Chapter Seven.

Chapter Seven.A Legend of Prince Maurice.It was Christmas-time at the Cape, when many a man and woman of British blood, jaded by the sun and drought of an up-country life, flocks down to the sea. Cape Town and her charming suburbs were crowded; and the pleasant watering-places of Muizenberg and Kalk Bay were thronged with folk dying once more to set eyes on the blue ocean, to inhale the fresh breezes, and to remind themselves of their own sea-girt origin. From every corner of South Africa—from the old Colony, the Free State, the Transvaal, from far Bechuanaland—they had come. You might see sun-scorched wanderers from the far interior, hunters, explorers, prospectors, and pioneers. Some had come to restore broken health; some to taste again the sweets of civilisation, to spend hard-won money; or, perchance, an enthusiast might be seen who had been attracted south a thousand miles and more by the week’s cricket tournament on the Western Province ground at Newlands.Cape Town was at her best and bravest. Adderley Street was as crowded as Bond Street in June; and upon every hand were to be seen and heard pleasant faces, cheery voices, and the hearty greetings of friends long severed by time and distance.On the evening of the 23rd December, a young man sat in his pleasant bedroom in theannexeof the International Hotel, which lies rather out of the heat of the town on the lower slopes of Table Mountain. It was an hour before dinner, and the young man sat in his shirt-sleeves before the open window, idly smoking a pipe, and feasting his eyes on the glorious view that lay before him.Jack Compton had just come down from two years’ travel and sport in the far interior; you might tell that by his lean, sun-tanned face and deeply embrowned arms, and by the collection of curios—bird-skins, photographs, horns, heads, assegais, and other articles that littered the room—and, after a rough time of it, was now enjoying to the full the ease and relaxation of life at the Cape. It was a noble prospect that lay spread before him—none nobler in the world. Cape Town, with its white houses and dark-green foliage, contrasted strongly in the near foreground with the peerless blue and the sweeping contours of Table Bay. Out at the entrance to the bay, Robben Island swam dimly into the far Atlantic. Across the bay, the eye was first smitten by the blinding dazzle of the beach of white sand below Blaauwberg. Then rose chain upon chain of glorious mountain scenery, the jagged sierras of Stellenbosch and the far line of Hottentots Holland melting in blues and purples upon the horizon. Under the setting sun the crests of these distant sierras were rapidly becoming rose-tinted, and the warm browns and purples glorified a thousandfold. Never, thought Jack Compton, as he pulled contentedly at his pipe, had he beheld a more enchanting scene.At that instant his door was flung open, and a tall, sunburnt, keen-eyed man of thirty entered the room.“Hallo, Jack, you old buffer!” he exclaimed, “what are you up to, sitting here brooding like a pelican at a salt pan? I’ve been looking for you. I’ve been chatting for the last two hours with a most interesting Johnnie just come round from Walfisch Bay. He’s been trading and hunting in a new veldt far inland to the north-east, and he’s had some extraordinary times. The country he’s been in is, seemingly, quite unknown to Europeans; the game’s as thick as sheep in a fold; and he’s had the most wonderful shooting. But there’s one adventure, which he’ll tell us more about after dinner, which has hit my fancy amazingly. As far as I can make out, Cressey—that’s the name of the man—has discovered some extraordinary link with the past—a Kaffir woman, chief of some native tribe, with good white blood in her veins. Cressey has got some of her belongings, and has promised to show them to us later on.”“But,” put in Jack Compton, “what sort of a man is this Cressey? Can you depend upon what he says? There are some champion liars in this country, and any amount of improbable yarns floating from one ear to another. The Afrikander is the most credulous person in the world, and there’s something in the climate which quickly infects the Britisher—witness yourself. I suppose gold and diamonds are primarily responsible for it all, and the old-fashioned Boer, who’s the most marvel-swallowing creature of the nineteenth century.”“That’s all right, old chap,” laughingly replied Tim Bracewell. “I won’t say any more at present. You shall judge for yourself. In my opinion this man Cressey isn’t one of your natural-born Ananiases. He gives one the impression of being perfectly straightforward. He’s a quiet, unassuming sort of man, rather hard to draw than otherwise. By the bye, we mustn’t talk too loud—he’s got a bedroom somewhere in this building.”Half an hour later the two friends were lounging about thestoepof the International, waiting the summons to dinner, when a quiet-looking man in blue serge came up the steps. Tim Bracewell stepped forward and met him, and introduced him to Compton. The new comer was a well-set-up man of middle height. He had fair brown hair, a short beard, and a pair of keen, steady, blue-grey eyes.After dinner, which the three men partook of at a table together, they came out to thestoepagain, and fixed themselves in a snug corner for coffee and cigars. They had exchanged a good deal of their experiences together at the dinner-table, and Tim Bracewell now called upon Cressey to give them the promised history of his main adventure.“Well,” said Cressey, “it’s a queer yarn, and I don’t know what you’ll say to it. You’re the first I’ve told it to; and let me ask you not to talk about it outside. I don’t want to be bothered by papers and interviewers and all the rest of it. I shall report my story to the Colonial Secretary for what it’s worth, and then I’ve done all I intend to. I started from Walfisch Bay with two wagons, loaded up with trading-gear, just eighteen months ago. I intended to hunt a bit, and I had five good ponies with me. I had also in my outfit three very good native ‘boys’—one especially, ‘April,’ a most useful chap; he was a ’Mangwato, a capital fellow at languages, and understood Zulu and Dutch, and one or two Zambesi dialects. He was a good driver, cook, and hunter—one of the best all-round natives I ever came across.“Well, I trekked through Damaraland and Ovampoland up to the Cunene River. I hadn’t much trouble with the Ovampo, as I knew their chiefs and headmen. But they’re a rum lot, and you’ve got to watch it in their country. I did pretty well, and sent down a decent troop of cattle taken in barter to a place I’ve got in Damaraland.“After several months, I left the Cunene, and worked up for a new bit of country hitherto unexplored. I crossed the Okavango somewhere up towards its sources, and then found myself in the wild country of the Mukassakwere Bushmen. Here there was plenty of game, and I had some grand sport. The Bushmen were mad for meat and tobacco, and were only too eager—once they had found out my killing powers—to show me game. I had a glorious time among elephant rhinoceros, ‘camel’ (giraffe), and all the big antelopes. Elands were running in big troops, almost as tame as Alderney cows, and we lived like fighting cocks. I got a fine lot of ivory in this country; and then, taking some of the best of the Bushmen with me, pushed still farther north by east.“One afternoon, after a long, troublesome trek through some heavy bush-country, in which we had been all hard at work cutting a path for the wagons, we emerged pretty thankfully into clear country again. Before us lay spread a vast open grassy plain, dotted here and there with troops of game. Beyond the plain, some thirty miles distant, there stood in purple splendour against the clear horizon a majestic mountain chain, its peaks just now tinted a tender rose by the setting sun. We all stood for a while gazing, open-mouthed, at the glorious scene before us, and then camped for the night. Round my servants’ camp-fire I noticed a good deal of animated conversation going on. Two Bushmen in particular were full of chatter and gesticulation. Their curious clicking speech came fast and thick, and they pointed often in the direction of the mountains in our front.“After a time I called April to my fireside and interrogated him. He informed me that the Bushmen were speaking of a kraal of natives settled behind the mountain chain; that these natives were governed by a wonderful white-skinned woman; that they were quarrelsome and treacherous; and that we might have trouble with them. Having learned thus much, I tumbled into my wagon, pulled up the sheepskin kaross, and fell asleep.“Early next morning I was up making ready for a longish ride. I was mighty curious to see this native village that the Bushmen spoke of, and especially the white-skinned chieftainess; at the same time I determined to prepare for any eventuality. I sent the wagons, after breakfast, back upon our spoor again, directing my men to camp in a strong place between some hills, more than a day’s journey back. Here there was good water; the camp could be rendered pretty impregnable by the help of aschermof thorn-bushes; and, with my horses, I and my attendant could easily retreat thither in case of trouble. I now selected my two best ponies, and, taking April with me, and the two Bushmen to act as guides, we set off for the mountain. My man and I were each armed with a good double rifle, and had plenty of ammunition, water-bottles, and somebilltong(sun-dried meat), biscuits, coffee, and a kettle; and, as I knew there were no horses among the natives in these regions, I had little fear of escape, if escape became necessary.“We rode all that day across the big plain. It was a perfect treat to see the game on every side of us. There were rhinoceroses, elands, hartebeests, Burchell’s zebras, blue wildebeests, and tsesseby. They were excessively tame, and often came close up and stared at us. We fired no shot, however, but rode quietly on, occasionally diverging a little to avoid some sour-looking black rhinoceros, which stood, threatening and suspicious, directly in our path. We camped that night in a little grove of thorn trees just beneath the mountain.“At earliest dawn of the next day we were up and away. The Bushmen led us to a kloof or gorge in the mountain chain, the only approach to the kraal we sought. We rode for two hours up a slight ascent over a very rough, rocky path; and then, suddenly turning an angle of the mountain-wall, we came in full view of the native town. A broad grassy valley, perhaps seven miles square, lay before us. This plain was dotted with circular native huts, built very much after the Bechuana fashion, and neatly thatched. Herds of cattle, goats, and native sheep were pasturing here and there, or lying beneath the shade of the acacias scattered about the plain. The town stood in an excellent position. The mountain chain upon the one hand, and a broad and deep river, flowing south-east, upon the other, served as sure defences against any sudden attack from without.“Beyond the river, eastward, a vast sweep of broad plain, belted with dark-green ribands of bush and forest, stretched in interminable expanse to the hot horizon.“Descending to the valley, we were not long in reaching a collection of huts, where we were pulled up short by a score of gesticulating natives, armed with huge bows and arrows, and spears. We had some trouble with these people; but after various messages and a halt of an hour or so, we were told to follow two headmen to the Queen’s residence.“Mounting our horses—a proceeding which roused the most lively interest among the crowd, which by this time had gathered round us—April and I followed our guides, the Bushmen walking alongside. Passing numerous groups of well-built, well-tended huts, we were at last brought to the Queen’skotla, a large circular enclosure, fenced by a tall stockade, in which was set the hut of the great lady I sought. A messenger soon brought permission, and we rode into the enclosure.“In a couple of rapid glances I took in the whole scene. In front of a large, roomy, carefully thatched, circular hut were gathered some thirty headmen of various ages, all standing, and all armed with long spears, battle-axes, or bows and arrows. In the centre of this knot of dark Africans sat the chieftainess, a very fair-skinned woman, undoubtedly. Behind her stood two black female attendants, furnished with long fly-whisks, with which they occasionally guarded their mistress from the annoyances of insects. I rode up boldly to within ten yards of this group, and dismounted, as did my man April. Handing my horse to April, I took off my broad-brimmed hat, made my politest bow to the Queen’s grace, and then, calling Naras the Bushman, motioned him to stand forward and interpret Naras waited expectantly on the Queen, and, while she addressed him, I had leisure to examine her closely and very curiously. Mapana—that was her name—for a woman of native blood, was astonishingly fair. I can best liken her colouring to that of a fair octoroon. Her beauty amazed me. I have been in the West Indies, where, especially among the French islands, are to be seen some of the most beautiful coloured women in the world. Mapana’s beauty and grace reminded me in the strongest manner of some of these French octoroons. Her hair was soft and wavy—not harsh, like a pure African’s—and curled naturally upon her well-shaped head. Her features were good and regular; her mouth bewitching; her dark eyes tender, kindly, and marvellously beautiful. There was an air of refinement and grace about her, which strangely puzzled me. She wore a necklet of bright gold coins about her neck, and thick ivory bangles upon her shapely arms. A little cloak of antelope skin just covered her shoulders, but concealed not at all her perfect shape and bust. A short kilt or petticoat of dressed antelope skin, and neat sandals of giraffe hide, completed her costume. It is hard to judge the age of Africans. I guessed Mapana’s years at one or two and twenty. She sat there in an attitude of easy, natural grace, her pretty hands just covering a sword, apparently of European make, which lay across her lap. I think I never set eyes on a more perfectly captivating creature. I am not as a rule at all impressionable, but, as Mapana spoke, my downfall was complete—I fell in love with her at once.“Mapana had one of those rare voices which, almost more than mere beauty alone, seem created to enslave mankind. I once, years ago, on a trip home to England, heard Sarah Bernhardt. The tones of her silvery voice came nearer to Mapana’s than any I ever heard.“How so fair a woman came to be heading a barbarous tribe here in this outlandish corner of Africa, and whence she took her European descent, puzzled me intensely. I was determined somehow to hunt out the mystery. I had noticed, when we first encountered Mapana’s tribesmen at the foot of the mountains, that much of their speech resembled the Sechuana and Basuto tongues, with which I am well acquainted. The languages of the various Bantu tribes have strong affinities. I noticed many words even resembling Zulu and Amakosa among these people, who, by the way, called themselves Umfanzi. The difference of idiom and intonation at first bothered me; in a little while, however, as Mapana questioned and cross-questioned the Bushmen, I began pretty clearly to understand her. I spoke in a low tone to April; he too comprehended her speech. I now ventured to address her myself. I spoke slowly and distinctly; and, after a little, she began to understand much of what I said, as, too, did her headmen and counsellors. I explained that I was a subject of a great white Queen, dwelling far across some mighty waters; that I had heard of another white Queen, and had travelled far to pay her my respects, and to enter upon terms of goodwill and friendship with her and her tribe.“My words seemed to give satisfaction. Mapana spoke in an aside with some of the older men about her, and then addressed me. She told me that she was of white descent herself—at a remote distance of time—that the blood had always been cherished in her tribe, and that she and her counsellors were glad to receive me. She directed me to be lodged in a new hut just outside herkotla, and intimated that she would be pleased to receive me later in the day. Meanwhile food and water, and whatever else we required, should be placed at my disposal. A guard of a couple of armed men was told off to keep away intrusive or too curious tribespeople from our quarters.“We killed a sheep, and enjoyed a square meal; after which I went, surrounded by a concourse of interested natives, to a stream close by, where I had a good wash, combed out my hair and beard, and made myself presentable for the next interview with the fascinating Mapana. For the rest of the afternoon we sat resting, and luxuriated in a quiet smoke.“At about four o’clock a young headman came with a message that Mapana wished to see me again. He seemed by no means pleased with his errand, and preceded me with a very unprepossessing scowl upon his face. The Queen was now only attended by a few of her women. I sat down near her; my conductor stood leaning upon his assegai.“‘Seleni,’ said Mapana, looking at him, ‘I wish to speak with the white man alone; you can leave me.’“‘Queen,’ answered the young man, not too civilly, I thought, ‘this man is a stranger. Who knows his heart? He may cherish mischief. I stay to guard the Queen from danger.’“Mapana flushed a little. It was pretty to see the colour run under the clear brunette of her skin. ‘There is no danger,’ she said, with some asperity. ‘Go, till I call for you.’“Making an obeisance, Seleni, much against his will, stalked out of thekotla.“Mapana turned to me. ‘Seleni is a kinsman of mine,’ she said, ‘and he presumes upon it.’“I had noticed that this young man, and one or two others among the headmen, were slightly paler in colour than the rest of the tribe, and I told Mapana so.“‘Yes,’ she returned. ‘Seleni is descended from the white man from whom I descend, but by a baser branch. My forefathers come directly from the white man who settled among the Umfanzi long ago, and married the chief’s daughter. That white man—Morinza, we call him—became ruler over the tribe, taught us many things, and left the family of chiefs to which I belong. I have sent for you,’—here she inquired my name, which I told her—‘to look upon the things which I have here. They were Morinza’s, and they have always been cherished in my family.’“Here she took the circlet of coins from her neck and handed it to me. She had also for my inspection the sword I have spoken of, and an old-fashioned book, very handsomely bound in red leather, curiously gilt and stamped. This book she took from a covering of soft hide, in which it was carefully wrapped.“I was intensely interested, and first examined the gold coins composing the necklet. There were seven in all, four large and three smaller. I recognised at once the head of Charles the First, and made out without difficulty that the coins were twenty-shilling and ten-shilling pieces of that king’s reign. I next took up the sword. The scabbard had once been handsome in leather and metal, but was now worn and battered. The sword itself, a straight, narrowish rapier, was a very beautiful one. It was in excellent condition and finely engraved. On the centre of the blade were these words in old-fashioned lettering:—”“Rupertus Mauritio Suo Bredae, 1638.”Latin for: “From Rupert to his Maurice. Before Breda, 1638.”“Now in the mind of every schoolboy,” (said Cressey, pausing in his narrative) “the names Rupert and Maurice always run together. They were nephews of Charles the First, sons of Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and they are well-known in English history. Since I came to Cape Town, I have been to the library, and I find that Prince Maurice served his first or second campaign in 1638 with the Prince of Orange at the siege of Breda. Prince Rupert was there, learning the trade of war at the same time. The meaning of the inscription on that sword—which I have, and will show you presently—is to my mind perfectly clear.“Well, to get on with my yarn. As I sat in Mapana’s kraal with the sword in my hands, I began to wonder whether I was in a dream. Was it possible that the beautiful brunette before me, chieftain of a tribe of outlandish Kaffirs, came of such stock as this? The idea seemed too wildly improbable. Yet, if her tale and the evidence before me meant anything, it meant that this sword, these gold coins, had once belonged to Maurice of the Rhine. I took the book in my hand and turned over its yellow pages. What I saw there yet more electrified me, and stimulated yet further my imagination. The book was an old French work on hawking, entitled,La Fauconnerie; par Charles d’Esperon; Paris: 1605. On the fly-leaf was written, in an antique yet clear hand:—”“Mauritio P. D.D. Mater Amantissima, Elizabetha R. 1635.”Translated, this would run: “To Maurice, Prince, a gift from his most loving mother, Elizabeth, Queen, 1635.”“There was no earthly reason to suppose that the inscription upon that old fly-leaf lied. That book then had once belonged to Prince Maurice; had once been the loving gift to him of the unlucky, beautiful Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, his mother. It seemed so strange, so tragic, to find here these relics of the old Stuart blood; to see before me perhaps even a descendant of that ill-starred line; that my mind, as I gazed from the old book to Mapana, from Mapana’s soft eyes to the book again, ran in a flood of strangely mingled emotions. I asked Mapana again to tell me how these things had come into her family.“She reiterated that her father and grandfather had always told her that these were the things of Morinza (was not this name, I asked myself, an African corruption of Moritz or Maurice?), the white man, their ancestor. That he had them with him when he encountered the tribe. That in those days the Umfanzi lived much farther to the west (she indicated the direction with her hand), not far from a great water (probably the South Atlantic); that other things of his had also formerly belonged to them, but had almost all been lost in wars and wanderings.“Now I have been always fond of history, and, as a youngster, the story of the Stuarts had a deep interest for me. I had a clear recollection in my mind that Prince Maurice had been lost at sea some time during the Commonwealth or Cromwell’s Protectorate, while on a privateering or filibustering expedition. Was it not possible, I asked myself, that he had been wrecked off the African coast, or even marooned by a discontented crew? I find, by the way, on coming down-country, that Maurice was actually off the west coast of Africa in 1652, the year of his supposed death. He is believed by some to have been lost in a storm off the West Indies, but the circumstance of his death seems to be very much shrouded in mystery. There is nothing clear about it.“I told Mapana that I knew something of the origin of these relics. That their owner had once been a warrior in my country; and that I should like to take them home, and have them identified, if possible. That for her own sake this ought to be done.“She looked very wistfully at me, but shook her head, and told one of her girls to put the sword and book back in her hut. The necklet she put on again. By this time it was dark, and we sat by a blazing fire of wood.“Mapana now asked me to sup with her. I was not loth, of course; and, having still some coffee, sugar, and a tin of condensed milk in my saddlebags, I had them and the kettle brought round. I boiled some water, and treated my charming barbarian to her first cup of coffee. She was delighted, and drank two beakers of it with the greatest enjoyment. Then nothing would do but I must give her my teaspoon. It was an old worn silver one, as it happened. She looked so merry, so good-humoured, so fascinating, there by the cheery firelight, that I felt inclined to deny her nothing.“‘But,’ I said, ‘you must give me something in return.’“She looked reflectively for a moment, then sent a girl to her hut. The girl returned with two more of the gold coins I have mentioned. They were strung close together on fine sinew, and were used, as Mapana showed me, as a fillet or decoration for the head. We made the exchange amid much merriment and some chaff, and I think were mutually content. I certainly had the best of the deal. Mapana, at my suggestion, used the spoon with her milk and porridge, which she had previously eaten by means of a kind of flat spoon—and her pretty fingers. I don’t know what possessed me—perhaps it was the caressing touch of her hand, which had been once or twice laid upon mine while begging for the spoon—but, before saying good-night and going to my hut, I asked Mapana if she would like to be saluted in the fashion of my country. She assented with a smile. I stooped towards her, placed my hands upon her shoulders, and kissed her upon the cheek and lips. Never was caress more sweet! I don’t think Mapana thought so badly of it either; there was no sign of displeasure in her dark eyes. Her maidens were rather startled, and ejaculated some very astonished ‘ous’; but they were very discreet.“Before I quitted her, I asked Mapana to lend me the old book on Falconry. I wanted to examine it more closely. On my promising to deliver it to her again, she sent for it, and placed it in my hands. I went back to my hut, put the book into my saddle-bag till morning, and quickly fell into a sound slumber.“I saw little of Mapana till next evening. She was bathing with her women at a lagoon in the morning. Then a council of headmen was held, chiefly to discuss my visit; this lasted some hours. I wandered quietly about the village, escorted by two tribesmen; saw that the horses were well fed and cared for, looked at our rifles, and waited rather impatiently for another audience with Mapana. During the afternoon the Bushmen left the town. They had soon tired of its attractions, and yearned to be in the veldt again.“It was not till nightfall that Mapana sent for me. I supped with her again by the fire in front of her hut, and again we had coffee and much laughter together. She was in curious spirits; sometimes rippling over with fun and a sort of naïve coquetry; at others, looking serious and thoughtful, and even, as I thought, a little askance at me. I lighted my pipe and began to smoke. Presently she sat herself a little nearer to me and spoke.“‘My headmen,’ she said, ‘want to know if you have come to stay long among us, Kareesa,’ (so she pronounced my name); ‘I could not tell them this morning. What does Kareesa say? I tire of ruling these people alone. I want a man to help me. Seleni hopes to become that man; but Seleni—well, I love not Seleni over-much. Why should not Kareesa join his lot with mine and share my power?’ Mapana looked more beautiful than ever, I thought, at that moment; she was very serious, and her dark eyes were turned almost beseechingly to mine. Half barbarian though she was, I never could forget that white blood ran strong within her; and in mere looks alone there was enough to tempt many a better man than I, who was already more than half in love with her.“I knew not what to say, but was about to stumble into some sort of speech. She leaned yet nearer, and placed a hand gently upon my arm. At that instant a sharp whistle, which I knew to be April’s, and April’s only, smote my ears. I half turned round. As I did so, an arrow grazed the breast of my flannel shirt and drove deep into the left bosom of Mapana. She uttered a little choking cry, and fell into my arms, a dying woman. I could not let her go in her last agony, poor soul; yet I knew there was deadly danger about me even as I supported her. Those moments were like some vile and terrible dream. In a second or two another arrow transfixed the fleshy part of my upper arm. Almost at the same instant the report of a rifle rang out; there was a cry, and a fall, and I knew Mapana was avenged—by April.“Next came April’s voice: ‘Baas, Baas, are you there? Come quickly.’“I cried out: ‘All right; I’m coming;’ and then looked into my poor lost Mapana’s face again. She had given a shiver or two, a last struggle, and was now dead in my arms. I laid her quietly upon the earth and kissed her brow. She had in her hands, poor thing, as she often had, the old sword. Her grip upon the scabbard was so strong that I could not easily loosen it. I drew the blade quickly from the sheath, and with one last look at her as she lay, still wonderfully beautiful even in death, I left Mapana.“Meanwhile, the whole town was in a frightful uproar. Poor Mapana’s women were shrieking in her hut. Men’s voices were yelling excitedly in different directions. War-drums were beating already.“I rushed to thekotlaentrance. April was there with the two horses, saddled and bridled, and our rifles both loaded. First, I made him break and draw the arrow from my arm. He pointed to the body of Seleni, whom he had shot dead just as he fired his second arrow at me. We jumped into our saddles and galloped straight for the river. It was our only chance. By great good luck we reached the banks safely, swam our horses across, and chanced the crocodiles. Once on the other side, we cantered steadily, all through the night, due south. At early morning we swam the river again, much against the grain, and then, after an hour’s rest in thick bush, steadily continued our flight, now more to the eastward. To cut a long story short, by dint of nursing our nags, we made good our escape, reached the wagons in safety, and trekked hard till we had put a hundred and fifty miles between us and Umfanziland.“Whether the Umfanzis followed us or not, I don’t know. Quite possibly, the death of Mapana, and the consequent turmoil, so bothered them that they never did. Thanks to my idea of keeping our nags always saddled and bridled, and to April’s bravery and smartness, we escaped with our lives.“Poor dead Mapana! I shall never cease to mourn her as a good, and true, and most bewitching woman. I admired her beauty and her kindly heart. May she rest in peace!“Well,” ended Cressey, “that’s my yarn. It’s a curious one, isn’t it? If you are as dry as I am, you must want a whisky and seltzer. After that, if you’ll come to my bedroom, I’ll show you the relics—the two coins, the sword, and the book—I brought from Umfanziland.”Touching these same relics, which have proved undoubtedly to have once belonged to Prince Maurice of the Rhine, they now adorn the collection of a great personage, and are greatly treasured.As for the descent of poor Mapana—whether she and her forefathers truly sprang, as she claimed, from Prince Maurice himself—that is a mystery dead with her dead self, never to be clearly explained on this side the dark portals.

It was Christmas-time at the Cape, when many a man and woman of British blood, jaded by the sun and drought of an up-country life, flocks down to the sea. Cape Town and her charming suburbs were crowded; and the pleasant watering-places of Muizenberg and Kalk Bay were thronged with folk dying once more to set eyes on the blue ocean, to inhale the fresh breezes, and to remind themselves of their own sea-girt origin. From every corner of South Africa—from the old Colony, the Free State, the Transvaal, from far Bechuanaland—they had come. You might see sun-scorched wanderers from the far interior, hunters, explorers, prospectors, and pioneers. Some had come to restore broken health; some to taste again the sweets of civilisation, to spend hard-won money; or, perchance, an enthusiast might be seen who had been attracted south a thousand miles and more by the week’s cricket tournament on the Western Province ground at Newlands.

Cape Town was at her best and bravest. Adderley Street was as crowded as Bond Street in June; and upon every hand were to be seen and heard pleasant faces, cheery voices, and the hearty greetings of friends long severed by time and distance.

On the evening of the 23rd December, a young man sat in his pleasant bedroom in theannexeof the International Hotel, which lies rather out of the heat of the town on the lower slopes of Table Mountain. It was an hour before dinner, and the young man sat in his shirt-sleeves before the open window, idly smoking a pipe, and feasting his eyes on the glorious view that lay before him.

Jack Compton had just come down from two years’ travel and sport in the far interior; you might tell that by his lean, sun-tanned face and deeply embrowned arms, and by the collection of curios—bird-skins, photographs, horns, heads, assegais, and other articles that littered the room—and, after a rough time of it, was now enjoying to the full the ease and relaxation of life at the Cape. It was a noble prospect that lay spread before him—none nobler in the world. Cape Town, with its white houses and dark-green foliage, contrasted strongly in the near foreground with the peerless blue and the sweeping contours of Table Bay. Out at the entrance to the bay, Robben Island swam dimly into the far Atlantic. Across the bay, the eye was first smitten by the blinding dazzle of the beach of white sand below Blaauwberg. Then rose chain upon chain of glorious mountain scenery, the jagged sierras of Stellenbosch and the far line of Hottentots Holland melting in blues and purples upon the horizon. Under the setting sun the crests of these distant sierras were rapidly becoming rose-tinted, and the warm browns and purples glorified a thousandfold. Never, thought Jack Compton, as he pulled contentedly at his pipe, had he beheld a more enchanting scene.

At that instant his door was flung open, and a tall, sunburnt, keen-eyed man of thirty entered the room.

“Hallo, Jack, you old buffer!” he exclaimed, “what are you up to, sitting here brooding like a pelican at a salt pan? I’ve been looking for you. I’ve been chatting for the last two hours with a most interesting Johnnie just come round from Walfisch Bay. He’s been trading and hunting in a new veldt far inland to the north-east, and he’s had some extraordinary times. The country he’s been in is, seemingly, quite unknown to Europeans; the game’s as thick as sheep in a fold; and he’s had the most wonderful shooting. But there’s one adventure, which he’ll tell us more about after dinner, which has hit my fancy amazingly. As far as I can make out, Cressey—that’s the name of the man—has discovered some extraordinary link with the past—a Kaffir woman, chief of some native tribe, with good white blood in her veins. Cressey has got some of her belongings, and has promised to show them to us later on.”

“But,” put in Jack Compton, “what sort of a man is this Cressey? Can you depend upon what he says? There are some champion liars in this country, and any amount of improbable yarns floating from one ear to another. The Afrikander is the most credulous person in the world, and there’s something in the climate which quickly infects the Britisher—witness yourself. I suppose gold and diamonds are primarily responsible for it all, and the old-fashioned Boer, who’s the most marvel-swallowing creature of the nineteenth century.”

“That’s all right, old chap,” laughingly replied Tim Bracewell. “I won’t say any more at present. You shall judge for yourself. In my opinion this man Cressey isn’t one of your natural-born Ananiases. He gives one the impression of being perfectly straightforward. He’s a quiet, unassuming sort of man, rather hard to draw than otherwise. By the bye, we mustn’t talk too loud—he’s got a bedroom somewhere in this building.”

Half an hour later the two friends were lounging about thestoepof the International, waiting the summons to dinner, when a quiet-looking man in blue serge came up the steps. Tim Bracewell stepped forward and met him, and introduced him to Compton. The new comer was a well-set-up man of middle height. He had fair brown hair, a short beard, and a pair of keen, steady, blue-grey eyes.

After dinner, which the three men partook of at a table together, they came out to thestoepagain, and fixed themselves in a snug corner for coffee and cigars. They had exchanged a good deal of their experiences together at the dinner-table, and Tim Bracewell now called upon Cressey to give them the promised history of his main adventure.

“Well,” said Cressey, “it’s a queer yarn, and I don’t know what you’ll say to it. You’re the first I’ve told it to; and let me ask you not to talk about it outside. I don’t want to be bothered by papers and interviewers and all the rest of it. I shall report my story to the Colonial Secretary for what it’s worth, and then I’ve done all I intend to. I started from Walfisch Bay with two wagons, loaded up with trading-gear, just eighteen months ago. I intended to hunt a bit, and I had five good ponies with me. I had also in my outfit three very good native ‘boys’—one especially, ‘April,’ a most useful chap; he was a ’Mangwato, a capital fellow at languages, and understood Zulu and Dutch, and one or two Zambesi dialects. He was a good driver, cook, and hunter—one of the best all-round natives I ever came across.

“Well, I trekked through Damaraland and Ovampoland up to the Cunene River. I hadn’t much trouble with the Ovampo, as I knew their chiefs and headmen. But they’re a rum lot, and you’ve got to watch it in their country. I did pretty well, and sent down a decent troop of cattle taken in barter to a place I’ve got in Damaraland.

“After several months, I left the Cunene, and worked up for a new bit of country hitherto unexplored. I crossed the Okavango somewhere up towards its sources, and then found myself in the wild country of the Mukassakwere Bushmen. Here there was plenty of game, and I had some grand sport. The Bushmen were mad for meat and tobacco, and were only too eager—once they had found out my killing powers—to show me game. I had a glorious time among elephant rhinoceros, ‘camel’ (giraffe), and all the big antelopes. Elands were running in big troops, almost as tame as Alderney cows, and we lived like fighting cocks. I got a fine lot of ivory in this country; and then, taking some of the best of the Bushmen with me, pushed still farther north by east.

“One afternoon, after a long, troublesome trek through some heavy bush-country, in which we had been all hard at work cutting a path for the wagons, we emerged pretty thankfully into clear country again. Before us lay spread a vast open grassy plain, dotted here and there with troops of game. Beyond the plain, some thirty miles distant, there stood in purple splendour against the clear horizon a majestic mountain chain, its peaks just now tinted a tender rose by the setting sun. We all stood for a while gazing, open-mouthed, at the glorious scene before us, and then camped for the night. Round my servants’ camp-fire I noticed a good deal of animated conversation going on. Two Bushmen in particular were full of chatter and gesticulation. Their curious clicking speech came fast and thick, and they pointed often in the direction of the mountains in our front.

“After a time I called April to my fireside and interrogated him. He informed me that the Bushmen were speaking of a kraal of natives settled behind the mountain chain; that these natives were governed by a wonderful white-skinned woman; that they were quarrelsome and treacherous; and that we might have trouble with them. Having learned thus much, I tumbled into my wagon, pulled up the sheepskin kaross, and fell asleep.

“Early next morning I was up making ready for a longish ride. I was mighty curious to see this native village that the Bushmen spoke of, and especially the white-skinned chieftainess; at the same time I determined to prepare for any eventuality. I sent the wagons, after breakfast, back upon our spoor again, directing my men to camp in a strong place between some hills, more than a day’s journey back. Here there was good water; the camp could be rendered pretty impregnable by the help of aschermof thorn-bushes; and, with my horses, I and my attendant could easily retreat thither in case of trouble. I now selected my two best ponies, and, taking April with me, and the two Bushmen to act as guides, we set off for the mountain. My man and I were each armed with a good double rifle, and had plenty of ammunition, water-bottles, and somebilltong(sun-dried meat), biscuits, coffee, and a kettle; and, as I knew there were no horses among the natives in these regions, I had little fear of escape, if escape became necessary.

“We rode all that day across the big plain. It was a perfect treat to see the game on every side of us. There were rhinoceroses, elands, hartebeests, Burchell’s zebras, blue wildebeests, and tsesseby. They were excessively tame, and often came close up and stared at us. We fired no shot, however, but rode quietly on, occasionally diverging a little to avoid some sour-looking black rhinoceros, which stood, threatening and suspicious, directly in our path. We camped that night in a little grove of thorn trees just beneath the mountain.

“At earliest dawn of the next day we were up and away. The Bushmen led us to a kloof or gorge in the mountain chain, the only approach to the kraal we sought. We rode for two hours up a slight ascent over a very rough, rocky path; and then, suddenly turning an angle of the mountain-wall, we came in full view of the native town. A broad grassy valley, perhaps seven miles square, lay before us. This plain was dotted with circular native huts, built very much after the Bechuana fashion, and neatly thatched. Herds of cattle, goats, and native sheep were pasturing here and there, or lying beneath the shade of the acacias scattered about the plain. The town stood in an excellent position. The mountain chain upon the one hand, and a broad and deep river, flowing south-east, upon the other, served as sure defences against any sudden attack from without.

“Beyond the river, eastward, a vast sweep of broad plain, belted with dark-green ribands of bush and forest, stretched in interminable expanse to the hot horizon.

“Descending to the valley, we were not long in reaching a collection of huts, where we were pulled up short by a score of gesticulating natives, armed with huge bows and arrows, and spears. We had some trouble with these people; but after various messages and a halt of an hour or so, we were told to follow two headmen to the Queen’s residence.

“Mounting our horses—a proceeding which roused the most lively interest among the crowd, which by this time had gathered round us—April and I followed our guides, the Bushmen walking alongside. Passing numerous groups of well-built, well-tended huts, we were at last brought to the Queen’skotla, a large circular enclosure, fenced by a tall stockade, in which was set the hut of the great lady I sought. A messenger soon brought permission, and we rode into the enclosure.

“In a couple of rapid glances I took in the whole scene. In front of a large, roomy, carefully thatched, circular hut were gathered some thirty headmen of various ages, all standing, and all armed with long spears, battle-axes, or bows and arrows. In the centre of this knot of dark Africans sat the chieftainess, a very fair-skinned woman, undoubtedly. Behind her stood two black female attendants, furnished with long fly-whisks, with which they occasionally guarded their mistress from the annoyances of insects. I rode up boldly to within ten yards of this group, and dismounted, as did my man April. Handing my horse to April, I took off my broad-brimmed hat, made my politest bow to the Queen’s grace, and then, calling Naras the Bushman, motioned him to stand forward and interpret Naras waited expectantly on the Queen, and, while she addressed him, I had leisure to examine her closely and very curiously. Mapana—that was her name—for a woman of native blood, was astonishingly fair. I can best liken her colouring to that of a fair octoroon. Her beauty amazed me. I have been in the West Indies, where, especially among the French islands, are to be seen some of the most beautiful coloured women in the world. Mapana’s beauty and grace reminded me in the strongest manner of some of these French octoroons. Her hair was soft and wavy—not harsh, like a pure African’s—and curled naturally upon her well-shaped head. Her features were good and regular; her mouth bewitching; her dark eyes tender, kindly, and marvellously beautiful. There was an air of refinement and grace about her, which strangely puzzled me. She wore a necklet of bright gold coins about her neck, and thick ivory bangles upon her shapely arms. A little cloak of antelope skin just covered her shoulders, but concealed not at all her perfect shape and bust. A short kilt or petticoat of dressed antelope skin, and neat sandals of giraffe hide, completed her costume. It is hard to judge the age of Africans. I guessed Mapana’s years at one or two and twenty. She sat there in an attitude of easy, natural grace, her pretty hands just covering a sword, apparently of European make, which lay across her lap. I think I never set eyes on a more perfectly captivating creature. I am not as a rule at all impressionable, but, as Mapana spoke, my downfall was complete—I fell in love with her at once.

“Mapana had one of those rare voices which, almost more than mere beauty alone, seem created to enslave mankind. I once, years ago, on a trip home to England, heard Sarah Bernhardt. The tones of her silvery voice came nearer to Mapana’s than any I ever heard.

“How so fair a woman came to be heading a barbarous tribe here in this outlandish corner of Africa, and whence she took her European descent, puzzled me intensely. I was determined somehow to hunt out the mystery. I had noticed, when we first encountered Mapana’s tribesmen at the foot of the mountains, that much of their speech resembled the Sechuana and Basuto tongues, with which I am well acquainted. The languages of the various Bantu tribes have strong affinities. I noticed many words even resembling Zulu and Amakosa among these people, who, by the way, called themselves Umfanzi. The difference of idiom and intonation at first bothered me; in a little while, however, as Mapana questioned and cross-questioned the Bushmen, I began pretty clearly to understand her. I spoke in a low tone to April; he too comprehended her speech. I now ventured to address her myself. I spoke slowly and distinctly; and, after a little, she began to understand much of what I said, as, too, did her headmen and counsellors. I explained that I was a subject of a great white Queen, dwelling far across some mighty waters; that I had heard of another white Queen, and had travelled far to pay her my respects, and to enter upon terms of goodwill and friendship with her and her tribe.

“My words seemed to give satisfaction. Mapana spoke in an aside with some of the older men about her, and then addressed me. She told me that she was of white descent herself—at a remote distance of time—that the blood had always been cherished in her tribe, and that she and her counsellors were glad to receive me. She directed me to be lodged in a new hut just outside herkotla, and intimated that she would be pleased to receive me later in the day. Meanwhile food and water, and whatever else we required, should be placed at my disposal. A guard of a couple of armed men was told off to keep away intrusive or too curious tribespeople from our quarters.

“We killed a sheep, and enjoyed a square meal; after which I went, surrounded by a concourse of interested natives, to a stream close by, where I had a good wash, combed out my hair and beard, and made myself presentable for the next interview with the fascinating Mapana. For the rest of the afternoon we sat resting, and luxuriated in a quiet smoke.

“At about four o’clock a young headman came with a message that Mapana wished to see me again. He seemed by no means pleased with his errand, and preceded me with a very unprepossessing scowl upon his face. The Queen was now only attended by a few of her women. I sat down near her; my conductor stood leaning upon his assegai.

“‘Seleni,’ said Mapana, looking at him, ‘I wish to speak with the white man alone; you can leave me.’

“‘Queen,’ answered the young man, not too civilly, I thought, ‘this man is a stranger. Who knows his heart? He may cherish mischief. I stay to guard the Queen from danger.’

“Mapana flushed a little. It was pretty to see the colour run under the clear brunette of her skin. ‘There is no danger,’ she said, with some asperity. ‘Go, till I call for you.’

“Making an obeisance, Seleni, much against his will, stalked out of thekotla.

“Mapana turned to me. ‘Seleni is a kinsman of mine,’ she said, ‘and he presumes upon it.’

“I had noticed that this young man, and one or two others among the headmen, were slightly paler in colour than the rest of the tribe, and I told Mapana so.

“‘Yes,’ she returned. ‘Seleni is descended from the white man from whom I descend, but by a baser branch. My forefathers come directly from the white man who settled among the Umfanzi long ago, and married the chief’s daughter. That white man—Morinza, we call him—became ruler over the tribe, taught us many things, and left the family of chiefs to which I belong. I have sent for you,’—here she inquired my name, which I told her—‘to look upon the things which I have here. They were Morinza’s, and they have always been cherished in my family.’

“Here she took the circlet of coins from her neck and handed it to me. She had also for my inspection the sword I have spoken of, and an old-fashioned book, very handsomely bound in red leather, curiously gilt and stamped. This book she took from a covering of soft hide, in which it was carefully wrapped.

“I was intensely interested, and first examined the gold coins composing the necklet. There were seven in all, four large and three smaller. I recognised at once the head of Charles the First, and made out without difficulty that the coins were twenty-shilling and ten-shilling pieces of that king’s reign. I next took up the sword. The scabbard had once been handsome in leather and metal, but was now worn and battered. The sword itself, a straight, narrowish rapier, was a very beautiful one. It was in excellent condition and finely engraved. On the centre of the blade were these words in old-fashioned lettering:—”

“Rupertus Mauritio Suo Bredae, 1638.”

Latin for: “From Rupert to his Maurice. Before Breda, 1638.”

“Now in the mind of every schoolboy,” (said Cressey, pausing in his narrative) “the names Rupert and Maurice always run together. They were nephews of Charles the First, sons of Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, and they are well-known in English history. Since I came to Cape Town, I have been to the library, and I find that Prince Maurice served his first or second campaign in 1638 with the Prince of Orange at the siege of Breda. Prince Rupert was there, learning the trade of war at the same time. The meaning of the inscription on that sword—which I have, and will show you presently—is to my mind perfectly clear.

“Well, to get on with my yarn. As I sat in Mapana’s kraal with the sword in my hands, I began to wonder whether I was in a dream. Was it possible that the beautiful brunette before me, chieftain of a tribe of outlandish Kaffirs, came of such stock as this? The idea seemed too wildly improbable. Yet, if her tale and the evidence before me meant anything, it meant that this sword, these gold coins, had once belonged to Maurice of the Rhine. I took the book in my hand and turned over its yellow pages. What I saw there yet more electrified me, and stimulated yet further my imagination. The book was an old French work on hawking, entitled,La Fauconnerie; par Charles d’Esperon; Paris: 1605. On the fly-leaf was written, in an antique yet clear hand:—”

“Mauritio P. D.D. Mater Amantissima, Elizabetha R. 1635.”

Translated, this would run: “To Maurice, Prince, a gift from his most loving mother, Elizabeth, Queen, 1635.”

“There was no earthly reason to suppose that the inscription upon that old fly-leaf lied. That book then had once belonged to Prince Maurice; had once been the loving gift to him of the unlucky, beautiful Elizabeth, Queen of Bohemia, his mother. It seemed so strange, so tragic, to find here these relics of the old Stuart blood; to see before me perhaps even a descendant of that ill-starred line; that my mind, as I gazed from the old book to Mapana, from Mapana’s soft eyes to the book again, ran in a flood of strangely mingled emotions. I asked Mapana again to tell me how these things had come into her family.

“She reiterated that her father and grandfather had always told her that these were the things of Morinza (was not this name, I asked myself, an African corruption of Moritz or Maurice?), the white man, their ancestor. That he had them with him when he encountered the tribe. That in those days the Umfanzi lived much farther to the west (she indicated the direction with her hand), not far from a great water (probably the South Atlantic); that other things of his had also formerly belonged to them, but had almost all been lost in wars and wanderings.

“Now I have been always fond of history, and, as a youngster, the story of the Stuarts had a deep interest for me. I had a clear recollection in my mind that Prince Maurice had been lost at sea some time during the Commonwealth or Cromwell’s Protectorate, while on a privateering or filibustering expedition. Was it not possible, I asked myself, that he had been wrecked off the African coast, or even marooned by a discontented crew? I find, by the way, on coming down-country, that Maurice was actually off the west coast of Africa in 1652, the year of his supposed death. He is believed by some to have been lost in a storm off the West Indies, but the circumstance of his death seems to be very much shrouded in mystery. There is nothing clear about it.

“I told Mapana that I knew something of the origin of these relics. That their owner had once been a warrior in my country; and that I should like to take them home, and have them identified, if possible. That for her own sake this ought to be done.

“She looked very wistfully at me, but shook her head, and told one of her girls to put the sword and book back in her hut. The necklet she put on again. By this time it was dark, and we sat by a blazing fire of wood.

“Mapana now asked me to sup with her. I was not loth, of course; and, having still some coffee, sugar, and a tin of condensed milk in my saddlebags, I had them and the kettle brought round. I boiled some water, and treated my charming barbarian to her first cup of coffee. She was delighted, and drank two beakers of it with the greatest enjoyment. Then nothing would do but I must give her my teaspoon. It was an old worn silver one, as it happened. She looked so merry, so good-humoured, so fascinating, there by the cheery firelight, that I felt inclined to deny her nothing.

“‘But,’ I said, ‘you must give me something in return.’

“She looked reflectively for a moment, then sent a girl to her hut. The girl returned with two more of the gold coins I have mentioned. They were strung close together on fine sinew, and were used, as Mapana showed me, as a fillet or decoration for the head. We made the exchange amid much merriment and some chaff, and I think were mutually content. I certainly had the best of the deal. Mapana, at my suggestion, used the spoon with her milk and porridge, which she had previously eaten by means of a kind of flat spoon—and her pretty fingers. I don’t know what possessed me—perhaps it was the caressing touch of her hand, which had been once or twice laid upon mine while begging for the spoon—but, before saying good-night and going to my hut, I asked Mapana if she would like to be saluted in the fashion of my country. She assented with a smile. I stooped towards her, placed my hands upon her shoulders, and kissed her upon the cheek and lips. Never was caress more sweet! I don’t think Mapana thought so badly of it either; there was no sign of displeasure in her dark eyes. Her maidens were rather startled, and ejaculated some very astonished ‘ous’; but they were very discreet.

“Before I quitted her, I asked Mapana to lend me the old book on Falconry. I wanted to examine it more closely. On my promising to deliver it to her again, she sent for it, and placed it in my hands. I went back to my hut, put the book into my saddle-bag till morning, and quickly fell into a sound slumber.

“I saw little of Mapana till next evening. She was bathing with her women at a lagoon in the morning. Then a council of headmen was held, chiefly to discuss my visit; this lasted some hours. I wandered quietly about the village, escorted by two tribesmen; saw that the horses were well fed and cared for, looked at our rifles, and waited rather impatiently for another audience with Mapana. During the afternoon the Bushmen left the town. They had soon tired of its attractions, and yearned to be in the veldt again.

“It was not till nightfall that Mapana sent for me. I supped with her again by the fire in front of her hut, and again we had coffee and much laughter together. She was in curious spirits; sometimes rippling over with fun and a sort of naïve coquetry; at others, looking serious and thoughtful, and even, as I thought, a little askance at me. I lighted my pipe and began to smoke. Presently she sat herself a little nearer to me and spoke.

“‘My headmen,’ she said, ‘want to know if you have come to stay long among us, Kareesa,’ (so she pronounced my name); ‘I could not tell them this morning. What does Kareesa say? I tire of ruling these people alone. I want a man to help me. Seleni hopes to become that man; but Seleni—well, I love not Seleni over-much. Why should not Kareesa join his lot with mine and share my power?’ Mapana looked more beautiful than ever, I thought, at that moment; she was very serious, and her dark eyes were turned almost beseechingly to mine. Half barbarian though she was, I never could forget that white blood ran strong within her; and in mere looks alone there was enough to tempt many a better man than I, who was already more than half in love with her.

“I knew not what to say, but was about to stumble into some sort of speech. She leaned yet nearer, and placed a hand gently upon my arm. At that instant a sharp whistle, which I knew to be April’s, and April’s only, smote my ears. I half turned round. As I did so, an arrow grazed the breast of my flannel shirt and drove deep into the left bosom of Mapana. She uttered a little choking cry, and fell into my arms, a dying woman. I could not let her go in her last agony, poor soul; yet I knew there was deadly danger about me even as I supported her. Those moments were like some vile and terrible dream. In a second or two another arrow transfixed the fleshy part of my upper arm. Almost at the same instant the report of a rifle rang out; there was a cry, and a fall, and I knew Mapana was avenged—by April.

“Next came April’s voice: ‘Baas, Baas, are you there? Come quickly.’

“I cried out: ‘All right; I’m coming;’ and then looked into my poor lost Mapana’s face again. She had given a shiver or two, a last struggle, and was now dead in my arms. I laid her quietly upon the earth and kissed her brow. She had in her hands, poor thing, as she often had, the old sword. Her grip upon the scabbard was so strong that I could not easily loosen it. I drew the blade quickly from the sheath, and with one last look at her as she lay, still wonderfully beautiful even in death, I left Mapana.

“Meanwhile, the whole town was in a frightful uproar. Poor Mapana’s women were shrieking in her hut. Men’s voices were yelling excitedly in different directions. War-drums were beating already.

“I rushed to thekotlaentrance. April was there with the two horses, saddled and bridled, and our rifles both loaded. First, I made him break and draw the arrow from my arm. He pointed to the body of Seleni, whom he had shot dead just as he fired his second arrow at me. We jumped into our saddles and galloped straight for the river. It was our only chance. By great good luck we reached the banks safely, swam our horses across, and chanced the crocodiles. Once on the other side, we cantered steadily, all through the night, due south. At early morning we swam the river again, much against the grain, and then, after an hour’s rest in thick bush, steadily continued our flight, now more to the eastward. To cut a long story short, by dint of nursing our nags, we made good our escape, reached the wagons in safety, and trekked hard till we had put a hundred and fifty miles between us and Umfanziland.

“Whether the Umfanzis followed us or not, I don’t know. Quite possibly, the death of Mapana, and the consequent turmoil, so bothered them that they never did. Thanks to my idea of keeping our nags always saddled and bridled, and to April’s bravery and smartness, we escaped with our lives.

“Poor dead Mapana! I shall never cease to mourn her as a good, and true, and most bewitching woman. I admired her beauty and her kindly heart. May she rest in peace!

“Well,” ended Cressey, “that’s my yarn. It’s a curious one, isn’t it? If you are as dry as I am, you must want a whisky and seltzer. After that, if you’ll come to my bedroom, I’ll show you the relics—the two coins, the sword, and the book—I brought from Umfanziland.”

Touching these same relics, which have proved undoubtedly to have once belonged to Prince Maurice of the Rhine, they now adorn the collection of a great personage, and are greatly treasured.

As for the descent of poor Mapana—whether she and her forefathers truly sprang, as she claimed, from Prince Maurice himself—that is a mystery dead with her dead self, never to be clearly explained on this side the dark portals.

Chapter Eight.The Tapinyani Concession.At the hour of noon the straggling main street of Vryburg, the village capital of British Bechuanaland, lay bare and shadeless beneath the merciless glare of a February sun. The few straggling saplings in front of the corrugated-iron shanty known as the Criterion Hotel, and a forlorn blue gum-tree here and there in other parts of the place, served but to accentuate the utter nakedness and lack of shade. Notwithstanding the sun’s fierce assault, the air was crisp and nimble, for the plains here lie high—nearly four thousand feet above sea-level. There had been recent rain, and the sea of grass stretching everywhere beyond the village had now assumed a garb of fresh green in lieu of the wearisome pall of pale yellow which for months had masked the red soil. Two Boer horses stood with drooping heads tarrying patiently for their masters, now shopping inside a store on either side of the broad street; and a span of oxen lying and standing on the left hand, waiting for a load to the wagon behind them, were the only indications of life in the centre of the Bechuanaland capital. Beyond and behind these, however, north and south, the two hotels—canteens one might rather call them—at either end of the street showed, by noisy laughter and a gentle flow of humanity, that there the place was alive, and, as was its wont, cheerful.The click of billiard balls from either inn gave further tone to the somewhat scant air of civilisation.Lounging in a corner of the Criterion bar were two men equipped in veldt dress of cord breeches and coats, pigskin gaiters, brown boots, spurs, flannel shirts, and broad-brimmed felt hats. They were youngish men—both on the better side of thirty—and looked bronzed, full of health, and hard as nails. Both had come out to the country with Methuen’s Horse, and, after serving in Warren’s expedition, had drifted into the Bechuanaland Border Police, from which they had some time since retired. The elder, darker and taller, Hume Wheler, after a fairly successful public school and university career, and a short and briefless period at the Bar, had found the active and open-air life of the South African interior far more to his liking than two years of weary expectancy in gloomy chambers. In reality a man of action, the languid and somewhat cynical air which he affected in times of quiet greatly belied him. His friend, Joe Granton, shorter and more strongly knit than his fellow, wore habitually a far more cheerful aspect. His broad, bright countenance, clear blue eyes, fair hair and moustache, and transparent openness, combined to render him quickly welcome wherever he appeared. Joe had migrated to South Africa after five years’ experience of a City office. London-bred though he was, his yearnings were irresistibly athletic; and, after mastering the early troubles of horsemanship, he had settled down to veldt life, with its roughs and tumbles, with a zest that never faded.These two men had been fast friends for years, and were now engaged in an enterprise which, although nominally enwrapped in some air of mystery, was a pretty open secret in Vryburg. The rage for concession-hunting was just now in full blast throughout South Africa. The two comrades, in partnership with two or three other Bechuanalanders, were just on the eve of an expedition into the far recesses of the Kalahari Desert, with the object of securing a concession from a native chief over a vast tract of country in that waterless and unknown wilderness.As the two adventurers smoked their pipes and now and again refreshed themselves from long tumblers of whisky and soda, their eyes wandered with some impatience towards the open doorway. Their expectancy was at length rewarded. A short, strong figure of a man, middle-aged, brown-bearded, grey-eyed, appeared in the sun blaze outside, and entered the cool shade of the canteen. Tom Lane, the third and most important member of the expedition, was a well-known character in the far interior. Hunter, trader, cattle-dealer, border-fighter, Tom’s experience of the country was unique. Tough as steel, a wonderful veldt-man, none knew the dim and untravelled recesses of the Kalahari as did he. He had penetrated twice before to the kraal of Tapinyani, the Bakalahari chief whose concession they were now hoping to obtain, and the prime weight and direction of the trek thus fell naturally upon his broad and reliable shoulders.“Well, Tom!” exclaimed Hume Wheler, waking a little from his languor, “here you are at last. Have you fixed up the drivers and men? What’ll you drink—whisky and soda, or beer?”“Thanks! I’ll have a bottle of beer,” responded Lane cheerfully. “Well, I’ve had a lot of trouble, but I’ve got all the ‘boys’ in, and we’ll start to-night about twelve, as soon as the moon’s up. I see you’ve got all your kits on the wagon, and the stores in. The last of the mealies for the nags came down just as I left Klaas will see them stowed. The tent I’ve fastened on to the buck-rail. By the bye, Manning wants us all to sup at his house this evening before saying good-bye. He’s got the concession papers fixed up by the lawyers for Tapinyani to sign, if the old busterwillsign; and Miss Manning particularly hopes you’ll both come.”“That’s all right, Tom,” rejoined Joe Granton. “We’ll turn up at seven o’clock. Miss Manning said something about it yesterday when I met her. I’ve got to write some letters after lunch; but you fellows will find me, if you want me, in my bedroom all the afternoon. Well, here’s success to the Tapinyani concession! Santeit! and another thousand a year to us all!”The three men smiled mutually, clinked their glasses, and drank deep draughts to their undertaking.That evening the three were gathered at the house of Mr Manning, another member of the concession syndicate, who lived at the top of the town. It was nearly ten o’clock, the last of the business had been discussed, the concession documents handed over, and Kate Manning, the only daughter of the house, was singing some English songs. Now Kate was a very charming, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl, who, although she lived with her father in this remote frontier town, had been educated in Europe, had a very charming manner, and was in no mind to suffer herself to rust dully through existence like some Boermeisje. She took the keenest interest in the expedition, and had known the active members of it for some years past—since she was a child, in fact. There was a friendly rivalry between Wheler and Granton in securing her commands and favours; but hitherto the girl, though she liked these two pleasant, well-set-up fellows well enough, had shown no decided preference for either. Even within the secret recesses of her own heart the balance stood very evenly. Hume Wheler was handsome, refined, a capital talker; Joe Granton’s perennial cheerfulness and unselfish and transparent character counted for much.The dark-eyed girl, as she finished her song, suddenly turned round upon her audience, and exclaimed, “Oh! before you gentlemen start, there’s one little commission I had almost forgotten. You know, Mr Wheler, you brought some wildebeests’ tails down from ’Mangwato when you were last up-country. Well, they make excellent fly-whisks; but I want something even bigger. There are plenty of giraffe where you’re going, I hear. I want, above all things, a big bull giraffe’s tail. It will make a splendid whisk for Piet when he stands behind the chairs at dinner in hot weather. Now, Mr Granton, now, Mr Wheler, whichever of you first captures and brings me home that treasure shall—shall earn my undying gratitude.”“By all means, Miss Kate,” answered Wheler gaily. “I haven’t yet shot a ‘camel’—never had the luck to come across one. But you may consider the tail yours; it shall be laid gratefully at your feet.”“Yes,” chimed in Joe Granton, in a much more serious manner. “You shall have the tail, if I have to ride a ‘camel’ right through to Damaraland to secure it.”“Don’t you trust to Joe,” laughingly interrupted Wheler; “he can’t hit a haystack, much less a ‘camel’ going full split.I’llbring in the tail, and secure that inestimable treasure, Miss Manning’s undying gratitude.”“I’m not sure that I shall not have to trust to my old friend Mr Lane, after all,” returned the handsome girl merrily. “I knowhecan kill ‘camel,’ at any rate. However, you have my best wishes in your first hunt. And, Mr Granton, please don’t forget the blue jay feathers (the ‘roller’ is usually called ‘blue jay’ by colonists). I want them badly.”The conversation now took another turn.“I forgot to tell you, Tom,” said Mr Manning, addressing Lane, “Puff-adder Brown’s about again. What’s he up to just now, think you? No good, I’ll bet. Kate was out for a ride in the veldt this morning before breakfast, and met him as she came home by the Mafeking Road. The infernal rascal had the impudence to speak to her too, and ask after me in a sneering way. He owes me one over that cattle-running job five years ago, when I wiped his eye, and saved old Van Zyl’s oxen for him.”“Puff-adder Brown, eh!” answered Tom Lane, with a lift of the eyebrows. “Where can he have sprang from, and what’s he after? I wonder he has the cheek to show his face in Vryburg. I thought he was away in Waterberg somewhere.”“I can enlighten you,” broke in Joe Granton. “I heard this afternoon. Puff-adder Brown has an extra light wagon outspanned with fourteen good oxen at Jackal’s Pan. He rode into the town late last night to see a pal, and there’s something or other in the wind. What that is, I don’t know. It can’t be cattle-lifting nowadays; those Stellaland luxuries are over. Perhaps it’s a new trading trip. Waterberg’s played out, I fancy, and the Dutchmen don’t much fancy Puff-adder.”Puff-adder Brown, it may be remarked, was a notorious border character, who, as trader, cattle-stealer, horse-lifter, freebooter, and general ruffian, was well-known. In the Bechuana troubles some years before the man had served as volunteer alternately on either side, sometimes throwing in his lot with the Dutch, at others siding with the natives. In either case, cattle and land plunder had been his prime object. In the quieter times following the British occupation he seldom showed much in Vryburg or Mafeking, judging rightly that his presence was objectionable to most decent men. The man was strong and unscrupulous, a bully, and violent where he dared; and his nickname, “Puff-adder,” had been bestowed upon him from a curious swelling of the neck observable in him in moments of anger.In half an hour more the last good-byes were said, the farewell stirrup-cups partaken of; the horses were at the door. The three adventurers rode forth into the broad moonlight, and were soon at the outspan, where their wagon stood ready. A little later the oxen were in their yokes, and the trek began.For the next month the expedition moved steadily north-west into the Kalahari, trekking with infinite toil from one scant pit of water to another. During the first week, small temporary pans of water left by the rains had saved a good deal of hardship; but after that time it was only with the greatest difficulty that a sufficient supply for the oxen and horses could be hit upon in each three or four days of travel. The country, too, was not an easy one. Sometimes they laboured amid heavy calcareous sand, through thick forests of mopani, where the axe had to be constantly at work to make a passage. At others thorny bush obstinately barred the way. Anon they moved across great dazzling plains of long grass, now turning once more to a blinding yellow beneath the too ardent sun. The pleasant groves of dark-green giraffe-acacia, masking a reddish, sandy soil, offered welcome relief now and again; but even here a road had sometimes to be cut, and the toil was long and exhausting.One evening, just at sundown, at the end of a month, the wagon reached the remains of a shallow pool of rain-water, much fouled by game, and rapidly vanishing by evaporation. The oxen had trekked almost incessantly for two days and nights, and were gaunt and wild with thirst. The noisome mixture of mud and water stank abominably, but the two barrels were empty, and had to be recruited against the journey ahead of them. These filled, the oxen and horses were allowed to drink moderately, leaving a bare supply for the morning before they should move forward again.Hume Wheler and Joe Granton had come in with the wagon. Lane had ridden forward forty-eight hours since with a Bushman picked up at the last water, with the object of finding a desert fountain far distant in the wilderness, where the next supply of water was to be obtained. Upon the strength of this fountain hinged the safety of the expedition in the last trek of nearly a week—waterless except for this supply—before Tapinyani’s kraal should be reached.After a poor supper of tough, tinned “bully beef”—they had had no time to shoot game—and a mere sip at the poisonous and well-nigh undrinkable coffee, brewed from the foul water of the pool, Hume Wheler lay by the fire smoking in moody contemplation. The day had been desperately hot, and the work very hard, and even now, as night with her train of stars stepped forth upon the heaven, the air was close and still. Joe Granton had climbed up to the wagon for more tobacco. His cheerful nature was little downcast, even by the trials and worries of the past days; and now, as he filled his pipe, some pleasant remembrance passed through his brain, and in a mellow voice he sang:—“How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,And dripping with coolness it rose from the well.The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.”As the notes died slowly away upon the still air, Wheler looked up from the fire, and said in a sharp voice, “What in God’s name, Joe, possesses you to sing about moss-grown wells and cool English water, and that sort of thing? It’s bad enough to be enduring the tortures of the damned in this cursed desert, with a thirst on one big enough to drain Windermere, without being reminded of such things. Don’t, old man; don’t!”“All right, old chap,” cheerily answered Granton. “I’ll drop the ‘Moss-covered Bucket’ and its unpleasant suggestions. I’ll get out my banjo and come down.” Extricating the banjo, he descended, and sat at his friend’s side. They sat smoking by the firelight, exchanging but few words, while Joe twanged softly at his strings.In half an hour Stephan, the Hottentot driver, came over from the other fire, where the native servants sat.“I tink, Sieur,” he said, “that Baas Lane will soon be here. I hear something just now.”Surely enough, in three minutes Tom Lane’s whistle was heard, and, directly after, a Bushman walking by his side, he rode his nearly foundered horse into the strong firelight.After exchanging greetings, he directed a boy to give the horse some water. “He’s about cooked, poor beast,” he said. “I don’t think he’d have stood up another six hours. Got any coffee?”They handed him a beakerful. He drank it down with a wry face.“That’s pretty bad,” he remarked; “but it might be worse. I’ll have another. I’ve touched no drink for eighteen hours, and it was blazing hot to-day. I’ve got bad news, boys, and I’m afraid we’re in a tight place.”“Why, what devil’s hole are we in now?” queried Wheler. “I thought we were about through the last of our troubles.”“I’m afraid not, Hume,” replied Lane. “That infernal scoundrel Puff-adder Brown has been ahead of us. Somehow I half suspected some game of the kind. I got it all from a Bakalahari near the water in front. Brown, it seems, with his light wagon, trekked across from Kanya by way of Lubli Pits, and has just pipped us. To make matters secure, he has poisoned the water-pit I’ve just come from with euphorbia branches. I and my nag had a narrow squeak. We were just going to drink last evening when we got there, when this Bushman here—a decent Masarwa he is, too—stopped me, and pointed out the euphorbia. Then I discovered the murderous trick this scoundrel has played us. If he had poisoned the lot of us, I suppose he would have cared not a tinker’s curse; and, in this desert, who would have been the wiser? The water-pit stands in a stony bit of country, and there happen to be a lot of euphorbia growing about, so his job was an easy one. However, we’ll be even with him yet. He’s not far in front, and we may spoil his little game, if we have luck and stick to the ship.”By the camp-fire that evening the plan of operations was settled. Nearly six days of absolutely waterless travel, if the wagons could by any possibility be dragged, lay between the trekkers and Tapinyani’s kraal. No oxen could pull the wagon waterless over such a journey. It was decided, therefore, after finally watering the animals next morning, to trek steadily for two days, unyoke the oxen, leave the wagon standing in the desert in charge of two of the native boys (to whom would be left a barrel of water, enough, with care, to last them nearly a week), and drive on the oxen as rapidly as possible to Tapinyani’s. Without the encumbrance of the wagon, the last part of the journey might be accomplished in two days, or rather less. Watered, rested, and refreshed at Tapinyani’s kraal, the oxen could then be driven back to fetch in the wagon. This part of the undertaking was to be entrusted to Stephan, the Hottentot driver. Stephan had been picked for the expedition as a thoroughly reliable native, and having traversed the Kalahari before, he would be equal to the emergency. Meanwhile, the three white men, riding their freshest horses, and leading their spare ones, were to push forward, after watering the nags at earliest dawn, in the confident hope of reaching Tapinyani’s kraal in a forced march of thirty-six hours.At four o’clock upon the second afternoon following this camp-fire council, the three Englishmen rode and led their tired and battered horses into the outskirts of Tapinyani’s kraal, that singular native village, planted by the only considerable permanent water in the immense waste of the Central Kalahari. Tom Lane knew the place, and they passed straight through the straggling collection of beehive-like, circular, grass-thatched huts, until they reached the largekotla, or enclosure, in the centre of the town, where Tapinyani’s own residence stood. Skirting the tall fence of posts and brushwood, they passed by an open entrance into the smooth enclosure of red sand, and then, as they reined in their nags, a curious, and to them intensely interesting scene met their gaze.Just in front of the chief’s hut was gathered a collection of natives, some nearly naked—save for the middle patch of hide common to Kalahari folk—others clothed about the shoulders in cloaks or karosses of skin—pelts of the hartebeest, and other animals. In the centre of his headmen and councillors—for such they were—seated on a low wagon-chair of rude make, the gift of some wandering trader, was Tapinyani himself, a spare, middle-aged native of Bechuana type, clad in a handsome kaross of the red African lynx. In his hands Tapinyani held a sheet of large foolscap paper, concerning which he seemed to be closely questioning the tall white man standing at his side. This white man, a huge, broad-shouldered, heavily-built person, somewhat fleshy of figure, notable for his florid face and huge black beard, was none other than Puff-adder Brown himself. Bulking in size and stature far above the slim-built Bakalahari people around him, the man stood there in his flannel shirt-sleeves, his great black sunburnt arms bared to the blazing sunshine and crossed upon his chest, his heavy face shadowed by a huge broad-brimmed felt hat, easily dominating the simple assemblage of desert folk. Near to his elbow, in trade clothes, stood his wagon-driver, a dissipated-looking Basuto.“By George! we’re just in time,” said Lane, as he dismounted with alacrity from his horse, and turned the bridle rein over its head. “Come on, you fellows!”His companions needed no second word to dismount, and in another second or two they were marching side by side with Lane across thekotlato Tapinyani. Each man carried a sporting rifle, into which, in view of emergency, a cartridge had already been thrust. They were quickly across the forty paces of red sand, and now stood before the astonished group.“Greeting! Tapinyani,” said Lane, speaking in Sechuana to the chief, as he moved up near to him. “I hope all is well with you and your people. What do you do here with this man,” indicating Brown, “and what is the paper you have in your hands?”The Chief explained that the paper was a grant of a piece of land which the trader wanted for the purpose of running cattle on.“How much land?” asked Lane.“Enough to feed two hundred head of cattle and some goats,” replied the chief.“And how much are you to receive for this?”“Six guns, ammunition, and some brandy,” was the answer. “I am glad you have come,” pursued Tapinyani; “I know you well, and you can advise me in this matter.”He handed the paper to Lane, who, holding up his hand to check a protest on Puff-adder Brown’s part, ran his eye rapidly over the document.“Just as I thought,” remarked Lane, addressing Tapinyani. “By this paper, if you sign it, you hand over practically the whole of your country, its timber, and any minerals there may be in it, to this man. The thing’s an impudent fraud, and I advise you to have nothing to do with it.” He spoke still in Sechuana, so that all the natives standing round understood him well. Puff-adder Brown, too, who was well versed in native dialects, perfectly comprehended his words.Under the changed aspect of affairs, the man had seemed half irresolute. He had not expected this sudden appearance after the precautions he had taken, especially at the poisoned pool. But while Lane and the chief had rapidly exchanged words, his gorge had been steadily rising, his face took on a deeper and a darker red, and the great veins of his huge neck swelled in an extraordinary way. Well had he been christened Puff-adder Brown.“Wait a bit, chief,” he blurted out in the native tongue. “These men are liars, every one of them. Don’t believe them, the swines! There is nothing in that paper you need be afraid to sign. Why, they are after a concession of land themselves.”“Tapinyani,” rejoined Lane, “let me tell you something more about this man. He is a liar and a scamp, and worse. He cheated your friend, the chief Secheli, years ago. He fought against Mankoroane, and stole a lot of his cattle, and would have stolen his country if the English had not interfered. Take the word of an old friend, and have nothing to do with that paper.”Puff-adder Brown made a motion as if to strike at the speaker, but Tapinyani just at this instant opening his mouth to speak, he stayed his hand.“I will not sign the paper to-day,” said the chief. “I will think the matter over again. I will speak with my headmen, and we can meet again to-morrow.”Puff-adder Brown’s face was ablaze with passion. He saw that his plans were now utterly wrecked, and he glared round upon the assembly as if seeking some object upon which to vent his rage. Probably Lane would have felt his first attack; but, as it happened, Joe Granton, his countenance spread in a broad grin of delight, stood nearest. Upon the instant the enraged man raised his arm, and dealt Joe a heavy back-handed blow in the mouth.But it so happened that in Joe, Puff-adder Brown had attacked the most doughty opponent just now to be found near the tropic of Capricorn. Cockney though he was, Joe was a well-trained athlete, strong as a horse, and in hard condition. During his five years’ career in the City he had been a great boxer; for two years he had been middle-weight amateur champion; he had forgotten nothing of his smartness; and now, with that blow tingling in every nerve of his body, and the blood trickling from his nether lip, he turned instantly upon the big trader. Almost before the man knew it he had received Joe’s vicious doubled fist upon his right eye with a drive that sent stars and comets whirling before his vision. It was to be a fight, and the two men now faced each other and sparred for an opening.“Keep back! keep back!” cried Lane.The astonished Bakalahari people spread out, or rather retreated, into a wide circle, and the battle began.Now, despite that ugly knock over the eye, Puff-adder Brown rather fancied himself in this affair of fists. He was big and bulky, and three good inches taller than his opponent; he could deal a sledge-hammer stroke now and again, such as had seldom failed to knock out quarrelsome Boer adversaries, and he was very mad.He went for Joe Granton, therefore, with some alacrity, and lashed out heavily with his long arms and enormous fists. But whether in parrying, at long bowls, or at half-arm fighting, Joe was altogether too good for his adversary. Time after time he planted his blows with those ominous dull thuds upon the trader’s fleshy face; now and again he drove into the big man’s ribs with strokes that made him wince again. In the second bout, it is true, Joe was badly floored by a slinging round-arm drive; but he was quickly on his legs again, and, after a little sparring for wind, none the worse. Few of the Puff-adder’s infuriated hits, indeed, touched the mark. In seven minutes the big freebooter was a sight to behold. Blood streamed from his nose; his eyes were heavily visited; bumps and cuts showed freely upon his streaming countenance; his wind was going.“Now, old chap,” whispered Hume Wheler to his friend, during a short pause for breath by the combatants, “you’ve done magnificently. You’ve got him on toast! Go in and win. It’s all up with the Puff-adder!”There was only one more round. Brown was a beaten man, his muscles and wind were gone, and he had been severely punished. He at once closed. In some heavy, half-arm fighting, Joe, still quite fresh, put in some telling work. His fists rattled upon his opponent’s face and about his ribs. Finally, getting in a terrible rib-binder, he deprived his man of what little breath remained to him. The man staggered forward with his head down. Joe delivered one last terrible upper cut, and six feet of battered flesh lay in the dust at his feet, senseless, bleeding, and hopelessly defeated.Meanwhile the natives had been looking on upon a contest the like of which they had never before seen. Their “ughs!” and ejaculations indicated pretty correctly their astonishment. Chief Tapinyani seemed rather pleased than otherwise. For a mild Bakalahari he was a bit of a fighting man himself—with his native weapons. Under Lane’s directions Puff-adder Brown was carried to his own wagon, and there revived with cold water, washed, and put to rights. After he had, by aid of strong applications of brandy and water somewhat recovered his shattered senses, Lane gave him a little sound advice. He warned him to clear out of the place by next day. He told him that after the vile poisoning incident at the fountain—an attempt which might very well have murdered a whole expedition—any return to British Bechuanaland would result in his instant arrest. And he finally gave him to understand that any act of treachery or revenge would be carefully watched and instantly repelled by force. His advice was taken to heart. During the night the discomfited filibuster trekked from the place, and took himself off to a part of the distant interior, where, to broken and dangerous scoundrels, a career is still open.During the next few days the wagon and oxen were got safely to the town, and some progress was made in preliminary negotiations for a concession to Lane and his party. Finally, at the close of a week, after the endless discussion and argument so dear to the native African, Tapinyani set his royal mark, duly attested and approved by the headmen and elders of his tribe, to a grant of 300,000 acres of pastoral land—part of that huge and unexplored tract of country over which he hunted and nominally held sway. The considerations for this grant were a yearly payment of 100 pounds, a dozen Martini-Henry rifles with suitable ammunition, a “salted” horse worth 90 pounds, six bottles of French brandy, a suit of store clothes, a case of Eau de Cologne, and a quantity of beads and trinkets. These terms may, to the uninitiated mind, seem not highly advantageous to the native side; yet, measured by the considerations in other and far vaster South African concessions in recent years, and remembering that the land granted was at present waterless, remote, and almost totally unexplored, they were fair and equitable.This business settled, Tapinyani now turned his thoughts to the trial of his new horse and rifles. He had once possessed an old broken-down nag, bought from a swindling Namaqua Hottentot, and he knew a little of guns and gunnery. But he was unskilled in the use of either. His people badly wanted giraffe hides for making sandals and for barter; the animals were plentiful in the open forests a day or two north of the town; they must have a big hunt forthwith.Accordingly, the horses having, meanwhile, under the influence of Kaffir corn, plenty of water, and a good rest, recovered some of their lost condition, a day or two later the hunting party sallied forth. Keen Masarwa Bushmen, half famished and dying for a gorge of flesh, trotted before the horsemen as spoorers; while well in the rear a cloud of Tapinyani’s people hovered in the like hope of meat and hides. For a whole day the party rode northward into the desert; they found no giraffe, but spoor was plentiful, and they camped by a tiny limestone fountain with high hopes for the morrow. At earliest streak of dawn they were up and preparing for the chase. Tapinyani was stiff and sore from unaccustomed horse exercise, yet he had plenty of pluck, and, clad in his canary-yellow, brand-new, store suit of cords, climbed gaily to the saddle.In an hour they were on fresh spoor of “camel”; a troop had fed quite recently through the giraffe-acacia groves; and the whispering Bushmen began to run hot upon the trail. Just as the great red disk of sun shot up clear above the rim of earth, they emerged upon a broad expanse of plain, yellow with long waving grass. Save for an odd camel-thorn tree here and there, it was open for some three miles, until checked again by a dark-green belt of forest. Half a mile away in their front, slouching leisurely across the flat with giant strides, moved a troop of nine tall giraffe—a huge dark-coloured old bull, towering above the rest, four or five big cows, and some two-year-old calves. Well might the hearts of the two younger Englishmen beat faster, and their palates grow dry and parched. Neither had seen giraffes in the wild state before, and here at last was a towering old bull, whose tail, if it could but be secured, would amply satisfy Kate Manning’s commands. Hume Wheler meant killing that giraffe, more, probably, from a feeling of natural rivalry than anything else. Joe Granton had at heart a much deeper interest in the chase. He was in truth in very serious earnest about Kate Manning; the coveted trophy might mean all the world for him.The four men set their horses going at a sharp gallop, and had run two hundred yards before the tall game had spied them. Here, unluckily, Tapinyani’s horse put its foot in a hole, came down with a crash, and sent its rider flying yards upon the veldt. His loaded rifle, carried, native fashion, at full cock, exploded, and the startled giraffes glancing round saw danger, and instantly broke into their ludicrous rolling gallop. Up and down their long necks flailed the air, in strange machine-like unison with their gait; quickly they were in full flight, going great guns for the shelter of the forest ahead of them. Now the three Englishmen rammed in spurs, set their teeth, and raced their nags at their hardest. To kill “camel” there is only one method. You must run up to them (if you can) at top speed in the first two or three miles of chase, else they will outstay you and escape. Force the giraffe beyond his pace, and he is yours.But in this instance the dappled giants had too long a start. The ponies were not at their best, and the forest sanctuary lay now only two miles beyond the quarry. Ride as they would, the hunters could not make up their lee-way in the distance. Once in the woodlands the giraffes would have much the best of it. The two clouds of dust raised by pursued and pursuers rose thick upon the clear morning air, and steadily neared the forest fringe. Now the giraffe are only two hundred yards from their sanctuary, the lighter cows, running ahead, rather less. The horsemen are still nearly three hundred yards in rear of the nearest of the troop. “Jump off, lads, and shoot!” roars Tom Lane, as he reins up his nag suddenly, springs off, and puts up his rifle. The other two men instantly follow his example. Two barrels are fired by Lane, but the distance is great, that desperate gallop has made him shaky, and his bullets go wide.Hume Wheler, quicker down from his horse than his friend, fires next at the old bull, lagging last; he, too, misses clean, and shoves another cartridge into his single sporting Martini. But now even the old bull is close upon the forest, into whose depths the rest of the troop are disappearing, and he, too, is within easy hail of safety. Before Hume can fire again, Joe Granton has put up his sight for 350 yards and aimed full; he draws a deep breath, pulls trigger, and in the next instant the great dark chestnut bull falls prone to the earth, and lies there very still. Never again shall he stalk the pleasant Kalahari forests never again stretch upward that slender neck to pluck the young acacia leafage!“My God, Joe! you’ve killed him,” gasped Hume Wheler.“Bravo!” chimed in Tom Lane, wiping his brow; “whether you fluked him or not, it was a wonderful shot. You’ve got Kate Manning’s tail right enough.”Now Joe, it must be frankly admitted, was not a good shot; either of his friends could give him points in the ordinary way. Here was an extraordinary stroke of luck! Speechless with delight, flushed of face, and streaming with sweat, his eyes still fixed upon the piece of grass where the bull had gone down, he mounted his horse and galloped up. The others followed in more leisurely fashion. Joe was quickly by the side of the great dappled giraffe. Taking off and waving his hat, he turned his face to his friends and gave a loud hurrah. Then, first whipping out his hunting-knife and cutting off the long tail by the root, he sat himself down upon the dead beast’s shoulder to await their coming. At that instant a strange resurrection happened. Whether roused to life again by the sharp severing of its tail, or by a last desperate stirring of nature, the giraffe—not yet dead after all—rose suddenly from its prone position, and, with Joe clinging in utter bewilderment to its long neck, staggered to its stilt-like legs. For another instant the great creature beat the air in its real death-agony, staggered, staggered again, and then, with a crash that shook the earth, fell truly dead. In that terrible fall Joe Granton was hurled upon his head, and, as his comrades rode anxiously up, lay there apparently as void of life as his gigantic quarry. In his hand he still clutched desperately the tail upon which he had so firmly set his mind.From the shock of that fall Joe Granton sustained heavy concussion of the brain, and had to be carried with much care and difficulty back to Tapinyani’s town. Hume Wheler, with infinite solicitude and care, superintended this operation, while Lane stayed out another two days in the veldt and shot three giraffe for the chief and his people. Hume Wheler himself had the satisfaction of bringing down his first and a good many more “camels” at a subsequent period.A fortnight’s careful nursing at Tapinyani’s restored Joe Granton to something like his normal health. In due time the expedition returned, after a tedious and even dangerous trek, to Vryburg.Whether it was, in truth, the coveted giraffe’s tail that settled the business; whether it was the dangerous accident Joe had suffered in her behalf; or whether Kate Manning had not for some time before had a tender corner in her heart for Joe Granton, is scarcely of consequence. Certain it is that, not long after the presentation of the precious trophy, a question that Joe put to Kate was answered in a way that made him extravagantly happy.The members of the Tapinyani syndicate sold their concession very well during a boom in the South African market, and Joe Granton’s share enabled him to set up cattle ranching in handsome fashion. He and his wife live very happily on a large farm given to them as a portion by Mr Manning. Here they have made a very charming home of their own. The great black switch tail of the bull giraffe hangs on the dining-room wall, plain evidence of the curious romance in which it had been involved.Hume Wheler, who, with Tom Lane, occasionally drops in upon them during his periodical trips from the interior, often chaffs his old friends upon that celebrated trophy. “Ah! Mrs Joe,” he says, on one of these occasions, as he takes one of her two youngsters on his knee and looks up at the tail. “Your husband captured you by a magnificent accident. There never was a bigger fluke in this world than when the old fraud knocked over that big ‘camel.’”

At the hour of noon the straggling main street of Vryburg, the village capital of British Bechuanaland, lay bare and shadeless beneath the merciless glare of a February sun. The few straggling saplings in front of the corrugated-iron shanty known as the Criterion Hotel, and a forlorn blue gum-tree here and there in other parts of the place, served but to accentuate the utter nakedness and lack of shade. Notwithstanding the sun’s fierce assault, the air was crisp and nimble, for the plains here lie high—nearly four thousand feet above sea-level. There had been recent rain, and the sea of grass stretching everywhere beyond the village had now assumed a garb of fresh green in lieu of the wearisome pall of pale yellow which for months had masked the red soil. Two Boer horses stood with drooping heads tarrying patiently for their masters, now shopping inside a store on either side of the broad street; and a span of oxen lying and standing on the left hand, waiting for a load to the wagon behind them, were the only indications of life in the centre of the Bechuanaland capital. Beyond and behind these, however, north and south, the two hotels—canteens one might rather call them—at either end of the street showed, by noisy laughter and a gentle flow of humanity, that there the place was alive, and, as was its wont, cheerful.

The click of billiard balls from either inn gave further tone to the somewhat scant air of civilisation.

Lounging in a corner of the Criterion bar were two men equipped in veldt dress of cord breeches and coats, pigskin gaiters, brown boots, spurs, flannel shirts, and broad-brimmed felt hats. They were youngish men—both on the better side of thirty—and looked bronzed, full of health, and hard as nails. Both had come out to the country with Methuen’s Horse, and, after serving in Warren’s expedition, had drifted into the Bechuanaland Border Police, from which they had some time since retired. The elder, darker and taller, Hume Wheler, after a fairly successful public school and university career, and a short and briefless period at the Bar, had found the active and open-air life of the South African interior far more to his liking than two years of weary expectancy in gloomy chambers. In reality a man of action, the languid and somewhat cynical air which he affected in times of quiet greatly belied him. His friend, Joe Granton, shorter and more strongly knit than his fellow, wore habitually a far more cheerful aspect. His broad, bright countenance, clear blue eyes, fair hair and moustache, and transparent openness, combined to render him quickly welcome wherever he appeared. Joe had migrated to South Africa after five years’ experience of a City office. London-bred though he was, his yearnings were irresistibly athletic; and, after mastering the early troubles of horsemanship, he had settled down to veldt life, with its roughs and tumbles, with a zest that never faded.

These two men had been fast friends for years, and were now engaged in an enterprise which, although nominally enwrapped in some air of mystery, was a pretty open secret in Vryburg. The rage for concession-hunting was just now in full blast throughout South Africa. The two comrades, in partnership with two or three other Bechuanalanders, were just on the eve of an expedition into the far recesses of the Kalahari Desert, with the object of securing a concession from a native chief over a vast tract of country in that waterless and unknown wilderness.

As the two adventurers smoked their pipes and now and again refreshed themselves from long tumblers of whisky and soda, their eyes wandered with some impatience towards the open doorway. Their expectancy was at length rewarded. A short, strong figure of a man, middle-aged, brown-bearded, grey-eyed, appeared in the sun blaze outside, and entered the cool shade of the canteen. Tom Lane, the third and most important member of the expedition, was a well-known character in the far interior. Hunter, trader, cattle-dealer, border-fighter, Tom’s experience of the country was unique. Tough as steel, a wonderful veldt-man, none knew the dim and untravelled recesses of the Kalahari as did he. He had penetrated twice before to the kraal of Tapinyani, the Bakalahari chief whose concession they were now hoping to obtain, and the prime weight and direction of the trek thus fell naturally upon his broad and reliable shoulders.

“Well, Tom!” exclaimed Hume Wheler, waking a little from his languor, “here you are at last. Have you fixed up the drivers and men? What’ll you drink—whisky and soda, or beer?”

“Thanks! I’ll have a bottle of beer,” responded Lane cheerfully. “Well, I’ve had a lot of trouble, but I’ve got all the ‘boys’ in, and we’ll start to-night about twelve, as soon as the moon’s up. I see you’ve got all your kits on the wagon, and the stores in. The last of the mealies for the nags came down just as I left Klaas will see them stowed. The tent I’ve fastened on to the buck-rail. By the bye, Manning wants us all to sup at his house this evening before saying good-bye. He’s got the concession papers fixed up by the lawyers for Tapinyani to sign, if the old busterwillsign; and Miss Manning particularly hopes you’ll both come.”

“That’s all right, Tom,” rejoined Joe Granton. “We’ll turn up at seven o’clock. Miss Manning said something about it yesterday when I met her. I’ve got to write some letters after lunch; but you fellows will find me, if you want me, in my bedroom all the afternoon. Well, here’s success to the Tapinyani concession! Santeit! and another thousand a year to us all!”

The three men smiled mutually, clinked their glasses, and drank deep draughts to their undertaking.

That evening the three were gathered at the house of Mr Manning, another member of the concession syndicate, who lived at the top of the town. It was nearly ten o’clock, the last of the business had been discussed, the concession documents handed over, and Kate Manning, the only daughter of the house, was singing some English songs. Now Kate was a very charming, dark-haired, dark-eyed girl, who, although she lived with her father in this remote frontier town, had been educated in Europe, had a very charming manner, and was in no mind to suffer herself to rust dully through existence like some Boermeisje. She took the keenest interest in the expedition, and had known the active members of it for some years past—since she was a child, in fact. There was a friendly rivalry between Wheler and Granton in securing her commands and favours; but hitherto the girl, though she liked these two pleasant, well-set-up fellows well enough, had shown no decided preference for either. Even within the secret recesses of her own heart the balance stood very evenly. Hume Wheler was handsome, refined, a capital talker; Joe Granton’s perennial cheerfulness and unselfish and transparent character counted for much.

The dark-eyed girl, as she finished her song, suddenly turned round upon her audience, and exclaimed, “Oh! before you gentlemen start, there’s one little commission I had almost forgotten. You know, Mr Wheler, you brought some wildebeests’ tails down from ’Mangwato when you were last up-country. Well, they make excellent fly-whisks; but I want something even bigger. There are plenty of giraffe where you’re going, I hear. I want, above all things, a big bull giraffe’s tail. It will make a splendid whisk for Piet when he stands behind the chairs at dinner in hot weather. Now, Mr Granton, now, Mr Wheler, whichever of you first captures and brings me home that treasure shall—shall earn my undying gratitude.”

“By all means, Miss Kate,” answered Wheler gaily. “I haven’t yet shot a ‘camel’—never had the luck to come across one. But you may consider the tail yours; it shall be laid gratefully at your feet.”

“Yes,” chimed in Joe Granton, in a much more serious manner. “You shall have the tail, if I have to ride a ‘camel’ right through to Damaraland to secure it.”

“Don’t you trust to Joe,” laughingly interrupted Wheler; “he can’t hit a haystack, much less a ‘camel’ going full split.I’llbring in the tail, and secure that inestimable treasure, Miss Manning’s undying gratitude.”

“I’m not sure that I shall not have to trust to my old friend Mr Lane, after all,” returned the handsome girl merrily. “I knowhecan kill ‘camel,’ at any rate. However, you have my best wishes in your first hunt. And, Mr Granton, please don’t forget the blue jay feathers (the ‘roller’ is usually called ‘blue jay’ by colonists). I want them badly.”

The conversation now took another turn.

“I forgot to tell you, Tom,” said Mr Manning, addressing Lane, “Puff-adder Brown’s about again. What’s he up to just now, think you? No good, I’ll bet. Kate was out for a ride in the veldt this morning before breakfast, and met him as she came home by the Mafeking Road. The infernal rascal had the impudence to speak to her too, and ask after me in a sneering way. He owes me one over that cattle-running job five years ago, when I wiped his eye, and saved old Van Zyl’s oxen for him.”

“Puff-adder Brown, eh!” answered Tom Lane, with a lift of the eyebrows. “Where can he have sprang from, and what’s he after? I wonder he has the cheek to show his face in Vryburg. I thought he was away in Waterberg somewhere.”

“I can enlighten you,” broke in Joe Granton. “I heard this afternoon. Puff-adder Brown has an extra light wagon outspanned with fourteen good oxen at Jackal’s Pan. He rode into the town late last night to see a pal, and there’s something or other in the wind. What that is, I don’t know. It can’t be cattle-lifting nowadays; those Stellaland luxuries are over. Perhaps it’s a new trading trip. Waterberg’s played out, I fancy, and the Dutchmen don’t much fancy Puff-adder.”

Puff-adder Brown, it may be remarked, was a notorious border character, who, as trader, cattle-stealer, horse-lifter, freebooter, and general ruffian, was well-known. In the Bechuana troubles some years before the man had served as volunteer alternately on either side, sometimes throwing in his lot with the Dutch, at others siding with the natives. In either case, cattle and land plunder had been his prime object. In the quieter times following the British occupation he seldom showed much in Vryburg or Mafeking, judging rightly that his presence was objectionable to most decent men. The man was strong and unscrupulous, a bully, and violent where he dared; and his nickname, “Puff-adder,” had been bestowed upon him from a curious swelling of the neck observable in him in moments of anger.

In half an hour more the last good-byes were said, the farewell stirrup-cups partaken of; the horses were at the door. The three adventurers rode forth into the broad moonlight, and were soon at the outspan, where their wagon stood ready. A little later the oxen were in their yokes, and the trek began.

For the next month the expedition moved steadily north-west into the Kalahari, trekking with infinite toil from one scant pit of water to another. During the first week, small temporary pans of water left by the rains had saved a good deal of hardship; but after that time it was only with the greatest difficulty that a sufficient supply for the oxen and horses could be hit upon in each three or four days of travel. The country, too, was not an easy one. Sometimes they laboured amid heavy calcareous sand, through thick forests of mopani, where the axe had to be constantly at work to make a passage. At others thorny bush obstinately barred the way. Anon they moved across great dazzling plains of long grass, now turning once more to a blinding yellow beneath the too ardent sun. The pleasant groves of dark-green giraffe-acacia, masking a reddish, sandy soil, offered welcome relief now and again; but even here a road had sometimes to be cut, and the toil was long and exhausting.

One evening, just at sundown, at the end of a month, the wagon reached the remains of a shallow pool of rain-water, much fouled by game, and rapidly vanishing by evaporation. The oxen had trekked almost incessantly for two days and nights, and were gaunt and wild with thirst. The noisome mixture of mud and water stank abominably, but the two barrels were empty, and had to be recruited against the journey ahead of them. These filled, the oxen and horses were allowed to drink moderately, leaving a bare supply for the morning before they should move forward again.

Hume Wheler and Joe Granton had come in with the wagon. Lane had ridden forward forty-eight hours since with a Bushman picked up at the last water, with the object of finding a desert fountain far distant in the wilderness, where the next supply of water was to be obtained. Upon the strength of this fountain hinged the safety of the expedition in the last trek of nearly a week—waterless except for this supply—before Tapinyani’s kraal should be reached.

After a poor supper of tough, tinned “bully beef”—they had had no time to shoot game—and a mere sip at the poisonous and well-nigh undrinkable coffee, brewed from the foul water of the pool, Hume Wheler lay by the fire smoking in moody contemplation. The day had been desperately hot, and the work very hard, and even now, as night with her train of stars stepped forth upon the heaven, the air was close and still. Joe Granton had climbed up to the wagon for more tobacco. His cheerful nature was little downcast, even by the trials and worries of the past days; and now, as he filled his pipe, some pleasant remembrance passed through his brain, and in a mellow voice he sang:—

“How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,And dripping with coolness it rose from the well.The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.”

“How ardent I seized it, with hands that were glowing,And quick to the white-pebbled bottom it fell;Then soon with the emblem of truth overflowing,And dripping with coolness it rose from the well.The old oaken bucket, the iron-bound bucket,The moss-covered bucket that hangs in the well.”

As the notes died slowly away upon the still air, Wheler looked up from the fire, and said in a sharp voice, “What in God’s name, Joe, possesses you to sing about moss-grown wells and cool English water, and that sort of thing? It’s bad enough to be enduring the tortures of the damned in this cursed desert, with a thirst on one big enough to drain Windermere, without being reminded of such things. Don’t, old man; don’t!”

“All right, old chap,” cheerily answered Granton. “I’ll drop the ‘Moss-covered Bucket’ and its unpleasant suggestions. I’ll get out my banjo and come down.” Extricating the banjo, he descended, and sat at his friend’s side. They sat smoking by the firelight, exchanging but few words, while Joe twanged softly at his strings.

In half an hour Stephan, the Hottentot driver, came over from the other fire, where the native servants sat.

“I tink, Sieur,” he said, “that Baas Lane will soon be here. I hear something just now.”

Surely enough, in three minutes Tom Lane’s whistle was heard, and, directly after, a Bushman walking by his side, he rode his nearly foundered horse into the strong firelight.

After exchanging greetings, he directed a boy to give the horse some water. “He’s about cooked, poor beast,” he said. “I don’t think he’d have stood up another six hours. Got any coffee?”

They handed him a beakerful. He drank it down with a wry face.

“That’s pretty bad,” he remarked; “but it might be worse. I’ll have another. I’ve touched no drink for eighteen hours, and it was blazing hot to-day. I’ve got bad news, boys, and I’m afraid we’re in a tight place.”

“Why, what devil’s hole are we in now?” queried Wheler. “I thought we were about through the last of our troubles.”

“I’m afraid not, Hume,” replied Lane. “That infernal scoundrel Puff-adder Brown has been ahead of us. Somehow I half suspected some game of the kind. I got it all from a Bakalahari near the water in front. Brown, it seems, with his light wagon, trekked across from Kanya by way of Lubli Pits, and has just pipped us. To make matters secure, he has poisoned the water-pit I’ve just come from with euphorbia branches. I and my nag had a narrow squeak. We were just going to drink last evening when we got there, when this Bushman here—a decent Masarwa he is, too—stopped me, and pointed out the euphorbia. Then I discovered the murderous trick this scoundrel has played us. If he had poisoned the lot of us, I suppose he would have cared not a tinker’s curse; and, in this desert, who would have been the wiser? The water-pit stands in a stony bit of country, and there happen to be a lot of euphorbia growing about, so his job was an easy one. However, we’ll be even with him yet. He’s not far in front, and we may spoil his little game, if we have luck and stick to the ship.”

By the camp-fire that evening the plan of operations was settled. Nearly six days of absolutely waterless travel, if the wagons could by any possibility be dragged, lay between the trekkers and Tapinyani’s kraal. No oxen could pull the wagon waterless over such a journey. It was decided, therefore, after finally watering the animals next morning, to trek steadily for two days, unyoke the oxen, leave the wagon standing in the desert in charge of two of the native boys (to whom would be left a barrel of water, enough, with care, to last them nearly a week), and drive on the oxen as rapidly as possible to Tapinyani’s. Without the encumbrance of the wagon, the last part of the journey might be accomplished in two days, or rather less. Watered, rested, and refreshed at Tapinyani’s kraal, the oxen could then be driven back to fetch in the wagon. This part of the undertaking was to be entrusted to Stephan, the Hottentot driver. Stephan had been picked for the expedition as a thoroughly reliable native, and having traversed the Kalahari before, he would be equal to the emergency. Meanwhile, the three white men, riding their freshest horses, and leading their spare ones, were to push forward, after watering the nags at earliest dawn, in the confident hope of reaching Tapinyani’s kraal in a forced march of thirty-six hours.

At four o’clock upon the second afternoon following this camp-fire council, the three Englishmen rode and led their tired and battered horses into the outskirts of Tapinyani’s kraal, that singular native village, planted by the only considerable permanent water in the immense waste of the Central Kalahari. Tom Lane knew the place, and they passed straight through the straggling collection of beehive-like, circular, grass-thatched huts, until they reached the largekotla, or enclosure, in the centre of the town, where Tapinyani’s own residence stood. Skirting the tall fence of posts and brushwood, they passed by an open entrance into the smooth enclosure of red sand, and then, as they reined in their nags, a curious, and to them intensely interesting scene met their gaze.

Just in front of the chief’s hut was gathered a collection of natives, some nearly naked—save for the middle patch of hide common to Kalahari folk—others clothed about the shoulders in cloaks or karosses of skin—pelts of the hartebeest, and other animals. In the centre of his headmen and councillors—for such they were—seated on a low wagon-chair of rude make, the gift of some wandering trader, was Tapinyani himself, a spare, middle-aged native of Bechuana type, clad in a handsome kaross of the red African lynx. In his hands Tapinyani held a sheet of large foolscap paper, concerning which he seemed to be closely questioning the tall white man standing at his side. This white man, a huge, broad-shouldered, heavily-built person, somewhat fleshy of figure, notable for his florid face and huge black beard, was none other than Puff-adder Brown himself. Bulking in size and stature far above the slim-built Bakalahari people around him, the man stood there in his flannel shirt-sleeves, his great black sunburnt arms bared to the blazing sunshine and crossed upon his chest, his heavy face shadowed by a huge broad-brimmed felt hat, easily dominating the simple assemblage of desert folk. Near to his elbow, in trade clothes, stood his wagon-driver, a dissipated-looking Basuto.

“By George! we’re just in time,” said Lane, as he dismounted with alacrity from his horse, and turned the bridle rein over its head. “Come on, you fellows!”

His companions needed no second word to dismount, and in another second or two they were marching side by side with Lane across thekotlato Tapinyani. Each man carried a sporting rifle, into which, in view of emergency, a cartridge had already been thrust. They were quickly across the forty paces of red sand, and now stood before the astonished group.

“Greeting! Tapinyani,” said Lane, speaking in Sechuana to the chief, as he moved up near to him. “I hope all is well with you and your people. What do you do here with this man,” indicating Brown, “and what is the paper you have in your hands?”

The Chief explained that the paper was a grant of a piece of land which the trader wanted for the purpose of running cattle on.

“How much land?” asked Lane.

“Enough to feed two hundred head of cattle and some goats,” replied the chief.

“And how much are you to receive for this?”

“Six guns, ammunition, and some brandy,” was the answer. “I am glad you have come,” pursued Tapinyani; “I know you well, and you can advise me in this matter.”

He handed the paper to Lane, who, holding up his hand to check a protest on Puff-adder Brown’s part, ran his eye rapidly over the document.

“Just as I thought,” remarked Lane, addressing Tapinyani. “By this paper, if you sign it, you hand over practically the whole of your country, its timber, and any minerals there may be in it, to this man. The thing’s an impudent fraud, and I advise you to have nothing to do with it.” He spoke still in Sechuana, so that all the natives standing round understood him well. Puff-adder Brown, too, who was well versed in native dialects, perfectly comprehended his words.

Under the changed aspect of affairs, the man had seemed half irresolute. He had not expected this sudden appearance after the precautions he had taken, especially at the poisoned pool. But while Lane and the chief had rapidly exchanged words, his gorge had been steadily rising, his face took on a deeper and a darker red, and the great veins of his huge neck swelled in an extraordinary way. Well had he been christened Puff-adder Brown.

“Wait a bit, chief,” he blurted out in the native tongue. “These men are liars, every one of them. Don’t believe them, the swines! There is nothing in that paper you need be afraid to sign. Why, they are after a concession of land themselves.”

“Tapinyani,” rejoined Lane, “let me tell you something more about this man. He is a liar and a scamp, and worse. He cheated your friend, the chief Secheli, years ago. He fought against Mankoroane, and stole a lot of his cattle, and would have stolen his country if the English had not interfered. Take the word of an old friend, and have nothing to do with that paper.”

Puff-adder Brown made a motion as if to strike at the speaker, but Tapinyani just at this instant opening his mouth to speak, he stayed his hand.

“I will not sign the paper to-day,” said the chief. “I will think the matter over again. I will speak with my headmen, and we can meet again to-morrow.”

Puff-adder Brown’s face was ablaze with passion. He saw that his plans were now utterly wrecked, and he glared round upon the assembly as if seeking some object upon which to vent his rage. Probably Lane would have felt his first attack; but, as it happened, Joe Granton, his countenance spread in a broad grin of delight, stood nearest. Upon the instant the enraged man raised his arm, and dealt Joe a heavy back-handed blow in the mouth.

But it so happened that in Joe, Puff-adder Brown had attacked the most doughty opponent just now to be found near the tropic of Capricorn. Cockney though he was, Joe was a well-trained athlete, strong as a horse, and in hard condition. During his five years’ career in the City he had been a great boxer; for two years he had been middle-weight amateur champion; he had forgotten nothing of his smartness; and now, with that blow tingling in every nerve of his body, and the blood trickling from his nether lip, he turned instantly upon the big trader. Almost before the man knew it he had received Joe’s vicious doubled fist upon his right eye with a drive that sent stars and comets whirling before his vision. It was to be a fight, and the two men now faced each other and sparred for an opening.

“Keep back! keep back!” cried Lane.

The astonished Bakalahari people spread out, or rather retreated, into a wide circle, and the battle began.

Now, despite that ugly knock over the eye, Puff-adder Brown rather fancied himself in this affair of fists. He was big and bulky, and three good inches taller than his opponent; he could deal a sledge-hammer stroke now and again, such as had seldom failed to knock out quarrelsome Boer adversaries, and he was very mad.

He went for Joe Granton, therefore, with some alacrity, and lashed out heavily with his long arms and enormous fists. But whether in parrying, at long bowls, or at half-arm fighting, Joe was altogether too good for his adversary. Time after time he planted his blows with those ominous dull thuds upon the trader’s fleshy face; now and again he drove into the big man’s ribs with strokes that made him wince again. In the second bout, it is true, Joe was badly floored by a slinging round-arm drive; but he was quickly on his legs again, and, after a little sparring for wind, none the worse. Few of the Puff-adder’s infuriated hits, indeed, touched the mark. In seven minutes the big freebooter was a sight to behold. Blood streamed from his nose; his eyes were heavily visited; bumps and cuts showed freely upon his streaming countenance; his wind was going.

“Now, old chap,” whispered Hume Wheler to his friend, during a short pause for breath by the combatants, “you’ve done magnificently. You’ve got him on toast! Go in and win. It’s all up with the Puff-adder!”

There was only one more round. Brown was a beaten man, his muscles and wind were gone, and he had been severely punished. He at once closed. In some heavy, half-arm fighting, Joe, still quite fresh, put in some telling work. His fists rattled upon his opponent’s face and about his ribs. Finally, getting in a terrible rib-binder, he deprived his man of what little breath remained to him. The man staggered forward with his head down. Joe delivered one last terrible upper cut, and six feet of battered flesh lay in the dust at his feet, senseless, bleeding, and hopelessly defeated.

Meanwhile the natives had been looking on upon a contest the like of which they had never before seen. Their “ughs!” and ejaculations indicated pretty correctly their astonishment. Chief Tapinyani seemed rather pleased than otherwise. For a mild Bakalahari he was a bit of a fighting man himself—with his native weapons. Under Lane’s directions Puff-adder Brown was carried to his own wagon, and there revived with cold water, washed, and put to rights. After he had, by aid of strong applications of brandy and water somewhat recovered his shattered senses, Lane gave him a little sound advice. He warned him to clear out of the place by next day. He told him that after the vile poisoning incident at the fountain—an attempt which might very well have murdered a whole expedition—any return to British Bechuanaland would result in his instant arrest. And he finally gave him to understand that any act of treachery or revenge would be carefully watched and instantly repelled by force. His advice was taken to heart. During the night the discomfited filibuster trekked from the place, and took himself off to a part of the distant interior, where, to broken and dangerous scoundrels, a career is still open.

During the next few days the wagon and oxen were got safely to the town, and some progress was made in preliminary negotiations for a concession to Lane and his party. Finally, at the close of a week, after the endless discussion and argument so dear to the native African, Tapinyani set his royal mark, duly attested and approved by the headmen and elders of his tribe, to a grant of 300,000 acres of pastoral land—part of that huge and unexplored tract of country over which he hunted and nominally held sway. The considerations for this grant were a yearly payment of 100 pounds, a dozen Martini-Henry rifles with suitable ammunition, a “salted” horse worth 90 pounds, six bottles of French brandy, a suit of store clothes, a case of Eau de Cologne, and a quantity of beads and trinkets. These terms may, to the uninitiated mind, seem not highly advantageous to the native side; yet, measured by the considerations in other and far vaster South African concessions in recent years, and remembering that the land granted was at present waterless, remote, and almost totally unexplored, they were fair and equitable.

This business settled, Tapinyani now turned his thoughts to the trial of his new horse and rifles. He had once possessed an old broken-down nag, bought from a swindling Namaqua Hottentot, and he knew a little of guns and gunnery. But he was unskilled in the use of either. His people badly wanted giraffe hides for making sandals and for barter; the animals were plentiful in the open forests a day or two north of the town; they must have a big hunt forthwith.

Accordingly, the horses having, meanwhile, under the influence of Kaffir corn, plenty of water, and a good rest, recovered some of their lost condition, a day or two later the hunting party sallied forth. Keen Masarwa Bushmen, half famished and dying for a gorge of flesh, trotted before the horsemen as spoorers; while well in the rear a cloud of Tapinyani’s people hovered in the like hope of meat and hides. For a whole day the party rode northward into the desert; they found no giraffe, but spoor was plentiful, and they camped by a tiny limestone fountain with high hopes for the morrow. At earliest streak of dawn they were up and preparing for the chase. Tapinyani was stiff and sore from unaccustomed horse exercise, yet he had plenty of pluck, and, clad in his canary-yellow, brand-new, store suit of cords, climbed gaily to the saddle.

In an hour they were on fresh spoor of “camel”; a troop had fed quite recently through the giraffe-acacia groves; and the whispering Bushmen began to run hot upon the trail. Just as the great red disk of sun shot up clear above the rim of earth, they emerged upon a broad expanse of plain, yellow with long waving grass. Save for an odd camel-thorn tree here and there, it was open for some three miles, until checked again by a dark-green belt of forest. Half a mile away in their front, slouching leisurely across the flat with giant strides, moved a troop of nine tall giraffe—a huge dark-coloured old bull, towering above the rest, four or five big cows, and some two-year-old calves. Well might the hearts of the two younger Englishmen beat faster, and their palates grow dry and parched. Neither had seen giraffes in the wild state before, and here at last was a towering old bull, whose tail, if it could but be secured, would amply satisfy Kate Manning’s commands. Hume Wheler meant killing that giraffe, more, probably, from a feeling of natural rivalry than anything else. Joe Granton had at heart a much deeper interest in the chase. He was in truth in very serious earnest about Kate Manning; the coveted trophy might mean all the world for him.

The four men set their horses going at a sharp gallop, and had run two hundred yards before the tall game had spied them. Here, unluckily, Tapinyani’s horse put its foot in a hole, came down with a crash, and sent its rider flying yards upon the veldt. His loaded rifle, carried, native fashion, at full cock, exploded, and the startled giraffes glancing round saw danger, and instantly broke into their ludicrous rolling gallop. Up and down their long necks flailed the air, in strange machine-like unison with their gait; quickly they were in full flight, going great guns for the shelter of the forest ahead of them. Now the three Englishmen rammed in spurs, set their teeth, and raced their nags at their hardest. To kill “camel” there is only one method. You must run up to them (if you can) at top speed in the first two or three miles of chase, else they will outstay you and escape. Force the giraffe beyond his pace, and he is yours.

But in this instance the dappled giants had too long a start. The ponies were not at their best, and the forest sanctuary lay now only two miles beyond the quarry. Ride as they would, the hunters could not make up their lee-way in the distance. Once in the woodlands the giraffes would have much the best of it. The two clouds of dust raised by pursued and pursuers rose thick upon the clear morning air, and steadily neared the forest fringe. Now the giraffe are only two hundred yards from their sanctuary, the lighter cows, running ahead, rather less. The horsemen are still nearly three hundred yards in rear of the nearest of the troop. “Jump off, lads, and shoot!” roars Tom Lane, as he reins up his nag suddenly, springs off, and puts up his rifle. The other two men instantly follow his example. Two barrels are fired by Lane, but the distance is great, that desperate gallop has made him shaky, and his bullets go wide.

Hume Wheler, quicker down from his horse than his friend, fires next at the old bull, lagging last; he, too, misses clean, and shoves another cartridge into his single sporting Martini. But now even the old bull is close upon the forest, into whose depths the rest of the troop are disappearing, and he, too, is within easy hail of safety. Before Hume can fire again, Joe Granton has put up his sight for 350 yards and aimed full; he draws a deep breath, pulls trigger, and in the next instant the great dark chestnut bull falls prone to the earth, and lies there very still. Never again shall he stalk the pleasant Kalahari forests never again stretch upward that slender neck to pluck the young acacia leafage!

“My God, Joe! you’ve killed him,” gasped Hume Wheler.

“Bravo!” chimed in Tom Lane, wiping his brow; “whether you fluked him or not, it was a wonderful shot. You’ve got Kate Manning’s tail right enough.”

Now Joe, it must be frankly admitted, was not a good shot; either of his friends could give him points in the ordinary way. Here was an extraordinary stroke of luck! Speechless with delight, flushed of face, and streaming with sweat, his eyes still fixed upon the piece of grass where the bull had gone down, he mounted his horse and galloped up. The others followed in more leisurely fashion. Joe was quickly by the side of the great dappled giraffe. Taking off and waving his hat, he turned his face to his friends and gave a loud hurrah. Then, first whipping out his hunting-knife and cutting off the long tail by the root, he sat himself down upon the dead beast’s shoulder to await their coming. At that instant a strange resurrection happened. Whether roused to life again by the sharp severing of its tail, or by a last desperate stirring of nature, the giraffe—not yet dead after all—rose suddenly from its prone position, and, with Joe clinging in utter bewilderment to its long neck, staggered to its stilt-like legs. For another instant the great creature beat the air in its real death-agony, staggered, staggered again, and then, with a crash that shook the earth, fell truly dead. In that terrible fall Joe Granton was hurled upon his head, and, as his comrades rode anxiously up, lay there apparently as void of life as his gigantic quarry. In his hand he still clutched desperately the tail upon which he had so firmly set his mind.

From the shock of that fall Joe Granton sustained heavy concussion of the brain, and had to be carried with much care and difficulty back to Tapinyani’s town. Hume Wheler, with infinite solicitude and care, superintended this operation, while Lane stayed out another two days in the veldt and shot three giraffe for the chief and his people. Hume Wheler himself had the satisfaction of bringing down his first and a good many more “camels” at a subsequent period.

A fortnight’s careful nursing at Tapinyani’s restored Joe Granton to something like his normal health. In due time the expedition returned, after a tedious and even dangerous trek, to Vryburg.

Whether it was, in truth, the coveted giraffe’s tail that settled the business; whether it was the dangerous accident Joe had suffered in her behalf; or whether Kate Manning had not for some time before had a tender corner in her heart for Joe Granton, is scarcely of consequence. Certain it is that, not long after the presentation of the precious trophy, a question that Joe put to Kate was answered in a way that made him extravagantly happy.

The members of the Tapinyani syndicate sold their concession very well during a boom in the South African market, and Joe Granton’s share enabled him to set up cattle ranching in handsome fashion. He and his wife live very happily on a large farm given to them as a portion by Mr Manning. Here they have made a very charming home of their own. The great black switch tail of the bull giraffe hangs on the dining-room wall, plain evidence of the curious romance in which it had been involved.

Hume Wheler, who, with Tom Lane, occasionally drops in upon them during his periodical trips from the interior, often chaffs his old friends upon that celebrated trophy. “Ah! Mrs Joe,” he says, on one of these occasions, as he takes one of her two youngsters on his knee and looks up at the tail. “Your husband captured you by a magnificent accident. There never was a bigger fluke in this world than when the old fraud knocked over that big ‘camel.’”

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