December 23

'I have just buried my boy,my poor handsome boy of whom I was so proud,and my heart is broken.It is very hard having only one son to lose him thus,but God's will be done.Who am I that I should complain?The great wheel of Fate rolls on like a Juggernaut,and crushes us all in turn,some soon,some late --it does not matter when,in the end,it crushes us all.We do not prostrate ourselves before it like the poor Indians;we fly hither and thither --we cry for mercy;but it is of no use,the black Fate thunders on and in its season reduces us to powder.

'Poor Harry to go so soon!just when his life was opening to him.He was doing so well at the hospital,he had passed his last examination with honours,and I was proud of them,much prouder than he was,I think.And then he must needs go to that smallpox hospital.He wrote to me that he was not afraid of smallpox and wanted to gain the experience;and now the disease has killed him,and I,old and grey and withered,am left to mourn over him,without a chick or child to comfort me.I might have saved him,too --I have money enough for both of us,and much more than enough --King Solomon's Mines provided me with that;but I said,"No,let the boy earn his living,let him labour that he may enjoy rest."But the rest has come to him before the labour.Oh,my boy,my boy!

'I am like the man in the Bible who laid up much goods and builded barns --goods for my boy and barns for him to store them in;and now his soul has been required of him,and I am left desolate.

I would that it had been my soul and not my boy's!

'We buried him this afternoon under the shadow of the grey and ancient tower of the church of this village where my house is.

It was a dreary December afternoon,and the sky was heavy with snow,but not much was falling.The coffin was put down by the grave,and a few big flakes lit upon it.They looked very white upon the black cloth!There was a little hitch about getting the coffin down into the grave --the necessary ropes had been forgotten:so we drew back from it,and waited in silence watching the big flakes fall gently one by one like heavenly benedictions,and melt in tears on Harry's pall.But that was not all.Arobin redbreast came as bold as could be and lit upon the coffin and began to sing.And then I am afraid that I broke down,and so did Sir Henry Curtis,strong man though he is;and as for Captain Good,I saw him turn away too;even in my own distress I could not help noticing it.'

The above,signed 'Allan Quatermain',is an extract from my diary written two years and more ago.I copy it down here because it seems to me that it is the fittest beginning to the history that I am about to write,if it please God to spare me to finish it.If not,well it does not matter.That extract was penned seven thousand miles or so from the spot where I now lie painfully and slowly writing this,with a pretty girl standing by my side fanning the flies from my august countenance.Harry is there and I am here,and yet somehow I cannot help feeling that I am not far off Harry.

When I was in England I used to live in a very fine house --at least I call it a fine house,speaking comparatively,and judging from the standard of the houses I have been accustomed to all my life in Africa --not five hundred yards from the old church where Harry is asleep,and thither I went after the funeral and ate some food;for it is no good starving even if one has just buried all one's earthly hopes.But I could not eat much,and soon I took to walking,or rather limping --being permanently lame from the bite of a lion --up and down,up and down the oak-panelled vestibule;for there is a vestibule in my house in England.On all the four walls of this vestibule were placed pairs of horns --about a hundred pairs altogether,all of which I had shot myself.They are beautiful specimens,as I never keep any horns which are not in every way perfect,unless it may be now and again on account of the associations connected with them.In the centre of the room,however,over the wide fireplace,there was a clear space left on which I had fixed up all my rifles.Some of them I have had for forty years,old muzzle-loaders that nobody would look at nowadays.One was an elephant gun with strips of rimpi,or green hide,lashed round the stock and locks,such as used to be owned by the Dutchmen --a 'roer'they call it.That gun,the Boer I bought it from many years ago told me,had been used by his father at the battle of the Blood River,just after Dingaan swept into Natal and slaughtered six hundred men,women,and children,so that the Boers named the place where they died 'Weenen',or the 'Place of Weeping';and so it is called to this day,and always will be called.

And many an elephant have I shot with that old gun.She always took a handful of black powder and a three-ounce ball,and kicked like the very deuce.

Well,up and down I walked,staring at the guns and the horns which the guns had brought low;and as I did so there rose up in me a great craving:--I would go away from this place where I lived idly and at ease,back again to the wild land where Ihad spent my life,where I met my dear wife and poor Harry was born,and so many things,good,bad,and indifferent,had happened to me.The thirst for the wilderness was on me;I could tolerate this place no more;I would go and die as I had lived,among the wild game and the savages.Yes,as I walked,I began to long to see the moonlight gleaming silvery white over the wide veldt and mysterious sea of bush,and watch the lines of game travelling down the ridges to the water.The ruling passion is strong in death,they say,and my heart was dead that night.

But,independently of my trouble,no man who has for forty years lived the life I have,can with impunity go coop himself in this prim English country,with its trim hedgerows and cultivated fields,its stiff formal manners,and its well-dressed crowds.

He begins to long --ah,how he longs!--for the keen breath of the desert air;he dreams of the sight of Zulu impis breaking on their foes like surf upon the rocks,and his heart rises up in rebellion against the strict limits of the civilized life.

Ah!this civilization,what does it all come to?For forty years and more I lived among savages,and studied them and their ways;and now for several years I have lived here in England,and have in my own stupid manner done my best to learn the ways of the children of light;and what have I found?A great gulf fixed?

No,only a very little one,that a plain man's thought may spring across.I say that as the savage is,so is the white man,only the latter is more inventive,and possesses the faculty of combination;save and except also that the savage,as I have known him,is to a large extent free from the greed of money,which eats like a cancer into the heart of the white man.It is a depressing conclusion,but in all essentials the savage and the child of civilization are identical.I dare say that the highly civilized lady reading this will smile at an old fool of a hunter's simplicity when she thinks of her black bead-bedecked sister;and so will the superfine cultured idler scientifically eating a dinner at his club,the cost of which would keep a starving family for a week.And yet,my dear young lady,what are those pretty things round your own neck?--they have a strong family resemblance,especially when you wear that very low dress,to the savage woman's beads.Your habit of turning round and round to the sound of horns and tom-toms,your fondness for pigments and powders,the way in which you love to subjugate yourself to the rich warrior who has captured you in marriage,and the quickness with which your taste in feathered head-dresses varies --all these things suggest touches of kinship;and you remember that in the fundamental principles of your nature you are quite identical.As for you,sir,who also laugh,let some man come and strike you in the face whilst you are enjoying that marvellous-looking dish,and we shall soon see how much of the savage there is in you.

There,I might go on for ever,but what is the good?Civilization is only savagery silver-gilt.A vainglory is it,and like a northern light,comes but to fade and leave the sky more dark.

Out of the soil of barbarism it has grown like a tree,and,as I believe,into the soil like a tree it will once more,sooner or later,fall again,as the Egyptian civilization fell,as the Hellenic civilization fell,and as the Roman civilization and many others of which the world has now lost count,fell also.

Do not let me,however,be understood as decrying our modern institutions,representing as they do the gathered experience of humanity applied for the good of all.Of course they have great advantages --hospitals for instance;but then,remember,we breed the sickly people who fill them.In a savage land they do not exist.Besides,the question will arise:How many of these blessings are due to Christianity as distinct from civilization?

And so the balance sways and the story runs --here a gain,there a loss,and Nature's great average struck across the two,whereof the sum total forms one of the factors in that mighty equation in which the result will equal the unknown quantity of her purpose.

I make no apology for this digression,especially as this is an introduction which all young people and those who never like to think (and it is a bad habit)will naturally skip.It seems to me very desirable that we should sometimes try to understand the limitations of our nature,so that we may not be carried away by the pride of knowledge.Man's cleverness is almost indefinite,and stretches like an elastic band,but human nature is like an iron ring.You can go round and round it,you can polish it highly,you can even flatten it a little on one side,whereby you will make it bulge out the other,but you will never,while the world endures and man is man,increase its total circumference.

It is the one fixed unchangeable thing --fixed as the stars,more enduring than the mountains,as unalterable as the way of the Eternal.Human nature is God's kaleidoscope,and the little bits of coloured glass which represent our passions,hopes,fears,joys,aspirations towards good and evil and what not,are turned in His mighty hand as surely and as certainly as it turns the stars,and continually fall into new patterns and combinations.

But the composing elements remain the same,nor will there be one more bit of coloured glass nor one less for ever and ever.

This being so,supposing for the sake of argument we divide ourselves into twenty parts,nineteen savage and one civilized,we must look to the nineteen savage portions of our nature,if we would really understand ourselves,and not to the twentieth,which,though so insignificant in reality,is spread all over the other nineteen,making them appear quite different from what they really are,as the blacking does a boot,or the veneer a table.It is on the nineteen rough serviceable savage portions that we fall back on emergencies,not on the polished but unsubstantial twentieth.Civilization should wipe away our tears,and yet we weep and cannot be comforted.Warfare is abhorrent to her,and yet we strike out for hearth and home,for honour and fair fame,and can glory in the blow.And so on,through everything.

So,when the heart is stricken,and the head is humbled in the dust,civilization fails us utterly.Back,back,we creep,and lay us like little children on the great breast of Nature,she that perchance may soothe us and make us forget,or at least rid remembrance of its sting.Who has not in his great grief felt a longing to look upon the outward features of the universal Mother;to lie on the mountains and watch the clouds drive across the sky and hear the rollers break in thunder on the shore,to let his poor struggling life mingle for a while in her life;to feel the slow beat of her eternal heart,and to forget his woes,and let his identity be swallowed in the vast imperceptibly moving energy of her of whom we are,from whom we came,and with whom we shall again be mingled,who gave us birth,and will in a day to come give us our burial also.

And so in my trouble,as I walked up and down the oak-panelled vestibule of my house there in Yorkshire,I longed once more to throw myself into the arms of Nature.Not the Nature which you know,the Nature that waves in well-kept woods and smiles out in corn-fields,but Nature as she was in the age when creation was complete,undefiled as yet by any human sinks of sweltering humanity.I would go again where the wild game was,back to the land whereof none know the history,back to the savages,whom I love,although some of them are almost as merciless as Political Economy.There,perhaps,I should be able to learn to think of poor Harry lying in the churchyard,without feeling as though my heart would break in two.

And now there is an end of this egotistical talk,and there shall be no more of it.But if you whose eyes may perchance one day fall upon my written thoughts have got so far as this,I ask you to persevere,since what I have to tell you is not without its interest,and it has never been told before,nor will again.

A week had passed since the funeral of my poor boy Harry,and one evening I was in my room walking up and down and thinking,when there was a ring at the outer door.Going down the steps I opened it myself,and in came my old friends Sir Henry Curtis and Captain John Good,RN.They entered the vestibule and sat themselves down before the wide hearth,where,I remember,a particularly good fire of logs was burning.

'It is very kind of you to come round,'I said by way of making a remark;'it must have been heavy walking in the snow.'

They said nothing,but Sir Henry slowly filled his pipe and lit it with a burning ember.As he leant forward to do so the fire got hold of a gassy bit of pine and flared up brightly,throwing the whole scene into strong relief,and I thought,What a splendid-looking man he is!Calm,powerful face,clear-cut features,large grey eyes,yellow beard and hair --altogether a magnificent specimen of the higher type of humanity.Nor did his form belie his face.

I have never seen wider shoulders or a deeper chest.Indeed,Sir Henry's girth is so great that,though he is six feet two high,he does not strike one as a tall man.As I looked at him I could not help thinking what a curious contrast my little dried-up self presented to his grand face and form.Imagine to yourself a small,withered,yellow-faced man of sixty-three,with thin hands,large brown eyes,a head of grizzled hair cut short and standing up like a half-worn scrubbing-brush --total weight in my clothes,nine stone six --and you will get a very fair idea of Allan Quatermain,commonly called Hunter Quatermain,or by the natives 'Macumazahn'--Anglic/CHAR:e grave/,he who keeps a bright look-out at night,or,in vulgar English,a sharp fellow who is not to be taken in.

Then there was Good,who is not like either of us,being short,dark,stout --very stout --with twinkling black eyes,in one of which an eyeglass is everlastingly fixed.I say stout,but it is a mild term;I regret to state that of late years Good has been running to fat in a most disgraceful way.Sir Henry tells him that it comes from idleness and over-feeding,and Good does not like it at all,though he cannot deny it.

We sat for a while,and then I got a match and lit the lamp that stood ready on the table,for the half-light began to grow dreary,as it is apt to do when one has a short week ago buried the hope of one's life.Next,I opened a cupboard in the wainscoting and got a bottle of whisky and some tumblers and water.I always like to do these things for myself:it is irritating to me to have somebody continually at my elbow,as though I were an eighteen-month-old baby.All this while Curtis and Good had been silent,feeling,I suppose,that they had nothing to say that could do me any good,and content to give me the comfort of their presence and unspoken sympathy;for it was only their second visit since the funeral.And it is,by the way,from the presence of others that we really derive support in our dark hours of grief,and not from their talk,which often only serves to irritate us.Before a bad storm the game always herd together,but they cease their calling.

They sat and smoked and drank whisky and water,and I stood by the fire also smoking and looking at them.

At last I spoke.'Old friends,'I said,'how long is it since we got back from Kukuanaland?'

'Three years,'said Good.'Why do you ask?'

'I ask because I think that I have had a long enough spell of civilization.I am going back to the veldt.'

Sir Henry laid his head back in his arm-chair and laughed one of his deep laughs.'How very odd,'he said,'eh,Good?'

Good beamed at me mysteriously through his eyeglass and murmured,'Yes,odd --very odd.'

'I don't quite understand,'said I,looking from one to the other,for I dislike mysteries.

'Don't you,old fellow?'said Sir Henry;'then I will explain.

As Good and I were walking up here we had a talk.'

'If Good was there you probably did,'I put in sarcastically,for Good is a great hand at talking.'And what may it have been about?'

'What do you think?'asked Sir Henry.

I shook my head.It was not likely that I should know what Good might be talking about.He talks about so many things.

'Well,it was about a little plan that I have formed --namely,that if you were willing we should pack up our traps and go off to Africa on another expedition.'

I fairly jumped at his words.'You don't say so!'I said.

'Yes I do,though,and so does Good;don't you,Good?'

'Rather,'said that gentleman.

'Listen,old fellow,'went on Sir Henry,with considerable animation of manner.'I'm tired of it too,dead-tired of doing nothing more except play the squire in a country that is sick of squires.

For a year or more I have been getting as restless as an old elephant who scents danger.I am always dreaming of Kukuanaland and Gagool and King Solomon's Mines.I can assure you I have become the victim of an almost unaccountable craving.I am sick of shooting pheasants and partridges,and want to have a go at some large game again.There,you know the feeling --when one has once tasted brandy and water,milk becomes insipid to the palate.That year we spent together up in Kukuanaland seems to me worth all the other years of my life put together.I dare say that I am a fool for my pains,but I can't help it;I long to go,and,what is more,I mean to go.'He paused,and then went on again.'And,after all,why should I not go?I have no wife or parent,no chick or child to keep me.If anything happens to me the baronetcy will go to my brother George and his boy,as it would ultimately do in any case.I am of no importance to any one.'

'Ah!'I said,'I thought you would come to that sooner or later.

And now,Good,what is your reason for wanting to trek;have you got one?'

'I have,'said Good,solemnly.'I never do anything without a reason;and it isn't a lady --at least,if it is,it's several.'

I looked at him again.Good is so overpoweringly frivolous.

'What is it?'I said.

'Well,if you really want to know,though I'd rather not speak of a delicate and strictly personal matter,I'll tell you:I'm getting too fat.'

'Shut up,Good!'said Sir Henry.'And now,Quatermain,tell us,where do you propose going to?'

I lit my pipe,which had gone out,before answering.

'Have you people ever heard of Mt Kenia?'I asked.

'Don't know the place,'said Good.

'Did you ever hear of the Island of Lamu?'I asked again.

'No.Stop,though --isn't it a place about 300miles north of Zanzibar?'

'Yes.Now listen.What I have to propose is this.That we go to Lamu and thence make our way about 250miles inland to Mt Kenia;from Mt Kenia on inland to Mt Lekakisera,another 200miles,or thereabouts,beyond which no white man has to the best of my belief ever been;and then,if we get so far,right on into the unknown interior.What do you say to that,my hearties?'

'It's a big order,'said Sir Henry,reflectively.

'You are right,'I answered,'it is;but I take it that we are all three of us in search of a big order.We want a change of scene,and we are likely to get one --a thorough change.All my life I have longed to visit those parts,and I mean to do it before I die.My poor boy's death has broken the last link between me and civilization,and I'm off to my native wilds.

And now I'll tell you another thing,and that is,that for years and years I have heard rumours of a great white race which is supposed to have its home somewhere up in this direction,and I have a mind to see if there is any truth in them.If you fellows like to come,well and good;if not,I'll go alone.'

'I'm your man,though I don't believe in your white race,'said Sir Henry Curtis,rising and placing his arm upon my shoulder.

'Ditto,'remarked Good.'I'll go into training at once.By all means let's go to Mt Kenia and the other place with an unpronounceable name,and look for a white race that does not exist.

It's all one to me.'

'When do you propose to start?'asked Sir Henry.

'This day month,'I answered,'by the British India steamboat;and don't you be so certain that things have no existence because you do not happen to have heard of them.Remember King Solomon's mines!'

Some fourteen weeks or so had passed since the date of this conversation,and this history goes on its way in very different surroundings.

After much deliberation and inquiry we came to the conclusion that our best starting-point for Mt Kenia would be from the neighbourhood of the mouth of the Tana River,and not from Mombassa,a place over 100miles nearer Zanzibar.This conclusion we arrived at from information given to us by a German trader whom we met upon the steamer at Aden.I think that he was the dirtiest German I ever knew;but he was a good fellow,and gave us a great deal of valuable information.'Lamu,'said he,'you goes to Lamu --oh ze beautiful place!'and he turned up his fat face and beamed with mild rapture.'One year and a half I live there and never change my shirt --never at all.'

And so it came to pass that on arriving at the island we disembarked with all our goods and chattels,and,not knowing where to go,marched boldly up to the house of Her Majesty's Consul,where we were most hospitably received.

Lamu is a very curious place,but the things which stand out most clearly in my memory in connection with it are its exceeding dirtiness and its smells.These last are simply awful.Just below the Consulate is the beach,or rather a mud bank that is called a beach.It is left quite bare at low tide,and serves as a repository for all the filth,offal,and refuse of the town.

Here it is,too,that the women come to bury coconuts in the mud,leaving them there till the outer husk is quite rotten,when they dig them up again and use the fibres to make mats with,and for various other purposes.As this process has been going on for generations,the condition of the shore can be better imagined than described.I have smelt many evil odours in the course of my life,but the concentrated essence of stench which arose from that beach at Lamu as we sat in the moonlit night --not under,but on our friend the Consul's hospitable roof --and sniffed it,makes the remembrance of them very poor and faint.No wonder people get fever at Lamu.And yet the place was not without a certain quaintness and charm of its own,though possibly --indeed probably --it was one which would quickly pall.

'Well,where are you gentlemen steering for?'asked our friend the hospitable Consul,as we smoked our pipes after dinner.

'We propose to go to Mt Kenia and then on to Mt Lekakisera,'

answered Sir Henry.'Quatermain has got hold of some yarn about there being a white race up in the unknown territories beyond.'

The Consul looked interested,and answered that he had heard something of that,too.

'What have you heard?'I asked.

'Oh,not much.All I know about it is that a year or so ago I got a letter from Mackenzie,the Scotch missionary,whose station,"The Highlands",is placed at the highest navigable point of the Tana River,in which he said something about it.'

'Have you the letter?'I asked.

'No,I destroyed it;but I remember that he said that a man had arrived at his station who declared that two months'journey beyond Mt Lekakisera,which no white man has yet visited --at least,so far as I know --he found a lake called Laga,and that then he went off to the north-east,a month's journey,over desert and thorn veldt and great mountains,till he came to a country where the people are white and live in stone houses.Here he was hospitably entertained for a while,till at last the priests of the country set it about that he was a devil,and the people drove him away,and he journeyed for eight months and reached Mackenzie's place,as I heard,dying.That's all I know;and if you ask me,I believe that it is a lie;but if you want to find out more about it,you had better go up the Tana to Mackenzie's place and ask him for information.'

Sir Henry and I looked at each other.Here was something tangible.

'I think that we will go to Mr Mackenzie's,'I said.

'Well,'answered the Consul,'that is your best way,but I warn you that you are likely to have a rough journey,for I hear that the Masai are about,and,as you know,they are not pleasant customers.Your best plan will be to choose a few picked men for personal servants and hunters,and to hire bearers from village to village.It will give you an infinity of trouble,but perhaps on the whole it will prove a cheaper and more advantageous course than engaging a caravan,and you will be less liable to desertion.'

Fortunately there were at Lamu at this time a part of Wakwafi Askari (soldiers).The Wakwafi,who are a cross between the Masai and the Wataveta,are a fine manly race,possessing many of the good qualities of the Zulu,and a great capacity for civilization.

They are also great hunters.As it happened,these particular men had recently been on a long trip with an Englishman named Jutson,who had started from Mombasa,a port about 150miles below Lamu,and journeyed right rough Kilimanjaro,one of the highest known mountains in Africa.Poor fellow,he had died of fever when on his return journey,and within a day's march of Mombasa.It does seem hard that he should have gone off thus when within a few hours of safety,and after having survived so many perils,but so it was.His hunters buried him,and then came on to Lamu in a dhow.Our friend the Consul suggested to us that we had better try and hire these men,and accordingly on the following morning we started to interview the party,accompanied by an interpreter.

In due course we found them in a mud hut on the outskirts of the town.Three of the men were sitting outside the hut,and fine frank-looking fellows they were,having a more or less civilized appearance.To them we cautiously opened the object of our visit,at first with very scant success.They declared that they could not entertain any such idea,that they were worn and weary with long travelling,and that their hearts were sore at the loss of their master.They meant to go back to their homes and rest awhile.This did not sound very promising,so by way of effecting a diversion I asked where the remainder of them were.I was told there were six,and I saw but three.One of the men said they slept in the hut,and were yet resting after their labours --'sleep weighed down their eyelids,and sorrow made their hearts as lead:it was best to sleep,for with sleep came forgetfulness.

But the men should be awakened.'

Presently they came out of the hut,yawning --the first two men being evidently of the same race and style as those already before us;but the appearance of the third and last nearly made me jump out of my skin.He was a very tall,broad man,quite six foot three,I should say,but gaunt,with lean,wiry-looking limbs.My first glance at him told me that he was no Wakwafi:

he was a pure bred Zulu.He came out with his thin aristocratic-looking hand placed before his face to hide a yawn,so I could only see that he was a 'Keshla'or ringed man {Endnote 1},and that he had a great three-cornered hole in his forehead.In another second he removed his hand,revealing a powerful-looking Zulu face,with a humorous mouth,a short woolly beard,tinged with grey,and a pair of brown eyes keen as a hawk's.I knew my man at once,although I had not seen him for twelve years.'How do you do,Umslopogaas?'I said quietly in Zulu.

The tall man (who among his own people was commonly known as the 'Woodpecker',and also as the 'Slaughterer')started,and almost let the long-handled battleaxe he held in his hand fall in his astonishment.Next second he had recognized me,and was saluting me in an outburst of sonorous language which made his companions the Wakwafi stare.

'Koos'(chief),he began,'Koos-y-Pagete!Koos-y-umcool!(Chief from of old --mighty chief)Koos!Baba!(father)Macumazahn,old hunter,slayer of elephants,eater up of lions,clever one!

watchful one!brave one!quick one!whose shot never misses,who strikes straight home,who grasps a hand and holds it to the death (i.e.is a true friend)Koos!Baba!Wise is the voice of our people that says,"Mountain never meets with mountain,but at daybreak or at even man shall meet again with man."Behold!

a messenger came up from Natal,"Macumazahn is dead!"cried he.

"The land knows Macumazahn no more."That is years ago.And now,behold,now in this strange place of stinks I find Macumazahn,my friend.There is no room for doubt.The brush of the old jackal has gone a little grey;but is not his eye as keen,and are not his teeth as sharp?Ha!ha!Macumazahn,mindest thou how thou didst plant the ball in the eye of the charging buffalo --mindest thou --'

I had let him run on thus because I saw that his enthusiasm was producing a marked effect upon the minds of the five Wakwafi,who appeared to understand something of his talk;but now I thought it time to put a stop to it,for there is nothing that I hate so much as this Zulu system of extravagant praising --'bongering'

as they call it.'Silence!'I said.'Has all thy noisy talk been stopped up since last I saw thee that it breaks out thus,and sweeps us away?What doest thou here with these men --thou whom I left a chief in Zululand?How is it that thou art far from thine own place,and gathered together with strangers?'

Umslopogaas leant himself upon the head of his long battleaxe (which was nothing else but a pole-axe,with a beautiful handle of rhinoceros horn),and his grim face grew sad.

'My Father,'he answered,'I have a word to tell thee,but Icannot speak it before these low people (umfagozana),'and he glanced at the Wakwafi Askari;'it is for thine own ear.My Father,this will I say,'and here his face grew stern again,'a woman betrayed me to the death,and covered my name with shame --ay,my own wife,a round-faced girl,betrayed me;but I escaped from death;ay,I broke from the very hands of those who came to slay me.I struck but three blows with this mine axe Inkosikaas --surely my Father will remember it --one to the right,one to the left,and one in front,and yet I left three men dead.

And then I fled,and,as my Father knows,even now that I am old my feet are as the feet of the Sassaby {Endnote 2},and there breathes not the man who,by running,can touch me again when once I have bounded from his side.On I sped,and after me came the messengers of death,and their voice was as the voice of dogs that hunt.From my own kraal I flew,and,as I passed,she who had betrayed me was drawing water from the spring.Ifleeted by her like the shadow of Death,and as I went I smote with mine axe,and lo!her head fell:it fell into the water pan.Then I fled north.Day after day I journeyed on;for three moons I journeyed,resting not,stopping not,but running on towards forgetfulness,till I met the party of the white hunter who is now dead,and am come hither with his servants.And nought have I brought with me.I who was high-born,ay,of the blood of Chaka,the great king --a chief,and a captain of the regiment of the Nkomabakosi --am a wanderer in strange places,a man without a kraal.Nought have I brought save this mine axe;of all my belongings this remains alone.They have divided my cattle;they have taken my wives;and my children know my face no more.

Yet with this axe'--and he swung the formidable weapon round his head,making the air hiss as he clove it --'will I cut another path to fortune.I have spoken.'

I shook my head at him.'Umslopogaas,'I said,'I know thee from of old.Ever ambitious,ever plotting to be great,I fear me that thou hast overreached thyself at last.Years ago,when thou wouldst have plotted against Cetywayo,son of Panda,I warned thee,and thou didst listen.But now,when I was not by thee to stay thy hand,thou hast dug a pit for thine own feet to fall in.Is it not so?But what is done is done.Who can make the dead tree green,or gaze again upon last year's light?Who can recall the spoken word,or bring back the spirit of the fallen?

That which Time swallows comes not up again.Let it be forgotten!

'And now,behold,Umslopogaas,I know thee for a great warrior and a brave man,faithful to the death.Even in Zululand,where all the men are brave,they called thee the "Slaughterer",and at night told stories round the fire of thy strength and deeds.

Hear me now.Thou seest this great man,my friend'--and Ipointed to Sir Henry;'he also is a warrior as great as thou,and,strong as thou art,he could throw thee over his shoulder.

Incubu is his name.And thou seest this one also;him with the round stomach,the shining eye,and the pleasant face.Bougwan (glass eye)is his name,and a good man is he and a true,being of a curious tribe who pass their life upon the water,and live in floating kraals.

'Now,we three whom thou seest would travel inland,past Dongo Egere,the great white mountain (Mt Kenia),and far into the unknown beyond.We know not what we shall find there;we go to hunt and seek adventures,and new places,being tired of sitting still,with the same old things around us.Wilt thou come with us?To thee shall be given command of all our servants;but what shall befall thee,that I know not.Once before we three journeyed thus,in search of adventure,and we took with us a man such as thou --one Umbopa;and,behold,we left him the king of a great country,with twenty Impis (regiments),each of 3,000plumed warriors,waiting on his word.How it shall go with thee,I know not;mayhap death awaits thee and us.

Wilt thou throw thyself to Fortune and come,or fearest thou,Umslopogaas?'

The great man smiled.'Thou art not altogether right,Macumazahn,'

he said;'I have plotted in my time,but it was not ambition that led me to my fall;but,shame on me that I should have to say it,a fair woman's face.Let it pass.So we are going to see something like the old times again,Macumazahn,when we fought and hunted in Zululand?Ay,I will come.Come life,come death,what care I,so that the blows fall fast and the blood runs red?

I grow old,I grow old,and I have not fought enough!And yet am I a warrior among warriors;see my scars'--and he pointed to countless cicatrices,stabs and cuts,that marked the skin of his chest and legs and arms.'See the hole in my head;the brains gushed out therefrom,yet did I slay him who smote,and live.Knowest thou how many men I have slain,in fair hand-to-hand combat,Macumazahn?See,here is the tale of them'--and he pointed to long rows of notches cut in the rhinoceros-horn handle of his axe.'Number them,Macumazahn --one hundred and three --and I have never counted but those whom I have ripped open {Endnote 3},nor have I reckoned those whom another man had struck.'

'Be silent,'I said,for I saw that he was getting the blood-fever on him;'be silent;well art thou called the "Slaughterer".

We would not hear of thy deeds of blood.Remember,if thou comest with us,we fight not save in self-defence.Listen,we need servants.These men,'and I pointed to the Wakwafi,who had retired a little way during our 'indaba'(talk),'say they will not come.'

'Will not come!'shouted Umslopogaas;'where is the dog who says he will not come when my Father orders?Here,thou'--and with a single bound he sprang upon the Wakwafi with whom I had first spoken,and,seizing him by the arm,dragged him towards us.

'Thou dog!'he said,giving the terrified man a shake,'didst thou say that thou wouldst not go with my Father?Say it once more and I will choke thee'--and his long fingers closed round his throat as he said it --'thee,and those with thee.Hast thou forgotten how I served thy brother?'

'Nay,we will come with the white man,'gasped the man.

'White man!'went on Umslopogaas,in simulated fury,which a very little provocation would have made real enough;'of whom speakest thou,insolent dog?'

'Nay,we will go with the great chief.'

'So!'said Umslopogaas,in a quiet voice,as he suddenly released his hold,so that the man fell backward.'I thought you would.'

'That man Umslopogaas seems to have a curious moral ascendency over his companions,'Good afterwards remarked thoughtfully.

In due course we left Lamu,and ten days afterwards we found ourselves at a spot called Charra,on the Tana River,having gone through many adventures which need not be recorded here.

Amongst other things we visited a ruined city,of which there are many on this coast,and which must once,to judge from their extent and the numerous remains of mosques and stone houses,have been very populous places.These ruined cities are immeasurably ancient,having,I believe,been places of wealth and importance as far back as the Old Testament times,when they were centres of trade with India and elsewhere.But their glory has departed now --the slave trade has finished them --and where wealthy merchants from all parts of the then civilized world stood and bargained in the crowded market-places,the lion holds his court at night,and instead of the chattering of slaves and the eager voices of the bidders,his awful note goes echoing down the ruined corridors.At this particular place we discovered on a mound,covered up with rank growth and rubbish,two of the most beautiful stone doorways that it is possible to conceive.The carving on them was simply exquisite,and I only regret that we had no means of getting them away.No doubt they had once been the entrances to a palace,of which,however,no traces were now to be seen,though probably its ruins lay under the rising mound.

Gone!quite gone!the way that everything must go.Like the nobles and the ladies who lived within their gates,these cities have had their day,and now they are as Babylon and Nineveh,and as London and Paris will one day be.Nothing may endure.

That is the inexorable law.Men and women,empires and cities,thrones,principalities,and powers,mountains,rivers,and unfathomed seas,worlds,spaces,and universes,all have their day,and all must go.In this ruined and forgotten place the moralist may behold a symbol of the universal destiny.For this system of ours allows no room for standing still --nothing can loiter on the road and check the progress of things upwards towards Life,or the rush of things downwards towards Death.The stern policeman Fate moves us and them on,on,uphill and downhill and across the level;there is no resting-place for the weary feet,till at last the abyss swallows us,and from the shores of the Transitory we are hurled into the sea of the Eternal.

At Charra we had a violent quarrel with the headman of the bearers we had hired to go as far as this,and who now wished to extort large extra payment from us.In the result he threatened to set the Masai --about whom more anon --on to us.That night he,with all our hired bearers,ran away,stealing most of the goods which had been entrusted to them to carry.Luckily,however,they had not happened to steal our rifles,ammunition,and personal effects;not because of any delicacy of feeling on their part,but owing to the fact that they chanced to be in the charge of the five Wakwafis.After that,it was clear to us that we had had enough of caravans and of bearers.Indeed,we had not much left for a caravan to carry.And yet,how were we to get on?

It was Good who solved the question.'Here is water,'he said,pointing to the Tana River;'and yesterday I saw a party of natives hunting hippopotami in canoes.I understand that Mr Mackenzie's mission station is on the Tana River.Why not get into canoes and paddle up to it?'

This brilliant suggestion was,needless to say,received with acclamation;and I instantly set to work to buy suitable canoes from the surrounding natives.I succeeded after a delay of three days in obtaining two large ones,each hollowed out of a single log of some light wood,and capable of holding six people and baggage.For these two canoes we had to pay nearly all our remaining cloth,and also many other articles.

On the day following our purchase of the two canoes we effected a start.In the first canoe were Good,Sir Henry,and three of our Wakwafi followers;in the second myself,Umslopogaas,and the other two Wakwafis.As our course lay upstream,we had to keep four paddles at work in each canoe,which meant that the whole lot of us,except Good,had to row away like galley-slaves;and very exhausting work it was.I say,except Good,for,of course,the moment that Good got into a boat his foot was on his native heath,and he took command of the party.And certainly he worked us.On shore Good is a gentle,mild-mannered man,and given to jocosity;but,as we found to our cost,Good in a boat was a perfect demon.To begin with,he knew all about it,and we didn't.On all nautical subjects,from the torpedo fittings of a man-of-war down to the best way of handling the paddle of an African canoe,he was a perfect mine of information,which,to say the least of it,we were not.Also his ideas of discipline were of the sternest,and,in short,he came the royal naval officer over us pretty considerably,and paid us out amply for all the chaff we were wont to treat him to on land;but,on the other hand,I am bound to say that he managed the boats admirably.

After the first day Good succeeded,with the help of some cloth and a couple of poles,in rigging up a sail in each canoe,which lightened our labours not a little.But the current ran very strong against us,and at the best we were not able to make more than twenty miles a day.Our plan was to start at dawn,and paddle along till about half-past ten,by which time the sun got too hot to allow of further exertion.Then we moored our canoes to the bank,and ate our frugal meal;after which we ate or otherwise amused ourselves till about three o'clock,when we again started,and rowed till within an hour of sundown,when we called a halt for the night.On landing in the evening,Good would at once set to work,with the help of the Askari,to build a little 'scherm',or small enclosure,fenced with thorn bushes,and to light a fire.I,with Sir Henry and Umslopogaas,would go out to shoot something for the pot.Generally this was an easy task,for all sorts of game abounded on the banks of the Tana.One night Sir Henry shot a young cow-giraffe,of which the marrow-bones were excellent;on another I got a couple of waterbuck right and left;and once,to his own intense satisfaction,Umslopogaas (who,like most Zulus,was a vile shot with a rifle)managed to kill a fine fat eland with a Martini I had lent him.

Sometimes we varied our food by shooting some guinea-fowl,or bush-bustard (paau)--both of which were numerous --with a shot-gun,or by catching a supply of beautiful yellow fish,with which the waters of the Tana swarmed,and which form,I believe,one of the chief food-supplies of the crocodiles.

Three days after our start an ominous incident occurred.We were just drawing in to the bank to make our camp as usual for the night,when we caught sight of a figure standing on a little knoll not forty yards away,and intensely watching our approach.

One glance was sufficient --although I was personally unacquainted with the tribe --to tell me that he was a Masai Elmoran,or young warrior.Indeed,had I had any doubts,they would have quickly been dispelled by the terrified ejaculation of 'Masai!'that burst simultaneously from the lips of our Wakwafi followers,who are,as I think I have said,themselves bastard Masai.

And what a figure he presented as he stood there in his savage war-gear!Accustomed as I have been to savages all my life,I do not think that I have ever before seen anything quite so ferocious or awe-inspiring.To begin with,the man was enormously tall,quite as tall as Umslopogaas,I should say,and beautifully,though somewhat slightly,shaped;but with the face of a devil.

In his right hand he held a spear about five and a half feet long,the blade being two and a half feet in length,by nearly three inches in width,and having an iron spike at the end of the handle that measured more than a foot.On his left arm was a large and well-made elliptical shield of buffalo hide,on which were painted strange heraldic-looking devices.On his shoulders was a huge cape of hawk's feathers,and round his neck was a 'naibere',or strip of cotton,about seventeen feet long,by one and a half broad,with a stripe of colour running down the middle of it.The tanned goatskin robe,which formed his ordinary attire in times of peace,was tied lightly round his waist,so as to serve the purposes of a belt,and through it were stuck,on the right and left sides respectively,his short pear-shaped sime,or sword,which is made of a single piece of steel,and carried in a wooden sheath,and an enormous knobkerrie.But perhaps the most remarkable feature of his attire consisted of a headdress of ostrich-feathers,which was fixed on the chin,and passed in front of the ears to the forehead,and,being shaped like an ellipse,completely framed the face,so that the diabolical countenance appeared to project from a sort of feather fire-screen.

Round the ankles he wore black fringes of hair,and,projecting from the upper portion of the calves,to which they were attached,were long spurs like spikes,from which flowed down tufts of the beautiful black and waving hair of the Colobus monkey.Such was the elaborate array of the Masai Elmoran who stood watching the approach of our two canoes,but it is one which,to be appreciated,must be seen;only those who see it do not often live to describe it.Of course I could not make out all these details of his full dress on the occasion of this my first introduction,being,indeed,amply taken up with the consideration of the general effect,but I had plenty of subsequent opportunities of becoming acquainted with the items that went to make it up.

Whilst we were hesitating what to do,the Masai warrior drew himself up in a dignified fashion,shook his huge spear at us,and,turning,vanished on the further side of the slope.

'Hulloa!'holloaed Sir Henry from the other boat;'our friend the caravan leader has been as good as his word,and set the Masai after us.Do you think it will be safe to go ashore?'

I did not think it would be at all safe;but,on the other hand,we had no means of cooking in the canoes,and nothing that we could eat raw,so it was difficult to know what to do.At last Umslopogaas simplified matters by volunteering to go and reconnoitre,which he did,creeping off into the bush like a snake,while we hung off in the stream waiting for him.In half an hour he returned,and told us that there was not a Masai to be seen anywhere about,but that he had discovered a spot where they had recently been encamped,and that from various indications he judged that they must have moved on an hour or so before;the man we saw having,no doubt,been left to report upon our movements.

Thereupon we landed;and,having posted a sentry,proceeded to cook and eat our evening meal.This done,we took the situation into our serious consideration.Of course,it was possible that the apparition of the Masai warrior had nothing to do with us,that he was merely one of a band bent upon some marauding and murdering expedition against another tribe.But when we recalled the threat of the caravan leader,and reflected on the ominous way in which the warrior had shaken his spear at us,this did not appear very probable.On the contrary,what did seem probable was that the part was after us and awaiting a favourable opportunity to attack us.This being so,there were two things that we could do --one of which was to go on,and the other to go back.The latter idea was,however,rejected at once,it being obvious that we should encounter as many dangers in retreat as in advance;and,besides,we had made up our minds to journey onwards at any price.Under these circumstances,however,we did not consider it safe to sleep ashore,so we got into our canoes,and,paddling out into the middle of the stream,which was not very wide here,managed to anchor them by means of big stones fastened to ropes made of coconut-fibre,of which there were several fathoms in each canoe.

Here the mosquitoes nearly ate us up alive,and this,combined with anxiety as to our position,effectually prevented me from sleeping as the others were doing,notwithstanding the attacks of the aforesaid Tana mosquitoes.And so I lay awake,smoking and reflecting on many things,but,being of a practical turn of mind,chiefly on how we were to give those Masai villains the slip.It was a beautiful moonlight night,and,notwithstanding the mosquitoes,and the great risk we were running from fever from sleeping in such a spot,and forgetting that I had the cramp very badly in my right leg from squatting in a constrained position in the canoe,and that the Wakwafi who was sleeping beside me smelt horribly,I really began to enjoy myself.The moonbeams played upon the surface of the running water that speeded unceasingly past us towards the sea,like men's lives towards the grave,till it glittered like a wide sheet of silver,that is in the open where the trees threw no shadows.Near the banks,however,it was very dark,and the night wind sighed sadly in the reeds.

To our left,on the further side of the river,was a little sandy bay which was clear of trees,and here I could make out the forms of numerous antelopes advancing to the water,till suddenly there came an ominous roar,whereupon they all made off hurriedly.Then after a pause I caught sight of the massive form of His Majesty the Lion,coming down to drink his fill after meat.Presently he moved on,then came a crashing of the reeds about fifty yards above us,and a few minutes later a huge black mass rose out of the water,about twenty yards from me,and snorted.

It was the head of a hippopotamus.Down it went without a sound,only to rise again within five yards of where I sat.This was decidedly too near to be comfortable,more especially as the hippopotamus was evidently animated by intense curiosity to know what on earth our canoes were.He opened his great mouth,to yawn,I suppose,and gave me an excellent view of his ivories;and I could not help reflecting how easily he could crunch up our frail canoe with a single bite.Indeed,I had half a mind to give him a ball from my eight-bore,but on reflection determined to let him alone unless he actually charged the boat.Presently he sank again as noiselessly as before,and I saw no more of him.Just then,on looking towards the bank on our right,Ifancied that I caught sight of a dark figure flitting between the tree trunks.I have very keen sight,and I was almost sure that I saw something,but whether it was bird,beast,or man I could not say.At the moment,however,a dark cloud passed over the moon,and I saw no more of it.Just then,too,although all the other sounds of the forest had ceased,a species of horned owl with which I was well acquainted began to hoot with great persistency.After that,save for the rustling of trees and reeds when the wind caught them,there was complete silence.

But somehow,in the most unaccountable way,I had suddenly become nervous.There was no particular reason why I should be,beyond the ordinary reasons which surround the Central African traveller,and yet I undoubtedly was.If there is one thing more than another of which I have the most complete and entire scorn and disbelief,it is of presentiments,and yet here I was all of a sudden filled with and possessed by a most undoubted presentiment of approaching evil.I would not give way to it,however,although I felt the cold perspiration stand out upon my forehead.I would not arouse the others.Worse and worse I grew,my pulse fluttered like a dying man's,my nerves thrilled with the horrible sense of impotent terror which anybody who is subject to nightmare will be familiar with,but still my will triumphed over my fears,and I lay quiet (for I was half sitting,half lying,in the bow of the canoe),only turning my face so as to command a view of Umslopogaas and the two Wakwafi who were sleeping alongside of and beyond me.

In the distance I heard a hippopotamus splash faintly,then the owl hooted again in a kind of unnatural screaming note {Endnote 4},and the wind began to moan plaintively through the trees,making a heart-chilling music.Above was the black bosom of the cloud,and beneath me swept the black flood of the water,and I felt as though I and Death were utterly alone between them.

It was very desolate.

Suddenly my blood seemed to freeze in my veins,and my heart to stand still.Was it fancy,or were we moving?I turned my eyes to look for the other canoe which should be alongside of us.I could not see it,but instead I saw a lean and clutching black hand lifting itself above the gunwale of the little boat.

Surely it was a nightmare!At the same instant a dim but devilish-looking face appeared to rise out of the water,and then came a lurch of the canoe,the quick flash of a knife,and an awful yell from the Wakwafi who was sleeping by my side (the same poor fellow whose odour had been annoying me),and something warm spurted into my face.In an instant the spell was broken;I knew that it was no nightmare,but that we were attacked by swimming Masai.Snatching at the first weapon that came to hand,which happened to be Umslopogaas'battleaxe,I struck with all my force in the direction in which I had seen the flash of the knife.The blow fell upon a man's arm,and,catching it against the thick wooden gunwale of the canoe,completely severed it from the body just above the wrist.As for its owner,he uttered no sound or cry.Like a ghost he came,and like a ghost he went,leaving behind him a bloody hand still gripping a great knife,or rather a short sword,that was buried in the heart of our poor servant.

Instantly there arose a hubbub and confusion,and I fancied,rightly or wrongly,that I made out several dark heads gliding away towards the right-hand bank,whither we were rapidly drifting,for the rope by which we were moored had been severed with a knife.As soon as I had realized this fact,I also realized that the scheme had been to cut the boat loose so that it should drift on to the right bank (as it would have done with the natural swing of the current),where no doubt a party of Masai were waiting to dig their shovel-headed spears into us.Seizing one paddle myself,I told Umslopogaas to take another (for the remaining Askari was too frightened and bewildered to be of any use),and together we rowed vigorously out towards the middle of the stream;and not an instant too soon,for in another minute we should have been aground,and then there would have been an end of us.

As soon as we were well out,we set to work to paddle the canoe upstream again to where the other was moored;and very hard and dangerous work it was in the dark,and with nothing but the notes of Good's stentorian shouts,which he kept firing off at intervals like a fog-horn,to guide us.But at last we fetched up,and were thankful to find that they had not been molested at all.

No doubt the owner of the same hand that severed our rope should have severed theirs also,but was led away from his purpose by an irresistible inclination to murder when he got the chance,which,while it cost us a man and him his hand,undoubtedly saved all the rest of us from massacre.Had it not been for that ghastly apparition over the side of the boat --an apparition that Ishall never forget till my dying hour --the canoe would undoubtedly have drifted ashore before I realized what had happened,and this history would never have been written by me.