Kitabı oku: «The Ruined Cities of Zululand», sayfa 10

The Auto Da Fé

With the dark smile on his face, and triumph beaming from his sinister-looking eyes, Umhleswa had left the hut. Koomalayoo, its owner, was busy hounding on the too willing savages to kill his supposed rival, for it was by using the suggestion that he and his familiar had come among them to take the sorcerer’s place in the tribe that the cunning chief had secured Koomalayoo’s co-operation. Masheesh now entered, his first impulse being to pass his sharp knife over the palmyra rope which yet bound the white men’s hands as he did so.

Their first emotion over, the two exchanged a hearty shake of the hand, looking into each other’s eyes, the soldier speaking first.

“The black scoundrel,” at last said Hughes, drawing a deep breath, and shaking himself like a dog. “Wyzinski, we must save poor Luji. Speak to Masheesh—will you?”

Turning to the Matabele, the missionary spoke long and earnestly; but the chief kept a dogged silence, shaking his head from time to time, then looking up into the speaker’s face.

“The Amatonga must have blood,” he said, slowly. “Shall it be the white man’s? Masheesh can do nothing.”

“Will the chief try?” asked Wyzinski; but again he was met by the slow shake of the head, which told more than words could convey the hopelessness of the case.

“But if you will not, at all events we will,” said the missionary. “It is a terrible thing to push superstition to such a point.”

“Does the white chief disbelieve in the charm cast on the dead Amatonga?” asked Masheesh, as though such disbelief were monstrous.

“Can the Matabele warrior assert it as his own faith? Is he credulous, like an Amatonga?” asked Wyzinski in reply.

“How does the white man account for Sgalam’s death?”

“The chief Umhleswa knows the use and the value of the English rifle; he sees the great power it would give him and his tribe. By our death he would have gained nothing, save two or three rifles. No white traders would have come near him, and his end and aim would have been frustrated.”

“Mozelkatse’s vengeance would have found him out,” interpolated the Matabele.

“True; but Sgalam took another view of the matter, and threatened the anger of the chief of Manica. Hence the midnight meeting in our hut, and the death of Sgalam, hence the decision of the sorcerer Koomalayoo and Luji’s persecution. Some one killed Sgalam, and some one must answer for it.”

“So the white chief thinks Umhleswa cast the spell?”

“No, Matabele, no,” answered the missionary, “it was a potent poison which did the work; and Umhleswa had everything to gain by the death, Luji had nothing.”

Masheesh turned away incredulous, not even taking the trouble to reply.

“It will be impossible, I fear, to save the poor fellow; but we must make the effort, Hughes. You see even this man, belonging to a tribe far superior in education to these Amatongas, perfectly believes that Luji by sorcery caused the chief’s death.”

“Let us try, at least,” replied Hughes, as both took their way to the entrance of the hut.

All had been comparatively quiet, since the Amatonga chief had left the place, a council having been held outside to determine on the best mode of punishing the Hottentot sorcerer. The sun was shining brightly, and a light breeze waving the branches of a group of mashunga trees, under which the men of the tribe had assembled. Umhleswa had been speaking rapidly, and doubtless eloquently, to the circle of braves around him. Near by, stood the unfortunate Hottentot, closely guarded, and if it had not been a pitiful, it would have been a laughable sight, for, tied in his usual position, on the prisoner’s shoulders, sat the baboon. Naturally ugly, the brute was rendered still more so from the effects of the gunpowder explosion, which had scorched its skin, and there it sat, peeping from side to side of Luji’s head, moaning, grimacing, stroking the Hottentot’s face, and showing his teeth to all who came near. The large tears were streaming down the captive’s cheeks, mixing with the blood and dirt with which they were begrimed.

The chief concluded his speech just as the two white men emerged into the open air, pointing as he did so to the crouching captive, and the whole band started up, shouting and yelling, to dash past Luji into the bush. One loud scream of anguish burst from the man’s chest, for he had heard his fate, and knew that it was death by fire.

Rudely thrust back by the men who had been left to guard them, Wyzinski and the soldier were powerless, but felt their blood boil within them as they noted the preparations made. The savages seemed to be holding high festival in the bush and in the tall, parched-up reeds, and then one after another appeared bearing bundles of branches and inflammable grass, throwing them down only to return for more, and thus, laughing, singing, and yelling, they collected a large pile.

A mass of bare, splintered rock rose in the plain, and towards this Umhleswa and his subordinate chiefs took their way, while several of the half-maddened savages laid hold of the Hottentot, the rest dancing wildly around him. Shriek after shriek rose from the captive as he resisted, and the points of the assegais, urging him on in rear, drew blood, the baboon nearly strangling him in his fearful efforts to escape.

Turning, the poor fellow caught sight of his late masters, and as he held out his fettered hands, they marked the big tears of agony rolling down his yellow-black cheeks.

Again Hughes made an effort to escape.

“By heavens, they are going to kill Luji! Oh! for my rifle. At all events he shall not go alone,” he shouted, as he dashed from the entrance of the hut, and was rudely repulsed by the Amatonga guard.

Wyzinski’s eyes were closed, and his thin, finely-cut lips moving as if in prayer. It was, indeed, a terrible sight.

Two strong stakes had been driven into the ground against the smooth face of the rock, and the prisoner was now bound firmly to them, in the fashion of a spread eagle, while all round, in a semicircle, were piled heaps of dried reeds, branches, and grass, near enough to roast the man gradually, but not to burn at once, poor Luji’s shrieks for mercy ringing out even above the joyous yells of the Amatongas. Two of the tribe were engaged in procuring a light by rubbing together pieces of dry wood, while leaning on his assegai, lazily contemplating the whole with an air of great satisfaction, stood Umhleswa, showing his filed teeth and grinning with delight. “And these are the men I thought so gentle, whom I believed incapable of bloodshed. Fiend, scoundrel, Umhleswa,” shouted Hughes, in his excitement, once more rushing on the guards at the entrance, and being again roughly thrown back.

The missionary still prayed.

A bright, red glare shot up in the sunshine, as the air, heavily laden with the sweet scent of the mashunga and the acacia trees, fanned the burning branches; a cry of human agony and terror, mixed with loud yells of vengeance and of delight, rang out. Shriek after shriek followed, as the poor wretch felt the increasing heat, and the flame burned fiercer and more fiercely, while the horrible baboon, in his terror, dug his sharp nails into the Hottentot’s face, the blood streaming, and the Amatongas fairly screaming with laughter.

More and more intense grew the fire, and, as the scorching heat became unendurable, the agony experienced by the baboon increased in intensity. This he revenged on the unfortunate man. The Amatongas seemed to revel in the horrible scene, as they filled the pure, afternoon air with their laughter. Throwing fresh wood on the blaze, they made the fire leap and roar, while they dashed sharp pieces of rock at the captive, cutting and bruising his flesh, but avoiding death, as, blinded with his own blood, and one eye torn from its socket by the mad efforts of the baboon, the unfortunate Hottentot now moaned feebly. Umhleswa stood by watching the scene, as he leaned on his long assegai, the ostrich feather floating over his head, and the panther skin round his waist, from time to time urging his men to further cruelties, or stirring the fire with the spearhead.

Fearfully excited, and unable longer to bear the sickening spectacle, the white men in desperation and rage threw themselves on the guard, and a fierce hand-to-hand struggle ensued. Not wishing to use their arms, and less powerful than they, it required all the superiority of their numbers to resist the shock, for they both fought like madmen, with hand and foot, only at last to be cast back, stunned and bleeding, into the hut.

Louder and louder grew the shrieks outside, madder and madder the dance, round the death-fire. The blaze had died away, and over the embers dashed the Amatongas, using their long knives, cutting strips out of the quivering flesh, but craftily avoiding vital parts, they threw them in the fire. The baboon was dead. A lump of rock had dashed out his brains, which were bespattered over the half-roasted Hottentot’s face and breast, the shattered head and ungainly body dangling about a ghastly sight. The man himself hardly presented a vestige of the human form. One eye hanging out, his limbs smashed by the lumps of rock hurled at him, the blood pouring from his many wounds, and a long, feeble, continuous moaning coming from his fire-blistered lips. And now a fresh batch of reeds and boughs were thrown on the flagging fire, this time within the former circle. The breeze, laden with the perfume of the mashunga, fanned it into flame, and it leaped up high in the last rays of the setting sun, which was tipping the tops of the trees, and the far-away mountains of the Matopo, with a golden hue. The Kaffir’s hair caught fire, and the horrible smell of the burning flesh overpowered the scent of the flowers Umhleswa stirred the blaze with his steel-headed assegai. It was the only merciful deed he had done, for the fire leaped up more quickly, and the stakes, burned through, gave way, the mutilated remains of what had been a human body falling heavily and helplessly forward.

Fresh reeds and branches were heaped on, the flame roared with fury, and the yells and shouts became louder. Once the mass of blazing wood moved, a charred hand was thrust forth, and then all was still. The fire had done its work, and the Amatongas seemed appeased. Noti slept beneath the shadow of the ruins of Sofala, the restless surf moaning over his grave. The lions had killed him, but Luji’s ashes, reduced to fine dust, were blowing over the plains before the night breeze, when the moon shone forth over the sorcerer’s hut and the smoke-begrimed rock.

The Amatonga nature had proved more relentless than the lions, the man more savage than the beast.

The Wife’s Revenge

More than a week had elapsed since the events related had taken place, and the two Europeans still remained, half free, half prisoners. From the day when Masheesh had witnessed the Hottentot’s cruel death, up to the present, he had not been seen, either by the white men or by the Amatongas. The rest of their followers had made their escape, finding their way back as they could, and their position, perfectly alone among the savage tribe, their safety hanging only on the cupidity of the treacherous Umhleswa, was most critical. For two days after Luji’s death, all had seemed quiet in the kraal, but then a party had sprung up among the men, some of whom had been urged on by the dead chief’s wife to avenge on the two white men his death. This party had gradually grown stronger, and its members never lost an opportunity of showing their hate; indeed it was on more than one occasion only the fear of the deadly rifles which kept them from open violence.

There they sat before their hut, under the shade of the tree, feeling and looking disconsolate enough. It was the eighth day since they had again taken possession of it, and not once had they seen Umhleswa during that period. A good provision of manioc flour had been conveyed to them. Their shot guns had supplied them with small game, for they dared not venture far from the kraal, for fear of awakening suspicion, and even as it was, found themselves closely watched.

The two had just finished a supper they had cooked themselves. They were both fully armed, and near them, within reach of their hands, lay their rifles. The sun had set, the air was warm, and the breeze scarcely moved the leaves of the tree overhead. Before them lay stretched the plain with its belt of forest-land, and in the distance the faint line of the Matopo hills. Close by, the densely populated kraal, the blue smoke from many fires curling up into the air. The hum of the bees was heard as they winged their way homewards towards the forest, and above them in the tree the cries of the parrots, as they quarrelled before composing themselves to sleep. Rising and shading his face with his hand, Hughes gazed in the direction of the kraal. A solitary figure was wending his way through the huts, coming towards them.

“It’s weary work this,” he remarked, as he sat down again with a sigh, “keeping watch and watch all day, and dividing the night between us, too. It’s a weary life. What can have become of Masheesh?”

“The Matabele brave has cared for his own skin, and has fled to the mountains, like the rest of them,” replied the missionary.

“I thought better of him,” said Hughes, absently, “and I am sorry I was wrong.”

“Look, is not that Umhleswa coming towards us,” said Wyzinski. “God grant he may have made arrangements for our journey.”

“It is he, indeed,” replied the other, as he rose to heap fresh branches on the fire.

Slowly the chief stalked along, apparently not caring where he went, stopped opposite the two, and then, as if perceiving them for the first time, approached and squatted by the fire.

Umhleswa’s evil nature was now too well-known, for this seeming carelessness to dupe them.

“Have my white brethren all they can want?” he asked.

“No, chief, we ask the fulfilment of our contract, namely, an escort as far as the Zambesi.”

“My braves are badly armed, and may be unable to protect you. Will the white men give their rifles now?”

The treacherous nature of the request was too evident for the veriest tyro to fall into the trap. To give up their means of protection, and at the same time the only ransom they had to offer, would have been an act of folly, “No, chief, we will not,” replied Wyzinski, a silence following on his words. Suddenly an idea struck him. What if he were to utilise Masheesh’s absence? It could not possibly do any harm, and it might do good.

“Will Umhleswa wait until the Matabele chief comes with Mozelkatse’s warriors to serve us as an escort. He has been gone many days and should be on his return?” he asked.

The wily savage started, fidgeting as he sat. “It is a long journey across the Tati,” he replied.

“The Tati, chief?” asked Wyzinski, remembering at once that Masheesh had spoken of that river.

“Yes, the Tati, where the yellow gold is found, which the Bamangwato now claim,” replied the savage, pointing with his hand. “It lies yonder, between those hills of the Matopo and the more distant Zouga mountains.”

“And who owns the land?” inquired Wyzinski.

“The great chief Machin calls it his,” was the answer, “and Mozelkatse claims it as his, too.”

“You see, Hughes, how all tallies. Beyond those mountain somewhere near the sources of the Limpopo, there exist gold fields, and these rivers which Umhleswa names run into the Limpopo. Here, between those gold fields and the coast, were built the cities of the gold seekers of Solomon. We have trod their streets, and yonder stream, which Masheesh truly named Auro, took their riches to the port.”

“The deuce take your ruins, Wyzinski!” said Hughes. “Do try to get us out of the scrape we are in. Humour the scoundrel.”

Umhleswa seemed uneasy at this by-play, not understanding one word of English.

“Will the white men keep their promise if Masheesh comes?”

“Certainly not. He will then be our deliverer, not you, and the rifles must be his.”

“Umhleswa saved you when the knives of his people were about to drink your blood?” sententiously remarked the savage.

Wyzinski shuddered. “Come, chief,” he replied, taking from his belt a revolver, “send us on our journey, and this shall be yours.” Raising his arm, he fired barrel after barrel into the air, pausing between each ere he drew the trigger to enhance the effect.

The savage’s eyes glistened, and he showed his filed teeth. He doubted not that Masheesh had been sent to bring down the Matabele warriors upon him, in which case he should lose the promised reward.

The thought swayed him; the sight of the revolver finished the matter.

Slowly rising, he walked away several paces, and the missionary’s heart beat quickly, for all seemed lost. Turning, he pointed to the sky. “When the moon rises yonder, and my people are buried in sleep, let the white men be ready. Umhleswa does not lie,” he said, moving away.

Hardly had he gone a dozen paces, when he again paused, hesitated, and once more returned.

“The rifles are for my braves,” he said, again speaking slowly; “the small gun,” pointing to the revolver, “is for Umhleswa. Will the chief give it now?”

Wyzinski hesitated, and for a few moments seemed plunged in thought.

“Take it,” he said at length frankly, as he placed the coveted weapon in the hands of the savage. “Take it, but remember that at a chief’s belt two such weapons should hang; the second will be yours when we reach the Zambesi.”

Umhleswa looked the speaker full in the face, slowly nodding his head three times, then once more pointing to the sky.

“Let my white brethren be ready when the moon rises,” he said, as he stalked away proudly; perhaps the only native in that part of the country possessed of a revolver.

“Do you think he will keep his word, Wyzinski?” asked Hughes, when the conversation was translated to him.

“He is sure to do so,” replied the missionary, “simply because it is his interest.”

“Then the best thing we can do is to be in readiness. There are many things we must leave behind,” returned Hughes. “The moon will rise in two hours.”

Entering the hut once more, and as they fervently hoped for the last time, they set about their preparations, no easy task, when out of the scanty materials, all of which had been deemed necessary a short time since, the greater part were to be left behind. They were still busy, when a body of men gliding out from among the huts by twos and by threes, assembled at the entrance, one of their number signing to its tenants to follow. Carrying their rifles in the hollow of the arm, their pistols at their belts, they cast one look round the interior of the hut which had served them so long as a home, and stepped out into the night.

The moon was just rising over the mountain range, the night was quite still, save when from time to time the cry of the jackal could be heard from the plain. In the native kraal all slept, and the party, consisting of fifteen men armed with assegais, and commanded by the same brave who had conducted them from their camp at Gorongoza, moved silently away the moment the white men joined them. Avoiding the kraal, they shaped their course to the north, travelling as swiftly as they could through a country densely covered with forest. Game seemed to grow more scarce as they neared the end of their journey; and, except for necessary purposes, it was little sought after, the object of all being identical, namely, to strike the Zambesi as soon as possible. This they at length did, though the forest growth impeded their progress so much, that it was only on the evening of the ninth day after leaving the country of the Amatonga that they reached its banks. Under the shade of the high hill of Baramuana a small tent was pitched, not larger than that used by the French soldier, and known by the name of tente d’abri. A fire burned fiercely in front of it, and close by ran the Zambesi, a fine broad stream flowing towards the sea, between banks covered with reeds of luxuriant growth. Beyond the river a level plain, broken by forest-land, and in the distance the blue outline of a high mountain range.

Near the fire were seated the two Europeans, and in a semicircle round them the fifteen Amatonga warriors who had been their guides. Further down the stream, at a bend of the river, the walls of a brick building were visible, some ten miles away.

A perfect jungle of forest swept up almost to the spot where the group were seated, the tamarind and acacia trees growing to the river bank, covered with creeping plants, such as the convolvulus, the jasmine, the deadly nightshade, all festooned from tree to tree, while the wild guava, the pomegranate, and many a sweet-scented bush pushed upwards their luxuriant undergrowth. The bees were humming among the sweetly-scented flowers of the dholicos, and the rushing sound of the river, as it took its way to the sea past the fort of Senna, was music to the ears of the two travellers.

“Give them their due, Wyzinski, and let us be rid of them; I hate the very look of an Amatonga,” exclaimed Hughes.

The group of savages sat round, staring at the two with a steady, concentrated gaze, their long assegais raised in the air, “Matumba,” said the powerful, but stunted brave, who had been in command of the party, speaking with difficulty the Zulu tongue, “Matumba has done his duty, let the chiefs do theirs. Yonder are the walls of their brethren’s fort.”

The missionary did not at once reply, but pushing the promised arms towards the speaker, took from his belt his revolver, discharging its barrels into the air, handed it to the Amatonga.

“This is now Umhleswa’s property, and thus the white man fulfils his promise.”

“We are left with our two rifles and one revolver between us,” remarked Hughes. “If ever I get the chance of paying off these thieves, won’t I?”

Matumba took the arm, and, turning to his men, distributed the rifles among them. A sharp conversation followed, unintelligible to the Europeans, save that the Amatonga pointed several times to the two remaining rifles.

“The white men,” resumed Matumba, once more turning to them, “are near their friends. They have no need of their guns, the Amatonga are far from their kraal. Let them give the two guns, which are now useless.”

“Never, Matumba,” exclaimed Wyzinski, springing to his feet and cocking both barrels of his piece. “Look out, Hughes, they mean mischief. We have kept our word, Amatonga. Keep yours.”

A sharp conversation ensued between the natives, all talking together, the chief, Matumba, evidently trying to keep them within bounds, while they as evidently wished to take the coveted rifles by force. Placing their backs against the rocks, their rifles ready, the two waited the result, but great was their relief when the whole party, after much talking, at last moved off in Indian file, and disappeared under the deepening forest shade.

“We are well out of that, Wyzinski,” remarked Hughes, as he seated himself at the foot of the rock, “and now, what are we to do next?”

“Break ground as soon and as speedily as possible. We have but to follow the stream, and we shall be within the walls of Senna in three hours.”

The little tent was struck, the knapsacks strapped on, and their rifles at the trail, both moved rapidly away. But a deep cut they found ran between them and the Portuguese fort. It was filled with heavy timber and luxuriant undergrowth. Night came on, and there was no moon, so that the direction of the stream was soon lost, and they were brought to a stand still.

“Let us halt here,” said Wyzinski, as they pushed their way through a clump of mimosa, and gained a small clearing, hemmed in on every side by the forest.

“We can reach Senna by early morning, and I am half dead with hunger.”

A fire was lit, some strips of venison cut from an eland killed the previous day, roasted on the embers, and they made a hearty meal.

“It will be a relief to me to see the inside of the fort, Hughes,” said Wyzinski. “I misdoubt those Amatongas.”

“They have done better by us than your favourite Matabele. I never thought Masheesh would have left us thus. If you will take the first turn, I’ll have a sleep,” replied Hughes.

“Agreed,” returned the missionary, as his comrade placing his knapsack under his head, threw himself under a low bush, and was soon sleeping heavily. Hours went by, and still the missionary, with his rifle thrown across his knee, sat by the fire. He rose from time to time to collect and heap on it the dried branches. Once he heard distinctly above the noises incidental to an African night in the wilderness, the splintering of wood. He was in the act of throwing an armful of dry branches on the blaze. Stooping, he seized his rifle, and was just about to wake his companion, when the noise ceased. Stepping up to where the soldier lay, he looked at him. The starlight shone over the bronzed and travel-worn face. The cap had fallen off, and the long locks of dark hair touched the ground. “It would be a pity to wake him,” muttered the missionary. “I am not tired; the presentiment of evil is upon me, and I could not sleep even if I tried.”

Turning, he again squatted down by the fire, the cocked rifle over his knee. Once, more than an hour after, the same sound, like to the breaking of wood, reached his ear.

“It may be some heavy animal feeding,” he thought, “and my fears be groundless; the darkness of the night, the loneliness and fatigue, have unnerved me.”

Soon his thoughts were away in other lands, and with friends, some of whom had been long since dead. Then they returned to the ruined cities of this wild land. Had they any affinity to those found in Mexico? he asked himself. No, they must be Egyptian.

Suddenly a wild shout burst on his ear, a crashing blow, a whizzing in the ears, and all was darkness. The missionary lay stretched beside the embers of the fire.

How long he remained insensible on the ground Wyzinski never knew, but the grey dawn was just breaking as he struggled back to consciousness, to find his arms tightly and painfully bound behind his back, his head splitting with pain, while the clearing seemed filled with the dark forms of the Amatongas, seated in a circle, and evidently debating on their prisoner’s fate. As he lay there on his back, barely able to turn his head, his open eyes gazing upwards at the stars, whose feeble light was just paling before the first grey streaks of dawn, a black mass intervened between him and the blue sky. It was a woman’s head, the long hair told him this much, but the face was that of a demon; the beadlike eyes which peered into his flashing with malicious hatred; the thick lips parted, showing the yellow teeth clenched with passion; the flat nostrils distended with rage, and the hair, matted with grease and dirt, sweeping his face as she bent over him.

It was a face he knew, for it was that of the dead chief’s wife; and as the missionary closed his eyes to shut out the horrid vision, the hag, seeing he had again become conscious, uttered a piercing yell, and dashed into the middle of the council ring, chattering in a shrill and parrot-like voice. The missionary’s eyes remained closed, for he felt his position was hopeless, and what at this moment grieved him more was, that by his negligent watch he had sacrificed his friend. If he had been struck down and made prisoner with his rifle in his hand and wide awake, what chance was there for the sleeping soldier? He knew he should, after the fashion of this tribe, be tortured; he prayed for firmness to meet his doom, but he thought with agony of what had been his comrade’s fate during the hours he himself lay insensible and apparently dead.

A rude stroke from the sharp point of an Amatonga spear roused him, and in obedience to the command he endeavoured to struggle to his feet. Unable to effect this, two of his captors roughly seized him, dragging him up. The dawn was just lighting up the scene, as he glanced round. There lay the embers of the fire scattered about the clearing; there lay the soldier’s knapsack, and there, near it, with an ox hide thrown over it, something which took, under its coverings, the shape of a human form. There was no mistaking it.

The missionary’s eyes filled with tears, and a convulsive sob heaved his breast, as he looked on all that was left of the man who, in his dead sleep, had trusted to his friend’s vigilance.

The Amatongas seemed to have no time to lose, for hardly giving their prisoner space to realise what was passing around, they hurried him along through the bush, retracing their path until the whole group reached the foot of the Baramuana hill, where the distribution of the rifles had taken place the day before.

“My presentiment of evil did not deceive me,” muttered Wyzinski; “fool, triple fool as I was not to profit by it, and yonder,” thought he, as his eyes followed the course of the river, and the brick walls of the fort met his gaze, just tipped by the first rays of the sun, “yonder lay safety.”

Grinning, laughing, and chattering, the circle of Amatonga braves drew round him. Their prisoner was thrown to the ground and his feet bound with the palmyra rope; the woman fiend, her passion lending her strength, hauling at one end of the rough cord until it literally cut into the flesh. A stake was driven into the ground at the foot of the rock, and then the missionary knew his doom was, like Luji’s, death by fire. Next the whole band dispersed, going into the forest, and returning by twos and threes, laden with brush as dry as tinder. Quickly the semicircle of boughs and long grass grew round the stake, while close to the prisoner’s head sat the fiend-like woman, spitting out her rage, heaping imprecations on his head, and occasionally breaking out into a slow chant or death song.

The missionary’s eyes were again closed; his lips were moving in prayer. He was asking for strength to bear his fearful death, as a man should whose negligence has brought evil not only on himself, but on others. The belt of forest trees ran close to the spot where he lay, and while he prayed a dark face put aside cautiously the clusters of convolvuli which formed a flowery screen among the trees, as two black piercing eyes gazed out from among the flowers, seemed to take note of the scene, and then disappeared.