Bertram Mitford (continued 5)

A dark, glistening object was moving above the surface, and well he knew what it represented. It was the dorsal fin of a shark.

As yet it was some little way off, moving slowly, and not coming in his direction. This was something; but as he strained every effort now to reach the derelict it seemed that even that weird refuge was a Heaven-sent one. But it seemed, too, that the hulk was receding from him as fast as he was approaching it. He remembered the captain’s dictum as to the strange action of currents. What if a current were moving it faster than he could move? He looked round. The glistening fin seemed almost stationary, but—it was nearer. Yes; he felt sure it looked larger.

Often from the deck of a ship he had looked down upon the grim monsters of the deep with an interest enhanced by a sense of absolute security. Now, here he was, floating helplessly in their natural element. Small wonder that his whole being should recoil, his flesh creep at the realisation of his utter helplessness.

There was no mistake about it now. The thing was coming straight towards him, and—the hulk was quite twenty yards away. What, too, if there were more of them?

Nearer, nearer, came that cruel glide, and still he could make but slow headway. He would have abandoned the deck-chair, and so got along faster, but for an inspiration that, perhaps, the strange appearance of it might scare the sea-tiger, suggesting possibly to its instinct the idea of a trap. The beast was very near now.

Wagram began splashing mightily, at the same time uttering as loud a shout as he could compass—and that was not very loud. It seemed to answer, though. The gliding triangular fin became motionless; then, as if the great fish had altered its course, it turned broadside on, as though concluding to manoeuvre a little further before closing.

Now the hulk was almost within grasp. Two or three strokes, and the waif was about to seize the taffrail, when he was conscious of a swirl beneath him. Rising from under the keel of the derelict came into view a monstrous shape. It stamped itself upon his brain—the gleaming white belly, the snake-like writhe of the tail, the great open mouth with its rows of awful teeth, and then—those teeth closed with a snap upon the deck-chair, which Wagram had, with rare quickness and presence of mind, thrust down where his legs had been when the rush was made, and, before the sound of the crunching of wood and wicker was stilled, by a mighty effort he had hoisted himself on board the hulk.

It was a near thing. He stood for a moment chest-deep on the submerged main deck, then clambered up to the poop and looked forth. The dark, glistening fin which had first alarmed him was still moving lazily at about the same distance off; but immediately beneath, the fragments of the deck-chair and the lashings and soundings of the monster that had tried to seize him made him vividly realise the awful peril from which he had escaped. It seemed as if the evil beast had indeed bitten off more than it could chew, for it darted to and fro, and sank and rose again in quite an abnormal way, as though seriously uneasy within.

The first feeling produced in Wagram by the sight was one of intense thankfulness, and yet his position was still desperate enough in all conscience. Here he was, on board a waterlogged hulk in mid-ocean without a scrap of food or a drop of water. He had a brandy flask which he had filled and put in his pocket with an eye to emergencies on the occasion of the first alarm, but that was all. Still, he would not by any means abandon hope. The idea uppermost in his mind was less that he had escaped so far than that he had been preserved—and if he had been preserved it was with some good reason. So far, too, he felt neither hunger nor thirst—his immunity from the latter perhaps due to his prolonged submersion. The poop deck was dry—in fact, very dry—and if he wanted to reach the forecastle he had only to wade along the main deck.

He glanced around seaward. The mist had completely disappeared, and from sky-line to sky-line the sea was open—open and blank; not a speck, not a sail. The hope which had sprung up within him that when the mist lifted some or all of the Baleka’s boats might be in sight was dispelled. He was alone.

Turning, he glanced down. Some loose rusty iron lay at his feet, remnants of the old rigging. This he was turning idly over when an object attracted his attention. Stooping, he picked it up. It was a pistol, a five-chambered revolver, but the woodwork of the stock had all but rotted away, and even as he held it something came off it and fell on the deck. Picking this up he examined it, then nearly dropped it again. The thing was of metal, and had come loose from the rotting wood. It, like the rest of the metal, was red with rust; but now, as Wagram stood staring at it, he thought he must be dreaming. It was a nameplate which had been let into the stock of the weapon, and through the rust there stood forth two letters—“E.W.”

Half dazed, he stared at the thing; rubbed his eyes, and stared again. Then he examined the pistol itself. No; there could be no mistake about it. The weapon had belonged to his brother. He ought to know it, if anybody ought, for it had been a present from himself when Everard had first left home years ago, and he himself had specially designed the fashioning of the initials on the nameplate—“E.W.” It was a five-chambered weapon, too, and five-shooters were not so common as six. And now—and now here it was, here it came into his hands again, on board a battered and abandoned hulk which seafaring authority had pronounced to have been afloat in its battered and derelict condition for years. What mystery—what awful mystery of the deep lay behind this?

For long he stood gazing at the relic in his hand. It had been a powerful weapon, one of large and heavy calibre. Did its presence here bear silent witness to an unseen and buried tragedy; to a grim fight for life here on this ghostly craft before she had been abandoned to her endless driftings? What ghastly remnants of such might even then be lying below within her hull, perhaps even of the man to search for whom he had travelled over half the world—sepulchred for ever beneath the water which precluded any further exploration of the fabric? Again, was it for this that he himself had been so wonderfully preserved—that he might light upon this long-forgotten object to serve as a clue in his further search? Who might say?

Now a great drowsiness came over him—the drowsiness of exhaustion—and, almost without knowing it, he sank down upon the deck. One thing he did half instinctively, half mechanically, and well was it for him he did so. That was to divest himself of his coat, and with it shelter his head from the fierce sun rays. Then he fell into a profound sleep—the slumber of exhaustion.

The red sun sank like a great globe in the smoky offing of the tropical sky. The intense heat of the day was about to give place to the dews of night, which, however, served to abate but little of the sultriness; though relief from the burning rays was something to be thankful for, thought those in the boats. But before the rush of night should settle down with its accustomed rapidity an incident was in store for them. A dark object lay outlined against the lurid sky-line. Quickly, eagerly glasses were brought to bear. Those who had not got glasses hung no less eagerly on the result. A ship?

But more than a smothered curse broke from those who saw.

“It’s only that derelict again,” burst from young Ransome, the fourth officer, wearily. “Only that derelict—that damned Red Derelict. We’ve seen enough of her.”

And the boats of the Baleka, with their castaway freight, held on their course, running before a light breeze which had sprung up with sunset, leaving behind them the Red Derelict with its one human passenger—the missing one from among themselves who had thrown away his own life to save that of a child who was already safe. And he lay, still fast asleep, with his coat over his head, drifting away with the grim hulk—away, away, over the pathless plain of the vast lonely sea.

Chapter Twenty Nine.

A Break-up at Bassingham.

We have hinted that Wagram’s departure on his self-imposed quest had taken place quite quietly; nevertheless, after it he was very greatly missed, by none more so, perhaps, than the Haldanes. To Haldane, indeed, he had confided some inkling of his strange mission—not the whole of it—but had bound him to secrecy: for the benefit of the neighbourhood at large, certain family and business matters had necessitated the undertaking, and with this the neighbourhood must perforce rest content. Then, as time wore on, and nearly each few and far between letter, instead of announcing the wanderer’s early return, only notified a fresh start farther afield and in a contrary direction, Haldane grew puzzled.

“Confound the fellow! Why the deuce can’t he come back instead of wasting time and energy over some wild-goose chase?” he would say on such occasions. “It isn’t that he’s fond of travel, and all that sort of thing. I believe at bottom he hates it.”

“I’m sure he does, father,” chimed in Yvonne. “Every day away from Hilversea is a day not lived, according to him. And the place looks so dismal all shut up. I vote we go away for a change ourselves.”

“Wrong time, Sunbeam. The weather’s exceptionally beastly abroad, from what the papers say. And the Continent in vile weather is—well, unfit for publication.”

“I’d have liked to take Delia Calmour with us,” went on the girl. “She’s so companionable and intelligent, and takes such interest in everything; never talks the silly idiotic bosh most girls do. She’d have enjoyed it so much, too.”

“Poor girl!” said Haldane. “It’s a thousand pities she’s so confoundedly handicapped. She’ll never get a show now on the strength of those awful relatives. Yes; it’s a thousand pities.”

In saying that the absent Squire of Hilversea was missed by none more than by the Haldanes we should have recorded an exception, and it was named Delia Calmour. To her it seemed that the light of day had gone out. And yet, why? It had been seldom enough she had seen him of late before his departure; and even on such occasions, a little ordinary conversation in his quiet genial way. That was all. And yet—and yet—the girl would cheerfully have yielded up life itself to have heard once more the sound of his voice in just one of those ordinary conversations. To such a pass had things come.

But she kept her own counsel heroically. Never by word or look did she betray herself. Even Clytie was puzzled. She had read through her up to a certain point, but had failed to credit her sister with the secretiveness and self-control to the highest point of which the latter had nearly attained. So she was puzzled.

To her dying day Delia would never forget the announcement of that departure. It had been made to her one Sunday when she had cycled over to Hilversea by Wagram himself, in his pleasant easy manner, and she had received it with a frank natural regret, that came from her well. Not all at once did she realise that she had received a blow between the eyes.

“Be missed?” he had repeated, echoing her words. “Well, I am selfish enough to hope I shall be missed a little. One thing is certain: I sha’n’t stop away any longer than I can help. I’m not going for fun, anyhow.”

Then he had invited her in for lunch. The Haldanes were there, and Father Gayle, and on this occasion four or five other people; in fact, it was a sort of “send-off” affair, for he was to start early on the following morning.

“I shan’t stay away any longer than I can help,” had been the words, uttered in an easy natural way. Yet he who uttered them knew that in the event of his quest proving successful he would stay away—for ever. But there he sat, chatting with his guests easily, smilingly, as though his very heart were not half broken over the thought of what was about to pass away from him and his for ever. And the girl? She too was chatting, outwardly light-hearted, with her immediate neighbours, or joining in the general conversation, and the while she, too, in her innermost heart was thinking what an awful blank this man’s departure would leave in her life; in it, moreover, as long as it should last. Here was an instance of the extraordinary freaks which may run through life’s tragedies. Who would have thought of the ghastly canker which lay behind Wagram’s easy gaiety? Who would have guessed at the yearning ache which underlay Delia Calmour’s ready conversational flow?

“Who is that Miss Calmour?” one of the guests had remarked to Yvonne after they had left the table. “Such a pretty girl, and talks so well and brightly. So nice-mannered and refined. Does she belong to this neighbourhood?”

And Yvonne had replied evasively, though not seeming to do so, that she did, and that she was all the other had said; that the dear old Squire had taken to her wonderfully shortly before his death, and that she herself had grown very fond of her. Then she let drop that Delia was a recent convert, which at once prepossessed the inquirer in her favour, as she intended it should.

The acquaintance of the two girls had grown into friendship, then intimacy, the difference between their ages and bringing up notwithstanding. It had still further brought out all that was good in Delia; and what was good in the eldest daughter of disreputable, tippling old Calmour was, strange to say, very good indeed; and, as is not infrequently the case, a certain amount of knowledge of the seamier side of life rendered her all the more safe and useful a companion to the younger girl, every day of whose existence had been spent in sunshine. She had the tact not to push her standpoint unduly—indeed, more than once Yvonne wanted to half quarrel with her because she would hardly ever come over to see them without a distinct invitation. But when she did come she always entered so thoroughly into the child’s studies and pursuits—painting or music, or whatever it might be, especially the latter, and the organ in the chapel at Hilversea underwent a good deal of work in those days, for the girls would delight to cycle over, and enjoy a long quiet practice all to themselves. Frequently Haldane would make the third of the party, for he had a fine voice, and was fond of music.

Then Wagram had gone, announcing his departure suddenly; and the only mitigating gleam of sunshine which flashed into Delia’s life was on occasions when she was over at the Haldanes and they talked about him. This they did pretty frequently, and the burden of their remarks ought to have rendered the absent man uncomfortably conceited could he have heard them.

The two boys, too, when home for the holidays, for Gerard always spent his at Haldane’s now his home was shut up, took to her wonderfully. She would enter into all their interests and school experiences as though she were an elder sister, and was full of life and fun when and wherever they were concerned.

“That Miss Calmour is a jolly girl, Yvonne,” Gerard would pronounce. “No humbug or bosh about her. No; and she never lectures us either, as some people do. I say, get her here a lot before we go back; she’s no end fun.”

And Reggie would duly second the proposal. Delia had, in fact, won both their hearts, but the one nearest to her own was Gerard. She would, too, subtly get him to talk about his father, but not too often.

“You know, Miss Calmour,” he said on one occasion, “people don’t half understand the pater. They think him no end cold and stand-offish and all that, but I can tell you he isn’t. Why, what d’you think? I was asked once if I weren’t awfully afraid of him. Fancy that! Did you ever hear such bosh?”

“Bosh, indeed, Gerard.”

“Rather. They seem to think that because he isn’t always talking at the top of his voice, and laying down the law, and all that sort of thing, that he’s stiff and starched. Is he, though! I can tell you there’s no one I can more jolly well get on with—and would rather be with—not even among any of the fellows at school. I wish he’d come back, don’t you?”

“Of course. I should think everybody who knew Mr Wagram would wish that. You miss him a lot, then?”

“Rather. I’m having a ripping time here, of course—always do have—but I miss the dear old pater no end. I don’t see any too much of him as it is.” And the boy had turned away his head to hide the tears that had welled to his eyes.

It was all Delia could do to keep herself from following suit, but she did, with an effort.

“Your father is one of the best and noblest men that ever lived, Gerard,” she answered. “It is a privilege to have known him.”

There were times when she would take herself to task. What right had she to indulge in such feelings? Ought she not rather to crush them? Yet why? Their influence upon her was wholly for good, never for evil. Were her days dark—what would he have had her do? This she thought she knew, and did it accordingly. He had known dark days himself, she had gathered in course of some of their conversations, very dark days, yet look at him now—a man ideally perfect in her adoring estimation. Yes; it was good for her this obsession—doubly good. If she had passed through the fire it was a refining one.

And, strange to say, the helping hand of the absent man seemed stretched over her still. From several quarters came in orders for newspaper work akin to her illustrated venture at Hilversea Court, for articles descriptive of country life and scenery. Clytie, too, found herself receiving almost more typing orders than she could execute. The joint income of Siege House was beginning to look up.

“By Jove, but Wagram is a good chap!” exclaimed Clytie one day with characteristic outspokenness. “This is all his doing, of course. I tell you what it is, Delia, if you don’t bring off my scheme within a reasonable time of his return I’m blest if I don’t cut in myself.”

“Why do you think it’s his doing, Clytie?” had been the answer, ignoring the last threat.

“It wasn’t for nothing he came down here pumping us that day. Well, he is one in a good many thousands, as I shall tell him some day when he’s my bro—”

“Oh, shut up, Clytie. You know I hate that sort of chaff,” interrupted Delia testily, for the remark jarred upon her hideously.

“Right oh!” cried the other, with a good-humoured laugh. “Keep your hair on, dear. You can, too, for it’s all your own, and a jolly good lot of it too—that’s where you dark ones score over us—though I don’t come far behind. Let’s shut up shop now and go for a bike ride. We shall skim over these frost-bound roads; only we’ll get jolly red noses. We can ride to Fulkston, and back through Hilversea—and adore the empty Court in the distance,” she added slyly.

They made an attractive pair as they skimmed along, both sitting gracefully and well; the serene classical features of the one, and the more rich and sparkling brunette beauty of the other, together with the well-formed, graceful figures of both, constituted a picture which caused more than one male head to come round in admiration as its owner half halted.

“The Calmour girls! oh yes, pretty—devilish pretty—but—” constituting the comment, either uttered or thought. But the fourteen-mile ride out, and rather more back, added to the glow of health which mantled each very attractive face.

“There’s the old Court, all shut up,” commented Clytie as the pile rose clear against its background of now naked trees in the bright frosty moonlight. “What a sin to own a place like that and leave it shut up. I wouldn’t.”

“Wouldn’t you! You’d vote it slow in a month, and start off for town, if I know anything of you,” answered Delia, starting out of a brown study; for they were just passing the very point in the road where Wagram had surprised her while having her fortune told by the gipsy. A little farther, and they came to the scene of the gnu incident. There was the white gate gleaming in the moonlight; but the slumbrous wealth of foliage had given place to bare boughs, forming a frosted network against the winter sky. And with that day there came back to her another—a golden, glowing August day—that Sunday, the last long day of interrupted sunshine—when they had surprised the mysterious stranger and trespasser. Somehow from that day the rising of the cloud had seemed to date, but of this she said nothing to Clytie.

On arrival home they were met by Bob, looking more than scared.

“About time you came,” he grunted. “Don’t know what’s up with the old man.”

“Oh dear. The usual thing,” said Delia, not scornful now, for she had undergone something of a change in every way.

“No, it isn’t,” returned Bob quickly. “He’s not ‘fresh’ this time, but he’s devilish queer.”

Old Calmour was lying on the sofa, breathing stertorously, and looking, as Bob had said, “devilish queer.”

“Get on your bike, Bob, and go and fetch Thorpe,” commanded Clytie the capable, at the same time loosening her father’s shirt collar.

“Can’t; it’s punctured.”

“Take mine, then. Only—go.”

“Good Lord, Clytie! But it’s not serious, eh?”

“Go—d’you hear, you jackass,” she repeated, with a stamp of the foot. “And bring him back with you. None of his—‘look round directly.’ Bring him back with you.”

The old man lay, staring up at them, his red and bloated face showing no sign of recognition; and on the prompt arrival of the doctor they were not long in learning that it never would again, for in less than an hour old Calmour was dead. Stroke, greatly accelerated by intemperate habits, was the medical verdict.

“What’s to be done now, Delia?” remarked Clytie a day or two after the funeral, while she and her sister were holding a serious council of war—or rather of ways and means. “What the very devil is to be done? We can’t go on running Siege House at our rates of pay, and the poor old dad didn’t leave a cent.”

This was a fact. The sale of the furniture would not put them in funds to any great extent. Old Calmour’s pension had died with him, and there were three boys to keep at school. Well, this, of course, was out of the question. Bob would have to live on the by no means princely salary he received from Pownall and Skreet, and very blue did the said Bob look over the prospect. One thing was certain: the household would have to be broken up.

The funeral, as may be imagined, had not been largely attended; in fact, except the dead man’s family, hardly anybody had been present One of these exceptions had been Haldane, and the circumstances had appealed to the girls with a very real sense of appreciation.

“I expect he turned up on your account, Delia,” Clytie had remarked. “But it was brickish of him, all the same. By the way, I suppose there’s a sort of freemasonry among your people. If you hadn’t joined them he wouldn’t have shown up.”

“I don’t know about that; it may have been on account of our acquaintance. But it was just the sort of thing Mr Haldane would do,” answered Delia.

Incidentally, we may remark that, whatever the motive, it was not the last thing that Haldane did for this unfortunate family, now reduced to real straits, after it had been decided to give up Bassingham and remove to the metropolis—that universal, and frequently illusory, refuge for those who “have their way to make.”

Chapter Thirty.

Concerning a Terror.

A dark, comparatively cool, and restful retreat—a blaze of outside sunshine glimpsed through the aperture of a low doorway. A sense of awaking to yet another phase of passage through the shades; of a weird kaleidoscopic phantasmagoria which represents a wholly or partially suspended consciousness of days or even weeks; of the stirred, uneasy rest of supposed death—such were the first gropings of the mind of him who lay there.

Where was he? A recollection of the battered hulk, heaving to the oily swell; of hunger and thirst—especially thirst; of a furious sun pouring its rays down upon him in molten streams; of a fierce, maddening desire for shade—almost equal to that for cool, liquid drink; for blessed shade, to shut out, if even for one moment, that awful blinding glare—these were the recollections that came upon his mind with the first glimmerings of returning consciousness.

Others followed—a sense of movement, of being borne helplessly onward, through mysterious tracts, to the accompaniment of strange, mysterious voices, and glimpses of weird, dark shapes. Then oblivion—again to be followed by fitful awakenings—but ever to sink again into the same lethargy, the same utter indifference to all things that ever had been, that ever would be—in short, to life itself. And now—and now—Where was he?

He stared upward. A large cockroach dropped from the palmetto ceiling, and scurried away, almost over his face; but he heeded it not. He stared around. The circular wall of the place was uneven and rough. As his eyes grew accustomed to the light, or rather the gloom, he made out that it was the interior of a large hut constructed of grass and withes. Two poles supported the centre, and on these were hung sundry implements of fantastic make and appearance—such as he had seen in museums and private collections representing barbaric trophies of far-off lands. A hum of voices—utterly unintelligible—came from without; and there was that in the very tones which savoured of the scarcely human—at any rate to one whose lines had been cast hitherto exclusively within those of civilisation.

He tried to rise, tottered, and then fell back. He was very weak, far too weak to rise unaided. Things grew dizzy around him. Then the sun strip which cut the gloom was darkened. Somebody had entered; and then he became aware of the presence of two beings—black, and of ferocious aspect, with wool standing out from their heads in stiff, rolled-out spikes, and the white of their eyeballs glistened when the ray of light coming in through the low doorway fell upon it. They bent over him; and having peered into his face for a moment one of them raised his head with no gentle touch, while the other put a calabash to his lips and poured its contents into his mouth. This at any rate was not an unacceptable operation. The stuff was cool, and had a combination of sweet and acid taste. What it was he had no notion, but he drank gratefully.

“That’s good,” he ejaculated faintly.

For answer they uttered a clucking sound, and grinned; but the grin was not a genial one—it was hideous, ghastly, showing rows of filed teeth. It reminded him of the shark which had risen to seize him, and had seized the deck-chair instead. As they stood over him, watching him, he took them in—their appearance, their demeanour, their stature. The latter was tall and muscular. For the rest, they looked a pair of about the most ferocious and bloodthirsty savages the imagination could by any possibility conjure up. And yet—they had just been engaged in a distinct work of mercy.

Wagram’s brain power began to return. How he had got off—or been got off—the derelict he had not the faintest conception; but obviously he had, since here he was. Then came back to him the captain’s pronouncement as to what would happen to anybody unfortunate enough to be stranded on the coast they were then off. “We’d very likely be eaten,” had been the dictum. So this “work of mercy” was, in reality, nothing of the sort. It was equivalent to that of doctoring an ailing ox or sheep. He was being brought back into fitting condition for butchery. He was to supply the material for a cannibal feast. And these two ruffians looked the part—every inch.

They had squatted down on the floor, and were watching him, keeping up the while a subdued conversation in a kind of guttural hum. One carried a formidable-looking native axe, and both had big, broad-bladed knives, with a curious crook inward, on the edge side, towards the point. The demoniacal aspect of the pair—the hungry expression of their revolting countenances, as they sat like a pair of evil beasts watching their expected prey—was too much for Wagram’s nerves, all defenceless as he was, and absolutely in their power. He tried asking them questions, but, of course, they did not understand one word he said. They did not even shake their heads, but sat staring at him as before. So he gave it up, and made signs that he wanted to go to sleep. This seemed intelligible, and they rose, and with an evil, snarling chuckle left the place.

This was a relief at any rate. Where was he? speculated the castaway. Where was he, and how far from the sea-coast? What would be his fate—alone, unarmed, helpless, in the power of such as these? Even if he were not to be butchered immediately—all sorts of visions rose before his mind, of lifelong slavery in the interior, or figuring prominently in some ghastly and hideous human sacrifice on a gigantic scale. Heaven help him! And then Heaven did help him to this extent. Whether due to the effects of the potion that had been administered to him, or to the weakness following upon all that he had gone through, a lassitude came over him, and, forgetful of surroundings—of present or future peril—he fell fast asleep.

While he slept, in another part of the native town things were happening. The two who had entered the hut were haranguing others of their kind—all of similarly hideous aspect; but, on the other hand, it might have been observed that this race, whatever it was, Nature had exceptionally favoured in thews and stature. Low howls, and beast-like, of savage delight greeted the words, echoed more shrilly by women hanging on to the outskirts of the gathering. These began to produce knives and examine the edges; then the whole rout moved with one consent towards a hut rather larger and more important-looking than the rest on the outskirts of the town. Into this one of the number entered—one of the two, it may be remarked, who had just come away from “tending” Wagram on his awaking to consciousness.

But if he entered he could not have remained there long, and his method of egress must have been artificially hastened, for in a moment he shot forth again, half stumbling, half running. Behind him, beneath the low verandah, now appeared another man.

From this man’s lips there rolled forth thick and fast a very torrent of imprecation, and that in about six of the different dialects understood in those parts. Anyhow, it was intelligible to these, for they shrank back for the moment quiet and abashed. And, in truth, this was not without justification, for there was something in the man’s aspect that was absolutely terrific as he stood there confronting the savage mob with the aspect of a slave-master, whip in hand, standing over a mob of cowering slaves. Yet these were not cowering, far from it. He was very tall and athletic. His face, strong and hawk-like, half covered by a heavy beard, was working with passion; but it was in his eyes, bright and piercing beneath the shaggy brows, that the charm seemed to lie. They were absolutely snake-like in their flash of demoniacal cruelty—eyes of one who delighted to look upon all that against which human nature revolts; eyes that, when moved to wrath, blasted; eyes of a very fiend, in short. Yet among those who crowded before him were eyes every whit as cruel, among those before him were frames every whit as sinewy and athletic—and all these were armed, and he to all appearance was not. But—he was a white man.

They stood sullenly while he invoked every mysterious and terrible imprecation of sorcery upon themselves and their fathers and mothers, upon their children unto the third and fourth generations—dooming them to awful and mysterious forms of dissolution for daring to invade his privacy and disturb his rest. They waited through it all; for quite a new and unwonted form of hideous enjoyment lay now before them. Then their clamour broke forth afresh.

This white stranger they had taken from the water, whom they had borne carefully over this weary distance in order to bring to life again. He was alive again, and could see and hear and talk. Him now they must have. The feast to which they had been looking forward must now begin.

And the ghastly proposal was confirmed with a roar, whose vibrating savagery was sufficient to have appalled the most iron-nerved who should set himself to withstand this clamouring of fiends.

This one, however, must have been iron-nerved beyond the ordinary, for he did set himself to withstand it and that deliberately. He laughed—an evil, sneering, yet wholly mirthful laugh. What? Did they not know him yet, to think that they were in a position to come and lay commands upon him? Upon him? The stranger was not to be touched—for the present; no, not until he should give the word—and death should fall upon whoever laid a hand upon him; yes, and upon the whole town for that matter.

They hesitated. Perhaps the qualification “for the present” may have had something to do with determining their attitude. It was only a joy postponed, then. But their awful appetites had been whetted, and needed some appeasing. A murmur—soon growing to a shout—arose among the group. Atonement ought to be made for the feast they were not to have. He who refused it to them had plenty of slaves; he would give them one of them. And then they named one of his favourite female slaves.

He, for answer, looked at them, and laughed again—the same sneering, contemptuous laugh. Then he called aloud a name.

In a moment there came hurrying round from the back of the palisades a woman—a young woman, tall and finely formed, with rather a pleasing countenance, and lighter in colour than those here. She stood in an attitude of obeisance. Then the man—the white man—said:

“Take her.”

A howl went up; ferocious, beast-like, as the howl of a pack of wolves. The crowd surged forward, and a score of hands were laid upon the wretched creature. She struggled and screamed at sight of the fiend-like faces and brandished knives, wailing forth despairing entreaties to her master, who, not one whit less fiend-like than these black barbarians, looked stolidly on, finally repeating “Take her.” Then he turned and re-entered the hut, to fling himself down and resume in a moment his disturbed sleep.

The sun was dipping lower and lower, flooding the tree tops with his hot, steamy, but golden light. One wretched victim would behold it no more—one more wretched victim whom human-shaped demons were dragging off to the accustomed shambles to furnish them with one more awful, indescribable feast.

Chapter Thirty One.

A Dark Place of the Earth.

Wagram awoke, feeling strangely strong and well, considering all he had gone through. Moreover, he felt hungry. The stuff that had been administered to him must have worked wonders, for to it he attributed his sudden cure. He must have slept more than the whole round of the clock, for now there was no mistaking the feeling of early morning.

He rose and looked outside. The sun had not yet risen, and there was a freshness in the atmosphere not to be missed even in the most torrid climate just at the hour of dawn. He stepped forth and looked around. The town seemed wrapped in slumber, and now he was able to take in something like its extent. There seemed no end to the palmetto huts, not only filling a large open space but straggling into the surrounding foliage—the whole not devoid of a certain picturesqueness, but utterly, unqualifiedly, savage. A shadow fell between himself and the now rising sun.

He turned, to behold a tall, evil-looking barbarian armed with a formidable axe. In him he thought to recognise one of the two who had visited him the day before, and now he strove to convey by signs that he wanted water for a wash. Clearly he was understood, for the other lifted up his voice in a harsh guttural shout. Immediately there appeared a woman, an ugly, brutal-looking creature, whose countenance bore no more human an expression than that of the male. She, in obedience to an order, withdrew, soon to reappear with a big calabash bowl of cloudy water. Into this he gratefully plunged his head, and managed to indulge in a fairly invigorating splash; the while the pair stood watching him with wooden indifference. Then he made signs that food would be acceptable. These, too, were understood, for presently a big platter of cooked grain was brought. This he attacked with an avidity surprising even to himself; and, while thus engaged, more and more collected, standing round, eyeing him with the same indifference, the while exchanging a few remarks among themselves, whose burden, could he have understood, would have utterly put to flight his new-born appetite there and then. But he did not, and as the said appetite began to experience satiety he found himself taking in with considerable interest the outward characteristics of his hosts or captors, or whatever they might be.

But the result was not encouraging; in fact, it was depressing. All were much of the same type as the first he had seen—large, fine specimens physically, but in type of countenance bestial. Young or old, male or female, there was not a single pleasing countenance among the lot. They were utter animals, and evil-looking animals at that.

The hut he had occupied had, in common with the others, a sort of extended porch or verandah running all round. Seated in the shade of this he fell to ruminating over his position. The savages soon grew tired of watching him, and dispersed. Yet others who happened to pass all glanced at him with a stare of curiosity. First of all, where was he, and how soon could he effect a return to civilisation? That he would be able to do this hope now began to tell him. After all, these people, though unprepossessing, had treated him with a certain rough hospitality. No doubt a promise of substantial reward would induce some of them to guide him to some post inhabited by his fellow-countrymen, or at any rate by Europeans. But how was he to convey such promise to their intelligence? You can make signs that you want food or drink, but when it comes to effecting a negotiation of that sort, why, the matter takes on a totally different aspect. Where was he? He assumed that he had been cast ashore somewhere on the west coast of Africa; but, then, that was a sufficiently vague, not to say wide, limitation. Again, was he on the mainland or on an island—and in any case, how far from the sea? He had absolutely no idea at all as to the time which had been consumed in bringing him hither, or even whether he had been taken off the submerged hulk by these natives in their canoes, or whether the derelict had actually gone ashore with him, and they had found him there.

With the thought of the negotiations he put a hand into an inner pocket in search of his notecase. It was not there. Hurriedly, eagerly he searched his other pockets—with like results. It was gone, and with it all means of purchasing anything, for it had contained his stock of ready money for the voyage, and something beyond; in fact, a considerable sum in bank notes. It could not have got lost in the water, for he remembered placing it in a thoroughly secure inner pocket; and this had been nearly the extent of his preparation when it became known they would have to take to the boats. Clearly he had been relieved of it since, and during his unconsciousness, and yet—and yet—what attraction could bank notes—mere slips of uncoloured paper—have for these savages, who seemed to have not the slightest glimmering of civilisation among the lot? With gold it might have been different. However, it was gone, and the consciousness of this was unpleasant, for a penniless man is akin to an unarmed man—helpless—and, however remote from civilisation he may be, the lack of the power of the purse counts for something.

Slowly, wearily, the heat of the day passed, and night drew down once more. To the captive—or guest, whichever he might be—the day was one of intense and depressing monotony. The natives were no more communicative than before; certainly no more friendly. He would have given a great deal for one companion in adversity—no matter whom—even the lowest sample of the forecastle or stoke-hole of the Baleka. He would likewise have given a great deal to have been among the castaways which constituted her boatloads; yet here he was, in comparative safety, on dry land, while they even now might be suffering the last extremities of starvation and thirst. Night drew down, but brought with it no restfulness; instead it brought forth innumerable cockroaches of large size, which scurried around and over him in the darkness; for, of course, there was no means of lighting the interior of the hut, short of making a fire, and for this it was too hot already.

With the dawn of day he arose—unrested and unrefreshed. His physical wants were cared for, but all efforts to make the people about him understand his anxiety to return to those of his own colour, and his willingness to pay, and pay liberally, for those who should be instrumental in thus returning him, were futile. They could not or would not understand. Utterly weary of sitting still he made up his mind, unless actively opposed, to seek some diversion in a little exploration around on his own account.

He was not opposed, somewhat to his own surprise, and set forth. He passed through the town openly, and making no attempt at concealment. The inhabitants looked up to stare at him as he went by, then went on with what they were doing, this, in most cases, being nothing. Thus he reached the solitude of the surrounding forest.

This was not thick. Clusters of undergrowth here and there, but for the most part it was open below. Strange trees of a species unknown to him afforded an intermittent shade, and here and there an open space, growing tall grass nearly his own height, had to be crossed. He moved carefully, always keeping the sun on one shoulder, always being careful to note any peculiarity of bough or stem, for he had no mind to lose himself. Then suddenly the whole aspect of the vegetation changed.

Only a ridge had effected the sharp demarcation of this change, a low ridge surmounted by a few rocks, yet affording no extent of view on either hand. But here in front the vegetation was thick and profuse, and in parts tangled. Cool and shady, however, and altogether inviting it looked, and Wagram made up his mind to penetrate it, though not to any great depth.

With his wandering a sense of freedom seemed to return to him. It was a relief at any rate to get a change from that gruesome, depressing, savage town, with its repulsive and scowling inhabitants. Here at any rate he was alone with Nature—and there was a certain soothing solemnity in the thought. Then for the first time he noticed an utter absence of life. Nothing moved; no insects flew humming by; no birds piped. Turn his glance which way he would no movement met or distracted it. He was in a dead forest to all intents and purposes, as far as its accompaniment of animal or bird or even insect life was concerned. It began to look a little eerie.

Still, with many a glance back, to make sure of being able to retrace his steps at will, he moved on. Some irresistible influence seemed to be drawing him on, and with every step a consciousness came upon him of that. Moreover, it seemed that he was no longer alone. Could it be that he was being followed—watched—that the freedom with which he had been allowed to come hence was no freedom at all, but that spying eyes had been upon him all the time, that stealthy steps had dogged his own? And yet, looking back, there was no sign of anything living, let alone anything human, and, stranger still, the sense of a haunting presence was in front rather than behind—a presence drawing him on.

A wave of recoil swept over his being, and he would have returned; yet, strong-minded and of a robust faith as he was, such return under such circumstances, it seemed to Wagram, would be nothing less than a concession to the promptings of a vague superstition wholly contrary to his nature and his creed. He had been ill, he reminded himself, and his vitality lowered, otherwise no such foolish imaginings could have held his mind for one single instant. To be scared of a place because it was silent, and in broad daylight, or at any other time for that matter—why, the thing was too absurd. He resumed his way.

And yet it was not altogether broad daylight either, for now with every few yards the overhanging trees became thicker and thicker, and all beneath lay shrouded in a semi-gloom that was anything but the broad light of day. An overpowering scent of strange tropical plants filled the air—fragrant, yet not altogether, for it seemed charged with a sense of earthiness and decay; and ever above, around, the same deadness of silence, the same weightiness of oppression, as though he were more and more getting outside the world.

He had gone far enough; it was time to turn back. Instinctively he sought his watch, then remembered that it had stopped during his long immersion. Curiously enough, the savages had refrained from robbing him of it, although a glittering bauble should have been far more likely to appeal to their cupidity than a mere collection of apparently useless and utterly unattractive bits of paper. He was about to turn back, accordingly, when something in front attracted and held his gaze.

Two straight rocks about twice his own height stood close together, forming, as it were, a gate—a door, rather—for spanning the aperture thus formed was a beam, and from it dangled a row of human skulls. Facing outward they faced him, and seemed to take on a forced and painful grin, as though still wearing the expression of an agonised death. Motionless they hung—some touching each other, some apart, looking ghastly enough in the drear silence of the forest. Wagram glanced at them with some disgust but no great awe. This, he decided, was the entrance to some shrine of devil-worship, and he would have turned away, rather contemptuous than impressed, but a motive, not altogether one of curiosity, moved him to enter that grim portal.

Once within he gazed around with an increased curiosity. He was in an oval space barely a hundred yards in length. The centre was open, and constituted an amphitheatre, the sides sloping steeply upward, and grown with thick bush. Above this he could see a rough but strong stockade, and surrounding it, disposed at intervals, were more human skulls. He crossed the open space to the farther end of the enclosure cautiously, but there was nothing in the shape of an altar of sacrifice or any implement of death or destruction. At the farther end was a large flat stone, flush with the ground. That might be worth examining.

And now curiosity began to awaken vividly within him. This place was obviously a temple—a court, rather—used for the heathenish and idolatrous rites of this tribe—whatever it might be. He bent over the stone. It was rudely hewn into something of an oblong, and was covered with a dark and greasy coating which might have been dried blood. Yes; it looked like that, and he straightened himself up again, nauseated by the idea.

And then something like a deep, soft sigh fell upon his ears. It came from right in front, and seemed within scarce a yard of him. He looked up, startled, then resisted an impulse to turn and flee. Before him the bush, thick and green, was as an impenetrable wall. Could the sound have proceeded thence? He started again. In the dim recesses formed by the interlacing fronds two eyes were staring at him—two large beady eyes—not shining, but dull and black, and yet more full, more penetrating, than if they had glared.

Every instinct of self-preservation moved him to fall back. The same instinct moved him to keep his own eyes fixed upon that dull, penetrating, fiend-like stare as he did so. What on earth was the thing? he asked himself. A reptile? No; for the eyes were larger than those of the largest serpent known to zoology. Human? No; not that either. He was conscious of a ghastly chilling of the blood within him as he met that horrible stare fixed upon him within the mysterious darkness of the bush screen. He was conscious of something more—that his first instinct of retreat had left him, and was now succeeded by an impulse that compelled him forward, that constrained him to look closer into those awful eyes; and then that same soft, heavy sigh was repeated.

He moved a step forward. One foot was on the flat stone. In a moment the other would have followed it—drawn, impelled by an irresistible force—when a strange humming noise behind him—low, but growing louder and louder—made him pause. Someone was approaching, and that by the way he had come. A quick instinct warned him that it would not be well to be found here prying into what was doubtless some sacred if ghastly temple of mystery held in awe by a race of devil-worshippers. The spell was broken. Withdrawing his one foot from the stone he looked back, then quickly took cover within the thick bush that lined the slopes of the amphitheatre.

His conjecture proved correct. Hardly was he in hiding than a man appeared, entering through the same opening which had admitted himself—a tall, black man, yet not altogether wearing the same appearance as those among whom his own lot seemed cast. The new arrival scarce glanced from left to right, and, still humming his strange, weird croon, advanced straight to the stone even as he himself had done. Then he halted.

In his place of concealment Wagram was no more than a dozen yards from the new-comer, whose every movement and every expression he could distinguish. The man was unarmed, and nearly naked—a fine, well-built, stalwart savage. He seemed to be gazing before him in expectation mingled with disappointment. Then to the hidden watcher’s ears came again that soft, weird sigh.

He in the open heard it too, for a change came over his face and bearing. Uttering a deep-breathed “Ah!” he straightened himself up, then bent forward, and seemed gazing upon exactly the place where those dreadful eyes had appeared. Then his behaviour was strange. Once more he rose erect, and withdrew his foot from the stone, and passed one black hand over his own eyes, as though to shut out those others. Then he moved unsteadily to right and to left, and half turned away—but no. It seemed that some compelling force was upon him too, precluding retreat. Back he would come to the centre again and peer forward, then break away as before. This was repeated several times; then, all at once, he stood motionless. His foot was again raised and placed on the stone, his gaze again bent in eager fascination upon that which lay beyond—then the other foot followed. One step forward—then two—and then—

Something darted forward with lightning-like glance from the bush screen—something long and steel-like and gleaming. It transfixed the dazed savage as he stood, then withdrew almost before the heavy thud of his body sounded on the hard stone surface. There it lay, the limbs twitching in muscular spasms. A final shudder and all was still, except the drip, drip of the life-blood falling upon the surface of the stone.

The spectator’s own blood froze within him as he looked. The sight was ghastly and horrifying enough in any case, but looked at in the light of his own circumstances it was doubly so; added to which he now knew the fate from which he himself had escaped. As he took his way out of this hell-pit of horror and cruelty, taking care to keep well within the shelter of the bushes until he should gain the gruesome door by which he had entered, he was wondering what hideous rite of devil-worship he had just witnessed, and recalled with a shudder the weird fascination that had well-nigh compelled him to stand in the other’s place.

“The dark places of the earth are full of cruelty,” he recalled as he hurried through the sombre gloom of the silent forest—a hundred times more sombre now—and the air itself seemed weighed down with a scent of blood. In very truth he was in one of “the dark places of the earth.” How, and when, would he find deliverance therefrom?

Chapter Thirty Two.

The Open Door.

Those who have fallen among barbarians have seldom been without the experience of their detainers desiring to hold some kind of converse with them, however hostile the burden of such might be. Wagram, however, was absolutely without this experience, for these people were not only totally unable to communicate with him by word of mouth but showed absolutely no inclination to do so.

He had tried to communicate with them by signs, but found that he might as well have been signalling to the surrounding trees. They stared at him but made no sort of response. His physical wants were mechanically attended to, and that was all. They eyed him with stony indifference, not as another human being out of whom they might or might not extract material advantage, but simply as an ox being fattened for the shambles. This, however, fortunately, he did not know.

The night following upon the horrible event he had witnessed in the forest was one of the most fearful experiences he had ever known. Closer and more miasmatic than ever the atmosphere seemed to weigh him down; and alone in the darkness of the hut, with loathsome insects scurrying around and over him, the whole scene came back in all its vivid ghastliness, and again he saw those dreadful eyes glowering at him, the quick, sudden stab out of nowhere, and the limbs of the stricken savage quivering and contorting on the stone which was spattered with his blood. He groped his way to the door and went outside. Anything would be better than this consciousness of being penned up with these awful memories, to say nothing of the long-legged horrors which rendered rest impossible. He drank in the outer air—heavy, fever-laden as it was—with infinite relief, but not for long. Clouds of stinging insects, mosquitoes and others, soon found him out, and forced him to the conclusion that the legged horrors within, being harmless, were at any rate more tolerable. But it was a wearied wreck of a man, indeed, upon which the second morning dawned.

He was about to set forth upon another round of exploration—no matter what he might discover anything was better than the fearful mental strain involved by sitting still—when he became conscious of an unusual stir among those around, as near akin to excitement as those morose, repellent savages seemed able to reach. A man was coming towards him; and now every fibre of his being thrilled with joy, with an indescribable sense of relief. It was a white man!

A white man, a European! No matter what low outcast from his colour this might be he was a white man—and already Wagram looked upon him as a brother. And yet—and yet—as the man came up Wagram could not but realise that his first estimate of him was likely to be the true one, and his hopes sank somewhat.

They sank still more—in fact, to zero—as the new-comer stood confronting him. He was a tall man, as tall as himself, but his hard, bearded face was repellent in the extreme, and the fierce glare of his rolling eyes did not inspire confidence.

“Well, pard, are they making you comfortable here?” he began shortly.

“I don’t know about comfortable; but if it’s a little rough I’ve no cause for complaint,” answered Wagram pleasantly. “At any rate I’ve escaped with life—though how I got off that waterlogged hulk I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“I know all about that,” interrupted the other roughly. “What I want to know is, how did you get on to her? Eh? How the devil did you get on to her?”

The fierce eyes played upon Wagram’s face as though they would penetrate his brain. Decidedly this man was a rough customer—very; still, he was a white man, and might not be so bad at bottom. At any rate he would be susceptible to a very substantial reward. So he told the story of the wreck of the Baleka, and how he himself had nearly gone down with the ship in trying to save a child that had been lost below.

“Serves you devilish well right for interfering in what doesn’t concern you,” was the reassuring comment on this piece of information. “Look here. Have you the remotest sort of notion as to where you are?”

“A very faint one: somewhere on the west coast of Africa, I take it.”

The other laughed harshly.

“That’s near enough,” he said. “Let me tell you this, then. You’re among the most devilish set of cannibal niggers this world ever produced. You’d have been eaten body and bones before this if—it hadn’t been for me.”

“In that case I cannot be too grateful for your interference; and, as a fellow-countryman, I am going to make further demands upon your kindness by entreating you to show me the way out, to facilitate my return to civilisation. And, I assure you, you will not find me ungrateful.”

These last words he pronounced with some diffidence. In the man’s very ferocity of roughness Wagram’s ear had not been slow to detect a refined accent of speech. Whatever the other might have come to he was certain that he was of gentle birth, and therefore hesitated to offer him material reward. The next words convinced him that he need have felt no such misgiving.

“What’ll you make it worth my while to land you—say at Sierra Leone, this day month?”

“Anything in reason. You shall name your own price.”

“Suppose I say ten thousand pounds, not a shilling less? How’s that?”

It was an enormous sum, remembering the resources probably at the stranger’s command; yet if Wagram hesitated momentarily it was less on that account than because a misgiving shot across his mind that if he agreed too readily this desperado, from whom he inwardly recoiled more and more, once he had reason to believe he was dealing with a rich man, would hold him captive until he had drained him to the bottom of even his resources; so he answered:

“It’s a stiff figure—very stiff; still, I think I might even promise that.”

“You think, do you? Well, come this way.”

He turned abruptly, Wagram following. As they passed between the palmetto huts the forbidding inhabitants raised their heads to stare for a moment, then dropped them stolidly again. They walked on in dead silence, for the stranger uttered no further word. They passed into the forest, still quite close on the outskirts of the town, and came suddenly upon a strong stockade. Before the gate of this several savages stood as though mounting guard. They were fully armed with large, wicked-looking spears, axes, and great curved-bladed knives.

“I don’t allow them any rotten gaspipe guns,” said the stranger grimly; “only things they know how to use. And they do know how to use these, by God! Look there.”

Wagram looked. They had reached the gate by this time. Within the enclosure were clustered a number of human beings chained together in couples by the leg. The place was in a state of indescribable filth, and the personal appearance of its occupants recalled to Wagram that of the wretched victim of yesterday.

“Prisoners?” he said.

The other nodded, then led the way on again. Soon a hum of voices greeted Wagram’s ears, and at the same time a horrible acrid odour assailed his nostrils.

“Takes a little getting used to, doesn’t it?” said his guide. “Look!”

Wagram looked, and then felt as if he must be sick. They had reached an open space; in it several men were at work—at work on the most congenial occupation of all to savages—that of butchery.

“This is their slaughter-house,” went on the stranger. “What’s the matter?”

For, with an exclamation of horror and disgust, Wagram had turned away, had turned his back upon what he had momentarily glimpsed. No mere glimpse of an ordinary slaughter-house had this been, repulsive and revolting as such a sight might be. In this case the victims were human.

“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, glaring at the other with loathing. “And you allow this—you—a white man?”

“I’m not going to interfere with the harmless little customs of my people—not likely,” was the reply, accompanied by a hideous laugh. “Well, if it’s too much for your weak nerves, come away. But—what do you say to my offer now?”

“I’ll take it. I don’t care how soon I leave this place; in fact, I’ll even increase the figure if you get me out at once.”

“I thought so. Well, it’ll be worth your while. You may take that from me—and the sooner the better. Shall we say fifteen thousand if you start to-morrow?”

“Yes; but you know you will have to trust me. I have no means of identification nearer than England.”

The other nodded.

“Seems strange, doesn’t it?” he said, “but I felt I could do that from the very first. I’ve had no fool of an experience in my time, you see, and I know one man from another when I see him. Now, I knew you weren’t a liar directly I clapped eyes on you; I knew, too, you were a coiny chap, never mind how—there’s something I can read these things by. See here, I don’t want to rush you through this business; think it over. I’ll look round at sundown, and then we’ll draw up our little agreement.”

This sounded well. If he were rough the man seemed not without a sense of fair dealing. Wagram was duly impressed; yet he need not have been, for the stranger’s real motive was a very different one. He had purposely taken Wagram to see one of “the sights” of the place which he knew would revolt and horrify him; now his object was to give him time to think about it; time and solitude could not fail to work the horror deeper into his system—so would his own terms meet with readier acceptation.

At the hut Wagram had occupied the stranger left him; and now, alone once more, the revulsion of feeling was well-nigh oppressive. He would soon be away from here, would soon be back in the home that he loved, and among those who loved him. This horrible experience—well, it, coming as the culminating point to his wanderings, had effected a certain sort of mental cure. Looking back, it seemed as if he had needed a mental shaking-up and—he had got it. Yes; he had been making an idol of “the pride of life,” and that pride had received a sudden, perhaps necessary, fall. What act of thanksgiving could he make for this unlooked-for deliverance? was his first thought as he found himself alone once more. The dank shades of the tropical forest, the repulsive picturesqueness of the savage town, the acrid odour of blood which still seemed to hang upon the air—all had faded now—had given way to the hawthorn hedges and running streams around Hilversea Court, as the splendid old pile arose against its background of embowering elms; the wholesome, clear English sunlight instead of the sickly tropical glare; the scent of innumerable wild flowers and the glad shout of the cuckoo, and, with it all, deeper and holier thoughts, enshrined amid the associations of the dearly-loved place; and then—he started wide awake.

“Here I am!” was saying the strong, harsh voice of the stranger. “Been asleep? Well, you’ll feel the better for it.”

“I believe I have,” said Wagram, sitting up. “Well, have you brought the draft of our agreement?”

“Ay, ay! here it is. Look through it and see if it’s all ship-shape.”

Wagram read the document carefully. It was short, even to conciseness, and set forward how the undersigned was to pay the bearer the sum of fifteen thousand pounds, within fifteen days of being landed at Sierra Leone, in consideration of having been landed there within one month from date.

“You have a code cable with your solicitors, of course?” said the stranger. “You can have the cash cabled there?”

“Yes; I have a code cable. But you say ‘the bearer.’ Why not have it paid in to your own name?”

“That’s my business,” was the answer. “For the rest, is it all ship-shape?”

“Certainly. But it’s only fair to warn you that I doubt if it’s particularly sound from a legal point of view. It isn’t witnessed, for one thing.”

“Legal point of view be damned. Didn’t I tell you you don’t look like a liar—and I know men? It’ll be good enough if you sign it.”

“Thanks,” said Wagram pleasantly. “You won’t find yourself far out in that deduction.”

“Got a wife perhaps, who’s anxious about you, eh?”

“No; I haven’t got a wife—not now.”

“Ah! had, then. Family you want to get back to?”

“Only one son—a boy at school. But he won’t have heard of the wreck, and if he did wouldn’t connect it with me fortunately. I took passage in the Baleka at the last moment, and didn’t even cable it home. By the way, some of these amiable people have relieved me of my pocket-book, and there were some notes in it. I don’t know whether they can be persuaded to disgorge.”

“Perhaps. But if we start from here to-morrow there’ll hardly be time.”

“No; I suppose not. Never mind, then,” was the easy answer, for the starting to-morrow had a soothing ring, beside which the loss was a mere trifle. But the speaker little thought how his listener had already made up his mind to have those notes in his own possession before the dawning of another day—incidentally, it might be, at the cost of a life or two.

The smoky rays of the sinking tropical sun shot in through the open doorway, illumining the gloomy interior. The stranger had brought a pen and ink with him—strange accessories of civilisation in that remote haunt of barbarous man-eaters. A wooden native stool did duty as a desk, and Wagram, squatted on the floor, proceeded to affix his signature: “Wagram Gerard Wagram.”

“Will that do?” he said, glancing up. Then he started in amazement, not undashed with alarm; for the other, who had been standing over him, emitted a sort of gasp. His face seemed to contract, then harden as he glared at the paper, then at the man who held it.

“That your name?” he said, and his voice took on a sort of growl.

“Yes; of course,” was the wondering answer.

“That’s your name—your real name?” repeated the stranger, and the growl in his voice and the stare of his eyes seemed full of menace and hate.

“Yes; that’s my name, and there it is,” answered Wagram firmly, yet not without a dire foreboding over the extraordinary effect it seemed to produce.

“Yes—of course. Ho-ho! That’s your name—Wagram Gerard Wagram! Of course it is—of course. Ho-ho!” And, snatching up the paper, the other went out of the hut, leaving behind him the echo of his mocking tones and savage, sneering laughter.

Chapter Thirty Three.

The Closed Door.

The stranger walked slowly across to his own quarters in a frame of mind very unwonted with him. Something had moved him—moved him powerfully. A new vista opened before him, and what a promise of the good things of life did he behold. The past, too, came before him, but it he put aside with sneering and bitterness.

Two female slaves greeted him with subservient smiles. They were not of this race, but had been brought from much farther inland. They were much lighter in colour, physically fine symmetrical specimens, and not without good looks. Their smiles he returned with a frown that made them cower.

“No more of these,” he muttered in English, staring at them. “White—red and white—white and gold—golden hair—volumes of it—every kind. Aha! No more of this soot.”

They cowered still more before his stare, wondering which of their recent or further back delinquencies had come to his knowledge or what their fate would be. But now he ordered them to begone, and, while trying not to show their relief, they lost no time in obeying.

He got out a bottle of rum and poured out a strong, stiff measure. This he tossed off like water. The beginning of a debauch? Oh no. This man knew better than that. He was never seen intoxicated—he valued his influence too much—and were he once seen in a state of incapacity he knew full well that his influence would be gone; further, that it would not be long before his life followed. There were times, however, when he had taken enough liquor to have sent two ordinary hard-headed men to the ground, and at such times the black savages among whom he dwelt were careful to give this white savage a very wide berth indeed. That was all.

His private quarters were in no way ringed off from the rest of the town, in which was reason. No combination could thus be formed against him, or any hostile plan unknown to himself be carried out, as might be the case were he more shut away. But his huts were better and more spacious than the rest, that mostly occupied by himself attaining almost to the dignity of a bungalow—and, indeed, in such dread was this place held that his possessions were as sacred as though guarded by iron safes. For the acquisitive savage had found it unhealthy to pilfer from this his white brother. At first he had tried it. One attempt had been met by a wholly unlooked-for shot, killing the offender. On another occasion a large and heavy knife had fallen unexpectedly from nowhere, penetrating the brain of the would-be thief, with similar result. This was the more singular in that at the time of both attempts he whom they would have plundered was about fifty miles away, so that it needed not many recurrences of further disaster—in each case mysterious, and taking a varying form—to render this man’s goods absolutely safe.

The secret of the extraordinary ascendency of this white savage over the black, apart from the fact that he never interfered in the slightest degree with their manners and customs, especially when he had led them personally in some sanguinary and victorious raid, may have lain in the fact that he tolerated no opposition. If he considered his subordinate devils had a real grievance he would listen to it and redress it, and of this we have seen at least one gruesome instance. Otherwise he simply rose up and killed the offender—killed him with his own hand.

Now he went outside his house, called a name, and issued an order. In the result, about three quarters of an hour saw him in possession of Wagram’s pocket-book. This he proceeded to investigate with quite unwonted hurry. A few visiting cards and the notes Wagram had mentioned were all it contained. The latter he put aside. Cash was always—cash.

For Wagram himself another long, trying, well-nigh sleepless night was in store—a night of wearing suspense, and the certainty of a most dreadful disappointment. For he could not disguise from himself the consciousness that something had gone suddenly wrong—that the train of the negotiation had, at a certain point, left the rails—for what otherwise could be the meaning of the sudden change of tone and manner on the part of the stranger directly the agreement was completed? Had he merely been fooling him with promises of escape until he had put his name to a document binding him to pay down a very large sum? At first blush it looked like this, but further reflection served to show that, failing his own co-operation, the document was useless for the purpose of obtaining one single shilling—in a word, was utterly unnegotiable. Could it be that the man was touched in the brain, and subject to sudden and dangerous impulses—hence his unlooked-for change of manner—or was he a renegade, who had, perhaps, undergone the penalty of former crime and hated those of his own blood and colour in consequence? Anyway the whole affair was a mystery, which the morning might solve; and that it would solve it in a way that was speedily favourable to himself he devoutly hoped and prayed.

He fell into an uneasy sleep; and it seemed he had hardly done so when he was aroused by a touch. He opened his eyes, to meet those of a savage who was standing over him, and a shudder of loathing ran through him; and this not entirely due to the strong musky odour wherewith the new-comer seemed to be poisoning the air—the fact being that, since the scene he had yesterday witnessed, these were no longer human beings in his eyes but so many horrible ghouls. This one, however, beckoned him to get up and go with him.

Wagram obeyed. He had no immediate fears for his personal safety, in view of the presence of a fellow white man in that nest of demons; and as he followed his repulsive guide he glanced around upon the life of the place—the morose, evil-looking inhabitants, fiend-like with their long spikes of plaited wool sticking up from their heads, and their round, black progeny tumbling about like so many sooty imps. There was no trace of the light-hearted, careless good humour of the negro among these. He had never seen one of them laugh, for instance; and their grin had something malevolent about it—something that was more than half a snarl. Could it be that their awful unnatural appetite affected them mentally too, and that by feeding on the bodies of their fellow-demons the spirit of the latter entered into theirs? But his speculation on this head was cut short. He and his guide had arrived at a much larger hut than the others, and there, seated on a native stool in front of it, was the strange white man.

“Well, I’ve got back that pocket-book of yours,” began the latter unceremoniously. “Here it is; only I’m sorry to say the notes are no longer in it. Rum thing that these devils should have any idea of the value of money, especially paper money.”

He broke off, and emitted a shrill whistle. A slave girl appeared. A monosyllabic order, and she reappeared, bearing a bottle and two glasses.

“Have a tot,” he said. “You don’t look over-bobbish, and it’ll pick you up. None of your poisonous trade rum this, but real old Jamaica.”

“Thanks; it may. I’ve had another sleepless night, and can do with a little picking up.”

In fact, he felt the better for it. And what he was about to witness required some stimulating, for now the other uttered a loud, peremptory call.

It was answered with amazing and startling celerity. A number of spiky-haired blacks came crowding up in front of the place. Wagram, watching his strange host, saw the latter draw himself up to his full stature as, with a scowl that was perfectly demoniacal, he harangued them for some minutes, working himself up to a perfect paroxysm of fury. His eyes glared, and his deep tones took on the thunderous roar of an angry mastiff. Immediately a man was thrust to the forefront of the group. The white man walked down off his verandah and stood confronting this fellow, whose brutal face blenched and lowered before the scathing, stare. Then he seized a great spear from one of the lookers-on, and, half hurling, half stabbing, he drove the blade clean through the body of the ugly, cowering savage, who sank to the earth, pouring forth his life-blood in torrents.

Wagram felt himself growing pale. The slayer, not content with his swift and sudden vengeance, had withdrawn the formidable weapon, and, his eyes rolling and bloodshot, was brandishing it over the staring black crowd, literally foaming at the mouth as he roared forth his deep-toned imprecations. The assembly seemed turned to stone as those fierce eyes swept over it, lighting first on one and then on the other, while the great spear twirled and quivered in that sinewy grip. Each thought that he might be the next victim; and, indeed, it seemed so, for that towering form looked as though endowed with the strength and malevolence of a fiend. Then with a last fierce and frenzied shout he bade them begone, and they, for their part, did not wait to be told twice.

“What was it all about?” said Wagram, hardly able to conceal the disgust and horror which he felt.

The other turned on him his restless, bloodshot eyes. “Your lost pocket-book. It ought to have been brought to me, and wasn’t. See?”

“Good God! And you killed a man for that!” The tones of disgust and reproach seemed to sting the other.

“Killed a man for that!” he repeated with a beast-like growl.—“Rather! And I’ve killed a dozen men for far less—if you call these cannibal swine men. And I’ll do it again. No; you know, all these sickening old canting ideas you were raised in don’t count with me—not a straw. I’m God here, you understand—and I mean to be.”

“Steady. Don’t be blasphemous,” said Wagram. “Oh, it’s you who are going to give me orders, is it!” said the other, not loudly, but in a tone of deadly, quiet resentment. “Well, we shall see; and, by way of beginning, I may as well tell you I’ve changed my mind since yesterday. In a word, I’d like the pleasure of your company here a little longer.”

“But—our agreement?”

“Our agreement? Oh, here it is. That for it!” tearing in several fragments the paper he had just produced. “I don’t get the advantage of the improving society of such a good and holy man as you every day, and now I’ve got it I mean to profit by it—for a time. See?”

Wagram was simply nonplussed. What did it all mean? Was this a madman? It seemed like it. The document under which he stood to obtain a really splendid sum he had torn up in a fit of gusty rage. But the fearful look on the man’s face as he stood glaring down on him was something to reckon with—and the jeering tones. He began to conceive for him an even greater repulsion than for the black, cannibal savages themselves.

“We can easily rewrite it,” he said in a conciliatory tone. “Think again. It will be to both our interests; and if there is any service I can render you I will willingly do so.”

“Service be damned!” said the other roughly. “I rather think the boot’s on the other foot, since it entirely depends upon me, Wagram Gerard Wagram, whether you ever see home again, or furnish beefsteaks for the noble image of God you see around here. Upon me, do you hear? Upon me only.”

“Well, of course, it does,” answered Wagram, realising that the man was going through a sort of paroxysm of blind, well-nigh delirious rage. “But I should think you would hardly hand over a fellow-countryman to the mercy of a lot of cannibal savages. I have a better opinion of you than that.”

“Have you? Then keep your damned opinion for where it’s wanted. Now, come with me.”

Thinking it best to humour him Wagram did not hesitate. The other led the way through the outskirts of the town. One thing struck Wagram during their progress. The inhabitants hardly noticed them. All seemed to be hurrying towards one point. Soon the same acrid, horrible odour fell upon his nostrils as that which had sickened him on arriving at the human shambles. He stopped.

“I won’t go any further, thanks,” he said. “I don’t want to see that place again.”

“But you must,” replied the other in a tone that was perfectly fiendish in its menace. “You’ve no choice. I’m God here, remember.”

What could he do? He was unarmed; therefore, to that extent, at everybody’s mercy. He had others to think of beside himself—one other especially. So he steeled himself.

The dreadful place of slaughter was thronged, it seemed, with the whole population of the town. Through these a word from his guide cleared a prompt way. Several wooden blocks were let into the ground, and upon one of these a victim was being bound down in such wise that the body, turned face upwards, formed an arc, the head being fixed so as to draw the upturned throat to the fullest tension. And the horrified, blood-chilled spectator observed that the victim was a large stalwart black very much akin in aspect to the one he had seen struck down by the mysterious blow in that eerie temple of devil-worship within the heart of the forest.

“I’ve let them have a little compensation for killing one of themselves just now,” broke in his companion’s voice with hideous callousness. “It was a biggish man among them—as far as I allow any of them to be big. So I’ve stood them a feed. These belong to another breed, and they like them, and I can get plenty more. See?”

“But, you’ll never allow this?” cried Wagram. “Stop it, do you hear? Stop it, man—devil—or whatever you are. Stop it, or I will.”

Without waiting for any reply he sprang forward. A tall black fiend armed with a great curved knife had stepped to the side of the victim, whose agonised, livid, terror-stricken face was sufficient to haunt Wagram to his dying day. It was done in a moment. Quick as thought Wagram had snatched the murderous implement from the grasp of the savage, at the same time dealing him a straight-out blow behind the ear which sent him staggering, and had cut through the bonds which held the wretched victim, who rolled heavily to the ground. A howl, as of a pack of famished wolves balked of its prey, arose from the crowd. A rush was made. But somehow the sight of this man—who had never shed human blood in his life—standing there at bay, a new and entirely whole-hearted Berserk rage blazing from his eyes as he rolled them around, holding the formidable weapon ready, seemed to tell, and they hesitated, still mouthing and yelling like hell let loose. Then great, heavy-hafted spears were raised, ready for casting. But a word from the other white man checked the decisive throw, though still unwillingly. They growled and muttered like dogs, looking from one to the other.

“Give me your promise that he shall be spared,” cried Wagram. “Otherwise not a man comes near him while I am alive.”

“You fool. Are you prepared to stand there for the rest of the day?” was the answer. “After you are dead, will it be any the better for anybody else?”

“I shall die while doing my duty at any rate. As for you—why, the most loathsome savage here is not so loathsome as you.”

“Ha—ha! That’s all gas. Well, it doesn’t suit me that your life shall be taken, Wagram—at least not until I choose. So I’ll give you my promise. Like yourself, I’m not a liar, whatever I may be.”

He harangued the assembled fiends, and in the result the wretched man, still livid with the fears of death, was allowed to slip away, while the crowd sullenly dispersed—Wagram, of course, being totally unaware that he was promising them another victim, whom they might despatch and feast upon at their leisure, when there should be nobody present to interrupt. Thus his promise was kept—in the letter.

“I thought I’d just let you see where I come in,” he said as they walked away together. “Man, you think you have done something blasted heroic, don’t you?—but let me tell you that a word from me would have seen you strapped down to one of those blocks too. You don’t suppose you could have kept them off with that knife for many minutes, do you?”

Wagram did not answer. His disgust and repulsion for the other had reached such a pitch that he did not deem it advisable to speak, for fear of betraying it.

“You’d better hug your own quarters for a day or two after this,” went on the latter. “None too safe to be prowling around. You understand?”

“Yes; I understand.”

Hope, raised once more, had fallen to the ground. For some reason or other this white savage had seen fit to detain him prisoner—probably with the object of extracting more in the way of ransom. Indeed, now it dawned upon him that in forcing him to behold all the more horrible side of the life of these barbarians the other was working to bring his mind up to such a pitch that he would be glad to purchase emancipation at any price, however great.

Chapter Thirty Four.

The Alternative.

“Well? And have you now come round to a sweet and reasonable frame of mind?”

Wagram looked his persecutor steadily in the face. He was not secured, but two stalwart blacks stood on each side, ready to anticipate any aggressive movement on his part.

“You’ve not, eh? That’ll come; only the longer you hold out the more personal inconvenience you’ll lay yourself open to. I give you fair warning.”

“You intend to murder me, I suppose,” answered Wagram. “Why not do it at once? I won’t agree to your perfectly outrageous proposal.”

“Outrageous?” sneered the white fiend. “Let’s go over the ground again. A month ago I invited you to make a protracted stay with me. I further asked you to send for your son, thinking that a little wild bush life would make a wholesome change for a schoolboy, and we would have been as jolly as sandboys together. You began to make excuses. Now, I don’t like excuses. I’m not accustomed to them, as you must have learnt since you’ve been here. Then you refused point-blank, saying this was no place to bring a boy to. You yourself couldn’t refuse my hospitality, which I’m afraid I shall have to extend to you for an indefinite time. But your son and heir—I’m dying to make his acquaintance. See?”

“Yes; I see. And I give you the answer straight: I have no intention that you should make his acquaintance or he yours. Now—is that straight enough?”

“Oh, quite. Only have you reflected that in that case you yourself will never set eyes on him again? Hasn’t that struck you?”

“As a possibility, not as a probability. Look here! you are a white man, not a savage. For some purpose you are trying to frighten me. What is it? Is it that you want a larger price? If so, name it.”

“Trying to frighten you? Why, I haven’t even begun to frighten you yet. You told me one day you thought I must be the devil. Well, I am—for all purposes as far as you are concerned. Make up your mind to that.”

There was no great eagerness in Wagram’s mind to dispute this statement. He had spent a month in the power of this fiend, and scarcely a day had passed without some proof that if he were not already within the infernal regions he was at any rate well within the antechamber thereto. Apart from the fact that the conditions of his captivity had been more and more those of every conceivable harshness, he had been compelled to witness the most ghastly and horrifying sights, of which the blood tragedies of the cannibal slaughter-yard were not the worst. Other fiendish rites, hideous and obscene—hardly imaginable, in fact—he had been thrust into the very midst of; and now within that brief month it seemed that he must have lived for years in hell, and all at the bidding of this devil—his fellow-countryman. His health had suffered, his mind and spirit alike were becoming broken, and every moment he besieged high Heaven with supplications that deliverance—even through the gate of death—might be granted him. So far his tormentor had confined his malice to tortures that were mainly mental. He had been careful, too, to afford him no clue whatever as to the locality in which he was, or even as to the very name of this savage race. His own identity, of course, was undivulged.

“You have the whole situation in your own hands,” went on the latter. “You have only to place in mine the necessary letters that will bring your son and heir here. I’ll take care of the way of doing it, never fear, once I have your indisputable authority. Now—are you going to give it me?”

Something of the martyr’s resolution shone in Wagram’s face. Even the brutal savages who guarded him were struck by it, and uneasily stirred. They thought to descry some strange resemblance at that moment between the faces of the two men, between their dreaded oppressor and his—and their—helpless captive.

“No; I am not—not now, nor ever,” came the steadfast answer. “I will die first.”

Then that glaring paroxysm of rage swept over the other’s features, and his eyes seemed to start from his purpling face as he bent down and hissed rather than whispered:

“Then you shall. By God, you shall!” At a sign the two savages pounced upon their prisoner, and flung him face downwards upon the ground. They were muscular ruffians, and he was weakened by ill-treatment and anxiety. Others flocked into the hut in obedience to a call, and in a moment he was pinioned with thongs, his feet being left free enough to enable him to walk with short steps. They dragged him forth into the open, and he found himself staggering along in their midst. Then he realised what his doom was to be. He had travelled this way before, to his horror and sorrow. They were taking him to the human slaughter-yard.

There was the palisade, the stunted trees, and the horrible heads impaled upon them. The effluvium was acrid, sickening. Many hands gripped him, and before he could offer the slightest resistance he was bound down upon one of the blood-stained blocks, with throat upturned, distended, ready for the murderous knife.

In that terrible moment, expecting death amid every circumstance of agony and ignominy, a vista of his past life opened to his brain—opened with a quick flash. This, then, was what his quest had brought him to—his quest which, following the strong voice of conscience, he had undertaken and had prosecuted to his own detriment. Well, what mattered it? His son—his only son—had been left in strong and careful hands. He would carry on his life duties as he himself would have had him do. Then more sacred thoughts succeeded. He trusted he was ready.

A black fiend stood over him, and had already raised the horrible crooked knife; already he seemed to feel it shearing through nerve and artery. But it was stayed.

“One more chance,” cried the voice of his arch-tormentor. “Will you do what you have no option but to do? Remember, this is no swift death—no beheading at one blow—as you have seen. A nasty sort of butchering death for a man of your birth and breeding to end up with, eh?”

“Do your butcher work; my mind is unchanged.”

At a sign the demon with the knife lowered it. Wagram felt a slash upon his throat, and the blood flowed. In reality it was but a skin cut. The black fiend, instructed by the white arch-fiend, was but playing with him; yet the mind acting upon the strained nerves rendered the torture actual, horrible. Except a quick gasp no sound escaped the sufferer. In the concentration of the suspense every detail was stamped upon the retina of his brain—the bestial, black faces, staring and bloodthirsty; the scarcely less repulsive countenance of his—fellow-countryman, and a strange, vivid scar round the outside of the right eye defacing this. Detail is curiously to the front in moments of extreme tensity. The willing executioner looked again at his superior for the final signal. After a moment of deathly silence—to the sufferer a very lifetime of suspense—it came.

But, what was this? He had been quickly unbound, and rolled to the ground, and as he lay there, dazed with the sudden revulsion, the voice of his arch-tormentor fell once more upon his ears.

“That’ll do for to-day, Wagram. You’ve gone through hell—yes, hell—in the last few minutes, but it’s nothing to what’s sticking out for you. You thought you’d have been in heaven by now, but, no fear. Moreover, you’ll never get there, for before I’ve done with you you’re going to blaspheme Heaven in such a manner that even it’ll have nothing to do with you at the end, in spite of your life of piety and sanctimoniousness. Wait a bit. You haven’t felt any real pain yet—don’t know what it is. To-morrow you shall begin. A little roasting, you understand; not too much—enough to keep you wriggling for an hour or so. You shall have the whole night to think of it.”