Ernest Glanville (continued 3)

“You are better as you are,” said Frank. “Your weakness has more power over us than if you never winced or wavered.”

Suddenly she stood back and looked at them, laughing low.

“What is it?”

“It has occurred to me, gentlemen, that you are both to remain on the Irene.”

“Yes, madam; but why does that amuse you?” said Frank helplessly.

“And so you have been scheming to have my company. I am sure I am greatly charmed, and would be more if you had not pretended an anxiety for my safety.”

“Pretended, madam!” gasped Webster. “I’ll see the Captain hanged before I leave the Swift. He can sail this old tub himself, so that he takes you with her.”

“Thank you, sir,” she said, with another rippling laugh, “though you might have turned me over to the Captain more gracefully. And you, Mr Hume?”

“We are plain men,” he began stiffly.

“Yes, you are very plain, and very stupid.”

At this unexpected retort the two men fell into a gloomy silence, being too much in earnest and too greatly surprised to laugh.

“Ah, dear,” she said, “that I had one woman with me, then I could laugh, and rage, and weep upon her neck within a minute, and have no ill looks in return. Come, my friends, be not angry.”

She gave each one a hand, and each raised it to his lips, which showed that they could express themselves well in deeds, though not in words.

She placed both hands to her cheeks, and her fine eyes glowed as she looked at them.

“It is the kiss of brave men,” she said in low, thrilling tones; “the pledge of your lives to me. Ah, my friends, I read that little act more clearly than what you could tell me in words, and see, for those who love you, for the mother who has treasured you, in return for the homage the strong and brave pay to woman, I kiss you.”

She leant forward, and pressed her lips to their cheeks in turn.

They stood back and straightened themselves with kindling eyes, feeling as the young knight who has received his spurs.

“Out with all lights!” It was the Captain’s voice, ringing out loud and stern.

There was a breathless pause, followed by a confused murmur of voices.

“Silence, forward, there. Is that you, Mr Dixon?”—a quiet, grave man, whose heart was with his wife and child at home.

“Yes, sir.”

“Get up steam, but be careful with your fire.”

“What can the matter be?” gasped Miss Anstrade, at the sound of men moving quietly from the Irene into the Swift.

Webster, at the first cry from the Captain, had sprung to the bulwark, holding to a wire rope-stay.

“There’s a steamer’s lights away aft. I wonder she has escaped us.”

The Captain’s dark form appeared on the poop.

“Mr Webster, see the fires relit on this ship.”

“Ay, ay, sir. What do you make her out to be?”

“When did you mark her?”

“When you called, sir.”

“Ah! She appeared an hour since, and I judge from her movements and her lights she is a man-of-war, probably the same cruiser which surprised this ship before.”

“Do you think she has seen us?”

“I’m afraid so, though our lights must be very dim, for she altered her course and is bearing down. She may pass us, unless she brings the spars of the Irene against a star. I won’t leave this prize, however, until I am obliged.”

Webster moved off, and the others, including the sailors on board, watched the approaching vessel; while Mr Commins, who could not, of course, see the stranger from the hidden catcher, hurried on board to find out the cause of the commotion.

“You think she is the Brazilian steamer?” he said in a voice of alarm, listening to the explanation. “Curse it! Misfortune dogs us. I wish we were out of this!”

“Speak for yourself,” answered the Captain in a growl.

Mr Commins lingered awhile, and then went off to give the news to Juarez, who received it with a savage laugh.

The red light rapidly approached through the black of the night, and it was evident she would pass very near. The excitement grew rapidly as the news was passed from mouth to mouth in rapid whispers.

“Mr Hume, will you help Miss Anstrade to the Swift; pass the word to the men to get on board, and have them stationed at the guns.”

In a few minutes Captain Pardee was the only man on board the Irene, with the exception of the stokers, who were busily preparing the fires.

To those in the Swift who could see nothing there followed a long and anxious state of suspense, broken at last by the low voice of the Captain speaking from above.

“Mr Hume, stand by to slip the fastenings.”

They held their breath, listening, and to them came the regular beat of engines.

Louder and louder grew the noise, but they could see nothing of the danger, and its imminence seemed to them the nearer. There was a movement in the air, the pulsation of the distant screw affected them so that they believed the Swift itself was throbbing, and presently the Irene leant over towards them gently, and as gently rolled away.

“’Tis the wave from her wake,” muttered the Quartermaster.

The sound of the engines gradually lessened.

The Captain’s figure appeared above. “She has passed,” he said.

There was a rush for the tall sides of the Irene, and presently everyone was staring forward at a green light fast diminishing in the dark, now at its blackest before the dawn.

“Thank God for His mercy,” murmured Miss Anstrade, who had stood near Hume silent and white, though without a sign of fear.

“You may well say that, Miss Laura,” said the Captain.

The green light sunk rapidly, and had almost disappeared, when suddenly a brilliant glare shot up, throwing a sickly light over the group on the poop.

The Captain gave a bound to the side, and next minute there was a hoarse cry as his pistol rang out.

“It is that villain Juarez; send his black soul to hell! Overboard with him!” roared the Captain.

The black-bearded Quartermaster, balancing himself on the rail a moment, sprang to the iron deck below, and next minute there was a howl of mingled fear and rage, followed by a splash.

“Launch the boat, and smother that light with a sail!”

The Captain gnashed his teeth as he glared at the brilliant flare from a life-saving light floating on the quiet waters, and sending forth an appeal to the distant battleship. Mr Commins stood in the catcher near the spot where the slinking figure of Juarez had been shot down, seemingly without power to move, as he looked horror-struck at the dark waters.

Without a second’s delay the boat was launched, and a strip of canvas thrown over the light, when the darkness settled down blacker than before. But the mischief had been done, and sullen looks were directed at the dim speck in the distance.

“Ay, ay, there she comes round,” said the sailor Dick. In the distance a red light replaced the green, but as they watched it suddenly disappeared.

“She has gone,” said Miss Anstrade, with an hysterical sob.

The Captain shook his head.

“She has put out her lights, and will hang about till morning.”

“We’d better slip away, sir,” said Webster.

The Captain lifted his fist, and banged it into his open hand.

“By the Lord,” he growled, “I’ll not leave this ship without a fight for it!”

The Captain, however, gave way so far to the urgent protestations of Miss Anstrade, that he abandoned any idea of placing a crew on board the derelict until daylight revealed whether there was any chance of getting clear away. Fires were kept going on board the Swift, a look-out was stationed on the larger vessel, and the men were sent to their berths. Miss Anstrade retired to snatch an uneasy sleep, and the Captain, leaving Webster and Hume in charge, went also to his cabin, falling almost immediately into a sound sleep. The small hours of the night passed anxiously to the two officers who patrolled the poop of the Irene in silence, listening for any sound that would indicate the whereabouts of the stranger. There was, however, no sign of her presence, and when the intense darkness of the night began to fade before the dawn, a thick, white, low-lying mist wrapped the ship as in an impenetrable cloak.

Webster, to get a view over the mist, if possible, went aloft, his figure soon becoming blurred, and after a long stay, descended rapidly.

“She is near us,” he said in an excited whisper to Hume. “Waken the Captain. We could slip away without being seen.”

Very soon Captain Pardoe climbed on board, and heard what his Lieutenant had to say.

“I should judge her position to be about a mile on the starboard beam, and she is steaming ahead at eight knots. If the mist doesn’t lift we could easily slip her by making a nor’-west course.”

“Which way is the wind? Ah! blowing across to her. She would hear us getting under way. We’ll lie close awhile; but do you, meanwhile, Mr Hume, rouse the crew; see they have a nip to warm them up, and get them to their quarters quickly and in silence. Is all in readiness on board the ship, Mr Webster?”

“Yes, sir—except the crew.”

“I’ll take a look at her myself;” and the Captain went heavily into the rattlins.

There was a movement on the Swift as the men presently went to their stations, and a sound of murmuring voices, followed, presently, by the rush of escaping steam from both vessels as the fires were stirred. A few minutes more, and the stranger would put himself out of hearing. The engineer stood in readiness to set the screw in motion, and men were at hand ready to throw off the lashings which moored the catcher to the Irene. Suddenly, however, the mist began rapidly to melt, showing in an instant almost a wide stretch of grey water.

The Captain reached the deck with a bound, just as the notes of a boatswain’s whistle came faintly over the still waters from beyond the melting mist.

“She has seen us,” said the Captain hoarsely.

As he spoke, there appeared the blurred outline of a big ship, about a mile and a half distant, over the starboard stern, and the next instant she stood out, broadside on, just as she came round, with tall masts, and lofty sides of gleaming white.

“She has caught us, Captain,” said Webster quietly; “and we could easily have got away in the night.”

The Captain turned on his heels with a stormy look on his face, and walked a few steps, when he stood with his eyes bent on the deck. Then he threw his head up, gazed keenly at the cruiser, and when he faced Webster again his mind was made up.

“On board,” he cried, waving his hand to the catcher, and in a moment was on the deck of the smaller ship.

“Madam and men,” he said in his deep tones, “the ship we saw last night is, I fear, a cruiser of the Brazilian navy. She is near us, and if she is an enemy we are in danger. The blame is mine. I should have kept on instead of remaining to save this vessel.”

Miss Anstrade made as though she would speak, but the Captain waved his hand.

“Madam—Miss Laura—no words you could say would add to the regret I feel. But there is no time. I have brought you into this peril, and please God I will deliver you. I want nine men to fight this ship. Who volunteers?”

There was a moment’s pause as the men looked at one another, then the Quartermaster stood out.

“We are all yours, Captain; to the last man.”

“Ay, ay,” came the response.

A dull flush crept into the Captain’s face. “Thank you, men,” he said quietly; “but I want nine only. Quartermaster, select eight. Mr Hume, help Miss Anstrade on board. Mr Webster, take command of the Irene, and make full steam as soon as I engage the cruiser.”

The men lingered reluctantly, and Miss Anstrade, with heaving breast, stood looking at the Captain.

“Quick, Mr Hume,” said the Captain, and at the same moment he took Miss Anstrade by the hand and led her to the ladder. “I am very sorry,” he said; then his hand was seized by a sailor, and all the men in turn wrung his hand as they passed.

He looked round, and saw Webster standing by the engineer.

“Come, Jim, my boy,” he said to the Lieutenant, “it is your duty to save Miss Anstrade.”

Webster moved forward with a strange look in his face.

“Remember Loo,” he said hoarsely, “and let me stay here.”

“It cannot be, my lad. Good-bye, my boy, good-bye, and tell her I did what she would expect me to. Up.” He almost forced Webster to the ladder, then turned.

“Mr Dixon,” he said, and looked at the engineer. “If I could spare you I would, for it’s death before us.”

The engineer smiled softly.

“I am not sorry, Captain,” he said, “for I understand.”

He took one last look round at the wide sea and crimson heavens, then his lips moved, he turned to grasp the Captain’s outstretched hand, and the two men looked into one another’s eyes.

A pale figure of a man slipped out of the door and made furtively for the steps.

“Mr Commins,”—the Captain’s hand was laid upon his arm—“you will stay with me, for your scheming nature and coward heart have brought us to this.”

Mr Commins trembled beneath the gloomy eyes turned upon him, cast one imploring look at the faces above, then, without a word, allowed the Captain to lead him to the cabin door.

The sound of a gun broke with relief upon the strained nerves of the spectators.

“Cut the moorings!”

Silently the men on the Irene cut through the ropes, and the Swift floated free.

There was another sullen report, and a shell tore through the tall rigging of the Irene.

The big, white cruiser, with a cloud of smoke hanging about her sides, was leisurely steaming up about half a mile distant, and there was no question of her nature, nor of the ferocity of her commander, who could ruthlessly open fire for sheer devilment on a defenceless ship, for the Swift was up to the present completely hidden.

What must have been the astonishment of her people when, following their last shot, there broke from the blockade-runner a murmur of cheering as every soul on board cracked his throat in sending up a loud hurrah for the Swift and her gallant crew; and when, immediately afterwards, there shot out from the shadow of the Irene a long, low grey craft. When the hunter, coming upon the dead quarry he had wounded earlier in the day, suddenly discovers, crouching behind, the striped body of the tiger, his feeling of dismay, perhaps, would be the same.

“Captain! Captain!” cried Miss Anstrade, “what are you doing? Ah, heaven, I see it now; may the saints preserve him!” She caught hold of a rope, and stood looking from the catcher to the towering battleship, with its broadside pierced for heavy guns, and its decks crowded with men.

“Oh,” she said, “it is cruel!”

Captain Pardoe stood on the bridge before entering the conning-tower, his glass to his eyes, and his feet braced apart. Then he turned and waved his hand to the Irene, bringing it to his mouth in a trumpet.

“Steam away at full speed, and make for Cape Verde. Good-bye.”

Another cheer, strangely hoarse, broke from the Irene, and was responded to by the men on the catcher, and a moment later the four-inch gun opened fire with a roar. The smaller guns spoke, and the whole five of them flashed out shot after shot, making such a volume of smoke that the low ship was at once completely hidden from those on the Irene.

“My God,” murmured Webster, “why did I not stay with him?”

“Don’t let his sacrifice be in vain,” said Hume, touching Webster on the shoulder. “He will be happier if he knows we can escape.”

“It is terrible, Frank; I cannot give the order. Do so yourself.”

Hume sadly went to the bridge and gave the order for full speed ahead, but the Irene had not gone a mile when, as though by common consent, the steamer slowed down, and everyone on board, even to the stokers, crowded on to the stern poop to watch the unequal battle, letting the steamer drift as she liked.

The cruiser had made not the slightest attempt to stop the Irene, for the storm of shot bursting in a sudden upon her, when she was in the full security of conscious strength, had plunged her into a state of wild confusion. At the first smash and yell of the missiles along her sides and through her tall rigging, there had been a wild rush from her decks as the terrified crew sought shelter from the mysterious enemy, and their panic was increased by the fierce bombardment which the catcher poured in from her five quick-firing guns at the rate of thirty shots a minute. They saw approaching a revolving cloud of smoke, out of which there flashed flames of fire, and the cruiser fairly turned and fled, pouring in a scattering broadside which went wide of the mark.

When the Irene slowed down, the cruiser, about two miles distant, was steaming on a south-west course, and the Swift was turning under cover of her smoke, which hung low on the water. The men on the derelict raised cheer on cheer in a state of great exultation.

“It is magnificent,” said Miss Anstrade, with shining eyes. “Why don’t you cheer, Mr Webster?” and she gave out a ringing cry.

“It is too good to be true,” murmured the Lieutenant, as he anxiously watched the cruiser. “Ah, I feared so. See, he is coming round.”

The stately white ship, making a wide sweep to port, came round, letting go her broadside of six guns and her two heavy bow chasers before she steadied on a course which would bring her very soon opposite the Irene. The water about the Swift was torn up, and she heeled over to the shock.

“She is struck!”

“Good God, she is sinking!”

“No; hurrah! she is righting.”

Miss Anstrade covered her face with her hands, then threw them from her with a passionate gesture, while Webster and Hume stood by with white, set faces.

The Swift had pointed her bows at the cruiser, and was firing now only with her four-inch, at the same time steaming slowly astern, as though waiting for some opening.

The contrast between the combatants was most striking, as the Swift lay broadside on to the Irene, a long, low, grey line on the great waste, while, though further off, the high bows of the cruiser, her lofty decks and towering spars, loomed vast and terrible.

“God’s truth!” cried one sailor, smashing his brawny fist against the bulwarks, in a fury; “it’s wrong; it’s a shame; they’re not matched!”

“Watch him; he’s porting his helm.”

The cruiser was now altering her course, and the water was piled up as she turned a few points to port, bringing her bow chasers to bear on the Swift.

“They’ll rake the Swift fore and aft; sweep her guns away,” muttered Webster, moistening his lips.

“Look! there he goes! God bless the Captain! Hurrah for our mates!”

The Swift suddenly moved ahead, and gaining way from the tremendous power of her engines, leapt towards her huge opponent. That moment the heavy guns roared, but the shells missed their prey by a few feet. As it was the two funnels were sheered off as though they had been cut, and the fragments whirled aloft. Then the catcher’s guns maintained a furious fire as she swept on, but the cruiser, completing her manoeuvre, went round to port, and from her bow to her stern her broadside guns thundered one after the other.

A shudder, a hoarse murmur of grief, ran round the group on the Irene.

Out of the smoke the Swift swept to leeward, rolling heavily. Her long gun had been torn away from its fastenings and thrown across the ship, the shields about the twelve-pounders were battered down, and the brave men who had served them were stretched motionless.

Her guns were silenced. There remained yet her torpedoes, but were there any left to work them?

The cruiser was still going round to bring her port broadside to bear, and it all depended now whether Captain Pardoe could turn the Swift, carry her under the stern of the enemy, and discharge his torpedoes.

But the Swift rolled heavily, and at the moment when she should have turned to starboard her bows went round.

“Her steering gear has been injured,” said Webster, with a groan.

Out of the raffle, forward by the conning-tower, a man appeared, and with a perceptible stagger reeled aft to the wheel, which had escaped uninjured.

“’Tis the Quartermaster,” whispered the men.

From the cruiser’s deck men fired at him, but he reached the wheel, and threw his strength into it.

Then on the shattered portion of the bridge there stood the figure of the Captain. A moment he looked around him, then above his head to the summit of a single bare pole on board there mounted a black ball, and there streamed out the red and blue of the Union Jack!

Both ships came round, the Swift stem on, and the cruiser with her broadside.

The six guns flashed together in one thunderous roar, the Swift seemed to shrink at the shock, her decks were swept, the bridge torn to fragments; then she leapt forward and buried her ram in the body of her great enemy. Through iron and wood the spur of steel forced its way, and the splinters and crash could be heard above the fierce lashings of the screws and the wild cries of the crew.

For a breathless pause the catcher battered at the wound she had made; then she was swept round against the side of the cruiser, and sunk stern foremost. Into the whirlpool made the cruiser dipped her wounded side, her decks came over at first slowly to the weight of rushing water; then, with a mighty smash her masts struck the sea and she turned bottom up; there was a flash of shining copper, and then the waves above her closed, with a rush, and there was nothing but tossing foam to mark where the two antagonists had gone down, almost locked together in their last deadly embrace.

Chapter Fourteen.

“Take me with you.”

The terrible swiftness of the tragedy following upon the fierce combat had left the spectators on the Irene stupefied. They gazed at the tossing waters with startled eyes, and when they withdrew their gaze, and would look at each other, there came between them the vision of falling spars, of people precipitated headlong into the sea, and of a great ship rolling over on them.

Then some of the men sobbed, and some swore.

Webster whispered the name of his sister, and Miss Anstrade seemed to shrink within herself.

Their comrades, those brave hearts, gone, gone in a few minutes, and to save them!

They put about, steamed slowly over the waste of waters, where floated a litter of wreckage, and rescued half a dozen Brazilian sailors. Of Captain Pardoe, or any of his gallant band, there was no trace, and the Irene moved up and down among the wreckage, while those on board searched in vain for a familiar form.

Then Lieutenant Webster steered for the east.

The venture was over. The Irene, battered as she was, could not dare to risk another meeting with a cruiser, and so, sick at heart and indifferent, Webster accepted Hume’s advice and steamed away from Brazil.

As for Miss Anstrade, she went, feeling her way, like one blinded, to the cabin that had been prepared for her, and there sat white and silent, while her dark eyes, glaring with an unnatural light, moved restlessly from object to object. In the afternoon she rushed on deck in a raging fever, and, calling on her brother and Captain Pardoe, would have leapt overboard had not Hume caught her as her hand was on the rigging. He and Webster carried her down, struggling pitifully, and in turns the two of them watched through the night by her side, their sorrow tinged with awe and bitterness, because of their helplessness, at the pathetic ravings of a mind in delirium.

Through the next dreary day they continued their vigil, and the sailors, gathering in groups, added to the gloom of the ship by their distressed air and dark forebodings.

“They knew it,” said they one to another. “No job of that sort, led by a woman, could succeed. It was against Nature, and the ways of the sea. The ship was doomed, and they were doomed, and they wished to God they had gone to their death bravely on the Swift.”

These were not brave words; but superstition has not been driven from the high seas by steam, and once the natural buoyancy of a sailor is steeped in the gloom of ill-luck, there is no brightness in his horizon. The heroism of Captain Pardoe and their comrades, who had courted destruction in the Swift, filled them, moreover, with a bitter feeling of irritation that they themselves should have been spared, and mingled with the dark prevailing tinge of superstition was an impulse of recklessness which, in the absence of any emergency, could find expression only in breaches of discipline. They lolled about in the shadow, seeking relief from the intolerable heat.

The man at the wheel gave a listless eye to the binnacle, and the Irene, battered, dirty, with fires ill-kept, ploughed slowly on, as melancholy, almost, as though she were still a derelict.

Webster took the sun at noon, and, utterly worn out, fell asleep over his reckonings, and so he was found in the afternoon by Hume, who came on deck from a long watch.

“Have I been asleep? There’s a heaviness in the air and a strange weight about my eyelids. How is she, Hume?”

“Quiet now, with the Captain’s boy at the door. Was it a month ago the Swift went down?”

“Only yesterday, Frank. My God! what a difference! The sea is not the same, nor the sky, nor the air we breathe, nor the look of anyone.”

“What an old tub this is, and do you note how the men hang about? I feel as though I cannot breathe freely. I have been thinking of your sister; it is a sad end to her waiting.”

“Ah! poor Loo,” murmured Webster. “Frank, I dare not go home with this story. I cannot. She will say I should have taken the risk myself.”

“Yet his death was worth living for.” Hume moved backward and forward by the chart house, while Webster gloomily looked at his figures. “Webster,” he said earnestly, “do you think there is any hope?”

“For Miss Anstrade? It is terrible that she should have fallen ill—terrible. I could have borne anything almost but that. Without a doctor, without a nurse, left to the bungling of two rough men. It will be worse still when she comes to an understanding of her helplessness.”

“You think she will recover? As I watched her this afternoon there came a transparency into her cheeks, and the crease between her brows melted, leaving a face of great calm, scarcely ruffled by a breath.”

“Sorrow kills slowly, Frank. She will overcome this weakness. Do you remember how she stood on the bridge, scorning danger, when we danced down the river and the Captain was alive?”

“And now!”

“Did you hear her call on her brother in the night? So, I thought, would a spirit call upon its partner sent into the outer darkness. Each cry has taken a year off my life, and my heart is weak now from the pain of it. Do you think that my sister also will call like that? I have been thinking that if a storm laid the ship on her beam ends, and whipped the masts from her, and called on us to fight for our lives, it would be a relief.”

Frank laid his hand gently on the Lieutenant’s shoulder.

“Let us pluck up spirit and face the storm that is in us. I, too, had a spell of despair last night till I thought of Captain Pardoe and Mr Dixon. Then I was ashamed of myself. I can see Dixon’s face now as he smiled before he stepped down to his living tomb. What do you think they would say to us if they saw us making so poor a return for their lives?”

“You are right, my lad,” said Webster slowly. “We must remember our duty to them.”

“And to our Commodore.”

“Ay; God bless her!”

“That’s right,” continued Hume, with assumed cheerfulness. “Now do you make your reckonings, and we’ll stand away for the nearest port.”

“That will be Ascension,” said Webster, after a pause.

They arrived at Ascension on a blazing hot day, and dropped anchor in the blue waters of the little bay, enclosed, not like Funchal, in a setting of green, but by an arid shore, with a waste of sands stretching back to a lofty, sun-baked hill, on which glowed one solitary spot of green. There was the Convent of Sisters, and thither was Miss Anstrade taken in a slow-moving cart.

Hume and Webster returned to the dirty little town, flanked on the inland side by a series of pits sunk in the sand for the habitation of pigs. Here they sadly arranged for the salvage of the Irene, and her crew shipped home on board a Cape steamer, they themselves remaining till Miss Anstrade was pronounced well enough, when they determined to take her passage on the first homeward-bound passenger boat.

Within the patio of the white-walled convent, where the hot air was cooled by swinging mats and the spray of a fountain, Miss Anstrade, within a week of her arrival, was reclining in a long wickerwork chair, with two young men at her side. She had quickly recovered under the tender hands of the sisters, and was now listening to the plans made for her departure for England. She was dressed in white, with a rich red rose for her only ornament, and a deep pallor in her cheeks from her recent illness, her figure, by contrast with the sun-browned men at her side, looking altogether slight and delicate.

“I understand you are not returning to England; what, then, if I may ask, are your intentions? You surely do not mean to remain on this cinder?”

“Do you remember,” said Hume, “what I told you of the Golden Rock?”

“A long time since, was it not? but I remember it well, and the strange feeling of second sight that came upon me, so that it seemed to me I saw the flash and sparkle of the Rock in a savage land. I weaved a romance about it in that time before—before the world changed to me.”

The two men looked inquiringly at each other, for they had found no romance in the thought of the Rock, only a thought of money.

“Everyone,” she continued, in a dreamy voice, “has a Golden Rock somewhere within the sweep of his horizon—a gleaming spot of brightness that fills them in times of depression with hope of better things. But you have not told me.”

“We have talked it over, and Webster has promised to throw in his lot with me, though I am afraid it will be a fearful loss of time to him.”

“This man has no imagination, Miss Anstrade,” said Webster, with a faint smile; “but as for me, I thoroughly believe in this mountain of gold that awaits us, and look upon my fortune as already made.”

“Ah! yes, it is there; and how happy you will be seeking for it, strong in your friendship and confident in your strength, while I—I must go back to the old life, a prey to my thoughts.” She brought her brows together in a frown, and then leant back in her chair with an air of depression.

“I am afraid,” said Frank slowly, “there’s little romance awaiting us, and little pleasure, for the difficulties are great.”

“Still, you will be together, and the joy of companionship compensates. When do you go?”

“By the first opportunity after you sail, Miss Anstrade.”

“So,” she said, with a sob, “you abandon me—leave me to go back alone among strangers, with my memory!”

“We will return with you, madam, if you wish it; but we could be of no further assistance to you, else, be sure, we would not have thought of our plans.”

“But I have money yet, and could equip another ship.”

“Yes, madam; but the war in Brazil is near its end. The news was brought yesterday. The Government has triumphed.”

“Ah!” She let her hands drop in her lap, and looked straight before her. “And what of my father?”

“Colonel de Anstrade lost his life in the attack upon the Castle, whilst gallantly leading a sortie on the Government troops. He died like a soldier.”

There was a long silence. She made a sign of the Cross, but gave way to no storm of weeping, being dulled by the force of grief. Presently a sister stole to her side, and they withdrew, going back to the little town to await the arrival of the steamer from Cape Town, which was reported due within two days.

Before that time, while they thought of returning for the last time to the convent, a cart drew up before the small hotel, and out of it stepped Miss Anstrade herself.

“You see,” she said, with a wan smile, “I have recovered, and since you have not been to call on me, I have come to you.”

“We were just about setting off, having waited for certain information of the steamer. If the good sisters had allowed it, we would have remained near you all the time.”

“Ay, kept watch and watch without the walls; and every night we strolled to the fort to see the distant light on the Convent Tower. If there was anything amiss with you, the sister agreed to show two lights, when we’d have posted off.”

“So you did not forget me, then?” she said, with one of her old radiant smiles.

“No more than the sailor could forget the lone star by which he steers in the dark night.”

“We have your luggage ready, Miss Anstrade,” said Hume, after handing her to a seat on the balcony, “and we are ready to go with you to England.”

“And the Golden Rock?”

“That can wait a few more months.”

“There may be others in search of it. No, you must lose no time, for success will not wait upon your leisure. Remember,” she said, with a despairing gesture, “how delay marred my plan, leaving me without a comfort or a friend in the world.”

“Are not we your friends?” they said, looking earnestly at her.

“Friends of a day—gone to-morrow—forgotten, and forgetting in a week.”

“You may forget,” murmured Frank; “but we will never.”

She looked at them a moment steadily.

“Women do not forget. Their lives are confined by convention, narrowed often by small duties—the memories they have of things outside their usual limit remain with them always. I will not forget—ah! would to Heaven I could rub out the events of the last month!”

“Would you blot us out also?”

“Why not? I cannot—but if I could, why not? You are passing away into fresh scenes and excitements, where your regrets will vanish and your memories be blurred. But what is then left for me?”

“You are young, Miss Anstrade, and it is not meant that youth should suffer.”

“When do you sail?”

“We sail with you to-morrow.”

“I am not going.”

“What!”

“Yes; I will remain here. There is work in the convent yonder for such as would forget.”

“Good God!” said Webster, staring aghast at the face of the beautiful girl who so calmly talked of throwing her life away.

“You cannot mean it,” said Hume, looking at her steadily. “No; it is impossible. It would be cruel.”

“I astonish you, my friends; and yet, if you consider, it is very reasonable, this step of mine. I have talked with the gentle sisters, and found them steeped in a loving patience that knows no fear of the past and allows no dread of the future. Yet some of them gave up more than I do—brothers, sisters, even lovers.”

“It is horrible! And this island, of all places, with a copper heaven above and an earth of iron below.”

“We can’t allow it,” said Webster gruffly.

“Then take me with you,” she said softly, as she bent forward, with a flush in her cheeks; “take me with you—for you have suffered with me; men have sacrificed their lives for you as for me. Ah! take me too; I could not live alone with these memories.”

Chapter Fifteen.

A Quarrel.

So it came that they left behind them the arid rock of Ascension, the murmur of the sea, and all that it spoke to them of tragedy and defeated hopes. They had set out in quest of the Golden Rock, had passed from under the granite walls of Table Mountain, through the vine-clad valleys of the Paarl, up on to the melancholy plateau of the Karroo, crossed the Orange River in the night, sped for a day through the treeless flats of the Free State, and had arrived at Pretoria—a town of strange contrasts, where the low-walled house of the old days stood in the shadow of the lofty modern building, where the slow-moving Boer looked askance at the restless uitlanders—unwelcome visitors from the crowded haunts of Europe.

Before them was the Golden Rock—the “fairy spot,” already glorified by a halo of mystery—the goal of their endeavours, whose brightness lured them on, though they secretly feared it would always elude their grasp; and behind, like a dream vividly remembered, was a vision of a calm sea, and brave men rushing to their death. For them there was no interest in the people around them; but they were observed and discussed with a freedom that did not stick at coarseness.

In the veranda of the principal hotel, after dinner, when the men were smoking over their coffee, and there was no other lady but Miss Anstrade, drinking in the cool of the evening, the conversation grew both free and loud, especially at one corner, where a party of three leant with their backs to a balustrade, and laughed boisterously at each other’s jokes.

“She is an actress,” said one; “I can see that, from the way she manoeuvres her fan.”

“You are wrong, for a fiver. Why, she wears no jewellery!”

“Done with you. I say, Coetzee, step up and ask who she is.”

“Coetzee daren’t do it. Another fiver he does not ask.”

“Stuff, man; you should know better than to dare Coetzee after dinner. Eh, Piet?”

“What is it you say?” asked the third of the noisy group—a tall, powerfully-built young Dutchman. “She looked at me a minute ago, and if it was not an invitation, I’m mistaken in woman.”

“And you know them so well, don’t you?” said the first man, with a sneer.

“None better, although the little barmaid did throw him over for five feet ten of starched collar and eyeglass.”

“You laugh, you skeppsels, but you know well I could take the two of you, one in either hand, and drop you into the street.”

“Oh, yes, you are strong, Piet, as one of your own trek oxen; but all the same, you daren’t speak to that lady.”

“Soh! Look, now!” And Piet, placing his soft hat rakishly on one side, swaggered down the veranda until he faced the group of three, who were calmly oblivious to all around.

“Wie ben u, as ik maj vraa?” said Piet, falling back on his native tongue, as the task revealed unforeseen difficulties under the calm gaze of a pair of magnificent black eyes.

There was a sound of stifled laughter from the corner; but the three people looked past Piet, as though he had not been there, and this disturbed him more than the laughter. He stood shuffling on his big feet a moment, then turned and went back, this time without any swagger, received by an outburst of mocking laughter, which brought a glitter into the eyes of Hume and a flush to Webster’s cheeks, though they both appeared oblivious.

It was not long before Miss Anstrade retired, and then the two friends, rising, went up to the other group.

“Are you men drunk?” said Hume bitterly, “that you behave like blackguards, or is it because you know no better?”

“We are not drunk, sir; but it was a stupid business.”

“Yes, we are sorry.”

“Speak for yourselves!” shouted Piet, “and let me deal with these verdomde uitlanders.” He laid his big hand on Hume’s shoulder, and the next instant there was the sound of a heavy blow, and he was stretched on his back, shaking the veranda, while Hume stood with frowning brows and clenched fist.

“By Jove! that was a clean blow,” said one of Piet’s friends, “and he deserved it.”

“Ay, and so do you,” said Webster sternly.

The two men flushed, then they helped the Dutchman to his feet, and went off with him.

“Frank, shake!”

The two friends shook hands.

“The next time it will be my quarrel. You were too quick for me then.”

“You have to be quick,” said Frank quietly, “when a man like that is about to strike or shoot. Remember that well.”

“I did not think you had it in you to strike such a blow. Do you think there’ll be more trouble?”

“If we remain here there will; but we must get away to-morrow, and place it beyond the power of anyone to annoy Miss Anstrade.”

“Ay, her position is trying. Don’t you think, Frank, we have made a mistake?”

“We have, by all social rules; but surely there can be no harm in friendship.”

“Hang convention and social rules! We have just seen the result of them in the behaviour of these men, who felt themselves at liberty to be impertinent, because she was not the wife or sister of either of us.”

“Even out here in this new land we cannot escape the touch of suspicion, and she feels it deeply. Have you noticed?”

“I have marked a change in her manner lately, as though she had just awakened to the difficulties before her. Shall we ask her to go back?”

“She is very proud, and if we did so she would be deeply humiliated—”

“Well, Frank?”

“I could not bear to lose her.”

“Nor could I.”

They remained for some time silent, looking at the starry heavens, when Hume spoke again.

“We are friends, you and I. When she is with us day by day in the lonely veld we may both of us grow to love her, and how, then, will our friendship bear the strain of rivalry?”

Webster leant forward with a sigh.

“It is best to face the danger,” said Hume, in a low voice.

“I love her already, my lad;” and the sailor threw his head up, with a deep flush in his cheeks. “How could I help it?”

Hume drew in his breath and turned his head away.

“Is that why you came?” he said, with his face still averted.

“Hume, look at me! Ah! you love her also?”

Hume bowed his head.

“And has your love already darkened your heart to me? Lad, you are wrong. God knows I would let nothing come between you and me, still less because of your love for her; but if you are suspicious of me, you have the remedy.”

“And what is that?” asked Hume quickly, suspecting that Webster would offer to draw out.

“Why, marry her now. It is your opportunity. She is distressed, and would see in marriage a way out of the difficulty.”

Hume’s brows cleared; he smiled, and stretched forth his hand.

“No, no,” he said, “that would be taking a mean advantage of her. We know each other’s secret, and let us forget, treating her as our dearest friend, and beloved sister; then when all is done, and she is once more settled, let each do his best to win her.”

“That is fair, Frank; but she is not for me, and I never dreamt she was. You will let nothing come between us.”

“I will try, Jim; but I hope she will leave her fan behind, for the play of it fires my heart.”

“Trust me, I’ll burn it. And she goes with us?”

“Of course; for if she does not, we will never find the Golden Rock, because then neither you nor I would set out to find it.”

The next morning they overhauled their outfit, consisting of a tent waggon, provisions for two months, span of eighteen oxen, and two Kaffir boys—one to drive, the other to lead and look after the oxen.

While engaged packing the provisions in the bed of the waggon to make a level ground for Miss Anstrade’s bed, for this was to be her room, Piet Coetzee, the big Dutchman, with two or three companions, lounged up and criticised the preparations.

“Pay no attention,” whispered Hume; “they want to pick a quarrel, and we would then be locked up to a certainty.”

They went on with their work regardless of the pointed remarks intended for them, and presently Piet and his friends moved off.

“You’ll hear from me again,” said Piet, shaking his fist.

“Did you notice the little dark fellow, Webster?”

“No; but I took the measurement of that mountain of flesh, and by this and that, I’ll put a hitch in his jaw-tackle if ever we meet.”

“Oh, he’s top-heavy—the little fellow is more to be feared. Do you remember the Lieutenant at Madeira?—he was among that group.”

“What! Lieutenant Gobo?”

“The same; and I heard this morning that a party of Portuguese had arrived in Pretoria last week on a political mission. They are in favour with the Government here, and if that little beggar has recognised us, he may play us a trick.”

“Well, then, let us get under way.”

“All right; you remain here by the waggon while I go for Miss Anstrade.”

Before noon the oxen were inspanned, and the waggon moved off. After a “scoff” of ten miles they outspanned, and while they were having their meal under the shade of a canvas awning, or “scherm,” stretched from the top of the tent, two horsemen rode slowly by.

They were Piet Coetzee and Lieutenant Gobo.

Chapter Sixteen.

Suspicions.

As the two horsemen passed over a ridge one of the blacks rose from the fire, stretched himself, and walked off slowly towards the oxen hidden by a cluster of sugar bushes, whose sweet perfume filled the air.

A little folding-table was placed under the canvas “scherm,” tea was made, and the two men waited for Miss Anstrade to appear from the waggon, whither she had retired to change her gown for a travelling-dress. This dress had been on her mind for several days past, in fact, ever since they arrived in Cape Town, and she had suffered extremely because she had not been able to discuss its shape and design with a qualified critic. The sail, falling over the back of the waggon, was drawn aside, a neat boot appeared, then a gaitered leg, and, with a laugh and a jump, she stood before them challenging their opinions.

The two men, not knowing, in their stupidity, what was expected of them, rose stolidly, and made way for her to reach her seat.

“Well,” she said, “what do you think of it?”

Hume took a swift look, which embraced short skirts, a neat waist, and then looked away startled, as though a pair of shapely legs were something quite new.

Webster had no such qualms of mistaken modesty.

“A very sensible dress,” he said, with a broadening smile.

“Sensible, is that all?” and she turned round.

“Yes, sensible and pretty, of course. It gives you freedom to move, and will keep your skirts from getting wet when the dew is on the grass.”

“Will you take a suggestion?” asked Hume.

“Hum,” she said, “I presume you wish me to lengthen the dress?”

“Heaven forbid! No; but I think it would be well if you placed a band of leather round the skirt.”

“Leather; good gracious, why?”

“To prevent the thorns from ripping the dress into rags. The ‘wacht-en-beetje’ thorn will be always calling you to ‘wait a bit.’ Now, come and preside at our first meal in the veld.”

When they were half through, the boy returned to the fire, sat down with his feet to it, and his hands spread out to keep the heat from his face.

Hume rose and touched him on his shoulder.

“Where have you been?”

The boy shrugged his shoulders, and said in Dutch to his companion: “What says the Englishman?”

Hitherto, Hume had not spoken in Dutch, and the Kaffirs were off their guard.

“Get up,” he said sternly, and as the boy did not move at once he jerked him to his feet.

“Yoh!” he exclaimed, with a look of astonishment.

“Now walk;” and Frank pointed to the clump of bushes; and the Kaffir, understanding from the gesture, sullenly went forward.

“What is it?” asked Webster, coming out of the shelter with Miss Anstrade.

“I’m about to teach this fellow a lesson, which he needs, as he is evidently under the impression that we are greenhorns.”

The whole party continued, the black suspicious and sullen, Miss Anstrade and Webster curious, and Hume with his brows knitted. On reaching the bush the Kaffir stopped and pointed to the oxen, which were grazing contentedly.

Hume glanced back to the waggon, took in the direction taken by the two horsemen, then rounded the bush, and walked straight across to a point beyond the ridge which intercepted the road. There he stopped, and catching the black by his arm, directed his attention to hoof-marks in the dust, and the spoor of an in-toed native foot.

“What did you say to the baas?” he asked.

The Kaffir put on an innocent look, covering his mouth with his hand.

“Measure his foot, Jim!”

Webster, who now grasped the situation, lifted the boy’s foot, which was small, though broad at the root of the toes, took the measurement, then passed the string over the spoor on the dust.

“It is his. What does it mean?”

“It means that he has some understanding with those two men, and that he left the waggon to meet them here.”

He then sent the boy for the oxen with orders to bring them in at once, and returned with the others to the waggon to prepare for the next trek, the night trek and the longest, since the oxen worked better than in the heat of the sun.

The waggon driver, Klaas, was still seated at the fire when they got back, and looked at them with a smile, which scarcely succeeded in disguising his anxiety.

“Klaas, get ready to inspan.”

“Inspan, baas, and the night is near by! Better stay here, baas, till sun up. Plenty better stay.”

“It will be better for you to do what I tell you. Here come the oxen; now, look alive!”

Klaas reached out for a coal, cradled it in the palm of his hand, and then deftly fixed it in the bowl of his long native pipe. He then rose and straightened out the trek-tow, the long chain with the eight yokes.

The eighteen oxen were driven up and formed up in a line on the left, when the loops of the rheims were passed over the wide horns, and the couples, in their proper order, pulled over to the other side, when they faced round, each couple to its own yoke. The pole was then fixed on over the necks, the throat-straps being passed round from “skei” notch to “skei” notch. When all were yoked the oxen were standing on the right, sideways, and at the word “Hambaka”—trek—the left ox of each couple had to bear the scraping of the chain as it was pulled over his back.

Miss Anstrade watched the scene with great interest, being particularly impressed with the confident way in which the two Kaffirs handled the big horned oxen.

There is a certain charm about waggon travelling at night, and Miss Anstrade, seated later on inside upon some soft karosses, felt her spirits returning. The place which was to be her bedroom and boudoir for some weeks was not comfortless by any means. Its length was about fifteen feet, the breadth across the canvas roof nearly six feet and the length from the level of the bedding about four feet six inches. From one of the laths there was suspended a lamp; on one side there were numerous canvas pockets for toilet necessaries, etcetera; and on the other a battery of three guns was lashed to the rafters. At the head of the tent the opening was closed by a heavy canvas flap, buttoned down, and kept in place at the bottom by the driver’s box, and at the end there was another flap, which could be rolled up at will.

Hume and Webster were seated at the back with their feet dangling.

“What do you think was the object of those men,” asked Webster, “in speaking to our boy?”

“That is what puzzles me. They may be merely curious about our venture, especially as our presence here would be inexplicable to Lieutenant Gobo, who last saw us hot-bound for Brazil, or they may suspect that we are in search of gold, as prospecting parties are continually setting out. Any way, I do not anticipate trouble from them.”

“You are mistaken,” said Miss Anstrade slowly; “the men of the South do not forget an insult, and you deeply wounded the vanity of the little man at Madeira. You may be sure he has the will to injure you, and if the opportunity is provided he will do so. Why not make the servants confess?”

“At the proper time,” said Frank, who, since the journey had commenced, unconsciously adopted an air of authority. “At present they have a contempt for us, and may betray themselves out of carelessness, if, of course, there is any understanding between them and our friends. And how do you like this slow mode of travelling?”

“I like it well; there is a restfulness in the slow swing of the waggon, and in the stillness of the night, that soothes one. Will the journey be like this all the way?”

“Ah, no, we are in the beaten track now, in a quiet country. The dangers and the difficulties lie beyond the range of the ordinary traveller when we enter the wilderness. Then the loneliness of the slowly passing days and the brooding silence of the nights, broken only by the sudden clamour of wild beasts, will try your patience and fill you with regrets that you should have ventured away from the crowded cities.”

“Sometimes there is pleasure in melancholy, and the wilderness has no terrors for me, no more than it has for the stricken deer that seek the deepest solitudes.”

She took out her violin and played, while the men smoked, and the two Kaffirs, letting the oxen keep on in their way undirected, fell behind, drinking in the music with delight.

Chapter Seventeen.

Missing.

It seemed as though the suspicions about the designs of Groot Piet and Lieutenant Gobo were groundless, as for two weeks they trekked on without an obstacle, though Frank found it necessary to check the growing impertinence of the Kaffirs by knocking Klaas down out of hand one morning, and by flogging the leader with a doubled rheim—a hint which brought about the proper degree of respect due by a native to a white man. They reached the rolling bush country without further incident, and found greater objects of interest in the diversity of animal life.

One evening they drew up on a gentle rise above a river, and found themselves in the neighbourhood of a Boer trek. About thirty tent waggons, gleaming white in the dark, were drawn up in ranks of ten, their desselbooms all pointing to the north, and the space around thronged with troops of cattle and herds of goats and sheep. This was a party of “Doppers,” shifting ground to get away from the vain delights and irritating chatter of the uitlanders, who had invaded the South in the wake of the gold miners. Their austere piety had risen in arms, and they were now in search of a remote spot where their eyes would not be offended by the spectacle of ungodly merriment. Their thin nasal notes as they chanted an evening hymn cut through the air fraught with a spirit of hopeless despondency at the wickedness of all things human; but when the singing was over they allowed their morbid curiosity to draw them to the solitary waggon where one lovely woman, in outlandish costume, sat laughing with two of the despised uitlanders. The men, with their dark sombre faces, drew near to offer the accustomed hand-shake, but the women stood aloof, the younger ones giggling under their linen kapjes, and the elder standing stolidly, their hands folded in their aprons.

“Who are you, and whence do you come, if I may be bold enough to ask?” was the first question of the male spokesman; and when Hume had courteously responded, there was one word spoken, and that was “tabak.” A roll of tobacco was produced, plugs cut off, and shaved against the balls of big thumbs, all scarred with knife cuts and blackened with tobacco. The fragments were solemnly rolled between the broad palms, the pipes filled, and lit with coals from the fire; and the best flavour can only be drawn from tobacco by a wood coal.

Then they squatted down on their heels and stared solemnly, making observations enough to supply them with slow conversations for a week on the frivolous manners of the strangers.

Hume answered all the questions, and then asked for information himself, from which he learnt that they had arrived at a good place for a halt, grass being good and water plentiful, with game in fair numbers a few miles distant from the road. They were told of a vlei five miles off, where some of the large antelopes gathered at sunrise, and getting the direction from the stars, Frank and Webster determined to walk there that night, so as to lose no time.

After leaving a note with Klaas, now her humble slave, for Miss Anstrade, who had retired some time previously to her tent, and after seeing the oxen tied up to the trek-tow, they set off with their guns, guided by the stars. Frank, with his old hunter’s instinct fully revived, walked along through the deepening gloom without a tumble, but Webster damaged his clothing and his skin by repeatedly running into thorn-bushes, whose long, white thorns, curved like the talons of an eagle, laid fast hold of him.

Now and then a startled antelope would bound away, or a porcupine or ant-bear roll grunting across their track, while the notes of plovers and ducks flying overhead broke complainingly on the quiet air, and the far-off barking of dogs at the “Doppers’” camp accentuated the silence. Before morning they saw the faint, ghostly gleam of water below them, and lay down to wait for the first break of day, when they rose to take their bearings, so that they should not miss the route on their return, a catastrophe very likely to happen even to experienced hunters in the bush country. Separating, they each selected a hiding-place by the water, and before long the cracks of their rifles rang out sharply, Hume securing a fine sable antelope, while Webster, over-estimating the size of a buck, which loomed large in the mist, had no luck. After shifting ground, and walking for an hour, they each met with success. Some time was spent in gralloching the quarry, after which a fire was lit; they had a bathe, and then roasted a steak of venison on the glowing coals. Then they covered the bodies with bushes, and picking up their course, returned to the outspan, which they reached at noon.

They stood at the border of the bush struck with dismay and surprise. The open space so crowded the night before was now deserted. A few thin streaks of smoke rose from a number of white ash-heaps, two or three ringed crows croaked and gabbled hoarsely from a withered thorn, but there was no other sign of life.

“Why,” said Webster, tilting his broad hat back, “you’ve made the wrong port.”

Hume walked out into the open, and stood by a heap of ashes.

“This is the spot,” he said; “here are the marks of our scherm poles; and there,” pointing to the dent of a small heel, “is her spoor.”

“Then, where is she?”

Hume pointed to the broad tracks of the waggon-wheels leading north.

“What the devil! then she has moved away. Those swabs of niggers have mutinied and cleared. And we were fools enough to trust them. Thank God, they can’t be far.”

“No, they can’t be far.”

“Then come on, man; with a trail like those wheel-marks before us we can overtake them before dark;” and without more words, Webster strode rapidly on, soon to disappear into the waggon road, which struck into the bush beyond.

Hume, however, stood by the dead fire, resting on his gun as though stupefied, but his keen eyes, ranging over every inch of ground, belied this. So far from being dazed, his faculties were fully alert, and presently he began quartering the ground in widening circles until he reached the edge of the bush, when he stopped under a spreading mimosa and keenly examined the ground beneath. Stooping, he picked up a half-consumed cigarette, and then went at a trot after Webster, whom he met returning in a state of white fury.

“You take it very coolly,” growled Webster, “lingering like this, when every minute is precious. The trail has been blotted out by a thousand hoof-marks, and there is no more sign than a ship makes on the water. Why the devil don’t you suggest something?”

“Look here,” said Hume, holding out the fragment of cigarette.

“This is no time to trifle,” said Webster, eyeing the thing impatiently.

“No Boer smokes cigarettes.”

“Well?”

“Portuguese do.”

“What! Good heavens! Has Gobo taken her off?”

Hume ground his teeth.

“I knew it,” he said; “I knew when those fellows took the trouble to speak to our boys on the sly that there was some devilment afoot, but I thought they had missed their chance of playing some spiteful trick on us and had gone back. They must have had us in view all along until the opportunity offered. Last night their chance came, and they have gone off under cover of the ‘Dopper’ trail.”

“If they are with the ‘Doppers’ we can easily overtake them.”

“No; they would keep ahead of the trek for a mile or so to hide their spoor, then they would fall behind and make off by some side-path or through the veld. Now, you skirt along the left side of the road, keeping watch for any waggon-track turning aside, while I go along the right.”

They went on rapidly, in complete silence, with bent brows, and a fierce eagerness at the thought of soon meting out punishment. The task was not difficult. For the greater part the road passed through thickets of mimosas near enough together to prevent a lumbering waggon from passing; at other parts there were small banks where the ground had been cut into by the heavy wheels, and these would at once have shown signs where a waggon turned off; and, at long intervals only, were stretches of hard, sun-baked ground, on which the track of wheels could only be faintly seen.

Mile after mile they went, kicking up the dust, which stained their clothing red and caked on their hands and faces, until their eyes glared as if from masks. Sometimes they would pause to straighten themselves and to rub their eyes because of the strain upon them, and once Webster gave a shout; but Hume, after one glance at wheel-tracks a week old, went swiftly on, and gradually their shadows lengthened out before them as the sun stood lower and the great heat was tempered by cool breezes.

At last Hume made a sign to Webster, and turned sharply off to the right, along the track of a solitary waggon, and just at dusk they saw the gleam of white, amid a cluster of thorns. Forgetting their weariness, they started off at a run, which did not slacken until they came within a hundred yards, when Hume, with a gasp, drew up.

The waggon was theirs truly; but there was an unusual silence about. No fire shed its welcome light, the sails were down, the oxen were away, and there were no signs of life.

Slowly they went up, with a nameless fear at their hearts, to find the tent empty, and the contents tumbled about and rifled.

Chapter Eighteen.

The Gaika.

The two friends stood a moment gazing blankly at the empty waggon; then Webster clambered in to see if by any chance Miss Anstrade had left a message, while Hume, in the fading light, hunted slowly around for spoor of hoof-marks. Darkness, however, soon closed, and they sat down with their faces in their hands.

“The infernal scoundrels!” muttered Webster, springing up in a moment; “the cowardly hounds! If they had a grudge against us, why could they not have wreaked their spite on us? Is it some mad freak, do you think, of that crack-brained Dutchman?”

Hume was silent.

“Come, Frank,” said Webster, stepping up to his friend, “have you no idea? I am at a loss in the veld; but you, who have been here before, should have some confidence.”

“I made certain she would be with the waggon,” said Hume drearily.

“Let us get a fire alight, and when we have had some food we may hit upon something.”

In a few minutes a bright fire was burning, with a kettle in position. Food was brought out from the locker, and once more they sat down, looking silently at the crackling flames. Gradually the fire burnt away and they were left in darkness.

“Well,” said Webster.

“We have overrun the spoor,” said Hume gloomily.

“Why, here stands the waggon!”

“She never came as far as this. The waggon was brought on here to lead us astray. They met the waggon in the road, and have gone off in a direction opposite to this. They may have circled round, struck the road below the old ‘outspan,’ and returned towards Pretoria.”

“Good heavens! then they may be fifty miles away?”

“Ay, and we are on foot.”

Webster groaned. “What next?”

“There is one hope. It is possible the Dutchman has a house somewhere in these parts, and, if so, we may find her before it is too late.”

“Then let us start. With a lantern it is possible to distinguish hoof-marks in the dust.”

“Come, then,” said Hume, after a quick look round.

The lantern was secured, and they strode off rapidly, Hume whistling.

“For God’s sake, stop that!” growled Webster.

Hume whistled the louder.

Webster gave one fierce look towards his companion, then strode ahead, but presently faced round.

“Look here, Hume,” he cried, “what is the meaning of this?”

“Go on,” said Hume, catching his friend by the arm. “When I went to get the lantern I fancied I saw the figure of a man disappear from the far side of the waggon. It is probably one of our boys returning for more loot; light the lantern now, and keep on down the road, making as much noise as you can, while I lie in wait for him.”

“Don’t let him escape,” said Webster, with great excitement. “Wouldn’t it be better if we both went after him?”

“No; leave him to me.”

Webster went away down the road, swinging his lantern, and making vain attempts to sing, while Hume crouched down to the ground for some minutes before beginning his stealthy advance towards the waggon, whose position he guessed. When at last he caught the faint gleam of the white canvas he slowly circled round, and then stopped to listen. To his great relief he heard someone at work in the waggon, turning over the goods, and carefully he crept forward till he reached the desselboom, where he could hear the exclamations of the man inside as he groped among the packages. The echo of Webster’s song—which had come fitfully—ceased, and the man, clicking his tongue, jumped to the ground, stood listening a moment, then went round to the fire, where he could be heard blowing at a coal. Hume slipped round the waggon, saw a dark figure crouching at the fire, the glow of the coal as he blew on it throwing out his round head, noiselessly stepped forward, then flung himself on the Kaffir, burying his face in the pile of ashes. There was a smothered cry, a fierce struggle, and Hume dragged the man to the desselboom and bound him fast with a rheim.

Then he hollowed his hands and sent a shout ringing through the night to recall Webster, having first satisfied himself that his prisoner was Klaas the driver.

Webster did not delay his return, and it was not long before he ran up, guided by the fire, which Hume had restarted.

“Have you got him?”

“Yes; lashed to the waggon.”

“Thank God for that! Let’s look at him. Ah, you black devil, what have you done with the lady?”

Klaas blinked at the lantern, then sullenly looked away.

Webster drew a sjambok from the side of the waggon, a formidable weapon made from rhinoceros’ hide, and made it whistle through the air.

“Now I’ll make you speak. Where’s the lady?”

Klaas looked at the sjambok, and clicked with his tongue in token of defiance.

“Leave him to me,” interposed Hume quietly. “Of what people are you,” he asked the native; “a Makatese?”

Klaas gave a click.

“A Fingo?”

“Yoh!” he exclaimed, with a flash from his small black eyes.

“Well, then, of what people?”

“A Gaika of the house of Kreli!”

Frank looked at the man steadily, then suddenly spoke in Kaffir.

“You a Gaika; and you come like a dog of a Fingo in the night to rob those who have served you well, after playing the part of a jackal to the men who carried off the lady!”

The Kaffir made a sharp exclamation when he heard Hume speak his own tongue, gave him a swift, startled look, then hung his head.

“Well, Gaika, what do you say before this baas cuts the marks of disgrace upon you with the sjambok?”

The Kaffir lifted his head.

“What did the master say about the lady—the Inkosikasi?”

“I said she had been carried away; but why repeat it, when you helped?”

“It is true, baas, I would have taken one of the things from the waggon—the thing that plays; but I did not know that the lady had been taken.”

“You lie!”

“Yoh!”

“Why did you steal away when we came? Was it not because your heart was black?”

“Because the things had been disturbed by that Makatese boy. Let me speak. When the baas went to shoot there came a white man, with writing, saying we were to inspan and trek, so that the waggon would be near where the baas was shooting. We inspanned, and one white man came along. He said this was the place to outspan. In the morning another white man came with a cart, which drew up over there beyond the thick bush. They said the lady would go with them until you came back. Then I went off with the oxen to the water, and when I came back the cart was gone, and the lady and the white men, also the leader, and the things in the waggon were disturbed. So my heart was afraid, and I went back to the oxen.”

“Is this story true?”

“Eweh, Inkose, it is true.”

Hume took the lantern and went over to the bush, beyond which he found the tracks of a cart.

Returning, he released the Kaffir, and told him to prepare food for himself. He then related to Webster what he had just heard.

Webster was for tying Klaas to the wheel all night, but Hume opposed this.

They snatched a few hours’ needful sleep, and were roused before daybreak by Klaas, whom they had left seated by the fire.

“Ah!” said Webster, as his eye fell upon the Kaffir, “I confess I expected he would have slipped off in the night, and his presence here is hopeful.”

“A Gaika, like us, is a stranger in this country. We have talked to him in his language, and he will stick to us like a burr. We must leave the waggon to its own fate, I suppose?”

“Ay, I could not stay behind. Nor could you.”

“We must trust the Kaffir, then. Klaas!”

“Baas!”

“Bring the oxen near the waggon, and keep watch while we follow the cart.”

Chapter Nineteen.

Found!

They were about to start, when the Kaffir suddenly gave vent to an exclamation, at the same time inclining his head in a listening attitude.

“What is it?” asked Webster.

“Hush!” muttered Hume.

The Kaffir slipped away into the bush on the left, and Hume, with a word to Webster, ran off to the right.

A moment later Webster heard the gallop of a horse, and rushed forward with his rifle cocked, expecting he knew not what. Rapidly the hoof-beats struck sharper through the air, there was a crash of branches, a cry from the Kaffir, and a white horse cleared a bush and drew up. His rider lurched forward, and would have fallen had not Webster leapt forward in time. It was a slight boyish form he took in his arms, but as he was stooping with his burden to the ground he saw the face.

“Laura—Miss Anstrade!” he cried, trembling as he laid her head on his knee.

“Have you stopped the horse?” cried Hume, as he darted up.

Webster held up a hand warningly, and Hume went down on his knees, and the two of them, with white faces, gazed at the insensible figure.

Her short riding-habit was torn to shreds, her hands were scratched and bleeding, and across her white forehead there was an angry red weal. Her hat was gone, and the heavy plaits of her black hair had broken loose from their bindings.

Presently, as they leant over her, half-paralysed by conflicting emotions of joy, fear, and surprise, she opened her eyes, struggled to her feet, and sprang to the side of the horse.

“Laura!” they cried.

“Ah, heavens, it is you. I thought—” She looked round wildly, then fainted dead away.

“Look at her hands, how they have been torn,” and Hume gently pressed his lips to the fingers he held.

“Some water!” cried Webster.

“Yes, you run for the water;” and Hume passed his arm under the graceful head.

Webster looked fiercely across at his friend. “I can support her; you go for the water.”

“Klaas,” cried Hume, “water, quick!”

Klaas, who had been standing near, hurried up with a tin of water, which both young men attempted to take, the result being that the contents were spilled.

“It appears you wish to quarrel,” said Hume.

“No, sir; but it is my right to support her.”

“You are the first to break the contract which you yourself suggested,” said Hume bitterly; then quickly rising, he went to the waggon, to return with a drop of brandy. A little water was scattered on the white brow, and when presently the dark eyes opened again, the cup was held to her lips.

She rose up slowly, and looked long at them.

“Ah,” she said, “you must not leave me again.”

“Take my arm to the waggon,” said Hume tenderly.

“Let me carry you,” whispered Webster as gently.

She looked at her wounded hands and smiled, but when she saw the forlorn condition of her dress her feminine instincts rose in alarm. “Gracious heavens,” she murmured, “what a fright!” and vanished into the shelter of the waggon tent without support from either.

The two friends regarded each other with cold looks, then fell apart without a word.

“Baas,” said Klaas in Kaffir, “here come more horses.”

Hume picked up his double express and ran forward into the bush, while Webster, with gloomy and lowering brow, mounted guard at the waggon.

“Halt!” rang out Hume’s voice.

“Verdomde,” came a startled reply, “what say you?”

“Drop that gun, drop it.” There was the dull sound of the gun falling. “Now, come on slowly.”

Horse and rider advanced into the open space, and Piet Coetzee sat in the saddle, casting uneasy glances about him.

“Dismount,” said Hume sternly.

Slowly the young giant swung himself to the ground, and stood sullenly regarding his enemies under his straight brows.

“Take the horse, Klaas, find the baas’s gun, and keep watch beyond the bush.”

The Kaffir obeyed with a grin.

“Now, Piet Coetzee,” said Hume, with a hard look in his keen blue eyes, and a tightening of his lips, “if you have anything to say why you should not be tied to the waggon-wheel and flogged, say it.”

Coetzee flushed to his eyes, then folded his arms. “I am not a black man, that you should speak of flogging.”

“It is a question of crime, and not of colour.”

“Beware what you do or say,” said Piet threateningly; “if you flog a Boer you will be a dead man before the sun has risen again.”

“Come—have you anything to say?”

“What have I done?”

Hume picked up a rheim, made a running noose, and stepped up to the young Boer.

“I will kill you first!” hissed Piet, doubling his great fist.

“Be quiet,” said Webster; “or I will shoot.”

“Oh, yes; you are two to one, and I am unarmed. Cowards!”

“And you were two to one when you took away the young lady,” said Hume, and he slipped the noose over the broad shoulders and tightened it.

“My God! you will not flog me?”

“I will.”

“But it is a dog’s punishment. It will disgrace me for ever. Shoot me.”

Hume pulled the end of the rheim through the spokes, and pulled on it, then made a hitch. The young Boer placed his foot against the rim, exerted his strength, and snapped the strong hide.

“Now,” he shouted furiously, “I will make you shoot,” and with a bound he seized the pole of the scherm and whirled it round his head.

“What is this?” said a fresh voice, and Miss Anstrade, looking her old self, except for the angry red mark above her forehead, and the wounds on her white hands, stepped forward.

“This is one of the men who carried you away,” said Hume, “and I threatened to flog him unless he could explain.”

“It is not so,” said Piet furiously; “you threatened me first and asked me nothing.”

“Put your guns down,” said Miss Anstrade.

The two friends obeyed.

She walked quietly up to Piet, and took the pole from his hand.

“You are angry,” she said quietly.

“They threatened to flog me—me—a Boer in my own country. Verdomde, when my people hear of it they will whip every uitlander in the place.”

“Perhaps they will ask your forgiveness; and what has brought you here?”

“I followed you,” he said.

“Yes, true, you followed me, and why?”

“Because—because—” He dropped his eyes.

“Because I rode away?”

“Yes, on my horse.”

“It was your horse you wanted, then?”

“Yes—no—it was you, and my horse which had run away with you.”

She laughed. “I see, it was the horse that ran away with me; it was the horse that caused my hands to be torn, it was the horse that came in the night when my friends were away, and carried me off by force.” The smile was on her lips still, but there was such a look of scorn from her eyes that he trembled.

“I do not understand,” he said humbly.

“You know that I was taken from my friends at night, and you must understand, surely, that that was the act of robbers.”

“But he said you wished to escape.”

“Who?”

“That Portuguese Gobo. He told me you were of his country, and that these men were carrying you off into the desert, so that they could benefit from your death without being detected.”

“Is this the truth?”

“I am a Boer,” replied the young Dutchman with some dignity, “and I do not work harm to women. If the Portuguese has made a fool of me I will wring his neck.”

“He is a bad man. These are my friends who have helped me in great danger, and you caused them great suffering in taking me away. You have acted like a child; but it is because I see you have been misled I forgive you.”

She held out her hand, which he took in his, while a flush of manly shame spread over his face.

“Now, my brothers,” she said, with a brilliant smile, “all shake hands.”

Webster held out his hand frankly, but Hume refused.

“What,” she said, “you will not forgive him?”

“No, madam. If he has been the tool of a man more cunning than himself, he has been a willing tool. That mark across your forehead—how did it come there?”

“From the lash of a rebounding branch, as I galloped through the bush.”

“I am very sorry,” said Piet.

“Then go,” shouted Hume, “and thank this lady that you have not got what you deserved.”

“I will remember you,” growled Piet, as he moved off, “and maybe the sjambok you promised me will fall on your own shoulders.”

Hume, with his rifle in his hand, followed the young Boer, and saw him mount and ride away, leading the other horse. On reaching a ridge Piet turned and shook his fist, then suddenly dropping his reins he took a deliberate aim at Hume. A full half-minute he kept the deadly weapon at his shoulder, then, with a laugh, let it drop to the saddle, and disappeared. Hume, who had stood the ordeal with a bitter smile on his mouth, turned back to the camp and met Webster.

“Your friend has gone,” he said.

“Yes,” said Webster, whose face was deadly pale; “I saw his gun drop, and thought he had meant to shoot you.”

“I was wishing he would fire.”

“Frank!” exclaimed Webster.

They looked at each other straight in the eyes, clasped hands, and then walked back together.

Miss Anstrade went to meet them with a smile on her lips and a question in her eyes.

“My poor friends,” she murmured softly, “you have suffered a lot. I see it by your faces.”

“And you?” they said.

“I was confident you would find me if I could not escape.”

“We were just starting off,” said Webster, “after Frank had found the waggon and learnt from Klaas that you had been taken off in a cart.”

“Yes; they managed that very well. They told me there was a young woman lying ill at a farmhouse near, and asked me if I would not go, and they explained that, anticipating my consent, they had brought the waggon to a spot which would be convenient to you and to them. I saw no reason why I should not do a kindness, and after writing a note for you, which they promised to deliver, I was driven off to a cottage some eight or nine miles away. On alighting, I saw for the first time that one of the two men was a Portuguese, and from his mocking air of courtesy my suspicions were aroused. Of course there was no woman in the house, and on being shown into a room I locked the door. They left me there all the morning, but in the afternoon they begged me to come out. The Dutchman then went away, and through a small window I saw him mount a horse and ride away with a number of dogs. The Portuguese then began to threaten, and next to batter at the door. Then he promised me in his generosity much wealth if I would tell him where you were going, and whether it was to find a hidden treasure.”

“The little yellow brute!” growled Webster.

“How terrified you must have been!”

“On the contrary, I was quite cool, and when the door showed signs of giving way I opened it and asked him to enter. He did, with a sudden change to humility, and as he stepped in with his hat in his hand, I—well—I am afraid I knocked him down with a heavy stick.”

“Bravo!” said Webster, laughing, while Hume flashed a swift look at her and saw how rigid were the muscles about her mouth.

“I would have escaped then, but on reaching the door I saw there were some black men seated about a fire. Returning to the room, I bound the man up with some ropes that were in the room, and waited. At night the Dutchman returned and knocked at the door. I said it was all right, whereupon—whereupon he laughed. After a time he slept, but the black men sat round the fire till the grey of dawn. Then I stole out, saddled one of the horses, and was silently moving off when one of the dogs barked; the natives shouted, and I was seized with a mortal terror and fled, and my guardian saint led me to you. That is all.”

The two friends looked at her for some moments in silence, and they recalled the figure of a girl standing on the bridge in the driving spume, unmoved by the shrieking of shells overhead.

They then told her how they had passed the time, and when they had finished, the waggon was inspanned and the journey resumed. As the oxen had well rested, they made this time a long “skoff,” trekking till sundown, when the waggon was drawn up under a wild fig-tree, whose vast branches afforded plenty of shade. Klaas hunted about for some leaves, which he brought to Miss Anstrade to place on her hands. A fire was built, the violin was brought out, and the men sat dreamily as the music floated on the soft air.

The next morning Miss Anstrade stepped from the waggon, holding in her hand a small sporting Martini.

“I wish to learn how to shoot,” she said gravely.

“Good!” said Hume. “It will be as well.”

He showed her the action, and made her snap it from the shoulder. Then she inserted a cartridge.

“Press the butt tightly to the shoulder, bring the left elbow well down, and press with your thumb as you pull the trigger.”

She fired, and then practised at a mark.

Chapter Twenty.

A Mysterious Cry.

For the next fortnight they struggled with the difficulties of the road, and Hume had to call to his aid all his resources in navigating his ship of the desert over boulder-strewn streams, up almost impracticable heights, and down dangerous slopes, wherever the road zig-zagged above yawning precipices. His bared arms grew black under the sun, and by the time the Limpopo was reached he resembled in appearance one of the scattered Boer farmers whom they occasionally surprised in their journey—a man tanned to the colour of his own well-worn corduroys, with a face lined by the drying of the skin, the eyes narrowed through the constant effort to shut out the over-powerful light, and hands bruised, knotted and grimed. In this toilsome trek Webster had to squire Miss Anstrade, and since she dreaded the sight of the oxen straining under the yoke, and would get away from the sharp crack of the long whip, he was thrown much into her company as they walked on ahead for the next outspan. In the loneliness of the slow marches Hume soured rather, and in the evening by the fire it was some time before his silent fit would thaw to the needs of companionship, and the others, having exhausted every topic during the day’s tête-à-tête, made little effort to dispel the gloom. In the veld there are few topics that can outlast a week, and then there is little to fall back upon but the eternal subject of religion, or the ways of nature. Wherever nature is uninteresting and the population is scattered, the mind of man fastens like a limpet on the rock of some verity of the Scriptures, or to the decaying trunk of superstition, and holds on to the end. The Boers in the Transvaal have quarrelled among themselves over their belief, and President Kruger has taken up his rifle in defence of a verse in the Psalms. Our friends had played about on the outskirts of religious controversy about the camp fire; but the men had been firmly checked by Miss Anstrade, who possessed a woman’s unquestioning faith, and latterly they had become abstracted and dull, while Klaas, the Gaika, crooned to himself the legends that hung about the dark kloofs of his own far-distant Amatolas.

“Thank God!” said Hume, as he threw down his whip on the far side of the great river, “we have at last got out of the Transvaal.”

“It seemed to me,” said Miss Anstrade, “that we were going on for ever until the waggon fell to pieces, and we grew too old to see. I have never been so dull in all my life, and am convinced there is a growth of fungus on my brain.”

“And I,” said Webster, looking at his travel-stained clothes, “feel that I am turning into a second Rip Van Winkle.”

“We are like a party of disreputable gipsies,” said Miss Anstrade, with a look at Hume, whose boots were torn, and whose outward appearance was scarcely an improvement on the many-patched garments of Klaas. “Let us get into a new outfit, and do you men act the barber to each other.”

“Before recovering our respectability,” said Hume, “we must overhaul the waggon, grease the axles, repack, mend, and patch up.”

They made a stay there, and the next evening, after several hours of hard work, the camp presented a trim appearance, and the three sat down, quite smartened up, and in good spirits once again, to dine off wild ducks and sand grouse. The map of Old Hume the Hunter was brought out and studied now on the very ground over which he had passed on his adventurous journey, and they found themselves, in their growing excitement, looking away to the south-east, to where the shadowy outlines of lofty mountains showed dark against the sky. Somewhere within that rugged casket lay the treasure that throughout the centuries had remained for them alone, and the flickering light shining upon their faces showed the flush in their cheeks as the thoughts of what its possession would mean flamed in their brains; revealed also the stern look shot from one man at the other, at the second thought that, bound up with that treasure of gold, was that other treasure of a beautiful woman.

“Beyond that mountain,” she said dreamily, in her rich voice, “lies Europe, ambition, power, pleasure, love. I wonder which of these you will follow when the mountains have given up their secret.”

“Give me a house by the sea,” said Webster, “and a wife I love, and who loves me.”

“And the sound of the sea would stir the sailor in you, and one day your wife would be looking at a white speck in the horizon, and you would be walking the bridge again.”

“And she would not grudge me that if she loved me,” he said quietly.

Hume cast a swift look at Webster, whose face had turned white, and he had reached out his hand, for to both of them there came, at that moment, the thought of Captain Pardoe and his betrothed.

“What is it?” she asked, noting the action.

Hume looked at Webster, and then told the story of the lovers who had waited so long.

“But how,” she said, in low tones, “did you know each other’s thoughts?”

The two looked at each other.

“We also are waiting,” said Hume, with a sad smile; but from that moment the shadow of distrust that was coming between them melted before the sympathy revealed by that one chance word.

They talked then, as they had often done before, of Captain Pardoe and the gallant men who went down on the Swift, and planned how they would help the widows and children out of the Golden Rock. And as they talked there came through the darkness a startling cry as of a human soul in agony—so wild, so sudden, that they leant towards each other, and Klaas bolted under the waggon with a cry of “Amapakati!”—“Wizard!”

Again it was repeated, a long quivering cry.

Hume took his rifle from where it stood against the waggon, and, bidding Webster stay, slipped into the darkness. The minutes passed by slowly to those two, standing with bated breath, listening for any cry or token that would break the spell. Ten minutes, twenty minutes, half an hour, went wearily by, and still there was no sign; then Webster shouted, but without response, then fired his rifle.

“I must go after him,” he said.

“And I will go, too. We should not have let him face that terrible darkness alone.”

“I will go alone.”

“No, no, I cannot stay behind. Let me get the lantern,” she said feverishly, and quickly unhitched the lantern from its hook under the canvas “scherm,” at the same time picking up her rifle.

“This way,” said Webster, and they descended rapidly the slope leading to the river, from which there came a rippling noise strangely mysterious in the dark. The shaft of light swept around from left to right over rocks and ant-hills, and nodding bushes, and at every dark object they strained their eyes. Then there came a sound that chilled their blood: the noise of a body falling in the water, followed by a deep groan.