Chapter Ten.

Chapter Ten.Afar in the Desert.This is the story of a boy and a girl who met in a South African wilderness under strange circumstances more than thirty years ago. The girl was desert-bred; her feet had never trodden those paths of convention which, in the aggregate, are called civilisation. A chance medley of unusual happenings drove the boy forth from the haunts of men, but the absorbing spell of the wild fell upon him, and to him the “call of the wild” was ever afterwards an imperative command.It is a love-story; but Love revealed the shining wonder of his face to these two for less than one fleeting day, the while Death hid close behind him.Some of that which is here related is true.OneThe boy went down to the lower camp from his lonely tent, that was pitched on one of the terraces near the head of the Pilgrim’s Rest Valley, for the purpose of buying his meagre supplies for the following week, for it was Saturday afternoon. Night was falling when he started homeward, and it was dark when he reached Slater’s Claim and the Big Rock. Just there he stumbled over a man who was lying, sleeping the sleep of intoxication, across the path.“The Boy”—he was known from one end of the creek to the other by that designation—struck a match and examined the man’s face. He recognised it at once as being that of Dan the Reefer, a gigantic yellow-bearded Californian—the camp’s most celebrated prospector. Next to the sleeper lay a new blanket tied up in a neat bundle.A cold wind was searching down from the frost-dusted peaks which stood, lofty and clean-cut, against the early winter’s sky; so the boy untied the bundle, and, after placing the head of the man in a comfortable position, spread the blanket over him and tucked it in. In doing this his hand touched a leather pouch. After considering the risk he was running, the boy opened the pouch and found that it contained about ten ounces of gold in a chamois leather bag. He transferred the bag to his pocket and went home.Next morning the boy went down to the Reefer’s tent and handed over what he had taken charge of. The Reefer was profanely thankful.“I’ll do you a good turn for this,” said he, ”— me if I don’t.”“Take me out prospecting with you,” said the boy at a venture.“Can you hold a rifle straight?”“Yes; but I haven’t got one.”“Oh, that’s all right; I have. You’ll kill meat and I’ll strike a reef that’ll make our fortunes.”Here was a piece of luck; the very thing he had longed for hopelessly was thrust upon him. To go prospecting with the Reefer was an honour sought by many.“Let’s see,” said the Reefer, “this is Sunday; sleep here Wednesday night and we’ll start Thursday.”So the boy packed up his few belongings, stored them in the tent of a friend, and put in an appearance at the Reefer’s tent at the appointed time. The Reefer was not at home, but he turned up, more or less drunk, in the middle of the night.All preparations had been made; a month’s “tucker” for two had been provided. This included flour, tea, a little sugar and salt, and a few simple remedies for use in the event of sickness. The goods were scientifically packed in two “swags”—that of the Reefer weighing about ninety pounds and that of the boy about thirty. The Reefer carried a pick, a shovel and a pan, in which the limits of combined efficiency and lightness had been reached; the boy a lifting-block, Westley-Richards rifle and a hundred cartridges. Each took, besides, a water-bottle, a cooking “billy,” a blanket, a spare flannel shirt and two pairs of thick woollen socks.Their course led down the valley of the Blyde River, through the loveliest imaginable scenery. Down and down the valley seemed to sink among the convoluted mountains that are so rich in forest, crag and sounding waterfall. After crossing a divide the deserted site of the village of Ohrigstad was passed. Here was the scene of a tragedy. The township had flourished, the land was fertile, the surrounding a hunters’ paradise. All went well for a time; then came fever; within a few weeks all the settlers went down. The majority died; the survivors were rescued and removed to a healthier locality, where they founded the town of Lydenburg. In blue-books published years afterwards, the abandonment of Ohrigstad was erroneously attributed to fear of the Bapedi—natives located in a neighbouring mountain range.The Reefer was a silent man, who was obsessed by one idea—the finding of gold where none had previously been found. The one and only thing which gave him pleasure was to make a “strike.” But the discovery once declared and made the object of a “rush,” the thing immediately lost its charm. Then he would sell out, usually for far less than the value of his claim, and once more follow the rainbow. This man’s life had literally been spent on the prospecting trail. He had made several rich strikes of gold, not alone in Africa, but in America—North and South. In those days the Klondyke was unknown, but the Reefer had trailed to what he called “the head waters of the Arctic,” and had found rich gold in the Yukon district, from which he was driven back by the pitiless cold. He knew every creek and placer in the alluvial fields of California.The boy was nineteen years of age, but did not look it. He was lithe, small-boned and tall, with fair hair, blue eyes and a face that gained him the good graces of some women. Thrown on the world when quite a child, he had known phases of sin and suffering not usually experienced by the young. It was a strain of idealism and an inherent passionate love of nature that enabled him to save his soul alive. In his ear the voice of the wilderness was ever sounding. Whenever he managed to save enough money to buy sufficient supplies, he would wander away into the vague, unknown country lying east and north of the fields, in search of gold, hunting and adventure. The first he never found.Down and down still sank the valley towards its junction with the Olifant—studded throughout its enchanting length with dark green patches of virgin forest, strung like emeralds upon the chain of a crystal stream. The summer rains had been heavy, so every ravine cleaving the hills on either side was vocal with impetuous water. The wild creatures gazed at them from the high ledges or crashed unseen through the underwood at their approach. The chanting call of the brown falcons wheeling among the crags sounded like a trumpet bidding them go forward into the unknown, where dwelt fortune and romance.They camped each night under trees centuries old. How the leaping flames lit up the groined boughs spreading from hoar-ancient trunks, revealing depths of mysterious shadow in the greenery! When the flames died down, how the restful darkness closed in, full of rich suggestion! These nights were so full of rapture that the boy could hardly sleep: it seemed a sin to waste such hours in unconsciousness. Often the dawn would find him watching and praying with that best kind of prayer—the uplifting of the heart to the plane of nature’s most exalted harmonies. Then he would sink into an hour’s dreamless slumber, to be awakened by a shove from the Reefer’s friendly foot, and to find a steaming pannikin of tea ready at the side of his couch.TwoThe sound of a violin in one of the gorges of the Olifant’s River valley seemed very incongruous indeed. The source of the music was hidden behind some large trees. Beyond these stood a tent-wagon. On the box sat a tall, dark, bearded man plying the bow industriously, the music being a reel played in very quick time. His clothing was of brayed skin; his muscular arms were bare to the elbow. An immense lion-skin lay drying, the fleshy side being uppermost, upon the “tent” of the wagon. The black hair of the mane was protruding over the back of the tent, and the tufted tail dangled close to the face of the musician. At the side of the wagon was a small “lean-to” of coarse calico. Meat, in various stages of the process of drying, hung festooned among the trees.The musician laid down his instrument, leaped lightly from the wagon and advanced with outstretched hand.“Welcome, welcome,” he said, speaking in Dutch; “put down your bundles and rest. Look what your uncle has shot.” Here he pointed to the lion-skin. “You fellows are after gold, I suppose; but what has a hunter to do with gold? Come and drink coffee. Anna, is there any coffee ready?”The concluding words were addressed to a girl who, followed shyly by a small boy, emerged from the lean-to and silently shook hands with the strangers. She appeared to be about eighteen years old. Her oval, slightly freckled face had beauty of a distinctive type. Her eyes were dark and had an expression of sadness. Health glowed through and enriched her skin. But the glory of this girl was her hair; its wealth of bronzed auburn, thick and waved, was full of changing lights. She was dressed partly in male attire.Somehow this did not seem incongruous to the boy. He was by disposition unconventional to a degree. His eyes appraised the girl admiringly; the shapely figure was almost too sturdy for grace, but it had the strength his lacked. Nature, who always schemes for the mating of contrasts, made these two goodly and desirable in each other’s eyes.The boy’s appraising glances followed the girl as she went to the tail-board of the wagon and busied herself with the coffee arrangements. The play of her strong, full arm was good to watch; the inartisticveldschoencould not hide the symmetry of her feet. A loose, blouse-like garment of linen permitted glimpses of a neck strong and fine, and dazzlingly white below the area of sunburn.The coffee was a pleasant variant from tea—the prospector’s only prepared beverage. They sat on the sward and talked. The Reefer had no Dutch, so the boy acted as interpreter. The owner of the wagon was a Boer named Dirk Fourie. He had a farm in the Lydenburg district, but spent most of his time in the hunting-field. Fourie was a widower with three children. Accompanied by these and an old Hottentot he had undertaken this trip, intending to reach the low country in the vicinity of the nether reaches of the Letaba River. But he found that the rains had there fallen late, so, dreading fever, decided to remain for a time in the valley of the Olifant. To avoid risk of “bush-sickness” he had sent the oxen back to the farm in charge of his elder son and the Hottentot, with orders that they were to be brought back after six weeks had passed.Fourie’s manner was characterised by a kind of yearning friendliness; the advent of the strangers seemed to afford him very sincere pleasure. He neither knew nor cared anything about gold, so the Reefer soon found the conversation irksome and wandered off to examine the formation. The boy just then cared for nothing so much as hunting, so he and Fourie sat and discussed game and the slaying thereof. The lion-skin was pulled down and admired. A graphic account of the downfall of the great marauder was given. It appeared that Fourie’s father had been killed by a lion, so the Boer carried on a lifelong vendetta against the whole lion species. The death had been amply revenged, for twenty-two of these animals had fallen to the long-barrelledroerwhich hung in the wagon, and nine to a more modern rifle—a Westley-Richards musket—just then standing against the wheel.Fourie went back to his violin. His repertoire seemed to consist solely of reels, all of the very liveliest kind. The boy and the girl gravitated towards each other. But conversation was difficult; they were full of embarrassment. They wandered together for a short distance along the hillside. He told her of his life on the gold and diamond fields and of those far-off towns she had heard rumours of. The ocean and the great ships were to her the most wonderful of all things. Had such not been mentioned in the Bible, she would not have believed their existence possible. She had been taught to read, but the Bible was her only book. With her large, lustrous eyes fixed on the boy’s face she listened, gravely interested, to all he told her.Of herself and her experiences the girl could hardly be induced to say a word. Her ignorance of the world beyond the farm and the scenes of her father’s different hunting trips was almost fathomless. They returned to the wagon, and soon afterwards the Reefer arrived, carrying a haversack full of quartz.“I think we’ll stay and see what’s to be found about here,” he said.Next morning the Reefer disappeared on his endless quest of the rainbow. Fourie and the boy went for a tramp after game. The somewhat vague and unpractical mien of the Boer disappeared when on the hunting spoor; he became cool, alert and capable. The lore of the wilderness was to him as an open book. The boy had somewhat prided himself on his skill as a hunter, but he soon saw that compared with Fourie he was the merest novice. Signs and tokens invisible to him before were pointed out and deduced from unerringly. Fourie was generous, giving his companion opportunity after opportunity to lay low koodoo, sable and tsessabi. The spoil was handed over to the “Baiala”—“the people who are dead”—wretched outlaws or waifs of annihilated clans, who wandered, weaponless and without clothing, over the veldt. As a rule they lived on roots, grubs, snakes and other unspeakable things. Like wine-flies when one opens a bottle of wine, the Baiala would suddenly materialise from the void whenever meat was in evidence. They would be given the bulk of the carcase for their own use, and told to convey the choicer portions, with the skin, to the camp. This they never failed honestly to do.The abject submissiveness of these people was pathetic in the extreme; it must have been the result of a terrible course of hopeless suffering. They never spoke unless first addressed; then they answered in low-toned monosyllables. A weird deftness and intelligence characterised all they did. At the camp they would silently set down whatever had been given into their charge, and as silently vanish. As an instance of their honesty it may be mentioned that once, when the boy lost his hunting-knife, it was found by the Baiala and returned to him. It was sticking in the ground, close to his head, when he awoke one morning. And what a priceless possession the implement would have been to the finder!Evidences of a once-teeming human population abounded over the whole countryside, which was covered with groups of low, circular stone walls, indicating where thousands of kraals once stood. But the exterminating raids of Tshaka had swept it bare. Now its only human dwellers were a few creatures so wretched and so reduced that the very beasts of prey were said to despise them.Thus passed many halcyon days. The boy had now become almost a member of the little family to whose hearth in the wilderness he had drifted through so strange a chance. The Reefer was hardly in evidence; he had struck a small leader which bore gold, and was endeavouring, with infinite pains, to trace this to its connection with the parent reef. The spot where he was working was about half-an-hour’s walk distant. Thither he went every morning early; thence he returned at dusk every evening. When hot on the scent of gold the Reefer was not a man to be lightly interfered with. He had made it clear to the boy from the beginning that his help was not required, or even desired, except towards filling the pot with meat. Thus the two had little or no intercourse.The boy was more and more struck by the individuality of his new friends; they were so utterly unlike any others of their class that he had foregathered with. As the intimacy grew, Fourie told more of the details of his history. It appeared he was not quite orthodox in his religious views, and had had in consequence a serious quarrel with the pastor of his church. This had happened years back. One result was that Fourie was under a kind of ban among his own people. His wife had shared his views. The children, or at all events the two elder ones, having natural strength of character, and being cut off from intercourse with other young humans, developed on lines of their own.Fourie had strains of idealism and even of philosophy. He loved his violin, but his musical ambition never, alas! soared beyond reels. Like a child in everything appertaining to social mankind, this Boer was almost supernaturally wise in interpreting the laws governing forest, field and sky. He had a naturally kind heart and a deep love for nature. Thus he only killed ordinary game when meat was required. Solitude and the spiteful usage of his fellow-men had not soured his disposition. His only foe was the lion; and the lion, which he pursued constantly and implacably, he met and vanquished in fair, open encounter.As time passed, the girl and the boy became more unconstrained towards each other. The girl had much innate refinement, and was very intelligent. Between her and the boy there was little articulate speech; the silence of the wilderness had invaded their souls. When the wilderness unveils the fulness of its beauty to a human being speech becomes largely superfluous. For although the wilderness is full of clear indications, it is mostly inarticulate, and those who dwell there must interpret its dumb alphabet or perish. Between these two human creatures signs gradually took the place of words; glances became eloquent; a gesture often conveyed more than a sentence.The girl could hold a rifle straighter than most men; her frame was tireless; she could endure hunger and thirst without wilting. She had often been her father’s hunting companion. When Fourie now planned a more than usually extended expedition she decided to take part in it.The Boer absolutely lusted after lions to slay, but no spoor was to be found anywhere within a day’s walk of the camp. However, away down near the junction of the Olifant and the Letaba was a locality which he had previously visited with satisfactory results. So thither it was decided to go. The Reefer remained behind, with him Fourie’s little son.So one still, cool morning, when a transparent haze filled the valley and hung like the shadow of a dream over the forested plains that stretch from the foot of the mighty mountains to the far-off Lebombo, the boy, the girl and the Boer started on their adventure. Their course led along the southern bank of the Olifant. The mountains were soon left behind, and then, on the plains, the boy—for the first time in his life—saw large game in true profusion. All day long as they advanced could be seen the varied population of the wild melting before them into the gloom; for the forest, although continuous, was not dense except in the immediate vicinity of the river. Thus the eye could range for a couple of hundred yards on every side.Owing to the late local rains the pasturage was good, so all the game from the surrounding arid spaces had flocked in. Occasionally the landscape resembled a kaleidoscope, so dense and varied were the manifestations of animal life. Buffaloes would hurtle through the undergrowth, swerving to avoid the tree-trunks with the agility of cats. A black rhinoceros, its wicked-looking head low near the ground, would dash fiercely away, its horn dividing the tangled brushwood after the manner of the cutwater of a boat. Families of wild pigs, their tufted tails held straight up, trotted off with swift quaintness. Herds of gentle giraffes, disturbed at their browsing on the high branches, swayed out of sight, their long necks undulating from side to side. Quaggas, sleeping in the glades, sprang up at their sentinel’s warning stamp, and fled, waking thunders with their hoofs. Fierce-eyed gnus swiftly ambled away. Antelopes, from the hartebeeste, big, awkward and ungainly, to the little russet impala, the very embodiment of sylvan grace, crowded the ever-opening vistas.All day long they tramped without firing a shot, for ammunition had to be husbanded. Just before camping at sundown the boy shot a tsessabi, the flesh of which is among the very best the wilderness affords. To their astonishment several of the Baiala appeared on the scene. One of these was a little, elderly man who appeared to be a sort of leader, and who seemed to have attached himself to the boy.They camped on the river bank amid scenery more lovely than any pen could describe. The clear stream, eddying and whirling among great grey rocks, was nearly three hundred yards wide. Groves of splendid trees, dark green and luxuriant, lay in an almost continuous chain along the water’s edge, only separated from each other by little spaces of green sward. On one of these they camped. Across the river a long, even wall of sheer cliff hung like a rampart over the flood. It was about a hundred feet high. Along its summit giant trees were silhouetted against the sky; masses of variegated creeper fell like cataracts over its face.ThreeDay passed swiftly after day, each like a cup full to the brim of joy. The hunters went to sleep soon after dusk, leaving the tending of the fire in the hands of the Baiala. Every morning in the grey dawn the girl would steal away to bathe in one of the secluded reaches of the river. The boy would watch for her going and then set about preparing coffee. This would be ready by the time she returned, with her waved, glossy hair drying on her shoulders and the brightness of the morning shining from her face. Then he would go to bathe and the girl would prepare breakfast.Silence, more eloquent than speech, enmeshed these two more and more in mutual comprehension. An idea took root and grew in the mind of the boy that he had found the environment best suited to him; that a life spent in this teeming wilderness, with the girl at his side, would be good. What part had he in civilisation—in that society of conventional men and women which had lured him on, almost to his ruin, and flung him contemptuously aside when he ceased to amuse?Before being an agriculturist, man was a hunter. This explains the circumstance that for many the hunting instinct—the lust to kill for the sake of killing—when once indulged in becomes so haunting and dominant that all other pursuits pall. Atavism is a curious and an awful thing; an influence may rise through the dark detritus of inconceivably remote time, take our lives in its shadowy hands, and shape them to strange ends. Under the spell of the wild, the boy reverted to the stage of primeval man.Here, then, was his paradise. Why not, therefore, take this deep-bosomed Eve to mate, and enter into his inheritance. But at this stage was it love that he felt for her? He was not sure. She attracted him strongly, but there was also an occasional feeling of slight repulsion. He had always been moody and changeable. Little, undefinable contraventions on her part of that code of conventionality which he affected to despise, but which is always ineradicable in those whose childhood has passed in a refined home, jarred on his sensibilities.The present—yes—but what of the future? The girl was innocent and modest. A spice of coquetry in her would have completed his subjugation; but she was absolutely direct and natural. The forces of love held all the approaches to his heart; the outworks had fallen, one by one, but the citadel was still held by a few obstinate doubts.As a lion-hunt the expedition had so far not been a success. Every night the low rumbling, occasionally changing to a snarl, of the great beasts of prey could be heard in various directions. Fourie and the Baiala, who were now in good condition and equal to any amount of work, went out indefatigably on the spoor day by day. Many lions were thus followed to their lairs in dense patches of reeds and grass, but they always managed to escape unseen. The vegetation was too green to kindle. The full-fed lion is usually a coward; it is when hungry that his courage rises and he becomes terrible.They were but three days’ easy walk from the wagon when it was decided to return. On the morning they started the first lion fell. Just before dawn they heard the unmistakable sound of a kill, so when day broke they stole to the spot where it took place, which was about a mile away. They found four lions eating the carcase of a quagga. Three fled at once; the other, a magnificent brute with a great coal-black mane, would not surrender his meat, so he dropped on his belly and faced the intruders.The underbrush was scanty; nevertheless the lion, for all his size, could scarcely be seen. Just the top of his head and the ridge of his back were visible. Fourie stepped forward to within forty paces and took careful aim. The great tail began to wave from side to side, striking the ground with the force of a flail. With the shot the hindquarters of the lion heaved mightily into the air, and fell forward towards the hunter. After a few convulsive struggles the limbs loosened; then the great helpless creature rolled over on its side and lay still. The bullet had grazed the top of the head and buried itself in the spine, between the shoulders.That night they camped just below the enormous gates through which the Olifant breaks to reach the low country. The mighty, sheer, table-formed masses, arising from dense forest, bulked huge against the stars. The cataract-speech of the river filled the sounding gorge with softened thunder. To the boy it seemed as though Immensity stretched forth a finger to touch his brain and counteract the spell of sleep. He tried vainly to rest. The rich, slow, beauty-burthened hours went by. Canopus wheeled high over the Cross. A sense of the imminence of something strange thrilled him; his soul seemed to stand tiptoe upon the summit of expectation and stretch forth its hands.The fire had dwindled; he built it anew, and the crackling flames shot up high through the windless dark. The boy glanced to where the girl lay, near her father. Her eyes were open. The boy beckoned to her. She sat up and hesitated for an instant; then she arose and came to his side.He took her hand and led her away into the gloom. He kissed her on the lips and the kiss was returned. The voices of the gorge swelled to a warning dissonance as a breeze from the west gathered their thunders into a sheaf and hurled it to the plains below, but the lovers heard it not. The roar of a killing lion and the scream of its stricken prey startled the forest creatures for miles around, but the sound of the tragedy passed over these two, unheeding. The mystery and the wonder of the desert, the lust of the spoiler, the terror and anguish of the victim—each blindly following the awful law of its being—was around them, but Love lent wings of flame that bore them to the stars, and stayed with his wonder-working hand the running of the sands of Time.Dawn stole, virginal, from the sea and sought their transfigured faces. The splendour of morning, which had its habitation for a space on the mountain crags, found its counterpart in their eyes. The cataracts shouted with their joy; the falcons chanted it as they soared into the sunshine.They had no thought for the future; the present was all-sufficient. The wilderness was theirs, and the fulness thereof. Here was a fair kingdom in which they reigned as victorious king and gracious queen, without the tiresome superfluity of subjects.That day, for the first time, they planned to be alone together on the march. With feet made languid by excess of joy they lingered whenever a locality of more than usual beauty was reached. At midday Fourie, who had got somewhat far ahead, was wondering at their laggardness.A distant shot, followed by two others in quick succession, recalled them to practical realities, so they hurried forward on the spoor. When they reached Fourie he was sitting under a tree regarding with satisfaction a large lion he had shot, and which three Baiala were engaged in skinning. Tied to a shrub close by were two young lion-cubs.“See, Anna, what I have caught,” cried he; “have a look at the little brutes before I kill them.”“No, no,” said the girl, “they are too young to kill. Let them go. Where is their mother?”“That is what I cannot understand; I have never heard of such young cubs being left behind by their mother. But I’m not going to let them go, perhaps to kill some one, as my father was killed.”The girls soul revolted from the idea of slaughtering these innocents. So full of new-found happiness was she that the taking of life or the infliction of pain was abhorrent. But she knew her father’s implacable hatred of the whole lion race.“Let me take them back to the camp,” she begged; “I will tame them.”After advancing many objections Fourie gave a grudging consent. The little animals could be fed on soup until the camp was reached, then on meal and water. They were evidently only a week or ten days old, and resembled yellow cats with abnormally large, solemn faces. They showed no vice when handled, and seemed quite contented with their lot. The girl carried one and the boy the other, the three Baiala being unable to do more than carry the skin of the animal just killed.The halting-place for the night was an open, circular space surrounded by high trees. The boughs met overhead; it looked like a green-domed temple. The ground was almost clear of brushwood. In the centre the fire was lit. The river was only about two hundred yards distant. Supper was over, and the cubs, being hungry, were complaining in queer, guttural tones. They had been coupled together by means of a rein, the loop of which was fastened to a protruding root.The boy took the only cooking utensil and started, a live firebrand in one hand and his rifle in the other, for the river to fetch water for the soup. When he reached the fringe of low bushes which surrounded the camping-place he stopped for an instant and looked back. Fourie had removed the block from his rifle and sat oiling it near the fire. The girl was bending over the cubs, trying to soothe their impatience. She looked after the boy with a smile. His last sight of her face showed it lit by the flickering flame and radiant with an aura of love and happiness.When the boy, returning, got within about fifty yards of the fire, his desert-tuned ear caught a sinister sound of low growling. He dropped the vessel of water and the firebrand, and rushed forward, bursting through the fringe of bushes. There, full in the firelight, crouched a great, tawny lioness, roughly pawing the cubs. In an instant his rifle was at his shoulder; the lioness sprang into the air and fell back dead, shot through the heart.The boy and the fire were the only living things in the firelit circle. Fourie was lying, his neck terribly lacerated, in a pool of blood. The girl lay on her face, absolutely still. The cubs had been mangled to death through the efforts of the mother to set them free.He could not believe the girl to be dead. Thinking she had fainted from terror, he lifted her in his arms. Her head fell back, horribly limp. Her neck had been broken by a stroke from the lioness’s paw.When the boy awakened from his swoon a figure was standing near him. It was that of the old man of the Baiala. The boy sat up and tried to think. Then, with a lamentable cry, he sprang up and lifted the corpse of the girl in his arms. The head again fell back, the loosened wealth of burnished hair flowing like a cataract to the ground. The old waif of the desert stole silently away.Later the old man returned, this time accompanied by two others. He touched the boy, who sat stupidly gazing at his dead, on the shoulder. The boy looked up with haggard, deathlike face, and the wholesome human sympathy of the old man’s regard loosened the frightful tension of his soul. He fell into a paroxysm of tears.After a while the old man again touched him on the shoulder and pointed westward, in the direction of the camp. Then, with a sweep of the hand to indicate that he would return, he melted into the darkness. The two other Baiala remained behind, close at hand, and tended the fire.It was noon when the Reefer arrived. The ground was soft, so it did not take his practised arm long to dig a deep grave. In this they reverently laid the bodies of the girl and her father. At their feet were placed the dead cubs, for showing mercy to which such dire requital was dealt by that inscrutable power which so often chastises men for their virtuous deeds, and rewards them lavishly for their sins. Heavy stones were carried from the river terrace close by and placed in such a way that the resting-place could not be disturbed.A few days afterwards the oxen returned, so the wagon, with its sad passengers, went back to the dead man’s farm. The boy accompanied it and, after relating what had happened (which was regarded by all in the neighbourhood as the direct and unmistakable judgment of Heaven upon irreligion), he wandered forth once more, this time to be for ever a stranger among the sons and daughters of men.

This is the story of a boy and a girl who met in a South African wilderness under strange circumstances more than thirty years ago. The girl was desert-bred; her feet had never trodden those paths of convention which, in the aggregate, are called civilisation. A chance medley of unusual happenings drove the boy forth from the haunts of men, but the absorbing spell of the wild fell upon him, and to him the “call of the wild” was ever afterwards an imperative command.

It is a love-story; but Love revealed the shining wonder of his face to these two for less than one fleeting day, the while Death hid close behind him.

Some of that which is here related is true.

The boy went down to the lower camp from his lonely tent, that was pitched on one of the terraces near the head of the Pilgrim’s Rest Valley, for the purpose of buying his meagre supplies for the following week, for it was Saturday afternoon. Night was falling when he started homeward, and it was dark when he reached Slater’s Claim and the Big Rock. Just there he stumbled over a man who was lying, sleeping the sleep of intoxication, across the path.

“The Boy”—he was known from one end of the creek to the other by that designation—struck a match and examined the man’s face. He recognised it at once as being that of Dan the Reefer, a gigantic yellow-bearded Californian—the camp’s most celebrated prospector. Next to the sleeper lay a new blanket tied up in a neat bundle.

A cold wind was searching down from the frost-dusted peaks which stood, lofty and clean-cut, against the early winter’s sky; so the boy untied the bundle, and, after placing the head of the man in a comfortable position, spread the blanket over him and tucked it in. In doing this his hand touched a leather pouch. After considering the risk he was running, the boy opened the pouch and found that it contained about ten ounces of gold in a chamois leather bag. He transferred the bag to his pocket and went home.

Next morning the boy went down to the Reefer’s tent and handed over what he had taken charge of. The Reefer was profanely thankful.

“I’ll do you a good turn for this,” said he, ”— me if I don’t.”

“Take me out prospecting with you,” said the boy at a venture.

“Can you hold a rifle straight?”

“Yes; but I haven’t got one.”

“Oh, that’s all right; I have. You’ll kill meat and I’ll strike a reef that’ll make our fortunes.”

Here was a piece of luck; the very thing he had longed for hopelessly was thrust upon him. To go prospecting with the Reefer was an honour sought by many.

“Let’s see,” said the Reefer, “this is Sunday; sleep here Wednesday night and we’ll start Thursday.”

So the boy packed up his few belongings, stored them in the tent of a friend, and put in an appearance at the Reefer’s tent at the appointed time. The Reefer was not at home, but he turned up, more or less drunk, in the middle of the night.

All preparations had been made; a month’s “tucker” for two had been provided. This included flour, tea, a little sugar and salt, and a few simple remedies for use in the event of sickness. The goods were scientifically packed in two “swags”—that of the Reefer weighing about ninety pounds and that of the boy about thirty. The Reefer carried a pick, a shovel and a pan, in which the limits of combined efficiency and lightness had been reached; the boy a lifting-block, Westley-Richards rifle and a hundred cartridges. Each took, besides, a water-bottle, a cooking “billy,” a blanket, a spare flannel shirt and two pairs of thick woollen socks.

Their course led down the valley of the Blyde River, through the loveliest imaginable scenery. Down and down the valley seemed to sink among the convoluted mountains that are so rich in forest, crag and sounding waterfall. After crossing a divide the deserted site of the village of Ohrigstad was passed. Here was the scene of a tragedy. The township had flourished, the land was fertile, the surrounding a hunters’ paradise. All went well for a time; then came fever; within a few weeks all the settlers went down. The majority died; the survivors were rescued and removed to a healthier locality, where they founded the town of Lydenburg. In blue-books published years afterwards, the abandonment of Ohrigstad was erroneously attributed to fear of the Bapedi—natives located in a neighbouring mountain range.

The Reefer was a silent man, who was obsessed by one idea—the finding of gold where none had previously been found. The one and only thing which gave him pleasure was to make a “strike.” But the discovery once declared and made the object of a “rush,” the thing immediately lost its charm. Then he would sell out, usually for far less than the value of his claim, and once more follow the rainbow. This man’s life had literally been spent on the prospecting trail. He had made several rich strikes of gold, not alone in Africa, but in America—North and South. In those days the Klondyke was unknown, but the Reefer had trailed to what he called “the head waters of the Arctic,” and had found rich gold in the Yukon district, from which he was driven back by the pitiless cold. He knew every creek and placer in the alluvial fields of California.

The boy was nineteen years of age, but did not look it. He was lithe, small-boned and tall, with fair hair, blue eyes and a face that gained him the good graces of some women. Thrown on the world when quite a child, he had known phases of sin and suffering not usually experienced by the young. It was a strain of idealism and an inherent passionate love of nature that enabled him to save his soul alive. In his ear the voice of the wilderness was ever sounding. Whenever he managed to save enough money to buy sufficient supplies, he would wander away into the vague, unknown country lying east and north of the fields, in search of gold, hunting and adventure. The first he never found.

Down and down still sank the valley towards its junction with the Olifant—studded throughout its enchanting length with dark green patches of virgin forest, strung like emeralds upon the chain of a crystal stream. The summer rains had been heavy, so every ravine cleaving the hills on either side was vocal with impetuous water. The wild creatures gazed at them from the high ledges or crashed unseen through the underwood at their approach. The chanting call of the brown falcons wheeling among the crags sounded like a trumpet bidding them go forward into the unknown, where dwelt fortune and romance.

They camped each night under trees centuries old. How the leaping flames lit up the groined boughs spreading from hoar-ancient trunks, revealing depths of mysterious shadow in the greenery! When the flames died down, how the restful darkness closed in, full of rich suggestion! These nights were so full of rapture that the boy could hardly sleep: it seemed a sin to waste such hours in unconsciousness. Often the dawn would find him watching and praying with that best kind of prayer—the uplifting of the heart to the plane of nature’s most exalted harmonies. Then he would sink into an hour’s dreamless slumber, to be awakened by a shove from the Reefer’s friendly foot, and to find a steaming pannikin of tea ready at the side of his couch.

The sound of a violin in one of the gorges of the Olifant’s River valley seemed very incongruous indeed. The source of the music was hidden behind some large trees. Beyond these stood a tent-wagon. On the box sat a tall, dark, bearded man plying the bow industriously, the music being a reel played in very quick time. His clothing was of brayed skin; his muscular arms were bare to the elbow. An immense lion-skin lay drying, the fleshy side being uppermost, upon the “tent” of the wagon. The black hair of the mane was protruding over the back of the tent, and the tufted tail dangled close to the face of the musician. At the side of the wagon was a small “lean-to” of coarse calico. Meat, in various stages of the process of drying, hung festooned among the trees.

The musician laid down his instrument, leaped lightly from the wagon and advanced with outstretched hand.

“Welcome, welcome,” he said, speaking in Dutch; “put down your bundles and rest. Look what your uncle has shot.” Here he pointed to the lion-skin. “You fellows are after gold, I suppose; but what has a hunter to do with gold? Come and drink coffee. Anna, is there any coffee ready?”

The concluding words were addressed to a girl who, followed shyly by a small boy, emerged from the lean-to and silently shook hands with the strangers. She appeared to be about eighteen years old. Her oval, slightly freckled face had beauty of a distinctive type. Her eyes were dark and had an expression of sadness. Health glowed through and enriched her skin. But the glory of this girl was her hair; its wealth of bronzed auburn, thick and waved, was full of changing lights. She was dressed partly in male attire.

Somehow this did not seem incongruous to the boy. He was by disposition unconventional to a degree. His eyes appraised the girl admiringly; the shapely figure was almost too sturdy for grace, but it had the strength his lacked. Nature, who always schemes for the mating of contrasts, made these two goodly and desirable in each other’s eyes.

The boy’s appraising glances followed the girl as she went to the tail-board of the wagon and busied herself with the coffee arrangements. The play of her strong, full arm was good to watch; the inartisticveldschoencould not hide the symmetry of her feet. A loose, blouse-like garment of linen permitted glimpses of a neck strong and fine, and dazzlingly white below the area of sunburn.

The coffee was a pleasant variant from tea—the prospector’s only prepared beverage. They sat on the sward and talked. The Reefer had no Dutch, so the boy acted as interpreter. The owner of the wagon was a Boer named Dirk Fourie. He had a farm in the Lydenburg district, but spent most of his time in the hunting-field. Fourie was a widower with three children. Accompanied by these and an old Hottentot he had undertaken this trip, intending to reach the low country in the vicinity of the nether reaches of the Letaba River. But he found that the rains had there fallen late, so, dreading fever, decided to remain for a time in the valley of the Olifant. To avoid risk of “bush-sickness” he had sent the oxen back to the farm in charge of his elder son and the Hottentot, with orders that they were to be brought back after six weeks had passed.

Fourie’s manner was characterised by a kind of yearning friendliness; the advent of the strangers seemed to afford him very sincere pleasure. He neither knew nor cared anything about gold, so the Reefer soon found the conversation irksome and wandered off to examine the formation. The boy just then cared for nothing so much as hunting, so he and Fourie sat and discussed game and the slaying thereof. The lion-skin was pulled down and admired. A graphic account of the downfall of the great marauder was given. It appeared that Fourie’s father had been killed by a lion, so the Boer carried on a lifelong vendetta against the whole lion species. The death had been amply revenged, for twenty-two of these animals had fallen to the long-barrelledroerwhich hung in the wagon, and nine to a more modern rifle—a Westley-Richards musket—just then standing against the wheel.

Fourie went back to his violin. His repertoire seemed to consist solely of reels, all of the very liveliest kind. The boy and the girl gravitated towards each other. But conversation was difficult; they were full of embarrassment. They wandered together for a short distance along the hillside. He told her of his life on the gold and diamond fields and of those far-off towns she had heard rumours of. The ocean and the great ships were to her the most wonderful of all things. Had such not been mentioned in the Bible, she would not have believed their existence possible. She had been taught to read, but the Bible was her only book. With her large, lustrous eyes fixed on the boy’s face she listened, gravely interested, to all he told her.

Of herself and her experiences the girl could hardly be induced to say a word. Her ignorance of the world beyond the farm and the scenes of her father’s different hunting trips was almost fathomless. They returned to the wagon, and soon afterwards the Reefer arrived, carrying a haversack full of quartz.

“I think we’ll stay and see what’s to be found about here,” he said.

Next morning the Reefer disappeared on his endless quest of the rainbow. Fourie and the boy went for a tramp after game. The somewhat vague and unpractical mien of the Boer disappeared when on the hunting spoor; he became cool, alert and capable. The lore of the wilderness was to him as an open book. The boy had somewhat prided himself on his skill as a hunter, but he soon saw that compared with Fourie he was the merest novice. Signs and tokens invisible to him before were pointed out and deduced from unerringly. Fourie was generous, giving his companion opportunity after opportunity to lay low koodoo, sable and tsessabi. The spoil was handed over to the “Baiala”—“the people who are dead”—wretched outlaws or waifs of annihilated clans, who wandered, weaponless and without clothing, over the veldt. As a rule they lived on roots, grubs, snakes and other unspeakable things. Like wine-flies when one opens a bottle of wine, the Baiala would suddenly materialise from the void whenever meat was in evidence. They would be given the bulk of the carcase for their own use, and told to convey the choicer portions, with the skin, to the camp. This they never failed honestly to do.

The abject submissiveness of these people was pathetic in the extreme; it must have been the result of a terrible course of hopeless suffering. They never spoke unless first addressed; then they answered in low-toned monosyllables. A weird deftness and intelligence characterised all they did. At the camp they would silently set down whatever had been given into their charge, and as silently vanish. As an instance of their honesty it may be mentioned that once, when the boy lost his hunting-knife, it was found by the Baiala and returned to him. It was sticking in the ground, close to his head, when he awoke one morning. And what a priceless possession the implement would have been to the finder!

Evidences of a once-teeming human population abounded over the whole countryside, which was covered with groups of low, circular stone walls, indicating where thousands of kraals once stood. But the exterminating raids of Tshaka had swept it bare. Now its only human dwellers were a few creatures so wretched and so reduced that the very beasts of prey were said to despise them.

Thus passed many halcyon days. The boy had now become almost a member of the little family to whose hearth in the wilderness he had drifted through so strange a chance. The Reefer was hardly in evidence; he had struck a small leader which bore gold, and was endeavouring, with infinite pains, to trace this to its connection with the parent reef. The spot where he was working was about half-an-hour’s walk distant. Thither he went every morning early; thence he returned at dusk every evening. When hot on the scent of gold the Reefer was not a man to be lightly interfered with. He had made it clear to the boy from the beginning that his help was not required, or even desired, except towards filling the pot with meat. Thus the two had little or no intercourse.

The boy was more and more struck by the individuality of his new friends; they were so utterly unlike any others of their class that he had foregathered with. As the intimacy grew, Fourie told more of the details of his history. It appeared he was not quite orthodox in his religious views, and had had in consequence a serious quarrel with the pastor of his church. This had happened years back. One result was that Fourie was under a kind of ban among his own people. His wife had shared his views. The children, or at all events the two elder ones, having natural strength of character, and being cut off from intercourse with other young humans, developed on lines of their own.

Fourie had strains of idealism and even of philosophy. He loved his violin, but his musical ambition never, alas! soared beyond reels. Like a child in everything appertaining to social mankind, this Boer was almost supernaturally wise in interpreting the laws governing forest, field and sky. He had a naturally kind heart and a deep love for nature. Thus he only killed ordinary game when meat was required. Solitude and the spiteful usage of his fellow-men had not soured his disposition. His only foe was the lion; and the lion, which he pursued constantly and implacably, he met and vanquished in fair, open encounter.

As time passed, the girl and the boy became more unconstrained towards each other. The girl had much innate refinement, and was very intelligent. Between her and the boy there was little articulate speech; the silence of the wilderness had invaded their souls. When the wilderness unveils the fulness of its beauty to a human being speech becomes largely superfluous. For although the wilderness is full of clear indications, it is mostly inarticulate, and those who dwell there must interpret its dumb alphabet or perish. Between these two human creatures signs gradually took the place of words; glances became eloquent; a gesture often conveyed more than a sentence.

The girl could hold a rifle straighter than most men; her frame was tireless; she could endure hunger and thirst without wilting. She had often been her father’s hunting companion. When Fourie now planned a more than usually extended expedition she decided to take part in it.

The Boer absolutely lusted after lions to slay, but no spoor was to be found anywhere within a day’s walk of the camp. However, away down near the junction of the Olifant and the Letaba was a locality which he had previously visited with satisfactory results. So thither it was decided to go. The Reefer remained behind, with him Fourie’s little son.

So one still, cool morning, when a transparent haze filled the valley and hung like the shadow of a dream over the forested plains that stretch from the foot of the mighty mountains to the far-off Lebombo, the boy, the girl and the Boer started on their adventure. Their course led along the southern bank of the Olifant. The mountains were soon left behind, and then, on the plains, the boy—for the first time in his life—saw large game in true profusion. All day long as they advanced could be seen the varied population of the wild melting before them into the gloom; for the forest, although continuous, was not dense except in the immediate vicinity of the river. Thus the eye could range for a couple of hundred yards on every side.

Owing to the late local rains the pasturage was good, so all the game from the surrounding arid spaces had flocked in. Occasionally the landscape resembled a kaleidoscope, so dense and varied were the manifestations of animal life. Buffaloes would hurtle through the undergrowth, swerving to avoid the tree-trunks with the agility of cats. A black rhinoceros, its wicked-looking head low near the ground, would dash fiercely away, its horn dividing the tangled brushwood after the manner of the cutwater of a boat. Families of wild pigs, their tufted tails held straight up, trotted off with swift quaintness. Herds of gentle giraffes, disturbed at their browsing on the high branches, swayed out of sight, their long necks undulating from side to side. Quaggas, sleeping in the glades, sprang up at their sentinel’s warning stamp, and fled, waking thunders with their hoofs. Fierce-eyed gnus swiftly ambled away. Antelopes, from the hartebeeste, big, awkward and ungainly, to the little russet impala, the very embodiment of sylvan grace, crowded the ever-opening vistas.

All day long they tramped without firing a shot, for ammunition had to be husbanded. Just before camping at sundown the boy shot a tsessabi, the flesh of which is among the very best the wilderness affords. To their astonishment several of the Baiala appeared on the scene. One of these was a little, elderly man who appeared to be a sort of leader, and who seemed to have attached himself to the boy.

They camped on the river bank amid scenery more lovely than any pen could describe. The clear stream, eddying and whirling among great grey rocks, was nearly three hundred yards wide. Groves of splendid trees, dark green and luxuriant, lay in an almost continuous chain along the water’s edge, only separated from each other by little spaces of green sward. On one of these they camped. Across the river a long, even wall of sheer cliff hung like a rampart over the flood. It was about a hundred feet high. Along its summit giant trees were silhouetted against the sky; masses of variegated creeper fell like cataracts over its face.

Day passed swiftly after day, each like a cup full to the brim of joy. The hunters went to sleep soon after dusk, leaving the tending of the fire in the hands of the Baiala. Every morning in the grey dawn the girl would steal away to bathe in one of the secluded reaches of the river. The boy would watch for her going and then set about preparing coffee. This would be ready by the time she returned, with her waved, glossy hair drying on her shoulders and the brightness of the morning shining from her face. Then he would go to bathe and the girl would prepare breakfast.

Silence, more eloquent than speech, enmeshed these two more and more in mutual comprehension. An idea took root and grew in the mind of the boy that he had found the environment best suited to him; that a life spent in this teeming wilderness, with the girl at his side, would be good. What part had he in civilisation—in that society of conventional men and women which had lured him on, almost to his ruin, and flung him contemptuously aside when he ceased to amuse?

Before being an agriculturist, man was a hunter. This explains the circumstance that for many the hunting instinct—the lust to kill for the sake of killing—when once indulged in becomes so haunting and dominant that all other pursuits pall. Atavism is a curious and an awful thing; an influence may rise through the dark detritus of inconceivably remote time, take our lives in its shadowy hands, and shape them to strange ends. Under the spell of the wild, the boy reverted to the stage of primeval man.

Here, then, was his paradise. Why not, therefore, take this deep-bosomed Eve to mate, and enter into his inheritance. But at this stage was it love that he felt for her? He was not sure. She attracted him strongly, but there was also an occasional feeling of slight repulsion. He had always been moody and changeable. Little, undefinable contraventions on her part of that code of conventionality which he affected to despise, but which is always ineradicable in those whose childhood has passed in a refined home, jarred on his sensibilities.

The present—yes—but what of the future? The girl was innocent and modest. A spice of coquetry in her would have completed his subjugation; but she was absolutely direct and natural. The forces of love held all the approaches to his heart; the outworks had fallen, one by one, but the citadel was still held by a few obstinate doubts.

As a lion-hunt the expedition had so far not been a success. Every night the low rumbling, occasionally changing to a snarl, of the great beasts of prey could be heard in various directions. Fourie and the Baiala, who were now in good condition and equal to any amount of work, went out indefatigably on the spoor day by day. Many lions were thus followed to their lairs in dense patches of reeds and grass, but they always managed to escape unseen. The vegetation was too green to kindle. The full-fed lion is usually a coward; it is when hungry that his courage rises and he becomes terrible.

They were but three days’ easy walk from the wagon when it was decided to return. On the morning they started the first lion fell. Just before dawn they heard the unmistakable sound of a kill, so when day broke they stole to the spot where it took place, which was about a mile away. They found four lions eating the carcase of a quagga. Three fled at once; the other, a magnificent brute with a great coal-black mane, would not surrender his meat, so he dropped on his belly and faced the intruders.

The underbrush was scanty; nevertheless the lion, for all his size, could scarcely be seen. Just the top of his head and the ridge of his back were visible. Fourie stepped forward to within forty paces and took careful aim. The great tail began to wave from side to side, striking the ground with the force of a flail. With the shot the hindquarters of the lion heaved mightily into the air, and fell forward towards the hunter. After a few convulsive struggles the limbs loosened; then the great helpless creature rolled over on its side and lay still. The bullet had grazed the top of the head and buried itself in the spine, between the shoulders.

That night they camped just below the enormous gates through which the Olifant breaks to reach the low country. The mighty, sheer, table-formed masses, arising from dense forest, bulked huge against the stars. The cataract-speech of the river filled the sounding gorge with softened thunder. To the boy it seemed as though Immensity stretched forth a finger to touch his brain and counteract the spell of sleep. He tried vainly to rest. The rich, slow, beauty-burthened hours went by. Canopus wheeled high over the Cross. A sense of the imminence of something strange thrilled him; his soul seemed to stand tiptoe upon the summit of expectation and stretch forth its hands.

The fire had dwindled; he built it anew, and the crackling flames shot up high through the windless dark. The boy glanced to where the girl lay, near her father. Her eyes were open. The boy beckoned to her. She sat up and hesitated for an instant; then she arose and came to his side.

He took her hand and led her away into the gloom. He kissed her on the lips and the kiss was returned. The voices of the gorge swelled to a warning dissonance as a breeze from the west gathered their thunders into a sheaf and hurled it to the plains below, but the lovers heard it not. The roar of a killing lion and the scream of its stricken prey startled the forest creatures for miles around, but the sound of the tragedy passed over these two, unheeding. The mystery and the wonder of the desert, the lust of the spoiler, the terror and anguish of the victim—each blindly following the awful law of its being—was around them, but Love lent wings of flame that bore them to the stars, and stayed with his wonder-working hand the running of the sands of Time.

Dawn stole, virginal, from the sea and sought their transfigured faces. The splendour of morning, which had its habitation for a space on the mountain crags, found its counterpart in their eyes. The cataracts shouted with their joy; the falcons chanted it as they soared into the sunshine.

They had no thought for the future; the present was all-sufficient. The wilderness was theirs, and the fulness thereof. Here was a fair kingdom in which they reigned as victorious king and gracious queen, without the tiresome superfluity of subjects.

That day, for the first time, they planned to be alone together on the march. With feet made languid by excess of joy they lingered whenever a locality of more than usual beauty was reached. At midday Fourie, who had got somewhat far ahead, was wondering at their laggardness.

A distant shot, followed by two others in quick succession, recalled them to practical realities, so they hurried forward on the spoor. When they reached Fourie he was sitting under a tree regarding with satisfaction a large lion he had shot, and which three Baiala were engaged in skinning. Tied to a shrub close by were two young lion-cubs.

“See, Anna, what I have caught,” cried he; “have a look at the little brutes before I kill them.”

“No, no,” said the girl, “they are too young to kill. Let them go. Where is their mother?”

“That is what I cannot understand; I have never heard of such young cubs being left behind by their mother. But I’m not going to let them go, perhaps to kill some one, as my father was killed.”

The girls soul revolted from the idea of slaughtering these innocents. So full of new-found happiness was she that the taking of life or the infliction of pain was abhorrent. But she knew her father’s implacable hatred of the whole lion race.

“Let me take them back to the camp,” she begged; “I will tame them.”

After advancing many objections Fourie gave a grudging consent. The little animals could be fed on soup until the camp was reached, then on meal and water. They were evidently only a week or ten days old, and resembled yellow cats with abnormally large, solemn faces. They showed no vice when handled, and seemed quite contented with their lot. The girl carried one and the boy the other, the three Baiala being unable to do more than carry the skin of the animal just killed.

The halting-place for the night was an open, circular space surrounded by high trees. The boughs met overhead; it looked like a green-domed temple. The ground was almost clear of brushwood. In the centre the fire was lit. The river was only about two hundred yards distant. Supper was over, and the cubs, being hungry, were complaining in queer, guttural tones. They had been coupled together by means of a rein, the loop of which was fastened to a protruding root.

The boy took the only cooking utensil and started, a live firebrand in one hand and his rifle in the other, for the river to fetch water for the soup. When he reached the fringe of low bushes which surrounded the camping-place he stopped for an instant and looked back. Fourie had removed the block from his rifle and sat oiling it near the fire. The girl was bending over the cubs, trying to soothe their impatience. She looked after the boy with a smile. His last sight of her face showed it lit by the flickering flame and radiant with an aura of love and happiness.

When the boy, returning, got within about fifty yards of the fire, his desert-tuned ear caught a sinister sound of low growling. He dropped the vessel of water and the firebrand, and rushed forward, bursting through the fringe of bushes. There, full in the firelight, crouched a great, tawny lioness, roughly pawing the cubs. In an instant his rifle was at his shoulder; the lioness sprang into the air and fell back dead, shot through the heart.

The boy and the fire were the only living things in the firelit circle. Fourie was lying, his neck terribly lacerated, in a pool of blood. The girl lay on her face, absolutely still. The cubs had been mangled to death through the efforts of the mother to set them free.

He could not believe the girl to be dead. Thinking she had fainted from terror, he lifted her in his arms. Her head fell back, horribly limp. Her neck had been broken by a stroke from the lioness’s paw.

When the boy awakened from his swoon a figure was standing near him. It was that of the old man of the Baiala. The boy sat up and tried to think. Then, with a lamentable cry, he sprang up and lifted the corpse of the girl in his arms. The head again fell back, the loosened wealth of burnished hair flowing like a cataract to the ground. The old waif of the desert stole silently away.

Later the old man returned, this time accompanied by two others. He touched the boy, who sat stupidly gazing at his dead, on the shoulder. The boy looked up with haggard, deathlike face, and the wholesome human sympathy of the old man’s regard loosened the frightful tension of his soul. He fell into a paroxysm of tears.

After a while the old man again touched him on the shoulder and pointed westward, in the direction of the camp. Then, with a sweep of the hand to indicate that he would return, he melted into the darkness. The two other Baiala remained behind, close at hand, and tended the fire.

It was noon when the Reefer arrived. The ground was soft, so it did not take his practised arm long to dig a deep grave. In this they reverently laid the bodies of the girl and her father. At their feet were placed the dead cubs, for showing mercy to which such dire requital was dealt by that inscrutable power which so often chastises men for their virtuous deeds, and rewards them lavishly for their sins. Heavy stones were carried from the river terrace close by and placed in such a way that the resting-place could not be disturbed.

A few days afterwards the oxen returned, so the wagon, with its sad passengers, went back to the dead man’s farm. The boy accompanied it and, after relating what had happened (which was regarded by all in the neighbourhood as the direct and unmistakable judgment of Heaven upon irreligion), he wandered forth once more, this time to be for ever a stranger among the sons and daughters of men.

Chapter Eleven.By the Waters of Marah.“And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.”—Exodus XV. 23.OneIt was in the old and, by some at least, ever-to-be-regretted days of the ox-wagon that the following strange experience befell me. These were days when the Boers were invariably hospitable to strangers (who did not arrive on foot), when the natives had still some respect for the white man, and when game was still to be had for the hunting on the high plains of South Africa.We had left our wagons at Shoshong, in what is now Kama’s country, and struck out with three pack oxen and six “boys” towards the north-west, vaguely hoping to reach Lake Ngami. At that time, a quarter of a century ago, little was known of that interior which has now become a sort of Cook’s Tourist Route, and consequently the traveller had always the vague charm of the unknown around him, whilst the fluttering hem of the garment of the fascinating nymph, whose name is Adventure, gleamed in every thicket. Maps, it is true, existed, but were a distinct disadvantage to the wanderer, for the reason that all those extant were fearfully and ingeniously incorrect. We had once nearly lost our lives through trusting to an indication of a supposed water-place upon a brand new chart prepared by a distinguished traveller, who believed every yarn told him, and who, it is now well known, did not visit half the places he described from alleged personal observation.Dick Wharton, Sam Logan and I formed the party. We were all young, in good health, and keen shots. We hardly expected to reach the lake, but we knew that there was plenty of shooting to be had in the direction in which it lay, and that was all that we particularly cared about.The country, usually a grim desert, was now a smiling garden. For two seasons rain had fallen in phenomenal abundance, and the wayward bounty of Heaven had caused the long-dormant vegetation to spring up over the length and breadth of the land. The flowers were scattered everywhere in bewildering beauty, and the insects held constant revel in the mild sunshine. Water was to be found by digging, hardly a foot deep, in every donga, and all the game in Africa seemed to have collected in the northern zone of the Kalihari.We wandered on, taking our journey easily, resting as suited our mood whenever we reached some particularly charming spot. Indeed, it almost seemed as though the wild creatures had the same aesthetic sense as ourselves, for it was almost invariably at such places that we found game in the greatest plenty. The delight of those days is, and I trust ever will be an abiding remembrance. We slept comparatively little, for sleep seemed but a waste of time, and it was better to lie awake under the soft stars or the regal moon, listening to the wild sounds of the desert, than to waste our precious hours in barren unconsciousness. Whilst our three pack oxen, tied to a tree hard by and surrounded by a fence of thorn-trees, chewed the cud of plenty or drew the deep, sighing breath of bovine alarm, we would lie watching the flames leaping from the kindled logs, and listening to the grunting of the lions, the booming of the ostriches, or the screaming of the hyaenas. We did not dread the lions, for we knew that where game was plentiful the king killer of the waste seldom troubled man or his cattle. Our natives could always be trusted to keep the fires alight. They were continually full of meat, and therefore happy.I may as well say at once that we never reached Lake Ngami. As a matter of fact, we did not go much more than two-thirds of the way to it. We dawdled upon our course to such an extent that we were obliged to return from a spot only seven days’ march beyond the Lutyahau River.Hunters familiar with the regions indicated have all heard of the bitter wells, with the unpronounceable Bushman name, not a great many days’ journey from Anderson’s Vley. The water found in these wells is extremely poisonous to Europeans. A few Bushmen, who have habituated themselves to its use, are always to be found in the vicinity, but woe betide the unhappy human creature of any other breed who slakes his thirst at this poisonous spot; he will almost assuredly die if obliged to drink the water for three days in succession. This spot can only be visited by hunters with safety upon the rare occasions when the rains have fallen so heavily on the surrounding country that water is obtainable in the sand-filled rocky hollows, of which this area of the desert is full. Taking advantage of the splendid condition of the country, we determined to make a détour to the southward for the purpose of visiting this little-frequented spot.We arrived late one afternoon, and found the place deserted, although showing signs of having recently been inhabited by human beings. We knew what had taken place—the Bushmen had fled in alarm at our approach, but we felt sure of meeting some of them within the next few days.The locality was desolate in the extreme, for the rich vegetation ceased on every side within about a mile of the muddy puddles. These formed a small group in a shallow depression some hundred yards in diameter. The surrounding soil was evidently strongly charged with some alkaline substance, which lay thickly on the surface in the form of white powder. The water had a brownish tinge where it oozed out of the soil, and gave forth an unpleasant smell, as though of decaying vegetable matter.We soon found sweet rain-water in a donga close by, so decided to rest for a few days. Rest is hardly the right term to use, for we worked exceedingly hard. Each member of the party had his own favourite game. Dick was not content with the slaughter of anything less than the King of Beasts, Sam enjoyed shooting koodoos more than anything else, whilst the slaying of the gentle giraffe brought the keenest joy to my hunter’s heart. Consequently, we three, although the best of chums, seldom hunted together. Each preferred to take a couple of “boys” and follow the chase of that which his soul panted for.On the day following our arrival at the bitter wells I took my rifle and wandered forth towards a considerable clump of comparatively large trees, which could be descried about seven miles away to the westward, and where I expected to meet with my favourite game. It was nearly midday when I reached the trees, and just upon entering the grove I was astonished to see the spoor of a large sandal leading along a game-path. The spoor was certainly not that of a Bushman, its length being too great and the impression too heavy. I pointed it out to one of my followers, who uttered a low exclamation of surprise, and then we followed the track silently into the thickest part of the grove.On turning a sharp corner we suddenly stood still, for a small hut, or “scherm,” constructed of bushes and fragments of skin, stood before us. It was not so much a hut as a kind of movable screen such as the Hottentots use—one that could be shifted with little difficulty to meet the changing wind. Its back was towards us. After pausing for a few seconds, I stepped forward and looked under the roof of the structure from the other side.Again I stood still, my eyes being riveted by the strangest-looking human creature it has ever been my lot to behold. The man was reclining on a few jackal skins, and resting on his elbow. He was quite naked except for a tanned hide, which was tied with a thong around his middle. In spite of the dark and rough condition of his skin, his long matted hair and beard clearly showed him to be an European. The hair hung over his shoulders in a white fleece, and the beard lay upon his chest in a long silvery tangle. His face was a striking one; the forehead was high and intellectual, the nose prominent and somewhat hooked, the eyes were dark and deep, and gleamed splenetically from under the shaggy and prominent brows.My two followers ran back with exclamations of terror, and crouched behind a bush about thirty yards away. I myself, feeling more astonishment than alarm, looked hard at the man, who gazed back fixedly without the least appearance of surprise or embarrassment. Then I took a step nearer and spoke.“Good day. Who are you?”“One who will never trouble you as much as you trouble him,” came the surly reply.The voice had an even, metallic tone—a tone which I was strangely reminded of years afterwards when I first listened to a phonograph. There was a queer suggestion of impersonality about it. I tried to think of something to say, but could not find a word, so taken aback was I. The man’s eyes rested on mine like those of an animated sphinx, and seemed to exercise a queer kind of mesmerism. Withdrawing mine with difficulty, I glanced around the “scherm” and took a rapid survey of its contents. I noticed a number of sticks, pared flat, and with the edges full of little notches. A Bushman’s bow and a quiver of arrows were stuck behind one of the supports, and a skin wallet hung from another. Several curiously knobbed sticks lay on the floor, and a lump of raw meat, which was in course of being invaded by an army of small red ants, was stuck in the fork of a stake planted in the ground. Several ostrich egg-shells, with small wooden pegs inserted at each end, lay about.The silence became oppressive. The man still gazed at me, and I glanced nervously and rapidly at him from time to time. The thought that he perhaps was a lunatic crossed my mind, and I quickly surveyed his build in view of the possibility of a struggle. The conclusion I came to was that I should prefer to decline a contest. The man was old and rather emaciated, but his muscles looked as hard as the pasterns of a springbok.“Is there much game hereabouts?” I hazarded.The strange being suddenly stood up, and I was astonished at his height. I involuntarily stepped back a couple of paces as he emerged from the “scherm.” He stretched forth his hand towards me, but not in a threatening manner—although his eyes seemed to blaze—and spoke in the same strange pitch, but much more loudly than before.“Is not the desert wide enough that you come here to trouble me? You have the whole world for your hunting-ground, and I have only this little spot. Get you gone and trouble me no more, or I will get the Bushmen to drive you off.”I began to lose my nervousness completely—although I could not help seeing that the man’s threat was a serious one. Bushmen had not been giving much trouble of late years; however, I knew that they existed in considerable numbers in that particular area of the Great Desert. Probably this strange being possessed some influence over them, and if so, nothing would be more easy than to have us killed when sitting around our camp-fire by means of a volley of poisoned arrows poured in at point-blank range. Such occurrences had happened before.“Man alive,” I said in a cheerful voice, “I don’t want to interfere with you; I came here quite by accident, and I shall go on my way without giving you any trouble whatever. Ta-ta—I hope you are enjoying your picnic.”I turned on my heel, but he called out to me to stop, and I again faced round.“How many are there in your party?” he said, after giving me a long, fixed look.“Two other white men and six boys.”“Wait for just a moment. I want to have a few words with you.”I set my rifle against the stump of a tree and stood before him with my arms folded. The creature seemed to have become more human.“Would it be of any use asking you not to tell your companions anything about your having met me?”“Well—you see—I have my two boys with me; even if I hold my tongue they are sure to talk.”A queer ghost of a smile seemed to flit across the stern face.“I know you will keep your word if you give it,” he replied, “and I will make it right with the boys. Will you promise? Take time to think if you like.”A great pity for the poor creature before me seemed to swell in my breast. Why should I not grant his request? Why should I darken, in no matter how slight a degree, a life apparently overloaded by some great tragedy? Of course I felt flattered by his estimate of my veracity.“Yes, I promise,” I said.His face softened, and the tension of his limbs seemed to relax. When next he spoke the tone of his voice had quite changed.“Ah! I find that I am not as dead as I thought. Yours is the first English voice I have heard for over twenty years. I wonder what fate brought you here to wake me back to pain. Give me a grasp of your hand and then go.”I held out my hand, and he seized it with a grip of iron. We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, and mine dimmed with tears.“Can you not come away with us?” I asked.He shook his head vigorously.“Is there nothing I can do for you—give you?”“If you have at your camp any sort of a knife to spare I should be glad of it.”“Right, I will bring you one to-morrow. And you need not fear that I will say a word about you. Of course I cannot answer for the boys.”I picked up my gun and strode away rapidly, not wishing to give him an opportunity of changing his mind. When I reached the bush behind which my boys were crouching, they looked towards, and then past me, with expressions of the utmost terror. I turned and found that the man was closely and noiselessly following me. He beckoned to the boys, who arose and followed him, crouching out of sight. I sat down and awaited events. In a few minutes the boys returned, their faces ashen and their heads bent. I strode on and they followed me in complete silence.I did not then make for the camp, but for a low ridge to the northward, on which a number of “camel-thorn” trees were visible. Here I wounded a fine bull giraffe. Following the spoor took up the rest of the day, and the sun was down before the poor brute lay before me dead. We camped for the night alongside the carcase, there being a wet donga close at hand. After a good supper, in which that most delicate of delicacies, giraffe marrow, was an important element, I lit my pipe and basked in the blaze of the logs. I had noticed that my two boys were silent and depressed.“Wildebeest,” I said, addressing the senior, “what do you think of the man we saw to-day?”Wildebeest glanced uneasily over his shoulder into the darkness and replied in a low tone—“I saw no man to-day, Bass; neither did Ghola, nor even the Bass himself.”Both boys covered their heads with the fragments of skin which did duty for clothing and lay down. When I addressed them a few minutes afterwards both pretended to be fast asleep, but I could tell by their breathing that they were wide awake.The sun was high when I reached the bitter wells next morning. My two companions had gone away exploring to the southward; they had left a note explaining that they would probably not return till the following day. This suited me exactly. I had never been able to lie skilfully; I hated having to deceive my chums. It may, therefore, be well imagined that I was somewhat uneasy on the subject of my secret.After a short rest, I again set off westward, taking with me the spare knife. The sun was just setting when I reached the grove. The strange man was still in his “scherm.” A new piece of meat hung upon the forked stick; nothing else appeared to have been changed since the previous day. We sat up the whole night—he talking and I listening to what surely must have been one of the saddest and strangest tales ever poured into a human ear.I passed my word to the effect that for twenty years, not alone would I never mention a word of what he told me, but that I would not even write it down. It will, accordingly, be understood that a good deal of the language in which the tale is set forth is rather mine than his. I have, however, a very vivid recollection of the circumstances related—in fact many of the phrases used have never faded from my memory.After various experiments as to the best mode of relation I find that telling as though in the first person seems the most effective.Two“I went to sea as a boy and, in the late forties, was mate of a ship which ran ashore on the coast of the Cape Colony, somewhere to the eastward of Cape l’Agulhas. I disliked the sea; and when I managed to obtain a clerkship in a store in Cape Town, determined to spend the rest of my life ashore. But I soon sickened of town life. I had always longed to visit the great unknown interior and to shoot big game, but without means this was, of course, impossible.“At length, I found myself with a few pounds in my pocket, so I bought a small wagon and a team of oxen, and commenced business on my own account as a travelling trader. I used to obtain goods in Cape Town on credit, take them up-country to barter with, and afterwards return with cattle and sheep, which I sold to the butchers at a good profit.“My business prospered, so that within a few years I found myself in a position to realise my dream of taking a trip up-country. I possessed a strong, comfortable wagon, sixteen good oxen, and three smart ponies—all of which I had obtained by trading. I bought several good guns, a lot of gunpowder and lead, and, in fact, a complete hunting and trading outfit.“I had no fixed plan. Time was no object, so I meant to travel northward in a leisurely manner, resting whenever I felt inclined to, or when my cattle required to pick up in point of condition. Being a handy man with tools I knew I could repair my wagon or guns should they require it. I spoke Dutch well, and I took a lot of stuff for the purpose of trading with the Boers for food.“Always a solitary man, I did not feel the need of a companion, but I took two servants with me—an old Hottentot named Danster and his grandson, a lad of sixteen. These had been in my service for several years, and were willing to follow me anywhere.“It was October when I started, and it was well on in September of the following year before I reached the Orange River. The course I had taken was somewhere to the westward of the usual trade route. I wanted to see as much unknown country as possible, and I had an idea that gold might be found in the great, high, central plain. The rains had fallen more plentifully than for years previously—almost as heavily as they have fallen here this season—so I had an easy time of it. I just went slowly along, shooting game when I wanted meat and pausing when the desire to rest came over me. The farther northward I went, the scarcer became the farms, until at length the only people I met were the few wandering Boers who lived in wagons and mat-houses and moved about on the track of the rains.“Fate or chance led me to a bend in the Orange River where a certain Boer and his family dwelt. Although the family spoke nothing but Dutch, this Boer was a Scotsman by birth. He had come to Africa when a child, and had spent his life on the fringe of the desert. He was now old, blind, and feeble, and had evidently not long to live. The family consisted of three sons—the eldest being twenty-five and the youngest nineteen years of age—and a niece, a girl of eighteen. These young men were the three greatest scoundrels it has ever been my lot to meet, but the girl was beautiful and good, and I loved her from the first moment my eyes rested on her face.“I will try and describe the homestead and its dwellers. The house was small and low, built of round stones with mud plaster and thatched with reeds. The furniture was rough-hewn from logs carried down by the great river when in flood. The old Boer was rich in cattle, sheep and horses. Grain was grown on a patch of sandy ground which was sometimes fertilised by the river when at its highest flood. Brayed skins served principally for clothing and wholly for bedding.“Piet, the eldest of the brothers, was a tall, melancholy man with a narrow face, thick lips, and hair the colour of a fox. Gerrit, the second, was short and powerfully built. He had black eyes, beard and hair, and his complexion was swarthy. He was passionate and cruel, and the poor old man used to shake at the sound of his voice. Sandy, the youngest, was a powerfully built fellow, and also had red hair. His face was like that of a weasel. He was lame from an injury received in childhood, but so strong that he could hold fast the leg of an ox no matter how hard the animal kicked. He seldom spoke, and he had the strongest aversion to meeting with his pale eyes even the glance of anyone else.“And the girl—how shall a man describe the first and only woman he has loved—and that after she has been dead for twenty years? Alida was dark, dark as a gipsy, and of middle height. I had not seen much of women—I had never pleased them, nor had they been attracted by me—so, although thirty-five years of age, I had not thought of marrying. But here, in this God-forgotten corner of the wilderness, I suddenly came face to face with my mate, clad in rough skins that could not hide her beauty, and as ready to go with me to the end of the world as I was to take her.“Alida was the orphan daughter of the blind old man’s only brother. He and his wife had both been killed by lightning in a mat-house when Alida was a baby, and the child had been dragged out from under the flaming roof by an old Bushwoman. Then her uncle adopted her, and she grew up in the rough, uncouth household like a gazelle among swine.“It was a strange household: the old man lived in terror of his sons, and it was Alida who took his part and protected him from their violence. His wife had been dead three years, and he longed for the day of his own release. Every night he would pray aloud before going to bed, and the sons would mock him to his face. These three young men hated each other, and they all tormented the girl with proffers of love, she meeting their advances with the utmost scorn.“A few days after my arrival at the homestead Piet recommended me to send my oxen to graze on a certain ridge within sight of the house, where the grass looked green and luxuriant. I did so, and within three days all my team except four were dead. The ridge was covered with the dreaded ‘tulp,’ which is deadly poison to all cattle. I am satisfied that the three brothers put their villainous heads together and devised this infamy with the view of getting possession of the contents of my wagon, which they coveted. I was in despair, for I could see no plan of replacing the cattle except by parting with most of my trading stock, and without this I could not proceed upon my trip. There appeared no way out of the difficulty, so I thought to remain where I was for a short time and then endeavour to make my way back to Cape Town.“Such is the effect of a guilty conscience that the three ruffians could not bear to be in my presence; they appeared to dread my face, so they spent most of their time away from the homestead. In fact they made a practice of taking their guns early in the morning and making for the veldt, whence they returned late at night, and at once went sulkily to bed. Thus, they never suspected that there was anything of the nature of love between Alida and myself, whereas we had come to an understanding within a week of the disaster to my cattle. It came about thus. One night after Piet had come in, I heard Alida reproach him for his dastardly deed, which he did not attempt to deny. Next day, when the coast was clear, I mentioned the subject to her, and she burst into a flood of tears. Then I tried to comfort her, and we soon found out that we were more important to each other than all else that the world contained.“I asked her to come away with me, but she refused to leave the old man, so I made up my mind to stay near her, at all risks, until his death, and then to take her and make her my wife. I knew that the old man could not live much longer; he became feebler day by day. The murder of my oxen, which he had heard discussed, preyed upon his mind to such an extent that he became rapidly weaker, and at length was unable to leave his bed.“I heard of a Hottentot camp situated some three days’ journey away, up the river, so I sent old Danster, my servant, to see if he could purchase any cattle there. My idea was to dispose of some of my stock-in-trade and acquire a sufficient number of oxen to enable me to get away with my wagon as soon as ever Alida should be free. The brothers had refused to sell me any cattle except at an impossibly exorbitant rate. I knew there would be extraordinary difficulty in getting Alida out of the clutches of her cousins, but the thing had to be accomplished somehow or another.“In six days’ time Danster returned with a favourable report, so I made secret preparations for my departure. By this time the brothers had begun to feel suspicious of my relations with their cousin, so one of their number always hung about the homestead.“My intention was to load three of my four remaining oxen, which had been trained to the pack, with tobacco, coloured handkerchiefs and other stuff which I knew the Hottentots valued, and then steal away, unobserved if possible. I reckoned on being able to obtain six animals. These, with my other four, would suffice to pull the wagon with its diminished load. Danster had done his best to induce the Hottentots to bring their cattle down for me to see, but the reputation of the brothers was such an evil one that no one from the encampment would venture near the farm.“At the same time preparations for a journey, the object of which I never learned, were being carried on by the brothers. Guns, saddles and other gear were furbished up, and horses carefully selected out of the half wild herd. Alida managed to let me know that Piet and Gerrit were going away, and were not expected to return for five or six days. I looked upon this as a piece of good luck, and determined to take my departure immediately after they had started.“Next morning at daybreak the two mounted their horses and rode forth, and no sooner were they out of sight than I sent Danster to drive up my oxen. The packs were ready, so I hurriedly adjusted them and, after bidding farewell to Alida and the old man, made haste in the direction of the Hottentot camp. The last thing I saw as I left the homestead was the evil face of Sandy peering like a weasel round the corner of the building.“I travelled all day and camped at sundown. So tired was I that I fell asleep at once, leaving old Danster to collect fuel and tie up the oxen. The distance I had travelled was not great, but the slowness of the gait of the oxen had tired me. The last thing I remember is seeing old Danster nodding drowsily over the newly-kindled fire. His grandson had been left at the farm to look after my remaining ox.“I cannot upon natural grounds account for the next thing I became cognisant of. I found myself standing up, looking at the figure of the old Boer, which stood on the other side of the fire. It was splashed by the flickering flame against the black night, and as clear to my startled gaze as you are at this moment. The sightless eyes were wide open and full of unwonted expression, and one arm was extended imperatively in the direction of the homestead. There was an expression of sternness on the worn face which I had never previously seen, and the wasted form seemed instinct with dignity.“I never doubted that it was indeed the old Boer in the flesh that stood before me, but my mind was in a whirl of wonder as to how he had managed to follow me, and I never doubted that Alida was at hand, but an eddying gust of smoke filled my eyes, and I closed them for an instant. When I opened them again the figure had vanished, and then I knew it for a vision.“In an instant the truth, clear and inevitable, pierced my brain—Alida was in danger and the old man was dead; his spirit had come to warn me. I seized my gun and bandolier from where they lay, close to the head of my couch, took a hurried glance at old Danster, who was huddled, snoring, close to the fire, and plunged into the darkness.Three“I had a long distance to cover, so I husbanded my strength. The night was calm, still and starlit when I started. I judged the time to be about midnight. My mind was in a curiously exalted condition; clear, tense and braced to its purpose like a tempered steel spring. I felt that I could have swept an army of men or devils from my path. My course lay across a succession of low, wide ridges with gently sloping sides, each culminating in an abrupt backbone of bare boulders, the whole inclining slightly towards the river.“Whenever my way led up hill I walked. On reaching the top I drew breath for a few seconds, and then went down the next slope at a swinging trot. I found both strength and wind improve as I proceeded. Dawn just began to flicker as I reached the comb of the last ridge, from which I knew that the homestead was visible by daylight about three miles away. Then something which I had taken for a stone in my path arose before me, and in a few seconds Alida stood revealed. She stretched out her hand towards me with a gesture of appeal; I dropped my gun and folded her in my arms. Neither of us spoke a word.“After a few seconds she disengaged herself from my embrace, took my hand and led me forward towards the homestead. The glimmer of dawn began to merge into the gold of morning, and by the time we reached the dwelling the level shafts of sunlight were searching the crests of every tree and kopje. Although Alida had not once broken her silence I knew that something terrible had occurred, but I felt no curiosity; I did not wish the ear to anticipate the eye in the revelation which was about to be made. The front door of the homestead stood wide open; no sign of life was visible, and the only sound which smote on my tense ear was the howling of a door down near the river.“Pausing before the doorway, Alida and I looked into each other’s eyes for an instant, during which earth and sky seemed to pause in dreadful expectancy, and the pulse of time to cease. The girl’s face was drawn and pallid, and wore an expression of the bitterest agony. She took my hand and drew me into the house.“The front room was in the same condition as when I had last seen it, except that the table bore the remains of last evening’s meal, and that a chair lay overturned against the wall, as though it had been hurriedly flung out of someone’s way. The old man’s bedroom opened to the left, and into it Alida led me.“The wooden shutters were closed, so the only light was the faint glimmer which filtered through the front room. Alida strode to the window and, avoiding something which lay on the floor, threw back one shutter. In an instant the room was flooded with sunshine. On the bed lay the old man, dead, with the same expression on the worn face which I had noticed in my vision of the previous night. Under the window lay the corpse of Sandy, with a deep gash on the right temple, from which a trickle of black blood had oozed and congealed upon the clay floor.“The whole room was in a state of disorder, and showed signs of a violent struggle. I passed my arm round Alida’s body and drew her, half-fainting, from the room. We walked some distance from the house and seated ourselves in the pure, bright sunshine. Then she told me her tale.“The old man had been taken with what must have been a fit immediately after supper on the previous evening, and died within a few minutes. Sandy went outside, and Alida remained with the body to carry out the necessary arrangements. About midnight Sandy returned, and tried to induce her to go to her room. She refused, and he began to use force. Then his brutish intention became clear to her. In the very room where the dead man lay this fiend laid his hot hands upon the girl who had grown up in the house with him like his sister. Fortunately she was strong, and able to make an effective resistance. In the struggle his foot slipped, and he fell with his head against the sharp wooden corner of his father’s cartel bedstead; this pierced to his brain through the thin bone, and the foul brute fell, dead, to the floor.“She showed me the black bruises upon her beautiful arms and shoulders, and I kissed them, one by one. Then I left her sitting upon the stone and went to drive up the cattle, which, fortunately, were close at hand in the big river bend. I could not find old Danster’s grandson; in fact, not a soul was to be seen about the place. The Hottentots had evidently got scent of the tragedy, and bolted.“After driving the cattle into the kraal, I called Alida to my assistance, and together we selected sixteen of the best. She knew all the animals individually. We caught them by passing reims over their horns. Then we filled the wagon—which stood close by—with provisions, ammunition, and other necessary things. My goods had been stored in a little outhouse; I selected some of these and added them to the load. Before noon the team stood ready in the yoke. I entered the house and took a last look at the scene of the tragedy. Upon coming from the room Alida met me in the doorway—“‘Bring him with you, and we will bury him beyond the river,’ she said.“I returned to the room and wrapped the body in a large kaross which lay upon the bed. Although much emaciated, the body seemed strangely light for its build. We laid it reverently upon the wagon-cartel, and I seized the whip. Alida took her place in front of the team as leader, and the heavy wagon rumbled down the stony track towards the river drift.“We travelled about six hours before outspanning. It was then sundown, and we were on the southern verge of the great Kalihari waste, which is usually an arid desert, but was then like a rich meadow. In the darkness I set to work and dug a deep grave in the sand. Before we lowered the body into it, Alida drew the kaross back from the face and imprinted a long kiss upon the dead, smoothed-out brow of the man who had been for so long a father to her, and who had wearied so sorely for his death. Then she threw herself upon the ground at the grave-side and burst into passionate weeping. I placed heavy stones over the grave and burnt loose gunpowder among them for the purpose of scaring off the jackals.“At the first gleam of dawn we were again on our way. We knew we should be pursued, sooner or later, and I wanted to get beyond the range of pursuit so as to avoid, if possible, the necessity for shedding blood. In this there was no element of fear, for I felt strong and confident of being able to overcome the two ruffians. But I knew it would be necessary to kill them if they overtook us, and I had always shrunk from taking the life of a fellow-creature—no matter how vile—even in self-defence.“We had no fixed plans. Alida knew no more than I of the country before us. We were on no track, but just steered vaguely northward, taking our direction from the sun and the stars. Water was to be found almost everywhere; besides, the whole desert was strewn with ‘tsamai’ melons, on which we, as well as the cattle, could exist should the water fail. Game was plentiful and tame, so we never lacked meat. Each night as we camped we collected fuel, and built two large fires for the purpose of keeping off the lions, one just behind the wagon and the other in front of the team. The front yoke we used to peg down firmly, to prevent the oxen, which were tied in pairs along the chain, from rushing back on the wagon, in the event of a panic being caused by wild beasts. We divided the night into two watches, of which I took the first. The oxen were well trained, so the services of a leader were not often required, and Alida was thus enabled to sleep for long periods as the wagon crawled slowly over the velvet-like sand.“Thus passed five days, and on the morning of the sixth old Danster turned up. He had waited for my return a day and a night, and then gone back to the homestead on my spoor, arriving on the evening of the second day after I had left him. He found the house just as we had left it, but feeling that something was wrong, had been afraid to enter, so he took cover close by and waited for daylight, when he traced the wheel-tracks of our wagon down to the river. Little Slinger, his grandson, he could not find, although he searched for him far and near. In the afternoon Piet and Gerrit arrived. Danster stole up to a bush, from which he could observe all that went on near the house. He saw the brothers moving about excitedly and gesticulating wildly. Little Slinger soon afterwards appeared; he had evidently been hiding in the bush, and emerged, driven out by starvation. The boy was seized by Gerrit and dragged into the house. He was shortly afterwards dragged out again, and then Piet shot him dead before the door.“Danster saw the brothers drive in the mob of horses, saddle up two, and place a small pack upon a third. Then they started on the track of our wagon. Danster followed on foot, and passed the two when camped for the night. Since then he had travelled night and day to overtake us, and he only arrived just in time to give warning. I at once determined to await the approach of our pursuers, who were now so close that we could not hope to escape them. Personally, I had no doubt as to the result of the encounter. I did not want the woman I loved to stain her sinless hands in blood, be it ever so guilty, so I refused her offer of assistance in the conflict. But she took a solemn oath that if I were killed she would take her own life.“I knew that I should inevitably have to destroy these men, but I, nevertheless, determined not to do so without having absolute proof that they meant to murder me. In the long silent watches of the recent nights, when earth lay speechless to the stars, I had thought out a plan in view of the probable contingency, and this plan I proceeded to put into execution. These men should have their chance, and if they meant anything less than absolute murder, my right hand might perish before I would slay them.“So I yoked the team to the wagon once more, and drew it onward for a few hundred yards to a spot where two dunes nearly met, and where the drift-sand lay loose and soft. Then I halted the wagon, letting it appear as though the oxen had been unable to draw it any farther. The oxen I unyoked and sent forward in charge of Danster, telling him, if he heard shooting, shortly followed by a shout from me, to bring them back at once.“Then I gathered a quantity of fuel, carefully selecting a number of logs of heavy, close-grained wood, which might be depended upon to keep alight for hours. I felt so sure that no attack would be made before dark, that I proceeded with my preparations in a most leisurely manner. We built the pile ready for kindling, but waited for sundown before setting it alight.“In the meantime, Alida had—under my directions—taken a couple of yokes and some pillows, and of these made dummy figures, which she dressed in some of our garments. Then I scooped out a comfortable-looking couch in the soft dune-side, close to the pile of fuel, and in the bottom of it laid a kaross. Upon this we placed the two figures, side by side, and over them we spread another kaross. Above the head of one figure was laid Alida’s ‘cappie,’ with the hood drawn over the face as though to keep off the dew. Over the head of the other my coat was laid in the same manner, my hat being carelessly thrown down alongside. Within arm’s-reach one of my spare guns lay propped upon forked sticks, so as to keep it clear of the sand.“We finished our preparations just after the sun had sunk, but I afterwards added a slight touch here and there for the purpose of improving the general effect. I remember Alida clinging to my arm in terror, because, just as dusk was setting in, I returned and placed one of my pipes on top of the hat, where the metal top glinted brightly in the firelight. Then we climbed into the wagon, let the canvas flap fall, and sat silently awaiting developments.“The sides of the canvas cover buttoned to the woodwork of the tilt, but we unbuttoned sufficient of it to give us, when we lifted it slightly, a good view of the fire, the couch with the dummies lying in it, and a considerable space surrounding these.“I sat in the wagon grasping my double-barrelled gun. My pulse beat no faster than usual. The only emotion I was conscious of was extreme impatience. I was not even uneasy about Danster and the cattle, although I knew there were many lions about. I was quite certain that the two human jackals would fall into the trap I had so carefully set for them, but the waiting, which lasted until after midnight, seemed long and wearisome. It was Alida who first, with the sharp ear of the desert-bred, heard their approaching stealthy steps. She grasped my arm suddenly, and I knew quite well what she meant to convey, so I noiselessly cocked both barrels of my gun. Then she lifted the edge of the canvas a few inches, and I looked cautiously out.“Gerrit was the first to appear; he had an evil smile on his face, and his wicked black eyes glittered like sparks. Immediately following came Piet. He looked haggard, and his pale lips moved convulsively. Both men were barefoot, and without hats or boots. They had, Danster afterwards ascertained when he traced their spoors backwards for the purpose of getting their horses, watched our camp for some time from the top of a dune a few hundred yards away, and there discarded their boots and superfluous clothing before advancing to their cowardly attack.“Gerrit leading, the two stole up to within two yards of my supposed figure, and then Piet stretched out his hand and took possession of my gun, which he placed out of reach. The two then pointed their guns, Gerrit at the head and Piet at the breast of the dummy. I noticed that both took some pains to avoid the possibility of wounding the other supposed sleeper with their shots, and for this a faint throb of something like pity woke in my mind. I saw the muzzles of the guns drop slightly in unison once, twice, and then, at the third drop, both weapons were discharged.“I had covered Gerrit, and an instant after he fired he dropped with my bullet through his brain. Piet sprang wildly to one side, only, however, to meet my second shot, which pierced his chest from the left-hand side. He fell on his face with a gurgling groan, and died, clutching wildly at the grass.Four“I sprang out of the wagon, ran to the top of the dune and shouted to old Danster, who, to my astonishment, emerged from under a bush a few yards off. He had stolen back after leaving the oxen, replete and happy, lying down about a quarter of a mile away. The old Hottentot was filled with savage delight at little Slinger’s death having been so completely avenged. He had his gun ready to shoot Piet had I fallen. Soon afterwards he brought up the oxen at a run, and we tied them to the yokes.“We then dragged the two bodies to the back of the dune, and there left them to such sepulture as the vultures and the jackals might give. A few spadefuls of clean white sand obliterated all superficial traces of the gruesome happenings in the vicinity of the wagon. Then Alida and I sat on the wagon-box, hand in hand, and watched until the night died and the gracious morning smiled upon the desert.“I felt no remorse for what I had done, then or ever afterwards. My deed had been an execution, not a murder—an act of self-defence under the direst necessity. But I preferred to look upon it as a kind of judicial proceeding in which the culprits had been tried and sentenced at the bar of eternal justice, and handed over to me, unwilling, for execution.“When the sweet, pure influences of dawn descended upon us after that night of blood, my heartstrings sang aloud and I thrilled with a sense of elation such as I had never previously experienced. I seemed to be king of a boundless realm, and my queen sat in beauty at my side. No word of love had passed between us since our flight, but she was now mine by every law of heaven and earth. The face of love had hitherto been shaded by terror and tears, but now it shone upon us, unclouded and bright as the morning. We were alone in the wild, untracked and boundless desert, but we would not have exchanged our wagon for a palace. To us a world of men would have been unbearable; the convulsion we had passed through had whirled us to some zone far from the ways of ordinary humanity. We were like two peerless eagles soaring in the heart of the infinite blue, forgetful of the inconspicuous earth.“Northward and ever northward we travelled. Wayward Nature spread a carpet for our delighted feet, and laid the fruits of the earth ready for our banquet. I felt so happy that it gave me pain to slay the innocent desert creatures when meat was required. I knew not fear of anything. I have looked calmly into the eyes of a furious lion when he crouched ready to spring at me, and laid him quivering at my feet with a shot which seemed as though it could not err.“We happened upon the bitter wells quite by accident. Alida took a fancy to this spot, so we here formed our camp. We never dreamt of having to depend upon the bitter water for our sustenance, for the well in the donga close at hand looked as though it could never run dry. The Bushmen soon became our fast friends. Alida spoke their language, and they used to bring their sick and hurt to her for treatment. In one or two serious cases I was called in, and, owing to the fact of fortunate recoveries resulting, I acquired the reputation of a great magician. This reputation I have never lost.“For a year no two human beings were ever happier than we. Alida could use a gun quite as well as I, so I felt no uneasiness about leaving her alone when hunting took me far afield. The desert, after rain, is full of wholesome vegetable food, and with this the Bushmen kept us well supplied. We had no want or desire which we could not satisfy. Yes, that year was enough to atone for an eternity of pain.“One thing only I dreaded—the possibility of Alida’s becoming a mother, and at length the day came when I knew that my dread would be realised. This was just a year after our union.“Soon afterwards the land began to dry up, and it was then I should have escaped to the Great Lake. But I was new to the climate, and I could make no guess as to what was coming. I hoped against hope for rain, but the sun scorched fiercer and fiercer. Now and then the clouds came up to mock our misery, but no drop fell from them. One by one the water-places failed, and the Bushmen began to flock in to the bitter wells from every direction. All had the same tale to tell. The desert, which had been awakened to beauty by the kiss of the fickle sky, was falling back into its ancient, deathlike sleep. Until this present season it has never since awakened.“The well in the donga close at hand held out long after the others had dried up, but it, too, began to show signs of soon becoming exhausted. The Bushmen still said that rain might come, and once, when the lightnings flickered on the north-eastern horizon, they held a dance to show their joy at the prospect of a deluge. But soon afterwards the air grew cooler, with a clear sky, and then the dwellers of the desert told us to bid good-bye to hope.“The child was born—a strong, lusty boy—and Alida stood the ordeal bravely. But the sides of our well began to crumble in, and the water to become horribly less. At length, after we had spent nearly a whole day in squeezing a single pannikin of moisture from the sand scraped up at the bottom of the pit, we sadly moved over to the bitter wells. The child was then two months old.“Alida sickened from the water at once. Strangely enough, it had no effect upon me. Then the kind Bushmen searched all over the desert for the ostrich egg-shells which they had filled with rain-water and buried here and there so that the hunters might not die of thirst when their pursuit of game had taken them far away from their camps. This stuff, horrible as it proved, Alida was able to exist upon, but the supply soon became exhausted, and then the bitter water made her more ill than ever. Her illness poisoned the child; it wasted quickly and died in cruel pain.“Alida never lifted her head after the child’s death. By her wish I carried it over here for burial. At one time it seemed as though she might possibly become accustomed to the bitter water. Then, after unusually hot weather, its poison grew so virulent that even some of the Bushmen sickened. Alida became suddenly worse, and two days afterwards she died in my arms.“All this happened twenty years ago. On these notched sticks I have kept a record of the slow time. Alida and the child lie buried beneath the spot where we are sitting now; I shall never leave the place. Every day the Bushmen bring me enough meat and water for my needs. Old Danster died of thirst when hunting in the desert, years ago.“The wild animals seem to know me, for they never attempt to do me any hurt. I do not think I am unhappy, for I can sleep when I like, and in my dreams I go over the past again and again. They used to teach me that another life comes after death. I do not know... I know that if the soul lives when the body dies, our souls will be together... But now I dream... and dream...”

“And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.”—Exodus XV. 23.

“And when they came to Marah, they could not drink of the waters of Marah, for they were bitter.”—Exodus XV. 23.

It was in the old and, by some at least, ever-to-be-regretted days of the ox-wagon that the following strange experience befell me. These were days when the Boers were invariably hospitable to strangers (who did not arrive on foot), when the natives had still some respect for the white man, and when game was still to be had for the hunting on the high plains of South Africa.

We had left our wagons at Shoshong, in what is now Kama’s country, and struck out with three pack oxen and six “boys” towards the north-west, vaguely hoping to reach Lake Ngami. At that time, a quarter of a century ago, little was known of that interior which has now become a sort of Cook’s Tourist Route, and consequently the traveller had always the vague charm of the unknown around him, whilst the fluttering hem of the garment of the fascinating nymph, whose name is Adventure, gleamed in every thicket. Maps, it is true, existed, but were a distinct disadvantage to the wanderer, for the reason that all those extant were fearfully and ingeniously incorrect. We had once nearly lost our lives through trusting to an indication of a supposed water-place upon a brand new chart prepared by a distinguished traveller, who believed every yarn told him, and who, it is now well known, did not visit half the places he described from alleged personal observation.

Dick Wharton, Sam Logan and I formed the party. We were all young, in good health, and keen shots. We hardly expected to reach the lake, but we knew that there was plenty of shooting to be had in the direction in which it lay, and that was all that we particularly cared about.

The country, usually a grim desert, was now a smiling garden. For two seasons rain had fallen in phenomenal abundance, and the wayward bounty of Heaven had caused the long-dormant vegetation to spring up over the length and breadth of the land. The flowers were scattered everywhere in bewildering beauty, and the insects held constant revel in the mild sunshine. Water was to be found by digging, hardly a foot deep, in every donga, and all the game in Africa seemed to have collected in the northern zone of the Kalihari.

We wandered on, taking our journey easily, resting as suited our mood whenever we reached some particularly charming spot. Indeed, it almost seemed as though the wild creatures had the same aesthetic sense as ourselves, for it was almost invariably at such places that we found game in the greatest plenty. The delight of those days is, and I trust ever will be an abiding remembrance. We slept comparatively little, for sleep seemed but a waste of time, and it was better to lie awake under the soft stars or the regal moon, listening to the wild sounds of the desert, than to waste our precious hours in barren unconsciousness. Whilst our three pack oxen, tied to a tree hard by and surrounded by a fence of thorn-trees, chewed the cud of plenty or drew the deep, sighing breath of bovine alarm, we would lie watching the flames leaping from the kindled logs, and listening to the grunting of the lions, the booming of the ostriches, or the screaming of the hyaenas. We did not dread the lions, for we knew that where game was plentiful the king killer of the waste seldom troubled man or his cattle. Our natives could always be trusted to keep the fires alight. They were continually full of meat, and therefore happy.

I may as well say at once that we never reached Lake Ngami. As a matter of fact, we did not go much more than two-thirds of the way to it. We dawdled upon our course to such an extent that we were obliged to return from a spot only seven days’ march beyond the Lutyahau River.

Hunters familiar with the regions indicated have all heard of the bitter wells, with the unpronounceable Bushman name, not a great many days’ journey from Anderson’s Vley. The water found in these wells is extremely poisonous to Europeans. A few Bushmen, who have habituated themselves to its use, are always to be found in the vicinity, but woe betide the unhappy human creature of any other breed who slakes his thirst at this poisonous spot; he will almost assuredly die if obliged to drink the water for three days in succession. This spot can only be visited by hunters with safety upon the rare occasions when the rains have fallen so heavily on the surrounding country that water is obtainable in the sand-filled rocky hollows, of which this area of the desert is full. Taking advantage of the splendid condition of the country, we determined to make a détour to the southward for the purpose of visiting this little-frequented spot.

We arrived late one afternoon, and found the place deserted, although showing signs of having recently been inhabited by human beings. We knew what had taken place—the Bushmen had fled in alarm at our approach, but we felt sure of meeting some of them within the next few days.

The locality was desolate in the extreme, for the rich vegetation ceased on every side within about a mile of the muddy puddles. These formed a small group in a shallow depression some hundred yards in diameter. The surrounding soil was evidently strongly charged with some alkaline substance, which lay thickly on the surface in the form of white powder. The water had a brownish tinge where it oozed out of the soil, and gave forth an unpleasant smell, as though of decaying vegetable matter.

We soon found sweet rain-water in a donga close by, so decided to rest for a few days. Rest is hardly the right term to use, for we worked exceedingly hard. Each member of the party had his own favourite game. Dick was not content with the slaughter of anything less than the King of Beasts, Sam enjoyed shooting koodoos more than anything else, whilst the slaying of the gentle giraffe brought the keenest joy to my hunter’s heart. Consequently, we three, although the best of chums, seldom hunted together. Each preferred to take a couple of “boys” and follow the chase of that which his soul panted for.

On the day following our arrival at the bitter wells I took my rifle and wandered forth towards a considerable clump of comparatively large trees, which could be descried about seven miles away to the westward, and where I expected to meet with my favourite game. It was nearly midday when I reached the trees, and just upon entering the grove I was astonished to see the spoor of a large sandal leading along a game-path. The spoor was certainly not that of a Bushman, its length being too great and the impression too heavy. I pointed it out to one of my followers, who uttered a low exclamation of surprise, and then we followed the track silently into the thickest part of the grove.

On turning a sharp corner we suddenly stood still, for a small hut, or “scherm,” constructed of bushes and fragments of skin, stood before us. It was not so much a hut as a kind of movable screen such as the Hottentots use—one that could be shifted with little difficulty to meet the changing wind. Its back was towards us. After pausing for a few seconds, I stepped forward and looked under the roof of the structure from the other side.

Again I stood still, my eyes being riveted by the strangest-looking human creature it has ever been my lot to behold. The man was reclining on a few jackal skins, and resting on his elbow. He was quite naked except for a tanned hide, which was tied with a thong around his middle. In spite of the dark and rough condition of his skin, his long matted hair and beard clearly showed him to be an European. The hair hung over his shoulders in a white fleece, and the beard lay upon his chest in a long silvery tangle. His face was a striking one; the forehead was high and intellectual, the nose prominent and somewhat hooked, the eyes were dark and deep, and gleamed splenetically from under the shaggy and prominent brows.

My two followers ran back with exclamations of terror, and crouched behind a bush about thirty yards away. I myself, feeling more astonishment than alarm, looked hard at the man, who gazed back fixedly without the least appearance of surprise or embarrassment. Then I took a step nearer and spoke.

“Good day. Who are you?”

“One who will never trouble you as much as you trouble him,” came the surly reply.

The voice had an even, metallic tone—a tone which I was strangely reminded of years afterwards when I first listened to a phonograph. There was a queer suggestion of impersonality about it. I tried to think of something to say, but could not find a word, so taken aback was I. The man’s eyes rested on mine like those of an animated sphinx, and seemed to exercise a queer kind of mesmerism. Withdrawing mine with difficulty, I glanced around the “scherm” and took a rapid survey of its contents. I noticed a number of sticks, pared flat, and with the edges full of little notches. A Bushman’s bow and a quiver of arrows were stuck behind one of the supports, and a skin wallet hung from another. Several curiously knobbed sticks lay on the floor, and a lump of raw meat, which was in course of being invaded by an army of small red ants, was stuck in the fork of a stake planted in the ground. Several ostrich egg-shells, with small wooden pegs inserted at each end, lay about.

The silence became oppressive. The man still gazed at me, and I glanced nervously and rapidly at him from time to time. The thought that he perhaps was a lunatic crossed my mind, and I quickly surveyed his build in view of the possibility of a struggle. The conclusion I came to was that I should prefer to decline a contest. The man was old and rather emaciated, but his muscles looked as hard as the pasterns of a springbok.

“Is there much game hereabouts?” I hazarded.

The strange being suddenly stood up, and I was astonished at his height. I involuntarily stepped back a couple of paces as he emerged from the “scherm.” He stretched forth his hand towards me, but not in a threatening manner—although his eyes seemed to blaze—and spoke in the same strange pitch, but much more loudly than before.

“Is not the desert wide enough that you come here to trouble me? You have the whole world for your hunting-ground, and I have only this little spot. Get you gone and trouble me no more, or I will get the Bushmen to drive you off.”

I began to lose my nervousness completely—although I could not help seeing that the man’s threat was a serious one. Bushmen had not been giving much trouble of late years; however, I knew that they existed in considerable numbers in that particular area of the Great Desert. Probably this strange being possessed some influence over them, and if so, nothing would be more easy than to have us killed when sitting around our camp-fire by means of a volley of poisoned arrows poured in at point-blank range. Such occurrences had happened before.

“Man alive,” I said in a cheerful voice, “I don’t want to interfere with you; I came here quite by accident, and I shall go on my way without giving you any trouble whatever. Ta-ta—I hope you are enjoying your picnic.”

I turned on my heel, but he called out to me to stop, and I again faced round.

“How many are there in your party?” he said, after giving me a long, fixed look.

“Two other white men and six boys.”

“Wait for just a moment. I want to have a few words with you.”

I set my rifle against the stump of a tree and stood before him with my arms folded. The creature seemed to have become more human.

“Would it be of any use asking you not to tell your companions anything about your having met me?”

“Well—you see—I have my two boys with me; even if I hold my tongue they are sure to talk.”

A queer ghost of a smile seemed to flit across the stern face.

“I know you will keep your word if you give it,” he replied, “and I will make it right with the boys. Will you promise? Take time to think if you like.”

A great pity for the poor creature before me seemed to swell in my breast. Why should I not grant his request? Why should I darken, in no matter how slight a degree, a life apparently overloaded by some great tragedy? Of course I felt flattered by his estimate of my veracity.

“Yes, I promise,” I said.

His face softened, and the tension of his limbs seemed to relax. When next he spoke the tone of his voice had quite changed.

“Ah! I find that I am not as dead as I thought. Yours is the first English voice I have heard for over twenty years. I wonder what fate brought you here to wake me back to pain. Give me a grasp of your hand and then go.”

I held out my hand, and he seized it with a grip of iron. We looked into each other’s eyes for a moment, and mine dimmed with tears.

“Can you not come away with us?” I asked.

He shook his head vigorously.

“Is there nothing I can do for you—give you?”

“If you have at your camp any sort of a knife to spare I should be glad of it.”

“Right, I will bring you one to-morrow. And you need not fear that I will say a word about you. Of course I cannot answer for the boys.”

I picked up my gun and strode away rapidly, not wishing to give him an opportunity of changing his mind. When I reached the bush behind which my boys were crouching, they looked towards, and then past me, with expressions of the utmost terror. I turned and found that the man was closely and noiselessly following me. He beckoned to the boys, who arose and followed him, crouching out of sight. I sat down and awaited events. In a few minutes the boys returned, their faces ashen and their heads bent. I strode on and they followed me in complete silence.

I did not then make for the camp, but for a low ridge to the northward, on which a number of “camel-thorn” trees were visible. Here I wounded a fine bull giraffe. Following the spoor took up the rest of the day, and the sun was down before the poor brute lay before me dead. We camped for the night alongside the carcase, there being a wet donga close at hand. After a good supper, in which that most delicate of delicacies, giraffe marrow, was an important element, I lit my pipe and basked in the blaze of the logs. I had noticed that my two boys were silent and depressed.

“Wildebeest,” I said, addressing the senior, “what do you think of the man we saw to-day?”

Wildebeest glanced uneasily over his shoulder into the darkness and replied in a low tone—

“I saw no man to-day, Bass; neither did Ghola, nor even the Bass himself.”

Both boys covered their heads with the fragments of skin which did duty for clothing and lay down. When I addressed them a few minutes afterwards both pretended to be fast asleep, but I could tell by their breathing that they were wide awake.

The sun was high when I reached the bitter wells next morning. My two companions had gone away exploring to the southward; they had left a note explaining that they would probably not return till the following day. This suited me exactly. I had never been able to lie skilfully; I hated having to deceive my chums. It may, therefore, be well imagined that I was somewhat uneasy on the subject of my secret.

After a short rest, I again set off westward, taking with me the spare knife. The sun was just setting when I reached the grove. The strange man was still in his “scherm.” A new piece of meat hung upon the forked stick; nothing else appeared to have been changed since the previous day. We sat up the whole night—he talking and I listening to what surely must have been one of the saddest and strangest tales ever poured into a human ear.

I passed my word to the effect that for twenty years, not alone would I never mention a word of what he told me, but that I would not even write it down. It will, accordingly, be understood that a good deal of the language in which the tale is set forth is rather mine than his. I have, however, a very vivid recollection of the circumstances related—in fact many of the phrases used have never faded from my memory.

After various experiments as to the best mode of relation I find that telling as though in the first person seems the most effective.

“I went to sea as a boy and, in the late forties, was mate of a ship which ran ashore on the coast of the Cape Colony, somewhere to the eastward of Cape l’Agulhas. I disliked the sea; and when I managed to obtain a clerkship in a store in Cape Town, determined to spend the rest of my life ashore. But I soon sickened of town life. I had always longed to visit the great unknown interior and to shoot big game, but without means this was, of course, impossible.

“At length, I found myself with a few pounds in my pocket, so I bought a small wagon and a team of oxen, and commenced business on my own account as a travelling trader. I used to obtain goods in Cape Town on credit, take them up-country to barter with, and afterwards return with cattle and sheep, which I sold to the butchers at a good profit.

“My business prospered, so that within a few years I found myself in a position to realise my dream of taking a trip up-country. I possessed a strong, comfortable wagon, sixteen good oxen, and three smart ponies—all of which I had obtained by trading. I bought several good guns, a lot of gunpowder and lead, and, in fact, a complete hunting and trading outfit.

“I had no fixed plan. Time was no object, so I meant to travel northward in a leisurely manner, resting whenever I felt inclined to, or when my cattle required to pick up in point of condition. Being a handy man with tools I knew I could repair my wagon or guns should they require it. I spoke Dutch well, and I took a lot of stuff for the purpose of trading with the Boers for food.

“Always a solitary man, I did not feel the need of a companion, but I took two servants with me—an old Hottentot named Danster and his grandson, a lad of sixteen. These had been in my service for several years, and were willing to follow me anywhere.

“It was October when I started, and it was well on in September of the following year before I reached the Orange River. The course I had taken was somewhere to the westward of the usual trade route. I wanted to see as much unknown country as possible, and I had an idea that gold might be found in the great, high, central plain. The rains had fallen more plentifully than for years previously—almost as heavily as they have fallen here this season—so I had an easy time of it. I just went slowly along, shooting game when I wanted meat and pausing when the desire to rest came over me. The farther northward I went, the scarcer became the farms, until at length the only people I met were the few wandering Boers who lived in wagons and mat-houses and moved about on the track of the rains.

“Fate or chance led me to a bend in the Orange River where a certain Boer and his family dwelt. Although the family spoke nothing but Dutch, this Boer was a Scotsman by birth. He had come to Africa when a child, and had spent his life on the fringe of the desert. He was now old, blind, and feeble, and had evidently not long to live. The family consisted of three sons—the eldest being twenty-five and the youngest nineteen years of age—and a niece, a girl of eighteen. These young men were the three greatest scoundrels it has ever been my lot to meet, but the girl was beautiful and good, and I loved her from the first moment my eyes rested on her face.

“I will try and describe the homestead and its dwellers. The house was small and low, built of round stones with mud plaster and thatched with reeds. The furniture was rough-hewn from logs carried down by the great river when in flood. The old Boer was rich in cattle, sheep and horses. Grain was grown on a patch of sandy ground which was sometimes fertilised by the river when at its highest flood. Brayed skins served principally for clothing and wholly for bedding.

“Piet, the eldest of the brothers, was a tall, melancholy man with a narrow face, thick lips, and hair the colour of a fox. Gerrit, the second, was short and powerfully built. He had black eyes, beard and hair, and his complexion was swarthy. He was passionate and cruel, and the poor old man used to shake at the sound of his voice. Sandy, the youngest, was a powerfully built fellow, and also had red hair. His face was like that of a weasel. He was lame from an injury received in childhood, but so strong that he could hold fast the leg of an ox no matter how hard the animal kicked. He seldom spoke, and he had the strongest aversion to meeting with his pale eyes even the glance of anyone else.

“And the girl—how shall a man describe the first and only woman he has loved—and that after she has been dead for twenty years? Alida was dark, dark as a gipsy, and of middle height. I had not seen much of women—I had never pleased them, nor had they been attracted by me—so, although thirty-five years of age, I had not thought of marrying. But here, in this God-forgotten corner of the wilderness, I suddenly came face to face with my mate, clad in rough skins that could not hide her beauty, and as ready to go with me to the end of the world as I was to take her.

“Alida was the orphan daughter of the blind old man’s only brother. He and his wife had both been killed by lightning in a mat-house when Alida was a baby, and the child had been dragged out from under the flaming roof by an old Bushwoman. Then her uncle adopted her, and she grew up in the rough, uncouth household like a gazelle among swine.

“It was a strange household: the old man lived in terror of his sons, and it was Alida who took his part and protected him from their violence. His wife had been dead three years, and he longed for the day of his own release. Every night he would pray aloud before going to bed, and the sons would mock him to his face. These three young men hated each other, and they all tormented the girl with proffers of love, she meeting their advances with the utmost scorn.

“A few days after my arrival at the homestead Piet recommended me to send my oxen to graze on a certain ridge within sight of the house, where the grass looked green and luxuriant. I did so, and within three days all my team except four were dead. The ridge was covered with the dreaded ‘tulp,’ which is deadly poison to all cattle. I am satisfied that the three brothers put their villainous heads together and devised this infamy with the view of getting possession of the contents of my wagon, which they coveted. I was in despair, for I could see no plan of replacing the cattle except by parting with most of my trading stock, and without this I could not proceed upon my trip. There appeared no way out of the difficulty, so I thought to remain where I was for a short time and then endeavour to make my way back to Cape Town.

“Such is the effect of a guilty conscience that the three ruffians could not bear to be in my presence; they appeared to dread my face, so they spent most of their time away from the homestead. In fact they made a practice of taking their guns early in the morning and making for the veldt, whence they returned late at night, and at once went sulkily to bed. Thus, they never suspected that there was anything of the nature of love between Alida and myself, whereas we had come to an understanding within a week of the disaster to my cattle. It came about thus. One night after Piet had come in, I heard Alida reproach him for his dastardly deed, which he did not attempt to deny. Next day, when the coast was clear, I mentioned the subject to her, and she burst into a flood of tears. Then I tried to comfort her, and we soon found out that we were more important to each other than all else that the world contained.

“I asked her to come away with me, but she refused to leave the old man, so I made up my mind to stay near her, at all risks, until his death, and then to take her and make her my wife. I knew that the old man could not live much longer; he became feebler day by day. The murder of my oxen, which he had heard discussed, preyed upon his mind to such an extent that he became rapidly weaker, and at length was unable to leave his bed.

“I heard of a Hottentot camp situated some three days’ journey away, up the river, so I sent old Danster, my servant, to see if he could purchase any cattle there. My idea was to dispose of some of my stock-in-trade and acquire a sufficient number of oxen to enable me to get away with my wagon as soon as ever Alida should be free. The brothers had refused to sell me any cattle except at an impossibly exorbitant rate. I knew there would be extraordinary difficulty in getting Alida out of the clutches of her cousins, but the thing had to be accomplished somehow or another.

“In six days’ time Danster returned with a favourable report, so I made secret preparations for my departure. By this time the brothers had begun to feel suspicious of my relations with their cousin, so one of their number always hung about the homestead.

“My intention was to load three of my four remaining oxen, which had been trained to the pack, with tobacco, coloured handkerchiefs and other stuff which I knew the Hottentots valued, and then steal away, unobserved if possible. I reckoned on being able to obtain six animals. These, with my other four, would suffice to pull the wagon with its diminished load. Danster had done his best to induce the Hottentots to bring their cattle down for me to see, but the reputation of the brothers was such an evil one that no one from the encampment would venture near the farm.

“At the same time preparations for a journey, the object of which I never learned, were being carried on by the brothers. Guns, saddles and other gear were furbished up, and horses carefully selected out of the half wild herd. Alida managed to let me know that Piet and Gerrit were going away, and were not expected to return for five or six days. I looked upon this as a piece of good luck, and determined to take my departure immediately after they had started.

“Next morning at daybreak the two mounted their horses and rode forth, and no sooner were they out of sight than I sent Danster to drive up my oxen. The packs were ready, so I hurriedly adjusted them and, after bidding farewell to Alida and the old man, made haste in the direction of the Hottentot camp. The last thing I saw as I left the homestead was the evil face of Sandy peering like a weasel round the corner of the building.

“I travelled all day and camped at sundown. So tired was I that I fell asleep at once, leaving old Danster to collect fuel and tie up the oxen. The distance I had travelled was not great, but the slowness of the gait of the oxen had tired me. The last thing I remember is seeing old Danster nodding drowsily over the newly-kindled fire. His grandson had been left at the farm to look after my remaining ox.

“I cannot upon natural grounds account for the next thing I became cognisant of. I found myself standing up, looking at the figure of the old Boer, which stood on the other side of the fire. It was splashed by the flickering flame against the black night, and as clear to my startled gaze as you are at this moment. The sightless eyes were wide open and full of unwonted expression, and one arm was extended imperatively in the direction of the homestead. There was an expression of sternness on the worn face which I had never previously seen, and the wasted form seemed instinct with dignity.

“I never doubted that it was indeed the old Boer in the flesh that stood before me, but my mind was in a whirl of wonder as to how he had managed to follow me, and I never doubted that Alida was at hand, but an eddying gust of smoke filled my eyes, and I closed them for an instant. When I opened them again the figure had vanished, and then I knew it for a vision.

“In an instant the truth, clear and inevitable, pierced my brain—Alida was in danger and the old man was dead; his spirit had come to warn me. I seized my gun and bandolier from where they lay, close to the head of my couch, took a hurried glance at old Danster, who was huddled, snoring, close to the fire, and plunged into the darkness.

“I had a long distance to cover, so I husbanded my strength. The night was calm, still and starlit when I started. I judged the time to be about midnight. My mind was in a curiously exalted condition; clear, tense and braced to its purpose like a tempered steel spring. I felt that I could have swept an army of men or devils from my path. My course lay across a succession of low, wide ridges with gently sloping sides, each culminating in an abrupt backbone of bare boulders, the whole inclining slightly towards the river.

“Whenever my way led up hill I walked. On reaching the top I drew breath for a few seconds, and then went down the next slope at a swinging trot. I found both strength and wind improve as I proceeded. Dawn just began to flicker as I reached the comb of the last ridge, from which I knew that the homestead was visible by daylight about three miles away. Then something which I had taken for a stone in my path arose before me, and in a few seconds Alida stood revealed. She stretched out her hand towards me with a gesture of appeal; I dropped my gun and folded her in my arms. Neither of us spoke a word.

“After a few seconds she disengaged herself from my embrace, took my hand and led me forward towards the homestead. The glimmer of dawn began to merge into the gold of morning, and by the time we reached the dwelling the level shafts of sunlight were searching the crests of every tree and kopje. Although Alida had not once broken her silence I knew that something terrible had occurred, but I felt no curiosity; I did not wish the ear to anticipate the eye in the revelation which was about to be made. The front door of the homestead stood wide open; no sign of life was visible, and the only sound which smote on my tense ear was the howling of a door down near the river.

“Pausing before the doorway, Alida and I looked into each other’s eyes for an instant, during which earth and sky seemed to pause in dreadful expectancy, and the pulse of time to cease. The girl’s face was drawn and pallid, and wore an expression of the bitterest agony. She took my hand and drew me into the house.

“The front room was in the same condition as when I had last seen it, except that the table bore the remains of last evening’s meal, and that a chair lay overturned against the wall, as though it had been hurriedly flung out of someone’s way. The old man’s bedroom opened to the left, and into it Alida led me.

“The wooden shutters were closed, so the only light was the faint glimmer which filtered through the front room. Alida strode to the window and, avoiding something which lay on the floor, threw back one shutter. In an instant the room was flooded with sunshine. On the bed lay the old man, dead, with the same expression on the worn face which I had noticed in my vision of the previous night. Under the window lay the corpse of Sandy, with a deep gash on the right temple, from which a trickle of black blood had oozed and congealed upon the clay floor.

“The whole room was in a state of disorder, and showed signs of a violent struggle. I passed my arm round Alida’s body and drew her, half-fainting, from the room. We walked some distance from the house and seated ourselves in the pure, bright sunshine. Then she told me her tale.

“The old man had been taken with what must have been a fit immediately after supper on the previous evening, and died within a few minutes. Sandy went outside, and Alida remained with the body to carry out the necessary arrangements. About midnight Sandy returned, and tried to induce her to go to her room. She refused, and he began to use force. Then his brutish intention became clear to her. In the very room where the dead man lay this fiend laid his hot hands upon the girl who had grown up in the house with him like his sister. Fortunately she was strong, and able to make an effective resistance. In the struggle his foot slipped, and he fell with his head against the sharp wooden corner of his father’s cartel bedstead; this pierced to his brain through the thin bone, and the foul brute fell, dead, to the floor.

“She showed me the black bruises upon her beautiful arms and shoulders, and I kissed them, one by one. Then I left her sitting upon the stone and went to drive up the cattle, which, fortunately, were close at hand in the big river bend. I could not find old Danster’s grandson; in fact, not a soul was to be seen about the place. The Hottentots had evidently got scent of the tragedy, and bolted.

“After driving the cattle into the kraal, I called Alida to my assistance, and together we selected sixteen of the best. She knew all the animals individually. We caught them by passing reims over their horns. Then we filled the wagon—which stood close by—with provisions, ammunition, and other necessary things. My goods had been stored in a little outhouse; I selected some of these and added them to the load. Before noon the team stood ready in the yoke. I entered the house and took a last look at the scene of the tragedy. Upon coming from the room Alida met me in the doorway—

“‘Bring him with you, and we will bury him beyond the river,’ she said.

“I returned to the room and wrapped the body in a large kaross which lay upon the bed. Although much emaciated, the body seemed strangely light for its build. We laid it reverently upon the wagon-cartel, and I seized the whip. Alida took her place in front of the team as leader, and the heavy wagon rumbled down the stony track towards the river drift.

“We travelled about six hours before outspanning. It was then sundown, and we were on the southern verge of the great Kalihari waste, which is usually an arid desert, but was then like a rich meadow. In the darkness I set to work and dug a deep grave in the sand. Before we lowered the body into it, Alida drew the kaross back from the face and imprinted a long kiss upon the dead, smoothed-out brow of the man who had been for so long a father to her, and who had wearied so sorely for his death. Then she threw herself upon the ground at the grave-side and burst into passionate weeping. I placed heavy stones over the grave and burnt loose gunpowder among them for the purpose of scaring off the jackals.

“At the first gleam of dawn we were again on our way. We knew we should be pursued, sooner or later, and I wanted to get beyond the range of pursuit so as to avoid, if possible, the necessity for shedding blood. In this there was no element of fear, for I felt strong and confident of being able to overcome the two ruffians. But I knew it would be necessary to kill them if they overtook us, and I had always shrunk from taking the life of a fellow-creature—no matter how vile—even in self-defence.

“We had no fixed plans. Alida knew no more than I of the country before us. We were on no track, but just steered vaguely northward, taking our direction from the sun and the stars. Water was to be found almost everywhere; besides, the whole desert was strewn with ‘tsamai’ melons, on which we, as well as the cattle, could exist should the water fail. Game was plentiful and tame, so we never lacked meat. Each night as we camped we collected fuel, and built two large fires for the purpose of keeping off the lions, one just behind the wagon and the other in front of the team. The front yoke we used to peg down firmly, to prevent the oxen, which were tied in pairs along the chain, from rushing back on the wagon, in the event of a panic being caused by wild beasts. We divided the night into two watches, of which I took the first. The oxen were well trained, so the services of a leader were not often required, and Alida was thus enabled to sleep for long periods as the wagon crawled slowly over the velvet-like sand.

“Thus passed five days, and on the morning of the sixth old Danster turned up. He had waited for my return a day and a night, and then gone back to the homestead on my spoor, arriving on the evening of the second day after I had left him. He found the house just as we had left it, but feeling that something was wrong, had been afraid to enter, so he took cover close by and waited for daylight, when he traced the wheel-tracks of our wagon down to the river. Little Slinger, his grandson, he could not find, although he searched for him far and near. In the afternoon Piet and Gerrit arrived. Danster stole up to a bush, from which he could observe all that went on near the house. He saw the brothers moving about excitedly and gesticulating wildly. Little Slinger soon afterwards appeared; he had evidently been hiding in the bush, and emerged, driven out by starvation. The boy was seized by Gerrit and dragged into the house. He was shortly afterwards dragged out again, and then Piet shot him dead before the door.

“Danster saw the brothers drive in the mob of horses, saddle up two, and place a small pack upon a third. Then they started on the track of our wagon. Danster followed on foot, and passed the two when camped for the night. Since then he had travelled night and day to overtake us, and he only arrived just in time to give warning. I at once determined to await the approach of our pursuers, who were now so close that we could not hope to escape them. Personally, I had no doubt as to the result of the encounter. I did not want the woman I loved to stain her sinless hands in blood, be it ever so guilty, so I refused her offer of assistance in the conflict. But she took a solemn oath that if I were killed she would take her own life.

“I knew that I should inevitably have to destroy these men, but I, nevertheless, determined not to do so without having absolute proof that they meant to murder me. In the long silent watches of the recent nights, when earth lay speechless to the stars, I had thought out a plan in view of the probable contingency, and this plan I proceeded to put into execution. These men should have their chance, and if they meant anything less than absolute murder, my right hand might perish before I would slay them.

“So I yoked the team to the wagon once more, and drew it onward for a few hundred yards to a spot where two dunes nearly met, and where the drift-sand lay loose and soft. Then I halted the wagon, letting it appear as though the oxen had been unable to draw it any farther. The oxen I unyoked and sent forward in charge of Danster, telling him, if he heard shooting, shortly followed by a shout from me, to bring them back at once.

“Then I gathered a quantity of fuel, carefully selecting a number of logs of heavy, close-grained wood, which might be depended upon to keep alight for hours. I felt so sure that no attack would be made before dark, that I proceeded with my preparations in a most leisurely manner. We built the pile ready for kindling, but waited for sundown before setting it alight.

“In the meantime, Alida had—under my directions—taken a couple of yokes and some pillows, and of these made dummy figures, which she dressed in some of our garments. Then I scooped out a comfortable-looking couch in the soft dune-side, close to the pile of fuel, and in the bottom of it laid a kaross. Upon this we placed the two figures, side by side, and over them we spread another kaross. Above the head of one figure was laid Alida’s ‘cappie,’ with the hood drawn over the face as though to keep off the dew. Over the head of the other my coat was laid in the same manner, my hat being carelessly thrown down alongside. Within arm’s-reach one of my spare guns lay propped upon forked sticks, so as to keep it clear of the sand.

“We finished our preparations just after the sun had sunk, but I afterwards added a slight touch here and there for the purpose of improving the general effect. I remember Alida clinging to my arm in terror, because, just as dusk was setting in, I returned and placed one of my pipes on top of the hat, where the metal top glinted brightly in the firelight. Then we climbed into the wagon, let the canvas flap fall, and sat silently awaiting developments.

“The sides of the canvas cover buttoned to the woodwork of the tilt, but we unbuttoned sufficient of it to give us, when we lifted it slightly, a good view of the fire, the couch with the dummies lying in it, and a considerable space surrounding these.

“I sat in the wagon grasping my double-barrelled gun. My pulse beat no faster than usual. The only emotion I was conscious of was extreme impatience. I was not even uneasy about Danster and the cattle, although I knew there were many lions about. I was quite certain that the two human jackals would fall into the trap I had so carefully set for them, but the waiting, which lasted until after midnight, seemed long and wearisome. It was Alida who first, with the sharp ear of the desert-bred, heard their approaching stealthy steps. She grasped my arm suddenly, and I knew quite well what she meant to convey, so I noiselessly cocked both barrels of my gun. Then she lifted the edge of the canvas a few inches, and I looked cautiously out.

“Gerrit was the first to appear; he had an evil smile on his face, and his wicked black eyes glittered like sparks. Immediately following came Piet. He looked haggard, and his pale lips moved convulsively. Both men were barefoot, and without hats or boots. They had, Danster afterwards ascertained when he traced their spoors backwards for the purpose of getting their horses, watched our camp for some time from the top of a dune a few hundred yards away, and there discarded their boots and superfluous clothing before advancing to their cowardly attack.

“Gerrit leading, the two stole up to within two yards of my supposed figure, and then Piet stretched out his hand and took possession of my gun, which he placed out of reach. The two then pointed their guns, Gerrit at the head and Piet at the breast of the dummy. I noticed that both took some pains to avoid the possibility of wounding the other supposed sleeper with their shots, and for this a faint throb of something like pity woke in my mind. I saw the muzzles of the guns drop slightly in unison once, twice, and then, at the third drop, both weapons were discharged.

“I had covered Gerrit, and an instant after he fired he dropped with my bullet through his brain. Piet sprang wildly to one side, only, however, to meet my second shot, which pierced his chest from the left-hand side. He fell on his face with a gurgling groan, and died, clutching wildly at the grass.

“I sprang out of the wagon, ran to the top of the dune and shouted to old Danster, who, to my astonishment, emerged from under a bush a few yards off. He had stolen back after leaving the oxen, replete and happy, lying down about a quarter of a mile away. The old Hottentot was filled with savage delight at little Slinger’s death having been so completely avenged. He had his gun ready to shoot Piet had I fallen. Soon afterwards he brought up the oxen at a run, and we tied them to the yokes.

“We then dragged the two bodies to the back of the dune, and there left them to such sepulture as the vultures and the jackals might give. A few spadefuls of clean white sand obliterated all superficial traces of the gruesome happenings in the vicinity of the wagon. Then Alida and I sat on the wagon-box, hand in hand, and watched until the night died and the gracious morning smiled upon the desert.

“I felt no remorse for what I had done, then or ever afterwards. My deed had been an execution, not a murder—an act of self-defence under the direst necessity. But I preferred to look upon it as a kind of judicial proceeding in which the culprits had been tried and sentenced at the bar of eternal justice, and handed over to me, unwilling, for execution.

“When the sweet, pure influences of dawn descended upon us after that night of blood, my heartstrings sang aloud and I thrilled with a sense of elation such as I had never previously experienced. I seemed to be king of a boundless realm, and my queen sat in beauty at my side. No word of love had passed between us since our flight, but she was now mine by every law of heaven and earth. The face of love had hitherto been shaded by terror and tears, but now it shone upon us, unclouded and bright as the morning. We were alone in the wild, untracked and boundless desert, but we would not have exchanged our wagon for a palace. To us a world of men would have been unbearable; the convulsion we had passed through had whirled us to some zone far from the ways of ordinary humanity. We were like two peerless eagles soaring in the heart of the infinite blue, forgetful of the inconspicuous earth.

“Northward and ever northward we travelled. Wayward Nature spread a carpet for our delighted feet, and laid the fruits of the earth ready for our banquet. I felt so happy that it gave me pain to slay the innocent desert creatures when meat was required. I knew not fear of anything. I have looked calmly into the eyes of a furious lion when he crouched ready to spring at me, and laid him quivering at my feet with a shot which seemed as though it could not err.

“We happened upon the bitter wells quite by accident. Alida took a fancy to this spot, so we here formed our camp. We never dreamt of having to depend upon the bitter water for our sustenance, for the well in the donga close at hand looked as though it could never run dry. The Bushmen soon became our fast friends. Alida spoke their language, and they used to bring their sick and hurt to her for treatment. In one or two serious cases I was called in, and, owing to the fact of fortunate recoveries resulting, I acquired the reputation of a great magician. This reputation I have never lost.

“For a year no two human beings were ever happier than we. Alida could use a gun quite as well as I, so I felt no uneasiness about leaving her alone when hunting took me far afield. The desert, after rain, is full of wholesome vegetable food, and with this the Bushmen kept us well supplied. We had no want or desire which we could not satisfy. Yes, that year was enough to atone for an eternity of pain.

“One thing only I dreaded—the possibility of Alida’s becoming a mother, and at length the day came when I knew that my dread would be realised. This was just a year after our union.

“Soon afterwards the land began to dry up, and it was then I should have escaped to the Great Lake. But I was new to the climate, and I could make no guess as to what was coming. I hoped against hope for rain, but the sun scorched fiercer and fiercer. Now and then the clouds came up to mock our misery, but no drop fell from them. One by one the water-places failed, and the Bushmen began to flock in to the bitter wells from every direction. All had the same tale to tell. The desert, which had been awakened to beauty by the kiss of the fickle sky, was falling back into its ancient, deathlike sleep. Until this present season it has never since awakened.

“The well in the donga close at hand held out long after the others had dried up, but it, too, began to show signs of soon becoming exhausted. The Bushmen still said that rain might come, and once, when the lightnings flickered on the north-eastern horizon, they held a dance to show their joy at the prospect of a deluge. But soon afterwards the air grew cooler, with a clear sky, and then the dwellers of the desert told us to bid good-bye to hope.

“The child was born—a strong, lusty boy—and Alida stood the ordeal bravely. But the sides of our well began to crumble in, and the water to become horribly less. At length, after we had spent nearly a whole day in squeezing a single pannikin of moisture from the sand scraped up at the bottom of the pit, we sadly moved over to the bitter wells. The child was then two months old.

“Alida sickened from the water at once. Strangely enough, it had no effect upon me. Then the kind Bushmen searched all over the desert for the ostrich egg-shells which they had filled with rain-water and buried here and there so that the hunters might not die of thirst when their pursuit of game had taken them far away from their camps. This stuff, horrible as it proved, Alida was able to exist upon, but the supply soon became exhausted, and then the bitter water made her more ill than ever. Her illness poisoned the child; it wasted quickly and died in cruel pain.

“Alida never lifted her head after the child’s death. By her wish I carried it over here for burial. At one time it seemed as though she might possibly become accustomed to the bitter water. Then, after unusually hot weather, its poison grew so virulent that even some of the Bushmen sickened. Alida became suddenly worse, and two days afterwards she died in my arms.

“All this happened twenty years ago. On these notched sticks I have kept a record of the slow time. Alida and the child lie buried beneath the spot where we are sitting now; I shall never leave the place. Every day the Bushmen bring me enough meat and water for my needs. Old Danster died of thirst when hunting in the desert, years ago.

“The wild animals seem to know me, for they never attempt to do me any hurt. I do not think I am unhappy, for I can sleep when I like, and in my dreams I go over the past again and again. They used to teach me that another life comes after death. I do not know... I know that if the soul lives when the body dies, our souls will be together... But now I dream... and dream...”

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