Danger sharpens one's wits. It makes the old young again, and the young
old--in judgment.
Harry was no fool from the commencement, and he now reasoned rightly
enough, that Mahmoud with his savage caravan, as soon as he missed the
runaways, would naturally conclude that they had gone back towards the
coast.
This, however, was precisely the thing that Harry had no present
intention of doing. And why? it may be asked. Ought he not to be glad
of the freedom he had once more obtained, and make the best of his way
to some friendly village or town by the sea-shore? Perhaps; but then
Harry was a wayward youth. He was wayward and headstrong, but on this
occasion I think he had right on his side.
"I cannot and will not return," he said to himself, "without making some
effort to find my poor fellows--if, indeed, they be still alive.
Besides, this is a strange and a lovely land, and there are strange
adventures to be met with. I must see a little of it while I am here."
You will notice, reader, that hope was already throwing its glamour over
the poor lad's mind. He dearly loved nature, but while being dragged
away as a prisoner, although some parts of the country through which he
passed had been charming enough, he could not bear to gaze on their
beauty while _he_ was a slave.
Flowers grew in abundance on many parts of the plains; they grew in
patches, in beds of gorgeous colour, here, there, and everywhere--pale
blue, dark blue, yellow, crimson, and modest brown; they carpetted the
ground, and even trailed up over and beautified the stunted scrub
bushes. As Burns hath it, these flowers--
"Sprang wanton to be pressed."
At another time their sunlit glory would have dazzled him, now they had
seemed to mock him in his misery, and he had crushed them under foot.
Great birds sailed majestically and slowly overhead, or flew with that
lazy indifference peculiar to some of the African species, ascending
some distance, then letting themselves fall again, putting no more
exertion into the action of flight than was absolutely necessary, but
sauntering along through the air, as it were. Never mind, they were
happy, and Harry had hated them because they were so happy--and free.
Long after the caravan had left the coast, sea-birds even came floating
round them.
"Come away, Harry!" they seemed to scream. "Come away--away--away!"
They were happy too. Oh, he had thought, if he could only be as free,
and had their lithesome, lissom wings!
Monster butterflies like painted fans, browns, vermilions, and
ultramarines hovered indolently over the flowers. How _they_ appeared
to enjoy the sunshine!
Even the bronzy green or black beetles that moved about among the grass
or over the bare patches of ground had something to do, something to
engross their minds, thoroughly to the exclusion of every other
consideration in life.
As for the lovely sea-green lizards with broad arrows of crimson on
their shoulders, they simply squatted, panting, on stones, or lay along
reed-stalks, making the very most of life and sunshine; while as for the
giant cicadas, their happiness considerably interfered with the business
of their little lives, because they were so very, very, _very_ happy
that they had to stop about every two minutes to sing.
But now, why Harry was free and as happy as any of them--at present, at
all events.
As he trudged along in the moonlight he could not help making a little
joke to himself.
"Go back!" he said, half aloud. "No, Scotchmen never go back."
Well, then, Mahmoud, after retreating for some distance towards the
coast, would no doubt resume his journey. Of this Harry felt sure
enough, because Nanungamanoo told his new master, before they had gone
very far that night, that the Arab priest was on his way to a far
distant country, quite unknown to any other trader, there to purchase a
gang of slaves from a king, who would sell his people for fire-water.
"The scoundrels!" said Harry.
"Yes, sahib."
"Both I mean; both king and priest. I'd tie them neck to neck and drown
them as one drowns kittens."
"Yes, sahib."
"And no one else knows of this territory?"
"No white man, sahib."
"The villain! A little nest of his own that he robs periodically. A
happy hunting-ground all to himself. So you think Mahmoud will shortly
come on this way?"
"Sure to, sahib."