Chapter Ten.

The Hunter hunted.

Dyke was completely paralysed in body, but his mind was wonderfully active, and he noted that the horse even had not divined the approach of the great beast, but was puffing away with snorting breath at the insects upon the tender shoots, and browsing contentedly enough, while the lion had stolen softly up nearer and nearer, without a sound, after perhaps following on the track of the antelopes for weeks, and taking toll from time to time, which might have accounted for its sleek condition and glistening hide.

In spite of the feeling of horror which chilled the boy, he could not help admiring the beauty of the magnificent beast before him, with its full flowing mane, and sunny, yellowish eyeballs intently watching him, as the long lithe tail, with its black tuft of long hairs at the tip, swung to and fro, now seen upon the left side, now upon the right, in other respects the great animal being as motionless as the boy.

For many moments Dyke could not even breathe, but at last he uttered a gasp, followed by a sharp, catching sound, as he inspired with a sob, and the lion raised the hair about his ears, as if to frown, and uttered a low, deep, growling noise.

Dyke’s heart seemed to stand still as, with his eyes still fixed upon those of the beast, he waited for it to spring upon him, and drive him back. What then?

He shuddered softly, trying hard not to move, and irritate the lion into hastening its aggression at a time when life was so sweet, and every moment was greedily grasped before the end. He was horribly frightened, but this did not trouble him so much, for he felt stunned, and a great deal of what passed was dreamy, and seen as if through a mist. But one thing he knew, and that was that he would have some little warning of the attack, for the lion would crouch and gather its hind-legs well under it before it made its spring.

Then a wave of energy ran through Dyke, who, though still motionless, felt his heart throb with greater vigour as he began to think of self-defence. There was his gun close at hand, so near that he could have reached it; but it was useless. He might make one bold stroke with it; but the stock would only snap. Any blow he could deliver would only irritate the beast. And now a dawning feeling of admiration began to broaden as he gazed at the great, massive head and the huge paws, recalling the while what he had seen since he had been in South Africa—a horse’s back broken by one blow, the heads of oxen dragged down and the necks broken by another jerk; and he felt that he would be perfectly helpless when the brute made its first spring.

And still the lion stood, with the tail swinging in that pendulum-like motion; the great eyes gazing heavily at him; while during those painful minutes Dyke’s brain grew more and more active. He thought of mice in the power of cats, and felt something of the inert helplessness of the lesser animal, crouching, as if fascinated by the cruel, claw-armed tyrant, waiting to make its spring. And he knew that at any moment this beast might come at him as if discharged from a catapult. But all the same the brain grew more and more acute in its endeavours to find him a way of escape. If he had only had a short bayonet fixed at the end of his gun, that he might hold it ready with the butt upon the ground, and the point at an angle of forty-five degrees, so that the lion might at its first bound alight upon it, and impale itself, just as it had been known to do upon the long, sharp, slightly curved prongs of the black antelope, piercing itself through and through, and meeting the fate intended for its prey.

But then he had no bayonet at the end of his gun, and no weapon whatever, but his strong sheath-knife. He could hold that out before him; but he knew well enough that he could not hold it rigid enough to turn it to advantage against his foe.

It might have been so many seconds only, but it appeared to Dyke a long space of time numbered by minutes, as he waited there, expecting the great animal to crouch and spring, making short work of him before going on to gorge itself upon the carcass of the eland. There was no possibility of help coming, for it must be hours before Emson could return, and then it would be too late.

At last the power to move came back, and Dyke’s first thought was to turn and run, but second thoughts suggested that it would be inviting the great active beast to spring upon his back, and he remained firm, never for a moment taking his eyes off those which stared so fixedly into his, although he was longing to look wildly round for the help that could not be at hand.

Then his heart gave one great leap, for he saw a quiver run through the lion, which crouched down, gathering its hind-legs beneath it, and outstretching its fore; but it was some moments before the boy grasped the fact that the brute’s movement was not for the purpose of making a tremendous bound, but only to couch, as if it would be easier and more comfortable to gaze at him in a seated position after making a very long stalk.

“He can’t be hungry!” came to Dyke’s brain on the instant, and then boy and lion sat opposite to each other, gazing hard, till the great cat’s head and mane seemed to swell and swell to gigantic proportions before the boy’s swimming eyes, and they appeared misty, strange, and distant.

Then came another change, for the animal suddenly threw itself over, stretched, and turned upon its back, patted at the air with its paw, and gazed at the boy in an upside-down position, its lower jaw uppermost, but keeping a watchful eye upon him, as if expecting an attack. A moment or two later it was drawing itself over the sand to where Dyke sat, and made a quick dab at him with one paw, striking up the sand in a shower; and as the boy started away, the brute sprang to its feet, shook itself, and with two or three bounds plumped itself down upon the eland, and buried its teeth in the dead antelope’s throat.

Dyke uttered a hoarse sigh of relief, and rested himself by pressing his hands down beside him, breathing heavily the while.

It was a temporary reprieve, but he dared not move for fear of drawing the attention of the lion to him, and clung to the hope that perhaps the great creature might be content to glut itself upon the game.

The beast was well-fed and not savage, that was plain enough, but its action might change at any moment, and, worse still, there was the prospect of others arriving at any moment to join in the feast.

For a full hour Dyke sat there, watching the great animal, and listening to it as it tore off pieces of the neck from time to time, the crack of a bone every now and then making him start violently, and shudder at the thought of certain possibilities connected with himself. And all this time the beast was in such a position that one eye was toward him, and a gleam therefrom made it apparent that he was carefully watched the whole time. But at last the lion turned itself more away to get at a more meaty portion, and a thrill of excitement ran through Dyke.

Grasping his knife firmly in one hand, his gun in the other, he turned over, and fixing upon one of the low bushes a short distance away, beyond which was other good cover, he began slowly and silently to crawl sidewise away, keeping a watchful eye the while upon the lion, so as to stop short at the slightest movement on the part of the great beast.

It was an exceedingly difficult mode of progression, and it was hard work to keep to it, for with every yard the desire to get up and run toward where Breezy would be grazing increased. Once he could reach the cob, take off the hobbles which confined its forefeet, tighten the girths, and slip the bit between its teeth, he did not care. But there was a great deal to do, he knew, before he could achieve this.

Yard by yard he crept on, the sand hushing every sound, and he had nearly reached the low bush cropped short all over the top by the horse or some passing animal, when there was a quick movement and a low growl which made him feel that all was over.

But a sharp crick, crack of a broken bone nipped in the powerful jaws reassured him, and after waiting a few minutes, he crept sidewise again a little farther, and he was behind the bush, which shut out all view of the lion and smouldering fire, and of course hid him from his enemy.

He could now make better progress, for if the lion turned, he would be invisible; and taking advantage of this, he crept on from bush to bush, till he was quite a hundred yards away. And now the longing was intense to stand erect and look out for Breezy, but the bushy growth had been so closely cropped that it was nowhere a yard in height, and to stand up might have meant to bring him full in his enemy’s sight.

There was nothing to be done, then, but to crawl on to a more open spot, and as he was going in the direction taken by the horse in feeding the last time he saw it, the boy felt not the slightest uneasiness, being sure that he should come in sight of it directly.

Still the minutes glided on as he made for the more open part where the sand lay bare, and he began now to grow uneasy at not seeing the cob, and at last, like a crushing disaster, he saw that the poor animal must have scented the lion, or been alarmed at the cracking of the bones, and, in consequence, it had quietly shuffled as far away as it could in the time. There it was, a couple of miles away, right in the open plain, and though at that distance its movement could not be made out, it was in all probability shuffling its way along to save its life.

Dyke’s heart sank in his breast as he knelt there in the sand, feeling as if his case was as hopeless as ever, and for the moment he felt disposed to creep right into the densest place he could find, and lie there till darkness set in, when he would take his bearings as well as he could from the stars, and then try to reach Kopfontein. But at that moment there came to him his brother’s words, and the little absurd story about trying till to-morrow morning. A trifling thing; but at that moment enough to make Dyke sling his gun over his back, thrust the knife into its sheaf, mark down the position of the fire by the faint smoke, and then start off crawling on all-fours straight away, not after the horse, but so as to keep the bushes well between him and the lion.

The exertion was great and the heat terrible. Never had the sand seemed so hot before, nor the air so stifling to breathe; but he crept on silently and pretty quickly, till, glancing back over his shoulder, he found that he might move straight at once to where he could see Breezy looking distant and misty through the lowest stratum of the quivering air. For the low bushes hid him no longer; there was the faint smoke of the fire still rising, and just beyond it the big carcass of the eland, made monstrous by the great maned lion, crouching, tearing at the neck.

At the sight of this, Dyke dropped down flat, and lay panting and motionless for a few minutes. Then he began to crawl straight for the horse, grovelling along upon his breast. But this soon proved to be far too painful and laborious a mode of progression, and he rose to his hands and knees, feeling that it must be that way or nohow, though fast growing desperate enough to rise to his feet and run.

A minute’s anxious reflection brought the feeling that this would be a mad act, and might rouse the lion into following him, so he kept steadily getting farther and farther away, and more and more foreshortened, as the artists term it, till he was pretty well end on to the lion, and he felt that he must present a singular aspect to the monster if it looked across the plain.

“I shall never do it,” muttered Dyke. “Poor old Breezy! he was frightened. I can’t blame him, but I don’t get any nearer. He’s going on as fast as I am, and I shall be obliged to get up and run.”

But he did not. He kept up the uneasy crawling, putting hundred-yard space after hundred-yard space between him and the fire, while, when he did glance back, it was after dropping flat behind some bush and raising his head till he could see the eland lying like a low hummock or patch of bush, and with the lion growing less distinct.

On he went again, refreshed by the trifling rest, but far more by the fact that he was really getting more distant from the great danger. For it was in vain to try to assure himself that as the lion did not molest him before it had fed, it was far less likely to do so now.

As he crawled onward, wishing he could progress like the baboons which haunted some of the stony kopjes in the neighbourhood, he tried to think how long it would be before he overtook the cob, and in spite of the danger and excitement he could not help smiling, for his position reminded him of one of the old problems at school about if A goes so many yards an hour and B so many, for twenty-four hours, how long will it be before B is overtaken by A?

“A fellow can’t do that without pen, ink, and paper,” he said to himself. “It’s too big a sum to do on sand, and, besides, I don’t know how fast I am going, nor B for Breezy either. But oh, how hot I am!”

At last he could bear it no longer; he was apparently getting no nearer the cob, but he certainly must be, he felt, sufficiently far from the lion to make it safe for him to rise and trot after the nag. He had his whistle, and if he could make Breezy hear, the horse would come to him. But he dared not use that yet; besides, he was too far away.

At last he did rise, gazed timorously back, and then started onward at a steady trot—a means of progression which seemed quite restful after the painful crawl, and gaining spirit by the change, he went on with so good effect that he saw that he was certainly gaining on the cob. This infused fresh spirit within him, and congratulating himself on the fact that he must soon get within whistling distance, he had another glance back to see that eland and lion were an indistinct mass, or so it seemed for the moment. Then he turned cold again in spite of the heat, for there, moving slowly over the sand, about a quarter of a mile back, was a tawny, indistinct something which gradually grew clearer to his startled eyes, for unmistakably there was a lion stealthily stalking him, taking advantage of every tuft to approach unseen, and before many minutes had passed he felt that it would be within springing distance, and all would be over in spite of his almost superhuman toil.

There was only one chance for him now, he felt, and that was to run his best.

He did not pause to look, but began to run over the burning sand, his breath coming hot and thick; but he must go on, he knew, for at every affrighted glance behind, there was his enemy keeping up its stealthy approach, and the cob was still so far away.

Chapter Eleven.

Being Stalked.

Those were minutes which would have made the stoutest-hearted man feel that his case was hopeless; and Dyke struggled along, feeling his legs grow weaker, and as if his feet were turned to heavy weights of lead. Still he kept on at what was no longer a good run, for his pace had degenerated into a weary trot, and there were moments when he fancied that the cob was disappearing in a mist of distance, while at the same time he felt a constant inclination to check his speed, so as to be able to gaze back at his pursuer, which every now and then sent his heart upward with a tremendous throb, as it made a few rapid bounds to gain the shelter of bushes, and disappeared, but, as the boy well knew, to come into sight again much nearer.

The later part of that terrible flight was dreamlike in its strange, wild confusion, and was dominated by a despairing feeling that he had now done all that was possible, and must throw himself down and yield to his fate.

But the instinctive desire for life, the horror of being seized by the monstrous beast, and the thought of Emson and their home, which, shabby and rough as it was, now seemed to be a glorious haven of refuge, kept him struggling on in spite of his exhaustion. Life was so sweet; there was so much to do; and poor Joe would be so lonely and broken-hearted when he found out his brother’s fate. It would be, he knew, the last terrible blow of all to the expedition. For himself, he was so stunned by horror and exertion that he could not feel that there would be much pain; all he hoped for was that the seizure would be sudden and the end instantaneous; but still he kept up that slow, steady double over the burning sand, with his heavy gun going jerk, jerk, giving him, as it were, regular blows across the loins to urge him on.

Another wild glance back, and the lion growing bigger; and another weary stare in advance, and the cob still so distant, but clearer now to his vision, though certainly shuffling away.

Again he looked back, to see the savage beast grovelling itself along, with its lower parts almost touching the sand, and seeming more than ever to keep up that stealthy, cat-like approach, so as to get within springing distance.

And now a reaction began to take place, and through his teeth Dyke’s hot breath panted out:

“I don’t care; I’ll die game. He shan’t kill me for nothing.”

His hand went to his belt, and he snatched out his keen sheath-knife, determined to hold it with both fists before him, and face the lion when the beast sprang. It would not save his life, he felt; but the brute would suffer, and that was some consolation, even then. Then his left hand went to his throat, to tear open his collar, so that he could breathe more freely; but it did not reach the button, for it struck against the big metal whistle which hung from his neck by a twisted leather thong.

His next act was almost involuntary. He placed the metal to his lips, and blew with all his might a long, trilling whistle, despairing as he blew, but still with a faint hope that the shrill sound would reach through the clear air to where the cob was labouring along with its hobbled feet.

The result sent a thrill through the boy, for to his great joy he saw that the cob had stopped.

No: it was fancy.

No: it was no imagination, no fancy of his disordered brain; for the moment before, the horse was end on to him; now, it had turned broadside, and was gazing back; and in his excitement Dyke whistled again with all the breath he could put into the act.

The horse still stared back. It had heard the familiar call, and Dyke felt another thrill of hope, for on looking back he saw that the whistle had had a double effect: the lion had stopped short, sprung erect, and stood at gaze with bristling mane, staring after him, its head looking double its former size.

But Dyke did not pause; he ran on, dragging his leaden feet, till he saw that the cob was once more moving away, and the lion crawling rapidly along in his track.

Another shrill, trilling whistle with the former effect, and the animals in front and rear stopped again, giving the boy a few yards’ gain.

But the reprieve was very short. The lion soon recovered from its surprise at the unwonted sound, one which might mean danger, and resumed its stalk, while the cob again went on.

How long that terrible time lasted Dyke could not tell, but the whistling was resumed over and over again, always with the same effect, and with the hope growing that perhaps at last he might reach the horse, Dyke toiled on.

Despair came, though, in company with the hope; for at any moment the boy felt that the cob might wildly rush off as soon as it realised how near the lion was behind its master—fear getting the better of the long training which had taught it to obey its master’s call. But still Dyke was getting nearer and nearer, and the whistle did not seem to lose its effect, always checking horse and lion as well, till to Dyke’s great joy the cob uttered a loud whinnying sound, answered by a deep muttering growl from the lion.

“I can go no farther,” panted Dyke at last, and his run degenerated into a weary stumble, as he raised the whistle once more to his lips, blew with all his feeble might, and then began to walk.

Hope once more, for the whinnying sounded loudly now; and in spite of the presence of the lion a couple of hundred yards behind its master, Breezy suddenly came toward where Dyke stood, advancing in a stumbling canter. Dyke tried to call to it, but no words would come; and he glanced back to see the lion gliding over the ground nearer and nearer.

How long would it be before it was near enough to make its bound?

Long before he could get down by the cob’s forelegs to loosen the hobbles from its fetlocks, and mount.

Dyke felt that as he staggered to meet the cob, and the beautiful little animal stumbled toward him, whinnying joyfully, seeing for the time nothing but its master, to whom it looked for protection.

“I shall never do it! I shall never do it!” he panted, and he glanced back to see the lion stealing on, with its eyes glaring in the sunshine. And there was no friendly, playful look here, for now Dyke noticed that this was not the lion which he had encountered by the eland, but another, evidently one which had been following the droves of antelopes, and, fierce with hunger, had turned aside after the first object that it had seen.

At that moment Dyke dropped upon his knees, throwing one arm round the fettered legs of his favourite, which had ceased its whinnying, and began to tremble violently, snorting and starting, and, yielding to its panic at the sight of the approaching enemy, threatened to bound away.

To get the hobbles undone was impossible, for Dyke’s hands trembled from weakness and excitement; but spurred again by despair, he made a couple of bold cuts, severed the leather thongs, and sprang to his feet.

But there was much yet to do: the bit to fasten, and how could he get it into the mouth of the horrified beast?—the girths to tighten, while the cob backed away.

Neither was possible, and glancing once over his shoulder, Dyke snatched at the mane, but missed it, for the cob started violently, but stopped a couple of yards away, paralysed with horror at the approach of the great, stealthy beast.

Another clutch at the mane, and the cob started again; but Dyke had seized it fast, and was dragged a few yards before Breezy stopped, trembling in terror; as making one last effort, the boy made a leap and scramble to mount, dragging the saddle half round, but getting his leg over, clinging now with both hands to the mane.

Nothing could have been narrower.

The lion had given up its stealthy, creeping approach, and risen at last to commence a series of bounds, ending with one tremendous leap, which launched it through the air, and would have landed it next upon Dyke and his brave little steed; but horror drove off the trembling, paralytic seizure, and Breezy made also his frantic bound forward, with the result that the lion almost grazed the horse’s haunches as it passed, and alighted upon the sand. The beast turned with a savage roar; but, urged by fear, and spurred by its master’s hoarse cries, the cob was galloping, with its eyes turned wildly back, and every breath coming with a snort of dread.

Certainly nothing could have been narrower, for, enraged by its failure, the lion was in full pursuit, keeping up bound after bound; but swiftly as it launched itself forward, its speed fell short of the pace at which the brave little cob swept over the sand, spurning it at every effort in a blinding shower right in the lion’s face, while Dyke, lying prostrate, clinging with hand and knee, was in momentary expectation of being thrown off.

The pursuit was not kept up for more than three hundred yards. Then the lion stopped short, and sent forth a series of its thunderous, full-throated roars, every one making Breezy start and plunge frantically forward, with the sweat darkening its satin coat.

But the danger was past, and for the next ten minutes Dyke strove hard to master a hysterical sensation of a desire to sob; and then gaining strength, and beginning to breathe with less effort, he drew himself up erect, and tried by voice and caress to slacken the frightened animal’s headlong speed.

“Wo-ho, lad! wo-ho, lad!” he cried, and the speed slackened into a canter.

“My word!” muttered the boy to himself, “I don’t know how I managed to stick on!”

Ten minutes later he managed to stop the cob, and sliding off wearily, he stroked and patted its reeking neck, unbuckled and slipped in the bit, attached the reins to the loose side, and arranged them ready for mounting. Then dragging the saddle back into its place, he properly tightened the girths, and gave two or three searching glances backward the while.

But the lion, far or near, was well hidden, and they were well out in one of the barest parts of the plain, which now spread tenantless as far as eye could reach, while the eland was quite out of sight.

And now, as he proceeded to mount, Dyke awoke to the fact that his back was bruised sore by the gun, which had beaten him heavily; he was drenched with perspiration; and it was an effort to lift his foot to the stirrup, his knees being terribly stiff. He was conscious, too, of a strange feeling of weariness of both mind and body, and as he sank into the saddle he uttered a low sigh.

But he recovered a bit directly, and turning the cob’s head, began to ride slowly in the direction of Kopfontein, whose granite pile lay like an ant-hill far away, low down on the eastern horizon.

He was too tired to think; but he noted in a dull, half-stunned way that the sun was getting very low, and it struck him that unless he hurried on, darkness would overtake him long before he could get home.

But it did not seem to matter; and though it hurt him a little, there was something very pleasant in the easy, rocking motion of Breezy’s cantering stride, while the wind swept, cool and soft, against his cheeks.

Then he began to think about the events of the day—his narrow escape, which seemed to be dreamlike now, and to belong to the past; next he found himself wondering where the dog was, and whether it had found his cartridge pouch. Lastly, he thought of Emson, and his ride back to fetch Jack and the oxen—a long task, for the bullocks were so slow and deliberate at every pace.

But it did not seem to matter, for everything was very restful and pleasant, as the golden sun sent the shadow of himself and horse far away along the plain. He was safe, for the lion could be laughed at by any one well mounted as he was then. At last the pleasant sensation of safety was combined with a dull restfulness that grew and grew, till, moving gently in that canter over the soft sand, which hushed the cob’s paces to a dull throb, the glow in the west became paler and paler, and then dark.

Then bright again, for Dyke recovered himself with a jerk, and sat upright, staring.

“I do believe I was dropping off to sleep,” he muttered. “That won’t do. I shall be off.—Go on, Breezy, old boy. You had a good long rest, and didn’t have to crawl on your knees. How far is it now?”

Far enough, for the kopje was only just visible against the sky.

But again it did not seem to matter, for all grew dull again. Dyke had kept on nodding forward, and was jerked up again, but only for him to begin nodding again. Soon after he made a lurch to the left, and Breezy ceased cantering, and gave himself a hitch. Then followed a lurch to the right, and the cob gave himself another hitch to keep his master upon his back, progressing afterwards at a steady walk, balancing his load: for Dyke was fast asleep, with the reins slack and his chin down upon his chest, and kept in his place by the natural clinging of his knees, and the easy movement of the sagacious beast he rode. But all at once he lurched forward, and instinctively clung to the horse’s neck, with the result that Breezy stopped short, and began to crop the shoots of the bushes, only moving a step or two from time to time.

Chapter Twelve.

Dyke is aggrieved.

“Fine chance for a lion,” said Emson, as at dusk he left the oxen, being slowly driven by Kaffir Jack, and cantered off to his left to draw rein in front of Dyke, the boy sitting upright with a start.

“Eh?”

“I say a fine chance for a lion,” cried Emson again.

“No: couldn’t catch,”—snore.

“Here! Hi! Little one. Wake up!” cried Emson.

“Yes; all right!—What’s the matter?”

“Matter? why, you’re asleep, you stupid fellow: a lion might have come upon you in that state.”

“Lion? Come upon? Did—did you speak to me?” said Dyke thickly.

“Speak to you? of course. Why, you foolish, careless fellow, what was the matter? Afraid to stay by the game?”

Dyke looked at him drowsily, striving to catch all that had been said, but only partially grasping the meaning.

“Don’t know—what you mean,” he said thickly.

“I mean it was very cowardly of you to forsake your charge, boy,” said Emson sternly. “It’s vital for us to save that meat, and I trusted you to watch it. Now you’ve come away, and it will be horribly mauled by the jackals; perhaps we shall find half a hundred vultures feeding upon it when we get there. Hang it, Dyke! you might have stayed till I came back.”

Dyke was too much confused to make any reply. Utterly exhausted as he had been, his deep sleep seemed to still hold him, and he sat gazing vacantly at his brother, who added in a tone full of contempt:

“There, don’t stare at me in that idiotic way. Come along; let’s try and save something. Look sharp! One of us must ride on, or we shall not find it before it’s dark.”

Dyke rode beside him in silence, for Breezy eagerly joined his stable companion, and in a short time they were up to, and then passed Jack with his plodding oxen, which were drawing a rough sledge, something similar to that which a farmer at home uses for the conveyance of a plough from field to field.

The angry look soon passed away from Emson’s face, and he turned to Dyke.

“There, look up, old chap,” he said; “don’t pull a phiz like that.”

Dyke was still half stupefied by sleep, but he had grasped his brother’s former words, and these were uppermost, rankling still in his mind as he said heavily:

“You talked about the jackals and vultures, Joe.”

“Yes, yes; but I was in a pet, little un—vexed at the idea of losing our stock of good fresh meat. That’s all over now, so say no more about it. Began to think I was never coming, didn’t you? Well, I was long.” Emson might just as well have held his tongue, for nothing he now said was grasped by Dyke, who could think of nothing else but the former words, and he repeated himself:

“You talked about the jackals and vultures, Joe.”

“Yes, yes, I did; but never mind now, old chap.”

“But you didn’t say a word about the lions.”

“What?” cried Emson excitedly. “You have had no lions there, surely?”

“Yes,” said Dyke, bitterly now, for he was waking up, and felt deeply aggrieved. “Two great beasts.”

“But in open day?”

Dyke nodded.

“Then why didn’t you fire? A shot or two would have scared them away.”

“Yes,” continued the boy in the same bitter tone; “but you can’t fire when your gun’s empty, and you have no cartridges.”

“But you had plenty when we started. I filled your pouch.”

“Yes, but it came undone in the ride after the eland. It’s lost. I sent Duke to try and find it, and he didn’t come back.”

“My poor old chap!” cried Emson, leaning forward to grasp his brother’s shoulder. “I did not know of this.”

“No, you couldn’t know of it, but you were precious hard upon me.”

“My dear old chap, I spoke to you like a brute. I ought not to have left you, but I was so delighted with the way in which you had brought down the game, and, as it were, filled our larder, that I thought you ought to have all the honour of keeping guard, while I played drudge and went to fetch the sledge to carry the meat home. But tell me: the lions came?”

“One did,” said Dyke, “and gave me turn enough, and when I got away from him to try and catch Breezy here, another savage brute hunted me and nearly struck me down. Oh, it was horrid!” he cried, as he ended his rough narrative of what he had gone through.

“Dyke, old chap, I shall never forgive myself,” said Emson, grasping his brother’s hand. “I’d do anything to recall my words.”

“Oh, it’s all right,” cried the boy, clinging to the hand that pressed his; “I’m better now. I was so exhausted, Joe, that I suppose I couldn’t keep awake. I say, how was it I didn’t fall off?”

“The cob was standing quite still when I came up, and looked half asleep himself.”

“Poor old Breezy! He had such a fright too. I thought I should never catch up to him. But I did.”

“Can you forgive me, old fellow?”

“Can I what? Oh, I say, Joe! Don’t say any more, please. Here, give me some cartridges to put in my pocket. I’m all right now, and there are sure to be some more lions there. But, I say, I don’t think I should like to shoot at that first one.”

Emson handed a dozen cartridges, and then shouted to Jack to stop, which the Kaffir and his two dumb companions willingly did.

“What are you going to do, Joe?”

“Discretion is the better part of valour,” said Emson quietly. “It would be dark by the time we got there, and on your own showing, the field is in possession of the enemy. Why, Dyke, old fellow, it would be about as mad a thing as we could do to drive a couple of bullocks up to where perhaps half-a-dozen lions are feasting. I ought to have known better, but it did not occur to me. These brutes must have been following the herds. There’s only one thing to do.”

“What’s that? Go near and fire to scare them away?”

“To come back again, after they had left us the mangled remains of the eland. No good, Dyke: we shall be safer in our own beds. It’s only another failure, old chap. Never mind: we may get game to-morrow.”

Dyke tried to oppose this plan of giving up, but it was only in a half-hearted way, and they rode back slowly towards Kopfontein, pausing from time to time for the oxen to catch up, Jack growing more and more uneasy as the night came on, and running after them and leaving the oxen, if they came to be any distance ahead.

The result was that he was sent on first with the slow-paced bullocks, and Dyke and his brother formed themselves into a rearguard, necessitated from time to time to come to a full stop, so as to keep in the rear.

It was nearly morning when they reached home, and after fastening their cattle safely behind fence and rail, they sought their own beds, where Dyke sank at once into a heavy sleep, waking up when the sun was quite high, with some of the previous evening’s confusion left; but the whole of the day’s adventure came back in a flash as his eyes lit upon Duke, fast asleep upon a skin, and with the lost cartridge pouch between his paws.

Chapter Fourteen.

A Resting-Place.

“You are petter as offer you vas, heh?” cried the old trader, thrusting his face in between the canvas curtains of the wagon end. “Yes, quite well. Good-morning.”

“Ach zo. It is a goot mornings. Ant how is der tog? You vill say how to you are to dem alt Oom Morgenstern. He is goot tog ten, and getting himself mended ferry quickly. How vas it he shall pe scratch and pite all ofer hims, heh?”

The old man patted and stroked the dog with his big fat hand, as he spoke in a soft soothing tone, which had the effect of making him the best of friends with Duke, who whined and licked at the hand, and kept up a regular throbbing pat-pat-pat upon the floor of the wagon.

“Ach yes, ten, he is a ferry goot togs, and he shall pe effer zo much petter zoon. Ant zo der pig spotty gat gom und dake him, heh?”

“Yes, poor fellow, one of the great brutes pounced upon him suddenly, and fetched him from right under the wagon,” said Dyke. “You were bad, weren’t you, Duke, old chap?”

The dog threw up his head and uttered a loud howl, and then began to lick the cuts torn by the leopard’s sharp claws.

“Ach! he vas pad, den,” said the old man. “But das ist goot vizzick for goots und pites. Der tog’s tongue ist as goot as his tooses ist pad. Ant zo you zhoot hims, heh?”

“What!—the leopard?” said Dyke. “Yes, I shot and hit him, I suppose; but I was afraid of hitting the dog. I fired, though, as a last chance.”

“It was guide right,” said the old man, nodding his head. “You do not shoode—you do noding, and der leopards garry away den hund. You do shoode, und if you shoode him, it is petter than for hims to be eaten oop alife, und you may shoode den leopard. Zo! I am happy das you hafe zave den tog. He is a goot tog, und a goot tog ist a goot vrient out in der veldt. Now you gom mit me, und die alte voman give us bode zom fruhstuck. You know what ist das?”

Dyke shook his head.

“Das ist goot Deutsch for breakfass, mein young vrient.”

“Oh, I see,” cried Dyke. “I never learnt Dutch.”

“Nein, nein, nein, goot bube. Not Dutch. I did say Deutsch—Sharmans.”

“But you are a Boer, are you not?”

“Nein. I did gom ofer from Sharmany dwenty year ago. Dere ist blendy of Dutch Boer varder on. I am Deutsch.”

“I’ll recollect,” said Dyke eagerly.—“But how is Jack the Kaffir? Is he lying down under the wagon?”

“Nein,” cried the old man sharply. “As zoon as he zee me gom, shoost when it ist morgen, und he zee mein big shdick, he shoomp oop und go und veed den pferd horse, as he know he should. He’s guide well, dank you, now, and work ferry hart, like a goot poy.”

The old man wrinkled up his face, shut his eyes, and indulged in a hearty, silent laugh.

“I am zorry,” he said, suddenly growing serious; “und I veed and nurse a boor mans, und I zay to him: ‘Lie you there und go to sleep dill you are besser.’ Boot Meinheer Jack he ist a pig hoomboogs, and I gan zee all froo him. Dunder and lightning! I gif him der shdick. Now gom und haf den breakfast, und den you shall gom indo mein shdore, und puy die mealies, und gorn, und dea, und goffee, und rice, und zhugars, und bay me den money, und we will load den wagon. Den der vorks is done, und you shall gom und sit und dalk do me about die osdridge birds, while I shmoke mein bibe und you rest yourself, und resht die bullocks for two day. Den you go pack to your pig bruder, who want to see you ferry pad.”

“Yes, I want to get back again,” said Dyke.

“Das ist goot, bud you moost haf a goot long resht, und go guide well again. Und now, my younger vrient, I will dell you zomedings to dell dem bruder. You dell him der osdridge ist no goot. I haf dried, boot dey go zick, und guarrel, und fight, und ghick von anoder und efery bodies, und preak die legs; und die hens lay dere nests vull of pig eggs, und die ghocks gom und shoomp upon ’em, und make der feet all ovaire gustard und shell, und den no jickens gom. You dell dem bruder dot your beebles haf been vinding die diamonds in der veldt, und he had petter go und look vor die brescious shdones, und nod preak hish hart like der gock osdridge preak die eggs his weibs lays.”

“Yes, I’ll tell him, Herr Morgenstern. I did want him to come and look for gold.”

“Ach! der golt ist no goot, bube. Effery potty goes to look for den golt. You dell him to go und look for die diamonds.”

“Yes, but where?” said Dyke drily.

“Dunder und lightning! If I know, I should dake two pig wagon to dem place, all vull of mealies und goot dings, und dell die beebles die diamonds vas here; und vhen dey gom to vind, I should zell mein goot dings und go und vetch zom move. You must go und vind die places everyvere all ofers, und dell me. I ken not, bood der are diamonds to be found. Now you shdop dat ruck a dongue of yours, und do not dalk zo motch like an old vool, und gom und hafe zom breakfast, or the old frau vill gom after us mit a shdick.”

He winked comically at Dyke, and led the way to the house, where there was a warm welcome, and a delicious breakfast of bread and milk and coffee waiting, with glorious yellow butter and fried bacon to follow.

Chapter Fifteen.

Oom Morgenstern’s Sermon.

Duke was fed directly after the meal, and curled up afterward to “ged himselfs guide well again as effers.” Soon after Dyke came across Jack, who was returning from driving the bullocks down to the stream for water, and now carefully saw to their being in the best bit of the old man’s pasture for a good feed and rest.

“Ach zo!” cried the old man, “he ist a creat deal potter, mein young vrient.—You Shack, you hafe work well. You gan go to mein haus, und die frau will give you blenty of mealie gake und zom milk. You don’t eat doo motch, or you will pe pad again, und want dem shdick. You oontershdant?”

Jack, whose face had been very pitiful and pleading, brightened up at this, and ran toward the house, while old Morgenstern turned and favoured Dyke with one of his winks.

“You zee now, my younger vrient, he ist like a pig shild dot has been oop der shimney. You must hid him hart negs dime. You did hid doo zoft.”

“Soft!” cried Dyke. “Why, I thought I had killed him.”

“Ach, yes, you dought zo; but der plack man’s het is sehr dick. You hid an Englishman, or a Deutschman, or a Boer, and his het ist tin; but a plack man’s het is dick. I dink zomdimes ven he ist so shdupid dot it ist all hart bone right froo. But it ist not zo; it is only dot dey are shdupid liddle shildren, und dink of noting bud eat und drink und shleep demselfs as long as ever dey gan; dot is all. You can neffer make a whide man oud of a plack man, if you wash him mid all der zoap in der world. Now den, der tog is right, und der horse, und die pullocks, so you shall gom to my shdore.”

He led the way to a barn-like building, where he kept the supplies he dealt in and prospered over, settlers and travellers coming from far to purchase of the old fellow again and again, for he bore the proud title of honest man—a title that is known abroad as soon as that of rogue. And here Dyke produced his list, and corn, meal, bacon, tea, sugar, coffee, and salt were measured and weighed out by the help of a Kaffir boy, and set aside till all was done, when the old man, who had kept account all through with a clean, smooth box-lid and a piece of chalk, seated himself on a cask, added up and presented the wooden bill to Dyke.

“There,” he said; “it is a creat teal of money, und I feel ashamed to jarge so motch; but you dell der pig bruder it gost me as motch as effer vas to get die dings oop to mein haus. I zend dwo wagon all der vays do der down, und dey are gone for months, und die men und die pullocks all haf to cad, und zomdimes die lions ead die oxen, und zomdimes die wheels gom off, und dere is vloods und die wasser, und I lose a creat deal. I gannod jarge any less for mein dings.”

“My brother knows all that, sir,” said Dyke frankly, as he paid the money at once. “He said he would send me to you instead of to Oom Schlagen, because, he said, you would be just.”

“Did your pig bruder say dot?” cried the old man eagerly.

“Yes. He said I should come to you, though it was twenty long miles farther.”

“Ach! den now I shall go und shmoke mein piggest bibe for a dreat. Dot does me goot. Oom Schlagen is a pig fool; zo ist effery man who does not lofe his neighbour and zay his brayers effery night. You oondershtand, mein younger vriend.”

Dyke nodded, feeling at first half amused, then impressed by the simple-hearted old German’s manner.

“Zom men gome out here into die veldt and zay: ‘Ach! it is a pig open blace, und nopody gan zee me here, und I zhall do whad I like,’ und den dey rob und sheat, und kill die plack poys, und drink more as ist goot for demselfs, und all pecause they are pig fools. For you haf read for youselfs, mein younger vrient, dot God is effery where und zees effery dings, und you gannot hide youselfs, or what you do. Und dot’s mein sermon, und it is a goot one, hey? Pecause it is zo short. Bud dot’s all. Now den,” he continued, as he took down a great pipe, and began to fill it from a keg of tobacco, “I am going to shmoke mein bibe, pecause I veel as if I vas a goot poy.”

He struck a match, lit up, and as he began to emit great clouds of smoke, he carefully stamped out the last spark from the splint of wood, reseated himself, and chuckled.

“You wait dill I haf finish mein bibe, und we vill all go to vork, und pack dese dings in dem wagon. Now you look here. I dell you about die diamonds—und der is hartly any potty yet as know—und as zoon as I haf dell you, I zay to myselfs: ‘Ach! Hans Morgenstern, you are not a man: you are chattering old frau, who gannot keep a zecret. You go dell effery potty.’ Und I vas ferry zorry pecause I vas soch an old dumkopf—you know what dot is?”

“Something head,” said Dyke, smiling.

“Yaas, it ist your thick head, poy, shdupid head, und I vas gross mit myzelf, bud now I am glad. Der pig bruder zaid I vas honest mans, und just. I am a magistrate, und I dry to be, und I vall out mit den Boers, und zom oder white men, pecause I zay der Kaffir is a pig shdupid shild, und you must make him do what you want; but you shall not beat und kill him for nodings. Ach! you laugh yourselfs pecause I use den shdick. Neffer mind. I am just, und die Kaffirs know it, und gom und work for den alt man, und gom pack again. I am glad now I did dell you about die diamonds. Your bruder ist a gendlemans, und you dell him not to wasde his dime over die long shanks, and to go for die diamonds, und if he wands shdores, to gom mit his wagon, und get all he wands, und if he gannot bay me, id does not madder. Zom day he will ged das money, und he gan bay me den. Ach! he zaid I vas a honest man, und he is mein vrient, und dot is der zweetest bibe of dobacco I ever shmoke. Now gom und help load den wagon, like a goot poy, and zom day, when you grow a pig man, you may learn to shmoke doo. Boot it ist not goot for poys.”

Chapter Sixteen.

A Dead Check.

Two pleasant, restful days under the green leaves at old Morgenstern’s farm and store, and he was pressed to stay another; but Dyke was anxious to get back to his brother, and with Duke limping about, the horse and bullocks looking quite fresh and well, everything loaded up carefully, and a cask of sweet, pure water slung at the back of the wagon, Dyke stood at early dawn ready to start.

The oxen were yoked and hitched on to the dissel-boom and trek tow, breakfast was over, and all was ready, with Jack flourishing his great long whip of hippopotamus hide, eager to start.

Just then the hospitable old German signed to the Kaffir to come alongside, and a chirrup brought up the dog as well.

“Now, mein vrient,” said the old man, “you gan oondershtand goot Englisch, if you gannot shpeak him zo vel ash me, zo you listen. I am a creat magistrate, und know a lot. I am going to dalk to dot tog, und you are to hear.—Now, my goot tog, you are better as effer you vas, heh?”

Duke barked.

“Das ist goot. Now you are going to Kopfontein.”

The dog barked loudly.

“Das ist good, too. Now I dell you dis: if Kaffir Jack—you know Kaffir Jack—dot is him.”

He clapped his hand on the black’s shoulder, and the dog barked excitedly.

“Yaas, you know him; und I dell you dot if he does not work, you are to bide him.”

The dog’s hair rose up, and Jack made a movement to run, but the big fat hand held him fast.

“Und then, mein goot tog, if you do dot, he vill be ferry pad, und perhaps go mad. I mean, if you bide him, hey?”

The dog barked furiously, and Jack’s blackish face turned of a horrible dirty grey as he stood shivering, having pretty well understood every word.

“Dot is right; und now Kaffir Jack will drive die oxen, und pe a goot poy. Now you go. Trek!”

The Kaffir sprang away, whip in hand, the willing oxen began to pull, and the wagon went off through the soft sand, Duke hurrying to his place beneath, just in front of the water cask, while Dyke stood, rein in hand, waiting to shake hands with his host, who laughed softly.

“I dalk all dot nonsense do vrighten him like a shild,” he said. “He vill pe a goot poy now till he begin to forget, und den you must vrighten him doo. Now goot-pye, und der goot God bless you, mein sohn.”

Dyke shook hands warmly with the friendly old man, sprang upon Breezy, and soon overtook the wagon, which was going steadily along the faint track.

He glanced back several times, seeing the old trader standing in front of his house smoking his big pipe, but at last he was invisible, and the boy set himself to achieve his long, slow, five or six days’ journey, hopeful, rested, and ready, feeling as if all was going to be right, and more happy in his mind than he had been for days.

As he went on and on, fresh, light-hearted, and bright, every place made familiar by halts as he came, wore a very different aspect, and there were times when he smiled at some of the petty vexations, though others were serious enough. For instance, by this water, where he had had so much difficulty in getting wood, for the day’s journey had been very long, and it was growing dark when he halted, and a distant roar told of the possibility of a visit from lions, and perhaps the loss of one of the bullocks. But now all was smooth and pleasant, the evening was glorious, the oxen not too weary, and Jack soon collected enough wood for cooking and keeping up a roaring blaze.

The next day, too, was hot and pleasant. Several guinea-fowl fell to Dyke’s gun, and he shot a dangerous viper which raised its head sluggishly from the sandy track, threatening, with gleaming eyes and vibrating tongue, the barking dog, which kept cautiously beyond striking distance. There were lions heard in the night, making the cattle uneasy, but they were not molested.

It was wonderful as a contrast that journey back, and Dyke often asked himself, as he cantered about, sometimes to the side, sometimes letting the wagon go for some distance forward, whether he had not been of poor heart, and had made too much fuss over his troubles; but second thoughts convinced him that he had had a terrible task, and he almost wondered that he had been able to reach Morgenstern’s at all.

Jack was the very perfection of a Kaffir servant now, driving splendidly, and taking the greatest care as to the pasturing and watering of the cattle; his young master never having to find fault with a single thing.

But there was the reason plainly enough; and Dyke smiled to himself as he thought of how easily the black had been impressed by the big old German, though he felt that Jack’s guilty conscience had something to do with it.

Oddly enough, the dog’s behaviour during the return journey helped to keep Jack in order. For Duke, though his hurts were mending fast, was still very weak. He was ready to bark and make plenty of fuss over his master, but he did not evince the slightest desire to trot after him when he rode away from the wagon. Duke seemed to know his own powers, and went back directly to his place between the two hind wheels of the wagon. There he stayed, keeping step pretty well with the bullocks. But at every halt, when Jack proceeded to gather wood, drive the oxen to water or pasture, the dog followed close at his heels, making no demonstration of friendliness, never barking, but walking with lowered head and surly look, just behind, stopping when the black did, going on or returning, and never leaving him for a moment, and ending by going back to his place under the wagon, and there resting his head upon his paws.

Of course, all this was the sick dog’s natural objection to being left alone; but to Jack it meant a great deal more. That dog had always been rather unfriendly, and was evidently a very uncanny kind of beast, which could understand everything that was said to him, and would fully carry out the old German’s instructions. Duke followed him about to see that he did his work properly, and as Jack walked on, he often felt the sensation in his calves known as pins and needles, which made him wince and tremble; and on one occasion he uttered a yell of horror, for the dog’s cold nose touched one of his bare ankles, and made him bound a couple of yards.

For to him there was no doubt about the matter whatever. Duke was watching everything he did, and the moment he relaxed his efforts, those white teeth would close upon his leg; and if he had been talked to and argued with for a week, he would never have believed that he would not for a certainty go mad, die, and be thrown out upon the sands to the jackals and vultures which hung about their nightly camps.

The consequence was that, saving a few of the trifling mishaps which befall wagon travellers through the South African deserts, Dyke’s return journey was peaceful and enjoyable, even if slow. He would often have liked to gallop forward to get nearer home; but the wagon held him as a magnet does its bar, and he thoroughly fulfilled the trust placed in him by his brother.

At last the morning dawned when a steady day’s work would bring them to Kopfontein, and starting at once, they got on a few miles before halting for breakfast. Then went on for three hours; halted again to dine and rest during the hottest part of the day. After which there was the little river to ford a couple of miles farther on, and then twelve miles would bring them home, late in the evening perhaps, but Dyke was determined to finish before he slept.

Hardly had they settled down in the shelter of the wagon for that mid-day halt, than Dyke found that the wagon-tilt would be useful for something else besides keeping off the sun. For some clouds which had been gathering all the morning, centred themselves at last directly overhead; there was a succession of terrific peals of thunder following upon blinding flashes of lightning, which seemed to play all round and about the wagon, making Breezy stand shivering as he pressed close up alongside, and drew the cattle together with their heads inward, as if for mutual protection.

Then down came the rain in a perfect deluge, and for a good hour flash and peal seemed to be engaged in trying to tear up the clouds, from which the great drops of rain poured down.

The storm ceased as quickly as it had come on, and the rain having been sucked up by the thirsty, sandy earth, so that when they started again, save that the wagon-cover was soaked, drawn tight, and streaming, there was no sign for a while of the storm. There were certainly the clouds fading in the distance, but the sky overhead was of a glorious blue, the little herbage they passed was newly washed and clean, and the drops left sparkled in the brilliant sunshine.

What followed, then, came as a surprise.

They had gone on for some distance before it suddenly recurred to Dyke that they had to cross the little river; and now, for the first time, he became conscious of a low, soft murmur, as of insects swarming, but this, though continuous, did not take his attention much, for he set it down to a cloud of insects, roused from their torpor by the sun, and now busily feeding, perhaps, close at hand, though invisible as he rode gently along, breathing in with delight the sweet, cool air.

But at the end of half an hour the murmur had grown louder, and it sounded louder still as he drew rein by some bushes to let Breezy crop the moist shoots, while he waited for the wagon to come up, it being about half a mile behind.

“How slowly and deliberately those beasts do move,” thought Dyke, as he watched the six sleek oxen, not a bit the worse for their journey, plodding gravely along with the wagon lightly laden, as it was, for six beasts to draw, bumping and swaying every now and then as a stone or two stood up through the sand, he not being there to point them out to the black, who sat on the wagon-box, with his chin upon his breast, rousing himself from time to time to crack his whip and shout out some jargon to the bullocks. These took not the slightest notice of whip-crack or shout, but plodded slowly along, tossing their heads now and then, and bringing their horns in contact with a loud rap.

At last they came up abreast, and Jack turned his dark face, and grinned meaningly.

“What is it?” said Dyke. “Glad you are so near home?”

“No see Tanta Sal night,” he said.

“Oh yes, we will,” replied Dyke. “I mean to be home before we sleep.”

Jack shook his head.

“You’ll see, my fine fellow,” said Dyke to himself. “If you are going to begin any games just for a finish off on the last day, you’ll find you’ll be startled. I’ll set Duke at him, and scare the beggar,” he muttered, as he laughed to himself at the man’s genuine belief in, and alarm about, the dog; and in imagination he saw Jack hopping about and yelling, and afraid to come down from the wagon-box in front on account of Duke, who would be barking and dancing about as if trying to drag him off.

He let the wagon go on then for a few yards, and hung back so as to say a few cheery words to the dog, who responded with a sharp bark or two, but did not come from beneath the wagon.

And now the noise grew louder and louder, till at last Dyke began to divine the cause. A short distance farther the open plain was crossed by an erratic line of trees and rocks, forming a green and grey zigzag of some three hundred yards wide, and down in a hollow, hidden till close up, there was the rivulet-like stream at which he had halted on his outward way to let the animals drink.

It was from there, then, that the now rapidly increasing murmur arose, and pressing his nag’s sides, he rode rapidly on to reach the side of the tiny bourn, which now proved to be a fierce torrent nearly a hundred yards wide, raging amongst rocks, tossing up beady spray, and putting an end to all his hopes of reaching home that night, for even as he looked he could see that the water was rising still, and any attempt to ford meant certain death to man and beast.

Dyke’s heart sank. He knew now the meaning of the Kaffir’s grin. It was the first trouble of the homeward way.

Chapter Seventeen.

Out of Patience.

The wagon came slowly up as Dyke stood watching the roaring river, full from side to side with the waters, which resulted from a cloud-burst in the distant mountains, where storms had been raging on the previous day, that which they had encountered a short time before being the remains of one of the drifts which had passed over the great plain.

As he drove up, Jack sat grinning pleasantly upon the box, and of his own will turned the bullocks into a meadow-like opening, whose fresh herbage, sparkling still with clinging raindrops, set the animals lowing with satisfaction before stooping from time to time to snatch a mouthful of the grass.

Jack evidently thought it would be a splendid place for a camp, and without waiting for orders, shouted to the bullocks to stop, and descending from his seat, after laying aside his whip, began to outspan.

Dyke took in every action, knowing that it was only an endorsement of his own thoughts that the full river meant in all probability a halt for days. There was the possibility of his being able to swim his horse across somewhere higher up or lower down; but after a few minutes’ inspection he felt that this was quite hopeless, though, even if it had been practicable, he knew that he could not leave his charge.

So vexatious when so near home!

“Might have known,” he said to himself bitterly. “Everything was going on too easily. But the rain might have stopped for another day or two.”

He tried hard to be philosophic and to take matters calmly, but it was too hard work, especially, too, when the Kaffir seemed in such high glee, and bustled about the outspanning, as if looking forward to some days of rest, with nothing to do but eat and sleep.

The boy thought hard as he dismounted, hobbled his cob, and let him begin to graze in company with the draught oxen; but he soon gave that up, and went and stood watching the rushing river, knowing full well that he was completely shut away from Kopfontein, and that he could do nothing but wait patiently till the river sank to its old level.

“And that,” he said dismally, “will be quite a week.”

Things might have been worse. In fact, some people would have been delighted with the position. For the spot was beautiful; the wagon formed a comfortable sleeping tent, provisions and water were plentiful, and there was ample opportunity for adding to the larder by tying in wait at early morning and late evening for the birds and animals which came from far out in the desert to drink.

In fact, during his dreary wait, Dyke tried to amuse himself by watching the various animals that came down one deeply trampled track, on either side of which the place was thickly bushed and dotted with fine forest trees, well grown, from their nearness to water.

Antelopes of many kinds came down, from tiny gazelles up to the great eland. One morning he was delighted by the coming of a little herd of about a dozen giraffes, and he crouched among the bushes, watching them drink; the towering bull of about eighteen feet in height began by straddling out its forelegs in the most ungraceful way, till it could lower itself enough to reach the water with its lips.

Another time he was startled by the coming of a huge white rhinoceros, which careered through the bushes in a fierce, determined way, displaying its great power and indifference to every other beast of the forest.

Lions, too, came once and pulled down an antelope, making the wagon cattle extremely uneasy, but going away after their banquet, and troubling the camp no more.

But the river remained as full as ever, the waters rushing furiously down, and Dyke grew angry at last against his brother.

“Joe knows I’m overdue,” he said, “and he ought to have come to see why I am detained. Why, after that rain he ought to have known that the river would be full. It’s too bad. I thought better of him; but perhaps he’ll come to-day.”

And with this hope the boy climbed one of the biggest rocks to where he could gaze across the river and over the plain on the other side, looking out in expectancy of seeing the big weedy horse his brother rode coming toward the ford, but he watched in vain day after day, while Jack kept the fire going, and cooked and ate and slept without a care, not even seeming to give a thought to the wife waiting at Kopfontein, or, judging from appearances, to anything else but his own desires.

“I should like to kick him—a lazy brute!” Dyke said to himself; “but there’s nothing to kick him for now. He does all there is to do. I suppose I’m out of temper at having to wait so. Here’s a whole week gone, and the river higher than ever.”

Dyke had one other novelty to study—a novelty to him, for previously he had seen but little of them. This novelty was a party of baboons of all sizes, from the big, heavy males down to the young ones, which approached from some distance on the other side, clinging to their mothers’ backs and necks. These strange, dog-like creatures came down from a high clump of rocks or kopje regularly every evening in the same way; and though they had been heard and seen frequently during the daytime, chattering, barking, and gambolling about, chasing one another in and out, and over the stones, as if thoroughly enjoying the sport, toward the time for their visit to the river all would be very silent, and in a cautious, watchful way a big old male, who seemed to be the captain or chief of the clan, would suddenly trot out on to a big block, and stand there carefully scanning the patch of forest and the plain beyond for danger. Then he would change to a nearer natural watch-tower, and have another long scrutiny, examining every spot likely to harbour an enemy, till, apparently satisfied, he would descend, go down to the river and drink, and then trot back to his lookout.

After a few minutes’ watch, he would then give a signal, a quick, short, barking sound, at which the rocks beyond, which the moment before had appeared to be deserted, suddenly became alive with baboons of all sizes, which came running down to the water in perfect confidence that all was well, and that their old chief high up on the rock would give them fair warning of the approach of any of their feline enemies, leopard or lion, with a taste for the semi-human kind.

Upon one occasion Dyke suddenly started up, shouted, and fired his gun, for the sake of seeing what effect it would have.

Instant flight he felt sure; but he was not prepared for all that followed.

At the first sound there was a rush—a regular sauve qui peut; but there was a method in it. Mothers caught up their little ones, which fled to them for protection, and one big male made a kind of demonstration to cover the flight, while the old fellow on the rock sprang about, barking, shouting, and making little charges at the interrupter, not leaving his post till all had reached their sanctuary, when he followed to the kopje, and turned with others to stand, barking hoarsely, and picking up and throwing stones, with every sign of angry defiance, till their persecutor disappeared.

Nine days had passed, and then the river began to shrink rapidly.

Dyke hailed the change with eagerness, for he had been growing terribly anxious, and more and more convinced that something must be wrong, or Emson would have come down to the flooded ford; while at last his thoughts had taken a definite shape, one so full of horror, that he trembled for the task he had to perform—that of going home to put matters to the proof.

He shivered at the idea, for now he could only place this terrible interpretation upon his brother’s silence—he must have come to meet him, tried to swim his horse across the river, and have been swept away.

That last night was almost sleepless, for whenever the boy dropped off, with the light of the fire they kept up glancing on the canvas, he started back into wakefulness again, wondering whether the river was still going down, or some fancied sound meant a fresh accession to the flood-waters coming down from the mountains.

The morning broke at last, and leaping out of the wagon, Dyke ran down toward the river, closely followed by the dog, now nearly recovered, scaring away a buck which had been lurking in the covert, the graceful little creature bounding away before him giving pretty good proof of the satisfactory state of the river by dashing over the thick bed of intervening sand and stones, splashing through the water, and bounding up the other side.

The waters were down, leaving a deep bed of sand, and with a place to ford that was evidently not knee-deep.

Dyke ran excitedly back, gave his orders, and to Jack’s great disgust he had to inspan, mount on the wagon-box, and shout to the oxen to trek, the well-rested beasts willingly dragging the wagon through the heavy loose drift and down into the water, which did not rise to the naves of the wheels. It took rather a hard pull to get up the other side, but the difficulty was soon mastered, the bullocks following Breezy, as his master led the way, and in half an hour after starting they were at last well on the road to Kopfontein, whose rocky mound stood up clearly in the morning light.

Dyke restrained his impatience a little longer—that is, till the wagon was well on its way over the plain; then touching Breezy’s sides he went on ahead at a gallop, the roofing of the house and sheds gradually growing plainer; then there were the ostrich-pens, with a few dimly seen birds stalking about, and object after object coming rapidly into sight. But there was no one visible: there appeared to be no blue thread of smoke rising in the morning air, where Tanta Sal was boiling the kettle; all looked wonderfully still, and had it not been for the ostriches here and there, Dyke would have been disposed to think the place was deserted.

On, still nearer and nearer, but no one appeared, and again still nearer, and his lips parted to utter a loud shout to announce his coming.

But somehow the cry froze in his throat, and he dared not utter it; the place was deserted, he felt sure. Tanta Sal must have gone off to seek her tribe after the terrible catastrophe, for Dyke felt sure now that his surmise was right, and that Emson had been drowned in trying to ford the river and come to meet him.

The boy’s spirits sank lower and lower as he checked his horse’s pace to a canter, hushing the beat of its feet upon the soft sand as he rode on, seeing no one stirring, and at last, in the deepest despair, feeling as if he dare go no farther. But just at that moment a low crooning sound fell upon his ear, and the reaction was so sudden and so great that Dyke nearly shouted aloud as he pressed on to the door, feeling now that he had been letting his imagination run riot, and that there was nothing whatever the matter. In fact, that was his brother’s tall gaunt horse grazing where it had been hidden from his sight by one of the low, shed-like buildings.

“What a lot of stuff one can fancy!” said Dyke to himself. “Why, it’s early yet, and poor old Joe hasn’t got up. I’ll give him such a rouser.”

The next minute he had pulled up, thrown his rein over the cob’s head, as he dismounted, and ran to the open doorway from whence came the crooning sound.

“Morning, Tant,” he cried to the woman, who sat crouched together on the floor.

Then as his eyes caught sight of the pallet in the corner of the room, he shouted:

“Joe, old man, what is it? Are you ill?”

“No makee noisy,” cried the woman; “shoo, shoo, shoo. Baas Joe go die.”

Chapter Nineteen.

Sterling Coin.

Dyke Emson sat in the darkness there along. He had seen no more of Jack and Tanta Sal since the evening. The latter had looked in, stared stupidly, said “Baas Joe go die,” once more, and roused the boy into such a pitch of fury that he came nigh to throwing something at her. Then she left the room with her husband, and Dyke was alone.

He felt ready to give up, and throw himself upon his face in his great despair, for hour by hour the feeling strengthened that his brother was indeed dying fast; and as he sat there in the midst of that terrible solitude, shut in, as it were, by the black darkness, his busy imagination flooded his brain with thoughts of what he would have to do.

The fancy maddened him, for it seemed cruel and horrible to think of such a thing when his brother lay there muttering in the delirium; but the thought would come persistently, and there was the picture vividly standing out before him. For his mind was in such an unnatural state of exaltation that he could not keep it hidden from his mental gaze.

There it all was, over and over again: that place he had selected where it was nearly always shaded—in that rift in the kopje where the soft herbage grew, and climbed and laced overhead, while the low murmur of the water gurgling from the rocks in the next rift fell gently upon his ear. He had selected that spot because it was so calm and peaceful, and drawn poor Joe there upon the little sled. He saw it all—the shallow, dark bed he had dug in the soft earth, where his brother was to rest in peace, with all the suffering at an end. There were big, mossy pieces of granite there, which would cover and protect the poor fellow’s resting-place, and a smooth, perpendicular face of rock above, on which he saw himself, chipping out with hammer and cold chisel the one word “Joe.”

And then—

Back came the terrible scene, and over and over again, till, setting his teeth hard, Dyke sprang up, and went to another bucket of water which he had made Jack understand he was to fetch before he left him some hours ago, and drank long and deeply before returning to the rough pallet, renewing the cold bandage again, and then sinking upon his knees to bury his face in his hands.

For a full hour Dyke knelt there in the black darkness as if asleep, exhausted by the great mental and bodily fatigue, but hearing every movement—thrilled by the piteous words which came from his brother’s lips. Then with a strange feeling of calm rest filling his breast, he raised his head, bent over the sick man, and took the hot, burning hand to hold it to his cheek.

“I won’t be such a coward as to break down now, Joe, old chap,” he said softly, and as if it were a confidential whisper which his brother heard. “I was so tired, and I was frightened to see you like this, but I’m going to try and play the man now, and—and I’ll stick to you, Joe, to the—”

He was going to say “last,” but he checked it, with something like a sob rising to his lips.

“Till—till you get better, old man, and I can help you to go and sit in my old corner in the shade among the rocks. For you’re going to be better soon, old chap; and though you’re very bad, and it’s dark, and help is so far away, we’re not alone, Joe—we’re not alone.”

No: not alone!

For as the boy knelt there, holding that burning hand, there came the long, low, yelping wail of the jackals prowling around, as if they scented death in the air; and as the dismal sound swept here and there about the lonely house, coming and going, and at times apparently quite close, Dyke shuddered. But the next moment there arose the deep-toned, fierce roar of a lion, far away possibly, yet in its tremendous power sounding so near that it might have been close at hand.

Then the yelping of the jackals ceased, as if the foul creatures had been scared away by the nobler beast; and after a few uneasy movements among the frightened cattle in the pens, all was still with a great solemnity, which thrilled the boy to his deepest depths.

And then it seemed to Dyke that it was not so dark, and he rose and walked softly to the open door to stand looking out, wondering and awe-stricken at the grandeur of the scene above his head. For it was as if the heavens were marked across the zenith by a clearly cut line—the edge of a black cloud—and on one side all was darkness, on the other a dazzling sheen of stars, glittering and bright as he thought he had never seen them before; while the darkness was being swept away, and fresh stars sprang out from the dense curtain minute by minute, and seemed to rain down myriads of points of light.

He stood there till he heard a low, weary sigh from the rough bed, and turned back in time to hear a few muttered words, and then all was silent once again.

Dyke trembled, and something seemed to hold him fast chained, as if in a troubled dream.

Then with a wild cry he fell upon his knees, and stretched out his trembling hands to touch his brother’s brow, and the reaction came, for it was not as he thought. The head was cooler, and there was a faint moisture about the temples, while the muttering was renewed for a few moments, and ended with a sigh.

Dyke’s hands were softly passed then to his brother’s breast, which rose and fell gently, and when he let his fingers glide along the arm that had been tossed to one side, there the tell-tale pulse beat rapidly still at the wrist, but not—certainly not so heavily and hurried in every throb, for Joe Emson was sleeping as he had not slept for many days.

The hours went on till, as Dyke sat there, the darkness began to pass, and the watcher was conscious of a double dawn. The first in himself, where, as he crouched by the bed, and thought of words that had never impressed him much before, it was as if Hope were rising slowly, and it strengthened in its pale, soft light, and mingled with the faint grey which began to steal in through the narrow window. And this too lengthened and strengthened, till it began to glow. The fowls—the few they had left—told that it was day. Once more he could hear the ostriches chuckling, hissing, and roaring, and the lowing of the cows and bullocks sounded pleasant and welcome, as a fresh, soft air began to play through the door.

The shadows within the room grew paler, till, all at once, they darkened again in the corners, for the full beams of the sun suddenly stole in through the window, and played upon the opposite wall, which glowed in orange and gold.

But Dyke did not see the refulgent hues with which the shabby white-wash and prints were painted, for he was watching his brother’s face, all so terribly changed since their last parting. The eyes were sunken, and hollows showed about the temples and cheeks. There was a terrible dry blackness, too, about the skin; while the hands that lay upon the bed were thin and full of starting tendons, all tokens of the fever which had laid the strong man low.

But he was sleeping, and sleep at such a time meant life; while the head, bared now by the rough shearing Dyke had given the previous evening, was hot, but not burning with that terrible fire which scorches out the very life where it has commenced to glow.

“Baas Joe dead?” said a voice at the door, and Dyke started to his feet to seize a short, heavy whip; but Kaffir Jack did not stop to see it seized. He turned and fled, while a low muttering growl roused the boy to the fact that the dog had been there in the corner all the night, and now came forward to thrust a cool nose into his master’s hand.

“Why, Duke, old chap, I’d forgotten you,” said Dyke softly. The dog gave his tail a series of rapid wags, and then came to the bedside, looked at the sick man, whined softly, and then sat and rested his muzzle upon one of the feeble hands, watching the face intently, and as if meaning to keep guard there.

Dyke followed, and laid his hand on the dog’s head; but the faithful animal did not stir.

“No, Duke, old man, Baas Joe is not dead yet,” whispered Dyke, as he gazed at his brother’s face; “and, please God, we’re going to bring him safely back to what he was.”

Duke did not move his head; but he raised his tail once, and brought it down upon the floor with a heavy—whop!

Chapter Twenty.

A Sore Strait.

“Stop and watch,” said Dyke; and leaving the dog in charge, he went out into the glorious light of day, feeling strong now, but horribly weak.

A contradiction, but a fact, for though he had drunk of the cool fresh water several times, he had taken nothing since the previous morning, and if he had to nurse Emson back to life, he knew that he must gather force by means of food.

He had to carry on the work of the place still, he felt, as his brother was helpless; and as he walked round to the back of the premises, he began to feel something like wonder at the terrible despair from which he had suffered since his return. For everything looked so bright and cheery and home-like, and the world around him so beautiful, that he felt ready for any new struggle in the great fight for life.

“She’s always squatting over a fire,” said Dyke to himself, as he went round to the back, for there was Tanta Sal down in a wonderfully frog-like attitude, turning herself into a very vigorous natural bellows, to make the fire glow under the kettle.

She looked up and smiled, drawing back her thick lips as the lad approached.

“Baas Joe die?” she said.

“Look here!” roared Dyke fiercely: “don’t you say that to me again. No—No—No—No!”

Tanta Sal stared at him and shook her head.

“Breakfast!” cried Dyke laconically.

That she understood, and Dyke hurried away to take a sharp glance round before going back to his brother’s side.

It was needed. The cows were not milked, and not likely to be; the horses had not been fed, and the ostriches were clamouring for food.

Just then he saw Jack peeping at him from round the corner of one of the sheds; but as soon as he caught sight of his young master, he drew back.

Instead of going on, Dyke darted round to the other side of the building, knowing full well that if he ran after him, Jack would dash off more quickly than he could. So stopping and creeping on over the sand, he peeped round and saw the man before him just about to perform the same act. Consequently Dyke was able to pounce upon the Kaffir, whom he seized by the waist-cloth.

“Here, I want you,” he cried sternly, and in a gruff voice which he hardly knew for his own.

“Baas want?”

“Yes: go and begin milking the cows. I’ll send Tant to you directly.”

The man showed his teeth, and stood shaking his head.

To his utter astonishment Dyke shifted his grasp, and caught him by the throat with one hand, and shook his fist in his face.

“Look here,” he said; “you can understand English when you like, and you’ve got to understand it now. Baas Joe’s sick.”

“Baas Joe go die,” said the man.

“Baas Joe go live,” cried Dyke fiercely, “and he’ll flog you well if you don’t behave yourself. You go and milk those two cows, and then feed the ostriches and horses, or I’ll fetch Duke to watch you, so look out.”

Jack’s jaw dropped at the mention of the dog, and he hurried away; while Dyke, after a glance at the wagon, which stood just where it had been dragged with its load, was about to re-enter the house, when he caught sight of three Kaffirs watching him from beyond one of the ostrich-pens.

“Who are you?” he said to himself. “What do they want?”

He went quickly toward them, but they turned and fled as hard as they could go, assegai in hand, and the boy stopped and watched them for some time, thinking very seriously, for he began to divine what it all meant.

“They have heard from Tant that Joe is dying, and I suppose I’m nobody. They are hanging about to share everything in the place with our two; but—”

Dyke’s but meant a good deal. The position was growing serious, yet he did not feel dismayed, for, to use his own words, it seemed to stir him up to show fight.

“And I will, too,” he said through his teeth. “I’ll let ’em see.”

He went back into the house to find Emson sleeping, and apparently neither he nor the dog had moved.

“Ah, Duke, that’s right,” said Dyke. “I shall want you. You can keep watch for me when I go away.”

Just then Tanta Sal came in, smiling, to tell him that breakfast was ready, and he began to question her about when his brother was taken ill. But either from obtuseness or obstinacy, he could get nothing from the woman, and he was about to let her go while he ate his breakfast of mealie cake and hot milk; but a sudden thought occurred to him. Had those Kaffirs been about there before?

He asked the woman, but in a moment her smile had gone, and she was staring at him helplessly, apparently quite unable to comprehend the drift of his questions; so he turned from her in a pet, to hurry through his breakfast, thinking the while of what he had better do.

He soon decided upon his first step, and that was to try and get Jack off to Morgenstern’s with his letter; and after attending to Emson and repeating the medicine he had given the previous day, he went out, to find that the animals had been fed, and that Jack was having his own breakfast with his wife.

There was a smile for him directly from both, and he plunged into his business at once; but as he went on, the smiles died out, and all he said was received in a dull, stolid way. Neither Jack nor his wife would understand what he meant—their denseness was impenetrable.

“It’s of no use to threaten him,” said Dyke to himself, as he went back; “he would only run away and take Tant with him, and then I should be ten times worse off than I am now. I must go myself. Yes, I could take two horses, and ride first one and then the other, and so set over the round faster. I could do it in a third of the time.”

But he shook his head wearily as he glanced at where Emson lay.

“I dare not leave him to them. I should never see him again alive.”

It was quite plain: the Kaffirs had marked down the baas for dead, and unless watched, they would not trouble themselves to try to save him by moving a hand.

Dyke shuddered, for if he were absent he felt the possibility of one of the strangers he had seen, helping them so as to share or rob. No: he dared not go.

But could he not have the wagon made comfortable, store it with necessaries, get Emson lifted in, and then drive the oxen himself?

It took no consideration. It would be madness, he felt, to attempt such a thing. It would be fatal at once, he knew; and, besides, he dared not take the sick man on such a journey without being sure that he would be received at the house at the journey’s end.

No: that was impossible.

Another thought. It was evident that Jack was determined not to go back alone to Morgenstern’s, but would it be possible to send a more faithful messenger—the dog? He had read of dogs being sent to places with despatches attached to their collars. Why should not Duke go? He knew the way, and once made to understand—

Dyke shook his head. It was too much to expect. The journey was too long. How was the dog to be protected from wild beasts at night, and allowing that he could run the gauntlet of those dangers, how was the poor brute to be fed?

“No, no, no,” cried the boy passionately; “it is too much to think. It is fate, and I must see Joe through it myself. He is better, I am sure.”

There was every reason for thinking so, and nurturing the hope that his brother had taken the turn, Dyke determined to set to work and go on as if all was well—just as if Emson were about and seeing to things himself.

“You know I wouldn’t neglect you, old chap,” he said affectionately, as he bent over the couch and gazed in the sunken features; “I shall be close by, and will keep on coming in.”

Then a thought struck him, and he called the watchful dog away and fed him, before sending him back to the bedside, and going out to examine the ostriches more closely.

Dyke’s heart sank as he visited pen after pen. Either from neglect or disease, several of the birds had died, and were lying about the place, partly eaten by jackals; while of the young ones hatched from the nest of eggs brought home with such high hopes, not one was left.

“Poor Joe!” sighed Dyke, as he looked round despondently, and thought of his brother’s words, which, broken and incoherent as they were, told of the disappointment and bitterness which had followed the long, weary trial of his experiment.

And now, with the poor fellow broken down and completely helpless, the miserable dead birds, the wretched look of those still living, and the general neglect, made Dyke feel ready to turn away in despair.

But he set his teeth hard and went about with a fierce energy rearranging the birds in their pens, and generally working as if this were all a mere accident that only wanted putting straight, for everything to go on prosperously in the future.

It was hard work, feeling, as Dyke did, that it was a hopeless task, and that a complete change—a thorough new beginning—must be made for there to be the slightest chance for success. But he kept on, the task becoming quite exciting when the great birds turned restive or showed fight, and a disposition to go everywhere but where they were wanted.

Then he fetched Jack, who came unwillingly, acting as if he believed some new scheme was about to be tried to send him off to the old trader’s. But he worked better when he found that he was only to drag away the remains of one or two dead birds, and to fetch water and do a little more cleaning.

Dyke divided his time between seeing that the work was done, and going to and fro to his brother’s couch, now feeling hopeful as he fancied that he was sleeping more easily. At the second visit, too, his hopes grew more strong; but at the third they went down to zero, for to his horror the heat flush and violent chill returned with terrible delirium, and the boy began to blame himself for not doing something more about getting a doctor, for Emson seemed to be worse than he was at his return.

By degrees, though, it dawned upon him that this might not be a sign of going back, only a peculiarity of malarial fever, in some forms of which he knew that the sufferer had regular daily fits, which lasted for a certain time and then passed away, leaving the patient exhausted, but better.

This might be one of these attacks, he felt, and he sat watching and trying to give relief; but in vain, for the delirium increased, and the symptoms looked as bad as they could be, for a man to live.

And now once more the utter helplessness of his position came upon Dyke, and he sat there listening to his brother’s wild words, trying to fit them together and grasp his meaning, but in vain. He bathed the burning head and applied the wet bandages, but they seemed to afford no relief whatever; and at last growing more despondent than ever, he felt that he could not bear it, and just at dusk he went outside the door to try to think, though really to get away for a few minutes from the terrible scene.

Then his conscience smote him for what he told himself was an act of cowardice, and he hurried back to the bedside, to find that, short as had been his absence, it had been long enough for a great change to take place.

In fact, the paroxysm had passed, and the poor fellow’s brow was covered with a fine perspiration, his breathing easier, and he was evidently sinking into a restful sleep.

Dyke stood watching and holding his brother’s hand till he could thoroughly believe that this was the case, and then tottered out once more into the comparatively cool evening air, to find Jack or his wife, and tell them to bring something for him and the dog to eat, for he had seen nothing of either of them for many hours.

He walked round to the back, but there was no fire smouldering, and no one in the narrow, yard-like place; so he went on to the shed in which the servants slept, and tapped at the rough door.

But there was no answer, and upon looking in, expecting to see Jack lying there asleep, neither he nor his wife was visible.

How was that? Gone to fetch in fuel from where it was piled-up in a stack? No: for there was plenty against the side of one of the sheds.

What then—water? Yes, that would be it. Jack and Tanta Sal had gone together to the kopje for company’s sake to fetch three or four buckets from the cool fresh spring, of whose use he had been so lavish during the past day. They had gone evidently before it was quite dark; and, feeling hungry and exhausted now, he walked round to where the wagon stood, recalling that there was some dry cake left in the locker, and meaning to eat of this to relieve the painfully faint sensation.

He climbed up into the wagon, and lifted the lid of the chest, but there was no mealie cake there; Jack or Tant must have taken it out. So going back to the house where Emson was sleeping quietly, the boy dipped a pannikin into the bucket standing there, and drank thirstily before going outside again to watch for the Kaffir servants’ return, feeling impatient now, and annoyed that they should have neglected him for so long.

But there was no sign of their approach. The night was coming on fast, and a faint star or two became visible, while the granite kopje rose up, softly rounded in the evening light, with a faint glow appearing from behind it, just as if the moon were beginning to rise there.

He waited and waited till it was perfectly plain that the man could not be coming from fetching water, and, startled at this, he shouted, and then hurriedly looked about in the various buildings, but only to find them empty.

Startled now, more than he cared to own to himself, Dyke ran back to the Kaffir’s lodge, and looked in again. There were no assegais leaning against the wall, nothing visible there whatever, and half-stunned by the thought which had come upon him with terrible violence, the boy went slowly back to the house, and sat down by where Duke was watching the sleeping man.

“Alone! alone!” muttered Dyke with a groan; “they have gone and left us. Joe, Joe, old man, can’t you speak to me? We are forsaken. Speak to me, for I cannot even think now. What shall I do?”

Chapter Twenty One.

Dyke sets his Teeth.

No answer came from the couch where Emson lay exhausted by his last periodical paroxysm of fever. The dog whined softly, and in his way unintentionally comforted his master by comforting himself. That is to say, eager for human company, he crept closer, so that he could nestle his head against him, and be in touch.

That touch was pleasant, and it made Dyke pass his arm round the dog’s neck and draw him nearer, Duke responding with a whine of satisfaction, followed by a sound strongly resembling a grunt, as he settled himself down, just as the answer came to the lad’s question, “What shall I do!”

It was Nature who answered in her grand, wise way, and it was as if she said:

“There is only one thing you can do, my poor, heartsore, weary one: sleep. Rest, and gain strength for the fight to come.”

And in the silence and gathering darkness a calm, sweet insensibility to all his troubles stole over Dyke; he sank lower and lower till his head rested against the skins, and the coarse, sack-like pillow, formed of rough, unsaleable ostrich-feathers; and it was not until twelve hours after that he moved, or felt that there was a world in which he occupied a place, with stern work cut out for him to achieve.

It was the touch of something cold upon his cheek that roused the sleeper, and that something cold was the dog’s nose.

Dyke did not start; he merely opened his eyes quietly, and looked up at those gazing at him, and, thoroughly comforted and rested, he smiled in the dog’s face.

“Get out, you old rascal,” he said. “You know you’ve no business to do that.”

Duke uttered a satisfied bark, and then began to caper about the room to show his delight at the solemn silence of the place being broken; but stopped directly, and made for the door in alarm, so sudden was the spring his master made to his feet—so wild and angry the cry the boy uttered as he bent over the bed.

For full consciousness had returned like a flash, and as he cried, “I’ve been asleep! I’ve been asleep!” he gazed down at his brother, horrified at the thought of what might have happened, and full of self-reproach for what he felt to have been his cruel neglect.

But Emson was just as he had seen him last—even his hands were exactly as they had lain in the darkness the previous night—and when Dyke placed his hand upon the poor fellow’s head, it felt fairly cool and moist.

Dyke’s spirits rose a little at this, but his self-reproach was as great as ever.

“Oh!” he muttered angrily, “and I pretend to care for him, and promise him that I will not leave him, and go right off to sleep like that. Why, he might have died, and I never have moved.—Here, Duke!”

The dog sprang to him with a bound, raised himself, and placed his paws upon his master’s breast, threw back his head, opened his wide jaws, lolled out his tongue, and panted as if after a long run.

“Here, look at me, old chap, and see what a lazy, thoughtless brute I am.”

But Duke only shook his head from side to side, and uttered a low whine, followed by a bark.

“There: down! Oh, how could I sleep like that?”

But by degrees it was forced upon him that Emson had evidently passed a perfectly calm night, and looked certainly better, and he knew that it was utterly impossible to live without rest.

He awoke, too, now to the fact that he was ravenously hungry, while the way in which the dog smelt about the place, snuffing at the tin in which his master’s last mess of bread and milk had been served, and then ran whining to lap at the water at the bottom of a bucket, spoke plainly enough of the fact that he was suffering from the same complaint.

At the same time, Dyke was trying to get a firm grasp of his position, and felt half annoyed with himself at the calm way in which he treated it. For after that long, calm, restful sleep, things did not look half so bad; the depression of spirit had passed away, his thoughts were disposed to run cheerfully, and his tendency of feeling was toward making the best of things.

“Well,” he found himself saying, as he ran over his last night’s discovery, “they’re only savages! What could one expect? Let them go. And as to its being lonely, why old Robinson Crusoe was a hundred times worse off; somebody is sure to come along one of those days. I don’t care: old Joe’s better—I’m sure he’s better—and if Doctor Dyke don’t pull him through, he’s a Dutchman, and well christened Van.”

He had one good long look in his patient’s face, felt his pulse, and then his heart beatings; and at last, as if addressing some one who had spoken depreciatingly of his condition:

“Why, he is better, I’m sure.—Here, Duke: hungry? Come along, old man.”

The dog shot out of the door, giving one deep-toned bark, and Dyke hurried to the wagon, opened a sack of meal, poured some into the bottom of a bucket, carried it back to the house, with the dog sniffing about him, his mouth watering. Then adding some water to the meal, he beat it into a stiff paste, and placed about half on a plate, giving the bucket with the rest to the dog, which attacked it ravenously, and not hesitating about eating a few bits of the cold, sticky stuff himself.

He gave a glance at Emson, and then went to the back, scraped a little fuel together, lit it, and blew it till it began to glow, hung the kettle over it for the water to boil, and then, closely followed by Duke, ran to feed the horses, just as a low, deep lowing warned him that the cows wanted attention.

Fortunately only one was giving much milk, for Dyke’s practice in that way had been very small: it was a work of necessity, though, to relieve the poor beasts, which followed him as he hurried back for a pail, one that soon after stood half full of warm, new milk, while the soft-eyed, patient beasts went afterwards calmly away to graze.

“Here, who’s going to starve?” cried Dyke aloud, with a laugh that was, however, not very mirthful; and then going back to the fire he kneaded up his cake, placed it upon a hot slab of stone, covered it with an earthen pot, swept the embers and fire over the whole, and left it to bake.

His next proceeding was to get the kettle to boil and make some tea, a task necessitating another visit to the wagon stores he had brought from Morgenstern’s, when, for the first time, he noticed that a little sack of meal was missing.

At first he was doubtful, then he felt sure, and jumped at once to the reason. Jack and Tanta Sal must have gone off to join the blacks he had seen watching, and not gone empty handed.

Dyke’s brow wrinkled up for a few moments. Then his face cleared, for an antidote for the disease had suggested itself, one which he felt would come on in periodical fits.

“Here, Duke,” he cried. “Up!”

The dog sprang in at the back of the wagon, and looked inquiringly at him.

“Lie down: watch!”

Duke settled himself upon the wagon floor, laid his outstretched head upon his paws, and stayed there when his master left to go back to the house, fetch in the boiling kettle, make tea, and after sweetening half a basinful and adding a little milk, he took it to his patient’s side, raised his head, held it to his lips, and all unconscious though he was, found him ready to drink with avidity, and then sink back with a weary sigh.

“There, old chap,” cried Dyke, ignoring the fact that he had not tried, “you couldn’t have tipped off a lot of tea like that yesterday. It’s all right: going to get better fast, and give Master Jack such a licking as he never had before.”

Trying to believe this himself, he now thought of his own breakfast, fetched in the hot cake and a tin pannikin of milk, and sat down to this and some tea.

The first mouthfuls felt as if they would choke him, but the sensation of distaste passed off, and he was soon eating ravenously, ending by taking Duke a tin of milk for his share, and a piece of the hot bread.

That was a weary morning, what with his patient and the animals about the place. But he had set his teeth hard, and feeling that he must depend fully upon himself and succeed, he took a sensible view of his proceedings, and did what he could to lighten his responsibility, so as to leave him plenty of time for nursing and attending to his invalid.

The first thing was to do something about the horses and cattle; and, feeling that he could not do everything by himself, he at once let all loose to shift for themselves, hoping that they would keep about the little desert farm, and not stray away into danger. Horses then and cattle were loosened, to go where they pleased, and the openings connecting the ostrich-pens were thrown open to give the great birds as much limit for feeding themselves as he could. Then he fetched water in abundance for the house, and loaded and laid ready the three guns and the rifles, with plenty of cartridges by their sides, but more from a hope that the sight of his armament would have the effect of frightening Kaffirs away when seen, than from any thought of using them as lethal weapons, and destroying life.

Then he was face to face with the difficulty about the wagon. These stores ought not to be left where they were, and he felt that he was too much worn out to attempt to carry them into the rough-boarded room that served as store. He was too much exhausted, and the rest of that day he felt belonged to his patient.

But a thought struck him, and fetching up a yoke of the oxen which were browsing contentedly a half-mile away, Dyke hitched them on to the dissel-boom, and, after some difficulty, managed to get the wagon drawn close up to the fence, and within a few yards of the door.

“Duke will be there, and I should hear any one who came,” he said to himself, and once more set the oxen free to go lowing back to their poor pasture with the rest of the team, which he had had hard work to keep from following him at the first.

And now, tired out with his exertions at a time when the hot sun was blazing on high, and beginning to feel a bit dispirited, he entered the house again, to be cast down as low as ever, for once more Emson was suffering terribly from the fit, which seemed to come on as nearly as could be at the same time daily. Dyke knew that he ought to have been prepared for it, but he was not, for it again took him by surprise, and the medicine which he administered, and his brother took automatically, seemed to have no effect whatever.

He bathed and applied evaporating bandages to the poor fellow’s temples, but the fever had the mastery, and kept it for hours, while Dyke could at last do nothing but hold the burning hand in his, with despair coming over him, just as the gloom succeeded the setting of the sun.

Then, just as the boy was thinking that no fit had been so long as this, and that Emson was growing far weaker, the heat and alternate shivering suddenly ceased, and with a deep sigh he dropped off to sleep.

Dyke sat watching for a time, and then, finding that Emson was getting cooler and cooler, and the sleep apparently more natural and right, he began to think of his plans for the evening. He was determined to keep awake this time, and to do this he felt that he must have company. The Kaffirs were hardly likely to come by night, he felt, and so he would not leave the dog to watch, but going out, called him down out of the wagon, tied down the canvas curtains back and front, fed the dog well, and stood at the door waiting until the faithful beast had finished, watching the while. Then once more he noticed the peculiar light at the back of the kopje, looking as if the moon were rising, though that could not be, for there was no moon visible till long after midnight.

But Dyke was too weary to study a question of light or shadow, and as soon as Duke had finished he called the dog in, closed the door, did what he could to make poor Emson comfortable, and sat down to pass the night watching.

But nature said again that he should pass it sleeping, and in a few minutes, after fighting hard against the sensation of intense drowsiness, he dropped off fast as on the previous night, but started into wakefulness in the intense darkness, and sat up listening to the low growling of the dog, and a terrible bellowing which came from the pens, where the cattle should be, if they had returned after their many hours’ liberty.

Returned they had for certain, and one of the great, placid beasts was evidently in a state of agony and fear, while a rushing sound of hoofs close to where the wagon stood, suggested that the horses and bullocks had taken flight.

The reason was not very far off from the seeker, for all at once, just as the piteous bellowings were at their height, there came the terrific roaring of a lion, evidently close at hand, and this was answered by a deep growling by the cattle-pens, telling that one lion had struck down a bullock, and was being interrupted in his banquet by another approaching near.

Dyke rose, and went to the corner of the room where the loaded rifles stood, then walked softly toward the door to stand peering out, but not a sign of any living creature was visible. In fact, a lion could not have been seen a couple of yards away, but, all the same, the loud muttered growlings told plainly enough that both the fierce beasts were close at hand.

Chapter Twenty Two.

A Bit of Nature.

There seems plenty of reason in supposing that the tremendously loud, full-throated roar of the lion at night is intended to scare the great brute’s prey into betraying its whereabouts at times, at others to paralyse it with fright and render it easy of capture. Much has been written about the fascinating power of the snake, but this fascination, from quiet observation, appears to be nothing more nor less than the paralysis caused by fear, and suffered by plenty of objects in the animal world. One might begin with man himself, and the many instances where, in the face of a terrible danger, he becomes perfectly weak and helpless. He is on a railway track, and a fast train is coming. One spring, and he would be safe; but how often it happens that he never makes that spring.

Take another instance. There is a fire at some works. It is spreading fast, and the cry arises, “Save the horses in the stables!” Men rush and fling open the doors; the halters are cast loose, but too often the poor brutes will not stir even for blows: fascinated by the danger, they stay in the stable and are burned.

Go into the woods on some pleasant summer day, in one of the pleasant sandy districts, where the sweet, lemony odour of the pine-trees floats through the sunny air, and the woodland slope is dotted with holes, and freshly scratched out patches of yellowish sand abound. Sit down and don’t move, and in a short time, quite unexpectedly, you will see rabbits seated in front of these holes. You have not seen them come out, for they seem to arrive there instantaneously—first one or two, then several; and if there is neither movement nor noise, more and more will appear, to begin nibbling the grass at the edge of the wood, or playing about, racing after each other, almost as full of pranks as kittens. Now and then one will raise itself upon its hind-legs like a dog begging, ears erect and quivering, now turned in one direction, now in another. Then, all at once, rap, rap!—that sharp alarm stamp given by the foot—there is a wild race, and dozens of white cottony tails are seen disappearing at the mouths of holes, and in another instant not a rabbit is to be seen.

What was it? You listen, but all seems still. You can hear the twittering of birds, perhaps the harsh call of a jay, or the laughing chatter of a magpie, but those familiar sounds would not have startled the rabbits; and if you are new to such woodland matters, you will conclude that some one of the nearest fur-coated fellows must have caught sight of you, called out danger, and sent the colony flying. But if you are accustomed to the woods and the animal nature there, you will listen, and in a short time hear that which startled the little animals, the cry reaching their sensitive ears long before it penetrated your duller organs.

There it is again—a fine-drawn, shrill, piercing cry as of some animal in trouble. This is repeated at intervals till it comes nearer and nearer, and develops into a querulous, frightened scream uttered by some little creature in fear or pain.

Both, say; for in another moment a fine grey rabbit comes into sight running slowly, and looking in nowise distressed by over-exertion as it passes on in front of where you sit, going in and out among the tree trunks and ferns, paying no heed to the many burrows, each of which would make a harbour of refuge and perhaps save its life, though that is very doubtful. It might, too, you think, save itself by rushing off at full speed, as it would if it caught sight of you, or a dog chased it. But no, it goes on running slowly, uttering at times its terrified scream, which you hear again and again long after the rabbit has disappeared—a cry which seems to say: “It’s all over; I am marked down, and though I keep on running, I can never get away. It will catch me soon.”

And it is so, for poor bunny is doomed. He is being hunted down by a remorseless enemy who is on his scent, and now comes into sight in turn, running in a leisurely way exactly along the track taken by the rabbit, though this is out of sight. There seems to be no hurry on the part of the little, slight, snaky-looking, browny-grey animal, with its piercing eyes, rounded ears, creamy-white breast, and black-tipped tail.

The weasel—for that it is—does not seem above an eighth of the size of the rabbit, a kick from whose powerful hind-leg could send it flying disabled for far enough. But the little, keen, perky-looking creature knows that this will not be its fate, and comes loping along upon its leisurely hunt, pausing now and then to look sharply around for danger, and then gliding in and out among the undergrowth, leaping over prostrate pieces of branch, and passing on in front just as the rabbit did a few minutes before, and then disappearing among the ferns; its keen-scented nostrils telling it plainly enough the direction in which the rabbit has gone, though the screams might have deceived the ear.

Not long since I was witness of an instance of so-called fascination in the homely cases of cat and mouse. Not the ordinary domestic mouse, for the little animal was one of the large, full-eyed, long-tailed garden mice, and my attention was directed to it by seeing the cat making what sporting people call “a point” at something. Puss was standing motionless, watching intently, ready to spring at any moment, and upon looking to see what took her attention, there at the foot of an old tree-stump stood the very large mouse, not three feet from its enemy, and so paralysed or fascinated by fear, that it paid no heed to my approaching so closely that I could have picked it up. It was perfectly unable to stir till I gave puss a cuff and sent her flying without her natural prey, when the mouse darted out of sight.

The roaring of the lions seemed to exercise this fascination even upon Dyke, who made no movement to fire, while he could hear the other bullocks, evidently huddling together in mortal fear—a fear which attacked him now, as the bellowings of the unfortunate bullock became more agonised, then grew fainter, and died off in a piteous sigh.

Then, and then only, did Dyke seem to start back into the full possession of his faculties; and raising the gun, he stood listening, so as to judge as nearly as possible whereabouts to fire.

A sharp crack, as of a bone breaking, told him pretty nearly where the spot must be, not fifty yards from where he stood; and, taking a guess aim—for he could not see the sight at the end of the barrel—he was about to draw trigger, when, at almost one and the same moment, Duke uttered a frightened snarl: there was a rush, and the boy fired now at random, fully aware of the fact that a lion must have crept up within a few yards, and been about to spring either at him or the dog, when the fierce, snarling growls made it alter its intention.

They say that discretion is the better part of valour, and it would be hard to set Dyke’s movement in retreat down to cowardice, especially when it is considered that he was almost blind in the darkness, while his enemy was provided by nature with optics which were at their best in the gloom of night.

Dyke moved back into the house, where, partly sheltered, and with the dog close to his feet, watchful as he was himself, and ready to give warning of danger, he waited, listening for the next sound.

This was long in coming, for the lions seemed to have been scared away by the report of the piece—it was too much to believe that the beast which had charged was hit—but at last crick, crack, and a tearing noise came from out of the darkness toward the stables, and taking another guess aim, the boy fired and listened intently as he reloaded his piece.

Once more there was silence till a distant roar was heard, and Dyke felt hopeful that he had scared away his enemy; but hardly had he thought that, when the cracking and tearing noise arose once more, telling plainly enough that if the beast had been scared away, it had only been for a short distance, and it had now returned to feed.

Dyke’s piece rang out again, as he fired in the direction of the sounds, all feeling of dread now being carried away by the excitement, and a sense of rage that, in all probability, one of the best draught oxen had been pulled down and was being eaten only a few yards from where he stood.

Crack went a bone once more, as the noise of the piece died out, showing that the lion had ceased to pay attention to the report.

And now Dyke fired again, and backed right into the house, startled by the result, for this time his bullet had evidently told—the lion uttering a savage, snarling roar, which was followed by a crash, as if caused by the monster leaping against one of the fences in an effort to escape.

Then once more all was still. The tearing and rending had ceased, and though the boy listened patiently for quite an hour, no animal returned to the savage banquet.

At last, tired out, Dyke closed and secured the door, to sit down and wait for day, no disposition to sleep troubling him through the rest of the night. Once or twice he struck a match to hold it near his brother’s face, but only to find him lying sleeping peacefully, the reports of the gun having had no effect whatever; while as the light flashed up, Dyke caught a glimpse of the dog crouching at the door, with head low, watching and listening for the approach of a foe.

But no enemy came, and at the first flush of dawn Dyke opened the door cautiously, to look out and see one of the cows, all torn and bloody, lying half-a-dozen yards from its shed; and just within the first fence, where a gap had been broken through, crouched a full-grown lioness, apparently gathering itself up for a spring.

Chapter Twenty Four.

Black Shadows.

“What has been the matter, young un?” piped Emson feebly. “I say, don’t look like that. Have I had a fall from my horse? I can’t lift my hand.”

Dyke told him at last as he clung to that hand, and Emson’s face grew more and more troubled.

“Don’t,” he whispered excitedly—“don’t stop. You—you may catch—the fever—too.”

“What!” cried Dyke, with a forced laugh, “me catch the fever! Well, who cares? I don’t. Bother! Who’s going to catch it, old chap? Why, I should have caught it a hundred times before now.”

“You—you’ve been—nursing me?”

“I’ve been here, but it hasn’t been much of nursing,” cried Dyke, laughing in a half-choking way, as his breast swelled with joy. “I’ve fed you with a spoon and washed your face. Oh Joe, old man, you’ve been just like a big, stupid old baby.”

“And have I been ill long?”

“Yes, ever so long. I was a terrible while before I got back, because the little river out yonder was flooded, and when I did come, I—I—I—oh Joe, old chap, I do feel so happy once more.”

It was a wise addition to his speech, for Dyke never looked much more miserable in his life; but there was enough in his aspect to make Emson smile faintly, and then close his eyes.

That brought back Dyke to the responsibilities of his position, and he sprang up.

“Here! I’ve been letting you talk too much while you’re so weak,” he cried excitedly.

Emson’s lips parted to speak, but his brother laid a hand upon them.

“No,” he said, “you mustn’t: you’ll have to get stronger first; and I’ve got to feed you up, old chap.”

Just at that moment a dark shadow crossed the doorway, and Tanta Sal’s black face appeared looking in.

“Baas no go die,” she said. “Jack tief. Baas Joe go get well. Look!”

She held out a rough basket, in which were half-a-dozen new-laid eggs.

“Jack find eggs,” said Tanta. “Do so.”

She took one egg, gave it a tap, deftly broke the shell in two halves, let the white run out, and swallowed the yolk like an oyster.

“Here, hold hard!” cried Dyke angrily. “You mustn’t do that.”

“No. Tant mussen. Jack find eggs, do so. Jack tief.”

“Well, I’m glad I know where the eggs went,” said Dyke, taking the remainder. “I thought our hens ought to lay some. But why didn’t you tell us before?”

“Jack say killum,” replied the woman. “Baas Joe hungry?”

“Not yet; I’ll see to him,” said Dyke, dismissing the woman, and he turned now to his brother with a strange dread creeping over him, for Emson lay back with his eyes closed, looking utterly exhausted, and as if the awakening from the long stage of delirium were only the flickering of the light of life in its socket. But by degrees Dyke realised that it was the fever that had burned out, and Emson had only fallen asleep—a restfully, calm sleep, from which he did not awaken till toward evening, when Dyke shivered with apprehension of the terrible attack that would come on about that time.

But there was no attack, and after talking feebly in a whisper, the invalid partook of a little food, then lay watching the glow in the west, and soon went off to sleep again as calmly as an infant. “It’s all right,” cried Dyke excitedly; “all I ought to do now is to keep on feeding him up with good, strengthening things, given a little at a time. I believe I was cut out for a doctor after all.”

He stood watching the sleeper for a few minutes, thinking of how perfectly helpless the strong man had become, and then a thought occurred to him. In an hour’s time the guinea-fowl would be coming to roost in the trees beyond the kopje, and a couple of these stewed down by Tanta Sal would make a delicious kind of broth, the very thing for the sick man. Going out, he called to the Kaffir woman, and sent her to watch over Emson; while, gun in hand, he prepared to start for the kopje, so as to get into a good hiding-place before the guinea-fowl came home to roost.

His first act was to whistle for Duke, but the dog did not appear, and this set the lad wondering, for he remembered now that he had not seen it for hours.

But he was too intent upon the task he had in hand to think more of the dog just then, and hurried on past the kopje, and into the patch of forest growth which nourished consequent upon the springs which trickled from the granite blocks that sheltered the spring and fertilised a few dozen acres of land, before sinking right down among the sand and dying away.

Dyke felt as if a complete change had come over his life during the past few hours. The golden light of evening had transformed the desert veldt, and everything looked glorious, while his spirits rose so, that had he not wanted the birds, he would have burst out shouting and singing in the exuberance of his joy.

“Who says Kopfontein isn’t a beautiful place?” he said softly. “I did, and didn’t know any better. Why, it’s lovely, and Joe and I will do well yet.”

A cloud came over his brow as he made for the patch of trees. His memory was busy, and he began to recall the past—his discontent, and how trying he must have been to his big, amiable, patient brother.

“But never again!” he said to himself. “I didn’t know any better then: I do now;” and, forgetting the dangers and troubles, or setting them aside as something of no consequence at all, Dyke passed on, and at last entered the trees just as there was a glint of something bright from which the sunset rays flashed.

But Dyke did not see the glint, neither did he hear the bushes being parted as something glided through the low growth, and another something, and then another, and again another—four dark, shadowy figures, which glided softly away, and then seemed to drop down flat and remain silent, as if watching.

Dyke saw nothing and thought of nothing now but the broth for his invalid, but picking out a good hiding-place, he cocked his piece and waited for the birds; while at the click, click of the gun-locks, something bright was raised about fifty yards from where he was hidden, and the bright thing quivered above the bushes for a few moments before it disappeared again.

That bright object, which was gilded by the sun’s rays now flashing horizontally through the trees, was the head of an assegai, sharp and cruelly dangerous; but Dyke’s eyes were gazing straight away, over the desert veldt, while he felt as if he should like to whistle.

At last there was a distant metallic clangour; then came the rushing of wings, the alighting of a noisy flock of birds which began to cry “Come back! Come back! Come back!” and Dyke’s gun spoke out twice, bringing down twice as many birds.

“Now, if I had old Duke here, he might have retrieved those for me,” thought the boy, rising to take a step or two toward the spot where his birds had fallen, the rest of the flock having departed with a wild outcry, and as he moved, four assegais were raised into a horizontal position. But, taught caution by the wild life he had been accustomed to, he stopped to recharge his gun.

Before he had quite finished, there was a loud barking at a little distance.

“Why, there he is, tracking me out,” cried Dyke; and, whistling sharply, the barking came again more loudly, a shout bringing Duke to his side, while, as soon as the dog understood what was wanted, he darted off after the fallen birds, bringing in two directly from close to where the assegais had been poised.

“Good dog! Two more! Seek!” cried Dyke. “Off with you!”

The dog bounded away again, and Dyke stood whistling softly to himself as he examined his prizes, and admired their clean-looking, speckled plumage.

Duke was back directly, gave up the birds, coughed his teeth clear of fluffy feathers, and then turned and stood looking in the direction from whence he had fetched the guinea-fowls.

“Oh yes,” said his master, “there’ll be plenty more soon, but we’ve got enough; so come along.”

Dyke shouldered his gun, carried the speckled birds in a bunch by their legs, and walked away toward the edge of the forest patch, the dog looking back from time to time, and barking uneasily. But the master could not read the dog’s warning; he attributed it to the guinea-fowl coming to roost, though black-faced lurkers, armed with assegais, were on the dog’s trail till they were safely out of the forest, at whose edge the four Kaffirs paused to watch, while Dyke went on toward home.

And now the dog forgot that which he had seen in the wood. The open veldt, with the kopje on their left, made him recall something else, and he began barking and trying to lead his master away beyond the ostrich-pens, Dyke understanding him well enough; but with his game in hand, and the purpose for which it was intended in mind, for a long time he refused to go.

At last, though, he yielded to the dog’s importunity, feeling sure that a portion of their stock must be in trouble, and that Duke had been watching it for some time past, till he heard the reports of the gun.

Chapter Twenty Five.

Duke’s Find.

Dyke had not far to go—the dog running on and looking back from time to time to see if it was followed, and then going on again. “He has found a snake, perhaps,” thought Dyke, as he looked in every direction, but could see no sign of the bullocks. Duke went on.

“Here! I want to get back with these birds, old fellow,” cried Dyke at last. “Come along back.”

But the dog stood fast, and began to bark; then plunged in amongst some milk-bush, and barked louder than ever.

“Well, I must see what he has found,” thought Dyke, and just as it was getting dark, he ran on the hundred yards which separated him from the dog, and found him in a state of great excitement.

“Now then, stupid, what is it?” cried Dyke. “I shan’t go any farther, mind.—Why, hullo! old chap, what have you got? Why, they’re lion cubs!”

Sure enough they were; a pair of big, chubby, whimpering cubs, that in their heavy way resembled puppies more than creatures of the cat family.

“Here, come away,” cried Dyke, after kneeling down to examine the stupid-looking, tawny things, “We shall make the mother feel as fierce as can be, and there’ll be no mercy for us then, old chap. But how in the world did they come to be here? Their mother must be prowling about the place, and— Oh, I see,” he cried, as the light came. “It was their mother I shot, and the poor little creatures are starving. It would be a mercy to kill them.”

But the cubs whimpered and whined, and seemed so amiable, that Dyke felt as if he could not be merciful in that way.

“Seems stupid,” he muttered, “but I can’t go murdering things without there’s a good reason for it.”

Slinging his gun over his back, he took a piece of leathern thong from his pocket and tied the legs of his birds together, noticing that, as he did so, Duke was poking the young lions about with his nose, and the fat little creatures, which were about a third of his size, were snuggling up to him for comfort, whining like puppies the while.

“Here, Duke!” he cried; “carry.”

He slung the birds on either side of the dog’s neck, and then stooping down, picked up the fat, heavy cubs, tucked one under each arm, where they nestled to him, and then started for home.

“Nice position for me if I’m wrong,” he muttered. “Suppose their mother isn’t dead, and she finds me stealing her young ones. Ugh!”

But he was not wrong, and soon after entered the house with his prizes, to find Emson awake and watching him; while Tanta Sal crouched on the floor, gazing at the lamp which she had lit and seemed to admire intensely.

“How are you?” was Dyke’s first question, and on being assured in a faint echo of a voice that his brother was better, he handed two of the birds to the woman to take and stew down at once.

“Take lion’s babies too?” she said, shaking her head severely. “Not good eat.”

“Who wants to eat them?” said Dyke. “No: I’m going to keep them. Come, make haste. I want to see those birds cooking into soup.”

“Soup? Ooomps. Tant know make tea—coffee—dinner.”

“No, no; soup.”

“Ooomps; make bird tea, coffee? Baas Joe drink in spoon.”

“Yes, that’s right; you understand,” cried Dyke, and the woman hurried out with the birds, the dog following her, his instinct teaching him that there would be the heads and possibly other odds and ends to fall to his share. But before going, he went and poked at the two cubs and uttered a low bark.

“What do you think of these, Joe?” said Dyke, picking up his prizes, and placing them on the bed.

“Dangerous, little un,” said Emson feebly. “The mother will scent them out.”

“No: I feel sure it was their mother I shot last night. She lies out yonder where Tant and I dragged her.”

“Ah!” said Emson softly, “it was her skin Tant brought in to show me. She stripped it off to-night.”

“She did? Bravo! well done, Tant! But look here, Joe: couldn’t I bring these cubs up?”

“Yes, for a time; but they would grow dangerous. Try.”

That night, after finding very little difficulty in getting the cubs to suck a couple of pieces of rag soaked in milk, Dyke dropped asleep, to dream that the lioness had come to life again, and was waiting at the door for her cubs; but it proved to be only Tanta Sal once more, just at daybreak, with a tin of the bird soup, which she had set to stew overnight, and woke up early to get ready for the baas. Of this Emson partook with avidity as soon as he woke, his brother laughing merrily as he fed him with a wooden spoon, while Tant grinned with delight.

“Jack say Baas Joe go die,” she cried, clapping her legs with her hands. “Jack tief.”

Dyke endorsed the words that morning when he visited the still unladen wagon, for a bag of sugar and some more meal had disappeared.

He stood rubbing his ear viciously.

“It’s my fault for not taking the things indoors,” he said in a vexed tone of voice; “but I can’t do everything, and feeding those cubs last night made me forget to set Duke to watch.”

Then a thought struck him, and he put his head outside the tilt and shouted for Tant, who came running up, and at once climbed into the wagon.

“Did you fetch some mealies from here last night?” asked Dyke.

“No: Jack,” cried the woman excitedly—“Jack tief.”

“Yes; I thought so,” said Dyke thoughtfully. “There, that will do;” and making up his mind to watch that night, he went back to the house, had a few words with his brother, and then went round to see that all was right, coming back to breakfast after Tanta had shown him the lioness’s skin pegged out to dry.

Dyke watched that night, but in vain; Duke watched the next night also in vain, for there had been too much to do for the wagon to be emptied and the stores brought in.

For Emson required, in his weak state, an enormous deal of attention, which, however, was a delight to his brother, who had the satisfaction day by day of seeing him grow slightly better; while the Kaffir woman was indefatigable, and never seemed to sleep, Dyke’s difficulty being to keep her from making the patient travel in a retrograde path by giving him too much to eat.

“Baas Joe muss plenty meat, tea, coffee,” she said. “No eat, Baas Joe die.”

Hence Dyke had hard work to keep the larder supplied. Fortunately, however, the guinea-fowls’ roosting place proved to be almost inexhaustible, and twice over a little buck fell to the boy’s gun.

Then there was an ample supply of milk, some eggs, and dried meat to stew down, so that the patient did not fare so badly, as his returning strength showed.

But progress with the ostrich-farm was at a standstill, and Dyke used to look at the great stilt-stalking birds with a sorrowful air, and wish they were all running wild.

“But you are getting better fast, Joe,” he said one evening as he sat by the couch.

“Getting better slowly, not fast, little un,” replied Emson sadly. “Heaven knows how I pray for strength, so as to relieve you, boy.”

“Who wants to be relieved?” cried Dyke roughly. “All I mind is not getting on better with the work, because now I have not Jack to help. I get on so slowly.”

“I know, Dyke,” said Emson sadly, as he lay there propped up on his bed.

“Hullo! What’s the matter? What have I done?”

“Nothing but what is patient and persevering.”

“Oh, no! don’t say that,” cried the boy. “I’ve always been a discontented grumbler ever since I’ve been here, Joe. But, I say, don’t call me Dyke. It sounds as if you were getting formal with me, and as if we were not as we used to be before you were taken bad.”

“But we are, old chap. Better and more brotherly than ever. I never knew till now how brave, and true, and manly— Ha! he’s gone,” sighed Emson sadly; for Dyke had made a sudden bound, and dashed out of the place, keeping away for fully half an hour, before he thrust in his head once more.

“Ah, there you are,” said Emson. “Come and sit down. I want to speak to you.”

“Look here, Joe,” cried Dyke. “I’m baas now, and I shall do as I like. Are you going to talk any more of that nonsense? I am going if you are.”

“I shall not talk nonsense. I only said—”

“You stop, sir. Don’t you get only saiding again, for I won’t have it. It’s weak, and sickly, and sentimental. Who wants to be told that he helped his brother when he was ill? Such rot! Why, wouldn’t you have fed me and washed my face if I’d grown as stupid and weak as you? There, shake hands. I’ll forgive you this time; but if ever—Hooray-y-y-y! He’s getting some muscle in his arm again. You can feel him grip! Why, a fortnight ago it was like shaking hands with a dead chicken. I say, Joe, old man, you are heaps better.”

“Yes, I’m getting better. I feel as if I shall live now.”

“Live? Now there’s a jolly old stupid. Just as if you were ever going to feel anything else. Look here, Joe: I shall have to make an alteration. I’ve been spoiling you, giving you too many good things. And to begin with, I think I’ll cut your hair.”

“Isn’t it short enough?” said Emson rather piteously, as he feebly raised his hand to his temples.

“Yes, there: it looks nice and fashionable. But all down at the back it’s like Breezy’s mane.”

“Then you shall cut it, Dyke.”

“Ah-h-h!”

“Well then, young un. But how is poor Breezy?”

“Getting wild for want of riding. I went toward her yesterday, and she began dancing a pas-de-deux-legs on her fore-hoofs, and sparred at the sky with her hind. Wait a bit, and you and I’ll take some of the steam out of her and Longshanks. We’ll hunt out no end of ostriches’ nests in the farther-off part of the veldt. Here, what are you shaking your jolly old head for? It’s been quite shaky enough, hasn’t it?”

“I was thinking of the ostrich-farming, little un,” said Emson sadly. “No, my lad, no more time wasted over that. Two hundred years hence they may have got a more manageable strain of domesticated birds that will live well in confinement. We’ve had our try, and failed.”

“Bah! Not half tried. I haven’t. No, Joe, we won’t give up. We’ll do it yet. Why, it was that black scoundrel Jack who caused half the mischief. Oh, Joe, if I could only have caught him when he was knocking those poor young birds on the head, and had my gun with me.”

“What! would you have shot at him, young un?”

“If I’d had small shot in one of the barrels. They’d have just gone through, and peppered his hide nicely. I say, Joe, his clothes wouldn’t have stopped the shot corns.”

“No,” said Emson, smiling; “his clothes wouldn’t have stopped them.”

“Hooray-y-y-y!” shouted Dyke again, and the two lion cubs looked over the packing-case in which they were confined, wonderingly.

“Look at him! A regular half laugh. We shall have the whole laugh soon. But there, I mustn’t stop, wasting time here.”

“Yes; stay a little longer, little un. I want to talk to you,” said Emson.

“About my being such a nice, good boy—so brave and so noodley? No, you don’t. I’m off!”

“No, no; I will not say a word about that. I want to talk to you.”

“But the ostriches want feeding.”

“They must wait,” said Emson sadly. “They’ve made us wait for profit. Look here, little un; sit down.”

“Well, if you want it. But, honour bright: no buttering me.”

“I want to talk about our future.”

“Well, I can tell you that, Joe. We’re going to make a big success of the farm.”

“No, boy; we are going to give it up.”

“What! Sell it?”

“No; I should be ashamed to take money off a man for so worthless a bargain. We are going to scrape together what skins and feathers are ours, so as to pay our way, and going home.”

“What! empty?” cried Dyke. “That we won’t.”

“We must, boy. I shall never be myself till I have been under a good doctor.”

“What nonsense, Joe. There, let’s talk about something else.—I say, how playful the cubs get; but they’re more like big Saint Bernard pups than kittens.”

“Let us talk about our future, boy,” said Emson rather sternly. “I was thinking bitterly of our prospects when I was sickening for this fever, and I have thought more about them since I have been lying here helpless; and as soon as I can get about, we must prepare for going home.”

“Beaten! Go home, and say: ‘It’s of no use, father; we’re a poor, helpless pair.’”

“We must accept the inevitable, little un.”

“There isn’t any inevitable when you’re my age, Joe. One always used to feel on a bad day that sooner or later the fish would begin to bite.”

“Yes, but we used to change to another place.”

“Sometimes. Well, let’s change to another place, then. But it would be a pity. We’ve got never-failing water here, and even if the lions and baboons do come sometimes, it’s a capital place. I say, Joe, have another try.”

“You’ve quite changed your tune, old fellow,” said Emson mournfully. “Do you remember?”

“Why, of course. What fellow doesn’t remember what a donkey he has been? I’ve often thought of it while you were ill, Joe, and of what a nuisance I must have been while you were so patient. And I said to myself— There, never mind that—I say, Joe, do you really mean for us to go back beaten?”

“Yes.”

“Not have one more try!”

“No: I am too much broken down.”

“But I’m not. I’m getting full of pluck and work now, and I’ll do anything to keep things going till you come round.”

Emson shook his head sadly.

“I say it is of no use, my lad; we are trying an impossibility.”

“Then let’s try something else. What do you think old Morgenstern said?”

“That we were wasting time over the ostriches.”

“Well, yes, he did say that. But he said something else.”

“Yes? What?”

“That he heard they were finding diamonds out on the veldt, and that he should advise you to have a good try.”

“Moonshine, boy. The other day it was gold. Do you think we should be wise in spending our days hunting for diamonds?”

Dyke scratched his ear, glanced at his brother, and then shook his head.

“Come, you are wise in that. Old Morgenstern is a good, honest, old fellow, but it does not do to take anybody’s advice on your own affairs, about which you know best yourself. There, I must not talk any more; but don’t go dreaming about diamonds, little un. You and I did not come out here to make a fortune, but to get a straightforward, honest living.”

Emson closed his eyes, and Dyke sat watching him till his regular breathing told that he was fast asleep, and then the lad went out to go and busy himself about the place, meaning to take his gun that evening and make for the patch of forest beyond the kopje, so as to shoot a couple or so of the guinea-fowl; but a sharp storm came on and prevented him, though at bed-time, when he looked out, after seeing that the lion cubs and dog were curled up happily enough together, the stars were shining brilliantly, and a dull, soft light in the east told that the full moon would soon be up.

Five minutes later he was in his corner, feeling very drowsy, and a little troubled in his mind about his brother’s determination.

“But Joe’ll think differently when he gets better,” Dyke said to himself; and then began to think whether he ought not to have watched the wagon.

“One can’t work and watch, too,” he thought as he yawned, “but I might have made Duke sleep in the wagon, and I will.”

But he was so utterly wearied out that he kept putting off the getting up from minute to minute, till he forgot all about it in sleep, plunging at once into a troubled dream, in which he saw his brother standing, angry and threatening with a big stick in his hand, and about to bring it down upon him with a heavy thud for neglecting their valuable stores, when he awoke to find that there was some substance in that dream.

Chapter Twenty Six.

The Night Attack.

For a few moments Dyke could not collect himself sufficiently to speak, but stared at the black figure leaning over him, with what seemed to be a heavy club, while the shadow cast by the feeble lamp upon the wall to his left looked prodigious.

“Get up! Come!” was whispered in his ear, and he felt the stout cudgel pressed upon his legs. “You, Tant?” he faltered. “Oomps. Jump. Jack come. Jack tief.”

“What!” cried Dyke springing up, half-dressed, as he had lain down.

“Shoo!” whispered the woman. “Bring gun, shoot.”

“You want me to shoot Jack?”

“Oomps. Wagon. Kaffirs take all mealies.”

“You’re a pretty sort of a wife,” thought Dyke, as he caught up his loaded gun from the corner, and wondered that the dog had not stirred.

Just then Tanta Sal touched his arm, pointed to the light, and made a puffing sound with her lips.

“Put it out?” he whispered.

She nodded, and Dyke turned down the wick, so that the place was only lit up by the pale rays of the moon.

“Where are they?” whispered Dyke. “At the wagon?”

“No, not come; Jack come say Tant Sal go ’way to-night ’long o’ Jack. Gone fetch Kaffir, carry mealies. Come.”

She took his arm tightly and led him to the door, which he found ajar, and as soon as they were outside she closed it after them.

“Stop a moment. Let’s have the dog.”

“No: dog make noise, and Jack top. Come.”

The woman led him to the wagon, and mounting on to the box, opened the canvas and crept in silently, while the boy hesitated to follow.

Suppose it was a trap, and Tanta had her husband and two or three men in waiting there.

“Absurd!” he thought the next moment. “Why should they hurt me? They could have robbed the wagon without.”

Mounting then quickly, he felt his arm seized, and he was half drawn into the wagon, where all was black on one side, while the canvas tilt showed faintly in the moonlight on the other.

Dyke was just able to make out that the woman was watching by the canvas, which hung over the front; then she reached back to him.

“Jack say try kill Baas Dyke, but dog come. Kill Baas Dyke some day.”

“That’s nice,” whispered the boy. “What for?”

“Jack tief. Want wagon, want horse, want all.”

“Then it’s war,” said Dyke, “and he shan’t have them.”

“Shoo!” whispered the woman, and she leaned forward with her head half out of the opening. Then turned quickly.

“Jack come, Jack one, Jack one, Jack one.”

“Four of them?” whispered Dyke.

“Oomps. Baas Dyke shoot.”

The boy pressed the triggers as he drew up the cocks of his piece, so that the clicking made was extremely faint, and then stood ready and expectant. But he had not long to wait. For almost directly there was a dull sound as of footsteps; a heavy breathing, and hands tugged at the tightly fastened canvas at the back of the wagon. Then there was a low whispering. Whoever it was passed along to the front of the wagon, and then there was a heavy breathing as the visitors swung themselves up on to the wagon-box, Dyke judging from the sounds that either three or four people had climbed up. Then the canvas was dragged back, and as Dyke pointed his gun, hesitating about firing, and then deciding to shoot overhead to startle the marauders, one crept in.

At that moment there was a whizz and the sound of a tremendous blow, followed by a loud yell of pain and a perfect shower of blows delivered with wonderful rapidity upon the attacking party, who sprang out and fell from the wagon front.

It was all almost momentary, and then Dyke was leaning out through the canvas, and fired twice at random.

“It won’t hit, only frighten them,” he thought; and then he turned cold, for at the second report there was a yell, the sound of a fall, a scuffling noise, and a series of cries almost such as would be uttered by a dog, and growing more and more distant, as the boy listened, feeling convinced that he had shot Duke.

Tanta Sal was of a different opinion.

“Dat Jack,” she said, laughing softly. “Jack tief. No come kill Tant now.”

Dyke was silent for a few moments. He was thinking about what cartridges he had placed in his gun, and remembered that they were Number 6, which he had intended for the guinea-fowl.

“Those wouldn’t kill him,” he muttered, “and he was a long way off.”

“No get mealies now,” said the woman, interrupting the boy’s musings. “Baas Dyke go bed?”

“Stop! suppose they are waiting?” whispered Dyke.

“Wait? What for?” she replied. “No. All run away. No come now.”

She climbed out on to the box and held the canvas aside for Dyke to follow, which he did, and then tied the opening up again, and leaped down to stand listening to the dog’s barking within the house.

“Tant go sleep,” said the woman; and she hurried off, while Dyke opened the door for the dog to bound out growling, and ready to rush off at a word, but Dyke called him in and shut the door, fastening it now; the fact of the dog sleeping inside being, he thought, sufficient protection—the coming of the woman not being noticed by Duke, who, of course, set her down as a friend.

But Dyke did not lie down for some time after assuring himself that the noise had not roused his brother from his heavy sleep. The boy was uneasy about the woman. She had told him that Jack had threatened to kill her. Suppose he came back now with his companions to take revenge upon her for betraying their plans.

“She wouldn’t know,” he said to himself, after carefully weighing the matter over in his mind, to decide that they would be afraid to come again after such a reception.

So, concluding at last that the woman would be quite safe, Dyke reloaded his gun, placed it ready, and lay down once more, conscious of the fact now that the dog was awake and watchful.

Five minutes after he was asleep, and did not wake till the Kaffir woman came and tapped at the door, to show him, with a look of triumph, four assegais left behind by the visitors of the past night.

“Dat Jack,” she said, holding up one. “Dose oder fellow.”

“Will they come for them?”

“No. Jack no come again. Get other wife. Tant Sal don’t want any more.”

Chapter Twenty Seven.

Oom startles his Friends.

The days glided peacefully by, with Dyke kept busy enough supplying the larder, especially for his brother’s benefit, and under his treatment the poor fellow grew better.

But so slowly; and he was the mere ghost of his former self when he began to crawl out of the house by the help of a stick, to sit in the shade and watch Dyke as he was busy about the place.

There was very little to vary the monotony of their life. A lion came one night, but did not molest horse or bullock. They had visits, too, from the jackals, but Tanta Sal was right—Jack came no more, and they saw nothing of the Kaffirs who had been his companions, though Dyke found a rough hut and traces of a fire in the patch of forest close to where he went to shoot the guinea-fowl, showing that he must often have been pretty near the Kaffirs’ hiding-place.

In fact, Jack had had a very severe peppering, and felt not the slightest inclination to risk receiving another.

The subject of giving up Kopfontein was often discussed, but even if it were done, it seemed evident that many months must elapse before Emson would be fit to travel; so the subject was talked of less often, though one thing was evident both to Dyke and his brother—their scheme of ostrich-farming had completely broken down, and unless a bold attempt were made to start afresh, they would gradually become poorer and poorer, for alone, all Dyke’s efforts to collect valuable skins were disposed to be rather unfruitful, try hard as he would.

Months had passed, and they had had no more black visitors, but one day Tanta Sal rushed into the house where the brothers were seated at dinner, with such a look of excitement upon her features, that Dyke sprang up, seized one of the guns and handed another to his brother, who stood up, looking weak, but determined to help if danger were at hand.

But Tanta gesticulated, pushed the guns away, and signed to Dyke to follow.

The cause of the woman’s excitement was evident directly, for there, a mile away, was a wagon drawn by a long team of oxen, and it was evident that they were to have visitors at the farm.

“Some poor wretch going up in the wilds to seek his fortune,” said Emson rather sadly. “I wish him better luck than ours, young un.”

“Oh, I say, Joe, don’t talk in that doleful way,” cried Dyke excitedly. “This is so jolly. It’s like being Robinson Crusoe and seeing a sail. Here, wait while I fetch the glass.”

Dyke returned the next minute with his hands trembling so that he could hardly focus and steady the “optic tube.” Then he shouted in his excitement, and handed the telescope to his brother.

“Why, it’s that fat old Dutchman, Morgenstern! Who’d have thought of seeing him?”

Sure enough it was the old trader, seated like the Great Mogul in the old woodcuts. He was upon the wagon-box, holding up an enormously long whip, and two black servants were with him—one at the head of the long team of twelve oxen, the other about the middle of the double line of six, as the heavy wagon came slowly along, the bullocks seeming to crawl.

“I am glad,” cried Dyke. “I say, Joe, see his great whip? He looked in the glass as if he were fishing.”

“Tant make fine big cake—kettle boil—biltong tea?” asked the Kaffir woman hospitably.

“Yes,” said Emson quietly. “But,” he continued, as Tanta Sal ran off to the back of the house, “it may not be Morgenstern, young un. Fat Germans look very much alike.”

“Oh, but I feel sure this is the old chap.—I say, what’s the German for fat old man?”

“I don’t know. My German has grown rusty out here. Dicker alte Mann, perhaps. Why?”

“Because I mean to call him that. He always called me booby.”

“No, bube:—boy,” said Emson, smiling.

They stood watching the wagon creeping nearer and nearer for a minute or two, Dyke longing to run to meet the visitors; but he suddenly recalled the orderly look at Morgenstern’s, and rushed back into the house to try to make their rough board a little more presentable; and he was still in the midst of this task, when, with a good deal of shouting from the Kaffir servants, and sundry loud cracks of the great whip, the wagon, creaking and groaning, stopped at the fence in front of the house, and the old German shouted:

“Ach! mein goot vrient Emzon, how you vas to-day? Vere is der bube?”

“Dicker alte Mann!” said Dyke between his teeth, and hurriedly brushing away some crumbs, and throwing a skin over the chest in which various odds and ends were kept, he listened to the big bluff voice outside as Morgenstern descended.

“It is goot to shack hant mit an Englander. Bood you look tin, mein vrient. You haf been down mit dem vever?”

“Yes, I’ve been very ill.”

“That is nod goot. Bood you ged besser now. Ach, here is der poy! Ach! mein goot liddle bube, ant how you vas?”

Dyke’s hands were seized, and to his horror the visitor hugged him to his broad chest, and kissed him loudly on each cheek.

“Oh, I’m quite well,” said Dyke rather ungraciously, as soon as he could get free.

“Ov goorse you vas. Grade, pig, oogly, shtrong poy. I am clad to zee you again. You did got home guite zave?”

“Eh? Oh yes. But that’s ever so long ago.”

“Zo? Ach! I haf been zo busy as neffer vas. Now you led mein two poys outspan, eh?”

“Of course,” said Emson warmly.—“Show them where the best pasture is, toward the water, Dyke.—Come in, Herr. You look hot and tired.”

“Ja, zo. I am sehr hot, and you give me zomeden to drink. I haf zom peaudivul dea in dem vagons. I give you zom to make.”

An hour later, with the visitor and his men refreshed, Morgenstern smiled at Dyke, and winked both his eyes. “You know vad I vants?” he said.

“Yes; your pipe.”

“Ja, I wand mein bibe. You gom mit me do god mein bibe und mein dobacco din; und den I light oop, und shmoke und dalk do you, und you go all round, und zhow me den ostridge-bird varm.”

They all went out together, the visitor noticing everything; and laying his hand upon Emson’s shoulder, he said: “You muss god besser, mein vrient. You are nod enough dick—doo tin.”

“Oh, I’m mending fast,” said Emson hastily, and then they stopped by the wagon, with Morgenstern’s eyes twinkling as he turned to Dyke.

“You haf been zo goot,” he said; “you make me ead und trinken zo mooch, dat I gannod shoomp indo den vagon. I am zo dick. Good! You shoomp in, and get me mein bibe und dobacco din.”

Dyke showed him that he could; fetched it out, and after the old man had filled, lit up, and begun to form smoke-clouds, he said: “You dake me now do see if mein pullocks and my poys is ead und trink.”

“Oh, they’re all right,” cried Dyke.

“Ja. Bood I always like do zee for meinzelf. Zom beobles ist nod as goot as you vas, mein vrient. A good draveller ist kind do his beast und his plack poy.”

The visitor was soon satisfied, for he was taken round to where Tanta Sal was smiling at her two guests, who, after making a tremendous meal, had lain down and gone to sleep, while the oxen could be seen at a distance contentedly grazing in a patch of rich grass.

“You haf no lions apout here,” said the old man, “to gom und shdeal mein gattle?—Ah, vot ist das?” he cried, turning pale as he heard a peculiar noise from somewhere close at hand. Quigg! “You ged der goon und shoot, or der lion gom und preak von of der oxen’s pack.”

“It’s all right,” cried Dyke, laughing. “Come and look here.”

The old man looked rather wild and strange, for, as Dyke threw open a rough door in the side of one of the sheds, the two lion cubs, now growing fast towards the size of a retriever dog, came bounding out.

“Ach! shdop. Do not led them ead der poor alter pecause he is zo nice und vat. Eh, dey will not hurt me?”

“No!” cried Dyke; “look here: they are as tame and playful as kittens.”

Dyke proved it by dropping on his knees and rolling the clumsy, heavy cubs over, letting them charge him and roll him over in turn.

“Ach! id is vonterful,” said the old man, wiping the perspiration from his face. “I did tought dey vas go to eat den alt man. You make dem dame like dot mit dem jambok.”

“With a whip? No,” cried Dyke; “with kindness. Look here: pat them and pull their ears. They never try to bite. You should see them play about with the dog.”

“Boor liddle vellows den,” said the old man, putting out his hand nervously. “Ach, no; id is doo bat, you liddle lion. Vot you mean py schmell me all over? I am nod for you do ead.”

Dyke laughed, for the cubs turned away and sneezed. They did not approve of the tobacco.

“There, come along,” he cried; and the cubs bounded to him. “I’ll shut them up for fear they should frighten your oxen.”

“Das is goot,” said the old man with a sigh of satisfaction, as he saw the door closed upon the two great playful cats. “Bood you zhall mind, or zom day I zhall gom ant zee you, but vind you are not ad home, vor die young lion haf grow pig und ead you all oop.”

“Yes,” said Emson; “we shall have to get rid of them before very long. They may grow dangerous some day.”

“Ach! I dell you vot, mein vrient Emzon, I puy dose lion ov you, or you led me shell dem, to go do Angland or do Sharmany.”

“Do you think you could?”

“Do I dink I good? Ja, I do drade in effery dings. I gom now to puy iffory und vedders. You shell me all you vedders, und I gif you good brice.”

“I have a very poor lot, Morgenstern, but I’ll sell them to you. Dyke and I have done very badly.”

“Zo? Bood you will zell do me. I zaid do myself I vould go und zee mein vrient Emzon und den bube. He zay I am honest man.—You droost me?”

“Of course,” said Emson frankly. “I know you for what you are, Morgenstern.”

The old man lowered his pipe, and held out his fat hand.

“I dank you, Herr Emzon,” he said, shaking his host’s hand warmly. “Id is goot do veel dot von has a vrient oud here in der desert land. Bood I am gonzern apout you, mein vrient. You haf peen very pad. You do look sehr krank; unt you zay you haf tone padly. I am moch gonzern.”

“We’ve been very unlucky,” said Emson, as the old man seated himself upon a block of granite, close to one of the ostrich-pens, while an old cock bird reached over and began inspecting his straw-hat.

“Zo I am zorry. Bood vy do you not dry somedings else? Hund vor skins or vor iffory? I puy dem all. Und not dry do keep den ostridge-bird in dem gage, bood go und zhoot him, und zell die vedders do me. Or der is anodder dings. Hi! You bube: did you dell den bruders apout den diamonts?”

“Oh yes, I told him,” said Dyke sadly; “but he has been so ill. I thought once he was going to die.”

“Zo! Den tunder! what vor you no gom und vetch me und mine old vomans? Die frau gom und vrighten avay das vevers. She is vonterful old vomans. She make you like to be ill.”

“I was all alone, and couldn’t leave him,” said Dyke. “I was afraid he would die if I did.”

“Ja, zo. You vas quite right, mein young vrient Van Dyke. You are a goot poy, unt I loaf you. Zhake mein hant.”

The process was gone through, Dyke shrinking a little for fear he would be kissed.

“Und zo die pirts do nod get on?” said Morgenstern after a pause, during which he sat smoking.

“No, in spite of all our care,” said Emson.

“Ach! vot ist das?” cried the old man, looking sharply round, as his hat was snatched off by the long-necked bird which had been inspecting it. “You vill gif dot pack to me, shdupit. Id ist nod goot do eat, und I am sure id vould not vid your shdupid liddle het.—Dank you, bube,” he continued, as Duke rescued and returned the hat. “Eh? you dink it goot. Vell, it vas a goot hat; bud you go avay und schvallow shdones, und make vedders for me to puy. Ach! dey are vonny pirts, Van Dyke. Und zo dey all go die?”

“We lost a great many through the Kaffir boy we had,” said Dyke, as they walked slowly back to the house.

“Zo? He did not give them do eat?”

“We saw that the birds had enough to eat,” said Dyke; “but he used to knock their heads with a stone.”

“Zo? Dot vas nod goot. Shdones are goot for die pirts to schvallow, bud nod for outside den het. I dink, mein younger vrient, I should haf knog dot shentleman’s het outside mit a shdone, und zay do him, ‘You go avay, und neffer gom here again, or I zhall bepper your black shkin mid small shot.’”

“That’s what Dyke did do,” said Emson, smiling.

“Zo? Ach! he is a vine poy.”

“Hah!” sighed the old man as he sank upon a stool in the house. “Now I zhall shmoke mein bibe, und den go do mein wagon und haf a big long schleep, vor I am dire.”

He refilled his pipe, and smoked in silence for a few minutes, and then said thoughtfully:

“Emzon, mein vrient, I am zorry to zee you veak und krank, und I am zorry do zee your varm, und I should not be a goot vrient if I did not dell you die truth.”

“Of course not,” said Emson; and Dyke listened.

“All dese has been a misdake. You dake goot advice, mein vrient. You led die long-legged pirts roon vere dey like, und you go ant look for diamonts.”

Emson shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I am no diamond hunter. It would not be fair for my brother, either. I have made up my mind what to do. I am weak and ill, and I shall clear off and go back home.”

“Nein, nein. Dot is pecause you are krank. Bube, you make your bruder quite vell und dry again. Dot is der vay. You shall nod go home to your alt beobles und say, ‘Ve are gom pack like die pad shillings. No goot ad all.’”

“That’s what I say,” cried Dyke eagerly. “I want to hunt for diamonds, and collect feathers, and skins, and ivory.”

“Goot! Und gom und shell all to alt Oom Morgenstern.”

“Yes,” cried Dyke. “I say: help me to make my brother think as I do.”

“Of goorse I will, bube; I know,” said the old man, winking his eyes. “It ist pecause he has got das vevers in his pones; bud I haf in mein wagon zix boddles of vizzick to vrighten avay all dot. I zhall give him all die boddles, und I shall bud indo each zom quinines. Id ist pord wein, und he vill dake two glass, effery day, und fery zoon he vill laugh ad dem vevers und zay: ‘Hi! Van Dyke, get on your horse and go mit me to get iffory, und vedders, und skins, und diamonts, till we haf got a load, und den we vill go und shell dem to alt Oom Morgenstern—do dem alt ooncle, as you gall him.’—Vot haf you got dere, bube?”

“Two or three of the ostrich skulls that I found with the marks made in them by the Kaffir with a stone,” said Dyke, who had just been and opened the door of his case of curiosities.

“Zo!” said the old man. “Ah, und negs time you see dot Kaffir poy you make zome blace like dot upon der dop of his het. Und vot else have you there?—any dings to zell me?”

“Oh no; only a few curiosities I picked up. Look! I took these all out of the gizzard of an old cock ostrich we were obliged to kill, because he broke his leg.”

Dyke handed a rough little wooden bowl to the old man.

“Ach! Mein cracious!” he cried.

“You wouldn’t have thought it. And here’s a great piece of rusty iron that he had swallowed too; I picked it out when I had lost a knife, and thought he had swallowed it.”

“Mein cracious!” cried the old man again, and he let his pipe fall and break on the rough table.

Dyke laughed as the visitor turned over the stones and the bit of rusty iron.

“One would have thought it would kill them to swallow things like that, but they’re rare birds, Herr Morgenstern; they’ll try and swallow anything, even straw-hats.”

“Mein cracious, yes!” cried the old man again. “Und so, bube, you did vind all dose—dose dings in dem gizzard ov dot pirt?”

“Yes, all of them. I’ve got another bowlful that I picked up myself. There are a good many about here.”

“You vill let me loog ad dem, mein younger vrient?”

“Of course,” said Dyke, and he fetched from the case another rough little bowl that he had obtained from one of the Kaffirs.

There were about ten times as many of the stones, and with them pieces of quartz, shining with metallic traces, and some curious seeds.

Morgenstern turned them over again and again, and glanced at Emson, who looked low-spirited and dejected.

“Ach, zo! Mein cracious!” cried the old man; then, with his voice trembling: “Und zo there are blendy of dose shdones apout here?”

“Yes; I’ve often seen the ostriches pick them up and swallow them. I suppose it’s because they are bright.”

“Yes, I suppose it ist pecause they are zo bright,” said the old man, pouring out a handful of the stones into his hand, and reverently pouring them back into the rough wooden bowl. Then rising, he shook hands silently with Dyke.

“Going to bed?”

“No, mein younger vrient, nod yed. I haf somedings to zay to your bruder,” and turning to Emson, who rose to say good-night to him, he took both his hands in his own, and pumped them up and down.

“Yoseph Emzon,” he said, in a deeply moved voice, “I like you when you virst game into dese barts, und I zay dot man is a shentleman; I loaf him, unt den bube, his bruder. Now I gom here und vind you ill, my heart ist zore. I remember, doo, you zay I vas honest man, ant I dank den Lord I am, und dot I feel dot I am, und can say do you, mein young vrient, zom beobles who know what I know now would sheat und rob you, but I vould not. I vont zom days to die, und go ver der Lord vill say, ‘Vell done, goot und vaithful zervant.’ Yoseph Emzon, I am honest man, und I zay do you, all your droubles are over. You haf been zick, but you vill zoon be quide vell und shdrong, vor you vill not haf das sore heart, und de droubles which make do hair drop out of your het.”

“Thank you, Morgenstern. I hope I shall soon be well enough to go,” said Emson, sadly.

“Bood you vill not go, mein vrient,” cried the old man. “You vill not leave here—mein cracious, no! You vill shdop und get all die ostridge you gan, und shend dem out effery day to big oop zom shdones, und den you vill dig oop der earth vor die pirts to vind more shdones, und when dey haf shvallowed all dey gan, you und der bube here vill kill dem, und empty die gizzards into die powls of water to vash dem.”

“No, no, no: what nonsense!” cried Emson, while Dyke suddenly dashed to the table, seized one bowl, looked at its contents, and banged them down again.

“Hurray!” he yelled. “Oh! Herr Morgenstern, is it real?” For like a light shot from one of the crystals, he saw the truth.

“Nonsense, Yoseph Emzon?” cried the old man. “Id is drue wisdom, as goot as der great Zolomon’s. Yoseph Emzon, I gongradulade you. You haf had a hart shdruggle, but it is ofer now. Die ostridge pirts haf made you a ferry rich man, und I know dot it is right, for you vill always do goot.”

“But—but—do I understand? Are those—those—”

“Yes, Joe,” roared Dyke, springing at his brother. “There is no more room for despair now, old chap, for you are rich; and to think we never thought of it being so when you were so unhappy, and—and—Oh, I can’t speak now. I don’t care for them—only for the good they’ll do to you, for they’re diamonds, Joe, and there’s plenty more diamonds, and all your own.”

“Yes, und pig vons, too,” said the old trader, with a look of triumph; “und now I must haf somedings to trink. I haf dalk so much, I veel as I shall shoke. Here, bube, you go und shoomp indo dem vagon, und bring one of die plack poddles out of mein box py vere I shleep. Id is der bruder’s vizzick, bud ve vill trink a trop to-night do gongradulade him, und you dwo shall trink do der health of dis honesd alt manns.”

The bottle of port was fetched, a portion carefully medicated with quinine, and Morgenstern handed it to the invalid.

“Mein vrient,” he said, “das is wein dot maketh glad das heart of man. I trink do your goot health.”

A few minutes later the old trader said softly:

“I go now to say mein brayer und get mein schleep. Goot-night, mein vrients, und Gott pless you both.”

It was about an hour later, when the faint yelping of the jackals was heard in the distance, that Emson said softly:

“Asleep, young un?”

“No, Joe; I can’t get off nohow. I say, am I dreaming, or is all this true?”

“It is true, lad, quite true; and I suppose that you and I are going to be rich men.”

“Rich man and boy, Joe. I say: are you pleased?”

“More thankful than pleased, Dyke, for now, when we like, we can start for home.”

“Without feeling shamefaced and beaten, eh, Joe? Then I am glad. I didn’t quite know before, but I do know now; and we can make the old people at home happy, too, Joe.”

“As far as money can make them so, little un.”

“Hullo!” cried Dyke; “you are a bit happy after all, Joe.”

“What makes you say that?”

“You called me ‘little un’ just in your old way, and I can feel that, with all the worry and disappointment gone now, you’ll be able to get well.”

Emson was silent for a few minutes, and then he said softly:

“Yes: I feel as if I can get better now; not that I care for the riches for riches’ sake, Dyke, but because— Are you listening, little un?”

Dyke was fast asleep, and a few minutes later Emson was sleeping too, and dreaming of faces at home in the old country welcoming him back, not for the sake of the wealth he brought, but because he was once more a hale, strong man.