The boy hastened down the narrow steps with all the speed he could, Jim
Braid following close upon his heels. The two guides had remained
above. Even yet, both regarded the place with superstitious awe.
The steps led downward—as it seemed an interminable distance. At first
they were straight; then they were spiral; then they were straight again
and broader. At the bottom was the vault where, as rumour had it, the
great sage himself lay buried, where was gathered together the treasure
that had been given in offerings during his lifetime, thousands of years
before.
At the foot of the steps, the two boys, side by side, stood spellbound.
The sight that they beheld was at once tragic and marvellous.
The vault was a rectangular room about thirty feet long and twenty feet
wide. Against the wall facing the steps was a huge stone that resembled
a coffin, supported upon a pedestal, cylindrical in shape, and about six
feet in height. The coffin and the pedestal on which it stood resembled
in shape the letter T. At the foot of the pedestal was a large marble
basin, in the centre of which a small jet of water played like a
miniature fountain, uttering a never-ceasing bubbling noise that sounded
strange in the silence of the vault.
The walls were of bare rock. On the ceiling was carved a number of
fantastic figures, similar to those that stood on either side of the
great stairway that led to the entrance of the caves. But the wonder of
the vault was on the floor, the whole of which was covered inches deep
in glittering, sparkling gems. There were sapphires, rubies, diamonds,
opals, and pearls. The former worshippers of Zoroaster had called upon
the treasure-houses of the ancient world to pay their tribute to the
genius of the teacher. They had visited the pearl-fisheries of the East
and the ruby-mines of Burma; they had brought gold from Ophir and
emeralds from the land of Punt.
And in the midst of this dazzling treasure, half-buried in the gems he
had ventured so much to gain, lay Captain von Hardenberg, who, dying by
his own hand, had delivered up the life he had so abused.
Full length upon his face, upon this brilliant, jewel-bespangled carpet,
was the man who had stolen the Sunstone, who had betrayed his country,
and who, in his own turn, had been betrayed by the very ruffian he
employed. A revolver, still smoking, was in his hand. Carl von
Hardenberg had placed himself at last beyond the reach of human law.
It is easy to imagine the torment the man had suffered during the last
days of his ill-spent life. The lamp which he had carried with him from
the altar in the cave had long since burned out, and now stood upon the
coffin of Zoroaster. The mental agony he endured must have driven him
near to madness. The darkness, the utter hopelessness of his terrible
situation, the fearful stillness—accentuated rather than broken by the
never-ending bubbling of the fountain—had no doubt driven him to take
his own life in savage desperation.
He had eaten all his food. He had had water in plenty to drink; but he
had no doubt given up all hope of ever being rescued.
Both Harry and Jim uncovered their heads. They stood face to face with
the still form of one who had always been their enemy, who had been the
enemy of their country. Von Hardenberg stood now in the presence of his
Maker.
They buried him at the foot of the great steps that led to the Caves of
Zoroaster; and there Harry Urquhart—who had a little thumb-nail Prayer
Book in his pocket—read the funeral service over the grave, whilst Jim
Braid and the two guides, who had served them so faithfully throughout
these long adventurous weeks, stood by in silent reverence.
There was now nothing they could do but retrace their steps to the
Cameroons. They could not hope to take all the treasure with them,
since they had no means of carrying it over the mountains and through
the density of the bush. They had travelled thus far to see justice
done, to prevent infinite wealth from falling into the hands of the
enemies of England; and in this enterprise they had been
successful—that much in itself was a reward. None the less, there was
no reason why they should not take with them as many jewels as they
could carry, and accordingly, selecting many of the largest and most
valuable gems, they filled their haversacks and pockets.
And then, ascending the stairs and using the Sunstone as a key, Harry
closed the vault so that no one—not even the Maziris themselves—could
open it. And there was something almost sacred—or at least
awe-inspiring—in the deed. For centuries the Shrine of Zoroaster had
remained unmolested. Except the successive guardians of the cave, no
human being had ever entered the vault and beheld the glittering
treasure. In bygone times these priceless jewels had been delivered up
in tribute to one of the world’s greatest teachers; and now, in one
sense, they were like flowers upon a grave. It was well that the
greater part of the treasure should remain where it had lain throughout
the ages; there was wealth enough for them in what they were able to
carry with them.
With the return journey to the coast we are not concerned. The party
accomplished the march in fairly easy stages; and travelling southward,
for two excellent reasons, was a far more simple affair than advancing
towards the north: for, firstly, they were able to utilize the rivers
that flowed down from the mountains; and, secondly, the whole country
was now in possession of the British troops. The German Cameroons was
no more.