To attempt a detailed description of Max's wanderings for the next few
months would, even with the help of his diary, prove, I fear, a task
altogether beyond my abilities. On the morning following the interview I
have just described as taking place at Moreas' house, they embarked upon
the train at a wayside station, a few miles out of Rio, and remained in
it until they had proceeded as far as it was possible for the line to
take them. Having reached the end of the construction, they alighted at
a miserable village consisting of some twenty or thirty houses of the
typical Brazilian type, and collected their impedimenta. Such stores and
equipments as they intended carrying with them had already arrived, as
also had the mules which had been purchased for the journey. Moreas, by
virtue of being the only person who knew the secret, was duly installed
as leader of the expedition; and, seeing that the day was too far
advanced for them to make a start, he decided on remaining in the
village that night, and proceeding as soon as it was light next morning.
Being anxious to obtain as much information as possible concerning the
track they were to follow for the next hundred miles, Moreas invited
certain of the leading inhabitants to sup with them that night. This
gave rise to a regular orgie. By midnight Moreas was decidedly
intoxicated, while the two Spaniards were incapable of even sitting
upright, so were stretched at full length upon the floor. Disgusted
beyond measure with what he saw, Max left the room and passed into the
verandah. There he found the Englishman, Bertram, smoking a cigar. He
had taken a liking to the man, and cherished a belief that the feeling
was reciprocated. "So you have had enough of it, too," said the latter
as Max approached. "I couldn't stand any more of it, so I came out
here."
"My case is very similar," answered Max. "It's a good thing this sort of
thing is not likely to occur very often."
"I agree with you," returned the other. "Moreas and the Spaniards are
very well when they are sober, but when they are drunk they are
altogether impossible. Forgive me asking the question, but have you
known Moreas very long?"
"A matter of two years," Max replied. "I met him first on the steamer
that brought me out from England."
"Ah! I was right then," said Bertram, in a somewhat kindlier tone than
he had yet spoken. "I felt certain that you were an Englishman when I
saw you yesterday; and yet, do you know, if you don't mind my saying so,
you don't altogether look like one."
"I'm not," said Max. "By birth I am a Pannonian, but I have lived in
England since I was quite a youngster. You, of course, are English.
There can be no sort of doubt about that."
"Am I so dreadfully insular, then?" the other inquired with a laugh. "I
thought the knocking about the world I have had would have rubbed the
edges off. Yes, I am an Englishman, I suppose, if ever there was one. I
hail from Gainsthorpe, in Yorkshire. Do you happen to know the place?"
"I should think so," said Max, with sudden animation. "I've stayed there
often."
After that they were both silent. The simple fact that they both
happened to be acquainted with the same obscure village struck them as a
marvellous coincidence; after a time, however, it became a bond that
bound them very closely together. Later on, for some reason not
altogether explainable, they left England, and talked of Brazil and life
in South America generally. Of the subject upon which they were for the
time being engaged they said nothing. They did not know each other
particularly well yet, and both felt it would be safer to let it alone.
Presently Moreas staggered into the verandah, stared wildly about him
for a few seconds, as if he were looking for some one, and then reeled
towards them.
"Come, come, Senors," he said with a hiccup, "I don't call this sociable
at all. Here we are enjoying ourselves in the room yonder, and you keep
away from us as if you don't desire our company. It isn't the sort of
thing to make us friendly."
He seized Max by the arm, and attempted to lead him in the direction of
the door, but the other shook him off.
"You must excuse me," he said. "I don't feel up to it to-night. Besides,
if the noise you are making is any criterion, you are getting along well
enough without us."
The other's mood had changed by this time. He turned and faced them,
supporting himself by the verandah rails.
"I suppose you don't want to offend me on the first evening of this
mem--mem--(_hic_) memorable journey?" he said.
"I have not the least desire to offend you," Max retorted.
"Nevertheless, I am not coming in. It is useless for you to ask me."
Moreas thereupon transferred his attentions to Bertram, who proved
equally intractable.
"Very well," he said at last, when he had tried to arrive at a proper
understanding of the position; "if you won't come I suppose you won't,
so I'll go myself, and leave you to conspire against me in peace."
With that he took himself off, and the two men were left to construe his
last speech according to their inclinations.
"That is a cur who will require some watching," said Bertram, when they
were alone once more together. "Thank goodness, however, I'm up to most
of his tricks."
Max offered no reply to this remark. Angry as he was with Moreas, he
felt that he himself was in an invidious position. To all intents and
purpose he was the other's servant, and an innate feeling of loyalty, to
however unworthy a master, kept him silent.
"If we are to be up as early to-morrow morning as we arranged had we not
better begin to think about bed?" said Max at last.
"Perhaps we had. But I am rather afraid the others will not be in a
condition after their carouse to-night to travel as soon as we imagine.
However, if you are tired, by all means let us turn in."
They walked towards the door. Suddenly Bertram stopped, and, with a
little hesitation, addressed his companion once more.
"I want to ask you," he said, "whether you have any objection to telling
me the name of your friend; I mean the man who you visited at
Gainsthorpe. It's just possible I might know him."
"His name was Beverley," Max replied, without thinking of the trouble to
which his answer might possibly give rise.
"Do you mean Dick Beverley, the cross-country man?" said Bertram, after
a momentary pause.
"The same," said Max. "Do you know him?"
"I ought to," the other replied, and then, after another display of
hesitation, added, "Dick Beverley is my brother. Bertram is only my
assumed name."
Max uttered an exclamation, that was partly one of surprise and partly
one of pain. "Good heavens! can it be possible that you are Beverley's
brother?" he cried. "I can scarcely credit it."
"It's more than possible, however, it's a certainty," returned his
companion. "And now, d'you know, I fancy I can tell who you are. Your
face has been haunting me ever since I first saw it. I knew I had seen
it somewhere. You don't remember me, because I never saw you at the old
place, but, the year after I cleared out of England, Dick sent me a
photograph of himself, taken with a group of his brother officers. You
and he were standing side by side, I remember. If you don't mind my
saying so, you are the man who has been missing for so long, and about
whom there has been so much talk--the Crown Prince of Pannonia."
"Hush, hush!" cried Max, as if he were afraid some one might overhear
the other's words. "For heaven's sake don't talk so loud. You see, I
don't deny the truth of your words. I suppose it would be no use. What a
strange world it is, to be sure! My only reason for coming on this
journey was because I was afraid of being recognised in Rio. Now it
appears that it is destined for one of the men I am travelling with to
find me out. What a fool I was ever to talk to you about Yorkshire!"
"It was I who started it," said the other apologetically, as if he were
anxious to bear his proper share of the blame. "I'm sorry I asked you
such questions, since it has caused you pain. I'm not much of a fellow,
and I suppose there are a good many people who wouldn't trust me as far
as they can see me; all the same, if you like, I will give you my word
that your secret shall never pass my lips. I'll do that for the sake of
poor old Dick, whose friend and comrade you once were."
"I thank you from the bottom of my heart," said Max. "Since my reasons
were of sufficient importance to induce me to leave home, and give up
everything that a man ought to hold dear, it may be supposed I am not
anxious that other people should recognise me and drive me further
afield again. If you will keep my secret, you will lay me under an
everlasting obligation."
"Your secret is safe with me," answered Bertram solemnly. "I will pledge
you my word on it, if you like."
"I'll believe you without that," said Max. "Let us shake hands upon it."
They accordingly did so. Though they could not, of course, realise it
then, that hand-shake was significant in a variety of ways. Among other
things, it laid the foundation of a friendship that was as sincere as it
was mutual.
A few minutes later they retired into the house, and, when they had
found a corner in which the night might be spent in comparative peace,
if not in any degree of comfort, they wrapped themselves in their
blankets and were soon asleep. Max and Bertram were early astir next
morning. Not so the revellers of the previous evening. Like warriors on
a battlefield, they lay just where they had fallen. Moreas was in the
verandah, Rodriguez and his compatriot rested under the table, while the
others were scattered in various picturesque, but undignified, attitudes
about the different rooms.
"My prophecy of last night is likely to prove a true one," said Bertram,
as they stood side by side surveying the prostrate figures. "They will
not open their eyes till mid-day, and it will be some hours afterwards
before we shall be able to get upon the road."
It turned out as he had said. Mid-day had arrived and passed before the
remainder of the party seemed capable of getting upon their feet, much
less of exerting themselves. Even then, the two Spaniards, Rodriguez,
and Pereira, would have needed but little persuasion to make them
continue the orgie for another night. Of this, however, Max and the
Englishman would not hear, and even Moreas, who was by this time
comparatively himself once more, joined in the chorus of disapproval.
Accordingly, the horses and mules were caught and saddled, and, half an
hour later, the party bade the village farewell and embarked upon their
journey proper. For three days they traversed through well-vegetated
forests, and over long rolling plains, with never a bush or a tree,
until they entered a forbidding mountain range, and some stiff climbing
became the order of the day. By the time they had had twenty-four hours
of this, the strength and temper of both mules and men were well-nigh
exhausted. It was in one of these gloomy passes, or canons, as perhaps
it should be properly termed, that an incident occurred that might very
well have ended disastrously for the whole company concerned. It
happened in this way. Ever since they had left the forest and set foot
upon the sterile plateau, the commissariat, once so plentifully
supplied, had been impoverished to a degree that bordered upon
starvation. As a result, they were compelled to fall back upon the
preserved food they had brought with them, and which was only to be used
in case of emergency. This had given rise to a considerable amount of
grumbling, and from grumbling certain members of the party found it a
very short step to open quarrelling. Antonio Rodriguez and Moreas were
the principal offenders in this respect. Indeed, it was noticeable to
more than one that, in the last few days, the latter's character had
changed completely. He was silent, morose, rarely smiled, and equally
seldom allowed an opportunity to pass him of saying something that was
likely to give offence. What was perhaps worse, he had become
exceedingly jealous of the attention paid to him. Because he took it
into his head that Max preferred Bertram's company to his own, he held
aloof from him and conversed only with the Spaniards. But, in thus
describing the change that had come over his character, I have wandered
away from the incident I was about to put on record.
As I have said, the commissariat stood in great need of replenishment.
Being anxious to give the animals a rest, it was agreed that the party
should remain in camp for another day. This being so, Bertram took his
rifle and started off into the mountains in search of game. When he had
been gone about half an hour, Moreas, who had been in one of his
tantrums all day, also decided to set out upon the same errand. Climbing
the side of the mountain, he, in his turn, disappeared from view, and
Max, who had been watching him, returned to the tailoring operations
upon which he had hitherto been busily engaged. As he worked, the
recollection of a quarrel that had taken place in the morning between
Moreas and Bertram returned to his mind. It had been brewing for a long
time, and, had it not been for Max's own repeated interventions, it
would long since have taken a serious turn. Both men were equally ready
to fight, but Max was aware that Bertram, good shot as he was, when
pitted against such a man as Moreas, would stand but a small chance of
success. He was still pondering over this, when another thought occurred
to him. It placed a more serious aspect upon the case. He liked Bertram,
and he had no intention of allowing the Spaniard to do him a mischief,
if he could help it. He accordingly rose, stowed away his work in his
saddle-bag, and, having explained to the two other men, that he felt
inclined for a walk, and was going after Moreas, he also climbed the
side of the hill. On reaching the summit he looked anxiously about him
for the man he was seeking, both on the neighbouring hills and also in
the valley below. For a long time, however, he was unsuccessful. Then a
mile or so distant, along the hillside to the right, his quick eye
detected a small black object, creeping slowly but steadily towards the
west. He was evidently stalking something, and Max, remembering Moreas'
skill with the rifle, resolved to follow him, in the hope that he might
be of some service in helping to carry home the game.
Seeing the slow pace at which the other was travelling, it was not very
long before he was close behind him. Moreas was now crouching behind a
rock, as if he were anxious that the game he was pursuing, and which Max
could not see, should not become aware of his presence. A moment later
he rose and peeped over the boulder, at the same time lifting his gun
into position. Being some distance above him, it was possible for Max to
see over his head into the valley in the direction in which the rifle
was pointing. Then, to his horrified amazement, he beheld Bertram leave
a little coppice, and walk out into a piece of open ground, a couple of
hundred yards or so distant from where the other man was waiting. _In a
flash the whole truth dawned upon him. It was Bertram whom Moreas was
stalking so carefully, and it was Bertram he intended to shoot._ He was
about to call out in the hope of diverting the Spaniard's attention, or
of warning the Englishman; but, before he could do so, the other had
pulled the trigger. There was a report, and when Max, who had closed his
eyes, as if he were afraid of what he might be called upon to witness,
opened them again, Moreas was once more crouching down behind the rock,
while Bertram was examining something, evidently, the splash of a
bullet, on the face of a boulder behind him. Moreas had failed in his
attempt; but the man he had aimed at had been standing directly before
the rock, and it could only have been by a few inches that he had missed
him.
"This is a terrible state of things," said Max to himself, when he had
recovered a little from the shock Moreas' treachery had caused him.
"What on earth am I to do?"
At first he felt inclined to descend hastily upon Moreas, and accuse
him, there and then, of attempting to murder the Englishman. A moment
later, however, the folly of this proceeding became apparent to him. Had
he done so, it would have been necessary for the others to know of it,
and, in that case, it was very probable that Moreas' life would have
paid forfeit. This, for a variety of reasons, was undesirable. At the
same time, he felt that he must protect his friend against any similar
attacks. Bearing this in mind he watched Moreas' movements with the
greatest anxiety. He was not at all certain that the latter, finding
that his first shot had proved unsuccessful, might not attempt a second.
Moreas, however, did not do so; he knew that Bertram, once placed upon
his guard, would be on the look out, and he had no intention of allowing
himself to be captured red-handed, which would certainly have been his
fate had he missed. He accordingly remained in hiding until the
Englishman had passed round the bend of the hill and was safely on his
way back to the camp. Then he emerged, and, in his turn, retraced his
steps by the way he had come, in so doing passing within fifty yards of
the spot where Max lay concealed. When the latter reached the camp he
found the evening meal prepared, and the two men amicably seated, side
by side, near the fire, to all appearances better friends than they had
been for some time past. Max fancied that Moreas looked rather
apprehensively at him as he came into the firelight; but whatever he may
have thought, he said nothing to him, either then or on a subsequent
occasion, concerning that mysterious shot upon the hill. Bertram also
followed his example, and, though he had plenty of opportunity, he did
not once refer, either directly or indirectly, to the attempt that had
been made upon his life that afternoon.
Next day they resumed their march, and twenty-four hours later left the
mountains behind them, and once more entered a zone of fertile country.
This continued for upwards of three hundred miles, until Moreas informed
them that he felt sure they must be approaching the second range, that
it would be necessary for them to cross before they could reach the
country in which the old woman had declared that the diamonds existed.
This proved to be the case, for the next day a faint blue haze on the
northern horizon showed them that they were nearing what they might
consider the half-way house to their destination. It was true that they
had been warned that the road over these mountains would be likely to
prove a serious obstacle in their path, and also that the long stretches
of desert on the further side were good for neither man nor beast. They
did not give that much consideration, however. Great though the present
difficulties might be, the reward at the end would be much larger, if
all they had been told were true. When, however, they reached the foot
of the mountains they were able to realise something of what lay before
them. Unlike the other range through which they had passed a fortnight
before, this one consisted of high, rocky peaks, where even a goat could
scarcely retain his footing, and dark, gloomy canons, both almost
grassless and entirely destitute of water. What was worse, their animals
by this time were sadly out of condition, and often it was as much as
the poor beasts could do to drag one foot after the other. Still they
persevered. The Spaniards grumbled incessantly, it is true. Moreas, on
the other hand, scarcely spoke at all, while Max thought he could even
detect on the Englishman's handsome face a growing belief that they had
attempted something that was beyond the power of human beings to
accomplish. Whatever his feelings may have been, however, he never once
permitted a word of complaint to pass his lips. The outlook was by no
means a cheerful one. After the privations the party had been through so
far, it seemed hard, indeed, that they should not be able to reach the
goal for which they had been aiming. With such overwhelming odds against
them, however, it seemed impossible that they could hope to succeed. But
they were slow to own themselves beaten. Indeed, it was not until they
stood face to face with almost certain death, that they realised how
futile it was to continue the fight. Then, in one of the loneliest
canons of all that lonely range, they called a halt and took counsel
with each other. The two Spaniards, as on a previous occasion, were
openly mutinous, and showered black looks on everyone, each other
included. Remembering what he had seen a fortnight before, Max never
once permitted Moreas to leave the camp unaccompanied. The man's temper
was by this time in such a condition that it was within the bounds of
possibility that he would have chosen a vantage on the hill side above,
and have shot them down without either a second thought, or a feeling of
compunction.
"It seems to me we're in a pretty sort of a fix," said Bertram after
some little discussion had taken place on their position. "The animals
are giving way, and if we go on like this, it won't be long before we
all follow suit. Now the question for us to decide is, what are we going
to do. If the remainder of you are desirous of pushing ahead, then I'm
willing to do the same. If not, let us turn back without further
parleying. The matter, however, must be decided once and for all. There
has been too much grumbling lately, and it seems to me the best thing we
can do is to hold a meeting now, and settle everything. What do you say,
Mortimer?"
"I quite agree with you," Max answered, "and so I feel sure does Moreas.
Let us talk the question over like sensible men, and come to some
definite decision."
Popular feeling being in favour of a discussion, they sat down by the
camp fire and talked it over, as quietly and rationally as the racial
tendencies of the various members of the party would permit. The result
was as follows.
It was decided that, while it was out of the question that the entire
party could succeed in reaching the spot for which they were making, it
was still possible that two men, taking with them the best of the
animals, might be able to do so. But who those two men should be was
rather more difficult to determine. It was certain that Moreas must go,
since he was the only man who was acquainted with the secret, and he was
scarcely likely to impart it to anyone else. On his side, however, he
flatly declined even to think of taking either of the two Spaniards with
him. They might fume and curse as much as they pleased, he said, but
their bluster would not alter his decision. The man who went with him
must be either Bertram or Max. For his own part he professed not to care
very much which of them it was.
A solemn silence descended upon the group.
"Perhaps we had better draw lots for it," began Bertram. "I may say
that, if I am chosen, I am perfectly willing to go; if it falls upon
you, Mortimer, I have no doubt you will not raise any objection. What do
you say?"
"Let us draw lots for it by all means," Max answered. "But how shall we
decide?"
One of the Spaniards, true son of a gambling race, immediately produced
a dice box, which he still carried with him, long after he had parted
with other apparently more valuable possessions. By the flickering light
of the camp fire, the two men threw, to decide which should have the
honour of courting what, each must have felt in his own heart, was
almost certain death. As a result Max was declared to be the winner.
"It is settled then," said Moreas, with what Max could not help feeling
was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "You are perfectly satisfied?
Well, to-morrow, Senor Mortimer, if you are prepared, we will push on
together, and see what fate has in store for us."
"I shall be quite ready," Max replied. "And, as I understand it, the
remainder of the party will retrace their steps to the fertile country
at the entrance to the Ranges, and await our coming there."
"That is how I understand it also," replied Bertram, looking steadily at
Max. "We shall give you three months' grace, and if you have not
returned by the end of that time, we shall conclude that you are dead,
and will either attempt to reach you, or return to civilisation, as
circumstances may dictate."
"That is the arrangement," said Moreas.
After that the party lapsed into silence once more.
As nobody seemed inclined for conversation when these details had been
settled, they rolled themselves up in their blankets and said good-night
to the world. Silence had not taken possession of the camp more than
half an hour before Max felt the pressure of a hand upon his arm. He
rolled over to find Bertram making signals to him. He accordingly arose
and followed him to a spot at some little distance from the camp. When
they had assured themselves that they were not being followed, the
Englishman spoke.
"Your Royal Highness," he said; then, seeing that the other was about to
interrupt him, held up his hand. "Pardon me, but for a few minutes it is
necessary that I should forget our supposed equality, and remember that
you are a royal personage, and I only the son of a Yorkshire gentleman.
I'm not as a rule a man who thinks very much of titles, but there is no
getting away from the fact that a man who is, or should be, going to
rule a country, is called upon to take more care of his life than other
people. When we drew lots to-night as to who should accompany Moreas, I
hoped and believed that chance would favour myself. Fate, however,
willed otherwise. Now, sir, what I am going to say to you is this; if
you will consent to allow me to go forward in your place, it will be
conferring an honour upon me for which I shall be grateful to you to my
dying day. I can easily make an excuse to Moreas, and convince him that
we have come to the arrangement together. Nobody will suspect, and so
you will be saved from doing, what I really and truly believe to be, a
wrong act."
Max was more touched by the other's words than he could say.
"I thank you," he said, holding out his hand. "I know that you speak out
of kindness to me, but what you ask is impossible--quite impossible!
Really it is! The lot has fallen upon me, and, indeed, I can only ask
you to believe that I would not have it otherwise. I am quite willing to
go forward, and, when all is said and done, I believe I am the best
person for the work. You and Moreas are not particularly friendly, as
you must be aware, and there is no saying what might happen if you were
thrown so much into each other's society, without any one to see fair
play."
"You are thinking of the day when he fired that rifle at me in the
mountains, I suppose," Bertram replied. "I suppose you did not think I
was aware of it. I was, however, and I knew also that you were behind
him. If it hadn't been for that fact, I should have taxed him with his
treachery on my return to the camp. But we are wasting time. Is it quite
impossible for me to make you change your mind?"
"Quite," said Max. "Though I am none the less grateful to you for your
kindness in offering to go, I cannot accept it."
"Are you quite sure that no argument on my part will make you alter your
decision?"
"I am quite sure," Max replied. "My mind is irrevocably made up."
"So be it," returned Bertram quietly. "In that case, I suppose, we may
as well return to the camp. Should Moreas have seen us leave it, he may
have got the idea into his head that you are scheming against him. That
would be a bad beginning as far as you are concerned."
They accordingly retraced their steps, and, so far as they knew, reached
the camp without anyone being the wiser that they had absented
themselves from it.
Next morning, as soon as it was light, the camp was roused by Moreas.
The best mules had been set apart for the onward journey, and, as soon
as the morning meal had been eaten, and the beasts were saddled, the two
adventurers prepared to set off. When all the final arrangements had
been made, and the place of meeting, should the pair return, settled, it
was time for them to bid the rest of the party farewell. It was a solemn
moment in their lives, and every one seemed aware of the fact. Moreas
shook hands with the two Spaniards first, and then approached Bertram.
"Farewell, Senor," he said, with a bow. "I trust I shall have good news
for you when next I see you."
Max observed that they did not shake hands. The hatred that existed
between them was so mutual and so strong, that even the fact that, in
all human probability, they would never see each other again, was not
sufficient to make them part friends. Then came Max's turn. He shook
hands with Antonio and Diego, and, having done so, approached the man
for whom he entertained such a genuine liking.
"Good-bye," he said. Then looking him straight in the face, he added,
"If by any chance I should not return, you know whom to make acquainted
with my fate. Good-bye."
"Good-bye," answered the other, his voice shaking as he said it. Then,
seeing that Moreas was out of earshot, he added, "For heaven's sake,
your Highness, run no undue risks. If you will not think of yourself,
think of those in England who love you."
"You may be sure I shall do that," Max replied. Then, uttering another
hearty good-bye, and shaking Bertram once more by the hand, he set off
in pursuit of his partner.
As they turned the corner of the canon, he looked back and waved his
hand. Bertram was standing where he had left him, still looking after
him.