Hilton Dane sat with a fouled rifle across his knees in an angle of the stockade protecting what had been the hospital camp. It was, however, a hospital no longer, for some of the sick had recovered, and the rest had died. Dane considered that he might have saved more of them had he been more skilled in medicine, but he had done his best according to his abilities; and none of the poor wretches seemed to blame him. Still, there were times when he felt like a murderer as some unfortunate sufferer's eyes turned in his direction, beseeching help, and he could do nothing but watch him die. They died, for the most part, as apathetically as they had lived, the heathen with the uncomplaining stolidity which had carried them through much hardship and cruelty, and those who followed the prophet testifying that it was Allah's will.

Dane remembered it all that morning as he looked round upon the remnant left him, for it seemed hardly possible that any would see another day. When the pestilence relaxed its grip he had resumed the mining, until the tribesmen hemmed them in. Once the foe tried to storm the camp, and failed so signally that beyond creeping up and firing into it, they had not repeated the attempt until the preceding night, when a few succeeded in passing the defenses. These, however, did not survive very long. On the other hand, the garrison could not get out, and though they had no lack of water, one cannot subsist upon fluid alone, and there was very little else.

The men lay about the stockade with their rusty guns beside them, the negro, Bad Dollar, filing his matchet, as he did continually. The man Dane called Monday, however, crouched close beside him. A curious friendship had sprung up between the two, and they would talk long together with mutual satisfaction, though neither of them fully understood his companion.

A ravine cut the camp off from the forest in the rear, and beyond the front stockade the ground fell steeply to the river. There was forest across it, but only the tops of the higher trees rose out of the mist which shrouded all the plain below.

"You tink Cappy Maxwell perhallups come to-day, sah?" asked Monday.

"He will certainly come some day," Dane answered with a cheerfulness he found it hard to assume. "It would be opportune if he came just now, especially as he might be too late to-morrow. A miss is rather better than a mile in the present case, but you let too many of your black friends get in last night, Monday."

The dusky man, for he was not a negro, looked up at the speaker doubtfully and shook his head.

"I no savvy all them palaver, sah, but Cappy Maxwell too much fine white man. All them black boy tink each morning they go look him. Cappy Maxwell say he lib for heah, and them boy believe him."

Dane glanced at the dejected objects, even then staring down expectantly into the drifting mist, then at the tally of days that would never be wholly forgotten which he had scored on a post of the stockade. A deeper notch marked each seventh, and after many calculations he had gashed a few across to indicate the probable date of Maxwell's departure from Little Mahu. The black men did not understand the meaning of those scores and regarded the making of them as a religious ceremony, but Dane fancied that Maxwell might understand if he reached the camp too late. Then, perhaps because he was overwrought, he became conscious of an extravagant pride in his friend. Those half-naked Africans had waited, trusting in Maxwell's promise patiently and long, and trusting it implicitly still. This, it seemed to him, was no small testimony.

"I tink we look Cappy Maxwell one time, sah," Monday began again.

"If he is alive, you will," Dane answered as sturdily. "Stop those boys' chattering. Something is going on down yonder now."

Monday stood up staring at the mist.

"Them parrot scream, sah, and them monkey talk. I tink them dam bushmen lib for come back again."

"Then don't let your boys start shooting until they crawl close in," Dane answered, with an indifference assumed to reassure the rest "Some of those fellows can't hit anything with a gun, and you had better keep a few as a standby in case they come in with a run. Let them wait until the bushmen lib for climb the stockade, and then split their heads with the matchets. You understand me?"

Monday apparently did so, for he moved off with a grin which betokened nothing pleasant for the bushmen; and Dane sat still with his eyes fixed on the forest. Something was evidently happening, but the mist was thick, and he could not see into its dim recesses. His few men were worn down by hunger and continuous watching, and he feared that if the foe pushed the attack with vigor they would certainly get in. There was no doubt that the garrison would make a grim last stand if they did, but that appeared at the best a poor consolation, and Dane became sensible of a coldly murderous indignation against the bushmen.

There was a crackle of undergrowth far below, then a sound as of men splashing through the river which ran high and swollen; but Dane was short of ammunition, and did not consider it advisable to fire blindly into the mist. He felt himself quivering with suspense. Staring down the steep face of the bluff, he waited, ready to drive a bullet through the head of the first assailant who rose out of the vapor. Then the noise ceased altogether, and the ensuing silence became maddening. How long this lasted Dane could never tell, but he grew cold and hot by turns as he waited, until a sound that was wholly unexpected became faintly audible. It was not the rustle made by the passage of a stealthy foe, but more resembled the approach of men marching in some order. While the blood pulsed within him he saw that the camp boys glanced from him to the vapor under the influence of an overwhelming excitement. But though the sound came nearer, the mist, which was thicker than ever, still hid all below, until a negro's head rose out of it, and Dane saw that he carried a hammock pole. Then a wild shout went up, and Monday's yell rang through all the rest:

"Cappy Maxwell lib!"

There was an end of all discipline. Weapons went down clattering, and famishing men, who during many weary days had vainly scanned the forest, poured out through the stockade gate and raced madly down the slope to welcome those who had brought them the long expected help. For a moment Dane stood stupidly still, almost too dazed to realize what had come about, vacantly wondering how Maxwell had forced a passage without firing a shot. Then the contagion seized him and, leaping down from the stockade, he followed the rest. His perceptions were yet clouded by a bewildering sense of relief, but it struck him that the hammock-bearers came on in an ominous silence. When he reached them, Amadu looked at him curiously, as though he would have spoken, but, brushing past, Dane tore the wet matting aside.

Then he stepped suddenly backward, breathless and aghast. Maxwell lay huddled in a limp heap upon the drenched canvas, almost unrecognizable. His face was distorted and shrunken, his jacket reddened in patches, and his lips were cracked and black. His eyes had grown dim and glassy, and when he spoke his very voice seemed changed.

"Have I altered so much that you don't know me, comrade?"

"You have brought us our lives, Carsluith, but God knows I would rather have stayed on here forever than to see you come like this," said Dane.

Maxwell moved a little, and there was the ghost of a smile in his half-dosed eyes.

"I really couldn't help it. I hardly think I shall trouble you long. A bushman back in the forest shot me."

"Don't!" Dane answered hoarsely. "It can't be so bad as that. I won't believe it!"Maxwell let his hand fall into his comrade's palm as though to convince him.

"I am afraid it is. I have been holding on to my life desperately—because I wanted to see you before I went," he said brokenly.

The touch of his clammy hand struck a cold chill through Dane, who, turning abruptly, bade the hammock boys carry their burden with all speed to the tent. What he saw there convinced him that Carsluith Maxwell had made his last adventurous march, and that the best to be hoped for him was a painless passing to his rest. Maxwell also knew it, and though Dane could say nothing because of the choking sensation in his throat, he looked up at him and nodded.

"Hopeless, isn't it? This case is beyond your skill," he said faintly. "We have been good comrades, but even the best partnership can't last forever. Still, you might do what little you can, for there are things I want to tell you."

Dane went out to seek for his case of drugs, and just then, as if in mockery, a blaze of sunshine beat down on clustering negroes and rain-beaten camp. Swayed by a sudden gust of grief and passion, the man shook his fist at the river and cursed what lay beneath it. It seemed to his overwrought fancy that the stain of blood was on the gold, the blood of the staunchest comrade any man ever starved or fought beside. Though their friendship had been neither lengthy nor demonstrative, the hardships and perils undergone had woven a bond between them that knit them as close as brothers. Nevertheless, Dane had yet to learn all that his comrade had done for him.

Maxwell slept or lapsed into unconsciousness all afternoon, but he revived a little by nightfall, and beckoned his comrade near him. The night was black and hot. Because Dane had given stringent orders, no negro's voice reached them, and they seemed utterly alone, hemmed in by the darkness of Africa. Dane could hear only the river moan below, and he found it necessary to cough huskily, for again, as he remembered one other night when they sat there together filled with bright hopes for the future, an obstruction gathered in his throat. Maxwell told him of his journey, in a low, strained voice, halting for breath at frequent intervals, and every word burned itself into the listener's memory. Maxwell always put things vividly and tersely.

"It was a wonderful march; but I have let you talk too much," said Dane, when he concluded. "So it was by Lilian's help you fitted out the expedition, and she rode all night across the mountains to warn Chatterton. It was what one might have expected. God bless her!"

"Amen," said Maxwell, with full solemnity. "The talking can't make much difference now—I shall have a long rest to-morrow. There is still something I must say, and even if I am blundering it seems best to speak. We are very blind when we think we see most clearly, Hilton."

Dane looked at the speaker with some bewilderment as he let his head fall back on the matting, and lay still gasping. Five long minutes passed before he spoke again.

"Will you raise me a little, Hilton? My breath comes short."

Dane slipped one arm beneath his shoulder before Maxwell continued."It is strange that neither of us guessed; but all was for the best, maybe. The knowledge might have severed our friendship—I hardly think much more than that would part us now. Though twice I came near doing so, I never told you that I asked Miss Chatterton to marry me."

It was only by an effort that Dane held his arm motionless so that it still supported the dying man. It seemed the strangest of all the strange happenings that they two should have braved so much together for the love of the same woman.

Maxwell saw his blank surprise, and smiled feebly.

"You asked Lilian Chatterton to marry you?" Dane repeated dazedly.

"Very foolish of me, was it not? But there is no reason for such surprise that I should desire it; and I promptly discovered my folly. I also gathered there was somebody who might please her better. Now you have the simple fact, but as there is an inference you must listen still. How could I have guessed the truth—after what I saw at the Hallows Brig? It appeared impossible to me that any man who had won Miss Chatterton's approval could find pleasure in——"

"Stop!" cried Dane, striving to hold his excitement in check. "You were mistaken, Carsluith. It was only out of pity, and because the imprisonment of her brother would bring destitution upon her, that I met that girl."

"I can take your word," Maxwell said quietly. "That was the one point which troubled me. Strange, isn't it, that on my last night I should talk in this fashion; but when one's grasp on material things grows feeble the others assume their due value. Yes, I loved Lilian Chatterton—as I love her still—though it was madness to think that she, fresh and bright with innocent light-heartedness, could stoop to mate with a somber man like me. But raise me a little. I can't see you clearly, Hilton."

Dane did as he was bidden, and Maxwell continued:

"I want you to remember that it was my fault, Hilton. Miss Chatterton never suspected until I spoke that night we passed you at Hallows Brig. I had a suspicion you admired her before that time, but it vanished completely then. You see how each trivial incident fitted in. She was very gentle, but I knew her decision was final—and still I did not see the truth."

As Maxwell looked into his comrade's eyes a quiver ran through Dane.

"I am bewildered, and it seems brutal to ask you questions now," he said huskily. "But you have more to tell."

Maxwell's eyes signified assent, but he paused to gather breath.

"It is only because I am dying. Otherwise, you would never have heard this from me, but it seems best for both that you should know. It was naturally not for—my—sake Miss Chatterton made that midnight journey."

Maxwell smiled wistfully as he let his head sink back again; and Dane, drawing his arm away, said nothing for a few minutes. It was wonderful news he had heard, but the price which had been paid for his safety was unbearably heavy.

"You are a very staunch friend—and this makes it the harder for me to lose you. If only there was anything a man could do to prevent it! Carsluith, rouse yourself! I can't lose you!"

"It makes it the easier for me to go," said Maxwell. "If what I hope for happens, you will always be kind to her, Hilton. Just moisten my lips with the brandy."

There was silence afterward, for Maxwell lay breathing unevenly with his eyes closed, and Dane was swayed in turn by satisfaction and a crushing sense of loss. He suffered from remorse as well. Maxwell dying had revealed a side of his nature his comrade now knew he should have seen manifested in his actions if not in his words.

It was the sufferer who first spoke again.

"It was Rideau who brought misfortune upon us from the beginning, and to judge by the rifle the bushman left, he was the instigator of the last attack."

"May worse befall me if I do not repay him fully before I leave Africa!" Dane said, solemnly.

Maxwell appeared to smile as he had always done when his partner was unusually emphatic.

"He had excuses, Hilton, and I am past all desire for vengeance now. For one thing he recognized the seÑorita's gift to you. Still, for the sake of Miss Castro—and she promised to help me—I would advise you not to let him go free to continue his persecution of Dom Pedro. We both owe her a good deal, and I would like you, if possible, to tell her so. You might add my respectful remembrance, too. There is yet another point. Whatever my share of this gold may be, I bequeath it to you, with my blessing, on condition that you send the boys back happy, with as much cloth as they can carry, to wherever they came from. The poor devils served us faithfully. When I have rested, I would like to see Amadu. Then I think my work will be finished, and I can only await the summons to answer for what I have failed in. It will come before sunrise, Hilton."

An hour passed slowly while Dane listened to the ticking of his watch; then Maxwell opened his eyes again, and Dane beckoned to Amadu, who stood waiting without. He came in, still wearing the straight blade which had struck the murderer down, and stood like a bronze statue beside his master.

"I want to thank you for faithful service, Amadu," Maxwell said weakly. "You shall have the gun—you have won it—and whatever else you wish besides. We made two great journeys together, but I cannot take you with me now."

The big man bent until Maxwell's thin hand rested on his head. What they said Dane failed to comprehend, but Amadu seemed to do him homage, and when he rose, he moved slowly, with raised palms and head bent, backward out of the tent. Then as Maxwell's eyes closed he crouched in the entrance, with the steel, which caught the lamplight, lying naked across his knee.

"Often I lib for watch them white man so," he said softly. "No djinn or devil go near him now."

Maxwell said little further. He slept or lay unconscious for some time, and then just smiled for a moment as his eyes rested on the grim sentinel with the bronze limbs and raw blue draperies, guarding the entrance. When he next roused himself he laid his chilly hand on one of Dane's, and showed a faint sign of pleasure when his comrade's fingers closed upon it. Once again he murmured, but it was rather by the movements of his lips than by audible sound that Dane gathered the message:

"You will tell her I kept my promise."

That was his last effort, for when the night was almost gone the fingers which lay limp in Dane's grew rigid. Then Dane stood up stiffly, desolate, knowing that the spirit of Carsluith Maxwell had passed to find such rest as may be reserved for the souls of loyal gentlemen. But the dust claims that which sprang from it quickly in that land, and the comrade he left to mourn over him found his own endurance heavily taxed before the aliens who had helped him at his task took up their stations with weapons girt about them, a barbaric guard of honor, at the dead man's head and feet. It was Amadu who strapped the big revolver by its lanyard to his master's wrist, when, scattering a few of the heavy-scented lily blossoms, Dane folded the tired hands. Then they kept their vigil together, and it did not seem incongruous that dusky cattle thief and soldier of fortune should watch beside the English adventurer. Humanity is greater than color and creed, and it was as those who had suffered together they did their dead due honor.

The rain had ceased and a dazzling sunrise flamed across the forest when Dane stooped for a last glance at Carsluith Maxwell. The pain had faded from his face, and he lay in impressive serenity as one who rested with his work well done. Then the lonely survivor went out into the brightness of the morning with a grief that found no expression mingled in his heart with the lust of vengeance.