very well as you will find out if
you will take the trouble to open your rifle and count your cartridges.
I may add that if we are going to hunt together I hope you will never
lead me such a fool’s chase again.”

He rose, opened the rifle and saw that it was empty, for although he
had never re-loaded he had thrown out the two cartridges which he had
discharged in the glen.

“By Jingo,” he said, “you must have shot it, though I could have sworn
that it was I. Quatermain, has it ever struck you what a strange thing
is the human imagination?”

“Drat the human imagination,” I answered, wiping away the blood that
was trickling into my eye from a thorn scratch. “Let’s look at your
horse. If it is lamed you will have to ride Imagination back to the
wagon which must be six miles away, that is if we can find it before
dark.”

Sighing out something about a painfully practical mind, he obeyed, and
when the beast was proved to be nothing more than blown and a little
bruised, made remarks as to the inadvisability of dwelling on future
evil events, which I reminded him had already been better summed up in
the New Testament.

After this we contemplated the carcase of the wildebeeste which it
seemed a pity to leave to rot. Just then Anscombe, who had moved a few
yards to the right out of the shadow of an obstructing tree, exclaimed—

“I say, Quatermain, come here and tell me if I have been knocked silly,
or if I really see a quite uncommon kind of house built in ancient
Greek style set in a divine landscape.”

“Temple to Diana, I expect,” I remarked as I joined him on the further
side of the tree.

I looked and rubbed my eyes. There, about half a mile away, situated in
a bay of the sweeping hills and overlooking the measureless expanse of
bush-veld beneath, was a remarkable house, at least for those days and
that part of Africa. To begin with the situation was superb. It stood
on a green and swelling mound behind which was a wooded kloof where ran
a stream that at last precipitated itself in a waterfall over a great
cliff. Then in front was that glorious view of the bush-veld, at which
a man might look for a lifetime and not grow tired, stretching away to
the Oliphant’s river and melting at last into the dim line of the
horizon.

The house itself also, although not large, was of a kind new to me. It
was deep, but narrow fronted, and before it were four columns that
carried the roof which projected so as to form a wide verandah.
Moreover it seemed to be built of marble which glistened like snow in
the setting sun. In short in that lonely wilderness, at any rate from
this distance, it did look like the deserted shrine of some forgotten
god.

“Well, I’m bothered!” I said.

“So am I,” answered Anscombe, “to know the name of the Lydenburg
district architect whom I should like to employ; though I suspect it is
the surroundings that make the place look so beautiful. Hullo! here
comes somebody, but he doesn’t look like an architect; he looks like a
wicked baronet disguised as a Boer.”

True enough, round a clump of bush appeared an unusual looking person,
mounted on a very good horse. He was tall, thin and old, at least he
had a long white beard which suggested age, although his figure, so far
as it could be seen beneath his rough clothes, seemed vigorous. His
face was clean cut and handsome, with a rather hooked nose, and his
eyes were grey, but as I saw when he came up to us, somewhat bloodshot
at the corners. His general aspect was refined and benevolent, and as
soon as he opened his mouth I perceived that he was a person of gentle
breeding.

And yet there was something about him, something in his atmosphere, so
to speak, that I did not like. Before we parted that evening I felt
sure that in one way or another he was a wrong-doer, not straight; also
that he had a violent temper.

He rode up to us and asked in a pleasant voice, although the manner of
his question, which was put in bad Dutch, was not pleasant,

“Who gave you leave to shoot on our land?”

“I did not know that any leave was required; it is not customary in
these parts,” I answered politely in English. “Moreover, this buck was
wounded miles away.”

“Oh!” he exclaimed in the same tongue, “that makes a difference, though
I expect it was still on our land, for we have a lot; it is cheap about
here.” Then after studying a little, he added apologetically, “You
mustn’t think me strange, but the fact is my daughter hates things to
be killed near the house, which is why there’s so much game about.”

“Then pray make her our apologies,” said Anscombe, “and say that it
shall not happen again.”

He stroked his long beard and looked at us, for by now he had
dismounted, then said—

“Might I ask you gentlemen your names?”

“Certainly,” I replied. “I am Allan Quatermain and my friend is the
Hon. Maurice Anscombe.”

He started and said—

“Of Allan Quatermain of course I have heard. The natives told me that
you were trekking to those parts; and if you, sir, are one of Lord
Mountford’s sons, oddly enough I think I must have known your father in
my youth. Indeed I served with him in the Guards.”

“How very strange,” said Anscombe. “He’s dead now and my brother is
Lord Mountford. Do you like life here better than that in the Guards? I
am sure I should.”

“Both of them have their advantages,” he answered evasively, “of which,
if, as I think, you are also a soldier, you can judge for yourself. But
won’t you come up to the house? My daughter Heda is away, and my
partner Mr. Rodd” (as he mentioned this name I saw a blue vein, which
showed above his cheek bone, swell as though under pressure of some
secret emotion) “is a retiring sort of a man—indeed some might think
him sulky until they came to know him. Still, we can make you
comfortable and even give you a decent bottle of wine.”

“No, thank you very much,” I answered, “we must get back to the wagon
or our servants will think that we have come to grief. Perhaps you will
accept the wildebeeste if it is of any use to you.”

“Very well,” he said in a voice that suggested regret struggling with
relief. To the buck he made no allusion, perhaps because he considered
that it was already his own property. “Do you know your way? I believe
your wagon is camped out there to the east by what we call the Granite
stream. If you follow this Kaffir path,” and he pointed to a track near
by, “it will take you quite close.”

“Where does the path run to?” I asked. “There are no kraals about, are
there?”

“Oh! to the Temple, as my daughter calls our house. My partner and I
are labour agents, we recruit natives for the Kimberley Mines,” he said
in explanation, adding, “Where do you propose to shoot?”

I told him.

“Isn’t that rather a risky district?” he said. “I think that Sekukuni
will soon be giving more trouble, although there is a truce between him
and the English. Still he might send a regiment to raid that way.”

I wondered how our friend knew so much of Sekukuni’s possible
intentions, but only answered that I was accustomed to deal with
natives and did not fear them.

“Ah!” he said, “well, you know your own business best. But if you
should get into any difficulty, make straight for this place. The
Basutos will not interfere with you here.”

Again I wondered why the Basutos should look upon this particular spot
as sacred, but thinking it wisest to ask no questions, I only answered—

“Thank you very much. We’ll bear your invitation in mind, Mr.—”

“Marnham.”

“Marnham,” I repeated after him. “Good-bye and many thanks for your
kindness.”

“One question,” broke in Anscombe, “if you will not think me rude. What
is the name of the architect who designed that most romantic-looking
house of yours which seems to be built of marble?”

“My daughter designed it, or at least I think she copied it from some
old drawing of a ruin. Also it _is_ marble; there’s a whole hill of the
stuff not a hundred yards from the door, so it was cheaper to use than
anything else. I hope you will come and see it on your way back, though
it is not as fine as it appears from a distance. It would be very
pleasant after all these years to talk to an English gentleman again.”

Then we parted, I rather offended because he did not seem to include me
in the description, he calling after us—

“Stick close to the path through the patch of big trees, for the ground
is rather swampy there and it’s getting dark.”

Presently we came to the place he mentioned where the timber, although
scattered, was quite large for South Africa, of the yellow-wood
species, and interspersed wherever the ground was dry with huge
euphorbias, of which the tall finger-like growths and sad grey
colouring looked unreal and ghostlike in the waning light. Following
the advice given to us, we rode in single file along the narrow path,
fearing lest otherwise we should tumble into some bog hole, until we
came to higher land covered with the scattered thorns of the country.

“Did that bush give you any particular impression?” asked Anscombe a
minute or two later.

“Yes,” I answered, “it gave me the impression that we might catch fever
there. See the mist that lies over it,” and turning in my saddle I
pointed with the rifle in my hand to what looked like a mass of cotton
wool over which, without permeating it, hung the last red glow of
sunset, producing a curious and indeed rather unearthly effect. “I
expect that thousands of years ago there was a lake yonder, which is
why trees grow so big in the rich soil.”

“You are curiously mundane, Quatermain,” he answered. “I ask you of
spiritual impressions and you dilate to me of geological formations and
the growth of timber. You felt nothing in the spiritual line?”

“I felt nothing except a chill,” I answered, for I was tired and
hungry. “What the devil are you driving at?”

“Have you got that flask of Hollands about you, Quatermain?”

“Oh! those are the spirits you are referring to,” I remarked with
sarcasm as I handed it to him.

He took a good pull and replied—

“Not at all, except in the sense that bad spirits require good spirits
to correct them, as the Bible teaches. To come to facts,” he added in a
changed voice, “I have never been in a place that depressed me more
than that thrice accursed patch of bush.”

“Why did it depress you?” I asked, studying him as well as I could in
the fading light. To tell the truth I feared lest he had knocked his
head when the wildebeeste upset him, and was suffering from delayed
concussion.

“Can’t tell you, Quatermain. I don’t look like a criminal, do I? Well,
I entered those trees feeling a fairly honest man, and I came out of
them feeling like a murderer. It was as though something terrible had
happened to me there; it was as though I had killed someone there.
Ugh!” and he shivered and took another pull at the Hollands.

“What bosh!” I said. “Besides, even if it were to come true, I am sorry
to say I’ve killed lots of men in the way of business and they don’t
bother me overmuch.”

“Did you ever kill one to win a woman?”

“Certainly not. Why, that would be murder. How can you ask me such a
thing? But I have killed several to win cattle,” I reflected aloud,
remembering my expedition with Saduko against the chief Bangu, and some
other incidents in my career.

“I appreciate the difference, Quatermain. If you kill for cows, it is
justifiable homicide; if you kill for women, it is murder.”

“Yes,” I replied, “that is how it seems to work out in Africa. You see,
women are higher in the scale of creation than cows, therefore crimes
committed for their sake are enormously greater than those committed
for cows, which just makes the difference between justifiable homicide
and murder.”

“Good lord! what an argument,” he exclaimed and relapsed into silence.
Had he been accustomed to natives and their ways he would have
understood the point much better than he did, though I admit it is
difficult to explain.

In due course we reached the wagon without further trouble. While we
were shielding our pipes after an excellent supper I asked Anscombe his
impressions of Mr. Marnham.

“Queer cove, I think,” he answered. “Been a gentleman, too, and still
keeps the manners, which isn’t strange if he is one of the Marnhams,
for they are a good family. I wonder he mentioned having served with my
father.”

“It slipped out of him. Men who live a lot alone are apt to be
surprised into saying things they regret afterwards, as I noticed he
did. But why do you wonder?”

“Because as it happens, although I have only just recalled it, my
father used to tell some story about a man named Marnham in his
regiment. I can’t remember the details, but it had to do with cards
when high stakes were being played for, and with the striking of a
superior officer in the quarrel that ensued, as a result of which the
striker was requested to send in his papers.”

“It may not have been the same man.”

“Perhaps not, for I believe that more than one Marnham served in that
regiment. But I remember my father saying, by way of excuse for the
person concerned, that he had a most ungovernable temper. I think he
added, that he left the country and took service in some army on the
Continent. I should rather like to clear the thing up.”

“It isn’t probable that you will, for even if you should ever meet this
Marnham again, I fancy you would find he held his tongue about his
acquaintance with your father.”

“I wonder what Miss Heda is like,” went on Anscombe after a pause. “I
am curious to see a girl who designs a house on the model of an ancient
ruin.”

“Well, you won’t, for she’s away somewhere. Besides we are looking for
buffalo, not girls, which is a good thing as they are less dangerous.”

I spoke thus decisively because I had taken a dislike to Mr. Marnham
and everything to do with him, and did not wish to encourage the idea
of further meetings.

“No, never, I suppose. And yet I feel as though I were certainly
destined to see that accursed yellow-wood swamp again.”

“Nonsense,” I replied as I rose to turn in. Ah! if I had but known!




CHAPTER III.
THE HUNTERS HUNTED


While I was taking off my boots I heard a noise of jabbering in some
native tongue which I took to be Sisutu, and not wishing to go to the
trouble of putting them on again, called to the driver of the wagon to
find out what it was. This man was a Cape Colony Kaffir, a Fingo I
think, with a touch of Hottentot in him. He was an excellent driver,
indeed I do not think I have ever seen a better, and by no means a bad
shot. Among Europeans he rejoiced in the name of Footsack, a Boer Dutch
term which is generally addressed to troublesome dogs and means “Get
out.” To tell the truth, had I been his master he would have got out,
as I suspected him of drinking, and generally did not altogether trust
him. Anscombe, however, was fond of him because he had shown courage in
some hunting adventure in Matabeleland, I think it was at the shooting
of that very dark-coloured lion whose skin had been the means of making
us acquainted nearly two years before. Indeed he said that on this
occasion Footsack had saved his life, though from all that I could
gather I do not think this was quite the case. Also the man, who had
been on many hunting trips with sportsmen, could talk Dutch well and
English enough to make himself understood, and therefore was useful.

He went as I bade him, and coming back presently, told me that a party
of Basutos, about thirty in number, who were returning from Kimberley,
where they had been at work in the mines, under the leadership of a
Bastard named Karl, asked leave to camp by the wagon for the night, as
they were afraid to go on to “Tampel” in the dark.

At first I could not make out what “Tampel” was, as it did not sound
like a native name. Then I remembered that Mr. Marnham had spoken of
his house as being called the Temple, of which, of course, Tampel was a
corruption; also that he said he and his partner were labour agents.

“Why are they afraid?” I asked.

“Because, Baas, they say that they must go through a wood in a swamp,
which they think is haunted by spooks, and they much afraid of spooks;”
that is of ghosts.

“What spooks?” I asked.

“Don’t know, Baas. They say spook of some one who has been killed.”

“Rubbish,” I replied. “Tell them to go and catch the spook; we don’t
want a lot of noisy fellows howling chanties here all night.”

Then it was that Anscombe broke in in his humorous, rather drawling
voice.

“How can you be so hard-hearted, Quatermain? After the supernatural
terror which, as I told you, I experienced in that very place, I
wouldn’t condemn a kicking mule to go through it in this darkness. Let
the poor devils stay; I daresay they are tired.”

So I gave in, and presently saw their fires beginning to burn through
the end canvas of the wagon which was unlaced because the night was
hot. Also later on I woke up, about midnight I think, and heard voices
talking, one of which I reflected sleepily, sounded very like that of
Footsack.

Waking very early, as is my habit, I peeped out of the wagon, and
through the morning mist perceived Footsack in converse with a
particularly villainous-looking person. I at once concluded this must
be Karl, evidently a Bastard compounded of about fifteen parts of
various native bloods to one of white, who, to add to his attractions,
was deeply scarred with smallpox and possessed a really alarming
squint. It seemed to me that Footsack handed to this man something that
looked suspiciously like a bottle of squareface gin wrapped up in dried
grass, and that the man handed back to Footsack some small object which
he put in his mouth.

Now, I wondered to myself, what is there of value that one who does not
eat sweets would stow away in his mouth. Gold coin perhaps, or a quid
of tobacco, or a stone. Gold was too much to pay for a bottle of gin,
tobacco was too little, but how about the stone? What stone? Who wanted
stones? Then suddenly I remembered that these people were said to come
from Kimberley, and whistled to myself. Still I did nothing,
principally because the mist was still so dense that although I could
see the men’s faces, I could not clearly see the articles which they
passed to each other about two feet lower, where it still lay very
thickly, and to bring any accusation against a native which he can
prove to be false is apt to destroy authority. So I held my tongue and
waited my chance. It did not come at once, for before I was dressed
those Basutos had departed together with their leader Karl, for now
that the sun was up they no longer feared the haunted bush.

It came later, thus: We were trekking along between the thorns upon a
level and easy track which enabled the driver Footsack to sit upon the
“voorkisse” or driving box of the wagon, leaving the lad who is called
the voorlooper to lead the oxen. Anscombe was riding parallel to the
wagon in the hope of killing some guineafowl for the pot (though a very
poor shot with a rifle he was good with a shot-gun). I, who did not
care for this small game, was seated smoking by the side of Footsack
who, I noted, smelt of gin and generally showed signs of dissipation.
Suddenly I said to him—

“Show me that diamond which the Bastard Karl gave you this morning in
payment for the bottle of your master’s drink.”

It was a bow drawn at a venture, but the effect of the shot was
remarkable. Had I not caught it, the long bamboo whip Footsack held
would have fallen to the ground, while he collapsed in his seat like a
man who has received a bullet in his stomach.

“Baas,” he gasped, “Baas, how did you know?”

“I knew,” I replied grandly, “in the same way that I know everything.
Show me the diamond.”

“Baas,” he said, “it was not the Baas Anscombe’s gin, it was some I
bought in Pilgrim’s Rest.”

“I have counted the bottles in the case and know very well whose gin it
was,” I replied ambiguously, for the reason that I had done nothing of
the sort. “Show me the diamond.”

Footsack fumbled about his person, his hair, his waistcoat pockets and
even his moocha, and ultimately from somewhere produced a stone which
he handed to me. I looked at it, and from the purity of colour and
size, judged it to be a diamond worth £200, or possibly more. After
careful examination I put it into my pocket, saying,

“This is the price of your master’s gin and therefore belongs to him as
much as it does to anybody. Now if you want to keep out of trouble,
tell me—whence came it into the hands of that man, Karl?”

“Baas,” replied Footsack, trembling all over, “how do I know? He and
the rest have been working at the mines; I suppose he found it there.”

“Indeed! And did he find others of the same sort?”

“I think so, Baas. At least he said that he had been buying bottles of
gin with such stones all the way down from Kimberley. Karl is a great
drunkard, Baas, as I am sure, who have known him for years.”

“That is not all,” I remarked, keeping my eyes fixed on him. “What else
did he say?”

“He said, Baas, that he was very much afraid of returning to the Baas
Marnham whom the Kaffirs call White-beard, with only a few stones
left.”

“Why was he afraid?”

“Because the Baas Whitebeard, he who dwells at Tampel, is, he says, a
very angry man if he thinks himself cheated, and Karl is afraid lest he
should kill him as another was killed, he whose spook haunts the wood
through which those silly people feared to pass last night.”

“Who was killed and who killed him?” I asked.

“Baas, I don’t know,” replied Footsack, collapsing into sullen silence
in a way that Kaffirs have when suddenly they realize that they have
said too much. Nor did I press the matter further, having learned
enough.

What had I learned? This: that Messrs. Marnham & Rodd were illicit
diamond buyers, I.D.B.‘s as they are called, who had cunningly situated
themselves at a great distance from the scene of operations practically
beyond the reach of civilized law. Probably they were engaged also in
other nefarious dealings with Kaffirs, such as supplying them with guns
wherewith to make war upon the Whites. Sekukuni had been fighting us
recently, so that there would be a very brisk market for rifles. This,
too, would account for Marnham’s apparent knowledge of that Chief’s
plans. Possibly, however, he had no knowledge and only made a pretence
of it to keep us out of the country.

Later on I confided the whole story and my suspicions to Anscombe, who
was much interested.

“What picturesque scoundrels!” he exclaimed, “We really ought to go
back to the Temple. I have always longed to meet some real live
I.D.B.‘s.”

“It is probable that you have done that already without knowing it. For
the rest, if you wish to visit that den of iniquity, you must do so
alone.”

“Wouldn’t whited sepulchre be a better term, especially as it seems to
cover dead men’s bones?” he replied in his frivolous manner.

Then I asked him what he was going to do about Footsack and the bottle
of gin, which he countered by asking me what I was going to do with
that diamond.

“Give it to you as Footsack’s master,” I said, suiting the action to
the word. “I don’t wish to be mixed up in doubtful transactions.”

Then followed a long argument as to who was the real owner of the
stone, which ended in its being hidden away to be produced if called
for, and in Footsack, who ought have had a round dozen, receiving a
scolding from his master, coupled with the threat that if he stole more
gin he would be handed over to a magistrate—when we met one.

On the following day we reached the hot, low-lying veld which the herd
of buffalo was said to inhabit. Next morning, however, when we were
making ready to begin hunting, a Basuto Kaffir appeared who, on being
questioned, said that he was one of Sekukuni’s people sent to this
district to look for two lost oxen. I did not believe this story,
thinking it more probable that he was a spy, but asked him whether in
his hunt for oxen he had come across buffalo.

He replied that he had, a herd of thirty-two of them, counting the
calves, but that they were over the Oliphant’s River about
five-and-twenty miles away, in a valley between some outlying hills and
the rugged range of mountains, beyond which was situated Sekukuni’s
town. Moreover, in proof of his story he showed me spoor of the beasts
heading in that direction which was quite a week old.

Now for my part, as I did not think it wise to get too near to
Sekukuni, I should have given them up and gone to hunt something else.
Anscombe, however, was of a different opinion and pleaded hard that we
should follow them. They were the only herd within a hundred miles, he
said, if indeed there were any others this side of the Lebombo
Mountains. As I still demurred, he suggested, in the nicest possible
manner, that if I thought the business risky, I should camp somewhere
with the wagon, while he went on with Footsack to look for the buffalo.
I answered that I was well used to risks, which in a sense were my
trade, and that as he was more or less in my charge I was thinking of
him, not of myself, who was quite prepared to follow the buffalo, not
only to Sekukuni’s Mountains but over them. Then fearing that he had
hurt my feelings, he apologized, and offered to go elsewhere if I
liked. The upshot was that we decided to trek to the Oliphant’s River,
camp there and explore the bush on the other side on horseback, never
going so far from the wagon that we could not reach it again before
nightfall.

This, then, we did, outspanning that evening by the hot but beautiful
river which was still haunted by a few hippopotamus and many
crocodiles, one of which we shot before turning in. Next morning,
having breakfasted off cold guineafowl, we mounted, crossed the river
by a ford that was quite as deep as I liked, to which the Kaffir path
led us, and, leaving Footsack with the two other boys in charge of the
wagon, began to hunt for the buffalo in the rather swampy bush that
stretched from the further bank to the slope of the first hills, eight
or ten miles away. I did not much expect to find them, as the Basuto
had said that they had gone over these hills, but either he lied or
they had moved back again.

Not half a mile from the river bank, just as I was about to dismount to
stalk a fine waterbuck of which I caught sight standing among some
coarse grass and bushes, my eye fell upon buffalo spoor that from its
appearance I knew could not be more than a few hours old. Evidently the
beasts had been feeding here during the night and at dawn had moved
away to sleep in the dry bush nearer the hills. Beckoning to Anscombe,
who fortunately had not seen the waterbuck, at which he would certainly
have fired, thereby perhaps frightening the buffalo, I showed him the
spoor that we at once started to follow.

Soon it led us into other spoor, that of a whole herd of thirty or
forty beasts indeed, which made our task quite easy, at least till we
came to harder ground, for the animals had gone a long way. An hour or
more later, when we were about seven miles from the river, I perceived
ahead of us, for we were now almost at the foot of the hills, a cool
and densely-wooded kloof.

“That is where they will be,” I said. “Now come on carefully and make
no noise.”

We rode to the wide mouth of the kloof where the signs of the buffalo
were numerous and fresh, dismounted and tied our horses to a thorn, so
as to approach them silently on foot. We had not gone two hundred yards
through the bush when suddenly about fifty paces away, standing
broadside on in the shadow between two trees, I saw a splendid old bull
with a tremendous pair of horns.

“Shoot,” I whispered to Anscombe, “you will never get a better chance.
It is the sentinel of the herd.”

He knelt down, his face quite white with excitement, and covered the
bull with his Express.

“Keep cool,” I whispered again, “and aim behind the shoulder, half-way
down.”

I don’t think he understood me, for at that moment off went the rifle.
He hit the beast somewhere, as I heard the bullet clap, but not
fatally, for it turned and lumbered off up the kloof, apparently
unhurt, whereon he sent the second barrel after it, a clean miss this
time. Then of a sudden all about us appeared buffaloes that had, I
suppose, been sleeping invisible to us. These, with snorts and bellows,
rushed off towards the river, for having their senses about them, they
had no mind to be trapped in the kloof. I could only manage a shot at
one of them, a large and long-horned cow which I knocked over quite
dead. If I had fired again it would have been but to wound, a thing I
hate. The whole business was over in a minute. We went and looked at my
dead cow which I had caught through the heart.

“It’s cruel to kill these things,” I said, “for I don’t know what use
we are going to make of them, and they must love life as much as we
do.”

“We’ll cut the horns off,” said Anscombe.

“You may if you like,” I answered, “but you will find it a tough job
with a sheath knife.”

“Yes, I think that shall be the task of the worthy Footsack to-morrow,”
he replied. “Meanwhile let us go and finish off my bull, as Footsack &
Co. may as well bring home two pair of horns as one.”

I looked at the dense bush, and knowing something of the habits of
wounded buffaloes, reflected that it would be a nasty job. Still I said
nothing, because if I hesitated, I knew he would want to go alone. So
we started. Evidently the beast had been badly hit, for the blood spoor
was easy to follow. Yet it had been able to retreat up to the end of
the kloof that terminated in a cliff over which trickled a stream of
water. Here it was not more than a hundred paces wide, and on either
side of it were other precipitous cliffs. As we went from one of these
a war-horn, such as the Basutos use, was blown. Although I heard it,
oddly enough, I paid no attention to it at the time, being utterly
intent upon the business in hand.

Following a wounded buffalo bull up a tree-clad and stony kloof is no
game for children, as these beasts have a habit of returning on their
tracks and then rushing out to gore you. So I went on with every sense
alert, keeping Anscombe well behind me. As it happened our bull had
either been knocked silly or inherited no guile from his parents. When
he found he could go no further he stopped, waited behind a bush, and
when he saw us he charged in a simple and primitive fashion. I let
Anscombe fire, as I wished him to have the credit of killing it all to
himself, but somehow or other he managed to miss both barrels. Then,
trouble being imminent, I let drive as the beast lowered its head, and
was lucky enough to break its spine (to shoot at the head of a buffalo
is useless), so that it rolled over quite dead at our feet.

“You have got a magnificent pair of horns,” I said, contemplating the
fallen giant.

“Yes,” answered Anscombe, with a twinkle of his humorous eyes, “and if
it hadn’t been for you I think that I should have got them in more
senses than one.”

As the words passed his lips some missile, from its peculiar sound I
judged it was the leg off an iron pot, hurtled past my head, fired
evidently from a smoothbore gun with a large charge of bad powder. Then
I remembered the war-horn and all that it meant.

“Off you go,” I said, “we are ambushed by Kaffirs.”

We were indeed, for as we tailed down that kloof, from the top of both
cliffs above us came a continuous but luckily ill-directed fire.
Lead-coated stones, pot legs and bullets whirred and whistled all round
us, yet until the last, just when we were reaching the tree to which we
had tied our horses, quite harmlessly. Then suddenly I saw Anscombe
begin to limp. Still he managed to run on and mount, though I observed
that he did not put his right foot into the stirrup.

“What’s the matter?” I asked as we galloped off.

“Shot through the instep, I think,” he answered with a laugh, “but it
doesn’t hurt a bit.”

“I expect it will later,” I replied. “Meanwhile, thank God it wasn’t at
the top of the kloof. They won’t catch us on the horses, which they
never thought of killing first.”

“They are going to try though. Look behind you.”

I looked and saw twenty or thirty men emerging from the mouth of the
kloof in pursuit.

“No time to stop to get those horns,” he said with a sigh.

“No,” I answered, “unless you are particularly anxious to say good-bye
to the world pinned over a broken ant-heap in the sun, or something
pleasant of the sort.”

Then we rode on in silence, I thinking what a fool I had been first to
allow myself to be overruled by Anscombe and cross the river, and
secondly not to have taken warning from that war-horn. We could not go
very fast because of the difficult and swampy nature of the ground;
also the great heat of the day told on the horses. Thus it came about
that when we reached the ford we were not more than ten minutes ahead
of our active pursuers, good runners every one of them, and accustomed
to the country. I suppose that they had orders to kill or capture us at
any cost, for instead of giving up the chase, as I hoped they would,
they stuck to us in surprising fashion.

We splashed through the river, and luckily on the further bank were met
by Footsack who had seen us coming and guessed that something was
wrong.

“Inspan!” I shouted to him, “and be quick about it if you want to see
tomorrow’s light. The Basutos are after us.”

Off he went like a shot, his face quite green with fear.

“Now,” I said to Anscombe, as we let our horses take a drink for which
they were mad, “we have got to hold this ford until the wagon is ready,
or those devils will get us after all. Dismount and I’ll tie up the
horses.”

He did so with some difficulty, and at my suggestion, while I made the
beasts fast, cut the lace of his boot which was full of blood, and
soaked his wounded foot, that I had no time to examine, in the cool
water. These things done, I helped him to the rear of a thorn tree
which was thick enough to shield most of his body, and took my own
stand behind a similar thorn at a distance of a few paces.

Presently the Basutos appeared, trotting along close together whereon
Anscombe, who was seated behind the tree, fired both barrels of his
Express at them at a range of about two hundred yards. It was a foolish
thing to do, first because he missed them clean, for he had
over-estimated the range and the bullets went above their heads, and
secondly because it caused them to scatter and made them careful,
whereas had they come on in a lump we could have taught them a lesson.
However I said nothing, as I knew that reproaches would only make him
nervous. Down went those scoundrels on to their hands and knees and,
taking cover behind stones and bushes on the further bank, began to
fire at us, for they were all armed with guns of one sort and another,
and there was only about a hundred yards of water between us. As they
effected this manoeuvre I am glad to say I was able to get two of them,
while Anscombe, I think, wounded another.

After this our position grew quite warm, for as I have said the thorn
trunks were not very broad, and three or four of the natives, who had
probably been hunters, were by no means bad shots, though the rest of
them fired wildly. Anscombe, in poking his head round the tree to
shoot, had his hat knocked off by a bullet, while a slug went through
the lappet of my coat. Then a worse thing happened. Either by chance or
design Anscombe’s horse was struck in the neck and fell struggling,
whereon my beast, growing frightened, broke its riem and galloped to
the wagon. That is where I ought to have left them at first, only I
thought that we might need them to make a bolt on, or to carry Anscombe
if he could not walk.

Quite a long while went by before, glancing behind me, I saw that the
oxen that had been grazing at a little distance had at length arrived
and were being inspanned in furious haste. The Basutos saw it also, and
fearing lest we should escape, determined to try to end the business.
Suddenly they leapt from their cover, and with more courage than I
should have expected of them, rushed into the river, proposing to storm
us, which, to speak truth, I think they would have done had I not been
a fairly quick shot.

As it was, finding that they were losing too heavily from our fire,
they retreated in a hurry, leaving their dead behind them, and even a
wounded man who was clinging to a rock. He, poor wretch, was in mortal
terror lest we should shoot him again, which I had not the heart to do,
although as his leg was shattered above the knee by an Express bullet,
it might have been true kindness. Again and again he called out for
mercy, saying that he only attacked us because his chief, who had been
warned of our coming “by the White Man,” ordered him to take our guns
and cattle.

“What white man?” I shouted. “Speak or I shoot.”

There was no answer, for at this moment he fainted from loss of blood
and vanished beneath the water. Then another Basuto, I suppose he was
their captain, but do not know for he was hidden in some bushes, called
out—

“Do not think that you shall escape, White Men. There are many more of
our people coming, and we will kill you in the night when you cannot
see to shoot us.”

At this moment, too, Footsack shouted that the wagon was inspanned and
ready. Now I hesitated what to do. If we made for the wagon, which must
be very slowly because of Anscombe’s wounded foot, we had to cross
seventy or eighty yards of rising ground almost devoid of cover. If, on
the other hand, we stayed where we were till nightfall a shot might
catch one of us, or other Basutos might arrive and rush us. There was
also a third possibility, that our terrified servants might trek off
and leave us in order to save their own lives, which verily I believe
they would have done, not being of Zulu blood. I put the problem to
Anscombe, who shook his head and looked at his foot. Then he produced a
lucky penny which he carried in his pocket and said—

“Let us invoke the Fates. Heads we run like heroes; tails we stay here
like heroes,” and he spun the penny, while I stared at him open-mouthed
and not without admiration.

Never, I thought to myself, had this primitive method of cutting a
gordian knot been resorted to in such strange and urgent circumstances.

“Heads it is!” he said coolly. “Now, my boy, do you run and I’ll crawl
after you. If I don’t arrive, you know my people’s address, and I
bequeath to you all my African belongings in memory of a most pleasant
trip.”

“Don’t play the fool,” I replied sternly. “Come, put your right arm
round my neck and hop on your left leg as you never hopped before.”

Then we started, and really our transit was quite lively, for all those
Basutos began what for them was rapid firing. I think, however, that
their best shots must have fallen, for not a bullet touched us,
although before we got out of their range one or two went very near.

“There,” said Anscombe, as a last amazing hop brought him to the wagon
rail, “there, you see how wise it is to give Providence a chance
sometimes.”

“In the shape of a lucky penny,” I grumbled as I hoisted him up.

“Certainly, for why should not Providence inhabit a penny as much as it
does any other mundane thing? Oh, my dear Quatermain, have you never
been taught to look to the pence and let the rest take care of itself?”

“Stop talking rubbish and look to your foot, for the wagon is
starting,” I replied.

Then off we went at a good round trot, for never have I seen oxen more
scientifically driven than they were by Footsack and his friends on
this occasion, or a greater pace got out of them. As soon as we reached
a fairly level piece of ground I made Anscombe lie down on the cartel
of the wagon and examined his wound as well as circumstances would
allow. I found that the bullet or whatever the missile may have been,
had gone through his right instep just beneath the big sinew, but so
far as I could judge without injuring any bone. There was nothing to be
done except rub in some carbolic ointment, which fortunately he had in
his medicine chest, and bind up the wound as best I could with a clean
handkerchief, after which I tied a towel, that was _not_ clean, over
the whole foot.

By this time evening was coming on, so we ate of such as we had with
us, which we needed badly enough, without stopping the wagon. I
remember that it consisted of cheese and hard biscuits. At dark we were
obliged to halt a little by a stream until the moon rose, which
fortunately she did very soon, as she was only just past her full. As
soon as she was up we started again, and with a breathing space or two,
trekked all that night, which I spent seated on the after part of the
wagon and keeping a sharp look out, while, notwithstanding the
roughness of the road and his hurt, Anscombe slept like a child upon
the cartel inside.

I was very tired, so tired that the fear of surprise was the only thing
that kept me awake, and I recall reflecting in a stupid kind of way,
that it seemed always to have been my lot in life to watch thus, in one
sense or another, while others slept.

The night passed somehow without anything happening, and at dawn we
halted for a while to water the oxen, which we did with buckets, and
let them eat what grass they could reach from their yokes, since we did
not dare to outspan them. Just as we were starting on again the
voortrekker, whom I had set to watch at a little distance, ran up with
his eyes bulging out of his head, and reported that he had seen a
Basuto with an assegai hanging about in the bush, as though to keep
touch with us, after which we delayed no more.

All that day we blundered on, thrashing the weary cattle that at every
halt tried to lie down, and by nightfall came to the outspan near to
the house called the Temple, where we had met the Kaffirs returning
from the diamond fields. This journey we had accomplished in exactly
half the time it had taken on the outward trip. Here we were obliged to
stop, as our team must have rest and food. So we outspanned and slept
that night without much fear, since I thought it most improbable that
the Basutos would attempt to follow us so far, as we were now within a
day’s trek of Pilgrim’s Rest, whither we proposed to proceed on the
morrow. But that is just where I made a mistake.




CHAPTER IV.
DOCTOR RODD


I did get a little sleep that night, with one eye open, but before dawn
I was up again seeing to the feeding of our remaining horse with some
mealies that we carried, and other matters. The oxen we had been
obliged to unyoke that they might fill themselves with grass and water,
since otherwise I feared that we should never get them on to their feet
again. As it was, the poor brutes were so tired that some of them could
scarcely eat, and all lay down at the first opportunity.

Having awakened Footsack and the other boys that they might be ready to
take advantage of the light when it came, for I was anxious to be away,
I drank a nip of Hollands and water and ate a biscuit, making Anscombe
do the same. Coffee would have been more acceptable, but I thought it
wiser not to light a fire for fear of showing our whereabouts.

Now a faint glimmer in the east told me that the dawn was coming. Just
by the wagon grew a fair-sized, green-leaved tree, and as it was quite
easy to climb even by starlight, up it I went so as to get above the
ground mist and take a look round before we trekked. Presently the sky
grew pearly and light began to gather; then the edge of the sun
appeared, throwing long level rays across the world. Everywhere the
mist lay dense as cotton wool, except at one spot about a mile behind
us where there was a little hill or rather a wave of the ground, over
which we had trekked upon the preceding evening. The top of this rise
was above mist level, and on it no trees grew because the granite came
to the surface. Having discovered nothing, I called to the boys to
drive up the oxen, some of which had risen and were eating again, and
prepared to descend from my tree.

As I did so, out of the corner of my eye I caught sight of something
that glittered far away, so far that it would only have attracted the
notice of a trained hunter. Yes, something was shining on the brow of
the rise of which I have spoken. I stared at it through my glasses and
saw what I had feared to see. A body of natives was crossing the rise
and the glitter was caused by the rays of dawn striking on their spears
and gun-barrels.

I came down out of that tree like a frightened wild cat and ran to the
wagon, thinking hard as I went. The Basutos were after us, meaning to
attack as soon as there was sufficient light. In ten minutes or less
they would be here. There was no time to inspan the oxen, and even if
there had been, stiff and weary as the beasts were, we should be
overtaken before we had gone a hundred yards on that bad road. What
then was to be done? Run for it? It was impossible, Anscombe could not
run. My eye fell upon the horse munching the last of his mealies.

“Footsack,” I said as quietly as I could, “never mind about inspanning
yet, but saddle up the horse. Be quick now.”

He looked at me doubtfully, but obeyed, having seen nothing. If he had
seen I knew that he would have been off. I nipped round to the end of
the wagon, calling to the other two boys to let the oxen be a while and
come to me.

“Now, Anscombe,” I said, “hand out the rifles and cartridges. Don’t
stop to ask questions, but do what I tell you. They are on the rack by
your side. So. Now put on your revolver and let me help you down. Man,
don’t forget your hat.”

He obeyed quickly enough, and presently was standing on one leg by my
side, looking cramped and tottery.

“The Basutos are on us,” I said.

He whistled and remarked something about Chapter No. 2.

“Footsack,” I called, “bring the horse here; the Baas wishes to ride a
little to ease his leg.”

He did so, stopping a moment to pull the second girth tight. Then we
helped Anscombe into the saddle.

“Which way?” he asked.

I looked at the long slope in front of us. It was steep and bad going.
Anscombe might get up it on the horse before the Kaffirs overtook us,
but it was extremely problematical if we could do so. I might perhaps
if I mounted behind him and the horse could bear us both, which was
doubtful, but how about our poor servants? He saw the doubt upon my
face and said in his quiet way,

“You may remember that our white-bearded friend told us to make
straight for his place in case of any difficulty with the Basutos. It
seems to have arisen.”

“I know he did,” I answered, “but I cannot make up my mind which is the
more dangerous, Marnham or the Basutos. I rather think that he set them
on to us.”

“It is impossible to solve problems at this hour of the morning,
Quatermain, and there is no time to toss. So I vote for the Temple.”

“It seems our best chance. At any rate that’s your choice, so let’s
go.”

Then I sang out to the Kaffirs, “The Basutos are on us. We go to Tampel
for refuge. Run!”

My word! they did run. I never saw athletes make better time over the
first quarter of a mile. We ran, too, or at least the horse did, I
hanging on to the stirrup and Anscombe holding both the rifles beneath
his arm. But the beast was tired, also blown out with that morning feed
of mealies, so our progress was not very fast. When we were about two
hundred yards from the wagon I looked back and saw the Basutos
beginning to arrive. They saw us also, and uttering a sort of whistling
war cry, started in pursuit.

After this we had quite an interesting time. I scrambled on to the
horse behind Anscombe, whereon that intelligent animal, feeling the
double weight, reduced its pace proportionately, to a slow tripple,
indeed, out of which it could not be persuaded to move. So I slipped
off again over its tail and we went on as before. Meanwhile the
Basutos, very active fellows, were coming up. By this time the
yellow-wood grove in the swamp, of which I have already written, was
close to us, and it became quite a question which of us would get there
first (I may mention that Footsack & Co. had already attained its
friendly shelter). Anscombe kicked the horse with his sound heel and I
thumped it with my fist, thereby persuading it to a hand gallop.

As we reached the outlying trees of the wood the first Basuto, a lank
fellow with a mouth like a rat trap, arrived and threw an assegai at us
which passed between Anscombe’s back and my nose. Then he closed and
tried to stab with another assegai. I could do nothing, but Anscombe
showed himself cleverer than I expected. Dropping the reins, he drew
his pistol and managed to send a bullet through that child of nature’s
head, so that he went down like a stone.

“And you tell me I am a bad shot,” he drawled.

“It was a fluke,” I gasped, for even in these circumstances truth would
prevail.

“Wait and you’ll see,” he replied, re-cocking the revolver.

As a matter of fact there was no need for more shooting, since at the
verge of the swamp the Basutos pulled up. I do not think that the death
of their companion caused them to do this, for they seemed to take no
notice of him. It was as though they had reached some boundary which
they knew it would not be lawful for them to pass. They simply stopped,
took the dead man’s assegai and shield from the body and walked quietly
back towards the wagon, leaving him where he lay. The horse stopped
also, or rather proceeded at a walk.

“There!” exclaimed Anscombe. “Did I not tell you I had a presentiment
that I should kill a man in this accursed wood?”

“Yes,” I said as soon as I had recovered my breath, “but you mixed up a
woman with the matter and I don’t see one.”

“That’s true,” he replied, “I hope we shan’t meet her later.”

Then we went on as quickly as we could, which was not very fast, for I
feared lest the Basutos should change their minds and follow us. As the
risk of this became less our spirits rose, since if we had lost the
wagon and the oxen, at least we had saved our lives, which was almost
more than we could have expected in the circumstances. At last we came
to that glade where we had killed the wildebeeste not a week before.
There lay its skeleton picked clean by the great brown kites that
frequent the bush-veld, some of which still sat about in the trees.

“Well, I suppose we must go on to Tampel,” said Anscombe rather
faintly, for I could see that his wound was giving him a good deal of
pain.

As he spoke from round the tree whence he had first emerged, appeared
Mr. Marnham, riding the same horse and wearing the same clothes. The
only difference between his two entries was that the first took place
in the late evening and the second in the early morning.

“So here you are again,” he said cheerfully.

“Yes,” I answered, “and it is strange to meet you at the same spot.
Were you expecting us?”

“Not more than I expect many things,” he replied with a shrewd glance
at me, adding, “I always rise with the sun, and thinking that I heard a
shot fired in the distance, came to see what was happening. The Basutos
attacked you at daybreak, did they not?”

“They did, but how did you know that, Mr. Marnham?”

“Your servants told me. I met them running to the house looking very
frightened. You are wounded, Mr. Anscombe?”

“Yes, a couple of days ago on the border of Sekukuni’s country where
the natives tried to murder us.”

“Ah!” he replied without surprise. “I warned you the trip was
dangerous, did I not? Well, come on home where my partner, Rodd, who
luckily has had medical experience, will attend to you. Mr. Quatermain
can tell me the story as we go.”

So we went on up the long slope, I relating our adventures, to which
Mr. Marnham listened without comment.

“I expect that the Kaffirs will have looted the wagon and be on the way
home with your oxen by now,” he said when I had finished.

“Are you not afraid that they will follow us here?” I asked.

“Oh no, Mr. Quatermain. We do business with these people, also they
sometimes come to be doctored by Rodd when they are sick, so this place
is sacred ground to them. They stopped hunting you when they got to the
Yellow-wood swamp where our land begins, did they not?”

“Yes, but now I want to hunt them. Can you give me any help? Those oxen
are tired out and footsore, so we might be able to catch them up.”

He shook his head. “We have very few people here, and by the time that
you could get assistance from the Camp at Barberton, if the Commandant
is able and willing to give you any, which I rather doubt, they will be
far away. Moreover,” he added, dropping his voice, “let us come to an
understanding. You are most welcome to any help or hospitality that I
can offer, but if you wish to do more fighting I must ask you to go
elsewhere. As I have told you, we are peaceful men who trade with these
people, and do not wish to be involved in a quarrel with them, which
might expose us to attack or bring us into trouble with the British
Government which has annexed but not conquered their country. Do I make
myself clear?”

“Perfectly. While we are with you we will do nothing, but afterwards we
hold ourselves at liberty to act as we think best.”

“Quite so. Meanwhile I hope that you and Mr. Anscombe will make
yourselves comfortable with us for as long as you like.”

In my own mind I came to the conclusion that this would be for the
shortest time possible, but I only said—

“It is most kind of you to take in complete strangers thus. No, not
complete,” I added, looking towards Anscombe who was following on the
tired horse a few paces behind, “for you knew his father, did you not?”

“His father?” he said, lifting his eyebrows. “No. Oh! I remember, I
said something to that effect the other night, but it was a mistake. I
mixed up two names, as one often does after a lapse of many years.”

“I understand,” I answered, but remembering Anscombe’s story I
reflected to myself that our venerable host was an excellent liar. Or
more probably he meant to convey that he wished the subject of his
youthful reminiscences to be taboo.

Just then we reached the house which had a pretty patch of well-kept
flower-garden in front of it, surrounded by a fence covered with wire
netting to keep out buck. By the gate squatted our three retainers,
looking very blown and rather ashamed of themselves.

“Your master wishes to thank you for your help in a dark hour,
Footsack, and I wish to congratulate you all upon the swiftness of your
feet,” I said in Dutch.

“Oh! Baas, the Basutos were many and their spears are sharp,” he began
apologetically.

“Be silent, you running dog,” I said, “and go help your master to
dismount.”

Then we went through the gate, Anscombe leaning on my shoulder and on
that of Mr. Marnham, and up the path which was bordered with fences of
the monthly rose, towards the house. Really this was almost as charming
to look at near at hand as it had been from far away. Of course the
whole thing was crude in detail. Rough, half-shaped blocks of marble
from the neighbouring quarry had been built into walls and columns.
Nothing was finished, and considered bit by bit all was coarse and
ugly. Yet the general effect was beautiful because it was an effect of
design, the picture of an artist who did not fully understand the
technicalities of painting, the work of a great writer who had as yet
no proper skill in words. Never did I see a small building that struck
me more. But then what experience have I of buildings, and, as Anscombe
reminded me afterwards, it was but a copy of something designed when
the world was young, or rather when civilization was young, and man new
risen from the infinite ages of savagery, saw beauty in his dreams and
tried to symbolize it in shapes of stone.

We came to the broad stoep, to which several rough blocks of marble
served as steps. On it in a long chair made of native wood and seated
with hide rimpis, sat or rather lolled a man in a dressing-gown who was
reading a book. He raised himself as we came and the light of the sun,
for the verandah faced to the east, shone full upon his face, so that I
saw him well. It was that of a man of something under forty years of
age, dark, powerful, and weary—not a good face, I thought. Indeed, it
gave me the impression of one who had allowed the evil which exists in
the nature of all of us to become his master, or had even encouraged it
to do so.

In the Psalms and elsewhere we are always reading of the righteous and
the unrighteous until those terms grow wearisome. It is only of late
years that I have discovered, or think that I have discovered, what
they mean. Our lives cannot be judged by our deeds; they must be judged
by our desires or rather by our moral attitude. It is not what we do so
much as what we try to do that counts in the formation of character.
All fall short, all fail, but in the end those who seek to climb out of
the pit, those who strive, however vainly, to fashion failure to
success, are, by comparison, the righteous, while those who are content
to wallow in our native mire and to glut themselves with the daily
bread of vice, are the unrighteous. To turn our backs thereon wilfully
and without cause, is the real unforgiveable sin against the Spirit. At
least that is the best definition of the problem at which I in my
simplicity can arrive.

Such thoughts have often occurred to me in considering the character of
Dr. Rodd and some others whom I have known; indeed the germ of them
arose in my mind which, being wearied at the time and therefore
somewhat vacant, was perhaps the more open to external impressions, as
I looked upon the face of this stranger on the stoep. Moreover, as I am
proud to record, I did not judge him altogether wrongly. He was a
blackguard who, under other influences or with a few added grains of
self-restraint and of the power of recovery, might have become a good
or even a saintly man. But by some malice of Fate or some evil
inheritance from an unknown past, those grains were lacking, and
therefore he went not up but down the hill.

“Case for you, Rodd,” called out Marnham.

“Indeed,” he answered, getting to his feet and speaking in a full
voice, which, like his partner’s, was that of an educated Englishman.
“What’s the matter. Horse accident?”

Then we were introduced, and Anscombe began to explain his injury.

“Um!” said the doctor, studying him with dark eyes. “Kaffir bullet
through the foot some days ago. Ought to be attended to at once. Also
you look pretty done, so don’t tire yourself with the story, which I
can get from Mr. Quatermain. Come and lie down and I’ll have a look at
you while they are cooking breakfast.”

Then he guided us to a room of which the double French windows opened
on to the stoep, a very pretty room with two beds in it. Making
Anscombe lie down on one of these he turned up his trouser, undid my
rough bandage and examined the wound.

“Painful?” he asked.

“Very,” answered Anscombe, “right up to the thigh.”

After this he drew off the nether garments and made a further
examination.

“Um,” he said again, “I must syringe this out. Stay still while I get
some stuff.”

I followed him from the room, and when we were out of hearing on the
stoep inquired what he thought. I did not like the look of that leg.

“It is very bad,” he answered, “so bad that I am wondering if it
wouldn’t be best to remove the limb below the knee and make it a job.
You can see for yourself that it is septic and the inflammation is
spreading up rapidly.”

“Good Heavens!” I exclaimed, “do you fear mortification?”

He nodded. “Can’t say what was on that slug or bit of old iron and he
hasn’t had the best chance since. Mortification, or tetanus, or both,
are more than possible. Is he a temperate man?”

“So far as I know,” I answered, and stared at him while he thought.
Then he said with decision,

“That makes a difference. To lose a foot is a serious thing; some might
think almost as bad as death. I’ll give him a chance, but if those
symptoms do not abate in twenty-four hours, I must operate. You needn’t
be afraid, I was house surgeon at a London Hospital—once, and I keep my
hand in. Lucky you came straight here.”

Having made his preparations and washed his hands, he returned,
syringed the wound with some antiseptic stuff, and dressed and bandaged
the leg up to the knee. After this he gave Anscombe hot milk to drink,
with two eggs broken into it, and told him to rest a while as he must
not eat anything solid at present. Then he threw a blanket over him,
and, signing to me to come away, let down a mat over the window.

“I put a little something into that milk,” he said outside, “which will
send him to sleep for a few hours. So we will leave him quiet. Now
you’ll want a wash.”

“Where are you going to take Mr. Quatermain?” asked Marnham who was
seated on the stoep.

“Into my room,” he answered.

“Why? There’s Heda’s ready.”

“Heda might return at any moment,” replied the doctor. “Also Mr.
Quatermain had better sleep in Mr. Anscombe’s room. He will very likely
want some one to look after him at night.”

Marnham opened his mouth to speak again, then changed his mind and was
silent, as a servant is silent under rebuke. The incident was quite
trifling, yet it revealed to me the relative attitude of these two men.
Without a doubt Rodd was the master of his partner, who did not even
care to dispute with him about the matter of the use of his daughter’s
bedroom. They were a queer couple who, had it not been for my anxiety
as to Anscombe’s illness, would have interested me very much, as indeed
they were destined to do.

Well, I went to tidy up in the doctor’s room, and as he left me alone
while I washed, had the opportunity of studying it a little. Like the
rest of the house it was lined with native wood which was made to serve
as the backs of bookshelves and of cupboards filled with medicines and
instruments. The books formed a queer collection. There were medical
works, philosophical works, histories, novels, most of them French, and
other volumes of a sort that I imagine are generally kept under lock
and key; also some that had to do with occult matters. There was even a
Bible. I opened it thoughtlessly, half in idle curiosity, to see
whether it was ever used, only to replace it in haste. For at the very
page that my eye fell on, I remember it was one of my favourite
chapters in Isaiah, was a stamp in violet ink marked H. M.‘s
Prison—well, I won’t say where.

I may state, however, that the clue enabled me in after years to learn
an episode in this man’s life which had brought about his ruin. There
is no need to repeat it or to say more than that gambling and an evil
use of his medical knowledge to provide the money to pay his debts,
were the cause of his fall. The strange thing is that he should have
kept the book which had probably been given to him by the prison
chaplain. Still everybody makes mistakes sometimes. Or it may have had
associations for him, and of course he had never seen this stamp upon
an unread page, which happened to leap to my eye.

Now I was able to make a shrewd guess at his later career. After his
trouble he had emigrated and began to practise in South Africa. Somehow
his identity had been discovered; his past was dragged up against him,
possibly by rivals jealous of his skill; his business went and he found
it advisable to retire to the Transvaal before the Annexation, at that
time the home of sundry people of broken repute. Even there he did not
stop in a town, but hid himself upon the edge of savagery. Here he
foregathered with another man of queer character, Marnham, and in his
company entered upon some doubtful but lucrative form of trade while
still indulging his love of medicine by doctoring and operating upon
natives, over whom he would in this way acquire great influence.
Indeed, as I discovered before the day was over, he had quite a little
hospital at the back of the house in which were four or five beds
occupied by Kaffirs and served by two male native nurses whom he had
trained. Also numbers of out-patients visited him, some of whom
travelled from great distances, and occasionally, but not often, he
attended white people who chanced to be in the neighbourhood.

The three of us breakfasted in a really charming room from the window
of which could be studied a view as beautiful as any I know. The
Kaffirs who waited were well trained and dressed in neat linen
uniforms. The cooking was good; there was real silver on the table,
then a strange sight in that part of Africa, and amongst engravings and
other pictures upon the walls, hung an oil portrait of a very beautiful
young woman with dark hair and eyes.

“Is that your daughter, Mr. Marnham?” I asked.

“No,” he replied rather shortly, “it is her mother.”

Immediately afterwards he was called from the room to speak to some
one, whereon the doctor said—

“A foreigner as you see, a Hungarian; the Hungarian women are very good
looking and very charming.”

“So I have understood,” I answered, “but does this lady live here?”

“Oh, no. She is dead, or I believe that she is dead. I am not sure,
because I make it a rule never to pry into people’s private affairs.
All I know about her is that she was a beauty whom Marnham married late
in life upon the Continent when she was but eighteen. As is common in
such cases he was very jealous of her, but it didn’t last long, as she
died, or I understand that she died, within a year of her daughter’s
birth. The loss affected him so much that he emigrated to South Africa
with the child and began life anew. I do not think that they correspond
with Hungary, and he never speaks of her even to his daughter, which
suggests that she is dead.”

I reflected that all these circumstances might equally well suggest
several other things, but said nothing, thinking it wisest not to
pursue the subject. Presently Marnham returned and informed me that a
native had just brought him word that the Basutos had made off homeward
with our cattle, but had left the wagon and its contents quite
untouched, not even stealing the spare guns and ammunition.

“That’s luck,” I said, astonished, “but extremely strange. How do you
explain it, Mr. Marnham?”

He shrugged his shoulders and answered—

“As every one knows, you are a much greater expert in native habits and
customs than I am, Mr. Quatermain.”

“There are only two things that I can think of,” I said. “One is that
for some reason or other they thought the wagon tagati, bewitched you
know, and that it would bring evil on them to touch it, though this did
not apply to the oxen. The other is that they supposed it, but not the
oxen, to belong to some friend of their own whose property they did not
wish to injure.”

He looked at me sharply but said nothing, and I went on to tell them
the details of the attack that had been made upon us, adding—

“The odd part of the affair is that one of those Basutos called out to
us that some infernal scoundrel of a white had warned Sekukuni of our
coming and that he had ordered them to take our guns and cattle. This
Basuto, who was wounded and praying for mercy, was drowned before he
could tell me who the white man was.”

“A Boer, I expect,” said Marnham quietly. “As you know they are not
particularly well affected towards us English just now. Also I happen
to be aware that some of them are intriguing with Sekukuni against the
British through Makurupiji, his ‘Mouth’ or prime-minister, a very
clever old scamp who likes to have two stools to sit on.”

“And doubtless will end by falling between them. Well, you see, now
that I think of it, the wounded Kaffir only said that they were ordered
to take our guns and oxen, and incidentally our lives. The wagon was
not mentioned.”

“Quite so, Mr. Quatermain. I will send some of our boys to help your
servants to bring everything it contains up here.”

“Can’t you lend me a team of oxen,” I asked, “to drag it to the house?”

“No, we have nothing but young cattle left. Both red-water and
lung-sickness have been so bad this season that all the horned stock
have been swept out of the country. I doubt whether you could beg,
borrow or steal a team of oxen this side of Pretoria, except from some
of the Dutchmen who won’t part.”

“That’s awkward. I hoped to be able to trek in a day or two.”

“Your friend won’t be able to trek for a good many days at the best,”
broke in the doctor, who had been listening unconcernedly, “but of
course you could get away on the horse after it has rested.”

“You told me you left a span of oxen at Pretoria,” said Marnham. “Why
not go and fetch them here, or if you don’t like to leave Mr. Anscombe,
send your driver and the boys.”

“Thanks for the idea. I will think it over,” I answered.

That morning after Footsack and the voorlooper had been sent with some
of the servants from the Temple to fetch up the contents of the wagon,
for I was too tired to accompany them, having found that Anscombe was
still asleep, I determined to follow his example. Finding a long chair
on the stoep, I sat down and slumbered in it sweetly for hours. I
dreamt of all sorts of things, then through my dreams it seemed to me
that I heard two voices talking, those of our Marnham and Rodd, not on
the stoep, but at a distance from it. As a matter of fact they were
talking, but so far away that in my ordinary waking state I could never
have heard them. My own belief is that the senses, and I may add the
semi-spiritual part of us, are much more acute when we lie half bound
in the bonds of sleep, than when we are what is called wide awake.
Doubtless when we are quite bound they attain the limits of their power
and, I think, sail at times to the uttermost ends of being. But
unhappily of their experiences we remember nothing when we awake. In
half sleep it is different; then we do retain some recollection.

In this curious condition of mind it seemed to me that Rodd said to
Marnham—

“Why have you brought these men here?”

“I did not bring them here,” he answered. “Luck, Fate, Fortune, God or
the Devil, call it what you will, brought them here, though if you had
your wish, it is true they would never have come. Still, as they have
come, I am glad. It is something to me, living in this hell, to get a
chance of talking to English gentlemen again before I die.”

“English gentlemen,” remarked Rodd reflectively, “Well, Anscombe is of
course, but how about that other hunter? After all, in what way is he
better than the scores of other hunters and Kaffir traders and
wanderers whom one meets in this strange land?”

“In what way indeed?” thought I to myself, in my dream.

“If you can’t see, I can’t explain to you. But as I happen to know, the
man is of blood as good as mine—and a great deal better than yours,” he
added with a touch of insolence. “Moreover, he has an honest name among
white and black, which is much in this country.”

“Yes,” replied the doctor in the same reflective voice, “I agree with
you, I let him pass as a gentleman. But I repeat, Why did you bring
them here when with one more word it would have been so easy—” and he
stopped.

“I have told you, it was not I. What are you driving at?”

“Do you think it is exactly convenient, especially when we are under
the British flag again, to have two people who, we both admit, are
English gentlemen, that is, clean, clear-eyed men, considering us and
our affairs for an indefinite period, just because you wish for the
pleasure of their society? Would it not have been better to tell those
Basutos to let them trek on to Pretoria?”

“I don’t know what would have been better. I repeat, what are you
driving at?

“Heda is coming home in a day or two; she might be here any time,”
remarked Rodd as he knocked the ashes out of his pipe.

“Yes, because you made me write and say that I wanted her. But what of
that?”

“Nothing in particular, except that I am not sure that I wish her to
associate with ‘an English gentleman’ like this Anscombe.”

Marnham laughed scornfully. “Ah! I understand,” he said. “Too clean and
straight. Complications might ensue and the rest of it. Well, I wish to
God they would, for I know the Anscombes, or used to, and I know the
genus called Rodd.”

“Don’t be insulting; you may carry the thing too far one day, and
whatever I have done I have paid for. But you’ve not paid—yet.”

“The man is very ill. You are a skilled doctor. If you’re afraid of
him, why don’t you kill him?” asked Marnham with bitter scorn.

“There you have me,” replied Rodd. “Men may shed much, but most of them
never shed their professional honour. I shall do my honest best to cure
Mr. Anscombe, and I tell you that he will take some curing.”

Then I woke up, and as no one was in sight, wondered whether or no I
had been dreaming. The upshot of it was that I made up my mind to send
Footsack to Pretoria for the oxen, not to go myself.




CHAPTER V.
A GAME OF CARDS


I slept in Anscombe’s room that night and looked after him. He was very
feverish and the pain in his leg kept him awake a good deal. He told me
that he could not bear Dr. Rodd and wished to get away at once. I had
to explain to him that this was impossible until his spare oxen arrived
which I was going to send for to Pretoria, but of other matters,
including that of the dangerous state of his foot, I said nothing. I
was thankful when towards two in the morning, he fell into a sound
sleep and allowed me to do the same.

Before breakfast time, just as I had finished dressing myself in some
of the clean things which had been brought from the wagon, Rodd came
and made a thorough and business-like examination of his patient, while
I awaited the result with anxiety on the stoep. At length he appeared
and said—

“Well, I think that we shall be able to save the foot, though I can’t
be quite sure for another twenty-four hours. The worst symptoms have
abated and his temperature is down by two degrees. Anyway he will have
to stay in bed and live on light food till it is normal, after which he
might lie in a long chair on the stoep. On no account must he attempt
to stand.”

I thanked him for his information heartily enough and asked him if he
knew where Marnham was, as I wanted to speak to him with reference to
the despatch of Footsack to fetch the oxen from Pretoria.

“Not up yet, I think,” he answered. “I fancy that yesterday was one of
his ‘wet’ nights, excitement of meeting strangers and so on.”

“Wet nights?” I queried, wishing for a clearer explanation.

“Yes, he is a grand old fellow, one of the best, but like most other
people he has his little weaknesses, and when the fit is on him he can
put away a surprising amount of liquor. I tell you so that you should
not be astonished if you notice anything, or try to argue with him when
he is in that state, as then his temper is apt to be—well, lively. Now
I must go and give him a pint of warm milk; that is his favourite
antidote, and in fact the best there is.”

I thought to myself that we had struck a nice establishment in which to
be tied, literally by the leg, for an indefinite period. I was not
particularly flush at the time, but I know I would have paid a £100 to
be out of it; before the end I should have been glad to throw in
everything that I had. But mercifully that was hidden from me.

Rodd and I breakfasted together and discoursed of Kaffir customs, as to
which he was singularly well informed. Then I accompanied him to see
his native patients in the little hospital of which I have spoken.
Believing the man to be a thorough scamp as I did, it was astonishing
to me to note how gentle and forbearing he was to these people. Of his
skill I need say nothing, as that was evident. He was going to perform
an internal operation upon a burly old savage, rather a serious one I
believe; at any rate it necessitated chloroform. He asked me if I would
like to assist, but I declined respectfully, having no taste for such
things. So I left him boiling his instruments and putting on what
looked like a clean nightgown over his clothes, and returned to the
stoep.

Here I found Marnham, whose eyes were rather bloodshot, though
otherwise, except for a shaky hand, he seemed right enough. He murmured
something about having overslept himself and inquired very politely,
for his manners were beautiful, after Anscombe and as to whether we
were quite comfortable and so forth. After this I consulted him as to
the best road for our servants to travel by to Pretoria, and later on
despatched them, giving Footsack various notes to ensure the delivery
of the oxen to him. Also I gave him some money to pay for their keep
and told him with many threats to get back with the beasts as quick as
he could travel. Then I sent him and the two other boys off, not
without misgivings, although he was an experienced man in his way and
promised faithfully to fulfil every injunction to the letter. To me he
seemed so curiously glad to go that I inquired the reason, since after
a journey like ours, it would have been more natural if he had wished
to rest.

“Oh! Baas,” he said, “I don’t think this Tampel very healthy for
coloured people. I am told of some who have died here. That man Karl
who gave me the diamond, I think he must have died also, at least I saw
his spook last night standing over me and shaking his head, and the
boys saw it too.”

“Oh! be off with your talk of spooks,” I said, “and come back quickly
with those oxen, or I promise you that you will die and be a spook
yourself.”

“I will, Baas, I will!” he ejaculated and departed almost at a run,
leaving me rather uncomfortable.

I believed nothing of the tale of the spook of Karl, but I saw that
Footsack believed in it, and was afraid lest he might be thereby
prevented from returning. I would much rather have gone myself, but it
was impossible for me to leave Anscombe so ill in the hands of our
strange hosts. And there was no one else whom I could send. I might
perhaps have ridden to Pilgrim’s Rest and tried to find a white
messenger there; indeed afterwards I regretted not having done so,
although it would have involved at least a day’s absence at a very
critical time. But the truth is I never thought of it until too late,
and probably if I had, I should not have been able to discover anyone
whom I could trust.

As I walked back to the house, having parted from Footsack on the top
of a neighbouring ridge whence I could point out his path to him, I met
Marnham riding away. He pulled up and said that he was going down to
the Granite stream to arrange about setting some one up to watch the
wagon. I expressed sorrow that he should have the trouble, which should
have been mine if I could have got away, whereon he answered that he
was glad of the opportunity for a ride, as it was something to do.

“How do you fill in your time here,” I asked carelessly, “as you don’t
farm?”

“Oh! by trading,” he replied, and with a nod set his horse to a canter.

A queer sort of trading, thought I to myself, where there is no store.
Now what exactly does he trade in, I wonder?

As it happened I was destined to find out before I was an hour older.
Having given Anscombe a look and found that he was comfortable, I
thought that I would inspect the quarry whence the marble came of which
the house was built, as it had occurred to me that if there was plenty
of it, it might be worth exploiting some time in the future. It had
been pointed out to me in the midst of some thorns in a gully that ran
at right angles to the main kloof not more than a few hundred yards
from the house. Following a path over which the stones had been dragged
originally, I came to the spot and discovered that a little cavity had
been quarried in what seemed to me to be a positive mountain of pure
white marble. I examined the place as thoroughly as I could, climbing
among some bushes that grew in surface earth which had been washed down
from the top, in order to do so.

At the back of these bushes there was a hole large enough for a man to
creep through. I crept through with the object of ascertaining whether
the marble veins continued. To my surprise I found a stout yellow-wood
door within feet of the mouth of the hole. Reflecting that no doubt it
was here that the quarrymen kept, or had kept tools and explosives, I
gave it a push. I suppose it had been left unfastened accidentally, or
that something had gone wrong with the lock; at any rate it swung open.
Pursuing my researches as to the depth of the marble I advanced boldly
and, the place being dark, struck a match. Evidently the marble did
continue, as I could see by the glittering roof of a cavern, for such
it was. But the floor attracted my attention as well as the roof, for
on it were numerous cases not unlike coffins, bearing the stamp of a
well-known Birmingham firm, labelled “fencing iron” and addressed to
Messrs. Marnham & Rodd, Transvaal, _via_ Delagoa Bay.

I knew at once what they were, having seen the like before, but if any
doubt remained in my mind it was easy to solve, for as it chanced one
of the cases was open and half emptied. I slipped my hand into it. As I
thought it contained the ordinary Kaffir gun of commerce, cost
delivered in Africa, say 35s.; cost delivered to native chief in cash
or cattle, say £10, which, when the market is eager, allows for a
decent profit. Contemplating those cases, survivors probably of a much
larger stock, I understood how it came about that Sekukuni had dared to
show fight against the Government. Doubtless it was hence that the guns
had come which sent a bullet through Anscombe’s foot and nearly
polished off both of us.

Moreover, as further matches showed me, that cave contained other
stores—item, kegs of gunpowder; item, casks of cheap spirit; item, bars
of lead, also a box marked “bullet moulds” and another marked
“Percussion caps.” I think, too, there were some innocent bags full of
beads and a few packages of Birmingham-made assegai blades. There may
have been other things, but if so I did not wait to investigate them.
Gathering up the ends of my matches and, in case there should be any
dust in the place that would show footmarks, flapping the stone floor
behind me with my pocket handkerchief, I retired and continued my
investigations of that wonderful marble deposit from the bottom of the
quarry, to which, having re-arranged the bushes, I descended by another
route, leaping like a buck from stone to stone.

It was just as well that I did so, for a few minutes later Dr. Rodd
appeared.

“Made a good job of your operation?” I asked cheerfully.

“Pretty fair, thanks,” he answered, “although that Kaffir tried to
brain the nurse-man when he was coming out of the anæsthetic. But are
you interested in geology?”

“A little,” I replied, “that is if there is any chance of making money
out of it, which there ought to be here, as this marble looks almost as
good as that of Carrara. But flint instruments are more my line, that
is in an ignorant and amateur way, as I think they are in yours, for I
saw some in your room. Tell me, what do you think of this. Is it a
scraper?” and I produced a stone out of my pocket which I had found a
week before in the bush-veld.

At once he forgot his suspicions, of which I could see he arrived very
full indeed. This curious man, as it happened, was really fond of flint
instruments, of which he knew a great deal.

“Did you find this here?” he asked.

I led him several yards further from the mouth of the cave and pointed
out the exact spot where I said I had picked it up amongst some quarry
debris. Then followed a most learned discussion, for it appeared that
this was a flint instrument of the rarest and most valuable type, one
that Noah might have used, or Job might have scraped himself with, and
the question was how the dickens had it come among that quarry debris.
In the end we left the problem undecided, and having presented the
article to Dr. Rodd, a gift for which he thanked me with real warmth, I
returned to the house filled with the glow that rewards one who has
made a valuable discovery.

Of the following three days I have nothing particular to say, except
that during them I was perhaps more acutely bored than ever I had been
in my life before. The house was beautiful in its own fashion; the food
was excellent; there was everything I could want to drink, and Rodd
announced that he no longer feared the necessity of operation upon
Anscombe’s leg. His recovery was now a mere matter of time, and
meanwhile he must not use his foot or let the blood run into it more
than could be helped, which meant that he must keep himself in a
recumbent position. The trouble was that I had nothing on earth to do
except study the characters of our hosts, which I found disagreeable
and depressing. I might have gone out shooting, but nothing of the sort
was allowed upon the property in obedience to the wish of Miss Heda, a
mysterious young person who was always expected and never appeared, and
beyond it I was afraid to travel for fear of Basutos. I might have gone
to Pilgrim’s Rest or Lydenburg to make report of the nefarious deeds of
the said Basutos, but at best it would have taken one or two days, and
possibly I should have been detained by officials who never consider
any one’s time except their own.

This meant that I should have been obliged to leave Anscombe alone,
which I did not wish to do, so I just sat still and, as I have said,
was intensely bored, hanging about the place and smoking more than was
good for me.

In due course Anscombe emerged on to the stoep, where he lay with his
leg up, and was also bored, especially after he had tried to pump old
Marnham about his past in the Guards and completely failed. It was in
this mood of utter dejection that we agreed to play a game of cards one
evening. Not that either of us cared for cards; indeed, personally, I
have always detested them because, with various-coloured counters to
represent money which never passed, they had formed one of the
afflictions of my youth.

It was so annoying if you won, to be handed a number of green counters
and be informed that they represented so many hundreds or thousands of
pounds, or vice-versa if you lost, for as it cost no one anything, my
dear father insisted upon playing for enormous stakes. Never in any
aspect of life have I cared for fooling. Anscombe also disliked cards,
I think because his ancestors too had played with counters, such as
some that I have seen belonging to the Cocoa-Tree Club and other
gambling places of a past generation, marked as high as a thousand
guineas, which counters must next morning be redeemed in hard cash,
whereby his family had been not a little impoverished.

“I fancy you will find they are high-fliers,” he said when the pair had
left to fetch a suitable table, for the night being very hot we were
going to play on the stoep by the light of the hanging paraffin lamp
and some candles. I replied to the effect that I could not afford to
lose large sums of money, especially to men who for aught I knew might
then be engaged in marking the cards.

“I understand,” he answered. “Don’t you bother about that, old fellow.
This is my affair, arranged for my special amusement. I shan’t grumble
if the fun costs something, for I am sure there will be fun.”

“All right,” I said, “only if we should happen to win money, it’s
yours, not mine.”

To myself I reflected, however, that with these two opponents we had
about as much chance of winning as a snowflake has of resisting the
atmosphere of the lower regions.

Presently they returned with the table, which had a green cloth over it
that hung down half-way to the ground. Also one of the native boys
brought a tray with spirits, from which I judged by various signs, old
Marnham, who had already drunk his share at dinner, had helped himself
freely on the way. Soon we were arranged, Anscombe, who was to be my
partner, opposite to me in his long chair, and the game began.

I forget what particular variant of cards it was we played, though I
know it admitted of high and progressive stakes. At first, however,
these were quite moderate and we won, as I suppose we were meant to do.
After half an hour or so Marnham rose to help himself to brandy and
water, a great deal of brandy and very little water, while I took a nip
of Hollands, and Anscombe and Rodd filled their pipes.

“I think this is getting rather slow,” said Rodd to Anscombe. “I vote
we put a bit more on.”

“As much as you like,” answered Anscombe with a little drawl and
twinkle of the eye, which always showed that he was amused. “Both
Quatermain and I are born gamblers. Don’t look angry, Quatermain, you
know you are. Only if we lose you will have to take a cheque, for I
have precious little cash.”

“I think that will be good enough,” replied the doctor quietly—“if you
lose.”

So the stakes were increased to an amount that made my hair stand up
stiffer even than usual, and the game went on. Behold! a marvel came to
pass. How it happened I do not know, unless Marnham had brought the
wrong cards by mistake or had grown too fuddled to understand his
partner’s telegraphic signals, which I, being accustomed to observe,
saw him make, not once but often, still we won! What is more, with a
few set-backs, we went on winning, till presently the sums written down
to our credit, for no actual cash passed, were considerable. And all
the while, at the end of each bout Marnham helped himself to more
brandy, while the doctor grew more mad in a suppressed-thunder kind of
a way. For my part I became alarmed, especially as I perceived that
Anscombe was on the verge of breaking into open merriment, and his legs
being up I could not kick him under the table.

“My partner ought to go to bed. Don’t you think we should stop?” I
said.

“On the whole I do,” replied Rodd, glowering at Marnham, who, somewhat
unsteadily, was engaged in wiping drops of brandy from his long beard.

“D——d if I do,” exclaimed that worthy. “When I was young and played
with gentlemen they always gave losers an opportunity of revenge.”

“Then,” replied Anscombe with a flash of his eyes, “let us try to
follow in the footsteps of the gentlemen with whom you played in your
youth. I suggest that we double the stakes.”

“That’s right! That’s the old form!” said Marnham.

The doctor half rose from his chair, then sat down again. Watching him,
I concluded that he believed his partner, a seasoned vessel, was not so
drunk as he pretended to be, and either in an actual or a figurative
sense, had a card up his sleeve. If so, it remained there, for again we
won; all the luck was with us.

“I am getting tired,” drawled Anscombe. “Lemon and water are not
sustaining. Shall we stop?”

“By Heaven! no,” shouted Marnham, to which Anscombe replied that if it
was wished, he would play another hand, but no more.

“All right,” said Marnham, “but let it be for double or quits.”

He spoke quite quietly and seemed suddenly to have grown sober. Now I
think that Rodd made up his mind that he really was acting and that he
really had that card up his sleeve. At any rate he did not object. I,
however, was of a different opinion, having often seen drunken men
succumb to an access of sobriety under the stress of excitement and
remarked that it did not last long.

“Do you really mean that?” I said, speaking for the first time and
addressing myself to the doctor. “I don’t quite know what the sum
involved is, but it must be large.”

“Of course,” he answered.

Then remembering that at the worst Anscombe stood to lose nothing, I
shrugged my shoulders and held my tongue. It was Marnham’s deal, and
although he was somewhat in the shadow of the hanging lamp and the
candles had guttered out, I distinctly saw him play some hocus-pocus
with the cards, but in the circumstances made no protest. As it chanced
he must have hocus-pocused them wrong, for though _his_ hand was full
of trumps, Rodd held nothing at all. The battle that ensued was quite
exciting, but the end of it was that an ace in the hand of Anscombe,
who really was quite a good player, did the business, and we won again.

In the rather awful silence that followed Anscombe remarked in his
cheerful drawl—

“I’m not sure that my addition is quite right; we’ll check that in the
morning, but I make out that you two gentlemen owe Quatermain and
myself £749 10s.”

Then the doctor broke out.

“You accursed old fool,” he hissed—there is no other word for it—at
Marnham. “How are you going to pay all this money that you have gambled
away, drunken beast that you are!”

“Easily enough, you felon,” shouted Marnham. “So,” and thrusting his
hand into his pocket he pulled out a number of diamonds which he threw
upon the table, adding, “there’s what will cover it twice over, and
there are more where they came from, as you know well enough, my
medical jailbird.”

“You dare to call me that,” gasped the doctor in a voice laden with
fury, so intense that it had deprived him of his reason,
“you—you—murderer! Oh! why don’t I kill you as I shall some day?” and
lifting his glass, which was half full, he threw the contents into
Marnham’s face.

“That’s a nice man for a prospective son-in-law, isn’t he?” exclaimed
the old scamp, as, seizing the brandy decanter, he hurled it straight
at Rodd’s head, only missing him by an inch.

“Don’t you think you had both better go to bed, gentlemen?” I inquired.
“You are saying things you might regret in the morning.”

Apparently they did think it, for without another word they rose and
marched off in different directions to their respective rooms, which I
heard both of them lock. For my part I collected the I.O.U.‘s; also the
diamonds which still lay upon the table, while Anscombe examined the
cards.

“Marked, by Jove!” he said. “Oh! my dear Quatermain, never have I had
such an amusing evening in all my life.”

“Shut up, you silly idiot,” I answered. “There’ll be murder done over
this business, and I only hope it won’t be on us.”




CHAPTER VI.
MISS HEDA


It might be thought that after all this there would have been a painful
explanation on the following morning, but nothing of the sort happened.
After all the greatest art is the art of ignoring things, without which
the world could scarcely go on, even among the savage races. Thus on
this occasion the two chief actors in the scene of the previous night
pretended that they had forgotten what took place, as I believe, to a
large extent truly. The fierce flame of drink in the one and of passion
in the other had burnt the web of remembrance to ashes. They knew that
something unpleasant had occurred and its main outlines; the rest had
vanished away; perhaps because they knew also that they were not
responsible for what they said and did, and therefore that what
occurred had no right to a permanent niche in their memories. It was,
as it were, something outside of their normal selves. At least so I
conjectured, and their conduct seemed to give colour to my guess.

The doctor spoke to me of the matter first.

“I fear there was a row last night,” he said; “it has happened here
before over cards, and will no doubt happen again until matters clear
themselves up somehow. Marnham, as you see, drinks, and when drunk is
the biggest liar in the world, and I, I am sorry to say, am cursed with
a violent temper. Don’t judge either of us too harshly. If you were a
doctor you would know that all these things come to us with our blood,
and we didn’t fashion our own clay, did we? Have some coffee, won’t
you?”

Subsequently when Rodd wasn’t there, Marnham spoke also and with that
fine air of courtesy which was peculiar to him.

“I owe a deep apology,” he said, “to yourself and Mr. Anscombe. I do
not recall much about it, but I know there was a scene last night over
those cursed cards. A weakness overtakes me sometimes. I will say no
more, except that you, who are also a man who perhaps have felt
weaknesses of one sort or another, will, I hope, make allowances for me
and pay no attention to anything that I may have said or done in the
presence of guests; yes, that is what pains me—in the presence of
guests.”

Something in his distinguished manner caused me to reflect upon every
peccadillo that I had ever committed, setting it in its very worst
light.

“Quite so,” I answered, “quite so. Pray do not mention the matter any
more, although—” These words seemed to jerk themselves out of my
throat, “you did call each other by such very hard names.”

“I daresay,” he answered with a vacant smile, “but if so they meant
nothing.”

“No, I understand, just like a lovers’ quarrel. But look here, you left
some diamonds on the table which I took to keep the Kaffirs out of
temptation. I will fetch them.”

“Did I? Well, probably I left some I.O.U.‘s also which might serve for
pipelights. So suppose we set the one against the other. I don’t know
the value of either the diamonds or the pipelights, it may be less or
more, but for God’s sake don’t let me see the beastly things again.
There’s no need, I have plenty.”

“I must speak to Anscombe,” I answered. “The money at stake was his,
not mine.”

“Speak to whom you will,” he replied, and I noted that the throbbing
vein upon his forehead indicated a rising temper. “But never let me see
those diamonds again. Throw them into the gutter if you wish, but never
let me see them again, or there will be trouble.”

Then he flung out of the room, leaving his breakfast almost untasted.

Reflecting that this queer old bird probably did not wish to be
cross-questioned as to his possession of so many uncut diamonds, or
that they were worth much less than the sum he had lost, or possibly
that they were not diamonds at all but glass, I went to report the
matter to Anscombe. He only laughed and said that as I had got the
things I had better keep them until something happened, for we had both
got it into our heads that something would happen before we had done
with that establishment.

So I went to put the stones away as safely as I could. While I was
doing so I heard the rumble of wheels, and came out just in time to see
a Cape cart, drawn by four very good horses and driven by a Hottentot
in a smart hat and a red waistband, pull up at the garden gate. Out of
this cart presently emerged a neatly dressed lady, of whom all I could
see was that she was young, slender and rather tall; also, as her back
was towards me, that she had a great deal of auburn hair.

“There!” said Anscombe. “I knew that something would happen. Heda has
happened. Quatermain, as neither her venerated parent nor her loving
fiance, for such I gather he is, seems to be about, you had better go
and give her a hand.”

I obeyed with a groan, heartily wishing that Heda hadn’t happened,
since some sense warned me that she would only add to the present
complications. At the gate, having given some instructions to a very
stout young coloured woman who, I took it, was her maid, about a basket
of flower roots in the cart, she turned round suddenly and we came face
to face with the gate between us. For a moment we stared at each other,
I reflecting that she really was very pretty with her delicately-shaped
features, her fresh, healthy-looking complexion, her long dark
eyelashes and her lithe and charming figure. What she reflected about
me I don’t know, probably nothing half so complimentary. Suddenly,
however, her large greyish eyes grew troubled and a look of alarm
appeared upon her face.

“Is anything wrong with my father?” she asked. “I don’t see him.”

“If you mean Mr. Marnham,” I replied, lifting my hat, “I believe that
Dr. Rodd and he—”

“Never mind about Dr. Rodd,” she broke in with a contemptuous little
jerk of her chin, “how is my father?”

“I imagine much as usual. He and Dr. Rodd were here a little while ago,
I suppose that they have gone out” (as a matter of fact they had, but
in different directions).

“Then that’s all right,” she said with a sigh of relief. “You see, I
heard that he was very ill, which is why I have come back.”

So, thought I to myself, she loves that old scamp and she—doesn’t love
the doctor. There will be more trouble as sure as five and two are
seven. All we wanted was a woman to make the pot boil over.

Then I opened the gate and took a travelling bag from her hand with my
politest bow.

“My name is Quatermain and that of my friend Anscombe. We are staying
here, you know,” I said rather awkwardly.

“Indeed,” she answered with a delightful smile, “what a very strange
place to choose to stay in.”

“It is a beautiful house,” I remarked.

“Not bad, although I designed it, more or less. But I was alluding to
its inhabitants.”

This finished me, and I am sure she felt that I could think of nothing
nice to say about those inhabitants, for I heard her sigh. We walked
side by side up the rose-fringed path and presently arrived at the
stoep, where Anscombe, whose hair I had cut very nicely on the previous
day, was watching us from his long chair. They looked at each other,
and I saw both of them colour a little, out of mere foolishness, I
suppose.

“Anscombe,” I said, “this is—” and I paused, not being quite certain
whether she also was called Marnham. “Heda Marnham,” she interrupted.

“Yes—Miss Heda Marnham, and this is the Honourable Maurice Anscombe.”

“Forgive me for not rising, Miss Marnham,” said Anscombe in his
pleasant voice (by the way hers was pleasant too, full and rather low,
with just a suggestion of something foreign about it). “A shot through
the foot prevents me at present.”

“Who shot you?” she asked quickly.

“Oh! only a Kaffir.”

“I am so sorry, I hope you will get well soon. Forgive me now, I must
go to look for my father.”

“She is uncommonly pretty,” remarked Anscombe, “and a lady into the
bargain. In reflecting on old Marnham’s sins we must put it to his
credit that he has produced a charming daughter.”

“Too pretty and charming by half,” I grunted.

“Perhaps Dr. Rodd is of the same way of thinking. Great shame that such
a girl should be handed over to a medical scoundrel like Dr. Rodd. I
wonder if she cares for him?”

“Just about as much as a canary cares for a tom-cat. I have found that
out already.”

“Really, Quatermain, you are admirable. I never knew anyone who could
make a better use of the briefest opportunity.”

Then we were silent, waiting, not without a certain impatience, for the
return of Miss Heda. She did return with surprising quickness
considering that she had found time to search for her parent, to change
into a clean white dress, and to pin a single hibiscus flower on to her
bodice which gave just the touch of colour that was necessary to
complete her costume.

“I can’t find my father,” she said, “but the boys say he has gone out
riding. I can’t find anybody. When you have been summoned from a long
way off and travelled post-haste, rather to your own inconvenience, it
is amusing, isn’t it?”

“Wagons and carts in South Africa don’t arrive like express trains,
Miss Marnham,” said Anscombe, “so you shouldn’t be offended.”

“I am not at all offended, Mr. Anscombe. Now that I know there is
nothing the matter with my father I’m—But, tell me, how did you get
your wound?”

So he told her with much amusing detail after his fashion. She listened
quietly with a puckered up brow and only made one comment. It was,—

“I wonder what white man told those Sekukuni Kaffirs that you were
coming.”

“I don’t know,” he answered, “but he deserves a bullet through him
somewhere above the ankle.”

“Yes, though few people get what they deserve in this wicked world.”

“So I have often thought. Had it been otherwise, for example, I should
have been—”

“What would you have been?” she asked, considering him curiously.

“Oh! a better shot than Mr. Allan Quatermain, and as beautiful as a
lady I once saw in my youth.”

“Don’t talk rubbish before luncheon,” I remarked sternly, and we all
laughed, the first wholesome laughter that I had heard at the Temple.
For this young lady seemed to bring happiness and merriment with her. I
remember wondering what it was of which her coming reminded me, and
concluding that it was like the sight and smell of a peach orchard in
full bloom stumbled on suddenly in the black desert of the burnt winter
veld.

After this we became quite friendly. She dilated on her skill in having
produced the Temple from an old engraving, which she fetched and showed
to us, at no greater an expense than it would have cost to build an
ordinary house.

“That is because the marble was at hand,” said Anscombe.

“Quite so,” she replied demurely. “Speaking in a general sense one can
do many things in life—if the marble is at hand. Only most of us when
we look for marble find sandstone or mud.”

“Bravo!” said Anscombe, “I have generally lit upon the sandstone.”

“And I on the mud,” she mused.

“And I on all three, for the earth contains marble and mud and
sandstone, to say nothing of gold and jewels,” I broke in, being tired
of silence.

But neither of them paid much attention to me. Anscombe did say, out of
politeness, I suppose, that pitch and subterranean fires should be
added, or some such nonsense.

Then she began to tell him of her infantile memories of Hungary, which
were extremely faint; of how they came to this place and lived first of
all in two large Kaffir huts, until suddenly they began to grow rich;
of her school days at Maritzburg; of the friends with whom she had been
staying, and I know not what, until at last I got up and went out for a
walk.

When I returned an hour or so later they were still talking, and so
continued to do until Dr. Rodd arrived upon the scene. At first they
did not see him, for he stood at an angle to them, but I saw him and
watched his face with a great deal of interest. It, or rather its
expression, was not pleasant; before now I have seen something like it
on that of a wild beast which thinks that it is about to be robbed of
its prey by a stronger wild beast, in short, a mixture of hate, fear
and jealousy—especially jealousy. At the last I did not wonder, for
these two seemed to be getting on uncommonly well.

They were, so to speak, well matched. She, of course, was the better
looking of the two, a really pretty and attractive young woman indeed,
but the vivacity of Anscombe’s face, the twinkle of his merry blue eyes
and its general refinement made up for what he lacked—regularity of
feature. I think he had just told her one of his good stories which he
always managed to make so humorous by a trick of pleasing and harmless
exaggeration, and they were both laughing merrily. Then she caught
sight of the doctor and her merriment evaporated like a drop of water
on a hot shovel. Distinctly I saw her pull herself together and prepare
for something.

“How do you do?” she said rapidly, rising and holding out her slim
sun-browned hand. “But I need not ask, you look so well.”

“How do you do, my dear,” with a heavy emphasis on the “dear” he
answered slowly. “But I needn’t ask, for I see that you are in perfect
health and spirits,” and he bent forward as though to kiss her.

Somehow or other she avoided that endearment or seal of possession. I
don’t quite know how, as I turned my head away, not wishing to witness
what I felt to be unpleasant. When I looked up again, however, I saw
that she had avoided it, the scowl on his face, the demureness of hers
and Anscombe’s evident amusement assured me of this. She was asking
about her father; he answered that he also seemed quite well.

“Then why did you write to tell me that I ought to come as he was not
at all well?” she inquired, with a lifting of her delicate eyebrows.

The question was never answered, for at that moment Marnham himself
appeared.

“Oh! father,” she said, and rushed into his arms, while he kissed her
tenderly on both cheeks.

So I was not mistaken, thought I to myself, she does really love this
moral wreck, and what is more, he loves her, which shows that there
must be good in him. Is anyone truly bad, I wondered, or for the matter
of that, truly good either? Is it not all a question of circumstance
and blood?

Neither then or at any other time have I found an answer to the
problem. At any rate to me there seemed something beautiful about the
meeting of these two.

The influence of Miss Heda in the house was felt at once. The boys
became smarter and put on clean clothes. Vases of flowers appeared in
the various rooms; ours was turned out and cleaned, a disagreeable
process so far as we were concerned. Moreover, at dinner both Marnham
and Rodd wore dress clothes with short jackets, a circumstance that put
Anscombe and myself to shame since we had none. It was curious to see
how with those dress clothes, which doubtless awoke old associations
within him, Marnham changed his colour like a chameleon. Really he
might have been the colonel of a cavalry regiment rising to toast the
Queen after he had sent round the wine, so polite and polished was his
talk. Who could have identified the man with the dry old ruffian of
twenty-four hours before, he who was drinking claret (and very good
claret too) mixed with water and listening with a polite interest to
all the details of his daughter’s journey? Even the doctor looked a
gentleman, which doubtless he was once upon a time, in evening dress.
Moreover, some kind of truce had been arranged. He no longer called
Miss Heda “My dear” or attempted any familiarities, while she on more
than one occasion very distinctly called him Dr. Rodd.

So much for that night and for several others that followed. As for the
days they went by pleasantly and idly. Heda walked about on her
father’s arm, conversed in friendly fashion with the doctor, always
watching him, I noticed, as a cat watches a dog that she knows is
waiting an opportunity to spring, and for the rest associated with us
as much as she could. Particularly did she seem to take refuge behind
my own insignificance, having, I suppose, come to the conclusion that I
was a harmless person who might possibly prove useful. But all the
while I felt that the storm was banking up. Indeed Marnham himself, at
any rate to a great extent, played the part of the cloud-compelling
Jove, for soon it became evident to me, and without doubt to Dr. Rodd
also, that he was encouraging the intimacy between his daughter and
Anscombe by every means in his power.

In one way and another he had fully informed himself as to Anscombe’s
prospects in life, which were brilliant enough. Moreover he liked the
man who, as the remnant of the better perceptions of his youth told
him, was one of the best class of Englishmen, and what is more, he saw
that Heda liked him also, as much indeed as she disliked Rodd. He even
spoke to me of the matter in a round-about kind of fashion, saying that
the young woman who married Anscombe would be lucky and that the father
who had him for a son-in-law might go to his grave confident of his
child’s happiness. I answered that I agreed with him, unless the lady’s
affections had already caused her to form other ties.

“Affections!” he exclaimed, dropping all pretence, “there are none
involved in this accursed business, as you are quite sharp enough to
have seen for yourself.”

“I understood that an engagement was involved,” I remarked.

“On my part, perhaps, not on hers,” he answered. “Oh! can’t you
understand, Quatermain, that sometimes men find themselves forced into
strange situations against their will?”

Remembering the very ugly name that I had heard Rodd call Marnham on
the night of the card party, I reflected that I could understand well
enough, but I only said—

“After all marriage is a matter that concerns a woman even more than it
does her father, one, in short, of which she must be the judge.”

“Quite so, Quatermain, but there are some daughters who are prepared to
make great sacrifices for their fathers. Well, she will be of age ere
long, if only I can stave it off till then. But how, how?” and with a
groan he turned and left me.

That old gentleman’s neck is in some kind of a noose, thought I to
myself, and his difficulty is to prevent the rope from being drawn
tight. Meanwhile this poor girl’s happiness and future are at stake.

“Allan,” said Anscombe to me a little later, for by now he called me by
my Christian name, “I suppose you haven’t heard anything about those
oxen, have you?”

“No, I could scarcely expect to yet, but why do you ask?”

He smiled in his droll fashion and replied, “Because, interesting as
this household is in sundry ways, I think it is about time that we, or
at any rate that I, got out of it.”

“Your leg isn’t fit to travel yet, Anscombe, although Rodd says that
all the symptoms are very satisfactory.”

“Yes, but to tell you the truth I am experiencing other symptoms quite
unknown to that beloved physician and so unfamiliar to myself that I
attribute them to the influences of the locality. Altitude affects the
heart, does it not, and this house stands high.”

“Don’t play off your jokes on me,” I said sternly. “What do you mean?”

“I wonder if you find Miss Heda attractive, Allan, or if you are too
old. I believe there comes an age when the only beauties that can move
a man are those of architecture, or scenery, or properly cooked food.”

“Hang it all! I am not Methusaleh,” I replied; “but if you mean that
you are falling in love with Heda, why the deuce don’t you say so,
instead of wasting my time and your own?”

“Because time was given to us to waste. Properly considered it is the
best use to which it can be put, or at any rate the one that does least
mischief. Also because I wished to make you say it for me that I might
judge from the effect of your words whether it is or is not true. I may
add that I fear the former to be the case.”

“Well, if you are in love with the girl you can’t expect one so ancient
as myself, who is quite out of touch with such follies, to teach you
how to act.”

“No, Allan. Unfortunately there are occasions when one must rely upon
one’s own wisdom, and mine, what there is of it, tells me I had better
get out of this. But I can’t ride even if I took the horse and you ran
behind, and the oxen haven’t come.”

“Perhaps you could borrow Miss Marnham’s cart in which to run away from
her,” I suggested sarcastically.

“Perhaps, though I believe it would be fatal to my foot to sit up in a
cart for the next few days, and the horses seem to have been sent off
somewhere. Look here, old fellow,” he went on, dropping his bantering
tone, “it’s rather awkward to make a fool of oneself over a lady who is
engaged to some one else, especially if one suspects that with a little
encouragement she might begin to walk the same road. The truth is I
have taken the fever pretty bad, worse than ever I did before, and if
it isn’t stopped soon it will become chronic.”

“Oh no, Anscombe, only intermittent at the worst, and African malaria
nearly always yields to a change of climate.”

“How can I expect a cynic and a misogynist to understand the simple
fervour of an inexperienced soul—Oh! drat it all, Quatermain, stop your
acid chaff and tell me what is to be done. Really I am in a tight
place.”

“Very; so tight that I rejoice to think, as you were kind enough to
point out, that my years protect me from anything of the sort. I have
no advice to give; I think you had better ask it of the lady.”

“Well, we did have a little conversation, hypothetical of course, about
some friends of ours who found themselves similarly situated, and I
regret to say without result.”

“Indeed. I did not know you had any mutual acquaintances. What did she
say and do?”

“She said nothing, only sighed and looked as though she were going to
burst into tears, and all she did was to walk away. I’d have followed
her if I could, but as my crutch wasn’t there it was impossible. It
seemed to me that suddenly I had come up against a brick wall, that
there was something on her mind which she could not or would not let
out.”

“Yes, and if you want to know, I will tell you what it is. Rodd has got
a hold over Marnham of a sort that would bring him somewhere near the
gallows. As the price of his silence Marnham has promised him his
daughter. The daughter knows that her father is in this man’s power,
though I think she does not know in what way, and being a good girl—”

“An angel you mean—do call her by her right name, especially in a place
where angels are so much wanted.”

“Well, an angel if you like—she has promised on her part to marry a man
she loathes in order to save her parent’s bacon.”

“Just what I concluded, from what we heard in the row. I wonder which
of that pair is the bigger blackguard. Well, Allan, that settles it.
You and I are on the side of the angel. You will have to get her out of
this scrape and—if she’ll have me, I’ll marry her; and if she won’t,
why it can’t be helped. Now that’s a fair division of labour. How are
you going to do it? I haven’t an idea, and if I had, I should not
presume to interfere with one so much older and wiser than myself.”

“I suppose that by the time you appeared in it, the game of heads I win
and tails you lose had died out of the world,” I replied with an
indignant snort. “I think the best thing I can do will be to take the
horse and look for those oxen. Meanwhile you can settle your business
by the light of your native genius, and I only hope you’ll finish it
without murder and sudden death.”

“I say, old fellow,” said Anscombe earnestly, “you don’t really mean to
go off and leave me in this hideousness? I haven’t bothered much up to
the present because I was sure that you would find a way out, which
would be nothing to a man of your intellect and experience. I mean it
honestly, I do indeed.”

“Do you? Well, I can only say that my mind is a perfect blank, but if
you will stop talking I will try to think the matter over. There’s Miss
Heda in the garden cutting flowers. I will go to help her, which will
be a very pleasant change.”

And I went, leaving him to stare after me jealously.




CHAPTER VII.
THE STOEP


When I reached Miss Heda she was collecting half-opened monthly roses
from the hedge, and not quite knowing what to say I made the
appropriate quotation. At least it was appropriate to my thought, and,
from her answer, to hers also.

“Yes,” she said, “I am gathering them while I may,” and she sighed and,
as I thought, glanced towards the verandah, though of this I could not
be sure because of the wide brim of the hat she was wearing.

Then we talked a little on indifferent matters, while I pricked my
fingers helping to pluck the roses. She asked me if I thought that
Anscombe was getting on well, and how long it would be before he could
travel. I replied that Dr. Rodd could tell her better than myself, but
that I hoped in about a week.

“In a week!” she said, and although she tried to speak lightly there
was dismay in her voice.

“I hope you don’t think it too long,” I answered; “but even if he is
fit to go, the oxen have not come yet, and I don’t quite know when they
will.”

“Too long!” she exclaimed. “Too long! Oh! if you only knew what it is
to me to have such guests as you are in this place,” and her dark eyes
filled with tears.

By now we had passed to the side of the house in search of some other
flower that grew in the shade, I think it was mignonette, and were out
of sight of the verandah and quite alone.

“Mr. Quatermain,” she said hurriedly, “I am wondering whether to ask
your advice about something, if you would give it. I have no one to
consult here,” she added rather piteously.

“That is for you to decide. If you wish to do so I am old enough to be
your father, and will do my best to help.”

We walked on to an orange grove that stood about forty yards away,
ostensibly to pick some fruit, but really because we knew that there we
should be out of hearing and could see any one who approached.

“Mr. Quatermain,” she said presently in a low voice, “I am in great
trouble, almost the greatest a woman can have. I am engaged to be
married to a man whom I do not care for.”

“Then why not break it off? It may be unpleasant, but it is generally
best to face unpleasant things, and nothing can be so bad as marrying a
man whom you do not—care for.”

“Because I cannot—I dare not. I have to obey.”

“How old are you, Miss Marnham?”

“I shall be of age in three months’ time. You may guess that I did not
intend to return here until they were over, but I was, well—trapped. He
wrote to me that my father was ill and I came.”

“At any rate when they are over you will not have to obey any one. It
is not long to wait.”

“It is an eternity. Besides this is not so much a question of obedience
as of duty and of love. I love my father who, whatever his faults, has
always been very kind to me.”

“And I am sure he loves you. Why not go to him and tell him your
trouble?”

“He knows it already, Mr. Quatermain, and hates this marriage even more
than I do, if that is possible. But he is driven to it, as I am. Oh! I
must tell the truth. The doctor has some hold over him. My father has
done something dreadful; I don’t know what and I don’t want to know,
but if it came out it would ruin my father, or worse, worse. I am the
price of his silence. On the day of our marriage he will destroy the
proofs. If I refuse to marry him, they will be produced and then—”

“It is difficult,” I said.

“It is more than difficult, it is terrible. If you could see all there
is in my heart, you would know how terrible.”

“I think I can see, Miss Heda. Don’t say any more now. Give me time to
consider. In case of necessity come to me again, and be sure that I
will protect you.”

“But you are going in a week.”

“Many things happen in a week. Sufficient to the day is its evil. At
the end of the week we will come to some decision unless everything is
already decided.”

For the next twenty-four hours I reflected on this pretty problem as
hard as ever I did on anything in all my life. Here was a young woman
who must somehow be protected from a scoundrel, but who could not be
protected because she herself had to protect another scoundrel—to wit,
her own father. Could the thing be faced out? Impossible, for I was
sure that Marnham had committed a murder, or murders, of which Rodd
possessed evidence that would hang him. Could Heda be married to
Anscombe at once? Yes, if both were willing, but then Marnham would
still be hung. Could they elope? Possibly, but with the same result.
Could I take her away and put her under the protection of the Court at
Pretoria? Yes, but with the same result. I wondered what my Hottentot
retainer, Hans, would have advised, he who was named Light-in-Darkness,
and in his own savage way was the cleverest and most cunning man that I
have met. Alas! I could not raise him from the grave to tell me, and
yet I knew well what he would have answered.

“Baas,” he would have said, “this is a rope which only the pale old man
(i.e., death) can cut. Let this doctor die or let the father die, and
the maiden will be free. Surely heaven is longing for one or both of
them, and if necessary, Baas, I believe that I can point out a path to
heaven!”

I laughed to myself at the thought, which was one that a white man
could not entertain even as a thought. And I felt that the hypothetical
Hans was right, death alone could cut this knot, and the reflection
made me shiver.

That night I slept uneasily and dreamed. I dreamed that once more I was
in the Black Kloof in Zululand, seated in front of the huts at the end
of the kloof. Before me squatted the old wizard, Zikali, wrapped up in
his kaross—Zikali, the “Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born,” whom I
had not seen for years. Near him were the ashes of a fire, by the help
of which I knew he had been practising divination. He looked up and
laughed one of his terrible laughs.

“So you are here again, Macumazahn,” he said, “grown older, but still
the same; here at the appointed hour. What do you come to seek from the
Opener of Roads? Not Mameena as I think this time. No, no, it is she
who seeks you this time, Macumazahn. She found you once, did she not?
Far away to the north among a strange people who worshipped an Ivory
Child, a people of whom I knew in my youth, and afterwards, for was not
their prophet, Harut, a friend of mine and one of our brotherhood? She
found you beneath the tusks of the elephant, Jana, whom Macumazahn the
skilful could not hit. Oh! do not look astonished.”

“How do you know?” I asked in my dream.

“Very simply, Macumazahn. A little yellow man named Hans has been with
me and told me all the story not an hour ago, after which I sent for
Mameena to learn if it were true. She will be glad to meet you,
Macumazahn, she who has a hungry heart that does not forget. Oh! don’t
be afraid. I mean here beneath the sun, in the land beyond there will
be no need for her to meet you since she will dwell ever at your side.”

“Why do you lie to me, Zikali?” I seemed to ask. “How can a dead man
speak to you and how can I meet a woman who is dead?”

“Seek the answer to that question in the hour of the battle when the
white men, your brothers, fall beneath assegai as weeds fall before the
hoe—or perhaps before it. But have done with Mameena, since she who
never grows more old can well afford to wait. It is not of Mameena that
you came to speak to me; it is of a fair white woman named Heddana you
would speak, and of the man she loves, you, who will ever be mixing
yourself up in affairs of others, and therefore must bear their burdens
with no pay save that of honour. Hearken, for the time is short. When
the storm bursts upon them bring hither the fair maiden, Heddana, and
the white lord, Mauriti, and I will shelter them for your sake. Take
them nowhere else. Bring them hither if they would escape trouble. I
shall be glad to see you, Macumazahn, for at last I am about to smite
the Zulu House of Senzangacona, my foes, with a bladder full of blood,
and oh! it stains their doorposts red.”

Then I woke up, feeling afraid, as one does after a nightmare, and was
comforted to hear Anscombe sleeping quietly on the other side of the
room.

“Mauriti. Why did Zikali call him Mauriti?” I wondered drowsily to
myself. “Oh! of course his name is Maurice, and it was a Zulu
corruption of a common sort as was Heddana of Heda.” Then I dozed off
again, and by the morning had forgotten all about my dream until it was
brought back to me by subsequent events. Still it was this and nothing
else that put it into my head to fly to Zululand on an emergency that
was to arise ere long.[1]

 [1] For the history of Zikali and Mameena see the book called _Child
 of Storm_ by H. Rider Haggard.


That evening Rodd was absent from dinner, and on inquiring where he
might be, I was informed that he had ridden to visit a Kaffir headman,
a patient of his who lived at a distance, and would very probably sleep
at the kraal, returning early next day. One of the topics of
conversation during dinner was as to where the exact boundary line used
to run between the Transvaal and the country over which the Basuto
chief, Sekukuni, claimed ownership and jurisdiction. Marnham said that
it passed within a couple of miles of his house, and when we rose, the
moon being very bright, offered to show me where the beacons had been
placed years before by a Boer Commission. I accepted, as the night was
lovely for a stroll after the hot day. Also I was half conscious of
another undefined purpose in my mind, which perhaps may have spread to
that of Marnham. Those two young people looked very happy together
there on the stoep, and as they must part so soon it would, I thought,
be kind to give them the opportunity of a quiet chat.

So off we went to the brow of the hill on which the Temple stood,
whence old Marnham pointed out to me a beacon, which I could not see in
the dim, silvery bush-veld below, and how the line ran from it to
another beacon somewhere else.

“You know the Yellow-wood swamp,” he said. “It passes straight through
that. That is why those Basutos who were following you pulled up upon
the edge of the swamp, though as a matter of fact, according to their
ideas, they had a perfect right to kill you on their side of the line
which cuts through the middle.”

I made some remark to the effect that I presumed that the line had in
fact ceased to exist at all, as the Basuto territory had practically
become British; after which we strolled back to the house. Walking
quietly between the tall rose hedges and without speaking, for each of
us was preoccupied with his own thoughts, suddenly we came upon a very
pretty scene.

We had left Anscombe and Heda seated side by side on the stoep. They
were still there, but much closer together. In fact his arms were round
her, and they were kissing each other in a remarkably whole-hearted
way. About this there could be no mistake, since the rimpi-strung couch
on which they sat was immediately under the hanging lamp—a somewhat
unfortunate situation for such endearments. But what did they think of
hanging lamps or any other lights, save those of their own eyes, they
who were content to kiss and murmur words of passion as though they
were as much alone as Adam and Eve in Eden? What did they think either
of the serpent coiled about the bole of this tree of knowledge whereof
they had just plucked the ripe and maddening fruit?

By a mutual instinct Marnham and I withdrew ourselves, very gently
indeed, purposing to skirt round the house and enter it from behind, or
to be seized with a fit of coughing at the gate, or to do something to
announce our presence at a convenient distance. When we had gone a
little way we heard a crash in the bushes.

“Another of those cursed baboons robbing the garden,” remarked Marnham
reflectively.

“I think he is going to rob the house also,” I replied, turning to
point to something dark that seemed to be leaping up on to the
verandah.

Next moment we heard Heda utter a little cry of alarm, and a man say in
a low fierce voice—

“So I have caught you at last, have I!”

“The doctor has returned from his business rounds sooner than was
expected, and I think that we had better join the party,” I remarked,
and made a bee line for the stoep, Marnham following me.

I think that I arrived just in time to prevent mischief. There, with a
revolver in his hand, stood Rodd, tall and formidable, his dark face
looking like that of Satan himself, a very monument of rage and
jealousy. There in front of him on the couch sat Heda, grasping its
edge with her fingers, her cheeks as pale as a sheet and her eyes
shining. By her side was Anscombe, cool and collected as usual, I
noticed, but evidently perplexed.

“If there is any shooting to be done,” he was saying, “I think you had
better begin with me.”

His calmness seemed to exasperate Rodd, who lifted the revolver. But I
too was prepared, for in that house I always went armed. There was no
time to get at the man, who was perhaps fifteen feet away, and I did
not want to hurt him. So I did the best I could; that is, I fired at
the pistol in his hand, and the light being good, struck it near the
hilt and knocked it off the barrel before he could press the trigger,
if he really meant to shoot.

“That’s a good shot,” remarked Anscombe who had seen me, while Rodd
stared at the hilt which he still held.

“A lucky one,” I answered, walking forward. “And now, Dr. Rodd, will
you be so good as to tell me what you mean by flourishing a revolver,
presumably loaded, in the faces of a lady and an unarmed man?”

“What the devil is that to you,” he asked furiously, “and what do you
mean by firing at me?”

“A great deal,” I answered, “seeing that a young woman and my friend
are concerned. As for firing at you, had I done so you would not be
asking questions now. I fired at the pistol in your hand, but if there
is more trouble next time it shall be at the holder,” and I glanced at
my revolver.

Seeing that I meant business he made no reply, but turned upon Marnham
who had followed me.

“This is your work, you old villain,” he said in a low voice that was
heavy with hate. “You promised your daughter to me. She is engaged to
me, and now I find her in this wanderer’s arms.”

“What have I to do with it?” said Marnham. “Perhaps she has changed her
mind. You had better ask her.”

“There is no need to ask me,” interrupted Heda, who now seemed to have
got her nerve again. “I _have_ changed my mind. I never loved you, Dr.
Rodd, and I will not marry you. I love Mr. Anscombe here, and as he has
asked me to be his wife I mean to marry him.”

“I see,” he sneered, “you want to be a peeress one day, no doubt. Well,
you never shall if I can help it. Perhaps, too, this fine gentleman of
yours will not be so particularly anxious to marry you when he learns
that you are the daughter of a murderer.”

That word was like a bombshell bursting among us. We looked at each
other as people, yet dazed with the shock, might on a battlefield when
the noise of the explosion has died and the smoke cleared away, to see
who is still alive. Anscombe spoke the first.

“I don’t know what you mean or to what you refer,” he said quietly.
“But at any rate this lady who has promised to marry me is innocent,
and therefore if all her ancestors had been murderers it would not in
the slightest turn me from my purpose of marrying her.”

She looked at him, and all the gratitude in the world shone in her
frightened eyes. Marnham stepped, or rather staggered forward, the blue
vein throbbing on his forehead.

“He lies,” he said hoarsely, tugging at his long beard. “Listen now and
I will tell you the truth. Once, more than a year ago, I was drunk and
in a rage. In this state I fired at a Kaffir to frighten him, and by
some devil’s chance shot him dead. That’s what he calls being a
murderer.”

“I have another tale,” said Rodd, “with which I will not trouble this
company just now. Look here, Heda, either you fulfil your promise and
marry me, or your father swings.”

She gasped and sank together on the seat as though she had been shot.
Then I took up my parable.

“Are you the man,” I asked, “to accuse others of crime? Let us see. You
have spent several months in an English prison (I gave the name) for a
crime I won’t mention.”

“How do you know—” he began.

“Never mind, I do know and the prison books will show it. Further, your
business is that of selling guns and ammunition to the Basutos of
Sekukuni’s tribe, who, although the expedition against them has been
temporarily recalled, are still the Queen’s enemies. Don’t deny it, for
I have the proofs. Further, it was you who advised Sekukuni to kill us
when we went down to his country to shoot the other day, because you
were afraid that we should discover whence he got his guns.” (This was
a bow drawn at a venture, but the arrow went home, for I saw his jaw
drop.) “Further, I believe you to be an illicit diamond buyer, and I
believe also that you have again been arranging with the Basutos to
make an end of us, though of these last two items at present I lack
positive proof. Now, Dr. Rodd, I ask you for the second time whether
you are a person to accuse others of crimes and whether, should you do
so, you will be considered a credible witness when your own are brought
to light?”

“If I had been guilty of any of these things, which I am not, it is
obvious that my partner must have shared in all of them, except the
first. So if you inform against me, you inform against him, and the
father of Heda, whom your friend wishes to marry, will, according to
your showing, be proved a gun-runner, a thief and a would-be murderer
of his guests. I should advise you to leave that business alone, Mr.
Quatermain.”

The reply was bold and clever, so much so that I regarded this
blackguard with a certain amount of admiration, as I answered—

“I shall take your advice if you take mine to leave another business
alone, that of this young lady and her father, but not otherwise.”

“Then spare your breath and do your worst; only careful, sharp as you
think yourself, that your meddling does not recoil on your own head.
Listen, Heda, either you make up your mind to marry me at once and
arrange that this young gentleman, who as a doctor I assure you is now
quite fit to travel without injury to his health, leaves this house
to-morrow with the spy Quatermain—you might lend him the Cape cart to
go in—or I start with the proofs to lay a charge of murder against your
father. I give you till to-morrow morning to have a family council to
think it over. Good-night.”

“Good-night,” I answered as he passed me, “and please be careful that
none of us see your face again before to-morrow morning. As you may
happen to have heard, my native name means Watcher-by-Night,” and I
looked at the revolver in my hand.

When he had vanished I remarked in as cheerful voice as I could
command, that I thought it was bedtime, and as nobody stirred, added,
“Don’t be afraid, young lady. If you feel lonely, you must tell that
stout maid of yours to sleep in your room. Also, as the night is so hot
I shall take my nap on the stoep, there, just opposite your window. No,
don’t let us talk any more now. There will be plenty of time for that
to-morrow.”

She rose, looked at Anscombe, looked at me, looked at her father very
pitifully; then with a little exclamation of despair passed into her
room by the French window, where presently I heard her call the native
maid and tell her that she was to sleep with her.

Marnham watched her depart. Then he too went with his head bowed and
staggering a little in his walk. Next Anscombe rose and limped off into
his room, I following him.

“Well, young man,” I said, “you have put us all in the soup now and no
mistake.”

“Yes, Allan, I am afraid I have. But on the whole don’t you think it
rather interesting soup—so many unexpected ingredients, you see!”

“Interesting soup! Unexpected ingredients!” I repeated after him,
adding, “Why not call it hell’s broth at once?”

Then he became serious, dreadfully serious.

“Look here,” he said, “I love Heda, and whatever her family history may
be I mean to marry her and face the row at home.”

“You could scarcely do less in all the circumstances, and as for rows,
that young lady would soon fit herself into any place that you can give
her. But the question is, how can you marry her?”

“Oh! something will happen,” he replied optimistically.

“You are quite right there. Something will certainly happen, but the
point is—what? Something was very near happening when I turned up on
that stoep, so near that I think it was lucky for you, or for Miss
Heda, or both, that I have learned how to handle a pistol. Now let me
see your foot, and don’t speak another word to me about all this
business to-night. I’d rather tackle it when I am clear-headed in the
morning.”

Well, I examined his instep and leg very carefully and found that Rodd
was right. Although it still hurt him to walk, the wound was quite
healed and all inflammation had gone from the limb. Now it was only a
question of time for the sinews to right themselves. While I was thus
engaged he held forth on the virtues and charms of Heda, I making no
comment.

“Lie down and get to sleep, if you can,” I said when I had finished.
“The door is locked and I am going on to the stoep, so you needn’t be
afraid of the windows. Good-night.”

I went out and sat myself down in such a position that by the light of
the hanging lamp, which still burned, I could make sure that no one
could approach either Heda’s or my room without my seeing him. For the
rest, all my life I have been accustomed to night vigils, and the
loaded revolver hung from my wrist by a loop of hide. Moreover, never
had I felt less sleepy. There I sat hour after hour, thinking.

The substance of my thoughts does not matter, since the events that
followed make them superfluous to the story. I will merely record,
therefore, that towards dawn a great horror took hold of me. I did not
know of what I was afraid, but I was much afraid of something. Nothing
was passing in either Heda’s or our room, of that I made sure by
personal examination. Therefore it would seem that my terrors were
unnecessary, and yet they grew and grew. I felt sure that something was
happening somewhere, a dread occurrence which it was beyond my power to
prevent, though whether it were in this house or at the other end of
Africa I did not know.

The mental depression increased and culminated. Then of a sudden it
passed completely away, and as I mopped the sweat from off my brow I
noticed that dawn was breaking. It was a tender and beautiful dawn, and
in a dim way I took it as a good omen. Of course it was nothing but the
daily resurrection of the sun, and yet it brought to me comfort and
hope. The night was past with all its fears; the light had come with
all its joys. From that moment I was certain that we should triumph
over these difficulties and that the end of them would be peace.

So sure was I that I ventured to take a nap, knowing that the slightest
movement or sound would wake me. I suppose I slept until six o’clock,
when I was aroused by a footfall. I sprang up, and saw before me one of
our native servants. He was trembling and his face was ashen beneath
the black. Moreover he could not speak. All he did was to put his head
on one side, like a dead man, and keep on pointing downwards. Then with
his mouth open and starting eyes he beckoned to me to follow him.

I followed.




CHAPTER VIII.
RODD’S LAST CARD


The man led me to Marnham’s room, which I had never entered before. All
I could see at first, for the shutters were closed, was that the place
seemed large, as bedchambers go in South Africa. When my eyes grew
accustomed to the light, I made out the figure of a man seated in a
chair with his head bent forward over a table that was placed at the
foot of the bed almost in the centre of the room. I threw open the
shutters and the morning light poured in. The man was Marnham. On the
table were writing materials, also a brandy bottle with only a dreg of
spirit in it. I looked for the glass and found it by his side on the
floor, shattered, not merely broken.

“Drunk,” I said aloud, whereon the servant, who understood me, spoke
for the first time, saying in a frightened voice in Dutch—

“No, Baas, dead, half cold. I found him so just now.”

I bent down and examined Marnham, also felt his face. Sure enough, he
was dead, for his jaw had fallen; also his flesh was chill, and from
him came a horrible smell of brandy. I thought for a moment, then bade
the boy fetch Dr. Rodd and say nothing to any one else, He went, and
now for the first time I noticed a large envelope addressed “Allan
Quatermain, Esq.” in a somewhat shaky hand. This I picked up and
slipped into my pocket.

Rodd arrived half dressed.

“What’s the matter now?” he growled.

I pointed to Marnham, saying—

“That is a question for you to answer.

“Oh! drunk again, I suppose,” he said. Then he did as I had done, bent
down and examined him. A few seconds later he stepped or reeled back,
looking as frightened as a man could be, and exclaiming—

“Dead as a stone, by God! Dead these three hours or more.”

“Quite so,” I answered, “but what killed him?”

“How should I know?” he asked savagely. “Do you suspect me of poisoning
him?”

“My mind is open,” I replied; “but as you quarrelled so bitterly last
night, others might.”

The bolt went home; he saw his danger.

“Probably the old sot died in a fit, or of too much brandy. How can one
know without a post-mortem? But that mustn’t be made by me. I’m off to
inform the magistrate and get hold of another doctor. Let the body
remain as it is until I return.”

I reflected quickly. Ought I to let him go or not? If he had any hand
in this business, doubtless he intended to escape. Well, supposing this
were so and he did escape, that would be a good thing for Heda, and
really it was no affair of mine to bring the fellow to justice.
Moreover there was nothing to show that he was guilty; his whole manner
seemed to point another way, though of course he might be acting.

“Very well,” I replied, “but return as quickly as possible.”

He stood for a few seconds like a man who is dazed. It occurred to me
that it might have come into his mind with Marnham’s death that he had
lost his hold over Heda. But if so he said nothing of it, but only
asked—

“Will you go instead of me?”

“On the whole I think not,” I replied, “and if I did, the story I
should have to tell might not tend to your advantage.”

“That’s true, damn you!” he exclaimed and left the room.

Ten minutes later he was galloping towards Pilgrim’s Rest. Before I
departed from the death chamber I examined the place carefully to see
if I could find any poison or other deadly thing, but without success.
One thing I did discover, however. Turning the leaf of a blotting-book
that was by Marnham’s elbow, I came upon a sheet of paper on which were
written these words in his hand, “Greater love hath no man than this—”
that was all.

Either he had forgotten the end of the quotation or changed his mind,
or was unable through weakness to finish the sentence. This paper also
I put in my pocket. Bolting the shutters and locking the door I
returned to the stoep, where I was alone, for as yet no one else was
stirring. Then I remembered the letter in my pocket and opened it. It
ran—

“DEAR MR. QUATERMAIN,—

    “I have remembered that those who quarrel with Dr. Rodd are apt to
    die soon and suddenly; at any rate life at my age is always
    uncertain. Therefore, as I know you to be an honest man, I am
    enclosing my will that it may be in safe keeping and purpose to
    send it to your room to-morrow morning. Perhaps when you return to
    Pretoria you will deposit it in the Standard Bank there, and if I
    am still alive, forward me the receipt. You will see that I leave
    everything to my daughter whom I dearly love, and that there is
    enough to keep the wolf from her door, besides my share in this
    property, if it is ever realized.

    “After all that has passed to-night I do not feel up to writing a
    long letter, so


“Remain sincerely yours,
“H. A. MARNHAM.”


“PS.—I should like to state clearly upon paper that my earnest hope and
wish are that Heda may get clear of that black-hearted, murderous,
scoundrel Rodd and marry Mr. Anscombe, whom I like and who, I am sure,
would make her a good husband.”


Thinking to myself this did not look very like the letter of a suicide,
I glanced through the will, as the testator seemed to have wished that
I should do so. It was short, but properly drawn, signed, and
witnessed, and bequeathed a sum of £9,000, which was on deposit at the
Standard Bank, together with all his other property, real and personal,
to Heda for her own sole use, free from the debts and engagements of
her husband, should she marry. Also she was forbidden to spend more
than £1,000 of the capital. In short the money was strictly tied up.
With the will were some other papers that apparently referred to
certain property in Hungary to which Heda might become entitled, but
about these I did not trouble.

Replacing these documents in a safe inner pocket in the lining of my
waistcoat, I went into our room and woke up Anscombe who was sleeping
soundly, a fact that caused an unreasonable irritation in my mind. When
at length he was thoroughly aroused I said to him—

“You are in luck’s way, my friend. Marnham is dead.”

“Oh! poor Heda,” he exclaimed, “she loved him. It will half break her
heart.”

“If it breaks half of her heart,” I replied, “it will mend the other
half, for now her filial affection can’t force her to marry Rodd, and
that is where you are in luck’s way.”

Then I told him all the story.

“Was he murdered or did he commit suicide?” he asked when I had
finished.

“I don’t know, and to tell you the truth I don’t want to know; nor will
you if you are wise, unless knowledge is forced upon you. It is enough
that he is dead, and for his daughter’s sake the less the circumstances
of his end are examined into the better.”

“Poor Heda!” he said again, “who will tell her? I can’t. _You_ found
him, Allan.”

“I expected that job would be my share of the business, Anscombe. Well,
the sooner it is over the better. Now dress yourself and come on to the
stoep.”

Then I left him and next minute met Heda’s fat, half-breed maid, a
stupid but good sort of a woman who was called Kaatje, emerging from
her mistress’s room with a jug, to fetch hot water, I suppose.

“Kaatje,” I said, “go back and tell the Missie Heda that I want to
speak to her as soon as I can. Never mind the hot water, but stop and
help her to dress.”

She began to grumble a little in a good-natured way, but something in
my eye stopped her and she went back into the room. Ten minutes later
Heda was by my side.

“What is it, Mr. Quatermain?” she asked. “I feel sure that something
dreadful has happened.”

“It has, my dear,” I answered, “that is, if death is dreadful. Your
father died last night.”

“Oh!” she said, “oh!” and sank back on to the seat.

“Bear up,” I went on, “we must all die one day, and he had reached the
full age of man.”

“But I loved him,” she moaned. “He had many faults I know, still I
loved him.”

“It is the lot of life, Heda, that we should lose what we love. Be
thankful, therefore, that you have some one left to love.”

“Yes, thank God! that’s true. If it had been him—no, it’s wicked to say
that.”

Then I told her the story, and while I was doing so, Anscombe joined
us, walking by aid of his stick. Also I showed them both Marnham’s
letter to me and the will, but the other bit of paper I did not speak
of or show.

She sat very pale and quiet and listened till I had done. Then she
said—

“I should like to see him.”

“Perhaps it is as well,” I answered. “If you can bear it, come at once,
and do you come also, Anscombe.”

We went to the room, Anscombe and Heda holding each other by the hand.
I unlocked the door and, entering, threw open a shutter. There sat the
dead man as I had left him, only his head had fallen over a little. She
gazed at him, trembling, then advanced and kissed his cold forehead,
muttering,

“Good-bye, father. Oh! good-bye, father.”

A thought struck me, and I asked—

“Is there any place here where your father locked up things? As I have
shown you, you are his heiress, and if so it might be as well in this
house that you should possess yourself of his property.”

“There is a safe in the corner,” she answered, “of which he always kept
the key in his trouser pocket.”

“Then with your leave I will open it in your presence.”

Going to the dead man I searched his pocket and found in it a bunch of
keys. These I withdrew and went to the safe over which a skin rug was
thrown. I unlocked it easily enough. Within were two bags of gold, each
marked £100; also another larger bag marked “My wife’s jewelry. For
Heda”; also some papers and a miniature of the lady whose portrait hung
in the sitting-room; also some loose gold.

“Now who will take charge of these?” I asked. “I do not think it safe
to leave them here.”

“You, of course,” said Anscombe, while Heda nodded.

So with a groan I consigned all these valuables to my capacious
pockets. Then I locked up the empty safe, replaced the keys where I had
found them on Marnham, fastened the shutter and left the room with
Anscombe, waiting for a while outside till Heda joined us, sobbing a
little. After this we got something to eat, insisting on Heda doing the
same.

On leaving the table I saw a curious sight, namely, the patients whom
Rodd was attending in the little hospital of which I have spoken,
departing towards the bush-veld, those of them who could walk well and
the attendants assisting the others. They were already some distance
away, too far indeed for me to follow, as I did not wish to leave the
house. The incident filled me with suspicion, and I went round to the
back to make inquiries, but could find no one. As I passed the hospital
door, however, I heard a voice calling in Sisutu—

“Do not leave me behind, my brothers.”

I entered and saw the man on whom Rodd had operated the day of our
arrival, lying in bed and quite alone. I asked him where the others had
gone. At first he would not answer, but when I pretended to leave him,
called out that it was back to their own country. Finally, to cut the
story short, I extracted from him that they had left because they had
news that the Temple was going to be attacked by Sekukuni and did not
wish to be here when I and Anscombe were killed. How the news reached
him he refused, or could not, say; nor did he seem to know anything of
the death of Marnham. When I pressed him on the former point, he only
groaned and cried for water, for he was in pain and thirsty. I asked
him who had told Sekukuni’s people to kill us, but he refused to speak.

“Very well,” I said, “then you shall lie here alone and die of thirst,”
and again I turned towards the door.

At this he cried out—

“I will tell you. It was the white medicine-man who lives here; he who
cut me open. He arranged it all a few days ago because he hates you.
Last night he rode to tell the impi when to come.”

“When is it to come?” I asked, holding the jug of water towards him.

“To-night at the rising of the moon, so that it may get far away before
the dawn. My people are thirsty for your blood and for that of the
other white chief, because you killed so many of them by the river. The
others they will not harm.”

“How did you learn all this?” I asked him again, but without result,
for he became incoherent and only muttered something about being left
alone because the others could not carry him. So I gave him some water,
after which he fell asleep, or pretended to do so, and I left him,
wondering whether he was delirious, or spoke truth. As I passed the
stables I saw that my own horse was there, for in this district horses
are always shut up at night to keep them from catching sickness, but
that the four beasts that had brought Heda from Natal in the Cape cart
were gone, though it was evident that they had been kraaled here till
within an hour or two. I threw my horse a bundle of forage and returned
to the house by the back entrance. The kitchen was empty, but crouched
by the door of Marnham’s room sat the boy who had found him dead. He
had been attached to his master and seemed half dazed. I asked him
where the other servants were, to which he replied that they had all
run away. Then I asked him where the horses were. He answered that the
Baas Rodd had ordered them to be turned out before he rode off that
morning. I bade him accompany me to the stoep, as I dared not let him
out of my sight, which he did unwillingly enough.

There I found Anscombe and Heda. They were seated side by side upon the
couch. Tears were running down her face and he, looking very troubled,
held her by the hand. Somehow that picture of Heda has always remained
fixed in my mind. Sorrow becomes some women and she was one of them.
Her beautiful dark grey eyes did not grow red with weeping; the tears
just welled up in them and fell like dewdrops from the heart of a
flower.

She sat very upright and very still, as he did, looking straight in
front of her, while a ray of sunshine, falling on her head, showed the
chestnut-hued lights in her waving hair, of which she had a great
abundance.

Indeed the pair of them, thus seated side by side, reminded me of an
engraving I had seen somewhere of the statues of a husband and wife in
an old Egyptian tomb. With just such a look did the woman of thousands
of years ago sit gazing in patient hope into the darkness of the
future. Death had made her sad, but it was gone by, and the little
wistful smile about her lips seemed to suggest that in this darkness
her sorrowful eyes already saw the stirring of the new life to be.
Moreover, was not the man she loved the companion of her hopes as he
had been of her woes. Such was the fanciful thought that sprang up in
my mind, even in the midst of those great anxieties, like a single
flower in a stony wilderness of thorns or one star on the blackness of
the night.

In a moment it had gone and I was telling them of what I had learned.
They listened till I had finished. Then Anscombe said slowly—

“Two of us can’t hold this house against an impi. We must get out of
it.”

“Both your conclusions seem quite sound,” I remarked, “that is if
yonder old Kaffir is telling the truth. But the question is—how? We
can’t all three of us ride on one nag, as you are still a cripple.”

“There is the Cape cart,” suggested Heda.

“Yes, but the horses have been turned out, and I don’t know where to
look for them. Nor dare I send that boy alone, for probably he would
bolt like the others. I think that you had better get on my horse and
ride for it, leaving us to take our chance. I daresay the whole thing
is a lie and that we shall be in no danger,” I added by way of
softening the suggestion.

“That I will never do,” she replied with so much quiet conviction that
I saw it was useless to pursue the argument.

I thought for a moment, as the position was very difficult. The boy was
not to be trusted, and if I went with him I should be leaving these two
alone and, in Anscombe’s state, almost defenceless. Still it seemed as
though I must. Just then I looked up, and there at the garden gate saw
Anscombe’s driver, Footsack, the man whom I had despatched to Pretoria
to fetch his oxen. I noted that he looked frightened and was
breathless, for his eyes started out of his head. Also his hat was gone
and he bled a little from his face.

Seeing us he ran up the path and sat down as though he were tired.

“Where are the oxen?” I asked.

“Oh! Baas,” he answered, “the Basutos have got them. We heard from an
old black woman that Sekukuni had an impi out, so we waited on the top
of that hill about an hour’s ride away to see if it was true. Then
suddenly the doctor Baas appeared riding, and I ran out and asked him
if it were safe to go on. He knew me again and answered—

“‘Yes, quite safe, for have I not just ridden this road without meeting
so much as a black child. Go on, man; your masters will be glad to have
their oxen, as they wish to trek, or will by nightfall.’ Then he
laughed and rode away.

“So we went on, driving the oxen. But when we came to the belt of
thorns at the bottom of the hill, we found that the doctor Baas had
either lied to us or he had not seen. For there suddenly the tall grass
on either side of the path grew spears; yes, everywhere were spears. In
a minute the two voorloopers were assegaied. As for me, I ran forward,
not back, since the Kaffirs were behind me, across the path, Baas,
driving off the oxen. They sprang at me, but I jumped this way and that
way and avoided them. Then they threw assegais—see, one of them cut my
cheek, but the rest missed. They had guns in their hands also, but none
shot. I think they did not wish to make a noise. Only one of them
shouted after me—

“‘Tell Macumazahn that we are going to call on him tonight when he
cannot see to shoot. We have a message for him from our brothers whom
he killed at the drift of the Oliphant’s River.’

“Then I ran on here without stopping, but I saw no more Kaffirs. That
is all, Baas.”

Now I did not delay to cross-examine the man or to sift the true from
the false in his story, since it was clear to me that he had run into a
company of Basutos, or rather been beguiled thereto by Rodd, and lost
our cattle, also his companions, who were either killed as he said, or
had escaped some other way.

“Listen, man,” I said. “I am going to fetch some horses. Do you stay
here and help the Missie to pack the cart and make the harness ready.
If you disobey me or run away, then I will find you and you will never
run again. Do you understand?”

He vowed that he did and went to get some water, while I explained
everything to Anscombe and Heda, pointing out that all the information
we could gather seemed to show that no attack was to be made upon the
house before nightfall, and that therefore we had the day before us. As
this was so I proposed to go to look for the horses myself, since
otherwise I was sure we should never find them. Meanwhile Heda must
pack and make ready the cart with the help of Footsack, Anscombe
superintending everything, as he could very well do since he was now
able to walk leaning on a stick.

Of course neither of them liked my leaving them, but in view of our
necessities they raised no objection. So off I went, taking the boy
with me. He did not want to go, being, as I have said, half dazed with
grief or fear, or both, but when I had pointed out to him clearly that
I was quite prepared to shoot him if he played tricks, he changed his
mind. Having saddled my mare that was now fresh and fat, we started,
the boy guiding me to a certain kloof at the foot of which there was a
small plain of good grass where he said the horses were accustomed to
graze.

Here sure enough we found two of them, and as they had been turned out
with their headstalls on, were able to tie them to trees with the riems
which were attached to the head

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