As the bullet cut into the water Crouch sprang upright in the canoe. His thin form trembled with eagerness. The man was like a cat, inasmuch as he was charged with electricity. Under his great pith helmet the few hairs which he possessed stood upright on his head. Edward Harden leaned forward and picked up his rifle, which he now held at the ready.

By reason of the fact that the river had suddenly widened into a kind of miniature lake, the current was not so swift. Hence, though M'WanÉ and his Fans ceased to paddle, the canoe shot onward by dint of the velocity at which they had been travelling. Every moment brought them nearer and nearer to the danger that lay ahead.

In order to relate what followed, it is necessary to describe the scene. We have said that the wild, impenetrable jungle had ceased abruptly, and they found themselves surrounded by granite hills, in the centre of which lay a plain of glaring sand. To their left, about a hundred paces from the edge of the river, was a circular stockade. A fence had been constructed of sharp-pointed stakes, each about eight feet in height. There was but a single entrance into this stockade--a narrow gate, not more than three feet across, which faced the river. Up-stream, to the south, the granite hills closed in from either bank, so that the river flowed through a gorge which at this distance seemed particularly precipitous and narrow. Midway between the stockade and the gorge was a kraal, or large native village, surrounded by a palisade. Within the palisade could be seen the roofs of several native huts, and at the entrance, seated cross-legged on the ground, was the white figure of an Arab who wore the turban and flowing robes by which his race is distinguished, from the deserts of Bokhara to the Gold Coast. Before the stockade, standing at the water's edge, was the figure of a European dressed in a white duck suit. He was a tall, thin man with a black, pointed beard, and a large sombrero hat. Between his lips was a cigarette, and in his hands he held a rifle, from the muzzle of which was issuing a thin trail of smoke.

As the canoe approached, this man grew vastly excited, and stepped into the river, until the water had risen to his knees. There, he again lifted his rifle to his shoulder.

"Put that down!" cried Crouch. "You're a dead man if you fire."

The man obeyed reluctantly, and at that moment a second European came running from the entrance of the stockade. He was a little man, of about the same build as Crouch, but very round in the back, and with a complexion so yellow that he might have been a Chinese.

The man with the beard seemed very agitated. He gesticulated wildly, and, holding his rifle in his left hand, pointed down-stream with his right. He was by no means easy to understand, since his pronunciation of English was faulty, and he never troubled to take his cigarette from between his lips.

"Get back!" he cried. "Go back again! You have no business here."

"Why not?" asked Crouch.

"Because this river is mine."

"By what right?"

"By right of conquest. I refuse to allow you to land."

The canoe was now only a few yards from the bank. The second man--the small man with the yellow face--turned and ran back into the stockade, evidently to fetch his rifle.

"I'm afraid," said Crouch, "with your permission or without, we intend to come ashore."

Again the butt of the man's rifle flew to his shoulder.

"Another yard," said he, "and I shoot you dead."

He closed an eye, and took careful aim. His sights were directed straight at Crouch's heart. At that range--even had he been the worst shot in the world--he could scarcely have missed.

Crouch was never seen to move. With his face screwed, and his great chin thrust forward, his only eye fixed in the midst of the black beard of the man who dared him to approach, he looked a very figure of defiance.

The crack of a rifle--a loud shout--and then a peal of laughter. Crouch had thrown back his head and was laughing as a school-boy does, with one hand thrust in a trousers pocket. Edward Harden, seated in the stern seat, with elbows upon his knees, held his rifle to his shoulder, and from the muzzle a little puff of smoke was rising in the air. It was the man with the black beard who had let out the shout, in anger and surprise. The cigarette had been cut away from between his lips, and Harden's bullet had struck the butt of his rifle, to send it flying from his hands into the water. He stood there, knee-deep in the river, passionate, foiled and disarmed. It was Edward Harden's quiet voice that now came to his ears.

"Hands up!" said he.

Slowly, with his black eyes ablaze, the man lifted his arms above his head. A moment later, Crouch had sprung ashore.

The little sea-captain hastened to the entrance of the stockade, and, as he reached it, the second man came running out, with a rifle in his hands. He was running so quickly that he was unable to check himself, and, almost before he knew it, his rifle had been taken from him. He pulled up with a jerk, and, turning, looked into the face of Captain Crouch.

"I must introduce myself," said the captain. "My name's Crouch. Maybe you've heard of me?"

The man nodded his head. It appears he had not yet sufficiently recovered from his surprise to be able to speak.

"By Christopher!" cried Crouch, on a sudden. "I know you! We've met before--five years ago in St. Paul de Loanda. You're a half-caste Portuguese, of the name of de Costa, who had a trade-station at the mouth of the Ogowe. So you remember me?"

The little yellow man puckered up his face and bowed.

"I think," said he, with an almost perfect English accent--"I think one's knowledge of the Coast would be very limited, if one had never heard of Captain Crouch."

Crouch placed his hand upon his heart and made a mimic bow.

"May I return the compliment?" said he. "I've heard men speak of de Costa from Sierra Leone to Walfish Bay, and never once have I heard anything said that was good."

At that the half-caste caught his under-lip in his teeth, and shot Crouch a glance in which was fear, mistrust and anger. The sea-captain did not appear to notice it, for he went on in the easiest manner in the world.

"And who's your friend?" he asked, indicating the tall man with the black beard, who was now approaching with Edward Harden and Max.

"My friend," said he, "is a countryman of mine, a Portuguese, who has assumed the name of CÆsar." The half-caste had evidently not forgotten the insult which Crouch had hurled in his teeth; for now his demeanour changed, and he laughed. "If Captain Crouch finds it necessary to meddle in our affairs," said he, "I think he will find his equal in Mister CÆsar."

Crouch paid no more attention to him than he would have done to a mosquito; and before the man had finished speaking, he had turned his back upon him, and held out a hand to the Portuguese.

"I trust," said he, "you've expressed your gratitude to Ted Harden, who, instead of taking your life, preferred to extinguish your cigarette."

"I have already done so," said CÆsar, with a smile. "I hope to explain matters later. The mistake was natural enough."

Crouch, with his one eye, looked this man through and through. He had been able to sum up the half-caste at a glance. CÆsar was a personality that could not be fathomed in an instant.

The man was not unhandsome. His figure, in spite of its extreme height and thinness, was exceedingly graceful. The hair of his moustache and beard, and as much as was visible beneath the broad-brimmed sombrero hat, was coal-black, and untouched with grey. His features were aquiline and large. He bore some slight resemblance to the well-known figure of Don Quixote, except that he was more robust. The most remarkable thing about him was his jet-black, piercing eyes. If there was ever such a thing as cruelty, it was there. When he smiled, as he did now, his face was even pleasant: there was a wealth of wrinkles round his eyes.

"It was a natural and unavoidable mistake," said he. "I have been established here for two years. You and your friends are, perhaps, sufficiently acquainted with the rivers to know that one must be always on one's guard."

Unlike de Costa, he spoke English with a strong accent, which it would be extremely difficult to reproduce. For all that, he had a good command of words.

"And now," he went on, "I must offer you such hospitality as I can. I notice the men in your canoes are Fans. I must confess I have never found the Fan a good worker. He is too independent. They are all prodigal sons."

"I like the Fan," said Edward.

"Each man to his taste," said CÆsar. "In the kraal yonder," he continued, pointing to the village, "I have about two hundred boys. For the most part, they belong to the Pambala tribe. As you may know, the Pambala are the sworn enemies of the Fans. You are welcome to stay with me as long as you like, but I must request that your Fans be ordered to remain within the stockade. Will you be so good as to tell them to disembark?"

"As you wish," said Edward.

At Crouch's request, Max went back to the canoe, and returned with M'WanÉ and the four Fans. Not until they had been joined by the natives did CÆsar lead the way into the stockade.

They found themselves in what, to all intents and purposes, was a fort. Outside the walls of the stockade was a ditch, and within was a banquette, or raised platform, from which it was possible for men to fire standing. In the centre of the enclosure were three or four huts--well-constructed buildings for the heart of Africa, and considerably higher than the ordinary native dwelling-place. Before the largest hut was a flag-staff, upon which a large yellow flag was unfurled in the slight breeze that came from the north.

It was into this hut that they were conducted by the Portuguese. As the Englishman entered, a large dog, which had been lying upon the floor, got up and growled, but lay down again on a word from CÆsar. The interior of the hut consisted of a single room, furnished with a bed, a table and several chairs, all of which had been constructed of wood cut in the forest. As there were only four chairs, the half-caste, de Costa, seated himself on a large chest, with three heavy padlocks, which stood against the wall farthest from the door.

CÆsar crossed to a kind of sideboard, made of packing-cases, whence he produced glasses and a bottle of whisky. He then drew a jug of water from a large filter. These he placed upon the table. He requested his guests to smoke, and passed round his cigarette-case. His manner, and the ease with which he played the host, suggested a man of breeding. Both Edward Harden and his nephew accepted cigarettes, but Crouch filled his pipe, and presently the hut was reeking, like an ill-trimmed lamp, of his atrocious "Bull's Eye Shag."

"I owe you an apology," said CÆsar; "an apology and an explanation. You shall have both. But, in the first place, I would like to hear how it was that you came to discover this river?"

It was Edward Harden who answered.

"We were shooting big game on the Kasai," said he, "when we heard mention of the 'Hidden River.'"

"Who spoke of it?" said CÆsar. His dark eyes were seen to flash in the half-light in the hut.

"A party of Fans," said Edward, "with whom we came in contact. We persuaded them to carry our canoe across country. We embarked upon the river three days ago, and paddled up-stream until this afternoon, when we sighted your camp, and nearly came to blows. That's all."

CÆsar leaned forward, with his arms folded on the table, bringing his dark face to within a few inches of the cigarette which Edward held in his lips.

"Were you told anything," said he, in a slow, deliberate voice; "were you told anything--of us?"

Edward Harden, being a man of six foot several inches, was one who was guileless in his nature. He was about to say that the Fans had spoken of the "Fire-gods," when an extraordinary occurrence came to pass.

Crouch sprang to his feet with a yell, and placing one foot upon the seat of the chair upon which he had been sitting, pulled up his trousers to the knee. In his hand he held a knife. All sprang to their feet.

"What is it?" they demanded, in one and the same breath.

"A snake," said Crouch. "I'm bitten in the leg."