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LONG ODDS

"He watched her go down the stairway."—[See page 279.]

LONG ODDS

By
HAROLD BINDLOSS

AUTHOR OF "ALTON OF SOMASCO," "THE CATTLE-BARON'S DAUGHTER," "THE MISTRESS OF BONAVENTURE," "WINSTON OF THE PRAIRIE," "DELILAH OF THE SNOWS," ETC.

BOSTON
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
1908

Copyright, 1908, by
SMALL, MAYNARD & COMPANY
(INCORPORATED)

CONTENTS

LONG ODDS

CHAPTER I
THOMAS ORMSGILL

It was towards the middle of a sweltering afternoon when Commandant Dom Erminio roused himself to wakefulness as he lay in his Madeira chair on the veranda of Fort San Roque, which stands beside a muddy river of Western Africa. As a rule Dom Erminio slept all the afternoon, which was not astonishing, since there was very little else for him to do, and if there had been he would conscientiously have refrained from doing it as long as possible. It is also very probable that any other intelligent white man similarly circumstanced would have been glad to spend part, at least, of the weary day in merciful oblivion. San Roque is one of the hottest places in Africa, which is saying a good deal, and at night a sour white steam, heavy with the exhalations of putrefaction, rises from the muddy river. They usually bring the white man who breathes them fever of one or several kinds, while even if he endures them scatheless the steamy heat melts the vigor out of him, and the black dejection born of it and the monotony crushes his courage down. San Roque is scorched with pitiless sunshine during part of the year, but it is walled in by never-lifting shadow, for all round the dark forest creeps close up to it.

On the afternoon in question the Commandant's rest was prematurely broken, because his dusky major-domo had not had the basket chair placed where it would remain in shadow, and a slanting shaft of sunlight struck hotly upon the sleeper's face. A dull throbbing sound also crept softly out of the heavy stillness, and it was a sound which usually promised at least an hour or two's distraction. Dom Erminio recognized it as the thud of canoe paddles, and sat upright in his chair looking about him drowsily, a little, haggard, yellow-faced man in white uniform, with claw-like hands whose fingers-ends were stained by tobacco. He lived remote from even such civilization as may be met with on the coast of Western Africa, with a handful of black soldiers and one white companion, distinctly on sufferance, since the fever and certain tribesmen who showed signs of resenting the white men's encroachments might at any time snuff him out. He was, however, of Iberian extraction, and it was characteristic of him that he did not concern himself greatly about the possibility of such a catastrophe or consider it worth while to take any steps to avert it which he might perhaps have done.

As he glanced round he saw the straggling line of stockade which was falling down in places, for, being what he was, it had not occurred to him to mend it; the black soldiers' thatched quarters; and the ramshackle residency, which was built in part of wood and in part of well rammed mud. Beyond them rose the forest, black and mysterious, cleft by the river's dazzling pathway, and a faint look of anticipation crept into Dom Erminio's eyes as the thud of paddles grew louder. The river was one stage of the road to civilization, and he could not quite give up the hope that certain political friends in his own country would remember him some day. Then his look of interest died away, for it became evident from the beat of paddles that the occupants of the approaching canoe were traveling faster than any one in the Government service usually thought it worth while to do. Besides that, the Government's messengers were not addicted to traveling at all in the heat of the afternoon.

"Ah," he said, with a wave of his unlighted cigarette which was vaguely expressive of resignation, "it is the Englishman Ormsgill or the American missionary. Perhaps, by a special misfortune, it may be both of them."

His companion, who leaned upon the balustrade, nodded, for Englishmen and Americans are not held in great esteem in that country, nor are missionaries of any kind. They see too much, and some of them report it afterwards, which, when now and then the outer world pricks up its ears in transient interest or indignation, is apt to make trouble for everybody. Still, the Lieutenant Luiz was a lethargic man and a philosopher in his way, so he said nothing, though he waved the comely brown-skinned girl who had been sitting near him back into the house. There was, at least, no occasion to provide a weapon for the enemy, and Marietta had made several attempts to run away lately.

Commandant Erminio smiled approvingly. "What one suspects does not count," he said. "In this land of the shadow one suspects everything and everybody. There are even envious and avaricious men on the coast down yonder who fling aspersions at me."

If Lieutenant Luiz had been an Englishman he would probably have grinned, but he was too dignified a gentleman to do anything of that kind, though there was a faint twinkle in his languid dark eyes. Then a canoe swung into sight round a bend, and slid on towards the landing with wet paddles flashing dazzlingly. Four almost naked negroes swung them, but another man, who wore white duck and a wide gray hat also plied a dripping blade just clear of the awning astern, which was a very unusual thing in that region.

"It is certainly the Englishman Ormsgill," said Dom Erminio. "That is a man the fever cannot kill, which is, perhaps, a pity." Then he waved his cigarette again. "Still, it is possible that Headman Domingo will settle with him some day."

The canoe slid up to the pile-bound bank, and the two white men who got out strode towards the residency, which was characteristic, since on a day of that kind an Iberian would certainly have sauntered. The first of them was tall, and thinner even than most white men are who have had the flesh melted from them in tropical Africa. His face was hollow, though he was apparently only some thirty years of age, but it was the face of a strong-willed man, and there was a certain suggestion of optimism in it and his eyes, which was singularly unusual in the case of a man who had spent several years in that country. Even nature is malignant there, and man is steeped in lust and avarice and cruelty, but in spite of this Watson Nares was an optimist as well as an American medical missionary.

He returned the Commandant's greeting, which was punctiliously courteous, and sitting down in the chair a negro brought for him, waited until his companion, who had turned to give an order to the canoe boys, came up. The latter was of average height, a strongly built man of about the missionary's age, with a brick red face, fair hair thinned by fever, and wrinkles about his gray eyes. They were steady, observant eyes, though a half-cynical, half-whimsical twinkle crept into them now and then, as it did when he glanced towards the Commandant. The latter would have clapped his shoulder, but he avoided the effusive greeting with a certain quiet tactfulness which was usual with him.

"The padre and I are going back to the concession," he said in Portuguese. "If you have any hammock boys we would like to borrow them."

The Commandant said that this was unfortunately not the case. Two of his carriers had dysentery, and another a guinea worm in his leg; and there was only the little twinkle in Ormsgill's eyes to show that he did not believe him.

"Besides," said Lieutenant Luiz, "the country is not safe. There is a rumor that the Abbatava men are watching the lower road."

Ormsgill laughed, though he fancied that Dom Erminio had flashed a quick glance at his subordinate before the latter spoke.

"Still, I scarcely think the Abbatava people will trouble me, and in any case some of them would be sorry if they did," he said. "Well, since you have no carriers we will get on again. It is a long way to the concession, and Lamartine is very ill. I brought up the padre to see if he could do anything for him."

Dom Erminio shrugged his shoulders. "It is a wasted effort, which is a thing to be regretted in this land, where an effort is difficult to make. Lamartine has been ill too often, and if he is ill again he will certainly die. As you have heard, the bushmen are in an unsettled state, and there are several sick men here. It is, perhaps, convenient that the Señor Nares should stay at San Roque."

He made a little suggestive gesture which seemed to indicate that the road was unsafe, turning towards his subordinate as though for confirmation, but once more Ormsgill fancied there was a warning in his glance.

"Of a surety!" said the Lieutenant Luiz. "Lamartine is probably not alive by now. Still, if the Señor Nares insists on going it is well that he should take the higher road."

In the meantime the canoe boys had unrolled a canvas hammock and lashed it to its pole. Nares stood up as they approached the veranda stairway with the pole upon their wooly crowns.

"I will come back and look at your sick," he said. "We have only the one hammock, Ormsgill."

Ormsgill smiled. "There is nothing very wrong with my feet, and I haven't had a dose of fever for some time. It isn't your fault that you have one now."

He made the two officers a little inclination as he took off his hat, and Nares, who shook hands with them, crawled into his hammock. He, at least, had the fever every two or three months or so. Then the boys struck up a marching song as they swung away with their burden into the steamy shadow, and the Commandant leaned on the balustrade listening with a little dry smile until the crackle of trampled undergrowth and sighing refrain died away.

"When one desires to encourage such men it is generally wise to point out the difficulties," he said. "One would fancy that they were fond of them, especially the Señor Ormsgill, who is of the kind the customs of this world make rebels of."

"And the other?" asked Lieutenant Luiz, who had, not without reason, a respect for the wisdom of his superior. He had found that it was, in some ways at least, warranted.

The Commandant lighted his cigarette, and watched the first smoke wreath float straight up into the stagnant air. "He would be a martyr. It is a desire that is incomprehensible to you and me, but there are others besides him who seem to cherish it—and in this land of the devil opportunities of satisfying it are generally offered them."

He looked at Lieutenant Luiz, and once more the latter's face relaxed into the nearest approach to a grin his sense of dignity allowed. One could have fancied there was an understanding of some kind between the men.

In the meanwhile Nares' bearers were plodding down a two-foot trail walled in by thorny underbrush and festoons of as thorny creepers that flowed down in tangled luxuriance between the towering cottonwood trunks. There was dim shade all about them, and the atmosphere was like that of a Turkish bath, steamy and almost insufferably hot, only that there was in it something which checked instead of accelerated the cooling perspiration. Now and then the bearers gasped, and Ormsgill's face was flushed as he walked beside the hammock.

"We should get through by to-morrow night if we take the lower road," he said. "I believe that would be advisable, though I'm not quite sure of it. At least, it's the nearer one, and Lamartine was going down hill very fast when I left him. In fact, he sent two of the boys to the Mission for Father Tiebout. In one way, the thing's a trifle invidious, but, you see, Lamartine is of his persuasion."

Nares smiled. "I'm to have the care of his body, and Father Tiebout of his soul. Well, we have fought as allies on those terms before, and I guess I don't mind."

"You're quite sure? After all, in one way, the soul of Lamartine would be something of a trophy."

The American looked up at him with a faint kindling in his eyes. "Tiebout has so many to his credit—and he could afford to spare me this one. Still, at least, I can heal the body, if I am called in in time."

"Which is a good deal. Especially in a land where it is singularly difficult to believe that men have souls at all."

Nares shook his head. "If I didn't feel quite so played out I'd take your challenge up," he said. "Guess we'll join issue on that point another time. You mentioned once or twice that Lamartine was very sick?"

"There's about one chance in twenty we get there before he's dead. It's one of the reasons I'm taking the lower road. It's the nearest."

It was characteristic that Ormsgill did not state that it was also one of the reasons he had traveled for four days and most of four nights under an enervating heat. Lamartine was an alien of dubious character, and in some respects distinctly uncongenial habits, but Ormsgill had not spared himself to give his comrade that one chance for his life.

"Didn't Lieutenant Luiz' recommendation count?" asked Nares.

"No," said Ormsgill, reflectively. "I don't think it did. At least, not as he meant it to, though I've been trying to worry out what he did mean exactly. One thing's certain. He wasn't prompted by any solicitude for our safety. You see, he might have been counting on my distrust of him, or my usual obstinacy, and wanted me to take the higher road after all. Or he may have been playing another game. I don't know. That's why we'll take the nearest way and not worry. When you're in doubt, it's generally wisest to do the obvious thing."

Nares made a little drowsy gesture of concurrence. "Straight to the mark—and you get there now and then. At least, it can't be the wrong path—and if one doesn't finish the journey it's only a falling out by the way. A good many of us have done that in this country."

Ormsgill said nothing. He had somewhere buried deep in him a vague, unformulated faith which, however, seldom found expression of any kind in words, and was tinged with a bitterness against all conventional creeds, which was not altogether astonishing in the case of a man who had lived as he had done in the dark land. Still, he had traveled four days and nights to bring his sick comrade the assistance he felt would arrive too late and now, when he dragged himself along dead weary through the steamy shade, he had reasons for surmising that there was peril somewhere down the winding trail.

Nares was asleep when they passed the forking and held on by the lower road, and Ormsgill did not tell the boys that he had seen a huddled black figure lying a few yards back among the undergrowth. He did not even stop to look at it. Labor is in demand in that country, and when it is supplied by a dusky contractor who collects the raw material in the bush the unfortunate who sickens on the long march from the interior usually dies. Transport on the human head makes provisions costly in a devastated country, and it is not economy to feed a man who will bring one nothing in. A white man, as everybody knows, may not own or sell a slave in any part of Africa under European control, but he must have labor, and there are in practice ways of getting over the obvious difficulty. They are not ways which are discussed openly, and, so far as one can ascertain, are by no means satisfactory to the negro for whose benefit they are sometimes said to be devised. In this, and a few other matters, the negro's opinion is not, however, deferred to. It is his particular business to gather rubber for the white man and grow his cocoa, and the fact that he is not as a rule content to recognize this obligation is very seldom taken into consideration.

It had been dark two hours, and the bearers could go no further without a rest, when Ormsgill camped on a ridge beneath tall tufted palms at least a hundred yards from the trail. There was a reason for this, and also for the fact that he allowed no fires to be made, though of all things the negro loves a cheerful blaze. The powers of evil are very real to him, which is by no means astonishing considering the land he lives in. The boys sat huddled about the empty hammock among the palms, while the two white men lay upon a waterproof ground sheet some fifty yards apart from them and nearer the trail. Ormsgill had had very little sleep during the last four nights, but he was very wide awake then, and a good magazine rifle, which had been smuggled through San Roque without the Commandant's notice, lay across his knees.

He was listening intently, but could hear nothing except an occasional rustling among the creepers and the heavy splash of moisture on the leaves. Nor could he see very much, for though here and there a star shown down between the towering trunks, a sour white steam hung almost a man's height about the dripping undergrowth. Save for the splash of moisture it was so still that Nares, with imagination quickened by the tension the fever had laid upon his nerves, could almost fancy he could hear things growing. The growth, at least was characteristic of the country in that it was untrammeled, luxuriant, and destructive rather than beneficent. Orchids and parasites sucked the life blood from the trees, and throve upon their ruin; creepers strangled them and tore them down half-rotten. It was a mad, cruel struggle for existence, and Ormsgill, whose hot hands were clenched upon the rifle, clearly recognized that man must take his part in it. As a matter of fact, he was not averse to doing so. There was a vein of combativeness in him, and circumstances had hitherto usually forced him well to the front when there was trouble anywhere in his vicinity.

What he and Nares talked about was of no particular consequence. They were men whose inner thoughts only became apparent now and then, and their conversation largely concerned the merits of certain Congolese cigars. By and by, however, Nares stopped abruptly, as a hand that evidently did not belong to his companion touched his arm, but it was characteristic of him that he did not start. He looked round instead, and saw an indistinct and shadowy figure rise out of the undergrowth. It pointed up the trail, and Ormsgill, who seemed to listen for a moment or two, nodded.

"I really think Lieutenant Luiz meant us to take the other road," he said. "That must be Domingo bringing down another drove, and as it is evidently a big one it is just as well we didn't meet him on the trail. Domingo doesn't like either of us, and he has been getting truculent lately."

Nares said nothing, and a faint patter of naked feet that grew steadily louder crept out of the silence. It was dragging and listless, the shuffle of weary and hopeless men; and it was evident that the hammock boy who sank down again into the undergrowth close beside Ormsgill was badly afraid. Five minutes later a shadowy figure appeared among the trees below them where the mist was thinner, grew a trifle plainer as it slipped across an opening and vanished again, but there were others behind, and for several minutes a row of half-seen men flitted by. Here and there one of them draped in white cotton carried a flintlock gun, but the rest were half-naked, and last of all a few plodded behind a lurching hammock. They went by without a sound but the confused patter of weary feet upon the quaggy trail, and left an impressive silence behind them when they plunged into the gloom again.

Then Ormsgill smiled grimly as he tapped the breech of his rifle.

"If homicide is ever justifiable it would have been to-night," he said. "One could hardly have missed that bulge in Domingo's hammock, and the longing to drive a bullet through it was almost too much for me."

Nares made no attempt to rebuke him. "That man," he said, "is permitted to be—one must suppose as part of a great purpose. The mills of the gods grind slowly, but they do their work thoroughly."

"It seems so," and Ormsgill laughed a little bitter laugh. "Anyway, the stones are wet with blood, and a good many of us have passed between them. One wonders now and then how long the downtrodden will endure that terrible grinding."

"It is for a time only. Day and night the cry goes up in many tongues."

"And the gods of the heathen cannot hear; and those of the white men may, it seems, be propitiated by masses in the cathedral and stained windows bought with cocoa and rubber dividends. Well, one must try to believe that Domingo's laborers enlisted for the purpose of being taught agriculture by the white men of their own free will. At least, that is the comfortable assurance usually furnished the civilized powers, and as they have their own little problems to grapple with they complacently shut one eye. I only wonder how many played-out niggers' throats Domingo has cut on the way. In the meanwhile, Lamartine is dying, and we may as well get on again."

He called to the hammock boys, who still seemed afraid, and in another five minutes the little party was once more floundering onwards through the silence of the steamy bush.

CHAPTER II
RESTITUTION

Darkness had closed down suddenly on the forest, but it was hotter than ever in the primitively furnished general room of Lamartine's house, where the lamp further raised the already almost insupportable temperature. There was also a deep, impressive silence in the bush that shut the rickety dwelling in, though now and then the sound of a big drop splashing upon a quivering leaf came in through the open window with startling distinctness. Lamartine, the French trader, was dead, and had been buried that afternoon, as was customary, within an hour or two after the breath has left his body. His career, like that of most men in his business, had not been a very exemplary one, but he had, at least, now and then shown that he possessed certain somewhat fantastic and elementary notions of ethics, which he was in the habit of alluding to as his code of honor. It was, as Father Tiebout, who had once or twice given him spiritual advice when he was very sick of fever, admitted, a rather indifferent one, but very few white men in that country had any code at all, and, as the good padre said, it was possible that too much would not be expected from any one who had lived in that forest long.

In any case, Lamartine had gone to answer for the deeds that he had done, and the three men who had buried him and had constituted themselves his executors sat about his little table with the perspiration dripping from them. There was Nares, gaunt and hollow-faced, weak from fever and worn with watching; Father Tiebout, the Belgian priest, little, and also haggard; and Ormsgill, the gray-eyed, brown-faced Englishman, who sat looking at them with set lips and furrowed forehead. Their creeds were widely different, but men acquire a certain wide toleration in the land of the shadow, where it is exceedingly difficult to believe in any thing beyond the omnipotence of evil.

It was, perhaps, characteristic that it was the priest who tore up certain papers Ormsgill had selected from the pile upon the table.

"I do not think that anything would be gained by allowing them to come under the notice of the authorities," he said. "I am not sure that they might not consider they invalidated the trifling bequest to the Mission, which with good management should enable us to rescue a few more of the heathen."

"A very few!" and Ormsgill smiled. "The market's stiff now Domingo has practically a monopoly as purveyor. Converts will be dearer. One understands that you buy most of yours."

Father Tiebout's eyes twinkled good-humoredly. "One must use the means available, and it is, at least, something if we can save their bodies. But to proceed, our companion will agree with me that repentance must be followed by restitution or reparation. In the case of the friend we have buried one must take the will for the deed, and the will was there. Restitution may also be efficacious if it is vicarious. As you know, it was the thought of the woman from the interior that most troubled Lamartine."

Ormsgill glanced at Nares, for both had heard some, at least, of the dying man's words on that subject, but for a time the American looked straight in front of him. Then he turned to Ormsgill.

"He seemed to expect you to make that restitution for him. Tell us what you know. Most of it will not be news to Father Tiebout, but I haven't his advantages."

"The affair is easily understood. Lamartine bought the girl from the man who ran the labor supply business before Domingo. She was decidedly good-looking, a pretty warm brown in color, and had the most intelligent eyes I've ever seen in an African. The curious thing is that I believe Lamartine was genuinely fond of her. In any case, he was furious when one of the boys laid what looked like very conclusive evidence of her unfaithfulness before him. He meant to administer the usual penalty."

Father Tiebout made a little gesture. "Ah," he said, "these things happen. One can only protest."

"Well," said Ormsgill dryly, "as you know, they didn't in this case. I nearly broke his wrist, but I took the pistol from him. You see, I rather believed in the girl's innocence. Lamartine compromised the thing by handing her on to Herrero—though he would take no money for her. He had, as he was rather fond of mentioning, his code of honor. There was a trying scene when Herrero sent for her. The girl flung herself down and clung to Lamartine's knees. It seemed she was fond of the man, and didn't want to go away, which was, as it happens, wise of her. Though she was probably not aware of this, Herrero trains the women who take his fancy with the whip."

He stopped a moment and glared at Nares. "I have no doubt the padre knows the rest. Lamartine found out not long ago that the boy had lied, and remembered a little too late that Herrero would in all probability beat the girl to death in one of his outbreaks. He made him a very tempting offer if he would send her back, but Herrero apparently wanted to keep her, and while negotiations were in progress Lamartine fell sick. I naturally don't know what he told the padre, but he once or twice assured me that if he knew she could be sent back safe to her people in the bush he would die more contentedly. In fact, improbable as it may seem in this country, the thing was worrying him badly."

It was significant that Nares, who was something of an optimist, appeared by his expression to consider the fact that such a thing should have troubled Lamartine very improbable indeed, but Father Tiebout smiled contemplatively. His profession gave him, as had been suggested, advantages which Nares did not enjoy, and he was a wise man in his way.

"Lamartine," he said, "desired to make restitution—but to do it in his own person was not permitted him."

Then he turned, and sat still with his eyes fixed on Ormsgill, as though waiting. It was, in fact, an occupation he was accustomed to, for one who would see the result of his efforts must as a rule wait a long while in Africa.

Ormsgill met his gaze thoughtfully, with steady gray eyes, and it was a moment or two before he spoke.

"Whether a vicarious reparation will be of any benefit to the soul of Lamartine I naturally do not know," he said. "It is enough for me that he and the padre seemed to fancy it might be, and, as it happens, I owe Lamartine a good deal. This is why I practically promised to undertake his responsibility. I am not sure that either of you know I first arrived in this Colony trimming coal among the niggers in a steamer's stokehold."

Father Tiebout made a little gesture with his hands which seemed to imply that there was very little he was not acquainted with, and Ormsgill went on—

"Still, I do not think you know I was quietly compelled to abandon the service of a British Colony for a fault I never committed. My friends at home very naturally turned against me. I had brought them discredit—and it did not matter greatly whether I was guilty. How I made a living afterwards along this coast does not concern you; but I went down in one sense as far as a white man may, and the struggle has left a mark that will never quite come out on me. Still, I met with kindness from other outcasts and benighted heathen, as one usually does from the outcast and the trodden on, and, when I was flung ashore after nearly pounding the life out of a brutal second engineer, Lamartine, who had gone down to the coast on business, held out a hand to me. As I said, I feel that I owe him a little."

He stopped for a moment with a little grim smile. "Herrero has gone South somewhere, taking the girl with him, but if she is alive I think I can promise that he will give her up. After that it would not be so very difficult to send her back to where she comes from in the bush."

"For the repose of the soul of Lamartine!" and Nares glanced at Father Tiebout, with a challenge in his eyes.

The little priest's gesture seemed to imply that he declined to be drawn into a controversy, and it was Ormsgill who answered the American.

"To discharge a debt—among other reasons—and as a protest. I have been driven to exhaustion myself more than once. Have you any hope at all to offer these African people, I mean in this world, padre?"

Father Tiebout smiled. "Yes," he said simply. "One does what one can, and waits patiently. How long, I do not know, but slowly or suddenly, in our time, or in the time of these people's children, the change will come."

He looked at Nares, the man of action, who bore with waiting ill, and he, flushed with fever, laid a hand that was clenched hard upon the table.

"You expect them to endure to the second generation. I tell you that they are forging spears in the interior now. A little more, and they will come down and wipe out every bush mission and garrison, and can we blame them, who stand by and tolerate the abominable traffic in black men's souls and bodies? There was more excuse for the old-time slavery. Horrible as it would be, one could almost welcome the catastrophe which would force the outside world to recognize what white men are doing here."

There were, perhaps, men in the outside world who knew it already, and could suggest no remedy. After all, labor is essential to the prosperity of any African colony, and while in some which are ruled as justly as circumstances permit the negro is offered wages for his services, and can go home with his earnings when he likes, there are others where more drastic measures are adopted. There the labor purveyor collects the white man's servants in the bush, and it is not the business of the Administration to inquire whether they are prisoners of war or have been sold by their friends. They are bound down to toil for a term of years, and if they die off during it few troublesome questions are asked. The African climate is an unhealthy one, as everybody knows.

In the meanwhile neither of Nares' companions said anything for a space. They were thinking of the same thing, each in his own way, while the dense steamy blackness of the African night shut them in. Ormsgill, who had been driven until the sweat of anguished effort dripped from him, wondered vaguely what a man with brains and nerve and money might do on the negroes' behalf in spite of the opposition of a corrupt administration. The priest was also wondering how much he could accomplish with Lamartine's bequest, very little of which would, however, in all probability, be allowed to remain in his hands, though he knew that it would in any case not go very far, for he was one who recognized that the new beneficent order must be evolved slowly, here a little and there a little, with other men to carry out what he had begun. Father Tiebout seldom rode a tilt at impossibilities, as Nares and Ormsgill occasionally did. He was a wise man, and knew the world too well. At last Nares made a little gesture of weariness.

"Well, the thing may happen, but that hardly concerns us in the meanwhile, and our work here is done. I wonder if you remember that you haven't read the letters Father Tiebout brought up, Ormsgill?"

Ormsgill had, as it happened, quite forgotten them. He had arrived worn out with a long and hasty journey, and Nares and he had then kept close watch beside his comrade's bed. When at last their watch was over there was still much to be done, and now for the first time he had leisure to open the packet the priest had handed him. He took out a stiff blue envelope with an English postmark, and gazed at it heavy eyed and vacantly before he broke the cover. Then he slowly straightened himself in his chair, and incredulity gave place to bewilderment as he read the letter he shook out. Lamartine's death had left him an outcast and one obnoxious to constituted authority again. Five minutes ago he had not known what his next step would be, but the stiff legal writing held out before him dazzling possibilities. Then he laid down the letter, and turned to his companions with a curious little laugh.

"The thing is almost incredible," he said. "A man who I was told would never forgive the discredit I brought upon the family has died in England and left me what looks very like a fortune. The other letters may bear upon it. You'll excuse me."

They watched him in silence for ten minutes, and there was a faint flush in his bronzed face when he quietly rose and took out a photograph from a little tin box.

"Padre," he said, "you are the wisest man I know, and, though distinctions are invidious, Nares is, I think, the honestest. That is why I am going to put a case before you. Well, I had a good upbringing, and I think my English friends expected something from me before I was flung out of the British service and became a pariah. After that I never troubled them again, which was no doubt a cause of satisfaction to everybody. There was, however, a thing I had to do which was not easy, and this picture should make it clear to you. It was arranged that we should be married when I had brought my laurels home from Africa."

He handed Nares the photograph. "When I was made a scapegoat I gave her back her liberty. It is now intimated that she has not so far profited by it."

Nares bent over the portrait of a young and very comely English girl, and saw only the fresh, innocent face, and the smiling eyes. Then he handed it to the little haggard priest, who had a deeper understanding, and saw a good deal more than that.

"It is a beautiful face," he said when Father Tiebout had gazed at it steadily, but the latter said nothing, and turned towards Ormsgill, as though still ready to give him his attention, which he seemed to understand.

"It is more than four years since I saw her, and I have spent them with the outcasts," he said. "You can realize what effect that has upon one, padre. The stamp this country sets on the white man is plain on you, but you have not lived here as I have been forced to do. Well, I think the woman is still the same, and I have greatly changed. I do not know my duty."

Father Tiebout sat silent for at least a minute, looking reflectively at the man before him. Ormsgill was young still, but his lean face was furrowed, and there was a suggestiveness in the lines on it. He had seen death and pestilence, human nature stripped naked, and unmentionable cruelty; and the priest was quite aware that one cannot live with the outcast, in Africa, and remain unchanged. Then he looked at the photograph again, for he knew that the four years had also had their effect upon the woman.

"Ah," he said, "we all grow, some towards the beneficent light, and some in the blighting shadow. The training and the pruning we are subjected to also has its effect. Her people?"

"I almost think you would consider them children of this world," said Ormsgill dryly.

"And you have been left a good deal of money?"

Ormsgill told him what the amount was, and once more the priest said nothing for awhile. Quiet and unobtrusive as he was, he never forgot that he was one of the vanguard of the Church militant, and was ready to use with skill any weapon that was offered him. It was also necessary to thrust hard now and then, and he knew that in his hands the man who had lived with the outcast and the oppressed would prove a reliable blade. Ormsgill, as he recognized, had capacities. Still, his counsel had been asked, and he would answer honestly, knowing that he could afford to do it if his knowledge of human nature, and the girl's face, had not deceived him. After all, he fancied, whatever he said the result would be the same, and he was playing a skillful game of which the stakes were black men's bodies, and, perhaps, human souls.

"With a sum like that there is so much that one could do," he said. "With discretion—you understand—here and there a little. Domingo put down, women dying at their tasks redeemed and enfolded in the shelter of the Mission, men with brutal masters set at liberty, and concessions where they are driven to death suppressed. One could also bring about a reckoning with corrupt authority. When admonition is of no service one may try the scourge."

He saw the little glint in Ormsgill's eyes, and made a deprecatory gesture with his hands. "Still, you have asked for counsel, and you have another duty. With us marriage is not a social contract, and the promise that precedes it is almost as sacred. You are pledged to this Englishwoman if she has not released you, and that you are changed will not matter if she loves you. It is your duty to go back to her."

Nares looked up and nodded. "Of course!" he said. "You must go."

Ormsgill's forehead was furrowed, and the perspiration stood in beads on it. The love that had driven him out to win his spurs in the land of shadow still in some degree, at least, remained with him; but he was conscious of the change in him which the girl with her upbringing might well shrink from. He had lived with the outcasts until he had become one of them, a hater of conventional formulas and shams, while there had crept into his nature a trace of the somberness of the dark land. What, he wondered, would the sunny-tempered English girl he had left make of such a man. Still, as the priest had said, his duty was clear, and, what was perhaps more, his inclination marched with it. He straightened himself suddenly with a little resolute jerk of his shoulders.

"I will start for the coast to-morrow, and go to Grand Canary," he said. "As it happens, she is there now with her people. Still, before I go, padre, I will arrange with the casa Sarraminho to hand you the equivalent of £200 sterling. With that you can buy the liberty of the woman Lamartine gave Herrero, and use what is left over as you and Nares think fit. If Herrero will not part with her, or you find the thing too difficult, I will come back for a while and undertake it myself. After all, it is my affair. I owe it to Lamartine."

Then he took the little photograph and replaced it in the tin box, after which he walked quietly past them and out of the room while, when they heard him go down the veranda stairway, Father Tiebout looked at his companion with a curious smile.

"Four years!" he said. "It is a space in a woman's lifetime, and every year leaves its mark on us. It is decreed that we must grow, but we do not all grow the same."

In the meanwhile Ormsgill stood in the little compound with the sour white steam drifting past him. The forest rose out of it, a great black wall, and its hot, damp smell was in his nostrils. It was a heady savor, for something that goes with the smell of the wilderness sinks deep into the hearts of those who once allow it to enter, and is always afterwards a cause of disquietude and restlessness to some of them. Ormsgill had had his endurance and all the courage he was born with taxed to the uttermost in that steamy shade, but now when he was about to leave it he found the smell of its tall white lilies and the acrid odors of corruption stirring and shaking him. At last, with a little jerk of his shoulders, which was a trick he had acquired from Lamartine, he turned and went back to the lighted room again.

CHAPTER III
HIS OWN PEOPLE

The velvet dusk that crept up from the eastwards was held in check by the brightening flood of moonlight on the sea when Ormsgill leaned on the balustrade of the veranda outside the Hotel Catalina in Grand Canary. Close in front of him the long Atlantic swell broke upon the hammered beach with a drowsy rumbling, and flung a pungent freshness into the listless air, for the Trade breeze had fallen dead away. The fringe of surf ran southwards beside the dim white road to where the lights of Las Palmas blinked and twinkled in the shadow the great black peaks flung out upon the sparkling sea.

Ormsgill, who had turned from its contemplation at the sound of a voice he recognized, had, however, no longer any eyes for the prospect. He had arrived on an African mail-boat two hours earlier, and had somehow missed the girl whose voice had sent a little thrill through him. She had, it seemed, gone in through one of the long, lighted windows instead of by the door, but the horse she had just dismounted from was still standing with another, which carried a man's saddle, just below the veranda. Ormsgill could see that it was one of the sorry beasts the Spaniards hire to Englishmen, but it was also jaded and white with lather.

"These English have no consideration," said the peon who held its bridle, to a comrade. "This horse is old, but when I brought it here it was not more than a very little lame. Now it is certain I cannot hire it to anybody to-morrow. They were at Arucas, which for a horse of this kind is a long way, but they came home by the barranco and across the sand heaps at the gallop. The Señorita must not be late for dinner. Vaya! it is a cruelty."

The matter was, perhaps, not a great one in itself, but it had a somewhat unpleasant effect upon Ormsgill, who knew that the Iberian is not as a rule squeamish about any cruelty that the lust of gain renders it necessary to inflict upon his beast. The horse, as he could see, had certainly been ridden hard, and was very lame. The thing jarred on him, and as he leaned on the veranda waiting until the message he had left to announce his arrival should be delivered, a scene he had looked upon in the dark land forced itself upon his recollection. It was a line of jaded men staggering under the burdens on their heads through an apparently interminable sea of scorched and dusty grass. There was little water in that country at the season, and they dragged themselves along, grimed with the fibrous dust, in torments of thirst, with limbs that were reddened by the stabbing of the flinty grass stems. Then rousing himself he drove the suggestive vision from his brain and entered the hall of the big hotel.

It blazed with light, there was music somewhere, and already conventionally attired men and elaborately dressed women were descending the stairway, and appearing by twos and threes from the corridors. They were for the most part Englishmen and women, but Ormsgill was a little astonished to feel that instead of arousing sympathy their voices and bearing jarred on him. Their conversation appeared to have no point in it, and their smiles were meaningless. They seemed shallow and artificial, and he had lived at high pressure, face to face with grim realities, in the land of the shadow. He stood a little apart, quietly regarding them, a lonely figure in plain white duck with a lined brown face, until a burly man in the conventional black and white strode up to him.

"I'm uncommonly glad to see you, Tom," he said. "Ada will be down in a minute. I left her and her mother almost too startled to understand that you had arrived. The man you gave your message to had just brought it in. You should have let us know what boat you were sailing by. But I mustn't keep you talking. You have just time to change your things."

Ormsgill shook hands with him, but was conscious of a lack of enthusiasm as he did it that irritated him. He had once considered Major Chillingham a very good fellow, but now there seemed to be something wanting in his characteristic bluff geniality. Ormsgill could not tell what it was, but he felt the lack of it.

"I suppose there is," he said with a smile. "Still, you see, I haven't anything to change into. In fact, my present outfit is a considerably smarter one than the get-up I have been accustomed to dining in."

Chillingham's gaze was at first expressive of blank astonishment, and there was a sardonic gleam in Ormsgill's eyes. "You must try to remember that I've got out of the way of wearing evening clothes. I think I'd made it clear that I have been down in the depths the past four years."

His companion's red face flushed a trifle, but he laughed. "Well," he said, "that's one of the things we needn't talk about, and I'm not sure that everybody would be so ready to mention it." Then he drew back a trifle. "Tom, you're greatly changed."

Ormsgill nodded. "Yes," he said, "I dare say I am. In several ways the thing's not unnatural."

After that Chillingham discoursed about English affairs, and though it appeared to cost him a slight effort Ormsgill made no attempt to help him. He stood still, perfectly at his ease, but for all that conscious that he was an anachronism in such surroundings, while the men and women who smiled or nodded to his companion as they came into the hall cast curious glances at him. This duck-clad man with the lined face and steady eyes was clearly not of their world, which was, in the case of most of them, an essentially frivolous one.

At last he turned, and strode forward impulsively as the girl he waited for came down the stairway in a filmy dress of lace-like texture that rustled softly as it flowed about her. She was brown-haired and brown-eyed, warm in coloring, and her face, which was as comely as ever, had a certain hint of disdain in it. That, however, did not strike Ormsgill then, for she flushed a little at the sight of him, and laid a slim white hand in his.

"Tom," she said, "I am very glad, but why didn't you cable? Still, you must tell me afterwards. We are stopping the others, and mother is waiting to speak to you."

Ormsgill was conscious of a faint relief as he turned to the tall lady who stood beside the girl, imposing and formal in somber garments. The meeting he had looked forward to with longing, and at the same time a vague apprehension, was over. He had, he felt, been reinstated, permitted to resume his former footing, and the manner of the elder lady, which was quietly gracious, conveyed the same impression. Then Mrs. Ratcliffe sent her brother, the Major, on to see that places were kept for them together, and Ormsgill was thankful that the dinner which was waiting would render any confidential conversation out of the question for the next hour. He wanted time to adjust himself to the changed conditions, for a man can not cut himself adrift from all that he has been accustomed to and then resume his former life just as he left it, especially if he has dwelt with the outcast in the meanwhile.

A chair had been placed for him between Ada Ratcliffe and her mother, while Major Chillingham sat almost opposite him across the long table. The glow of light, glitter of glass and silver, scent of flowers and perfumes, and hum of voices had a curious effect on him after the silence of the shadowy forest and the primitive fashion in which he had lived with Lamartine, and some minutes had passed before he turned to the girl at his side.

"I was a little astonished to hear that you were in Las Palmas," he said.

Ada Ratcliffe looked at him with a smile, and a slight lifting of her brows. She was perfectly composed, and in one way he was glad of that, though he vaguely felt that her attitude was not quite what he had expected.

"Astonished only?" she said. "As you would have had to change steamers here and wait a few days it would probably have taken you two weeks more to join us in England. At least, so the Major said."

Ormsgill felt he had deserved this, for he had recognized the inanity of the observation when he made it. It was evident that his companion had recognized it, too. Still, it is difficult to express oneself feelingly to order.

"I should have said delighted," he ventured.

The girl smiled again, and he felt that he had chosen an injudicious word. "In any case, it isn't in the least astonishing that we are here. It is becoming a recognized thing to come out to Las Palmas in the winter, and I believe it is a good deal cheaper than Egypt or Algeria. That is, of course, a consideration."

"It certainly is," broke in the lady at her side. "When they are always finding a new way to tax us in, and incomes persist in going down. Tom is fortunate. It will scarcely be necessary for him to trouble himself very much about such considerations."

Ormsgill for the first time noticed the signs of care in Mrs. Ratcliffe's face, and the wrinkles about her eyes. Neither had, he fancied, been there when he had last seen her in England nearly five years earlier, but the change in her was as nothing compared to that in her daughter. Ada Ratcliffe was no longer a fresh and somewhat simple-minded English girl. She was a self-possessed and dignified woman of the world, but what else she might be he could not at the moment tell. He blamed himself for the desire to ascertain it, since he felt it was more fitting that he should accept her without question as the embodiment of all that was adorable. Still, he could not do it. The four years he had spent apart from her had given him too keen an insight.

"Well," he said, "there are people who believe that the possession of even a very small fortune is something of a responsibility."

"That," said Mrs. Ratcliffe, "is a mistake nowadays. There are so many excellent organized charities ready to undertake one's duties for one. They are in a position to discharge them so much more efficiently."

Ormsgill did not reply to this, though there was a faint sardonic twinkle in his eyes. He was not, as a rule, addicted to passing on a responsibility, but he remembered then that he had handed a little Belgian priest £200 to carry out a duty that had been laid on him. The fact that he had done so vaguely troubled him. Mrs. Ratcliffe, however, went on again.

"One of the disadvantages of living here is the number of invalids one is thrown into contact with," she said. "I find it depressing. You will notice the woman in the singularly unbecoming black dress yonder. She insists on drinking thick cocoa with a spoon at dinner."

One could have fancied that she felt this breach of custom to be an enormity, and Ormsgill wondered afterwards what malignant impulse suddenly possessed him. Still, the worthy lady's coldly even voice and formal manner jarred upon him, while the pleasure of meeting the girl he had thought of for four long years was much less than he felt it should have been. He resented the fact, and most men's tempers grow a trifle sharp in tropical Africa.

"Well," he said dryly, "one understands that it is nourishing, and, after all, we are to some extent cannibals."

"Cannibals?" said Mrs. Ratcliffe with a swift suspicious glance which seemed to suggest that she was wondering whether the African climate had been too much for him.

"Yes," said Ormsgill, "cocoa, or, at least, that grown in parts of Africa where the choicest comes from, could almost be considered human flesh and blood. Any way, both are expended lavishly to produce it. I fancy you will bear me out in this, Señor?"

He looked at the little, olive-faced gentleman in plain white duck who sat not far away across the table. He had grave dark eyes with a little glint in them, and slim yellow hands with brown tips to some of the fingers, and was just then twisting a cigarette between them. Ormsgill surmised that it cost him an effort to refrain from lighting it, since men usually smoke between the courses of a dinner in his country. There was a certain likeness between him and the Commandant of San Roque, sufficient at least, to indicate that they were of the same nationality, but the man at the table in the Catalina had been cast in a finer mold, and there was upon him the unmistakable stamp of authority.

"One is assured that what is done is necessary," he said in slow deliberate English. "I am, however, not a commercialist."

"You, of course, believe those assurances?"

The little white-clad gentleman smiled in a somewhat curious fashion. "A wise man believes what is told him—while it is expedient. Some day, perhaps, the time comes when it is no longer so."

"And then?"

A faint, suggestive glint replaced the smile in the keen dark eyes. "Then he acts on what he thinks himself. Though I can not remember when, it seems to me, senhor, that I have had the pleasure of meeting you before."

"You have," said Ormsgill dryly. "It was one very hot morning in the rainy season, and you were sitting at breakfast outside a tent beneath a great rock. Two files of infantry accompanied me."

"I recollect perfectly. Still, as it happens, I had just finished breakfast, which was, I think, in some respects fortunate. One is rather apt to proceed summarily before it—in the rainy season."

Ormsgill laughed, and the girl who sat beside the man he had spoken to flashed a swift glance at him. She was dressed in some thin, soft fabric, of a pale gold tint, and the firm, round modeling of the figure it clung about proclaimed her a native of the Iberian peninsula, the Peninsula, as those who are born there love to call it. Still, there was no tinge of olive in her face, which, like her arms and shoulders, was of the whiteness of ivory. Her eyes, which had a faint scintillation in them, were of a violet black, and her hair of the tint of ebony, though it was lustrous, too. She, however, said nothing, and Major Chillingham, who seemed to feel himself neglected, broke in.

"I'm afraid you were at your old tricks again, Tom," he said. "What had you been up to then?"

"Interfering with two or three black soldiers, who resented it. They were trying to burn up a native hut with a couple of wounded niggers inside it. I believe there was a woman inside it, too."

Chillingham shook his head reproachfully. "One can't help these things now and then, and I don't know where you got your notions from," he said. "It certainly wasn't from your father. He was a credit to the service, and a sensible man. You can only expect trouble when you kick against authority."

Ormsgill looked at Ada Ratcliffe, but there was only a faint suggestion of impatience in her face. Then, without exactly knowing why, he glanced across the table, and caught the little gleam of sardonic amusement in the other girl's violet eyes. She, at least, it seemed, had comprehension, and that vaguely displeased him, since he had expected it from the woman he had come back to marry, instead of a stranger. Then the man with the olive face looked up again.

"You have it in contemplation to go back to Africa?"

"No," said Ormsgill, who felt that Mrs. Ratcliffe was listening. "At least, I scarcely think it will be necessary."

"Ah," said the other, with a little dry smile, "It is, one might, perhaps, suggest, not advisable. There are several men who do not bear you any great good will in that country."

Ormsgill laughed. "One," he said, "is forced to do a good many things which do not seem advisable yonder, and I have one or two very excellent friends."

Then he turned to Ada Ratcliffe, and discoursed with her and her mother on subjects he found it difficult to take much interest in, which was a fresh surprise to him, for he had considered them subjects of importance before he left England. The effort he made to display a becoming attention was not apparent, but it was a slight relief to two of the party when the dinner was over. Another hour had, however, passed before he had the girl to himself, and they sauntered down through the dusty garden and along the dim white road until they reached a little mole that ran out into the harbor. The moon had just dipped behind the black peaks, and they sat down in the soft darkness on a ledge of stone, and listened for a while to the rumble of the long Atlantic swell that edged to the strip of shadowy coast with a fringe of spouting foam. Both felt there was a good deal to be said, but the commencement was difficult, and it was significant that the man gazed westwards—towards Africa—across the dusky heaven, until he looked round when his companion spoke to him.

"Tom," she said quietly, "you have not come back the same as when you went away."

"I believe I haven't," and Ormsgill's voice was gentle. "My dear, you must bear with me awhile. You see, there are so many things I have lost touch with, and it will take me a little time to pick it up again. Still, if you will wait and humor me, I will try."

He turned, and glanced towards a great block of hotel buildings that cut harsh and square against the soft blueness of the night not far away. The long rows of open windows blazed, and the music that came out from them reached the two who sat listening through the deep-toned rumble of the surf. It was evident that an entertainment of some kind was going on, but Ormsgill found the signs of it vaguely disquieting.

"One feels that building shouldn't be there," he said. "They should have placed it in the city. It's too new and aggressive where it is, and the ways of the folks who stay in it are almost as out of place."

He stopped a moment with a little laugh. "I expect I'm talking nonsense, and it's really not so very long since that kind of thing used to appeal to me. After all, there must be a certain amount of satisfaction to be got out of purposeless flirtation, cards, dining, and dancing."

It was not very dark, and, when he looked round, the shapely form of his companion was silhouetted blackly against the sky on the step above him. There was something vaguely suggestive of an impatience that was, perhaps, excusable in her attitude.

"Oh," she said, "there is not a great deal. I admit that, but one must live as the others do, and have these things to pass the time. You know there is nothing to be gained by making oneself singular."

Ormsgill smiled, though once more the smell of the wilderness, the odors of lilies and spices, and the sourness of corruption, was in his nostrils. Men grappled for dear life with stern and occasionally appalling realities there, and he was one in whom the love of conflict had been born.

"No," he said, "I suppose there isn't. At least, it usually involves one in trouble, and, as you say, one must have something to pass the time away. Still, Ada, for a while you will try to put up with my little impatiences and idiosyncrasies. No doubt I shall fit myself to my surroundings by and by."

Ada Ratcliffe had a face that was almost beautiful, and a slim, delicately modeled form in keeping with it, but perhaps they had been given her as makeweights and a counterbalance for the lack of more important things. At times, when her own interests were concerned, she could show herself almost clever but she fell short of average intelligence just then, when a sympathetic word or a sign of comprehension would have bound the man to her.

Leaning a little towards him she laid her hand on the sleeve of his duck jacket. "I would like you to do it soon," she said. "Tom, to please me, you won't come in to dinner dressed this way again."

There was a suggestion of harshness in Ormsgill's laugh, but he checked himself. "Of course not, if you don't wish it. If there is a tailor in Las Palmas I will try to set that right to-morrow. Now we will talk of something else. You want to live in England?"

It appeared that Ada did, and she was disposed to talk at length upon that topic. She also drew closer to him, and while the man's arm rested on her shoulder discussed the house he was to buy in the country, and how far his means, which were, after all, not very large, would permit the renting of another in town each season. He listened gravely, and saw that there were no aspirations in the scheme. Their lives were evidently to be spent in a round of conventional frivolities, and all the time he heard the boom of the restless sea, and the smell of the wilderness, pungent and heady, grew stronger in his nostrils. Then he closed a hand tighter on the shoulder of the girl, in a fashion that suggested he felt the need of something to hold fast by, as perhaps he did.

"There is one point we have to keep in view, for the thing may be remembered against me still," he said. "I was turned out of the service of a British Colony."

"Ah," said the girl, "I felt it cruelly at the time, but, after all, it happened more than four years ago—and not very many people heard of it."

Ormsgill sat still a minute, and his grasp grew a trifle slacker on her arm. "I told you I didn't do the thing they accused me of," he said.

"Of course! Still, everybody believed you did, and that was almost as hard to bear. The great thing is that it was quite a long while ago. Tom," and she turned to him quickly, "I believe you are smiling."

"I almost think I was," said Ormsgill. "Still, I don't know why I should do so. Well, I understand we are to stay here a month or two, and we will have everything arranged before we go back to England."

It was half an hour later when his companion rose. "The time is slipping by," she said. "There is to be some singing, and one or two of the people we have met lately are coming round to-night. I must go in and talk to them. These things are in a way one's duty. One has to do one's part."

Ormsgill made no protest. He rose and walked quietly back with her to the hotel, but his face was a trifle grave, and he was troubled by vague misgivings.

CHAPTER IV
THE SUMMONS

The month Ormsgill spent at Las Palmas was a time of some anxiety to Mrs. Ratcliffe. He had, as she complained to her brother, no sense of the responsibility that devolved upon a man of his means, and was addicted to making friends with all kinds of impossible people, grimy English coaling clerks, and the skippers of Spanish schooners, and, what was more objectionable, now and then bringing them to the hotel. He expressed his regret when she pointed out the undesirability of such proceedings, but, for all that, made no very perceptible change in his conduct.

Major Chillingham as a rule listened gravely, and said very little, for his sister was one who seldom welcomed advice from anybody, and though not a brilliant man he was by no means a fool. On the last occasion he, however, showed a little impatience.

"Well," he said, "he seems to have got hold of a few first-class people, too. There is that Ayutante fellow on the Governor's staff, and the Senhor Figuera, the little, quiet man with the yellow hands, is evidently a person of some consequence in his own country. You can't mistake the stamp of authority. After all, it's no doubt just as well he and the girl have gone. Tom seemed on excellent terms with them."

Mrs. Ratcliffe looked indignant. "A Portuguese with a powdered face, and no notion of what is fitting!"

"An uncommonly good-looking one," and the Major grinned. "A woman with brains enough to get the thing she sets her mind on, too, and I have rather a fancy that she was pleased with Tom. Still, that's not the question, and anyway she's back again in Africa. Now, if you'll take advice from me you'll keep a light hand on him, and not touch the curb. If you do he's quite capable of making a bolt of it."

"That," said the lady, "would be so disgraceful as to be inconceivable—when Ada has waited more than four years for him."

Her brother's eyes twinkled. "In one way, I suppose she did. Still, of course, Urmston didn't get the Colonial appointment he expected, and, one has to be candid, young Hatherly seemed proof against the blandishments you wasted on him."

"A marriageable daughter is a heavy responsibility," said Mrs. Ratcliffe with a sigh.

"No doubt," said the Major. "That is precisely why I recommended the judicious handling of Tom Ormsgill. If he hasn't quite as much as you would like, it's enough to keep them comfortably, and in several ways he's worth the other two put together. The man's straight, and quiet. In fact, I'm not sure I wouldn't prefer him with a few more gentlemanly dissipations. They act as a safety valve occasionally."

His sister raised her hands in protest, and Chillingham withdrew with a chuckle, but she was rather more gracious to Ormsgill than usual that day, and during the next one accompanied him with her daughter and one or two acquaintances in a launch he had borrowed to look at the wreck of a steamer which had gone ashore a night or two earlier. The unfortunate vessel afforded a somewhat impressive spectacle as she lay grinding on the reef with the long yeasty seas washing over her, and the little party spent some time watching her from the launch which swung with the steep, green swell.

It was, however, very hot and dazzling bright, and no protests were made when Ormsgill, who it seemed knew all about steam launches, leaned forward from the helm and started the engines. The little propeller thudded, and they slid away with a long, smooth lurch across the slopes of glittering water that were here and there flecked with foam, for the beach they skirted lies open to the heave of the Atlantic. The Trade breeze fanned their faces pleasantly, and Ada Ratcliffe sat almost contented for the time being at Ormsgill's side. It was refreshing that hot day, to listen to the swish of sliding brine, and there was a certain exhilaration in the swift smooth motion, while she realized that the man she was to marry appeared to greater advantage than he did as a rule in the drawing room of the big hotel.

He was never awkward, or ill at ease, but she had noticed—and resented—the air of aloofness he sometimes wore when he listened to her companions' pointless badinage and vapid conversation. Now as he sat with a lean brown hand on the tiller controlling the little hissing craft he seemed curiously at home. There was also, as generally happened when he was occupied, a suggestion of reserved force in his face and attitude. He was, she realized, a man one could have confidence in when there were difficult things to be done. This however, brought her presently a vague dissatisfaction, for she felt there were certain aspects of his character which had never been revealed to her, and she was faintly conscious of the antagonism to and shrinking from what one cannot quite understand which is not infrequently a characteristic of people with imperfectly developed minds.

The fresh Trade breeze which blew down out of the harbor from the black Isleta hill was, however, evidently much less pleasant to the Spanish peons who toiled at the ponderous sweeps of an empty coal lighter the launch was rapidly drawing level with. She was floating high above the flaming swell, and the perspiration dripped from the men's grimy faces as they labored, two of them at each of the huge oars. Indeed Ormsgill could see the swollen veins stand out on their wet foreheads, and the overtaxed muscles swell on their half-covered chests and naked arms, for the barge was of some forty tons, and it was very heavy work pulling her against the wind. She had evidently been to a Spanish steamer lying well out beyond the mole, and there was, as he noticed, no tug available to tow her back again, while the sea foamed whitely on a reef close astern of her. It was only by a strenuous effort that the men were propelling the big clumsy craft clear of the reef, and there were signs that they could not keep it up much longer.

He glanced at the little group of daintily attired, soft-handed men and women on board the launch, to whom the stress of physical labor was an unknown thing, and then looked back towards the coal-grimed toilers on the lighter. As yet they worked on stubbornly, with tense furrowed faces, under a scorching sun, taxing to the uttermost every muscle in their bodies, but it seemed to him that the lighter was no further from the reef. He flung an arm up, and hailed them, for he had acquired a working acquaintance with several Latin languages on the fever coast.

"You can't clear that point," he said. "Have you no anchor?"

"No, señor," cried one of the peons breathlessly. "The tug should have come for us, but she is taking the water boat to the English steamer."

Ormsgill turned to his companions. "You won't mind if I pull them in? They're almost worn out, and it will not detain us more than ten minutes."

One of the men made a little gesture of concurrence which had a hint of good-humored toleration in it, but Mrs. Ratcliffe appeared displeased, and Ada flushed a trifle. One could have fancied she did not wish the man who belonged to her to display his little idiosyncrasies before her friends.

"One understands that all Spaniards avoid exertion when they can," she said. "Perhaps a little hard work wouldn't hurt them very much."

There was a slight change in Ormsgill's expression. "I fancy the men can do no more."

Then he waved his hand to the peons. "Get your hawser ready."

He was alongside the lighter in another minute, but she rolled wildly above the launch, big and empty, and the sea broke whitely about her, for now the men had ceased rowing she was drifting towards the reef. The hawser was also dripping and smeared with coal dust when Ormsgill, who seemed to understand such matters, hauled it in, and while the sea splashed on board the launch, streams of gritty brine ran from it over everything. Then he stirred the little furnace with an iron bar before he pulled over the starting lever, and a rush of sparks and thin hot smoke poured down upon his companions as the little craft went full speed ahead. Ada, perhaps half-consciously, drew herself a little farther away from him. There was coal grit on his wet duck jacket, and he had handled hawser and furnace rubble like one accustomed to them, in fact as a fireman or a sailor would have done. That was a thing which did not please her, and she wondered if the others had noticed it. It became evident that one of them had.

"You did that rather smartly," he said.

Ormsgill's smile was a trifle dry. "I have," he said, "done much the same thing before professionally."

There was a struggle for the next few minutes. Launch and lighter had drifted into shoal water while they made the hawser fast, and the swell had piled itself up and was breaking whitely. The little launch plunged through it with flame at her funnel and a spray-cloud blowing from her bows, and as she hauled the big lighter out yard by yard a little glint crept into Ormsgill's eyes. Ada Ratcliffe almost resented it, for he had never looked like that at any of the social functions she had insisted on his taking a part in, but her forbearance was further taxed when they crept slowly beneath the side of a big white steam yacht. A little cluster of men and daintily dressed women sat beneath the awning on her deck, and one or two of them were people her mother had taken pains to cultivate an acquaintance with.

One man leaned upon her rail and looked down with a little smile. "Have you been going into the coal business, Fernside?" he said. "Considering the figure they charged Desmond it ought to be a profitable one."

The man in the launch he addressed laughed, and Ormsgill towed the lighter on until at last he cast the tow rope off, and a very grimy peon stood upon her deck. He took off his big, shapeless hat, and as he swung, cut in black against the dazzling sea, there was in his poise a lithe gracefulness and a certain elaborate courtesy.

"Señor," he said, "our thanks are yours, and everything else that belongs to us. May the saints watch over you, and send you a friend if ever your task is too heavy and the breakers are close beneath your lee."

Ormsgill took off his hat gravely, as equal to equal, but he smiled a little as the launch swept on.

"Well," he said, "after all, I may need one some day."

They were back in the hotel in another half-hour, and Mrs. Ratcliffe took him to task as they sat on the shady veranda. Ormsgill lay back in his big Madeira chair, with half-closed eyes, and listened dutifully. He felt he could afford it, for the few minutes of tense uncertainty when he had hauled the lighter out of the grasp of the breakers had been curiously pleasant to him.

"There was, of course, no harm in the thing itself," she said at last.

"No," said Ormsgill with an air of deep reflection, "I almost think that to save a fellow creature who is badly worn out an effort he is scarcely fit to make isn't really very wrong. Still, the men were certainly very dirty—I suppose that is the point?"

The lady, who looked very stiff and formal in the black she persisted in wearing, favored him with a searching glance, but there was only grave inquiry in his steady eyes.

"The point is that things which may be commendable in themselves are not always—appropriate," she said.

"Expedient—isn't it?" suggested Ormsgill languidly.

"Expedient," said Mrs. Ratcliffe with a little flush in her face. "In this world one has to be guided by circumstances, and must endeavor to fit oneself to that station in life to which one has been—appointed."

"I suppose so," said Ormsgill. "The trouble is that I really don't know what particular station I have been appointed to. I was thrown out of the Colonial service, you see, and afterwards drove a steam launch for a very dissolute mahogany trader. Then I floated the same kind of trees down another river with the niggers, and followed a few other somewhat unusual occupations. In fact, I've been in so many stations that it's almost bewildering."

His companion got away from the point. She did not like having the fact that he had been, as he expressed it, thrown out of the Colonial service forced upon her recollection.

"One has, at least, to consider one's friends," she said. "We are on rather good terms with two or three of the people who came out with Mr. Desmond, whom I have not met yet, in the Palestrina. In fact, Ada is a little anxious that you should make their acquaintance. You will probably come across them in England."

"Well," said Ormsgill cheerfully, "I really don't think Dick Desmond would mind if I took up coal heaving as an amusement. He isn't a particularly conventional man himself."

"You know him?"

"Oh, yes. I know him tolerably well."

"Then didn't you consider it your duty to go off and call upon him?"

"I suppose it was," said Ormsgill meditatively. "Still, as a rule, I rather like my friends to call on me. I've no doubt that Dick will do it presently. He only arrived here yesterday, as you know. The people he brought out came on from Teneriffe, I think. Somebody told me the Palestrina lay a week there with something wrong with her engines."

Mrs. Ratcliffe smiled approvingly at last. "Yes," she said, "in one way the course you mention is usually preferable. It places one on a surer footing."

Then she discussed other subjects, and supplied him with a good deal of excellent advice to which he listened patiently, though he was sensible of a certain weariness and there was a little dry smile in his eyes when she went away. As it happened, Desmond, who owned the Palestrina, came ashore that evening and was received by Mrs. Ratcliffe very graciously. The two men had also a good deal to say to each other, and the meeting was not without its results to both of them.

It was late the following afternoon when a little yellow-funneled mail-boat with poop and forecastle painted white steamed into the harbor with awnings spread, and an hour or two later a waiter handed Ormsgill a letter. His face grew intent as he read it, and the curious little glint that Ada Ratcliffe had noticed when he towed the coal lighter clear of the surf crept back into his eyes. It was also significant that, although she and her mother were sitting near him on the veranda, he appeared oblivious of them when he rose and stepped back through an open window into the hotel. Five minutes later they saw him stride through the garden and down the long white road.

"I think he is going to the little mole," said Ada. "I don't know why he does so, but when anything seems to ruffle him he generally goes there."

Then she flashed a quick questioning glance at her mother. "That letter was from Africa. I saw the stamp on it."

Mrs. Ratcliffe shook her head. "I don't think there is any reason why you should disturb yourself," she said. "After all, one has to excuse a good deal in the case of men who live in the tropics, and though the ways Tom has evidently acquired there now and then jar on me I venture to believe he will grow out of them and become a credit to you with judicious management. It would, perhaps, be wiser not to mention that letter, my dear."

Ada said nothing, though she was a trifle uneasy. She had seen the sudden intentness of Ormsgill's face, and was far from sure that he would submit to management of any kind. Nobody acquainted with her considered her a clever woman, but, after all, her intelligence was keener than her mother's.

In the meanwhile Ormsgill sat down on the steps of the little mole. It was pleasantly cool there, and he had already found the rush and rumble of frothing brine tranquilizing, though he was scarcely conscious of it as he took out the letter and read it again. It was from the missionary Nares.

"Father Tiebout has just come in very shaky with fever," he read. "It appears that Herrero, who will not let her go, has gone back towards the interior with the woman Lamartine gave him, and has been systematically ill-using her. There is another matter to mention. Soon after you went Domingo seized the opportunity of raiding Lamartine's station, and took all the boys away while we were arranging to send them home as you asked us to do. It will, in view of the feeling against us, be difficult or impossible to bring the thing home to him, but I understand from Father Tiebout that you engaged the boys for Lamartine and pledged your word to send them home when the time agreed upon expired. Father Tiebout merely asked me to tell you. He said that if you recognized any responsibility in the matter you would not shrink from it."

Ormsgill crumpled up the letter and sat very still, gazing into the dimness that was creeping up from Africa across the sea. The message was terse, and though the writing was that of Nares he saw the wisdom of Father Tiebout in it. Nares when he was moved spoke at length and plainly, but the little priest had a way of making other folks do what he wanted, as it were, of their own accord, and without his prompting them.

It grew rapidly darker, but Ormsgill did not notice it. The deep rumble of the surf was in his ears, and the restlessness of the sea crept in on him. He had heard that thunderous booming on sweltering African beaches, and had watched the filmy spray-cloud float far inland athwart the dingy mangroves, and a curious gravity crept into his eyes as he gazed at the Eastern haze beyond which lay the shadowy land. Life was intense and primitive there, and his sojourn in the big hotel had left him with a growing weariness. Then there was the debt he owed Lamartine, and the promise he had made, and he wondered vaguely what Ada Ratcliffe would say when he told her he was going back again. She would protest, but, for all that, he fancied she would not feel his absence very much, though there were times when her manner to him had been characterized by a certain tenderness. As he thought of it he sighed.

By and by a boat from the white steam yacht slid up to the foot of the steps, and a man who ascended them started when he came upon Ormsgill. He was tall and long-limbed, and his voice rang pleasantly.

"What in the name of wonder are you doing here alone?" he asked.

"I think I'm worrying, Dick," said Ormsgill. "The fact is, I'm going back yonder."

Desmond looked hard at him—but it was already almost dark. "Well," he said, "we're rather old friends. Would it be too much if I asked you why?"

"Sit down," said Ormsgill. "I'll try to tell you."

He did so concisely and quietly, and Desmond made a little sign of comprehension. "Well," he said, "if you feel yourself under an obligation to that Frenchman I'm not sure it isn't just as binding now he's dead."

"I was on my beam-ends, without a dollar in my pocket, when he held out his hand to me. Of course, neither of us know much about these questions, and, as a matter of fact, it's scarcely likely that Lamartine did, but he seemed to believe what the padre told him, and there's no doubt it was a load off his mind when he understood I'd have the woman set at liberty."

Desmond sat silent for a minute. Then he said, "There are two points that occur to me. Since you are willing to supply the money, can't the priest and the missionary arrange the thing?"

"Nares says they can't. After all, they're there on sufferance, and every official keeps a jealous eye on them. You couldn't expect them to throw away all they've done for several years, and that's very much what it would amount to if they were run out of the Colony."

"Then suppose you bought the woman back, and got those boys set free? From what I've heard about the country somebody else would probably lay hands on them again. Since the Frenchman has broken them in they'd be desirable property."

"That's one of the things I'm worrying over," said Ormsgill reflectively. "I had thought of running them up the coast and turning them loose in British Nigeria. They'd be reasonably well treated, and get wages at the factories there. Still, I'd have some trouble in getting them out of the country, especially as I'm not greatly tempted to buy the boys. If I was it's quite likely that Domingo, who is not a friend of mine, wouldn't let me have them. You see, I'd have to get papers at the port, though there are plenty of lonely beaches where one could get a surf-boat off. I had a notion of trying to pick up a schooner at Sierra Leone or Lagos."

Again Desmond said nothing for a few moments. Then he laughed. "Well," he said, "there's the Palestrina, and when we shake her up she can do her fourteen knots. You can have her for a shooting expedition at a pound a month. Now don't raise any—nonsensical objections. I'm about sick of loafing. The thing would be a relief to me."

"There's your father," said Ormsgill suggestively.

"Just so! There's also the whole estimable family, who have made up their minds I'm to go into Parliament whether I'm willing or not. Well, it seems to me that if I'm to have a hand in governing my country it will be an education to see how they mismanage things in other ones."

Then the scion of a political family who could talk like a fireman, and frequently did so, laughed again. "If I get into trouble over it it will be a big advertisement. Besides, it's two years since I had a frolic of any kind. Been nursing the constituency, taking a benevolent interest in everything from women's rights to village cricket clubs, and I'm coming with you to rake up brimstone now. After all, though I've had no opportunity of displaying my abilities in that direction lately, it's one of the few things I really excel in."

Ormsgill was far from sure that this was what he desired, but he knew his man, and that, for all his apparent inconsequence, he was one who when the pinch came could be relied upon. Then Desmond's effervescence usually vanished, and gave place to a cold determined quietness that had carried him through a good many difficulties. This was fortunate, since he was addicted to involving himself in them rather frequently.

"Well," said Ormsgill, "I'll be glad to have you, but it's rather a big thing. I think they're expecting you at the hotel. We'll talk of it again."

He rose, and as they went back together Desmond said reflectively. "I suppose you understand that it's scarcely likely your prospective mother-in-law will be pleased with you?"

"I wasn't aware that you knew her until you came across her here," said Ormsgill.

"I didn't. My cousins do. Perhaps you won't mind my saying that they seem a little sorry for you. From what they have said about Mrs. Ratcliffe it seems to me that you may have trouble in convincing her of the disinterestedness of your intentions."

Ormsgill felt that this was very probable, though he said nothing.

CHAPTER V
A DETERMINED MAN

It was the following afternoon when Ormsgill stood on the wide veranda outside Mrs. Ratcliffe's room. That lady sat somewhat stiffly facing him in a big basket chair, while her daughter lay close by in one of canvas with her eyes also fixed upon the man languidly. She was dressed in white, and looked very cool and dainty, though her face was almost expressionless. In fact, her attitude was characterized by a certain well-bred serenity which is seldom without its effect when it is an essential part of the person who exhibits it, though a passable imitation of it may be cultivated.

Then one sometimes wonders what may lie behind it, though an attempt to ascertain is not always advisable. In some cases there is nothing, and in others things which it is wiser to leave unseen.

Ormsgill had, as it happened, been busy that morning with an English lawyer whom he had met at the hotel, and had taken him over to the office of the Vice-Consul, who signed a document the lawyer drew out. He had also made other preparations for a journey, but he had sent the priest no word that he was going back to Africa. This, he felt, was not necessary, since Father Tiebout would expect him. He leaned bareheaded against the rails, with the furrows showing plainly on his bronzed face, while the Trade breeze, which was fresh that afternoon, swept the cool veranda and piled the long Atlantic swell rumbling on the beach. He could see the spray fly high and white, and the dust whirl down the glaring road that led to the Spanish city, and once more he felt his blood stir in harmony with the throb of restless life in the frothing sea. Still, the task before him was difficult, and he set about it diffidently.

It was, as he realized, a very lame story and one open to serious misconception that fell from his lips. He could, of course, say nothing in favor of Lamartine's mode of life, though it was by no means an unusual one, and he had to mention it. The subject was a somewhat delicate one in itself, but it was not that alone which brought a faint flush to his face. Mrs. Ratcliffe's pose grew perceptibly primmer as he proceeded, and he recognized that any confidence she might have had in him was being severely shaken. Still, he had not expected her to understand, and he glanced at her daughter with a certain anxiety. The girl's languid indifference was less marked now, for there was a spot of color in her cheek, and her lips were set disdainfully. Ormsgill closed one lean hand a trifle, for these things had their significance, and he had expected that she, at least, would have found his assurance sufficient.

"I think you will agree with me that I must go," he said.

Mrs. Ratcliffe's tone was sharp and she looked at him steadily.

"I'm afraid I don't," she said. "The man was on your own showing an altogether depraved person."

"No," said Ormsgill dryly. "I should be sorry to admit as much. But if he had been, would that have rendered a promise to him less binding?"

"Yes," said the elder lady sturdily. "If he really felt any remorse at all—of which I am very dubious—he brought it upon himself. One cannot do wrong without bearing the consequences. Still, I do not suppose it was penitence. It was more probably pagan fear of death. The man, you admit, was under priestly influence. Of course, if he had been brought up differently——"

Ormsgill could not help a little smile. "He would have considered repentance sufficient, and left the woman to bear the consequences? Somehow I have a hazy notion that restitution is insisted on. But if we dismiss that subject there are still the boys. You see, I pledged myself to send them home again."

Ada Ratcliffe looked up, and her expression was quietly disdainful. "Half-naked, thick-lipped niggers. Would it hurt them very much to work a little and become a trifle civilized? One understands that there is no actual slavery in any part of Africa under European control."

Ormsgill winced, and it was, perhaps, only natural that Mrs. Ratcliffe should not understand why he did so. Then his face grew a trifle hard, but he answered quietly.

"I have no doubt there are folks who would tell you so, but there is, at least, something very like it in one or two colonies," he said. "Still, that is not quite the point."

The girl laughed. "I am a little afraid there is no point at all."

She rose languidly, and the way she did so suggested collusion, though Ormsgill had not noticed that her mother made her any sign. She swept past him with a swish of filmy fabric, and he turned to the elder lady, who made a little gesture of resignation.

"It seems," she said, "you are determined to go, and in that case there is something to be said. As you are bent on exposing yourself to the hazards of a climate I have heard described as deadly, one has to consider—eventualities."

"Exactly!" and Ormsgill found it difficult to repress a sardonic smile. "I have endeavored to provide against them in the one way possible to me. An hour ago I handed Major Chillingham a document which will place Ada in possession of a considerable proportion of my property in six months from my death. The absence of any word from me for that period is to be considered as proof of it. I have no relatives with any claim on me, and I think I am only carrying out an obligation."

"You are very generous," and his companion's tone was expressive of sincere satisfaction. "Though it is, of course, painful, one is reluctantly compelled to take these things into consideration."

She said rather more to the same effect, and the man's face, which was a trifle hard when she went away, suggested that some, at least, of her observations had jarred on him. He was also somewhat astonished to find Ada waiting for him when he strolled moodily into the big drawing-room.

"Tom," she said, "you won't go back there, after all. I don't want you to."

There was a tinge of color in her cheeks and a tense appeal in her eyes, and for a moment Ormsgill was almost tempted to forget his promise and break his word. It seemed that she did care, though he had scarcely fancied that she would feel the parting with him very much a little while ago, and something suggested that she was apprehensive, too. He stood very still, and she saw him slowly close one of his hands.

"My dear," he said, "I have to go."

The girl looked at him steadily a moment, and then made a little hopeless gesture of resignation.

"In that case I should gain nothing by attempting to urge you," she said with a curious quietness. "Still, Tom, you will write to me when you can."

Ormsgill was stirred, as well as a trifle astonished. She had seldom shown him very much tenderness, and he had said nothing that might lead her to believe that he was undertaking a somewhat dangerous thing or that the country was especially unhealthy. Still, he could not help feeling that she was afraid of something. Then, as it happened, they heard her mother speaking to somebody in the corridor, and making him a little sign she slipped out softly. Ormsgill sat where he was, wondering why she had done so, until a rustle of dresses suggested that she and the people she had apparently spoken to had moved away. Then he went out, and met Desmond in front of the hotel.

"Been having it out with Mrs. Ratcliffe?" he said. "I saw you on the veranda. Found it rather difficult? I couldn't stand that old woman."

"It was not exactly pleasant," said Ormsgill, dryly.

Desmond grinned. "Told her what you were going back for—and she didn't believe a word of it? As a matter of fact, you could hardly expect her to. Still, you needn't be unduly anxious. It wouldn't matter very much what you did out there. She might be horrified when she heard of it, but she wouldn't let you go."

The blood rose to Ormsgill's face. He fancied his companion was right in this, but it suggested another thought, and it appeared impossible that the girl's views should coincide with her mother's. It was painful to feel that she might have placed an unfavorable construction upon his narrative, but that she should believe him a libertine and still be willing to marry him because he was rich was a thing he shrank with horror from admitting. He was aware that women now and then made such marriages, but although he did not as a rule expect too much of human nature, he looked for a good deal from the woman he meant to make his wife. He could not quite disguise the fact that there were aspects of her character which did not altogether please him.

"Well," he said grimly, "we will talk about something else. You are still determined on going with me?"

"Of course," said Desmond.

Ormsgill took him into his room, and by and by unrolled a chart upon the table.

"There's shelter off this beach in about six fathoms under the point," he said. "She will roll rather wildly, but the holding's excellent, and a surf-boat could get off most days in the week. As some of the mail-boat skippers will probably see you and mention it, you will call and report yourself to the Commandant and the customs on your way down the coast. Bring one or two of them off to dinner and inquire about the sport to be had. As a matter of fact, there is something to shoot a few days' march back from the beach, and there is no reason why you shouldn't go after it."

"You haven't said very much about yourself," observed his companion.

"I'm going direct by mail-boat. There is to be no apparent connection between us. If you are at the beach by the date I mentioned and wait there fourteen days, it will be sufficient. If I don't join you by that time something will have gone radically wrong."

"Then," said Desmond cheerfully, "I'll fit the whole crowd out down to the firemen with elephant guns and rifles, and go ashore to fetch you, if we have to sack every bush fort in the country."

Ormsgill only laughed, and going out together they swung themselves on a passing steam tram and were whirled away to the steamship offices in the Spanish city through a blinding cloud of dust.

Two days later Ormsgill boarded a yellow-funneled steamer, which crept out of harbor presently with the Portuguese flag at the fore, and faded into a streak of hull and a smoke trail low down on the dazzling sea. From the veranda of the hotel, Ada Ratcliffe watched it slowly melt, with her lips tight set and a curious look in her eyes, until when the blue expanse was once more empty she rose with a little sigh. There was, of course, nothing to be gained by sitting there disconsolate, and she had to array herself becomingly for an excursion to a village among the black volcanic hills. She also took a prominent part in it very gracefully, while a quiet brown-faced man leaned on a little wildly-rolling steamer's rail, looking southwest across the dazzling white-flecked combers towards the shadowy land.

He reached it in due time, and one afternoon two or three days after he arrived at a little decadent city, sat talking to the olive-faced gentleman he had met at the Las Palmas hotel. The latter now wore a very tight white uniform, and a rather high and cumbrous kepi lay on the chair at his side. He was singularly spare in figure; his face, which was a trifle worn and hollow, was in no way suggestive of physical virility, and the brown-tipped fingers of the hand which rested on his knee very much resembled claws; but, as Major Chillingham had noticed, he wore the unmistakable stamp of high authority.

"Ah," he said in Portuguese, "you are not as most of your countrymen, and seem to understand that haste is not always advisable—especially in this land."

Ormsgill smiled a little as he gazed down on the straggling city. The room he and his companion sat in had no front to it. A row of slender pillars with crude whitewashed arches between them served instead, and he could look out on the curiously jumbled buildings below. Some were of wood and had red iron roofs and broad verandas, others of stone, or what appeared to be blocks of sun-baked mud, and these were mostly glaringly whitewashed and roofed with tiles, though a few were flat topped. Some stood in clusters, but as a rule there were wide spaces, strewn with ruins and rubbish, between them. Scarcely a sound rose from any of them. Here and there a white-clad figure reclined in a big chair on a veranda, and odd clusters of negroes, some loosely draped in raw colors, and some half-naked, slept in the shadow. Everything was so still that one could have fancied the place was peopled by the dead. Beyond the long strip of land across the harbor the glaring levels of the Atlantic stretched away, and the hot air quivered with the dull insistent roar and rumble of the surf.

"It is certainly as I suggested," said the little olive-faced gentleman. "You have been here three days, and I do not even know what you expect from me yet."

"It is very little. A concession of exploitation in the country inland."

"In which district?"

Ormsgill mentioned it, and his companion looked at him with a little smile. "The request can be granted, but I gave you good advice once before, and I venture to offer it again. This Africa is not a healthy country, and it is not, I think, advisable that you should stay here, especially up yonder in the bush. There are gentlemen of some importance there whom you have offended, and we are, it seems, not all forgiving. It is, perhaps, a fact to be deprecated, but one to be counted on."

"One has occasionally to do a thing that doesn't seem advisable," said Ormsgill reflectively.

"In this case the reasons cannot be financial. I heard of your good fortune in Las Palmas."

Ormsgill was not pleased at this, but he laughed. "A little money is not always a fortune. Perhaps it would be permissible for me to express my pleasure that your administrative genius has been recognized?"

Dom Clemente made him a little grave inclination. "I hold authority, but the man who does so seldom sleeps on roses, especially in this country. Well, you still want the concession of exploitation, though the region you mention is not a productive one?"

"There are articles of commerce which come down that way from the interior."

Dom Clemente looked at him steadily. "Ah," he said, "if one could tell what went on there. Still, as you say, there are things we have need of that come down from the interior."

Ormsgill's face was expressionless, though he was not pleased to see a little smile creep into his companion's eyes, but just then another man of very dusky color came up the outside stairway with a big clanking sword strapped on to him, and Dom Clemente rose.

"I make my excuses, but the permit will be ready to-morrow," he said. "In the meanwhile my daughter, who is in the patio, would thank you for several courtesies at Las Palmas."

Ormsgill turned away, and went down to the little pink-washed patio which was filled with straggling flowers and was, at least, comparatively cool. The girl who lay in a big chair did not rise, but signed to him to take another near her side, and then looked up at him with big violet eyes. It did not occur to Ormsgill that there was any significance in the fact that the only two chairs in the patio should be close together, but it struck him that Benicia Figuera was a very well-favored young woman, and very much in harmony with her surroundings. Colorless as her face was, there was a scintillation in her eyes, and a depth of hue in her somewhat full red lips, which with the sweeping lines of her lightly-draped, rounded form suggested that there was in her a full measure of the warm and vivid life of the tropics. Her voice was low and quiet, and her English passable.

"I believe my father has been giving you good advice," she said.

"Why should you think that?" asked Ormsgill, lightly.

His companion's gesture might have meant anything. "You feel the advice is excellent, but you do not mean to take it? It is not a thing you often do. In one way I am sorry."

Ormsgill laughed. "Might one ask why you should take so much interest in an obstinate stranger?"

The girl moved her hands, which were white and very shapely, in a fashion which seemed to imply a protest. Ormsgill noticed that they had also the appearance of capable hands, and he fancied that their grasp could be tenacious.

"Ah," she said, "there were little courtesies shown us at Las Palmas, things that made our stay there pleasanter, and I think there was, perhaps, no great reason why you should have done them for my father." Then her eyes twinkled. "I am not sure that all your friends were very pleased with you."

Ormsgill did not smile this time. He recollected now that Ada Ratcliffe had been distinctly less gracious and her mother more formal than usual after one or two of the trifling courtesies he had shown Dom Clemente and the girl, but it had not occurred to him to put the two things together.

"I wonder," he said reflectively "how you come to speak such excellent English."

The girl laughed.

"My mother's name was O'Donnel, though she was rather more Portuguese than I am. She was born in the Peninsula. It seems I have gone back two or three generations. They assured me of it once in Wicklow. Still, all that does not interest you. You are going into the interior."

Ormsgill said he was, and the girl appeared thoughtful for a moment or two.

"Then one might again advise you to be careful. There are, at least, two men who do not wish you well. One of them is a certain Commandant, and the other the trader Herrero."

"I wonder if you could tell me where the trader Herrero is?"

"If I can I will send you word to-morrow."

Ormsgill thanked her and took his leave ceremoniously, but he was a little annoyed to find that his thoughts would wander back to the cool patio as he strolled through the dazzling, sun-scorched town. He felt it would have been pleasant to stay there a little in the shadow, and that Benicia Figuera would not have resented it. There was something vaguely attractive about her, and she had Irish eyes in which he had seen a hint of the reckless inconsequent courage of that people. This, he reflected, did not concern him, and dismissing all further thought of her he went about his business. Still, when the concession was sent to him next morning the negro who brought it also handed him a little note. It had no signature, and merely contained the name of a certain village on the fringe of the hills that cut off the coast levels from the island plateaux.

CHAPTER VI
DESMOND MAKES AN ADMISSION

Two months had slipped by since Ormsgill and his carefully chosen carriers had vanished into the steamy bush which climbs the slopes of the inland plateaux, when the Palestrina steamed in towards the straggling, sun-scorched town. She came on at half-speed, gleaming ivory white, in a blaze of brightness, with a man strapped outside her bridge swinging the heavy lead, until Desmond, who swept the shore line with his glasses, raised his hand. Then the propeller whirled hard astern and she stopped amidst a roar of running chain. Next the awnings were stretched across her aft, and after a beautiful white gig sank down her side, a trimly uniformed crew pulled Desmond ashore to interview the men in authority.

He found them courteous. Though that is not a coast which English yachts frequent, one had called there not very long before, and they had a pleasant recollection of the hospitality they had enjoyed on board her. Besides, it was very soon evident that this red-faced yachtsman was not one of the troublesome Englishmen who demand information about social and political matters which do not concern them. Desmond took the authorities off to dinner, and showed them his sporting rifles and one or two letters given him by gentlemen of their own nationality whom he had similarly entertained at Funchal Madeira. His young companion with the heavy sea-bronzed face was even more ingenuous, and there was no doubt that the wine and cigars were excellent.

Strangers with any means were also singularly scarce in that town, and its rulers finding Desmond friendly made much of him, and supplied him freely with the information he required respecting the localities where one might still come across big game. He was, in fact, a social success, and contrived to spend a fortnight there very pleasantly. Still, there was one of his new friends who considered it advisable to take certain precautions, which came indirectly to the knowledge of the latter's daughter.

It also happened that Desmond's companion, Lister, who went ashore alone now and then, enjoyed himself in his own fashion. He was a young man whose tastes and idiosyncrasies had caused his friends at home some anxiety, and they had for certain reasons prevailed upon Desmond to take him to sea for a few months out of harm's way. Lister submitted unwillingly, but he discovered that even that sweltering African town had pleasures to offer him, and determined on making the most of them.

It was a very hot evening when he sat in the patio of a little flat-topped house which bore a legend outside announcing that it was a caffee. A full moon hung above the city and flooded half the little square round which the building rose with silvery light. The summit of the white walls cut sharply against the cloudless blue, and the land breeze flowed in through a low archway heavy with heat and smells. Now and then the roar of the Atlantic surf swelled in volume and rolled across the roofs in a deep-toned rumbling. Lister, however, naturally noticed very little of this.

He lay in a Madeira chair near a little table upon which stood several flasks of wine and glasses, as well as a bundle of cigarettes. A lamp hung above him, and his light white clothing displayed the fleshiness of his big, loosely-hung frame. His face was a trifle flushed, and there was a suggestive gleam in his eyes when he glanced towards the unglazed square of lighted window behind which a comely damsel of somewhat dusky skin was singing to a mandolin, but the occasional bursts of hoarse laughter made it evident that the lady had other companions, and there was then a little but rather painful punctured wound in one of Lister's hands. She had made it that afternoon with a slender silver-headed strip of steel which she wore in her dusky hair, and Lister could take a hint when it was plain enough.

As it happened, a partial acquaintance with one or two Latin languages had been drilled into him in preparation for a certain branch of his country's service to which prejudiced persons had eventually denied him admission, and he had afterwards acquired sundry scraps of Portuguese in Madeiran wine-shops. As the result of this, his companions understood part, at least, of what he said. Two of them who had very yellow hands and somewhat crisp black hair were shaking dice upon the table, while a third lay quietly in a basket lounge watching the Englishman with keen dark eyes. The latter threw a piece of paper money down on the table.

"It's against me," he said. "I'll double on the same odds you don't shake as high again. Pass your friend the wine, Dom Domingo."

The quiet man made this a trifle plainer, and thrust the wine flask across the table, but Lister did not notice that one of the others looked at him as if for permission or instructions before he flung the dice back into the box.

"One who knows the game would not give quite such odds," he said in passable French. "It is the cards you play on board the steamer?"

"No," said Lister, who had consumed a good deal of wine, "not often. I wish we did. It would pass the time while we lie waiting off your blazing beaches."

"Ah," said the little man, "you wait for somebody, then?"

Lister's little start was quite perceptible, but he grinned. "You can't go inland without taking somebody who knows the way. I think I told you we were going up country to kill big game."

"But certainly!" and the other spread out his hands. "This is, however, not the season when one usually sets out on such a journey. It would be wiser to make it in a month or two. For good heads you must also go inland a long way. You start from—?"

"The Bahia Santiago," but Lister recollected next moment, and looked at his companion truculently with half-closed eyes. "It seems to me you have a good many questions to ask. Besides, you stop the game."

The little man waved his hand deprecatingly, and answered one of the others' inquiring glance with a just perceptible motion of his head.

"Your pardon, señor," he said. "It was good advice I gave you about the odds."

He rose and slowly sauntered across the patio, but Lister did not notice that he stopped in the black shadow of the archway. Neither did the other men, one of whom shook the dice again.

"Ah!" he said. "The luck is once more against you."

Lister poured himself out another glass of wine. He was feeling a trifle drowsy, and the patio was very hot, but he wished to rouse himself enough to watch one of the player's thick-fingered yellow hands. Then flinging down another piece of paper money he reached out and took the box himself. His lips had shut tight, and though his face had flushed more deeply his eyes were keen.

They threw twice more while the other man, who appeared to relinquish his share in the proceedings, good-humoredly looked on, and then Lister leaned forward suddenly and seized the yellow hand. The box fell with a clatter, and Lister clutched one of the little spotted cubes that rolled out upon the table. Then the player's companion swung out his right arm with a flick of his sleeve, and Lister caught the gleam of steel. Loosely hung and a trifle slouching as he was, he was big, and had, at least, no lack of animal courage. He said nothing, but he flung the man whose hand he held backward upon the table, which overturned in front of his companion, and snatching a heavy wine flask from one close by, swung it by the neck.

The man with the knife was a moment recovering his footing, and then he moved forward, half-crouching, with a cat-like gait. The veins rose swollen on Lister's forehead, but he stood still, and his big red hand tightened savagely on the neck of the heavy vessel, which held a quart or two. The tinkle of the mandolin had ceased abruptly, and for a few moments there was not a sound in the little patio. Then there was a sharp command, and the man with the knife slunk backward, as a figure moved quietly out of the shadow beneath the archway. It was the man who had questioned Lister, and he laid his hand upon the flask the latter held.

"With permission I will take it from you," he said. "It is, I think, convenient that you go back to your steamer."

Lister fancied that he was right, and when three or four men who had now come out from the lighted room made way for them he followed his companion out through the archway. The latter called to a man in dilapidated white uniform, and they proceeded together to where a boat was waiting. They put Lister on board her, and stood still a minute or two watching while a couple of negroes rowed him off to the Palestrina. Then one of them laughed.

"There are many fools in this world but one has perhaps no cause to pity them," he said. "It is as a rule their friends they bring to grief."

Twenty minutes later he called at Dom Clemente's residence, and was not exactly pleased when he was shown into the presence of Benicia Figuera.

"My father is on board the yacht. You have come about the Englishman you have been watching?" she said.

The man made a little deprecatory gesture. "It is not permissible to contradict the señorita."

Benicia laughed. "It would not be worth while, my friend. You will leave your message."

"It is a report for Dom Clemente," and again the man spread out his hands. One could have fancied he felt it necessary to excuse himself for such an answer.

"Then," said the girl, "it is, as I think you know, quite safe with me."

There was no smile in her eyes this time, and her companion thought rapidly. Then, after another gesture which expressed resignation, he spoke for some three or four minutes until the girl checked him with a sign.

"If Dom Clemente has any questions to ask he will send for you," she said. "If not, you must not trouble him about the matter. I think you understand?"

It was evident that the man did so, for he went out with a respectful gesture of comprehension, and then turned and shook a yellow fist at the door which closed behind him. He could foresee that to do as he was bidden might involve him in difficulties, but Benicia Figuera was something of a power in that country, and he knew it was seldom advisable to thwart her. She, as it happened, sat still thinking for a time, and as the result of it when Desmond's gig went ashore next morning a negro handed one of her crew a little note. That afternoon Desmond dressed himself with somewhat unusual care before he was rowed ashore, and on being ushered into a white house by a uniformed negro was not altogether astonished to find Benicia Figuera waiting for him alone in a big cool room. He had met her in Las Palmas, and she smiled at him graciously as she pointed to a little table where wine and cigarettes were laid out.

"They are at your disposal. Here one smokes at all times and everywhere," she said.

Desmond sat down some distance away from her, for as he said afterwards, she was astonishingly pretty as well as most artistically got up, and he was on his guard.

"I almost fancy it is advisable that I should keep my head just now, and it already promises to be sufficiently difficult," he said with a twinkle in his eyes. "Dom Clemente is presumably not at home. That is why you sent for me?"

Now the compliments men offer a lady in the Iberian Peninsula are as a rule artistically involved, but the girl laughed.

"He will not be back until this evening, but the excellent Señora Castro in whose charge I am is now sitting on the veranda," she said. "You need not put your armor on, my friend. It would be useless anyway."

"Yes," said the man reflectively, "I almost think it would be."

"And my intentions are friendly."

Desmond spread his hands out as the men of her own nationality did. "The assurance is a relief to me, but I should feel easier if you told me what you wanted. After all, it could not have been merely the pleasure of seeing me."

Benicia nodded approvingly. His keenness and good-humored candor appealed to her. It was also in some respects a pleasure to meet a man who could come straight to the point. Her Portuguese friends usually spent an unreasonable time going around it.

"Well," she said, leaning forward and looking at him with eyes which he afterwards told Ormsgill were worth risking a fortune for, "I will tell you what I know, and I leave you to decide how far it is desirable for you to be frank with me. In the first place, you are not going inland to shoot big game. You are going to wait at the Bahia Santiago for somebody."

Desmond's face grew a trifle red. "If I had Lister here I think I should feel tempted to twist his neck for him."

The girl laughed. "It would be an interesting spectacle. I suppose you know that last night he broke a man's wrist?"

"I did not," said Desmond dryly. "When he amuses himself in that way he seldom tells me—but, to be quite frank, I've almost had enough of him. It's rather a pity the other fellow didn't break his head. Still, perhaps, that's a little outside the question."

"The question is—who are you going to wait for at the Bahia Santiago?"

"Ah," said Desmond, "I almost think you know."

Benicia smiled. "It is, of course, Mr. Ormsgill. He is a friend of yours. Now, as you can recognize, it is in my power or that of my father to involve you in a good many difficulties. I wish to know what Ormsgill went inland for. It was certainly not on a commercial venture."

Desmond thought hard for the next half-minute. He was a man who could face a responsibility, and it was quite clear to him that Miss Figuera already knew quite enough to ruin his comrade's project if she thought fit to do so. Still, he felt that she would not think fit. He did not know how she conveyed this impression, or even if she meant to convey it, for Benicia Figuera was a lady of some importance in that country, and, as he reflected, no doubt recognized the fact. She sat impassively still, with her dark eyes fixed on him, and there was a certain hint of imperiousness in her manner, until he suddenly made his mind up.

"Well," he said, "I will try to tell you, though there are, I think, people who would scarcely understand the thing."

He spoke for some ten minutes, and Benicia sat silent a while when at last he stopped abruptly. Then she made a little gesture of comprehension.

"Yes," she said simply, "I think your friend is one of the few men who could be expected to do such things." Then she laughed. "The girl he is to marry, the one I saw in Las Palmas, is naturally very vexed with him?"

"That," said Desmond gravely, "is a subject I scarcely feel warranted in going into. Besides, as a matter of fact, I don't know. There is, however, another point I am a little anxious about."

"The course I am likely to take?" and Benicia rose. "Well, it is scarcely likely to be to your disadvantage, and I think you are wise in telling me. Still, as you see, I do not bind myself to anything."

Desmond stood up in turn, and made her a little grave inclination. "I leave it in your hands with confidence. After all, that is the only course open to me."

"Yes," said Benicia, "I believe it is. Still, you seem to have no great fear of me betraying you."

"I certainly haven't," said Desmond. "I don't know why."

His companion laughed, and held out her hand to him, and in a few more minutes Desmond was striding down the hot street towards the beach. When he reached the boat he turned a moment and looked back towards the big white house.

"It looks very much as if I'd made a fool of myself, and spoiled the whole thing, but I don't think I have," he said.

It was two or three hours later, and darkness had suddenly closed down on the sweltering town, when the scream of a whistle broke through the drowsy roar of the surf as a mail-boat ringed with blinking lights crept up to the anchorage. Then Desmond sent for Lister, and drew him into the room beneath the bridge.

"There doesn't appear to be anything very much for that boat, and she'll probably clear for the north to-morrow," he said. "You had better get your things together."

Lister gazed at him with astonishment in his heavy face. "I don't quite understand you," he said.

"The thing's perfectly simple. You're going north in her. In one or two respects I'm sorry I have to turn you out, but, to be quite straight, you're not the kind of man I want beside me now. You're too fond of company, and have a—inconvenient habit of talking in your cups."

Lister flushed. "I presume you are referring to my conversation with that slinking yellow-handed fellow I came across last night? He was a little inquisitive, but I didn't tell him anything."

"No," said Desmond dryly, "I don't suppose you did. It's often the points a man of your capacity doesn't mention one deduces the most from. He generally makes it evident that he's working away from them. That, however, wouldn't strike you, and any way it doesn't affect the case. I'm sorry I can't offer to accommodate you on board the Palestrina any longer. I told your folks I'd keep an eye on you, but it's becoming too big a responsibility."

Lister gazed at him almost incredulously. "Of course, I'll have to go if you really mean it. Still, I would like to point out that in some respects you're not exactly a model yourself."

"That," said Desmond dryly, "is a fact I'm naturally quite aware of. I like a frolic now and then as well as most other men, but I've sense enough not to indulge in it when I'm out on business. The trouble is that what you have done you will very probably do again, and that wouldn't suit either me or Ormsgill. I'm afraid you'll have to take the boat north to-morrow."

CHAPTER VII
ORMSGILL KEEPS HIS WORD

Forest and compound were wrapped in obscurity, and the night was almost insufferably hot, when Nares, who had arrived there during the afternoon, sat in a room of the Mission of Our Lady of Pity. The little, heavily thatched dwelling stood with the mud-built church and rows of adherents' huts on the shadowy frontier of the debatable land whose dusky inhabitants were then plotting a grim retribution for their wrongs, and on the night in question black, impenetrable darkness shut it in. Though the smell of wood smoke was still in the steamy air, the cooking-fires had died out an hour ago, and there was no sound from any of the clustering huts. Nares, who sat, gaunt and worn in face, by an open window, could not see one of them. Still, he was looking out into the compound, and his attitude suggested expectancy. One could have fancied that he was listening for something.

"My boys heard in the last village we stopped at that there was another party coming up behind us, and it's quite likely that there is," he said. "The bushmen are generally right in these things. I've seen a whole village clear out half a day before a section or two of troops arrived, though it's hard to understand how they could possibly have known."

Father Tiebout, who lay in a canvas chair with the perspiration trickling down his forehead, smiled. "There are many other things beyond our comprehension in this country," he said, with a trace of dryness. "We have our senses and our reason. The negro has them, too, but he has something more—shall we call it the blind instinct of self-preservation? It is, at least, certain that it is now and then necessary to him. So you did not come by San Roque or the new outpost?"

"I did not. Still, how did you deduce it?"

The priest spread out his hands. "It is simple. One does not find an inhabited village within easy reach of a fort, my friend. The cause for that is obvious. You are listening for the other party?"

"Anyway, I was wondering whose it could be."

Father Tiebout smiled. "If there is a white man with the boys it is Thomas Ormsgill. I have been expecting him the last week. He will be here within the next two—if he is alive."

He spoke with a quiet certainty, as though the matter admitted of no doubt, and Nares added,

"Yes," he said, "that is a man who keeps his promise, but you could give him another week. One knows when the mail-boats arrive, but there might be difficulties when he got ashore. Anybody who wishes to go inland is apt to meet with a good many, especially if he isn't looked upon with favor by the Administration."

Father Tiebout said nothing further. It was almost too hot to talk, though the silence that brooded over the little gap in the forest was unpleasantly impressive. It would not be broken until the moon rose and the beasts awoke. There were also times when Nares, who was not a nervous man, felt a curious instinctive shrinking from the blackness of the bush. It was too suggestive. One wondered what it hid, for that is a land where the Powers of Darkness are apparently omnipotent. It is filled with rapine and murder, and pestilence stalks through it unchecked.

At last a faint sighing refrain stole out of the silence, sank into it, and rose again, and Nares glanced at his companion, for he recognized that a band of carriers were marching towards the mission and singing to keep their courage up.

"I think you're right. They're coast boys," Father Tiebout said.

It was some ten minutes later when there was a patter of naked feet in the compound, and a clamor from the huts. Then a white man walked somewhat wearily up the veranda stairway into the feeble stream of light. It was characteristic that Nares was the first to shake hands with him, while Father Tiebout waited with a little quiet smile. Ormsgill turned towards the latter.

"Have you a hut I can put the boys in? That's all they want," he said. "They're fed. We stopped to light our fires at sunset."

The greeting was not an effusive one in view of the difficulties and privations of the journey, but neither of Ormsgill's companions had expected anything of that kind from him. It was also noticeable that there was none of the confusion and bustle that usually follows the arrival of a band of carriers. This was a man who went about all he did quietly, and was willing to save his host inconvenience. The priest went with him to a hut, and the boys were disposed of in five minutes, and when they came back Ormsgill dropped into a chair.

"Well," he said, "I'm here. Caught the first boat after I got your letter. I think it was your letter, padre, though Nares signed it."

"At least," said Father Tiebout, "we both foresaw the result of it. But you have had a long march. Is there anything I can offer you?"

"A little cup of your black coffee," said Ormsgill.

Nares laughed softly. "He's a priest, as well as a Belgian. I believe they teach them self-restraint," he added. "Still, when I saw you walking up that stairway I felt I could have forgiven him if he had flung his arms about your neck."

"You see I had expected him," and Father Tiebout set about lighting a spirit lamp.

"With a little contrivance one can burn rum in it," he added. "There are times when I wish it was a furnace."

Ormsgill smiled and shook his head. "You and other well meaning persons occasionally go the wrong way to work, padre," he said. "Would you pile up the Hamburg gin merchants' profits, or encourage the folks here to build new sugar factories? You can't stop the trade in question while the soil is fruitful and the African is what he is."

"What the white man has made him," said Father Tiebout.

"I believe the nigger knew how to produce tolerably heady liquors and indulged in them before the white man brought his first gin case in," said Ormsgill reflectively. "In any case, Lamartine was a trader, which is, after all, a slightly less disastrous profession to the niggers here than a government officer, and I did what I could for him. From your point of view I've no doubt I acquired a certain responsibility. Could you do anything useful with £200 or £300 sterling, padre?"

"Ah," said the little priest, "one cannot buy absolution."

Nares smiled. It was seldom he let slip an opportunity of inveigling Father Tiebout into a good-humored discussion on a point of this kind. "I fancied it was only we others who held that view," he said. Then he turned to Ormsgill. "He is forgetting, or, perhaps, breaking loose from his traditions. After all, one does break away in Africa. It is possible it was intended that one should do so."

"Still," persisted Ormsgill, "with £300 sterling one could, no doubt, do something."

Father Tiebout, who ignored Nares' observations, tinkered with his lamp before he turned to Ormsgill with a little light in his eyes. "Taking the value of a man's body at just what it is just now one could, perhaps, win twenty human souls. Of these three or four could be sent back into the darkness when we were sure of them. Ah," and there was a little thrill in his voice, "if one had only two or three to continue the sowing with."

"In this land," said Ormsgill, "the reaper is Death. Their comrades would certainly sell them to somebody or spear them in the bush. The priests of the Powers of Darkness would see they did it."

"Where that seed is once sown there must be a propagation. One can burn the plant with fire or cut it down, but it springs from the root again, or a grain or two with the germ of life indestructible in it remains. Flung far by scorching winds or swept by bitter floods, one of those grains finds a resting place where the soil is fertile. Here a little and there a little, that crop is always spreading."

Ormsgill turned to Nares. "You could do something with the sum alluded to?"

Nares shook his head, and there was a shadow of pain in his lean face. "I am not fixed as Father Tiebout is," he said. "His faith is the official one. They dare not steal his followers from him. Besides, I have never bought the body of a man. Sometimes I heal them, and if they are grateful they are driven away from me." He broke off for a moment with a curious little laugh. "I am an empty voice in the darkness that very few dare listen to. Still, I will take a case of London packed drugs from you."

The Belgian spread his thin hands out. "Four villages snatched from the pestilence! It was his care that saved them. How many men's bodies he has healed he can not tell you, but I think that a careful count is kept of all of them."

"Well," said Ormsgill quietly, "there is £600 to your joint credit in Lisbon. You should get the bank advices when the next mail comes in. You can apportion it between you."

Nares stood up with a flush in his worn face, and spoke awkwardly, but Father Tiebout sat very still. A little glow crept into his eyes, and he said a few words in the Latin tongue. Then Ormsgill thrust his chair back noisily and moved towards the lamp.

"I almost think that coffee should be ready," he said.

Father Tiebout served it out, and when the cups were laid aside Nares looked at Ormsgill with a little smile.

"You have not been long away, but one could fancy you were glad to get back again," he said.

Ormsgill's face hardened. "In some respects I am. The folks I belonged to were not the same. My views seemed to pain them. It cost them an effort to bear with me. Still, that was perhaps no more than natural. One loses touch with the things he has been used to in this country."

"Sometimes," said Father Tiebout, "one grows out of it, and that is a little different. Our friend yonder once went home, too, but now I think he will stay here altogether, as I shall do, unless I am sent elsewhere."

Nares smiled. "The padre is right, as usual. I went home—and the folks I had longed for 'most broke my heart between them. It seemed that I was a failure, and that hurt me. They wanted results, the tale of souls, and I hadn't one that I was sure of to offer as a trophy. One, they said, could heal men's bodies in America. As you say, one falls out of line in Africa."

There was a wistfulness which he could not quite repress in his voice, and Ormsgill nodded sympathetically.

"Oh," he said, "I know. It hurts hard for awhile. We are most of us the cast-offs and the mutineers here. Still, in one respect, I sometimes think Father Tiebout's people are wiser. They don't ask for results."

The little priest once more spread his hands out. "The results," he said, "will appear some day, but that is not our concern. It is sufficient that a man should do the work that is set out for him. And now we will be practical. Have you any news of Herrero?"

"He is a hundred miles north of us in Ugalla's country, and I am going on there. You will have to find me a few more carriers. It was Miss Figuera told me."

"Perhaps one can expect a little now Dom Clemente is in authority. He is honest as men go in Africa, and at least he is a soldier. Well, you shall have the carriers in a week or so."

Ormsgill laughed. "I want them to-morrow. There is a good deal to do. I have the boys Domingo stole to trace when I have bought the woman back from Herrero."

"Bought!" said Father Tiebout with a twinkle in his eyes. "If Herrero is not willing to sell?"

"Then," said Ormsgill dryly, "I shall have considerable pleasure in making him."

He stretched himself wearily with a little yawn. "And now we will talk about other matters."

It was an hour later when he retired to rest and, hot as it was, sank into sound sleep within ten minutes, but although he rose early and roused the little priest to somewhat unusual activity, several days had passed before his new carriers were collected and ready to march. They were sturdy, half-naked pagans, and appeared astonished when he gave them instructions in a few words of the bush tongue and bore with their slow comprehension instead of applying the stick to their dusky skin, which was what they had somewhat naturally expected from a white man.

He shook hands with Nares and Father Tiebout in the sloppy compound early one morning when the mists were streaming from the dripping forest, and looked at the little priest with a twinkle in his eyes.

"I haven't asked you how you got those boys," he said. "Still, it must have cost you something to secure the good will of whoever had the privilege of supplying them."

He turned to Nares as if to invite his opinion, which was unhesitatingly offered him. The latter, at least, would make no compromise.

"It certainly did," he said. "I am glad you did not ask me to hire you the boys. The system under which he obtained them is an iniquity."

Father Tiebout smiled. "The object, I think, was a pious one. One has to use the means available."

"Anyway," said Ormsgill, "the responsibility and the cost is mine."

The priest shook his head. "At least, you can take this gift from me," he said. "It is not much, but one does with pleasure what he can."

It was offered in such a fashion that Ormsgill could only make his grateful acknowledgments, though he had grounds for surmising that the gift would cost the giver months of stringent self-denial, and there was already very little sign of luxury at the Mission. Then he called to his carriers, who swung out of the compound with their burdens in single file, slipping and splashing in the mire. The two men he had left behind stood watching them until the last strip of fluttering cotton had vanished into the misty forest when Father Tiebout looked at his companion with a little smile.

"One could consider the venture our friend has undertaken a folly, but still I think he will succeed," he said. "One could almost fancy that the Powers above us hold the men who attempt such follies in their special keeping."

Nares, as it happened, had been almost uncomfortably stirred during the last ten minutes, but he was Puritan to the backbone, and usually endeavored, at least, to prevent what he felt carrying him away. He was also as a rule ready to join issue with the little priest on any point that afforded him an opportunity.

"There is a difficulty," he said. "I'm not sure he would admit the existence of all the Powers you believe in. There are so many of them. One would fancy that faith was necessary."

Father Tiebout smiled at him again. "Ah," he said, "they who know everything have doubtless a wide charity."

CHAPTER VIII
THE BONDSWOMAN

A small fire burned on the edge of the ravine, flinging out pale red flashes and an intolerable smoke, for the wood was green and wet. It had been raining heavily, and the whole forest that rolled down the slopes of the plateau was filled with a thick white steam. Filmy wisps of it drifted out of the darkness which hid the towering trunks, and streamed by the girl who crouched beside the fire cooking her white lord's evening meal. She was comely, though her face and uncovered arms were of a warm brown. A wide strip of white cotton fell from one shoulder, and half revealed the slenderness of her shapely form. It also covered certain significant discolored bruises on the soft brown skin. The look in her eyes just then, perhaps, accounted for them, for it vaguely suggested intelligence, and a protest against her fate, in place of the hopeless apathy which, after all, saves the native of that country a great deal of trouble. He has been taught drastically that any objection he might reasonably make would certainly be futile and very apt to produce unwished-for results.

A wall of dripping forest rose above the fire, but behind the girl the ground sloped sharply to the brink of a swollen river which rose in the plateaux of the interior, and a little, tattered tent was pitched on the edge of the declivity. In front of it two somewhat ragged white men lay listlessly upon a strip of waterproof ground sheeting. They were worn with travel and a long day's labor, for they had been engaged since sunrise in raft building and ferrying their equipment and trade goods across the river, and, as it happened, had lost most of their provisions in the process. They were of widely different birth and character, and cordially disliked each other, though they had both first seen the light in Africa and community of interest held them together.

Gavin was tall and lean and hard, with an expressionless bronzed face, the son of an English ostrich farmer who had married a Boer woman. He had come into that country on foot with one other survivor of the party he had started with after a difference of opinion with the Boer administration. The others had died with their oxen during their two years' wandering in the wilderness. His companion Herrero passed for a Portuguese, though his hair would curl and his lips were a trifle thick. He was spare in form, and his face was of a muddy yellow with the stamp of sensuality and cruelty in it. He had also been drinking freely, though that is not as a rule a Latin vice, and was still very wet from his labors in the river. He had lower legs like broomsticks, and his torn, drenched trousers clung tightly about his protuberant knees.

"One could fancy that we have been bewitched," he said. "Trouble has followed us all the journey. There was a native woman who looked at us as we left San Roque, and she made a sign."

Gavin laughed contemptuously. "The loads," he said, "were too heavy. It is not economical to overdrive these cattle. One must remember the trek-ox's back."

Herrero blinked at the forest with something that suggested apprehension in his eyes, and it was not difficult to fancy that it and all it held was hostile to the white man. It seemed to crowd in upon him menacingly as the fire leapt up, vague, black, and impenetrable, an abode of unformulated terror and everlasting shadow.

"I have brought up the same loads with fewer boys before," he said. "They did not fall lame or die, as some of these have done. It is known that there is black witchcraft in this bush. There are white men who have gone into it and did not come out again."

"They were probably easier with their carriers than is advisable," and Gavin smiled grimly as he dropped a big hand on a cartridge in his bandolier. "This is a certain witchcraft cure. Still, you have to make your mind up. We can not go on, and take all the trade goods, without provisions."

His companion raised one shoulder in protest against the trouble fate had heaped upon them, for the trade goods were worth a good deal in the country that lay before them.

"It takes almost as much to keep a man in strength whether he marches light or loaded," he said. "It would ruin me if we left any more behind. Boys are scarce just now. One could, perhaps, get provisions in another week's march."

"The boys can not make it," and it was evident that Gavin was languidly contemptuous of his comrade's indecision. "You must leave a few here or you will lose half of them on the way."

He, at least, could face a crisis resolutely, but it was clear that he, too, regarded the carriers as chattels that had a commercial value only, for he was quite aware that, since that was one of the sterile belts, those who were left behind would in all probability die. The men whose fate they were discussing lay among the wet undergrowth apart from them, and Herrero, who appeared to be glancing towards them, raised himself a trifle suddenly.

"Something moves. There in the bush," he said.

"One of the boys," said Gavin, who saw nothing, though his eyes were keen. "Lie down. You have been taking more cognac than is wise lately."

Herrero shrugged his shoulders. "There is always something in the bush. It comes and goes when the boys are asleep," he said. "It is not pleasant that one should see it."

Gavin scarcely smiled. He was growing a trifle impatient with his comrade, who could not recognize when it was necessary to make a sacrifice, and he was ready for his meal. By and by Herrero called to the girl, who filled a calabash from the iron cooking pot hung above the fire, and laid it down in front of him with two basins. The trader lifted a portion of the savory preparation in a wooden spoon and smelled it.

"The pepper is insufficient. How often must one tell you that?" he said, and rising laid a yellow hand upon her arm.

The girl shrank back from him, but he followed her, still holding her arm, and nipped it deeply between the nails of his thumb and forefinger. He did it slowly, and with a certain relish, while his face contracted into a malicious grin. For a moment a fierce light leapt into the girl's eyes, but the torturing grip grew sharper, and it faded again. The man dropped his hand when at last she broke into a little cry, and stooping for the calabash she went back towards the fire. Gavin, who had looked on with an expressionless face, turned to his comrade.

"If you do that too often I think you will be sorry, my friend," he said. "She will cut your throat for you some day."

"No," said Herrero, "it is not a thing that is likely to happen if one uses the stick sufficiently."

His companion smiled in a curious fashion, but said nothing. His mother's people had long ruled the native with a heavy hand, and he had no hesitation in admitting that leniency is seldom advisable. Still, he recognized that in spite of his apathetic patience one may now and then drive the negro over hard, so that when life becomes intolerable he somewhat logically grows reckless and turns upon his oppressors in his desperation, which was a thing that Herrero apparently did not understand.

In the meanwhile the girl crouched silently by the fire, stirring the blistering peppers into the cooking pot, a huddled figure robed in white with meekly bent head and the marks of the white man's brutality upon her dusky body. Every line of the limp figure was suggestive of hopelessness. She might have posed for a statue of Africa in bondage. Still, as it happened, she and the boys who lay apart among the dripping undergrowth glanced now and then towards the forest with apathetic curiosity. Gavin's ears were good, but, after all, he had not depended upon his hearing for life and liberty, as the others had often done, and their keenness of perception was not in him. They knew that strangers were approaching stealthily through the bush. Indeed, they knew that one had flitted about the camp for some little while, but they said nothing. It was the white man's business, and nothing that was likely to result from it could matter much to them.

The fire blazed up a little, but, save for its snapping and the roar of the swollen river, there was silence in the camp, until Gavin rose to one knee with a little exclamation. He had heard nothing, but at last his trained senses had given him a sub-conscious warning that there was something approaching. Just then the girl stirred the fire, and the uncertain radiance flickered upon the towering trunks. It drove an elusive track of brightness back into the shadow, and Herrero scrambled to his feet as a man strode into the light.

He stopped and stood near the fire, dressed in thorn-rent duck, with the wet dripping from him and a little grim smile in his face, and it was significant that although he had nothing in his hands Gavin reached out for the heavy rifle that lay near his side. Strangers are usually received with caution in that part of Africa, and he recognized the man. As it happened, the girl by the fire recognized him, too, and ran forward with a little cry. After all, he had been kind to her while she lived with Lamartine, and it may have been that some vague hope of deliverance sprang up in her mind, for she stopped again and crouched in mute appeal close at his side. Ormsgill laid a hand reassuringly upon her brown shoulder.

"Ormsgill laid a hand reassuringly upon her brown shoulder."—[See page 103.]

He had not spoken a word yet, and there was silence for a moment or two while the firelight flared up. It showed Gavin watching him motionless with the rifle that glinted now and then on his knee, Herrero standing with closed hands and an unpleasant scowl on his yellow face, and the boys clustering waist-deep in the underbrush. Then the trader spoke.

"What do you want?" he said.

"This woman," said Ormsgill simply. "I am willing to buy her from you."

Herrero laughed maliciously. "She is not for sale. You should not have let her slip through your fingers. It is possible you could have made terms with Lamartine."

Ormsgill disregarded the gibe. Indeed, it was one he had expected.

"That," he said, "is not quite the point. Besides, one could hardly fancy that you are quite correct. Everything is for sale in this part of Africa. It is only a question of the figure. You have not heard my offer."

"In this case it would not be a great temptation," and Herrero's grin was plainer. "The girl is now and then mutinous, and that lends the affair a certain piquancy. When she has been taught submission I shall probably grow tired of her and will give her to you. Until then the breaking of her in will afford me pleasure. In fact, as I have never been defied by a native yet I feel that to fail in this case would be a stain on my self-respect."

"I almost think my offer would cover that," said Ormsgill dryly. "It seems to me your self-respect has been sold once or twice before."

Herrero disregarded him, though his face grew a trifle flushed. "Anita," he said, "come here."

The girl rose when Ormsgill let his hand drop from her shoulder, and gazed at him appealingly. Then as he made no sign she turned away with a little hopeless gesture, moved forward a few paces, and stopped again when the trader reached out for a withe that lay on the ground sheet not far from where he stood.

"It would," he said with a vindictive smile, "have saved her trouble if you had stayed away."

"Stop," said Ormsgill sharply, and striding forward stood looking at him. "You have shown how far you would go, which was in one way most unwise of you since you have made it a duty to take the girl from you. What is more to the purpose, it will certainly be done. There are two ways of obtaining anything in this country. One is to buy it, and the other to fight for it. I am willing to use either."

Herrero who saw the glint in his eyes, backed away from him, and flashed a warning glance at Gavin, who turned to Ormsgill quietly.

"I am," he said in English, "willing to stand by, and see fair play, since it does not seem to be altogether a question of business. Still, if it seems likely that you will deprive me of my comrade's services I shall probably feel compelled to take a hand in. He has a few good points though they're not particularly evident, and I can't altogether afford to lose him."

Herrero, who glanced round the camp, waved his hand towards the boys. "I will call them to beat you back into the bush."

Ormsgill raised his voice, and there was a sharp crackling of undergrowth, while here and there a dusky figure materialized out of the shadow.

"As you see, they have guns," he said.

Gavin smiled and tapped his rifle. "Still, they can't shoot as I can. Hadn't you better send them away again, and if you have any offer to make Mr. Herrero get on with it? One naturally expected something of this kind."

Ormsgill made a little gesture with his hand, and the men sank into the gloom again.

"Well," he said, "for the last week I have been trailing you, and as I did not know how long I might be coming up with you, I have plenty of provisions. Yours, it is evident from one or two things I noticed, are running out, and you can't get through the sterile belt without a supply. It was rather a pity the San Roque people burned the village where you expected to get some. I'm open to hand you over all the loads I can spare in return for the girl Anita."

"How many loads?"

Ormsgill told him, and Gavin nodded, "It is a reasonable offer," he said. "I will engage that our friend makes terms with you. Bring in the provisions, and you shall have the girl."

Herrero protested savagely until his companion dryly pointed that since his objections had no weight he was wasting his breath. Then Ormsgill turned away into the bush, and came back with a line of half-naked carrier boys who laid down the loads they carried before the tent. After that he touched the girl's shoulder, and pointed to the hammock two of the boys lowered.

"You are going back to your own village," he said.

The girl gazed at him a moment in evident astonishment, and then waved her little brown hands.

"I have none," she said. "It was burned several moons ago."

It was evident that this was something Ormsgill had not expected, and was troubled at, and Gavin, who watched him, smiled.

"If she belongs to the Lutanga people, as one would fancy from her looks, what she says is very likely correct," he said. "One of the plateau tribes came down not long ago and wiped several villages out. Domingo told me, and from what he said the tribe in question is certainly not one I'd care about handing over a woman to. She would probably have to put up with a good deal of unpleasantness if she went back there. Besides, it seems to me that what you had in view would scarcely be flattering to the lady. It isn't altogether what she would expect from her rescuer."

Ormsgill had already an unpleasant suspicion of the latter fact, for woman's favor is not sought but purchased or commanded in most parts of Africa. Still, he once more pointed to the hammock, and walked behind it without a word when the bearers hove the pole to their wooly crowns.

Then as they flitted into the shadowy bush Gavin turned to Herrero with a little laugh. "There are a few men like him, men with views that bring them trouble," he said. "My father was one. He threw away a big farm on account of them. He would not make obeisance to his new masters when his nation turned its back on him. That, however, is a thing one could scarcely expect you to understand."

Then he called one of the boys and sent him to the fire. "And now we will have supper. After all, I'm not very sorry you lost that girl, my friend."

CHAPTER IX
ANITA BECOMES A RESPONSIBILITY

It was two weeks later when Ormsgill reached the Mission with his boys, footsore, ragged, and worn with travel. He had avoided Anita's hammock as far as possible on the way, and it was with a certain relief he saw her safely installed in one of the dusky adherents' huts. Then he arrayed himself in whole, clean clothes, and when he had eaten sat on the shadowy veranda talking with his host, a somewhat ludicrous figure since Father Tiebout's garments were several sizes too small for him. It was then the hottest part of the afternoon. The perspiration trickled down their faces, and the little priest blinked when he met the blazing sunlight with dazzled eyes.

They spoke in disjointed sentences, sometimes mixing words of three languages, but it was significant that although neither expressed himself with clearness his companion seldom failed in comprehension, for priest and rash adventurer were in curious sympathy. Both of them had borne heat, and fever, and bodily pain, and proved their courage in a land where the white man often sinks into limp dejection. Each had also in his own way done what he could for the oppressed, and had, perhaps, accomplished a little here and there. It was, however, inevitable that their conversation should turn upon the girl Anita.

"I had not heard of the raid up yonder," said the priest. "I am not sure that I am sorry. After all, one hears enough. Still, it no doubt took place. Herrero's companion would have no motive for deceiving you. The question is what is to be done with the woman. To be frank, she cannot stay here."

"Why?" and Ormsgill's face grew a trifle grave, for Anita was rapidly becoming a cause of anxiety to him.

His companion made a little gesture. "She would prove an apple of discord; she is too pretty. One must not expect too much of human nature, and one wife alone is permitted. There is not now a boy she could marry. In the second place, Herrero would probably attempt to seize her here."

It occurred to Ormsgill that Anita might not be anxious or even willing to marry anybody. In fact, he felt it would be an almost astonishing thing if she was. Still, he realized with a vague uneasiness that it is, after all, very often difficult to foresee the course a woman would adopt.

"Then," he said, "I don't know what can be done with her."

"You are not one who would leave a task half finished?"

"At least, I cannot turn this woman adrift."

Father Tiebout wrinkled his brows. "There is, I think, only one place where she would be safe, and that is on the coast. There are also friends of mine who could be trusted to take good care of her in the city, and she could be sent down from the San Thome Mission. It is, however, a long journey."

"If it is necessary," said Ormsgill, "I must make it."

His companion's little gesture seemed to indicate that he believed it was, and Ormsgill dismissed the subject with a smile.

"In that case I will start again to-morrow," he said.

He set out in the early morning, taking two letters from Father Tiebout, one for the man who directed the San Thome Mission, and one to be sent on from there to certain friends of his host's on the coast, and it was two days later when he lay a little apart from his carriers in a glade in the bush. Blazing sunshine beat down into it. There was an overpowering heat, and a deep stillness pervaded the encircling forest, for the beasts had slunk into their darkest lairs in the burning afternoon. The snapping of the fire made it the more perceptible, and Ormsgill could see the blue smoke curl up above a belt of grass behind which the boys were cooking a meal. Anita, who was with them, would, he knew, bring him his portion, and in the meanwhile he felt it was advisable to keep away from her. She had talked very little with him during the last two days, but that was his fault, and he fancied that she failed to understand his reticence. In fact, the signs of favor she had once or twice shown him had rendered him a little uncomfortable.

For all that, his face relaxed into a little dry smile as he wondered what the very formal Mrs. Ratcliffe would think of that journey. He remembered that he had always been more or less of a trial to his conventional friends even before he had been dismissed from his country's service for an offense he had not committed, but he was one of the men who do not greatly trouble themselves about being misunderstood. It is a misfortune which those who undertake anything worth doing have usually to bear with.

He was, however, a little drowsy, for they had started at sunrise and marched a long way since then. There was only one hammock, which somewhat to the carriers' astonishment Anita had occupied, for this was distinctly at variance with the customs of a country in which nobody concerns himself about the comfort of a native woman. It would also be an hour before the boys went on again, and he stretched himself out among the grass wearily, but, for all that, with a little sigh of content. He had found the restraints of civilization galling, and the untrammeled life of the wilderness appealed to him. The need of constant vigilance, and the recognition of the hazards he had exposed himself to, had a bracing effect. It roused the combativeness that was in his nature, and left him intent, strung up, and resolute. The task he had saddled himself with had become more engrossing since it promised to be difficult.

He did not think he slept, for he was conscious of the pungent smell of the wood smoke all the time, but at last he roused himself to attention suddenly, and looked about him with dazzled eyes. He could see the faint blue vapor hanging about the trunks, and hear the boys' low voices, but except for that the bush was very still. Yet he was certainly leaning on one elbow with every sense strung up, and he knew that there must be some cause for it. What had roused him he could not tell, but he had, perhaps, lived long enough in that land to acquire a little of the bushman's unreasoning recognition of an approaching peril. There was, he knew, something that menaced him not far away.

For a moment or two his heart beat faster than usual, and the perspiration trickled down his set face, and then laying a restraint upon himself he rose a trifle higher, and swept his eyes steadily round the glade. There was one spot where it seemed to him that the outer leaves of a screen of creepers moved. He did not waste a moment in watching them, but letting his arm fall under him rolled over amidst the grass which covered him, for it was evidently advisable to take precautions promptly. Just as the crackling stems closed about him there was a pale flash and a detonation, and a puff of smoke floated out from the creepers.

Ormsgill was on his feet in another moment, and running his hardest plunged into them, but when he had smashed through the tangled, thorny stems there was nobody there, and except for the clamor of the boys the bush was very still. Still, this was very much what he had expected, and looking round he saw the print of naked toes and a knee in the damp soil before his eyes rested on the brass shell of a spent cartridge. He picked it up and turned it over in his hand, recognizing it as one made for a heavy, single-shot rifle of old fashioned type, which had its significance for him. He fancied his would-be assassin had been lent the rifle by a white man who in all probability knew what he meant to do with it. Then he glanced at the cartridge again, and noticed a slight outward bending of its rim. There was a portentous little glint in his eyes as he slipped it into his pocket.

"Some day I may come across the man who owns that rifle," he said.

He stood still for another few moments, grim in face, with his jacket rent, and a little trickle of blood running from one hand which a thorn had gashed. Every nerve in him tingled with fierce anger, but he knew that the man who runs counter to established customs has usually more than misconception to face in Africa, especially if he sympathizes with the oppressed, and he was one who could wait. Then the boys came floundering through the undergrowth, one or two with heavy matchets, and one or two with long flintlock guns, but Ormsgill, who recognized that pursuit would certainly prove futile even if they were willing to undertake it, drove them back to the fire again.

"We will start when I have eaten," was all he said.

Anita brought him his meal, and stood watching him curiously while he ate, but Ormsgill said nothing, and in half an hour they went on again and spent the rest of that day and a number of others floundering amidst and hacking a way through tangled creepers in the dim shadow of the bush. It was a relief to all of them when at last the thatched roofs of San Thome Mission rose out of a little opening into which the dazzling sunlight shone. Ormsgill was received by an emaciated priest with a dead white face and the intolerant eyes of a fanatic, who supplied him and the boys with a very frugal meal and took Anita away from him. Then he read Father Tiebout's letters, and after he had done so sat with Ormsgill on the veranda.

"Father Tiebout vouches for you—and your purpose," he said, watching his companion with doubt in his eyes.

"If he had not done so I should probably not have been welcome?" said Ormsgill, smiling.

The priest made a little gesture which seemed to imply that he did not intend to discuss that point. "The girl would be safe with the people he mentions. They are good Catholics."

"I am not sure that is quite sufficient in itself," said Ormsgill reflectively. "Still, Father Tiebout would scarcely have suggested sending her to them unless he had felt reasonably certain that they would show her kindness."

His companion's face hardened. "They are people of blameless lives. There are, perhaps, two or three such in that city. You could count upon the woman receiving kindness from them, but one would have you quite clear about the fact that my recommendation is necessary. It is, of course, in my power to withhold it, and if it is given you will undertake not to claim the woman again?"

Ormsgill looked at him with a little smile. "I have no wish to claim her, though I have only that assurance to offer you, and I must tell you that I am going to the coast. There are, however, one or two conditions. She must be treated well, and paid for her services."

"That would be arranged. It is convenient that she should understand what would be required of her. I will send for her."

Ormsgill made a sign of concurrence, and in another five minutes Anita stood before them, slight and lithe in form, and very comely, but with apprehension and anxiety in her brown face. The priest spoke to her concisely in a coldly even voice, and it was evident that the course he mentioned was one she had no wish to take. Then he turned from her to Ormsgill as she stretched out her hands with a little gesture of appeal towards the latter.

"It is your will that I should go away and live with these people?" she said.

Ormsgill knew that the priest was watching him, and that there was only one answer, but he shrank from uttering it. The girl's eyes were beseeching, and she looked curiously forlorn. She was a castaway without kindred or country, one who had lived the untrammeled life of the bush, and he feared that she would find the restraints of the city intolerably galling.

"It is," he said gravely.

The girl stood very still a moment or two looking at him, and Ormsgill felt the blood creep into his face. He was, in all probability, the only man who had ever shown her kindness, and he recognized that she too had misunderstood his motives and regarded him as rather more than her rescuer. Then as he made no sign she flung out her hands again, hopelessly this time, and slowly straightened herself.

"I go," she said simply and turned away from them.

Ormsgill watched her cross the compound, a forlorn object, with the white cotton robe that flowed about her gleaming in the dazzling sunlight, and then turn for a moment in the shadowy entrance of a palm-thatched hut. He was stirred with a vague compassion, but putting a firm restraint upon himself he sat still, and the girl turning suddenly once more vanished into the dark gap. It also happened that he never met her again.

"One's powers are limited, Father. After all, there is not much one can do for another," he said.

The priest looked hard at him, and then made a little grave gesture. "It is something if one can ease for a moment another's burden. I have, it seems, to ask your pardon for a misconception that was, perhaps, not altogether an unnatural one, Señor."

Ormsgill saw little more of him during the day, and started for the coast early next morning. He had only accomplished half his purpose, and that in some respects the easier half, but it was necessary for him to procure further supplies and communicate with Desmond. Before he started, however, he sent home most of the boys Father Tiebout had obtained for him, keeping only two or three of them, for these and the others he had brought up with him could, he fancied, be relied upon. They were thick-lipped, wooly-haired heathen, stupid in all matters beyond their acquaintance, but after the first few weeks they had, at least, done his bidding unquestioningly.

This quiet white man with the lined face had never used the stick on one of them, and did not, so far as they were aware, even carry a pistol. When they slept at a bush village or obtained provisions there he made the headman a due return before he went away, which was not the invariable custom of other white men they had traveled with. In fact, they looked upon him as somewhat of an anachronism in that country, but since the one attempt a few of them had made to disregard his authority had signally failed they obeyed him, and little by little became sensible of a curious confidence in him. What he said he did, and, what was rather more to the purpose, when he told them that a certain course was expected from them they usually adopted it, even when it was far from coinciding with their wishes.

There are a few men of Ormsgill's kind and one or two women who have made adventurous journeys in the shadowy land unarmed, and carried away with them the dusky tribesmen's good will, while others have found it necessary to march with a band of hired swashbucklers and mark their trail with burnt villages and cartridge shells. As usual, a good deal depended upon how they set about it.

CHAPTER X
ORMSGILL ASKS A FAVOR

A silver lamp burned on the little table where two diminutive cups of bitter coffee were set out, but its indifferent light was scarcely needed in the open-fronted upper room of Dom Clemente's house. A full moon hung above the Atlantic, and the clear radiance that rested on the glittering harbor streamed in between the fretted arches and slender pillars. Throughout tropical Africa all there is of grace and beauty in man's handiwork bears the stamp of the unchanging East, and one finds something faintly suggestive of the art of olden days where the eye rests with pleasure on any of its sweltering towns, which is, however, not often the case. It is incontrovertible that most of the towns are characterized by native squalor and that some of them are unpleasantly filthy, but, after all, filth and squalor are usual in the East, and serve by contrast to enhance the elusive beauty of its cities.

It was almost cool that evening, and Ormsgill, looking down between the slim pillars across the white walls and flat roofs, though some were ridged and tiled, towards the blaze of moonlight on the harbor, was well content to be where he was after his journey through the steamy bush and across the sun-scorched littoral. He had arrived that afternoon, and had spent the last hour with Benicia Figuera, who had shown herself gracious to him. She lay not far away from him in a big Madeira chair, loosely draped in diaphanous white attire which enhanced the violet depths of her eyes and the duskiness of her hair, and her face showed in the moonlight the clear pallor of ivory. Ormsgill fancied that her attendant the Señora Castro sat in the room behind them from which a soft light streamed out through quaintly patterned wooden lattices, though he had seen nothing of the latter lady since the comida had been cleared away.

He had said very little about his journey, though he intended to tell Dom Clemente rather more, but he presently became conscious that Benicia was regarding him with a little smile. He also noticed, and was somewhat annoyed with himself for thinking of it, that she had lips like the crimson pulp of the pomegranate, the grandadilla which figures in the imagery of the Iberian Peninsula as well as in that of parts of Africa, where it is seldom grown. Ormsgill was quite aware of this, and it had its associations of Eastern mysticism and sensuality, for he was a man of education and the outcasts he had lived with had not all been of low degree. Among them there had been a certain green-turbaned Moslem who had taught him things unknown to his kind at home. He felt that it was advisable to put a restraint upon himself.

"You are not sorry you have come back to us?" said Benicia.

Ormsgill was by no means sorry, and permitted himself to admit as much. He had accomplished part, at least, of his purpose successfully, and that in itself had a tranquilizing effect on him, while after the weary marches through tall grass and tangled bush under scorching heat it was distinctly pleasant to sit there cleanly clad, in the cool air with such a companion. Benicia, it almost seemed, guessed his thoughts, for she laughed softly.

"It is comforting to feel that one has done what he has undertaken," she said. "Still, you were, at least, not alone by those campfires in the bush."

Ormsgill flushed a little, though he contrived not to start. He had naturally not considered it necessary to tell Miss Figuera anything about Anita.

"No," he said simply. "I don't know how you could have heard about it, but I was not alone."

It was characteristic of him that he offered no explanation, and was content to leave what he had done open to misconception. In fact, he had a vague but unpleasant feeling that the latter course might be the wiser one. Benicia turned her dark eyes full upon him, and there was a faint sparkle in the depths of them.

"My friend, I hear of almost everything," she said. "As it happens, I know what you went up into the bush for."

"Well," said Ormsgill reflectively, "perhaps, I should not be surprised at that. It was only natural that I should be watched."

He met her gaze without wavering, and, though he was not aware of this, his eyes had a question in them. It was one he could not have asked directly even if he had wished, but remembering that Anita was to live in that city he took a bold course.

"I wonder if one could venture to mention that your interest in the woman I brought down from the bush would go a long way?" he said. "It is, I think, deserved, and in case of any difficulty would ensure her being left in quietness here, though, perhaps, the favor is too much to expect."

"No," said the girl, "not when you make the request. Frankly, in the case of others I should have found what I have heard incredible. It suggests the Knight of La Mancha. Are there many in your country who would do such things?"

Ormsgill felt his face grow a trifle hot. After all, Benicia Figuera was, in that land, at least, a great lady, and he remembered that his own people had doubted him. He laughed somewhat bitterly.

"If I remember correctly, the famous cavalier was more or less crazy," he said.

The girl turned a trifle in her chair, and he saw a little gleam kindle in her dark eyes.

"Ah," she said, "perhaps it is a pity there are so many who are wholly sensible."

She sat very close to him, dressed in filmy white which flowed in sweeping lines about a form of the statuesque modeling that is one of the characteristics of the women of The Peninsula, but it was something in her eyes which held Ormsgill's attention. They were Irish eyes, with the inconsequent daring of the Celt in them, though she had also the lips of the Iberian, full and red and passionate. The hot blood of the South was in her, and, though she never forgot wholly who and what she was, and there was a certain elusive stateliness in her pose, it was clear to the man that she was one who could on occasion fling petty prudence to the winds and ride as reckless a tilt at conventionalities and cramping customs as he had done. Such a woman he felt would not expect to be safeguarded by a man, but would bear the stress of the conflict with him, if she loved him, not because his quarrel might be an honorable one but because it was his. Then she made him a little grave inclination.

"I venture to make you my compliments, Señor Ormsgill," she said.

The man set his lips for a moment, and she saw it with a little thrill of triumph. It was borne in upon her that she desired the love of this quiet Englishman who for a whimsical idea had undertaken such a task. She also felt that she could take it, for she had seen the woman he was pledged to, and knew, if he did not, that he would never be satisfied with her. Then she suddenly remembered her pride, and quietly straightened herself again. Ormsgill sat still looking at her, and though the signs of restraint were plain on his lined face, she saw a curious little glint creep into his eyes. Still, she felt that he did not know it was there.

"What shall I say?" he asked. "I don't think there are many people who would see anything commendable in what I have done. In fact, those who heard about it would probably consider it a piece of futile rashness, and it is very likely that they would be right. After all, the restraints of the city may become intolerable to the girl."

"Then why did you undertake it?"

Ormsgill laughed, though there was a faint ring in his voice, for he saw that she had not asked out of idle curiosity. "I don't exactly know. For one thing, I had made a promise, but to be candid I think there were other reasons. You see, I have borne the burden myself. I have been plundered of my earnings, driven to exhaustion, and have fought against long odds for my life. It left me with a bitterness against any custom which makes the grinding of the helpless possible. One can't help a natural longing to strike back now and then."

Benicia nodded. It was not surprising that there was a certain vein of vindictiveness in her, which rendered it easy for her to sympathize with him, and once more the man noticed that where Ada Ratcliffe would in all probability have listened with half-disdainful impatience she showed comprehension.

"Still," she said, "in a struggle of this kind you have so much against you. After all, you are only one man."

"I almost think there are a few more of us even in Africa and, as Father Tiebout says, it is, perhaps, possible that one man may be permitted to do—something—here and there."

He spoke with a grave simplicity which curiously stirred the girl. It is possible that the sorrows of the oppressed did not in themselves greatly interest her, for she had certainly never borne the burden, but the attitude of this quiet man who, it seemed, had taken up their cause, and was ready to ride a tilt against the powers that be, appealed to her. She had, at least, courage and imagination, and there was Irish blood in her.

"Ah," she said, "the fight is an unequal one, but though there will be so many against you I think you have also a few good friends—as well as the Señor Desmond."

Ormsgill started. Her knowledge of his affairs was disconcerting, but he forgot his annoyance at it when she leaned forward a trifle looking at him. Her mere physical beauty had its effect on him, and the soft moonlight and her clinging white draperies enhanced and etherealized it, but it was not that which set his heart beating a trifle faster and sent a faint thrill through him. It was once more her eyes he looked at, and what he saw there made it clear that the reckless, all-daring something that was in her nature was wholly in sympathy with him. He also understood that she had asked him to count her as one of his friends. His manner was, however, a little quieter than usual.

"It is a matter of gratification to me to feel that I have," he said. "Still, what do you know about Desmond?"

Benicia laughed. "Not a great deal, but I can guess rather more. Still, I do not think you need fear that I will betray you. In the meantime I venture to believe that this is another of your friends."

She rose and turned towards the door as her father came in. He shook hands with Ormsgill, and then taking off his kepi drew forward a chair. Benicia said nothing further, but went out and left them together. Dom Clemente lighted a cigarette before he turned to his guest with a little dry smile.

"Trade," he said, "is not brisk up yonder?"

"I do not know if it is or not," said Ormsgill simply.

"Then, perhaps, you have accomplished the purpose that took you there?"

"A part of it. Because I have ventured to ask your daughter's interest in a native woman I brought down I will tell you what it was."

He did so, and the olive-faced soldier nodded. "I think you have done wisely in making me your confidant," he said. "At least, the woman will be safe here. It is also possible that I shall have a few words to speak to our friend Herrero some day." Then his tone grew a trifle sharper. "I have heard that there are rifles in the hands of some of the bushmen up yonder."

Ormsgill took a cartridge from his pocket and pointed to the dint in the rim. "One might consider this as a proof of it. You will notice the caliber, and I fancy I should recognize the rifle it was fired out of. In that case the man who carries it will have an account to render me."

"Ah," said the little soldier quietly, "it is a confirmation of several things I have heard of lately. I think I mentioned that the bush was not a desirable place for you to wander in. Still, you are probably going back there again?"

"I believe I am."

His companion looked at him with a little smile. "It is what one would expect from you. One may, perhaps, venture to recall the circumstances under which I first met you. Two soldiers brought you before me—and, as it happened, I had, fortunately, finished breakfast. You made certain damaging admissions with a candor which, though it might have had a different effect a little earlier, saved you a good deal of unpleasantness. I said here is an unwise man whose word can be depended on. You know what the people of this city say of me?"

"That you are a great soldier."

Dom Clemente's eyes twinkled. "Also that like the rest I am willing to abuse my office if it will line my pockets. The latter, it seems, is the purpose which influences me in the unpopular things I do. I make no protestations, but after all it is possible that I may have another one. In any case, I have received you into my house, and admitted a certain indebtedness to you. In return, I ask for your usual frankness. You have heard of a native rising up yonder?"

The question was sharp and incisive, and Ormsgill nodded.

"To be precise," he said, "I heard of two."

"Then we will have your views about the first one. It is not what one could call spontaneous?"

"At least, it is scarcely likely to take place without a little judicious encouragement. The results, it is expected, would be repression and reprisal. It seems that a lenient native policy does not please everybody."

This time Dom Clemente nodded with the twinkle a trifle plainer in his eyes. "There are, one may admit, certain trading gentlemen in this city who do not like it, but I will tell you a secret," he said. "There are also a few well meaning people of some influence in my country who can not be brought to believe that commercial interests should count for everything. They seem to consider one has a certain responsibility towards the negro. I do not say how far my views coincide with theirs. That may become apparent some day. But the second rising?"

"Will, at least, be genuine, and, I almost fancy, formidable. It is a little curious that the people who are most interested in the other do not seem to foresee it. It may break upon them before they are quite ready with the bogus one."

Dom Clemente smoked out his cigarette before he answered, and then he waved one of his hands.

"Now and then," he said, "things happen that way. Perhaps, the Powers who direct our little comedy can smile on occasion. At least, we frequently afford them the opportunity. It is certain that there is no fool like the over-cunning man. But we will talk of something else. In the meantime, and while you stay here, you will consider this house of mine your home, and those in it your friends and servants."

"Thanks," said Ormsgill. "And when I go away?"

His host made a little gesture. "Then it will depend upon where you go and what you do. We may be friends still, or our ideas of what is expected from us may render that impossible. Perhaps, it is unfortunate when one has any ideas upon that point at all. Still, that is a subject one must leave to the priests and those who reckon our work up afterwards. Being simply a soldier, I do not know."

CHAPTER XI
DESMOND VENTURES A HINT

It was blowing hard, and the deluge which had blotted out the dingy daylight and beaten flat the white spouting along the hammered beach had just ceased suddenly when Desmond lay upon a settee at the head of the Palestrina's companion stairway. Though the long, sandy point to the north of her afforded a partial shelter, she was rolling savagely with a half-steam ready and two anchors down. Desmond had wedged himself fast with his feet against the balustrade, but he found it somewhat difficult to remain where he was, and the little room was uncomfortably hot, though one door and the lee ports were open. The two that looked forward were swept by spray that beat on them like a shot, and overhead funnel-guy and wire rigging screamed in wild arpeggios under the impact of the muggy gale.

The Palestrina's owner was, however, used to that. It rains and blows somewhat hard on that coast at certain seasons, and he had lain there several weeks growling at the heat and the weather, for he was also one of the men who can keep a promise. Just then he had an unlighted pipe and a letter which he had received from Las Palmas a month earlier in one hand. It was from an Englishman he had brought out to Grand Canary, and though its contents did not directly concern him he had given it a good deal of thought once or twice already. His forehead grew a trifle furrowed as he opened it again.

"We have been wondering what Lister came back for, and the general notion is that you had had enough of him," said his friend. "In any case, he seems quite content with Las Palmas, and the British colony are watching his proceedings with quiet interest. After cleaning out several Spaniards at the casino he has apparently devoted himself to Miss Ratcliffe's service. It is not evident that he receives a great deal of encouragement from the lady herself, but her mother is ostentatiously gracious to him. She may have a purpose in this."

Desmond crumpled the letter in one hand. "Crosbie always was a—tattler, but it's more than possible that he's right," he said. Then he sighed. "And I put Lister on board the mail-boat and sent him there! If I'd only known what the result would be I'd have drowned him."

He lay still for another few moments filling his pipe, and then flung the tobacco pouch across the room, for a sojourn off those beaches would probably try the temper of most white men, and the Hibernian nature now and then came uppermost in him.

"Damp," he said. "Reeking, dripping, putrid, like everything else on this forlorn coast! It would be a boon to humanity if somebody bought the besotted continent and scuttled it."

He rose to his feet as a man in bedraggled white uniform appeared in the doorway.

"You were speaking, sir?" he said.

"I was," said Desmond. "I suggested that it was a pity somebody couldn't torpedo this benighted continent. Any word from the men you sent ashore?"

"They've signaled from the rise," said the Palestrina's mate. "No sign of him yet. I don't expect them off until to-morrow. The surf's running steep." Desmond made a gesture of concurrence as he glanced at the filmy spray-cloud that drove like smoke up the wet and glistening beach. It was flung aloft by a wild white welter of crumbling seas, and he realized that the boat's crew who had gone ashore could not rejoin the Palestrina before the morning, at least. They went every day to watch for a lumbering ox team or a band of carriers plodding seaward across the littoral, and it seemed they had once more signaled that there was no sign of either. Then he moved towards the door bareheaded, with only an unbuttoned duck jacket over his thin singlet, and the mate ventured a deprecatory protest.

"She's throwing it over her in sheets forward," he said.

Desmond disregarded him, and staggering clear of the deck-house stood with feet spread well apart gazing at the stretch of leaden sea while, as the Palestrina's bows went up, the spray that whirled in over her weather rail wet him to the skin. He saw the livid tops of the combers that rolled by the point and heard the jarring cables ring, and then turned his eyes shorewards and gazed across the waste of misty littoral.

"It's a cheerful place, but now and then you feel you might get to like it," he said. "Perhaps it's the uncertainty as to when the fever will get you that gives living here a zest. When you come to think of it, some of us have curious notions."

He appeared to be considering the point as they edged back under the lee of the deck-house, and the mate grinned.

"The men don't take kindly to it, sir," he said. "They've been worrying me lately as to how long we're stopping here."

"A week," said Desmond. "Ormsgill's time is running out, and he'll be here or send us word by then. He said he would, and what that man says you can count on being done."

Something in his tone suggested that the question might be considered as closed, and they discussed other matters while the deck heaved and slanted under them until a man forward flung up an arm and turned towards them with a cry which the wind swept away. In another moment Desmond scrambled half-way up the bridge ladder, and clung there with the mate close beneath him gazing at the white welter where the seas swept by the point. There was a sail just outshore of it, a little strip of gray canvas that appeared and vanished amidst the serried ranks of tumbling combers. It drew out of them and drove furiously towards the Palestrina, and when a strip of white hull grew into visibility beneath it Desmond looked down at his mate.

"A big surf-boat. It's Ormsgill," he said.

There was certainty in his tone, as well as a little ring of satisfaction which was, perhaps, warranted, for it is, after all, something to be the friend of a man who does just what he has promised and never arrives too late. In the meanwhile the object they were watching had grown into a bellying lug-sail that reeled to lee and to weather with the sea streaming from the foot of it, and a patch of foam-swept hull. The boat came on furiously, and when the mate sprang from the ladder roaring orders Desmond could see three or four black figures through the spray that whirled over her. There was also another man in white garments standing upright in her stern, and Desmond was wholly sure of his identity. Then she was lost for awhile, and only swept into sight again abreast of the Palestrina's dipping bows, hove high with half her length lifted out of the crest of a breaking sea.

She drove forward with it, the foam standing half a man's height above her stern and the foot of the slanted lug-sail washing in the brine, while a bent white figure struggled with the great steering oar. She swooped like a toboggan plunging down an icy slide when she was level with the Palestrina's bridge, and some of the men who watched her from the latter's rail held their breath as the smoking sea passed on and another gathered itself together astern of her. The helmsman, they knew, must bring the dripping, half-swamped boat on the wind to reach the strip of lee beneath the steamer's stern, and when he did it there was every prospect of her rolling over.

In another moment several black objects rose and grappled with the lug-sail sheet, and the big boat tilted until all one side of her was in the air. Then she went up in the midst of a white spouting as the slope of water behind fell upon her. Still, the slanted lug-sail rose out of it, and then came down thrashing furiously while naked black figures half-seen in the spray bent from her gunwale with swinging paddles as she drove towards the Palestrina's quarter. After that there was a hoarse shouting, and the lines flew from the reeling taffrail as she slid under the steamer's stern.

In another minute or two Ormsgill swung himself on board through the gangway. He had no hat, and the water ran from him, but he shook hands with Desmond unconcernedly.

"Ask them to hand that fellow up," he said pointing to a man who sat huddled in the water that swirled up and down inside the plunging boat. "We took rather a heavy one over two or three hours ago, and he brought up on the after thwart when the big oar jumped its crutch. As he's the only Kroo among them, I took the helm myself after that. I don't fancy he has broken anything."

Desmond hustled him into the deck-house when the negro had been brought on deck and the dripping boat rode astern, and an hour later he sat at dinner with his comrade in the little white saloon. Darkness had closed down in the meanwhile, and the lamp that swung above their heads flung a soft light across the table, where dainty glassware and silver glittered on the snowy cloth. Ormsgill smiled as he glanced at it and the glowing blotch of color in his wine glass.

"After all, this kind of thing has its advantages, especially when one has been accustomed to squatting in the wood smoke over a calabash of palm oil or some other unhallowed nigger compound," he said. "It's a trifle pleasant to wear clothes that fit you, too. Father Tiebout's and those Dom Clemente lent me didn't. I had to cut the wrists off the latter's jacket."

Desmond looked at him reflectively over his cigar, for he had something to say, and was a trifle uncertain as to how he should set about it.

"Well," he said, "I suppose it is nice for a while, especially, as you say, when it's a change. The point is, would it satisfy you long?"

"A dinner like this one is generally acceptable."

"We'll admit it. The trouble is that these civilized comforts are apt to cost you something. I mean one has usually to give up something else for the sake of them. You begin to understand?"

"I'm not sure that I do," said Ormsgill. "I'll ask you to go on."

Desmond laughed, though he did not feel quite at ease. He remembered the letter in his pocket, and felt that there was a responsibility on him, and that was a thing which, inconsequent as he was, he seldom shrank from. This was not a man who talked about his duty; in fact, any reference to the subject usually roused in him a sense of opposition. He contented himself with doing it when he recognized it, and since singleness of purpose is not invariably an efficient substitute for mental ability, it was not altogether his fault when at times he did it clumsily. There was also a subtle bond between him and the man who sat opposite him. Affection was not the right term, and it was more than camaraderie, an elusive something that could not be defined and was yet in their case a compelling force.

"Well," he said, "those quagmires and forests up yonder appeal to you. It's a little difficult for any reasonable person to see why they should, but they certainly do. So does the sea. The love of it's in both of us."

He stopped with a lifted hand, and, for the ports were open, Ormsgill heard the deep rumble of the eternal surf on the hammered beach. He also heard the onward march of the white hosts of tumbling seas, and the shrill scream of the wire rigging singing to the gale. It was the turmoil of the elemental conflict that must rage in one form or another by sea and in the wilderness while the world endures, and there is a theme in its clashing harmonies that stirs the hearts of men. Ormsgill felt the thrill of it, and Desmond's eyes glistened.

"Lord," he said, "we're curiously made. What in the name of wonder is it that appeals to us in driving a swamping surf-boat over those combers, or standing on the bridge ramming her full speed into it with the green seas going over her forward and everything battened down? Still, there is something. While we can do that kind of thing we can't stay at home."

Ormsgill smiled curiously. He was acquainted with some of the characteristics of the wild Celtic strain, and knew that his comrade now and then let himself go. "I think," he said, "considering where you come from, you should understand it more readily than I can do."

"You're not exempt," said Desmond, "you cold-blooded Saxons. What did you run that boat down the coast under the whole lug-sail for when she'd have gone nearly dry with two reefs tied down?"

"I don't know. Still, she lost the wind in the hollows. One had to keep her ahead of the seas."

Desmond laughed scornfully. "Is that it? When the boy went down with the breath knocked out of him as she took in a green sea, something came over you as you grabbed the steering oar. You went suddenly crazy, fighting crazy. You'd have rolled her over or run her under before you tied a reef in."

He stopped a moment, and made a little gesture as of one throwing something away. "Still, you'll have to give all that up when you marry and settle down, though it's a little difficult to imagine you going round in a frock coat and tight patent boots, growing fat, and overfeeding yourself like a—Strasburg goose. I suppose it is your intention to be married some day?"

"I believe it is," said Ormsgill quietly.

Desmond laid down his cigar and looked at him. "Well, I may be on dangerous ground, but when I get steam up I seldom allow a thing like that to influence me. Anyway, I've been worrying over you lately. The question is—are you going to marry the right girl, one who would take you as you are and encourage you to be more so? It isn't every woman who could put up with a man of your kind, but there are a few."

His comrade's expression might have warned another man, but Desmond went on.

"I don't know if my views are worth anything, and some of my friends doubt it, but you shall have them. After all, the matter's rather an important one. The wife for you is one who would sympathize with your notions even if she knew they were crazy ones, because they were yours, and when they led you into lumber, as such notions generally do, stand beside you smiling to face the world and the devil. There are such women. I've met one or two."

There was silence for a moment or two when he stopped, and Ormsgill, gazing straight before him with vacant eyes, saw a dark-eyed girl with dusky hair and a face of the pale ivory tint sitting where the moonlight streamed in between a colonnade of slender pillars. As it happened, Desmond saw her, too, and sighed. Then Ormsgill seemed to rouse himself.

"I am," he said, "going to marry Miss Ratcliffe, as I think you must be quite aware."

Desmond could have laughed. He fancied that it would have been almost warranted, but he laid a restraint upon himself. "Then," he said, "if you have both made up your minds and the thing is settled what in the name of wonder are you wandering about Africa for? The fact that you like it doesn't count. Why don't you go back—now—to her? It would be considerably wiser."

Ormsgill looked at him with half-closed eyes. "I'll have to ask you to speak plainly."

"I'll try," and Desmond made a little deprecatory gesture. "There are women it isn't wise to leave too long alone. They were not made to live that way, and if they find it insupportable you can't blame them. How many years is it since Miss Ratcliffe has had more than a few weeks of your company, and is it natural that a young woman should be quietly content while the man she is to marry wanders through these forests endeavoring to throw his life away? Besides that, the thing might very possibly not commend itself to her mother."

The lines grew a trifle deeper on Ormsgill's forehead, and his eyes were grave. "I have," he said, "been a little afraid of what her mother might do myself."

"Then why don't you go across to Grand Canary and make sure she doesn't try to influence the girl? Isn't it only reasonable that she should expect you to be there and save her all unpleasantness in case of anything of that kind happening?"

Ormsgill said nothing for several minutes, but it was borne in upon his comrade that his efforts had been thrown away. He had, however, after all, not expected them to be successful. At length Ormsgill spoke quietly.

"I can't go," he said. "Domingo has carried those boys away into the interior and I pledged myself that they should go home when their time was up. As it is, unless I can take them from him they will be driven to death in a few years. For that, I think, I should be held responsible."

He rose with a little sigh. "Dick," he said, "I have this thing to do, and even if it costs me a good deal it must be done. I am going back inland, and may be three or four months away. You can't stay here. After all, I don't know that I shall have much difficulty in getting the boys out of the country when I come down again."

Desmond smiled. "I may go to Las Palmas or Madeira, but I'll be here when you want me. We can fix that later. It seems to me I've said quite enough to-night."

Then they went up the companion, and Ormsgill talked of other matters as they sat under the lee of the deck-house, and watched the white seas sweep out of the darkness and vanish into it again.

CHAPTER XII
LISTER OFFERS SATISFACTION

Desmond's informant had, as it happened, been quite warranted in mentioning that Lister's proceedings had aroused the interest of the English colony in Las Palmas. He provided those who belonged to it with something to talk about as they lounged on the hotel verandas, which was a cause for gratification, since a good many of them had no more profitable occupation. That dusty city has, like others in the south, distractions to offer the idler with liberal views, though a certain proportion of them are of distinctly doubtful character. There are also in it gentlemen of easy morality who are willing to act as cicerone to the stranger with means, that is, provided he possesses a generous disposition. Spaniards of the old régime call them the Sin Verguenza, "men without shame," and there are one or two coarsely forceful Anglo-Saxon terms that might be aptly applied to them. It is, unfortunately, a fact that there are Englishmen among them.

Lister, who was young, and had never imposed much restraint upon himself, profited by the opportunities they provided him. He had the command of more money than was, perhaps, desirable, and for several weeks the pace he made was hot. He was naturally preyed upon and victimized, though, after all, the latter happened less frequently than those who watched his proceedings supposed. The lad was careless and generous, but there was a certain shrewdness in him as well as a vein of cold British stubbornness which made him a trifle difficult to handle when once his dislike was aroused. Indeed, one or two of his acquaintances fancied he had not gone so very deep in the mire, after all. How much Mrs. Ratcliffe knew about his doings did not appear. One desires to be charitable, and since Major Chillingham had gone back to England, it is possible, though far from likely, that she had not heard of them at all. In any case, she took him up, and was gracious to him in a motherly fashion, and there was suddenly a change in him.

Lister henceforward spent his evenings at the hotel, generally near the piano when Ada Ratcliffe sang. He also planned excursions for her and her mother to little palm-shrouded villages among the volcanic hills, and, since there was nobody who understood exactly how Miss Ratcliffe stood with regard to the man who had gone to Africa, the onlookers chuckled, and said that the girl's mother was a clever woman. She said that Lister was a very likable young man, who had no mother of his own, which was always a misfortune, and that it was almost a duty to look after him.

It was, in any case, one she discharged efficiently, and for a time his former companions had very little of Lister's company. Several of them were also sorry he had, apparently, as the result of their persistent efforts to undermine her authority, flung off the restraints Mrs. Ratcliffe had gradually imposed on him when at last he spent a night with them again.

They had reasonable cause for dissatisfaction when they sat in a certain caffee which stood near the cathedral. The latter fact has a significance for those acquainted with Spanish cities, but, after all, the Church is needed most where sinners abound. The caffee had wide unglazed windows, and clear moonlight streamed down into the hot, unsavory street, which under that pure radiance looked for once curiously clean and white. Tall limewashed walls rose above it, and, for the flat roofs lay beneath their crests, cut against the strip of velvety indigo, while a little cool breeze swept between them with a welcome freshness. There was no gleam of light behind any of the green lattices that broke their flat monotony and, save for the deep rumble of the surf, the city was very still. Once a measured tramp of feet rang across the flat roofs and indicated that two of the armed civiles were patroling a neighboring calle where the principal shops stand, but their business would not take them near the caffee. It is, in fact, not often that authority obtrudes itself unadvisedly into certain parts of most Spanish towns.

The moonlight also streamed into the caffee where a big lamp in which the oil was running low burned dimly. The table beneath it was stained with cheap red wine, and a good many bottles stood upon it among a litter of Spanish cards. Four men sat about it, and two more lounged upon the settee which ran along the discolored wall. The place was filled with tobacco smoke and the sickly odor of anisado, which was, however, no great disadvantage, since the natural reek of a Spanish Alsatia is more unpleasant still. The men had been there four or five hours when Lister flung down a card and noisily pushed back his chair. His face was a trifle flushed, and his hands were not quite steady, but his half-closed eyes were, as one or two of the others noticed, almost unpleasantly calm. There was a pile of silver at his side on the table, for he had, as the red-faced English skipper opposite him had once or twice observed, been favored with an astonishing run of luck. It is, however, possible that the skipper did not go quite far enough. Lister had certainly been fortunate, but he had also a nice judgment in such matters, and his nerve was unusually good. He looked round at his companions with a little dry smile.

"You should have left me alone," he said. "I didn't want to come here, but when you insisted I did it to oblige you. As you pointed out, considering what I took out of some of you on another occasion, it seemed the fair thing. Now I hope you're satisfied."

He indicated the pile of silver with a little wave of his hand, and the others, among whom there were two Englishmen beside the skipper, waited in some astonishment, with very little sign of content in their faces, until he went on again.

"Well," he said, "I'm still willing to do the fair thing, though, while I don't wish to be unduly personal, that is a point which has evidently not caused one or two of you any undue anxiety. You can explain that, Walters, to the Spanish gentlemen, though I don't altogether confine my remarks to them."

An Englishman straightened himself suddenly, and one of the Spaniard's eyes flashed when the man Lister turned to did his bidding. Lister, however, grinned at them.

"The question," he said, "is simply do you feel I owe you any further satisfaction, or have you had enough? I want you to understand that I'm never coming here again, and if you care to double the stakes I'll play you another round."

There was no doubt that they had had enough, and while three of them might have taken another hand with a view to getting back the pile of silver by certain means they were acquainted with they refrained, perhaps because they felt that the man called Walters and the burly steamboat skipper would in case of necessity stand by Lister. The silence that lasted a moment or two grew uncomfortable, but it did not seem to trouble Lister, who sat still looking at them with a little sardonic smile.

"Well," he said, "it's evident that you don't expect anything more from me. Will you and Captain Wilson come with me, Walters?"

He rose when the men addressed reached out for their hats, and then clapped his hands until a girl came in. She was very young, and looked jaded, which was not particularly astonishing considering that she had been keeping the party supplied with refreshment for more than half the night. The smudgy patches of powder on it emphasized the weariness of her olive-tinted face, but there was for all that a certain suggestion of daintiness and freshness about her which was not what one would have expected in such surroundings.

Lister stood looking at her with half-closed eyes, while the others watched them both until he made a little abrupt gesture.

"It is not you, but your father, the patron, the man who owns this place, I want, but you can stop here and call him," he said in a half-intelligible muddle of Castilian and Portuguese.

Walters made it a little plainer, and the girl spread out her hands. "The patron does not live here," she said. "My father, he is only in charge."

"Call him!" said Lister.

The man came in, and his dark eyes as well as those of all the others were fixed expectantly on Lister when he once more turned to the girl.

"You like waiting on and singing for these pigs?" he asked.

Walters rendered the word puerco, which is not a complimentary term in Spain, but the men it was applied to forgot to resent it in their expectancy. A flicker of color swept into the girl's face, and it was evident that her task was not a congenial one. She was, however, about to retreat when Lister raised his hand in protest, and turned to the man.

"What do you mean," he said, "by keeping a girl of that kind in a place like this?"

Again Walters translated, and the little flicker of color grew a trifle plainer in the girl's olive-tinted cheek. One could have fancied that she had suddenly realized how others might regard her occupation and surroundings. The man, however, spread his hands out.

"It is certainly not what one would wish for her, and she would be a modista," he said. "But what would you—when one is very poor?"

Lister caught up a double handful of the silver which still lay upon the table and signed to the girl.

"That should make it a little easier. It's for you," he said. "If it is not enough you can let me know. You will go and learn to make hats and dresses to-morrow. If your father makes any more objections I'll send the little fat priest after him. You know the one I mean. He has a cross eye and likes a good dinner as well as any man. He is a friend of mine."

The others gazed at Lister in blank astonishment when Walters made this clear, until the Spaniard became suddenly profuse. Lister, however, disregarded him, and picking up the rest of the silver turned towards the door. He went out, and Walters looked at him curiously when he stopped and stood still a moment, apparently reflecting, with the moonlight on his face. The combativeness with which he had regarded his gaming companions had faded out of it, and left it, as it usually was, heavy and inanimate. Lister was skillful at games of chance, where his impassiveness served him well, but Walters fancied he was by no means likely to shine at anything else. He was a young man of no mental capacity, and his tastes were not refined, but there was hidden in his dull nature a germ of the rudimentary chivalry which now and then rouses such men as he was to deeds which astonish their friends. It had lain inert until the dew of a beneficent influence had rested on it, and then there was a sudden growth that was to result in the production of unlooked for fruit. Because of the love he bore one woman he had become compassionate, and, perhaps, it did not matter greatly that she was unworthy, since the gracious impulse was merely brought him by, and not born of, the reverence he had for her. After all, its source was higher than that. It was, however, not to be expected that he should realize such a fact, and he stood wrinkling his brows as though ruminating over his proceedings, until he became conscious that his companion was looking at him inquiringly.

"I don't know what made me do that," he said. "It's quite certain I wouldn't have thought of it a month or two ago."

"No," said Walters, a trifle drily, "one would not have expected it from you. Still, you have made a few changes lately. What has come over you?"

Lister did not answer him. "If that blamed ass of a skipper means to stop I'm not going to wait for him. He'll get a knife slipped into him some night and it will serve him right," he said. "We'll get out of this place. Once we strike the big calle it will be fresher."

They strode on down the hot, stale smelling street, and Lister appeared to draw in a deep breath of relief when they turned into the broad road that runs close by the surf-swept beach to the harbor. Though there were tall white stores and houses on its seaward side the night breeze swept down it exhilaratingly fresh and cool, and Lister bared his hot forehead to it.

"Well," he said, "I've been down among the swine in a number of places, and, though I suppose it sometimes falls out differently, I've scratched some of the bristles off a few of them. Now I want to forget the tricks they've taught me. You see, I'm never going back to any of the—stys again. It's a thing I owe myself and somebody else."

He had certainly consumed a good deal of wine, but it was clear that he was fully in command of his senses, and Walters endeavored to check his laugh as comprehension suddenly dawned upon him. Still, he was not quite successful, and his companion turned on him.

"I meant it," he said. "There'll probably be trouble between us if you attempt to work off any of your assinine witticisms."

Walters said nothing. He had seen his companion calmly insult four men whose dollars he had pocketed, and he did not consider it advisable to explain what he thought about Mrs. Ratcliffe and the interest she had taken in his friend. Still, like most of the English residents who had made her acquaintance, he had his views upon the subject. Lister was, at least, rich enough to make a desirable son-in-law, and if he fancied it was essential that he should reform before he offered himself as a candidate there was nothing to be gained by undeceiving him.

They walked on until they left the tall white houses and little rows of flat-topped dwellings that replaced them behind, and the dim, dusty road stretched away before them with a filmy spray-cloud and glistening Atlantic heave on one side of it. Lister glanced at the fringe of crumbling combers with slow appreciation.

"In one way that's inspiriting," he said. "I might have sat and watched them half the evening from the veranda of the hotel. In that case I'd have had a clearer head and been considerably fresher to-morrow. Still, those hogs would have me out. It's a consolation to realize that it has cost them something."

Walters stopped when they reached the hotel and glanced at his companion. "Aren't you going in?" he said. "You could still get a little sleep before it's breakfast time."

"No," said Lister simply, "I'm going for a swim. It's no doubt an assinine notion, but the smell of the sty seems to cling to me."

Walters laughed. "Is that a custom you mean to adopt invariably after a night of this kind?"

"No," said Lister. "It won't be necessary. You see there will never be another one."

They went on, and Walters sat down on the little mole not far away while his comrade stripped off his thin attire. Then Lister stood a moment, gleaming white in the moonlight, a big, loose-limbed figure, on the head of the mole before he went down with flung-out hands and stiffened body into the cool Atlantic swell. It closed about him glittering, and he was well out in the harbor when he came up again and slid away down the blaze of radiance with left arm swinging. The chill of the deep sea water, at least, cooled his slightly fevered skin, and, perhaps, there was something in his half pagan fancy that it also washed a stain off him. In any case, the desire to escape from the most unusual sense of contamination was a wholesome one.

CHAPTER XIII
HIS BENEFICENT INFLUENCE

There is a certain aldea, a little straggling village of flat-topped houses, among the black volcanic hills of Grand Canary which has like one or two others of its kind a good deal to offer the discerning traveler who will take the trouble to visit it. It is certainly a trifle difficult to reach, which is, perhaps, in one sense not altogether a misfortune, since the Englishmen and Englishwomen who visit that island in the winter seldom leave such places exactly as they find them. One goes up by slippery bridle paths on horse or mule back over hot sand and wastes of dust and ashes into a rift between the hills, and when once the tremendous gateway of fire-rent rock has been passed discovers that it costs one an effort to go away again.

In the bottom of the barranco lie maize-fields and vines. Tall green palms fling streaks of shadow over them, and close beneath the black crags stands a little ancient church and odd cubes of lava houses tinted with delicate pink or ochre or whitewashed dazzlingly. They nestle among their fig trees shut in by tall aloes, and oleanders, and a drowsy quietness which is intensified by the murmur of running water pervades the rock-walled hollow. It is the stillness of a land where nothing matters greatly, and there is in it the essence of the resignation which regards haste and effort and protest as futile, that is characteristic of old world Spain, for Spain was never until lately bounded by the confines of the Peninsula.

Las Palmas down beside the smoking beach is no longer Spanish. It is filled with bustle and a rampant commercialism, and English is spoken there; but the quietness of the ages lingers among the hills where the grapes of Moscatel are still trodden in the winepress by barelegged men in unstarched linen who live very much as one fancies the patriarchs did, plowing with oxen and wooden plows, and beating out their corn on wind-swept threshing floors. They also comport themselves, even towards the wandering Briton, who does not always deserve it, with an almost stately courtesy, and seldom trouble themselves about the morrow. All that is essentially Spanish is Eastern, too. The life in the hill pueblos is that portrayed in the Jewish scriptures, and the olive-skinned men whose forefathers once ruled half the world have also like the Hebrew the remembrance of their departed glory to sadden them.

It is, however, scarcely probable that any fancies of this kind occurred to Mrs. Ratcliffe as she lay in a somewhat rickety chair under a vine-draped pergola outside a pink-washed house in that aldea one afternoon. She was essentially modern, and usually practical, in which respects Ada, who sat not far away, was not unlike her. A man, at least, seldom expects to find the commercial instinct and a shrewd capacity for estimating and balancing worldly advantages in a young woman of prepossessing appearance with innocent eyes, which is, perhaps, a pity, since it now and then happens that the fact that she possesses a reasonable share of both of them is made clear to him in due time. Then it is apt to cause him pain, for man being vain prefers to believe that it is personal merit that counts for most where he is concerned.

Ada Ratcliffe was listening to the drowsy splash of falling water, and looking down through the rocky gateway over tall palms and creeping vines, blackened hillslopes, and gleaming sands, on the vast plain of the Atlantic which lay, a sheet of turquoise, very far below. Above her, tremendous fire-rent pinnacles ran up into the upper sweep of ethereal blue, but all this scarcely roused her interest. She had seen it already, and had said it was very pretty. Besides, she was thinking of other things which appealed to her considerably more, a London house, an acknowledged station in smart society, and the command of money. These were things she greatly desired to have, and it was evident that Thomas Ormsgill could only offer her them in a certain measure. It was, in some respects, only natural that her mother should set a high value on them too, and desire them for her daughter. She had made a long and gallant fight against adverse circumstances since her husband died, and there was in her face the hardness of one who has more than once been almost beaten. There were, she knew, women who would freely give themselves with all that had been given them to the man they loved, but Mrs. Ratcliffe had never had much sympathy with them. It was, she felt, a much more sensible thing to make a bargain, and secure something in return.

Still, nobody would have fancied that Ada Ratcliffe had any such ideas just then. Her face was quietly tranquil, and the pose she had fallen into in the big basket chair was, if not quite unstudied, a singularly graceful one. In her hands lay a Spanish fan, a beautiful, costly thing of silk and feathers and fretted ebony which Lister had given her a few days earlier. He sat on a block of lava watching her with a little significant gleam that she was perfectly conscious of in his usually apathetic eyes. Still, though he had a heavy face of the kind one seldom associates with self-restraint, there was nothing in his expression which could have jarred upon a woman of the most sensitive temperament. There were not many things which Albert Lister had much reverence for, but during the last few weeks a change had been going on in him, and it was a blind, unreasoning devotion which none of his friends would have believed him capable of that he offered this girl.

His pleasures had been coarse ones, and there was much in him that she might have shrunk from, but he had, at least, of late fought with the desires of his lower nature, and, for the time being, trampled on one or two of them. Slow of thought, and of very moderate intelligence, as he was, he had yet endeavored to purge himself of grossness before he ventured into her presence. He had not spoken for awhile when Mrs. Ratcliffe turned to him.

"You were not in the drawing-room last night," she said, and her manner subtly conveyed the impression that she had expected him. "No doubt you had something more interesting on hand?"

"No," said Lister slowly, "I don't think I had. In fact, I was playing cards!"

Mrs. Ratcliffe was a trifle perplexed, for she had now and then ventured to express her disapproval of one or two of his favorite distractions in a motherly fashion, and she could not quite understand his candor. It was, perhaps, natural that she should not credit him with a simple desire for honesty, since this was a motive which would not have had much weight with her.

"Ah," she said, with an air of playful reproach, "everybody plays cards nowadays, and I suppose one must not be too hard on you. Still, I think you know what my views are upon that subject."

They were scarcely likely to be very charitable ones, since she owed her own long struggle to the fact that there were few forms of gaming her husband had not unsuccessfully experimented with, and she continued feelingly, "If one had no graver objections, it is apt to prove expensive."

Lister laughed a little. "It proved so—to the other people—last night, but I think you are right. In fact, it's scarcely likely I'll touch a card again. In one way,"—and he appeared to reflect laboriously, "it's a waste of life."

His companions were both a trifle astonished. They had scarcely expected a sentiment of this kind from him, and though the elder lady would probably not have admitted it, gaming did not appear to her so objectionable a thing provided that one won and had the sense to leave off when that was the case. Ada Ratcliffe, however, smiled.

"To be candid, one would hardly have fancied you would look at it in that light," she said. "Still, you seem to have been changing your views lately."

"I have," said the man slowly, with a faint flush in his heavy face. "After all, one comes to look at these things differently, and I dare say those fellows are right who lay it down that one ought to do something for his country or his living. Once I had the opportunity, but I let it go, or rather I flung it away. I often wish I hadn't, but I'm not quite sure it's altogether too late now."

He spoke with an awkward diffidence, for though he was very young, ideas of this kind were quite new to him. The love of the girl he looked at appealingly had stirred his slow coarse nature, and something that had sprung up in its depths was growing towards the light. It might have grown to grace and beauty had the light been a benignant one, for, after all, it is not upon the soil alone that growth of any kind depends. Ada Ratcliffe, however, did not recognize in the least that this laid upon her a heavy responsibility.

"No," she said with an encouraging smile, "there is no reason why you shouldn't make a career yet. I almost think you could if you wanted to."

It was a bold assertion, but she made it unblushingly, and Lister appeared to consider.

"There are not many things I'm good at—that is, useful ones," he said. "You have to be able to talk sensibly, anyway, before you can make your mark at politics, and some of them don't do it under twenty years."

He stopped for a moment with a little sigh. "Still, I suppose there must be something worth while for one to do, even if it's not exactly what one would like."

"One's duty is usually made clear to one," said Mrs. Ratcliffe encouragingly.

"Well," said Lister, "I'm not sure it is, though it's probably his own fault if he doesn't want to recognize it. As I mentioned, you can look at the same thing differently. There was Desmond's friend Ormsgill. A little while ago I thought he was a trifle crazy. Now I begin to see it's a big thing he's doing, something to look back on afterwards even if he never does anything worth while again."

He saw the faint flush of color in Ada Ratcliffe's face, though he did not in the least understand it. There was a good deal this man could give her, and she knew that he would in due time press it upon her, but she was naturally aware that his mental capacity was painfully small. This made the fact that he should look upon Ormsgill's errand as one a man could take pride in a reproach to her. Mrs. Ratcliffe's face was, however, if anything, expressive of anxiety, for she had asked herself frequently if Lister could by any chance have heard that the girl's pledge to Ormsgill had never been retracted. She did not think he had, but this was a point it was well to be sure upon.

"I didn't think you had met him," she said.

"I haven't. You see, I stayed behind in Madeira while the Palestrina came on, and when I got here Ormsgill had gone. Desmond told me about him. I understood he was to marry somebody when he had done his errand, though, if he knew, Desmond never mentioned who she was."

He stopped, and Mrs. Ratcliffe sighed with sheer relief when he turned and looked eastwards towards Africa across the vast stretch of sea with a vague longing in his eyes.

"Well," he said, "when he comes back again he will have done something that should make the girl look up to him."

Again the flicker of color crept into Ada Ratcliffe's cheek, for she was conscious just then of a curious resentment against the man who had gone to Africa for an idea. It was singularly galling that a man of Lister's caliber should make her ashamed. Still, she smiled at him.

"I believe we have all more than one opportunity, and another one will no doubt present itself," she said.

Lister sat still looking at her in a fashion she found almost embarrassing, and for a moment or two none of them spoke. Then there were footsteps on the lava blocks outside the pergola, and a man appeared in an opening between the vines. He was dressed in white duck, and his face was bronzed by wind and spray, while Mrs. Ratcliffe found it difficult to refrain from starting at the sight of him. He stood where he was for a moment looking at the group with grave inquiry, and Ada Ratcliffe felt that she hated him for the little smile of comprehension that crept into his eyes. Then he moved quietly forward, and Lister rose with a faint flush in his face.

"I'm glad to see you, Desmond. I mean it, in spite of what passed the night you packed me off," he said.

It was an awkward meeting, though Lister was the only one whose embarrassment was noticeable. His companions were watching Desmond quietly, though Mrs. Ratcliffe was sensible that this was the last man she would have desired to see. He had come back from Africa and might spoil everything, for at the back of her mind she was not quite sure of her daughter. Still, though it cost her an effort, she asked him a few questions.

"Ormsgill didn't want me for some time and I ran across for coal and other things. That coast isn't one it's judicious to stay on," he said, and looked at Ada steadily. "You will be pleased to hear that he was in excellent health—though he was still bent on carrying out his purpose—when he left me."

The girl's gesture was apparently expressive of relief, and Desmond who sat down on the lava parapet proceeded to relate what he knew of Ormsgill's projects and adventures. He felt the constraint that was upon all of them except Lister, whose embarrassment was rapidly disappearing, and though it afforded him certain grim satisfaction he talked to dissipate it.

"We ran in this morning, and as the folks at the hotel told me you were here I came on," he said at length.

They asked him a few more questions, and it said a good deal for Mrs. Ratcliffe's courage that she invited him to stay there for comida and then to ride back to their hotel with them. Still it would, as she recognized, be useless to separate the men, since they would come across each other continually in Las Palmas, and she was one who knew that the boldest course is now and then the wisest. Desmond stayed, and it was some little time later when he sat alone with Lister among the tumbled lava by the watercourse. Feathery palm tufts drooped above them, and looking out between the fringed and fretted greenery they could see the blue expanse of sea. Beyond its sharp-cut eastern rim, as both of them were conscious, lay the shadowy land. Desmond turned from its contemplation and regarded his companion with a little smile.

"I heard a good deal about you in the hotel smoking room," he said. "I suppose I ought to compliment you on the possession of a certain amount of sense. Presumably you have now a motive for going steady?"

Lister flushed, but he met his companion's gaze without wavering. "As a matter of fact you are quite correct," he said. "Anyway, the motive is a sufficient one."

"Ah," said Desmond dryly, "it is in that case a lady, Miss Ratcliffe most probably? You no doubt recognize that she is several years older than you, and that it is more than possible her affections have been engaged before?"

His companion resolutely straightened himself. "It isn't as a rule advisable to go too far, but I don't mind informing you that they are not engaged now."

"You seem sure," said Desmond with more than a trace of his former dryness. "She has presumably told you so?"

"She has not," said Lister. "That is, however, quite sufficient in itself, because if there had been anyone else with the slightest claim on her she and her mother would certainly have found means of making it clear to me."

Desmond saw the glint in the lad's eyes, and could not quite repress a little sardonic smile. What he had heard in the hotel had at first been almost incomprehensible to him, but, as he listened to what the men he met there had to tell, it became clear that Lister had in reality turned from his former courses. Then came his own admission that it was Ada Ratcliffe who had inspired him. Desmond could have found it a relief to laugh. The woman who, it seemed, was willing to throw over his comrade and break her pledge to him that she might be free to marry a richer man was the one who had stirred the lad to what was probably a stern and valiant encounter with his baser nature. It seemed that she could not even be honest with him.

"Am I to understand that you have made up your mind to marry Miss Ratcliffe?" he asked.

"Yes," said Lister slowly, "I have; that is, if she will have me, which is doubtful. It is, however, in no sense your business, and you needn't trouble to remind me that it would be a very indifferent match for her."

Desmond sat still for several minutes, and thought as hard as he had in all probability ever done in his life. He had given Ormsgill a hint which had not been taken, and now he found it had been fully warranted, he had ventured on giving Lister another which had also been disregarded. The lad's faith in the woman who was deceiving both of them was evidently sincere and generous, as well as in one respect pitiable, and under the circumstances Desmond could not tell what course he ought to take. He was aware that the man who rashly meddles in his friends' affairs seldom either confers any real benefit upon them or earns their thanks, and he doubted if Lister would listen to any advice or information he might offer him. To say nothing meant that he must leave Mrs. Ratcliffe a free hand, but he had sufficient knowledge of that lady's capabilities to feel reasonably sure that she would succeed in marrying the girl to one of the men in spite of him. That being so, it seemed to him preferable that the one in question should not be his friend. Then he looked at Lister gravely.

"Well," he said, "I almost think she'll have you, and I'm not sure that you need worry yourself too much about not being good enough for her. That's a point you could be content with her mother's opinion on."

He left the lad, and five minutes later came upon Ada Ratcliffe in the patio of the adjacent house. "You will make my excuses to your mother," he said. "After all, I think I had better ride back to Las Palmas alone."

The girl met his eyes, but for a moment her face flushed crimson. She said nothing, and he quietly turned away, while in another few minutes she heard his horse stumbling down the slippery path beside the watercourse. When they reached the hotel that evening they were also told that he did not intend to live ashore while the yacht was in the harbor, which was a piece of information that afforded Mrs. Ratcliffe considerable relief.

CHAPTER XIV
HERRERO'S IMPRUDENCE

Though it was, at least, as hot as it usually is at San Roque and the heavy, stagnant atmosphere made exertion of any kind impossible to a white man, Dom Erminio had not gone to sleep that afternoon, as he generally did. He had, after all, some shadowy notions of duty, and would now and then rouse himself to carry them out; that is, at least, when he stood to obtain some advantage by doing so. In this he was, perhaps, not altogether singular, since it is possible that there are other men who recognize a duty most clearly under similar circumstances. He lay in a low hung hammock where the veranda roof flung a grateful shadow over him, with a cigar in his hand, meditatively watching a row of half-naked negroes toiling in the burning sun, and the fashion in which he did so suggested that it afforded him a certain quiet satisfaction. He had grave objections to physical exertion personally, and as a rule succeeded in avoiding it, for there are, as he recognized, advantages in being a white man, in that country, at least. Dom Erminio invariably made the most of them.

It must be admitted that the negro is by no means addicted to toiling assiduously under scorching heat, especially when, as sometimes happens, he works for a white man who requisitions his services without any intention of rewarding him for them, but though the baked and trampled soil of the compound flung back an intolerable heat and glare, the half-naked men were diligent that afternoon. Dom Erminio had his shifty black eyes on them, and certain dusky men with sticks stood ready to spur the laggards to fresh endeavor. So while the sweat of strenuous effort dripped from them some trotted to and fro with baskets of soil upon their woolly heads and the rest plied saw and hammer persistently. They were strengthening the fort stockade and digging a ditch, and incidentally riveting the shackles of the white man's bondage more firmly on their limbs. The Commandant, or Chefe as he was usually called, appeared to recognize that fact, for he smiled a little as he watched them.

By and by he turned and blinked at the forest which hemmed in the stockaded compound as with an impenetrable wall. It was dim and shadowy, even under that burning glare suggestively so, and he was aware that just then whispers of a coming rising were flying through its unlifting gloom, though the fact caused him no great concern. A few white friends of his were playing a game that has been played before in other regions, and he was quite willing to gain fresh renown as an administrator by the suppression of a futile rebellion. It is also possible that his friends looked for more tangible advantages, and would have been willing to offer him a certain share of them. That, however, is not quite a matter of certainty, and there were, at least, men in that country who said they regarded Dom Erminio as all an administrator ought to be. Perhaps he was, from their point of view.

The Lieutenant Luiz, who had just come back from a native village with a handful of dusky soldiers and a band of carriers loaded with fresh provisions, sat in a basket chair close by, also regarding the stockade builders with a little smile. The natural reluctance of certain negroes to part with their possessions had occasioned him a good deal of trouble during the last few days. A negro who served as messenger stood waiting a few paces behind him.

"It is an advantage when one can teach the trek-ox to harness himself," he said reflectively. "I do not think those men like what they are doing. Every pile that they are driving makes our rule a little surer. It is not astonishing that some of them should be a trifle mutinous now and then."

"You had a difficulty about those provisions?" said Dom Erminio.

His companion laughed. "One would scarcely call it that. It was merely advisable to use the stick, and a hut or two was burnt. In times like the present one profits by a little judicious firmness."

"I think one could even go a trifle further than that."

Lieutenant Luiz made a little gesture. He had a certain shrewdness, and the Chefe was only cunning, which is, after all, a different thing from being clever. It seemed that Dom Erminio failed to recognize that it is always somewhat dangerous to play with fire. One can as a rule start a conflagration without much difficulty, but it is now and then quite another matter to put it out.

"I am not sure," he said. "There are men in this country who seem to enjoy scattering sparks, and they are rather busy just now. It is, perhaps, not very hazardous when it is done judiciously and one knows there is only a little tinder here and there, but when one flings them broadcast it is possible that two or three may fall on powder." He turned and stretched out a dainty, olive-tinted hand towards the forest. "After all, we do not know much about what goes on there."

"Bah!" said Dom Erminio, who had courage, at least, "if the blaze is a little larger than one expected what does it matter? The stockade will be a strong one."

His companion glanced at the gap in the row of well stiffened piles. "It would certainly be difficult to storm that gate, but these bushmen who are building the stockade will have the sense to realize it and tell their friends. If there is an attack it will not be made that way."

"Exactly!" and the Chefe's eyes twinkled as he waved a yellow hand. "It is a little idea that occurred to me while you were away. The bushmen would come by the rear of the stockade which we leave lower, and when they do I think we shall also be ready for them there. There are certain defenses which will be substituted when their friends have gone away again."

They both laughed at this and neither of them said anything further for awhile until a negro swathed in white cotton strode out of the forest with a little stick in his hand. He was challenged by a sentry who sent him on, and presently stood on the veranda holding out the stick. Dom Erminio glanced at it languidly.

"Our injudicious friend Herrero has some word for us," he said. "He is a man who lets his dislikes run away with him, and he is not always wise in his messages." He stopped a moment with a little reflective smile. "Still, a message is always a difficulty in this part of Africa. If one teaches the messenger what he is to say he may tell it to somebody else, and it happens now and then that to write is not advisable. One must choose, however, and I wonder which our friend has done."

The man decided the question by holding out a strip of paper, and the Chefe who took it from him nodded as he read.

"It appears that Herrero is not pleased with the doings of the Englishman who is now in the bush country," he said. "Herrero seems to consider that he and a few others are capable of rousing all the ill will against us among the natives that is desirable, and I am almost tempted to believe that he is right in this. He is, however, imprudent enough to supply me with a few particulars which might with advantage have been made less explicit. He fancies we shall have a rebellion, and if we do not I almost think it will be no fault of his."

"There is no doubt a little more," observed Lieutenant Luiz. "When that man writes a letter he has something to ask for."

The Commandant nodded. "It is in this case a thing we can oblige him in," he said. "It seems the crazy Englishman Ormsgill is causing trouble up yonder and inciting the natives to mutiny. Further, it is evidently his intention to deprive Domingo of some of the boys who have engaged themselves under him. The man is one who could, I think, be called dangerous. It is not a favor to Herrero, but a duty to place some check on him."

They looked at one another, and Dom Luiz grinned. "Ah," he said, "our imprudent friend no doubt mentions how it could most readily be done."

The Commandant raised one hand. "The thing is simple. You will start, we will say the day after to-morrow, with several men, and you will come upon Ormsgill in a village in Cavalho's country. Domingo, it seems, is there now, and it is expected that Ormsgill will attempt to take the boys from him, but this will cause no difficulty. The Headman, who is a friend of Domingo's will, if it appears advisable, disarm Ormsgill. The latter will no doubt not permit this to be done quietly, and it is possible that there will be a disturbance in the village, as the result of which you will arrest him for raiding natives under our protection. We shall know what to do when you bring him here."

They had, after sending Herrero's messenger away, spoken in Portuguese of which the negro who remained on the veranda understood no more than a word or two. He stood still, statuesque, with his white draperies flowing about his dusky limbs, and as disregarded by the white men as the native girl with the big bedizened fan who crouched in the shadowy doorway just behind them. Yet both had intelligence, and noticed that the Chefe instead of destroying the letter laid it carelessly on the edge of his hammock, from which it dropped when he raised himself a little. The girl's eyes glistened, but she said nothing, and the man moved slightly as though his pose had grown irksome. It was unfortunate that Dom Erminio had considered it advisable to keep him there waiting his pleasure, for when he stood still again he was a foot or two nearer the strip of paper than he had been a few moments earlier.

Then the girl in the doorway rose, and the Chefe turned sharply in his hammock as a little haggard man in plain white duck walked quietly out of the house. He saw the question in the glance Dom Erminio flashed at his Lieutenant, and smiled as he seated himself in the nearest chair. Father Tiebout was always unobtrusive, and what he did was as a rule done very quietly, but he was quite aware that neither of the two white men were exactly pleased to see him.

"I came in from the east by the rear of the stockade where they are mending it," he said. "It was a little nearer. One would suppose that you did not see me."

The residency veranda, as is usual in that country, ran round the building, which had several doors and two stairways, and it was therefore perfectly natural that the priest should have arrived unnoticed, but the fact that he had done so was disconcerting just then, and it left the question how long he might have been in the house. Still, there were reasons why the Chefe could not ask it or treat his guest with any discourtesy.

"In any case you are welcome," he said. "There is presumably something I can do for you?"

Father Tiebout nodded. "A little matter," he said. "I was going to San Thome, and as my road led near the fort I thought I would mention it. My people have a complaint against the soldiers you lately sent into our neighborhood under the Sergeant Orticho. Some of them have been beaten."

"Dom Luiz will go over and look into it," said the Chefe. "That is, presently."

"Ah," said Father Tiebout, "then Dom Luiz is busy now? He will, no doubt, be at liberty in a day or two?"

It was not a question Dom Erminio wished to answer, and he waved his hand. "At the moment one cannot say. In the meanwhile you will make your complaint a little more definite."

He had apparently forgotten the messenger, but Father Tiebout had been quietly watching him, and now saw him stretch out a dusky foot towards the strip of paper which lay not far away. He touched it with a prehensile toe, and in another moment it had vanished altogether, though the man did not stand exactly where he had stood before. Lieutenant Luiz, as it happened, sat with his back to him, and Dom Erminio lay in his hammock where he could not see, but two people had noticed every motion, and though neither of them made any sign the dusky man was quite aware that the girl who had retired to one of the windows was watching him. About Father Tiebout he was far from certain, but he was a bold man, and turning a little away from him he stooped and apparently touched a scratch a thorn or broken grass stalk had made on his foot. When he straightened himself again there was, however, something in his hand. Then the Chefe appeared to remember him.

"You will go back to the Lieutenant Castro," he said. "You can tell him there is no answer. Start to-morrow."

"It is a long journey," said the man. "I go back now."

Dom Erminio made a little gesture which seemed to indicate that it was a matter of indifference to him, and Father Tiebout put a check on his impatience. He had, as it happened, been in the house at least a minute before any one had noticed him, and was anxious for reasons of his own to discover what was in the letter. He did not know what the messenger meant to do with it, but he was aware that those entrusted with authority in that country were frequently at variance and spied on one another. It was possible that the man who could not read the note might expect to sell it.

Still, the missionary was one who seldom spoiled anything by undue haste, and he reflected that while he had traveled in a hammock leisurely the man was probably worn by a long journey, since San Roque lay at some distance from the camp where the officer the Chefe had mentioned was stationed then. So he supplied his hosts with particulars concerning his complaint, and then talked of other matters for an hour or more, and it was not until the comida was laid out that he set out on his journey. This was a somewhat unusual course in the case of a guest who had a long march still in front of him, but although the messenger, who might also have been expected to spend the night there, had evinced the same desire to get on his way, it never occurred to Dom Erminio to put the two facts together. There are, however, other cunning men who now and then fail to see a very obvious thing.

Still, Father Tiebout did not go by the nearest way to San Thome, though he urged his hammock boys through the bush all night at their utmost speed. The path was smoothly trodden, and they had no great difficulty in following it through the drifting steam, while when the red sun leapt up and here and there a ray of brightness streamed down, they came upon a weary man who turned and stood still when he saw them. He made a little gesture of comprehension when the priest dropped from his hammock and looked at him.

Father Tiebout touched his shoulder and led him back a few paces into the bush. The man was big and muscular, as well as a pagan, but the priest had the letter when they came out again. He did not tell any one how he induced the messenger to part with it, but, as he now and then admitted, he was one who did not hesitate to use the means available. It was, in fact, a favorite expression of his, and, though he usually left the latter point an open question, in his case, at least, the results generally justified the means. He spoke a word or two sharply to the hammock boys, and they left the man sitting wearily beside the trail when they went on again.

It was three weeks later when the priest in charge of the San Thome Mission, who was a privileged person, sent on the letter to Dom Clemente Figuera by the hands of a Government messenger, but Father Tiebout, who requested him to do so, had made one or two other arrangements in connection with it in the meanwhile. Ormsgill, as he had once said, had a few good friends in Africa.

CHAPTER XV
NARES COUNTS THE COST

It was getting late and the night was very hot, but Nares was still busy in his palm-thatched hut. The creed he taught was not regarded with any great favor by the authorities, and, perhaps, was also by virtue of its very simplicity a little beyond the comprehension of the negro, who not unnaturally finds it a good deal easier to believe in a pantheon of mostly malevolent deities, but if his precepts produced no very visible result, there were, at least, many sick who flocked to him. It was significant that the door of his hut stood wide open, as it always did, though there were men in that forest who had little love for him. The priests of the heathen also practice the art of healing, and it is not in human nature to be very tolerant towards a rival who works without a fee.

He sat with the perspiration trickling down his worn face beside a little silver reading lamp, a gift from somebody in the land he came from. Now and then there was a faint stirring of the muggy air, and the light flickered a little, while the blue flame of a spirit lamp that burned beneath a test tube was deflected a trifle, but the weary man scarcely noticed it as he pored over a medical treatise. Nor did he notice the crackling that unseen creatures made in the thatch above his head, the steamy dampness that soaked his thin duck jacket, or the sickly smell of lilies that now and then flowed into the room. He was too intent upon the symbols of certain equations, letters and figures, and crosses of materialistic significance, with the aid of which he could, at least, mitigate bodily suffering and fight disease. They were always present, and it was a valiant fight he made in a land where the white man's courage melts and his faith grows dim.

At last there were voices and footsteps in the compound, which he heard but scarcely heeded, and he only looked up when a man stood in the doorway smiling at him.

"Ah," he said, "I scarcely expected to see you, Father. What has become of your hammock boys, and where have you sprung from?"

Father Tiebout waved his hand, and dropped into the nearest chair. "The boys are already in the guest hut," he said. "I have come from San Roque, but not directly. In fact, I found it advisable to make a little detour."

"In your case that is not a very unusual thing," and Nares laughed. "Still, you appear to get there, arrive, as you express it, at least as frequently as I do."

The priest made a little gesture. "When one finds a wall he can not get over across his path it is generally wiser to go round. Why should one waste his strength and bruise his hands endeavoring to tear it down? It may be a misfortune, but I think we were not all intended to be battering rams. The metaphor, however, is not a very excellent one, since it is in this case a lion that stands in the path of our friend Ormsgill. For a minute or two you will give me your attention."

Nares listened with wrinkled forehead, leaning forward with both arms on the table, and then there was a faint twinkle in his eyes as he looked at his companion. It was, after all, not very astonishing that he should smile, for he was accustomed to disconcerting news.

"I wonder if one could ask how you learned so much?" he said. "It is scarcely likely that the Chefe or his Lieutenant would tell it you."

"For one thing, I heard a few words that were not exactly meant for me; for another, I laid unauthorized hands upon a certain letter. One, as I have pointed out, must use the means available."

"The results justify it—when he is successful, which is, no doubt, why you so seldom fail? Under the circumstances you can not afford to. There may be something to say for that point of view, but our fathers were not so liberal in Geneva."

Father Tiebout smiled good-humoredly. "We will not discuss the point just now. The question is what must be done? We have a friend who will walk straight into the jaws of the lion unless—some one—warns him."

"It is not impossible that he will do so then."

The priest spread his hands out. "Ah," he said, "how can one teach the men who delight in stone walls and lions a little sense? Still, perhaps, it would be a pity if one could. It is possible that folly was the greatest thing bestowed on them when they were sent into this world. That, however, is not quite the question."

"It is—who shall go?" and Nares, who closed one hand, thrust his chair back noisily. "There are you and I alone available, padre, and we know that the one of us who ventures to do this thing will be laid under the ban of Authority, openly proscribed or, at least, quietly thwarted here and there until he is driven from his work and out of the country. There are many ways in which those who hold power in these forests can trouble us."

Father Tiebout said nothing, but he made a gesture of concurrence, with his eyes fixed steadily on his companion, and Nares, who could not help it, smiled a trifle bitterly.

"Well," he said, "you have your adherents—a band of them—and what you teach them must be a higher thing than their own idolatry. If they lost their shepherd they would fall away again. I, as you know, have none. My call, it seems, is never listened to—and it is plain that circumstances point to me. Well, I am ready."

His companion nodded gravely. "It is a hard thing I have to say, but you are right in this," he said. "I have a flock, and some of them would perish if I left them. For their sake I can not go. It is not for me to take my part in a splendid folly, but"—and he spread his thin hands out—"because it is so I am sorry."

It was clear that Nares believed him, though he said nothing. He knew what the thing he was about to do would in all probability cost him, but he also realized that had circumstances permitted it the little fever-wasted priest would have gladly undertaken it in place of him. Father Tiebout was one who recognized his duty, but there was also the Latin fire in him, and Nares did not think it was merely because he liked it he submitted to Authority and walked circumspectly, contenting himself with quietly accomplishing a little here and there.

Then Father Tiebout made a gesture which seemed to imply that there was nothing further to be said on that subject, as he pointed through the open door to the steamy bush.

"You and I have, perhaps, another duty," he said. "We know what is going on up yonder, and, as usual, those in authority seem a trifle blind. If nothing is done there will be bloodshed when the men with the spears come down."

Nares was by no means perfect, and his face grew suddenly hard. "That," he said, "is the business of those who rule. They would not believe my warning, and I should not offer it if they would. There are wrongs which can only be set right by the shedding of blood, and I would not raise a hand if those who have suffered long enough swept the whole land clean."

Father Tiebout smiled curiously. "There is, I think, one man who would have justice done. It is possible there are also others behind him, but that I do not know. He is not a man who takes many into his confidence or explains his intentions beforehand. I will venture to send him Herrero's letter—and a warning."

He rose with a soft chuckle. "I almost think he will do—something by and by, but in the meanwhile it is late, and you start to-morrow."

"No," said Nares simply. "I am starting as soon as the hammock boys are ready."

He extinguished the spirit lamp, and lighting a lantern went out into the darkness which shrouded the compound. He spent a few minutes in a big whitened hut where two or three sick men lay and a half-naked negro sat half-asleep. There was, as he realized, not much that he could do for any of them, and after all, his most strenuous efforts were of very slight avail against the pestilence that swept those forests. He had not spared himself, and had done what he could, but that night he recognized the uselessness of the struggle, as other men have done in the land of unlifting shadow. Still, he gave the negro a few simple instructions, and then went out and stood still a few moments in the compound before he roused the hammock boys.

There was black darkness about him, and the thicker obscurity of the steamy forest that shut him in seemed to emphasize the desolation of the little station. He had borne many sorrows there, and had fought for weeks together, with the black, pessimistic dejection the fever breeds, but now it hurt him to leave it, for he knew that in all probability he would never come back again. He sighed a little as he moved towards one of the huts, and standing in the entrance called until a drowsy voice answered him.

"Get the hammock ready with all the provisions the boys can carry. We start on a long journey in half an hour," he said.

Then he went back to his hut, and set out food for himself and his guest. They had scarcely finished eating when there was a patter of feet in the compound and a shadowy figure appeared in the dim light that streamed out from the door.

"The boys wait," it said. "The hammock is ready."

Nares rose and shook hands with his companion. "If I do not come back," he said, "you know what I would wish done."

The priest was stirred, but he merely nodded. "In that case I will see to it," he said.

Then Nares climbed into the hammock, and once more turned to his companion.

"I have," he said, "failed here as a teacher. At first it hurt a little to admit it, but the thing is plain. I may have wasted time in wondering where my duty lay, but I think I was waiting for a sign. Now, when the life of the man you and I brought back here is in peril I think it has been given me."

"Ah," said the little priest quietly, "when one has faith enough the sign is sometimes given. There are, I think, other men waiting on the coast yonder, and one of them is a man who moves surely when the time is ripe."

Nares called to the hammock boys, who slipped away into the darkness with a soft patter of naked feet, while Father Tiebout stood still in the doorway with a curious look in his eyes. He remembered how Nares had first walked out of that forest and unobtrusively set about the building of his station several years ago. Now he had as quietly gone away again, and in a few more months the encroaching forest would spread across the compound and enfold the crumbling huts, but for all that, the man he had left behind could not believe that what he had done there would be wholly thrown away.

It was a long and hasty march the woolly-haired bearers made, and they did not spare themselves. It is believed in some quarters that the African will only exert himself when he is driven with the stick, and there are certainly white men in whose case the belief is more or less warranted, but Nares, like Ormsgill, used none, and the boys plodded onwards uncomplainingly under burning heat and through sour white steam. They hewed a way through tangled creepers, and plunged knee and sometimes waist deep in foul morasses. The sweat of tense effort dripped from them, and thorns rent their skin, but they would have done more had he asked it for the man who lay in the hammock that lurched above them.

Nares on his part knew that Ormsgill was well in front of him, and Ormsgill as a rule traveled fast, but it was evident that he must have made a long journey already, and the Mission boys were fresh. That, at least, was clear by the pace they made, but it did not greatly slacken when weariness laid hold on them. They pushed on without flagging through the unlifting shade, and the ashes of their cooking fires marked their track across leagues of forest, until late one night they stopped suddenly in a more open glade, and Nares, flung forward in his hammock, seized the pole and swung himself down.

He alighted in black shadow, but he could dimly see one of the boys in front of him leaning forward as though listening. A blaze of moonlight fell upon the trail some forty yards away, and two great trunks rose athwart it in towering columns, but there was nothing else visible. Still, the boy, who now crouched a trifle, was clearly intent and apprehensive. He stood rigid and motionless, gazing at the bush, until he slowly turned his head.

Nares, who could hear no sound, felt his heart beat, for the man's attitude was unpleasantly suggestive. It seemed that he was following something that moved behind the festooned creepers with eyes which could see more than those of a white man, and Nares felt the tension becoming unendurable as he watched him until the negro flung out a pointing hand. Then a voice rose sharply.

"Move forward a few paces out of the shadow," it said in a native tongue.

Nares laughed from sheer relief, for the voice was familiar.

"We'll move as far as you wish, but we're quite harmless," he said.

There was a crackle of undergrowth, and a white-clad figure stepped out of the bush with something that caught the moonlight and glinted in its hand. Nares moved forward, and in another moment or two stopped by Ormsgill's side.

"I might have expected something of the kind, but I scarcely fancied you were so near," he said. "Anyway, I should not have supposed a white man could have crept up on us as you have done."

Ormsgill's smile was a trifle grim. "Most white men have not been hunted for their life," he said. "As a rule it's prudent to take precautions in the bush. It was not you I expected to see."

"Still, I have come a long way after you."

"Then we'll go back to camp," said Ormsgill. "Bring your boys along."

He sent a hoarse call ringing through the shadows of the bush, and then turned to his companion as if in explanation.

"One or two of the boys have Sniders, and their nerves might be a trifle unsteady," he said, "I can't get them to keep their finger off the trigger."

"Sniders?" said Nares.

Ormsgill laughed. "There are, it seems, a few of them in the country. I have now and then come across American rifles, too. I don't know how they got here, and it's not my business, but it is generally believed that officials now and then acquire a competence by keeping a hand open and their eyes shut."

Nares, who asked no more questions, followed him through the creepers and undergrowth until he turned and pointed to a stalwart negro standing close against a mighty trunk, who lowered his heavy rifle with a grin. Then the faint glow of a smoldering fire became visible, and Ormsgill stopped where the moonlight streamed down upon the ground sheet spread outside a little tent.

"Your boys can camp among my carriers," he said. "You will probably have fed them, but I can offer you a few biscuits and some coffee. It's Liberian."

The coffee was made and brought them by a splendid grinning negro with blue-striped forehead, who hailed from the land where it was grown, and while they drank it Nares made his errand clear. When he had done this Ormsgill laid down his cup and looked at him.

"There is one thing you have to do, and that is to go back to the Mission as fast as you can," he said. "Our friends in authority will make things singularly uncomfortable for you if they hear that you have taken the trouble to spoil their plan by warning me."

Nares smiled and shook his head. "You ought to be acquainted with the customs of this country by now," he said. "I couldn't keep clear of all the villages on my way up, and, if I had, news of what I have done would have reached San Roque already."

"Ah," said Ormsgill quietly, "that is probably correct. It is unfortunate. I won't attempt to thank you—under the circumstances it would be a trifle difficult to do it efficiently. Well, since you can't go back to the Mission, you must come on with me."

Nares looked at him in some astonishment. "After what I told you, you are going on?"

"Of course!" and Ormsgill laughed softly. "I have been trailing Domingo for a long while, and he is, as you know, in the village a few days' march in front of us with most of the boys. It is scarcely likely that I shall have a more favorable opportunity."

"Haven't I made it clear to you that the Headman is a friend of his, and they are supposed to have arms there? Can't you understand yet that Domingo will embroil you with him, and arrange that you will have to fight your way out? Even if you manage it Dom Luiz is close behind with several files of infantry, and will certainly lay hands on you. You will have fired upon natives under official protection, and taken a labor purveyor's boys away from him. It would not be difficult to make out that you were inciting the natives to rebellion. Do you expect a fair hearing at San Roque?"

"I don't," and Ormsgill smiled. "In fact, I don't purpose to go there at all. I expect to be clear again with the boys before Dom Luiz arrives. From what I know of his habits on the march I should be able to manage it."

"But it is likely that Domingo, who knows he is expected to keep you here until Dom Luiz turns up, will sell the boys?"

Ormsgill smiled again. "I don't purpose to afford him the opportunity. He stole the boys, and I am merely going to make him give them up again. With a little resolution I believe it can be done. Still, I am sorry to drag you into the thing."

Nares said nothing for a moment or two. He felt that it would be useless, and his companion's quiet cold-blooded daring had its effect on him. After all, check it as he would, there was in him a vague pride and belief in the white man's destiny, and in the land he came from the term white man does not include the Latins. This world, it seems, was made for Americans and Englishmen to rule. A little gleam crept into his eyes.

"Well," he said, "I don't think I'm going to blame you now I am in."

CHAPTER XVI
NEGRO DIPLOMACY

The glare was almost intolerable when Ormsgill and his carriers walked into the space of trampled dust round which straggled the heavily thatched huts of the native village. The afternoon sun flooded it with a pitiless heat and dazzling brilliancy, and there was not a movement in the stagnant atmosphere. Beyond the clustering huts the forest rose impressively still, and there was a deep silence for a few moments after the line of weary men appeared. Then as they came on with a soft patter of naked feet a murmur rose from the groups of half-naked negroes squatting in the dust under the shadow flung by a great tree. It was not articulate, but there was a hint of anger in it, for white men were not regarded with any great favor in that village, which was not astonishing.

They moved quietly forward across the glaring dust, with a guard of dusky men in white cotton marching rifle on shoulder behind them. Indeed, the carriers only stopped when they reached the shadow of the tree under which the Headman and the elders of the village had assembled. Then as Ormsgill raised his hand the men with rifles swung out to left and right, and stood fast, an inconsequent handful of motionless figures with the unarmed carriers clustering behind them. Their white cotton draperies, which they had put on half an hour ago, gleamed in the sun glare dazzlingly.

Ormsgill was quite aware that a good deal depended on his composure and steadiness of bearing, but he had just come out of the shadow of the forest and he blinked as he looked about him. Close in front of him the fat village Headman sat on a carved stool, but there was another older man of somewhat lighter color and dignified presence who was seated a little higher, and this promised to complicate the affair, since Ormsgill recognized him as a man of some importance in those forests, and one who claimed a certain domination over the villages in them. It was known that he bore the white men little good will, but his presence there suggested that he had some complaint against the villagers, or was disposed as their suzerain to listen to their grievances, and Ormsgill realized that he had arrived at a somewhat unfortunate time. Then his eyes rested on another man he had expected to see. He stood among the elders, big and brown-skinned, with loose robes of white and blue flowing about him, smiling maliciously, though Ormsgill fancied that for some not very evident reason he was not quite at ease. Nares, who now stood beside his comrade, recognized him as Domingo, the labor purveyor.

"I'm 'most afraid you are going to find it difficult to get those boys," he said. "One could fancy these people had affairs of their own to discuss, and it's by no means certain that they'll even listen to us in the meanwhile."

Ormsgill, who did not answer him, glanced round at his boys. He fancied that none of them felt exactly comfortable, but they, at least, kept still, and he sent forward two of them with the presents he had brought before he turned to the Headman.

"I have come here to justice," he said in a bush tongue, and Nares who had a closer acquaintance with it amplified his observations. "That man," and he pointed to Domingo, "has with him boys who belonged to my friend the trader Lamartine. He stole them, and I have made a long journey to get them back again."

"If they belonged to Lamartine, who is dead, they can not be yours," said the Headman shrewdly. "You do not say you bought them from him."

"In one sense it's almost a pity you hadn't. He has made a point," Nares said quietly.

It was evident that the rest of the assembly recognized the fact, for there was laughter and a murmur of concurrence. Ormsgill, who did not expect to be believed, flung a hand up.

"If you will listen you shall hear why I claim them," he said, and he spoke for some minutes tersely while Nares now and then flung in a word or two.

Another laugh rang along the rows of squatting men, and there was blank incredulity in the dusky faces. This was, however, by no means astonishing, since the motives he professed to have been actuated by were distinctly unusual in that part of Africa. It was inconceivable to those who heard him that a man should trouble himself greatly about a promise he need not have kept, as this one said he had done. They were too well acquainted with the white men's habits to believe a thing of that kind could be possible. The fat Headman looked round and grinned.

"I think," he observed, "we should now hear what Domingo has to say."

Domingo had a good deal to say, and framed it cunningly, playing upon the dislike of the white men that was in those who heard him, but as Ormsgill noticed, it was the old man of lighter color he chiefly watched. The latter sat silent and motionless, regarding him with expressionless eyes, until he ceased, and Ormsgill realized that if it depended upon the opinion of the assembly Domingo had won his case. Still, though he was by no means sure what he would do, he was, at least, determined it should not depend on that, and there was a trace of grimness in his smile when Nares turned to him.

"I'm afraid it has gone against us," he said.

"Against me, you mean," said Ormsgill dryly.

"No," and Nares's gesture was expressive, "what I said stands without the correction."

Before Ormsgill could answer, the old man made a sign, and there was no mistaking his tone of authority.

"Bring the boys," he said.

They were led in some minutes later, eight of them, and three or four ran towards Ormsgill with eager cries. He waved them back, and there was silence for a moment or two until the old man rose up slowly with a curious smile in his eyes.

"It seems that this man has not beaten them too often," he said. "You have seen that they would sooner be his men than Domingo's. Let one of them speak."

One of them did so, and what he said bore out some, at least, of Ormsgill's assertions. Then the grave figure in the plain white robe raised a hand, and there was a sudden silence of attention.

"After all," he said, "this is my village, and it is by my permission your Headman rules here. Now, this stranger has told us a thing which appears impossible. We have not heard anything like it from a white man before, but when a man would deceive you he is careful to tell you what you can believe."

There was a little murmur which suggested that the listeners grasped the point of this, and the old man went on.

"I know that Lamartine was an honest man, for I have bought trade goods from him. They were what I bought them for, and I got the weight and count in full. Lamartine was honest, and it is likely that this man is honest, too, or he would not have been his friend."

He stopped a moment, and smiled a trifle dryly. "Now, we know that Domingo is a thief, for he has often cheated you, and it is certain that he is a friend of the white men. I have told you at other times that you are fools to trade with him. If a man is in debt or has done some wrong you part with him for this trader's goods. The rum is drunk, the cloth wears out, but the man lives on, and every day's work he does on the white men's plantations makes them richer and stronger. As they grow richer they grow greedier, and by and by they will not be satisfied with a man or two from among you. You will have made them strong enough to take you all. That, however, is not the question in the meanwhile. I think it may have happened, as this stranger says, that Domingo stole these boys from Lamartine, but even in that case there is a difficulty. The boys are with him, and in this country what a man holds in his hand is his. Perhaps the white man will offer him goods for them. I do not think he would ask too much, at least, if he is wise."

He looked at Ormsgill, who shook his head.

"Not a piece of cloth or a bottle of gin," he said.

There was a little murmur of resentment from the assembly, but Ormsgill saw that his boldness had the effect he had expected upon the man whose suggestion he had disregarded, and he had not acted inadvisedly when he dismissed all idea of compromise. Domingo had influential friends in that village, while, save for the handful of carriers, he and his companion stood alone. He also knew that if misfortune befell them no troublesome questions would be asked by the authorities. The whole enterprise was in one sense a folly, and that being so it was only by a continuance of the rashness he could expect to carry it through. Half measures were, as he realized, generally useless, and often perilous, in an affair of the kind, for there are occasions when one must face disastrous failure or bid boldly for success. Nares also seemed to recognize that fact, for he smiled as he turned to his companion.

"I think you were right," he said.

Then the Headman said something to his Suzerain who made a sign that the audience was over.

"It is a thing that must be talked over," he announced. "We shall, perhaps, know what must be done to-morrow."

Ormsgill acknowledged his gesture, swinging off his shapeless hat, and then led his boys away to the hut one of the Headman's servants pointed out to him. It was old, and had apparently been built for a person of importance for, though this was more usual further east among the dusky Moslem, there was a tall mud wall about it, and a smaller building probably intended for the occupation of the women inside the latter. It was dusty and empty save for the rats and certain great spiders, and during the rest of the hot afternoon Ormsgill sat with Nares in the little enclosed space under the lengthening shadow of the wall. The boys had curled themselves up amidst the dust and quietly gone to sleep.

There was nothing they could see but the ridge of forest beyond the huts, and though now and then a clamor of voices reached them from outside, it supplied them with no clue to what was going on. Ormsgill smoked his pipe out several times before he said anything, and then he glanced at the wall meditatively.

"It seems thick, and there's only one entrance," he observed. "I almost fancy we could hold the place, though I don't anticipate the necessity. Still, Domingo, who does a good trade here, has a certain following, and it might be an advantage if I knew a little more about our friends' affair. Their Suzerain seems to have some notion of fair play. I wonder what he is doing here."

"I have been asking myself the same question," said Nares. "It seems to me these folks have been a little slack in recognizing his authority, and he has been making them a visitation. In one respect they're somewhat unfortunately fixed. The Portuguese consider they belong to them though they have made no attempt to occupy the country, and it's a little rough on the Headman who has to keep the peace with both."

Ormsgill made a little gesture of concurrence. "No doubt you're correct. The question is who the Headman would sooner not offend, and it's rather an important one because we are somewhat awkwardly circumstanced if it's the Portuguese. Our friend from the Interior naturally doesn't like them, but it's uncertain how far we could count on him, and Dom Luiz will probably turn up to-morrow night or the next day, and then there would be fresh complications."

"In that case we should never get the boys."

The lines grew a trifle deeper in Ormsgill's forehead, but he smiled. "I wouldn't go quite so far, though if Domingo still had the boys it might delay things. As it is, I don't think he will have them. How I'm going to take them from him I don't quite know, but I expect to make an attempt of some kind to-morrow. You see, these folks have no particular fondness for the Portuguese, and that will probably count for a little."

Nares said nothing further on that subject, and Ormsgill talked about other matters while the shadows crept across the little dusty enclosure and the forest cut more darkly against the dazzling glare. Then it stood out for a brief few minutes fretted hard and sharp in ebony against a blaze of transcendent splendor, and vanished with an almost bewildering suddenness as darkness swept down. The smell of wood smoke crept into the stagnant air, and a cheerful hum of voices rose from the huts beyond the wall, through which odd bursts of laughter broke. It would not have been astonishing if it had jarred upon the susceptibilities of the two men who heard it, but, as it happened, they listened tranquilly. They had both faced too many perils in the shadowy land to concern themselves greatly as to what might befall them. In one was the sure belief that all he was to bear was appointed for him, and the other thought of little but the task in hand. They were simple men, impatient often, and now and then driven into folly by human bitterness, but there is, perhaps, nothing taught in all the creeds and philosophies greater than their desire to do a little good. The formulas change, and lose their authority, but the down-trodden and those who groan beneath a heavy burden always remain.

By and by one of the Headman's retainers brought in food and a native lamp. He had nothing to tell the white men, and they, recognizing it, judiciously refrained from useless questions. When they had eaten they sat awhile talking of matters that did not greatly interest them until Ormsgill, who had already stationed his sentries, extinguished the light.

"Whether the boys can be depended on to watch I don't know, and it's probably very doubtful," he said. "Anyway, I think we shall be safe until to-morrow, and I'm going to sleep. After all, I fancy we could leave the thing to the Headman. He's a cunning rascal, and it's to some extent his business to find a way out of the difficulty. As you suggest, he stands between his Suzerain and the Portuguese, and can't afford to offend either of them."

He stretched himself out on his hard native couch, and apparently sank into tranquil slumber, but it was some time before Nares' eyes closed. He was of different temperament, and, though he was not unduly anxious, the surroundings had their effect on him. There was, as usual, no door to the hut, and he could see the soft blue darkness beyond the entrance. The figure of a big, half-naked man who carried a heavy rifle cut against it shadowily now and then. The village was silent, and he could hear a little hot breeze sweep through it and stir the invisible trees. At last, however, he sank into sleep, and was awakened suddenly some time later. He did not know what had roused him, but as he raised himself he dimly saw Ormsgill slip across the room. Then there was a footfall outside, and he made out the sentry half-crouching in the entrance.

He rose, and stood still, quivering a little, while, perhaps, a quarter of a minute slipped by. The stillness was very impressive, and seemed emphasized by the footsteps outside. They were soft and cautious, and it was evident that the man who made them was desirous of slipping into the hut unseen. Then there was a thud in the entrance, and a scuffle during which Ormsgill hurled himself upon the pair of struggling men.

"Let him go," he said in a bush tone. "Take your hand off his neck. Now get up."

A man who gasped heavily staggered to his feet, and Ormsgill laughed as he turned to Nares.

"I believe he's a messenger, but he can hardly blame us for welcoming him as we did," he said. "Now if you have anything to say go on with it."

Nares could only just see the negro, who was probably attempting to recover his senses, for he said nothing.

"Who sent you?" asked Ormsgill, who gripped his arm tightly, in the native tongue.

"It is a thing I am not to tell," said the man. "I have a message. Domingo left our village with the boys an hour ago. He heads for the west."

Nares turned to Ormsgill. "Well," he said, "I am not altogether astonished, and the Headman's hint is plain enough. Of course, the thing may be a trap, but it is quite possible he is not unnaturally anxious to get rid of us and Domingo."

Ormsgill looked at the negro. "If he has gone an hour ago how are we to come up with him?"

"The road twists across the high land," said the man. "There is a shorter path through a swamp."

"Then if you will lead us across the swamp so we can reach firm ground in front of Domingo you shall have as much cloth as you can carry."

It was a tempting offer, and though the negro appeared to have misgivings he profited by it, and in another few minutes Ormsgill had roused the boys in the compound.

"If we have no trouble in getting out I think we can feel reasonably sure that the Headman doesn't care whether we worry Domingo or not," he said.

"Well," said Nares reflectively, "I almost think you're right. Still, he may, after all, have something different in his mind. As you said, we could probably hold the hut, and we are not out of the village yet."

Ormsgill seemed to smile. "In that case," he said, "he may have reason to be sorry he ever entertained a notion of that kind."

CHAPTER XVII
THE AMBUSCADE

A thin crescent moon hung low in the western sky when they slipped out into the sleeping village, and shadowy huts and encircling forest were dimly distinguishable. The place was very silent, and though the negro as a rule sleeps lightly no one appeared in a doorway, and no voice was raised to challenge them. In fact, Nares, who walked beside his comrade with his heart beating a good deal faster than usual, felt the silence almost oppressive, for he was conscious that it might at any moment be rudely broken. He had very little confidence in the dusky Headman, and knew that if treachery was intended they were affording him the opportunity he probably desired.

Now and then there was a faint clatter and jingle of arms, and at times the soft patter of naked feet in the trampled dust was flung back with what appeared to be a startling distinctness by the huts they passed, but there was no other sound, and the boys flitted steadily on, a line of vague, shadowy figures, in front of him. Then he drew a deep breath of relief as they left the village behind them and plunged into the gloom of the forest. He looked back a moment towards the clustering huts which rose faintly black against the dim bush, and wondered how the Headman would explain matters to his Suzerain on the morrow. That, however, was the Headman's affair, and Nares fancied he would be equal to the occasion, since the negro is usually a very shrewd diplomatist.

By and by the darkness beneath the trees grew a little less intense, and they came out on the brink of a morass. It stretched away before them smeared with drifting wisps of sour white steam, and it was not astonishing that they halted and looked at it apprehensively. An African swamp is not, as a rule, considered impassable so long as one does not sink beyond the hips in it, and there are places where British forest officers flounder through them more or less cheerfully for days together, but it is, for all that, a thing the average white man has a natural shrinking from. Ormsgill significantly tapped the rifle he now carried before he exchanged a few words with their guide.

"He says we can get through, but I'll take the precaution of walking close beside him," he said to Nares. "It's an excellent rule in this country not to let your guide get too far in front of you."

They went in, and the tall grass near the verge crackled about them as they sank in the plastic mire out of which they could scarcely drag their feet. It was a little easier where there was only foul slime and water, and in places there were signs of a path, that is, they could see where somebody else had floundered through the quaggy waste of corruption. The smell was a thing to shudder at, but they were all of them more or less used to that, and the emanations of such places do not invariably prostrate the white man who is accustomed to the country. In some cases, at least, the results of inhaling them only appear some time afterwards, but there are very few white men who escape them altogether.

In due time they came out, bemired from head to foot, with scum and slimy water draining from them, and they diffused sour odors as they once more plunged into the forest which just there was permeated with the sickly scent of lilies. Still, it was a consolation to Ormsgill that they had, at least, left nobody behind, and he acquired a certain confidence in their guide. They pushed on for most of the night, smashing and hacking a way through creepers, and stumbling in loose white sand, and at last came out upon a well beaten trail. The negro who crawled up and down it said that Domingo had not reached that spot yet, but Ormsgill did not content himself with his assurance. With difficulty, he made a little fire and while it flickered feebly stooped over the loose sand. Then he stamped it out before he turned to Nares.

"I almost think he is right, and as the Headman doesn't expect us to compromise him we'll let him go," he said.

The man, it was evident, had no desire to stay, and when he went away content with his load of cotton cloth Ormsgill made the most of his forces. Two men with Sniders whom he fancied he could to some extent depend upon were sent back to crouch beside the trail; a few more took up their stations a little distance ahead; and the white men lay down with the carriers between the two parties, and a few yards back from the path. It was now a trifle cooler, for the night was wearing through, and the mysterious voices of the forest had died away and left a deep silence intensified by the splash of moisture on the leaves. Nares shivered a little as the all pervading damp crept through his thin garments, though the lower half of them was still foul with the mire of the swamp.

"I suppose we shall meet Domingo if we wait long enough?" he said. "After all, we have only the Headman's word to warrant us believing it."

Ormsgill laughed. "It depends a good deal upon the kind of bargains Domingo has made with him lately. The thing will probably work out just as we would like it if he hasn't been quite satisfied with them. It's an arrangement that would commend itself to the average African. Still, as I said already, I'm a trifle sorry that you are mixed up in it."

Nares sat silent a moment or two. He had borne a good deal, perhaps rather more than could have been expected of him, from those whom he considered with some reason as workers of iniquity, and, after all, excessive meekness has seldom been a characteristic of the Puritan.

"Well," he said slowly, "I'm not sure that I am. It is very probable that I have been proscribed already, and, perhaps, it was not patience but cowardice that made me submit so long. After all, patience accomplishes very little in Africa."

"I'm afraid it was never one of my strong points," and Ormsgill smiled. "In fact, if Domingo made any kind of fight it would be a certain relief to me, although because one can't always afford to be guided by his personal likes I've taken every precaution against it. Now, suppose we get the boys back, what do you propose to do?"

"Go back to my station," said Nares quietly.

"And if you hear that Dom Luiz is there with several files of infantry to arrest you?"

"In that case I will go down to the coast with you."

Ormsgill dropped a hand on his comrade's shoulder. "I shall be glad to have you wherever I go, though I'm not sure that you wouldn't be safer if you pushed on alone. You don't mention what it has cost you to warn me, but I think I can understand."

Nares slowly shook his head. "I don't think I have much to regret," he said without a trace of bitterness. "I was sent here to save men's souls, and it seems that I have failed. Still, I think I should have stayed and healed their bodies—had it been permitted—but there is, perhaps, work I can do elsewhere since that is not the case." He stopped a moment with the faintest sigh. "We will not mention this again."

Ormsgill said nothing, probably because he was more than a trifle stirred. He knew that it requires self-restraint and courage to face the fact that one's efforts have been thrown away, but there are men like him who now and then shrink from expressing their sympathy. Leaning forward a little with the rifle across his knees he set himself to listen.

It was almost an hour before he heard anything at all, and in the meanwhile the faint coolness increased, and the tops of the trees above him became dimly visible. They cut with a growing sharpness against the eastern sky, and here and there a massy trunk grew out of the obscurity. Then there was a faint pearly flush beyond them, and in the cold of the sudden dawn he heard the men he was waiting for. A soft patter of footsteps and a murmur of voices came up the winding trail. He knew the boys had also heard, for the undergrowth behind him crackled and then was still again.

In another few minutes there was dim light in the forest, and he could see indistinct figures moving towards him through the narrow gap in the leaves. They became more visible, and he could make out the uncovered ebony skin of some and the fluttering cotton that flowed about the others' limbs. There were burdens upon most of their heads, but a few carried what seemed to be long flintlock guns. Then, for dawn comes with startling swiftness in that land, the shadowy trunks became sharp and clear, and the men who plodded among them seemed to emerge from a blurring obscurity. Black limbs, impassive faces, raw white draperies, and gray gun barrels were forced up in the sudden light, but Ormsgill raising himself a trifle fixed his eyes upon the man of lighter color who walked a little apart from the others. His voice rang harshly as he flung menaces in a native tongue at one or two of those who lagged under their burdens, and perhaps he was, in one respect, warranted in this, since, for economic reasons, the negro whose labor somebody else has sold for him is seldom loaded beyond his strength on his march to the coast, at least, so long as provisions are plentiful.

They had almost reached the spot where the white men lay when Ormsgill quietly walked out into the trail, and stood there with left foot forward and the rifle at his hip. He had left his shapeless hat behind, and his thin, thorn-rent garments clung about him damp with dew and foul with mire. Still, he looked curiously resolute, and the men with the burdens stopped and recoiled at the sight of him, until one group of them flung down what they carried and ran towards him clamoring. Then there was a harsh cry from the rear of the line, and swinging round they scattered into the underbrush as the tall man of lighter color sprang forward with something that glinted in his hand.

Ormsgill's rifle went up and came in to the shoulder. With the same motion his cheek dropped upon the stock. He said nothing, but the labor purveyor stopped. Ormsgill swung down the rifle.

"Look behind you," he said in Portuguese.

Domingo turned, and saw two half-naked men with Sniders standing in the trail. Then looking round again he saw several more ahead, while other dusky figures had risen here and there among the undergrowth. They appeared resolute, and it was evident that he could get no further without their permission. He was credited with being a daring as well as an unscrupulous man, but he knew when the odds were too heavy against him, and he made a sign to Ormsgill.

"You want something from me?" he said.

"I do," said Ormsgill. "The boys you stole from Lamartine. It will save you trouble if you give them up."

Domingo glanced once more at the men with the rifles, who stood still, one or two of them regarding him with a sardonic grin. Then he glanced at his startled carriers, who had thrown down their burdens and huddled together. There was, of course, nothing to be expected from them, and his few armed retainers were evidently not to be relied upon. In fact, they were gazing longingly at the bush, and it was clear that they were ready to make a dash for its shelter. They had done his bidding truculently when it was a question of overawing down-trodden bushmen and keeping defenseless carriers on the march, but to face resolute men with rifles was a different matter, and their courage was not equal to the task. Domingo seemed to recognize it, for he made a little scornful gesture.

"If I had a few men who could be depended on I would fight you for the boys," he said. "As it is they are yours."

"I see eight," said Ormsgill. "Where are the others?"

Domingo smiled maliciously. "In the hands of the Ugalla Headman. I am afraid it will be a little difficult to induce him to part with them: Lamartine, it seems, had taught them enough to make them useful to a Headman who is copying the white men's habits."

"In that case he no doubt gave you something worth while for them, and since you stole them it does not belong to you. Are you willing to tell me what he offered you?"

"No," said Domingo resolutely.

"It wouldn't be difficult to estimate it at the usual figure, and you will understand that the Headman will ask me, at least, as much as he gave for them, but I will be reasonable. If you will let me have the arms your boys carry I shall be satisfied."

"How can I drive these men to the coast if we have no arms?"

"I don't know," said Ormsgill with a little laugh. "It is your affair, but, perhaps, I can simplify the thing for you. I will take the arms in exchange for the boys in the Headman's possession, and hand you over what trade goods I have and paper bills for the rest of the men, except the eight boys, for whom you will get nothing. I think I can calculate what they cost you, and the fact that the transaction is probably illegal does not trouble me."