CHAPTER II. MR. MARNHAM
CHAPTER III. THE HUNTERS HUNTED
CHAPTER IV. DOCTOR RODD
CHAPTER V. A GAME OF CARDS
CHAPTER VI. MISS HEDA
CHAPTER VII. THE STOEP
CHAPTER VIII. RODD’S LAST CARD
CHAPTER IX. FLIGHT
CHAPTER X. NOMBÉ
CHAPTER XI. ZIKALI
CHAPTER XII. TRAPPED
CHAPTER XIII. CETEWAYO
CHAPTER XIV. THE VALLEY OF BONES
CHAPTER XV. THE GREAT COUNCIL
CHAPTER XVI. WAR
CHAPTER XVII. KAATJE BRINGS NEWS
CHAPTER XVIII. ISANDHLWANA
CHAPTER XIX. ALLAN AWAKES
CHAPTER XX. HEDA’S TALE
CHAPTER XXI. THE KING VISITS ZIKALI
CHAPTER XXII. THE MADNESS OF NOMBÉ
CHAPTER XXIII. THE KRAAL JAZI
Ditchingham House, Norfolk,
May, 1917.
My dear Roosevelt,—
You are, I know, a lover of old Allan Quatermain, one who understands
and appreciates the views of life and the aspirations that underlie and
inform his manifold adventures.
Therefore, since such is your kind wish, in memory of certain hours
wherein both of us found true refreshment and companionship amidst the
terrible anxieties of the World’s journey along that bloodstained road
by which alone, so it is decreed, the pure Peak of Freedom must be
scaled, I dedicate to you this tale telling of the events and
experiences of my youth.
Your sincere friend,
H. RIDER HAGGARD.
To COLONEL THEODORE ROOSEVELT,
Sagamore Hill, U.S.A.
INTRODUCTION
This book, although it can be read as a separate story, is the third of
the trilogy of which _Marie_ and _Child of Storm_ are the first two
parts. It narrates, through the mouth of Allan Quatermain, the
consummation of the vengeance of the wizard Zikali, alias The Opener of
Roads, or “The-Thing-that-should-never-have-been-born,” upon the royal
Zulu House of which Senzangacona was the founder and Cetewayo, our
enemy in the war of 1879, the last representative who ruled as a king.
Although, of course, much is added for the purposes of romance, the
main facts of history have been adhered to with some faithfulness.
With these the author became acquainted a full generation ago, Fortune
having given him a part in the events that preceded the Zulu War.
Indeed he believes that with the exception of Colonel Phillips, who, as
a lieutenant, commanded the famous escort of twenty-five policemen, he
is now the last survivor of the party who, under the leadership of Sir
Theophilus Shepstone, or Sompseu as the natives called him from the
Zambesi to the Cape, were concerned in the annexation of the Transvaal
in 1877. Recently also he has been called upon as a public servant to
revisit South Africa and took the opportunity to travel through
Zululand, in order to refresh his knowledge of its people, their
customs, their mysteries, and better to prepare himself for the writing
of this book. Here he stood by the fatal Mount of Isandhlawana which,
with some details of the battle, is described in these pages, among the
graves of many whom once he knew, Colonels Durnford, Pulleine and
others. Also he saw Ulundi’s plain where the traces of war still lie
thick, and talked with an old Zulu who fought in the attacking Impi
until it crumbled away before the fire of the Martinis and shells from
the heavy guns. The battle of the Wall of Sheet Iron, he called it,
perhaps because of the flashing fence of bayonets.
Lastly, in a mealie patch, he found the spot on which the corn grows
thin, where King Cetewayo breathed his last, poisoned without a doubt,
as he has known for many years. It is to be seen at the Kraal,
ominously named Jazi or, translated into English, “Finished.” The
tragedy happened long ago, but even now the quiet-faced Zulu who told
the tale, looking about him as he spoke, would not tell it all. “Yes,
as a young man, I was there at the time, but I do not remember, I do
not know—the Inkoosi Lundanda (i.e., this Chronicler, so named in past
years by the Zulus) stands on the very place where the king died—His
bed was on the left of the door-hole of the hut,” and so forth, but no
certain word as to the exact reason of this sudden and violent death or
by whom it was caused. The name of that destroyer of a king is for ever
hid.
In this story the actual and immediate cause of the declaration of war
against the British Power is represented as the appearance of the white
goddess, or spirit of the Zulus, who is, or was, called Nomkubulwana or
Inkosazana-y-Zulu, i.e., the Princess of Heaven. The exact
circumstances which led to this decision are not now ascertainable,
though it is known that there was much difference of opinion among the
Zulu Indunas or great captains, and like the writer, many believe that
King Cetewayo was personally averse to war against his old allies, the
English.
The author’s friend, Mr. J. Y. Gibson, at present the representative of
the Union in Zululand, writes in his admirable history: “There was a
good deal of discussion amongst the assembled Zulu notables at Ulundi,
but of how counsel was swayed it is not possible now to obtain a
reliable account.”
The late Mr. F. B. Fynney, F.R.G.S., who also was his friend in days
bygone, and, with the exception of Sir Theophilus Shepstone, who
perhaps knew the Zulus and their language better than any other
official of his day, speaking of this fabled goddess wrote: “I remember
that just before the Zulu War Nomkubulwana appeared revealing something
or other which had a great effect throughout the land.”
The use made of this strange traditional Guardian Angel in the
following tale is not therefore an unsupported flight of fancy, and the
same may be said of many other incidents, such as the account of the
reading of the proclamation annexing the Transvaal at Pretoria in 1877,
which have been introduced to serve the purposes of the romance.
Mameena, who haunts its pages, in a literal as well as figurative
sense, is the heroine of _Child of Storm,_ a book to which she gave her
own poetic title.
THE AUTHOR.
1916.
CHAPTER I.
ALLAN QUATERMAIN MEETS ANSCOMBE
You, my friend, into whose hand, if you live, I hope these scribblings
of mine will pass one day, must well remember the 12th of April of the
year 1877 at Pretoria. Sir Theophilus Shepstone, or Sompseu, for I
prefer to call him by his native name, having investigated the affairs
of the Transvaal for a couple of months or so, had made up his mind to
annex that country to the British Crown. It so happened that I, Allan
Quatermain, had been on a shooting and trading expedition at the back
of the Lydenburg district where there was plenty of game to be killed
in those times. Hearing that great events were toward I made up my
mind, curiosity being one of my weaknesses, to come round by Pretoria,
which after all was not very far out of my way, instead of striking
straight back to Natal. As it chanced I reached the town about eleven
o’clock on this very morning of the 12th of April and, trekking to the
Church Square, proceeded to outspan there, as was usual in the
Seventies. The place was full of people, English and Dutch together,
and I noted that the former seemed very elated and were talking
excitedly, while the latter for the most part appeared to be sullen and
depressed.
Presently I saw a man I knew, a tall, dark man, a very good fellow and
an excellent shot, named Robinson. By the way you knew him also, for
afterwards he was an officer in the Pretoria Horse at the time of the
Zulu war, the corps in which you held a commission. I called to him and
asked what was up.
“A good deal, Allan,” he said as he shook my hand. “Indeed we shall be
lucky if all isn’t up, or something like it, before the day is over.
Shepstone’s Proclamation annexing the Transvaal is going to be read
presently.”
I whistled and asked,
“How will our Boer friends take it? They don’t look very pleased.”
“That’s just what no one knows, Allan. Burgers the President is
squared, they say. He is to have a pension; also he thinks it the only
thing to be done. Most of the Hollanders up here don’t like it, but I
doubt whether they will put out their hands further than they can draw
them back. The question is—what will be the line of the Boers
themselves? There are a lot of them about, all armed, you see, and more
outside the town.”
“What do you think?”
“Can’t tell you. Anything may happen. They may shoot Shepstone and his
staff and the twenty-five policemen, or they may just grumble and go
home. Probably they have no fixed plan.”
“How about the English?”
“Oh! we are all crazy with joy, but of course there is no organization
and many have no arms. Also there are only a few of us.”
“Well,” I answered, “I came here to look for excitement, life having
been dull for me of late, and it seems that I have found it. Still I
bet you those Dutchmen do nothing, except protest. They are slim and
know that the shooting of an unarmed mission would bring England on
their heads.”
“Can’t say, I am sure. They like Shepstone who understands them, and
the move is so bold that it takes their breath away. But as the Kaffirs
say, when a strong wind blows a small spark will make the whole veld
burn. It just depends upon whether the spark is there. If an Englishman
and a Boer began to fight for instance, anything might happen. Goodbye,
I have got a message to deliver. If things go right we might dine at
the European tonight, and if they don’t, goodness knows where we shall
dine.”
I nodded sagely and he departed. Then I went to my wagon to tell the
boys not to send the oxen off to graze at present, for I feared lest
they should be stolen if there were trouble, but to keep them tied to
the trek-tow. After this I put on the best coat and hat I had, feeling
that as an Englishman it was my duty to look decent on such an
occasion, washed, brushed my hair—with me a ceremony without meaning,
for it always sticks up—and slipped a loaded Smith & Wesson revolver
into my inner poacher pocket. Then I started out to see the fun, and
avoiding the groups of surly-looking Boers, mingled with the crowd that
I saw was gathering in front of a long, low building with a broad
stoep, which I supposed, rightly, to be one of the Government offices.
Presently I found myself standing by a tall, rather loosely-built man
whose face attracted me. It was clean-shaven and much bronzed by the
sun, but not in any way good-looking; the features were too irregular
and the nose was a trifle too long for good looks. Still the impression
it gave was pleasant and the steady blue eyes had that twinkle in them
which suggests humour. He might have been thirty or thirty-five years
of age, and notwithstanding his rough dress that consisted mainly of a
pair of trousers held up by a belt to which hung a pistol, and a common
flannel shirt, for he wore no coat, I guessed at once that he was
English-born.
For a while neither of us said anything after the taciturn habit of our
people even on the veld, and indeed I was fully occupied in listening
to the truculent talk of a little party of mounted Boers behind us. I
put my pipe into my mouth and began to hunt for my tobacco, taking the
opportunity to show the hilt of my revolver, so that these men might
see that I was armed. It was not to be found, I had left it in the
wagon.
“If you smoke Boer tobacco,” said the stranger, “I can help you,” and I
noted that the voice was as pleasant as the face, and knew at once that
the owner of it was a gentleman.
“Thank you, Sir. I never smoke anything else,” I answered, whereon he
produced from his trousers pocket a pouch made of lion skin of
unusually dark colour.
“I never saw a lion as black as this, except once beyond Buluwayo on
the borders of Lobengula’s country,” I said by way of making
conversation.
“Curious,” answered the stranger, “for that’s where I shot the brute a
few months ago. I tried to keep the whole skin but the white ants got
at it.”
“Been trading up there?” I asked.
“Nothing so useful,” he said. “Just idling and shooting. Came to this
country because it was one of the very few I had never seen, and have
only been here a year. I think I have had about enough of it, though.
Can you tell me of any boats running from Durban to India? I should
like to see those wild sheep in Kashmir.”
I told him that I did not know for certain as I had never taken any
interest in India, being an African elephant-hunter and trader, but I
thought they did occasionally. Just then Robinson passed by and called
to me—
“They’ll be here presently, Quatermain, but Sompseu isn’t coming
himself.”
“Does your name happen to be Allan Quatermain?” asked the stranger. “If
so I have heard plenty about you up in Lobengula’s country, and of your
wonderful shooting.”
“Yes,” I replied, “but as for the shooting, natives always exaggerate.”
“They never exaggerated about mine,” he said with a twinkle in his eye.
“Anyhow I am very glad to see you in the flesh, though in the spirit
you rather bored me because I heard too much of you. Whenever I made a
particularly bad miss, my gun-bearer, who at some time seems to have
been yours, would say, ‘Ah! if only it had been the Inkosi Macumazahn,
how different would have been the end!’ My name is Anscombe, Maurice
Anscombe,” he added rather shyly. (Afterwards I discovered from a book
of reference that he was a younger son of Lord Mountford, one of the
richest peers in England.)
Then we both laughed and he said—
“Tell me, Mr. Quatermain, if you will, what those Boers are saying
behind us. I am sure it is something unpleasant, but as the only Dutch
I know is ‘Guten Tag’ and ‘Vootsack’ (Good-day and Get out) that takes
me no forwarder.”
“It ought to,” I answered, “for the substance of their talk is that
they object to be ‘vootsacked’ by the British Government as represented
by Sir Theophilus Shepstone. They are declaring that they won the land
‘with their blood’ and want to keep their own flag flying over it.”
“A very natural sentiment,” broke in Anscombe.
“They say that they wish to shoot all damned Englishmen, especially
Shepstone and his people, and that they would make a beginning now were
they not afraid that the damned English Government, being angered,
would send thousands of damned English rooibatjes, that is, red-coats,
and shoot _them_ out of evil revenge.”
“A very natural conclusion,” laughed Anscombe again, “which I should
advise them to leave untested. Hush! Here comes the show.”
I looked and saw a body of blackcoated gentlemen with one officer in
the uniform of a Colonel of Engineers, advancing slowly. I remember
that it reminded me of a funeral procession following the corpse of the
Republic that had gone on ahead out of sight. The procession arrived
upon the stoep opposite to us and began to sort itself out, whereon the
English present raised a cheer and the Boers behind us cursed audibly.
In the middle appeared an elderly gentleman with whiskers and a stoop,
in whom I recognized Mr. Osborn, known by the Kaffirs as Malimati, the
Chief of the Staff. By his side was a tall young fellow, yourself, my
friend, scarcely more than a lad then, carrying papers. The rest stood
to right and left in a formal line. _You_ gave a printed document to
Mr. Osborn who put on his glasses and began to read in a low voice
which few could hear, and I noticed that his hand trembled. Presently
he grew confused, lost his place, found it, lost it again and came to a
full stop.
“A nervous-natured man,” remarked Mr. Anscombe. “Perhaps he thinks that
those gentlemen are going to shoot.”
“That wouldn’t trouble him,” I answered, who knew him well. “His fears
are purely mental.”
That was true since I know that this same Sir Melmoth Osborn as he is
now, as I have told in the book I called _Child of Storm_, swam the
Tugela alone to watch the battle of Indondakasuka raging round him, and
on another occasion killed two Kaffirs rushing at him with a right and
left shot without turning a hair. It was reading this paper that
paralyzed him, not any fear of what might happen.
There followed a very awkward pause such as occurs when a man breaks
down in a speech. The members of the Staff looked at him and at each
other, then behold! you, my friend, grabbed the paper from his hand and
went on reading it in a loud clear voice.
“That young man has plenty of nerve,” said Mr. Anscombe.
“Yes,” I replied in a whisper. “Quite right though. Would have been a
bad omen if the thing had come to a stop.”
Well, there were no more breakdowns, and at last the long document was
finished and the Transvaal annexed. The Britishers began to cheer but
stopped to listen to the formal protest of the Boer Government, if it
could be called a government when everything had collapsed and the
officials were being paid in postage stamps. I can’t remember whether
this was read by President Burgers himself or by the officer who was
called State Secretary. Anyway, it was read, after which there came an
awkward pause as though people were waiting to see something happen. I
looked round at the Boers who were muttering and handling their rifles
uneasily. Had they found a leader I really think that some of the
wilder spirits among them would have begun to shoot, but none appeared
and the crisis passed.
The crowd began to disperse, the English among them cheering and
throwing up their hats, the Dutch with very sullen faces. The
Commissioner’s staff went away as it had come, back to the building
with blue gums in front of it, which afterwards became Government
House, that is all except you. You started across the square alone with
a bundle of printed proclamations in your hand which evidently you had
been charged to leave at the various public offices.
“Let us follow him,” I said to Mr. Anscombe. “He might get into trouble
and want a friend.”
He nodded and we strolled after you unostentatiously. Sure enough you
nearly did get into trouble. In front of the first office door to which
you came, stood a group of Boers, two of whom, big fellows, drew
together with the evident intention of barring your way.
“Mynheeren,” you said, “I pray you to let me pass on the Queen’s
business.”
They took no heed except to draw closer together and laugh insolently.
Again you made your request and again they laughed. Then I saw you lift
your leg and deliberately stamp upon the foot of one of the Boers. He
drew back with an exclamation, and for a moment I believed that he or
his fellow was going to do something violent. Perhaps they thought
better of it, or perhaps they saw us two Englishmen behind and noticed
Anscombe’s pistol. At any rate you marched into the office triumphant
and delivered your document.
“Neatly done,” said Mr. Anscombe.
“Rash,” I said, shaking my head, “very rash. Well, he’s young and must
be excused.”
But from that moment I took a great liking to you, my friend, perhaps
because I wondered whether in your place I should have been daredevil
enough to act in the same way. For you see I am English, and I like to
see an Englishman hold his own against odds and keep up the credit of
the country. Although, of course, I sympathized with the Boers who,
through their own fault, were losing their land without a blow struck.
As you know well, for you were living near Majuba at the time, plenty
of blows were struck afterwards, but of that business I cannot bear to
write. I wonder how it will all work out after I am dead and if I shall
ever learn what happens in the end.
Now I have only mentioned this business of the Annexation and the part
you played in it, because it was on that occasion that I became
acquainted with Anscombe. For you have nothing to do with this story
which is about the destruction of the Zulus, the accomplishment of the
vengeance of Zikali the wizard at the kraal named Finished, and
incidentally, the love affairs of two people in which that old wizard
took a hand, as I did to my sorrow.
It happened that Mr. Anscombe had ridden on ahead of his wagons which
could not arrive at Pretoria for a day or two, and as he found it
impossible to get accommodation at the _European_ or elsewhere, I
offered to let him sleep in mine, or rather alongside in a tent I had.
He accepted and soon we became very good friends. Before the day was
out I discovered that he had served in a crack cavalry regiment, but
resigned his commission some years before. I asked him why.
“Well,” he said, “I came into a good lot of money on my mother’s death
and could not see a prospect of any active service. While the regiment
was abroad I liked the life well enough, but at home it bored me. Too
much society for my taste, and that sort of thing. Also I wanted to
travel; nothing else really amuses me.”
“You will soon get tired of it,” I answered, “and as you are well off,
marry some fine lady and settle down at home.”
“Don’t think so. I doubt if I should ever be happily married, I want
too much. One doesn’t pick up an earthly angel with a cast-iron
constitution who adores you, which are the bare necessities of
marriage, under every bush.” Here I laughed. “Also,” he added, the
laughter going out of his eyes, “I have had enough of fine ladies and
their ways.”
“Marriage is better than scrapes,” I remarked sententiously.
“Quite so, but one might get them both together. No, I shall never
marry, although I suppose I ought as my brothers have no children.”
“Won’t you, my friend,” thought I to myself, “when the skin grows again
on your burnt fingers.”
For I was sure they had been burnt, perhaps more than once. How, I
never learned, for which I am rather sorry for it interests me to study
burnt fingers, if they do not happen to be my own. Then we changed the
subject.
Anscombe’s wagons were delayed for a day or two by a broken axle or a
bog hole, I forget which. So, as I had nothing particular to do until
the Natal post-cart left, we spent the time in wandering about
Pretoria, which did not take us long as it was but a little dorp in
those days, and chatting with all and sundry. Also we went up to
Government House as it was now called, and left cards, or rather wrote
our names in a book for we had no cards, being told by one of the Staff
whom we met that we should do so. An hour later a note arrived asking
us both to dinner that night and telling us very nicely not to mind if
we had no dress things. Of course we had to go, Anscombe rigged up in
my second best clothes that did not fit him in the least, as he was a
much taller man than I am, and a black satin bow that he had bought at
Becket’s Store together with a pair of shiny pumps.
I actually met you, my friend, for the first time that evening, and in
trouble too, though you may have forgotten the incident. We had made a
mistake about the time of dinner, and arriving half an hour too soon,
were shown into a long room that opened on to the verandah. You were
working there, being I believe a private secretary at the time, copying
some despatch; I think you said that which gave an account of the
Annexation. The room was lit by a paraffin lamp behind you, for it was
quite dark and the window was open, or at any rate unshuttered. The
gentleman who showed us in, seeing that you were very busy, took us to
the far end of the room, where we stood talking in the shadow. Just
then a door opened opposite to that which led to the verandah, and
through it came His Excellency the Administrator, Sir Theophilus
Shepstone, a stout man of medium height with a very clever, thoughtful
face, as I have always thought, one of the greatest of African
statesmen. He did not see us, but he caught sight of you and said
testily—
“Are you mad?” To which you answered with a laugh—
“I hope not more than usual, Sir, but why?”
“Have I not told you always to let down the blinds after dark? Yet
there you sit with your head against the light, about the best target
for a bullet that could be imagined.”
“I don’t think the Boers would trouble to shoot me, Sir. If you had
been here I would have drawn the blinds and shut the shutters too,” you
answered, laughing again.
“Go to dress or you will be late for dinner,” he said still rather
sternly, and you went. But when you had gone and after we had been
announced to him, he smiled and added something which I will not repeat
to you even now. I think it was about what you did on the Annexation
day of which the story had come to him.
I mention this incident because whenever I think of Shepstone, whom I
had known off and on for years in the way that a hunter knows a
prominent Government official, it always recurs to my mind, embodying
as it does his caution and appreciation of danger derived from long
experience of the country, and the sternness he sometimes affected
which could never conceal his love towards his friends. Oh! there was
greatness in this man, although they did call him an “African
Talleyrand.” If it had not been so would every native from the Cape to
the Zambesi have known and revered his name, as perhaps that of no
other white man has been revered? But I must get on with my tale and
leave historical discussions to others more fitted to deal with them.
We had a very pleasant dinner that night, although I was so ashamed of
my clothes with smart uniforms and white ties all about me, and
Anscombe kept fidgeting his feet because he was suffering agony from
his new pumps which were a size too small. Everybody was in the best of
spirits, for from all directions came the news that the Annexation was
well received and that the danger of any trouble had passed away. Ah!
if we had only known what the end of it would be!
It was on our way back to the wagon that I chanced to mention to
Anscombe that there was still a herd of buffalo within a few days’ trek
of Lydenburg, of which I had shot two not a month before.
“Are there, by Jove!” he said. “As it happens I never got a buffalo;
always I just missed them in one sense or another, and I can’t leave
Africa with a pair of bought horns. Let’s go there and shoot some.”
I shook my head and replied that I had been idling long enough and must
try to make some money, news at which he seemed very disappointed.
“Look here,” he said, “forgive me for mentioning it, but business is
business. If you’ll come you shan’t be a loser.”
Again I shook my head, whereat he looked more disappointed than before.
“Very well,” he exclaimed, “then I must go alone. For kill a buffalo I
will; that is unless the buffalo kills me, in which case my blood will
be on your hands.”
I don’t know why, but at that moment there came into my mind a
conviction that if he did go alone a buffalo or something would kill
him and that then I should be sorry all my life.
“They are dangerous brutes, much worse than lions,” I said.
“And yet you, who pretend to have a conscience, would expose me to
their rage unprotected and alone,” he replied with a twinkle in his eye
which I could see even by moonlight. “Oh! Quatermain, how I have been
mistaken in your character.”
“Look here, Mr. Anscombe,” I said, “it’s no use. I cannot possibly go
on a shooting expedition with you just now. Only to-day I have heard
from Natal that my boy is not well and must undergo an operation which
will lay him up for quite six weeks, and may be dangerous. So I must
get down to Durban before it takes place. After that I have a contract
in Matabeleland whence you have just come, to take charge of a trading
store there for a year; also perhaps to try to shoot a little ivory for
myself. So I am fully booked up till, let us say, October, 1878, that
is for about eighteen months, by which time I daresay I shall be dead.”
“Eighteen months,” replied this cool young man. “That will suit me very
well. I will go on to India as I intended, then home for a bit and will
meet you on the 1st of October, 1878, after which we will proceed to
the Lydenburg district and shoot those buffalo, or if they have
departed, other buffalo. Is it a bargain?”
I stared at him, thinking that the Administrator’s champagne had got
into his head.
“Nonsense,” I exclaimed. “Who knows where you will be in eighteen
months? Why, by that time you will have forgotten all about me.”
“If I am alive and well, on the 1st of October, 1878, I shall be
exactly where I am now, upon this very square in Pretoria, with a
wagon, or wagons, prepared for a hunting trip. But as not unnaturally
you have doubts upon that point, I am prepared to pay forfeit if I
fail, or even if circumstances cause you to fail.”
Here he took a cheque-book from his letter-case and spread it out on
the little table in the tent, on which there were ink and a pen,
adding—
“Now, Mr. Quatermain, will it meet your views if I fill this up for
£250?”
“No,” I answered; “taking everything into consideration the sum is
excessive. But if you do not mind facing the risks of my
non-appearance, to say nothing of your own, you may make it £50.”
“You are very moderate in your demands,” he said as he handed me the
cheque which I put in my pocket, reflecting that it would just pay for
my son’s operation.
“And you are very foolish in your offers,” I replied. “Tell me, why do
you make such crack-brained arrangements?”
“I don’t quite know. Something in me seems to say that we _shall_ make
this expedition and that it will have a very important effect upon my
life. Mind you, it is to be to the Lydenburg district and nowhere else.
And now I am tired, so let’s turn in.”
Next morning we parted and went our separate ways.