There was a crackle of undergrowth far below, then a sound as of men splashing through the river which ran high and swollen; but Dane was short of ammunition, and did not consider it advisable to fire blindly into the mist. He felt himself quivering with suspense. Staring down the steep face of the bluff, he waited, ready to drive a bullet through the head of the first a.s.sailant who rose out of the vapor. Then the noise ceased altogether, and the ensuing silence became maddening. How long this lasted Dane could never tell, but he grew cold and hot by turns as he waited, until a sound that was wholly unexpected became faintly audible. It was not the rustle made by the pa.s.sage of a stealthy foe, but more resembled the approach of men marching in some order. While the blood pulsed within him he saw that the camp boys glanced from him to the vapor under the influence of an overwhelming excitement. But though the sound came nearer, the mist, which was thicker than ever, still hid all below, until a negro's head rose out of it, and Dane saw that he carried a hammock pole. Then a wild shout went up, and Monday's yell rang through all the rest:

"Cappy Maxwell lib!"

There was an end of all discipline. Weapons went down clattering, and famishing men, who during many weary days had vainly scanned the forest, poured out through the stockade gate and raced madly down the slope to welcome those who had brought them the long expected help. For a moment Dane stood stupidly still, almost too dazed to realize what had come about, vacantly wondering how Maxwell had forced a pa.s.sage without firing a shot. Then the contagion seized him and, leaping down from the stockade, he followed the rest. His perceptions were yet clouded by a bewildering sense of relief, but it struck him that the hammock-bearers came on in an ominous silence. When he reached them, Amadu looked at him curiously, as though he would have spoken, but, brushing past, Dane tore the wet matting aside.

Then he stepped suddenly backward, breathless and aghast. Maxwell lay huddled in a limp heap upon the drenched canvas, almost unrecognizable.

His face was distorted and shrunken, his jacket reddened in patches, and his lips were cracked and black. His eyes had grown dim and gla.s.sy, and when he spoke his very voice seemed changed.

"Have I altered so much that you don't know me, comrade?"

"You have brought us our lives, Carsluith, but G.o.d knows I would rather have stayed on here forever than to see you come like this," said Dane.

Maxwell moved a little, and there was the ghost of a smile in his half-dosed eyes.

"I really couldn't help it. I hardly think I shall trouble you long. A bushman back in the forest shot me."

"Don't!" Dane answered hoa.r.s.ely. "It can't be so bad as that. I won't believe it!"

Maxwell let his hand fall into his comrade's palm as though to convince him.

"I am afraid it is. I have been holding on to my life desperately--because I wanted to see you before I went," he said brokenly.

The touch of his clammy hand struck a cold chill through Dane, who, turning abruptly, bade the hammock boys carry their burden with all speed to the tent. What he saw there convinced him that Carsluith Maxwell had made his last adventurous march, and that the best to be hoped for him was a painless pa.s.sing to his rest. Maxwell also knew it, and though Dane could say nothing because of the choking sensation in his throat, he looked up at him and nodded.

"Hopeless, isn't it? This case is beyond your skill," he said faintly.

"We have been good comrades, but even the best partnership can't last forever. Still, you might do what little you can, for there are things I want to tell you."

Dane went out to seek for his case of drugs, and just then, as if in mockery, a blaze of sunshine beat down on cl.u.s.tering negroes and rain-beaten camp. Swayed by a sudden gust of grief and pa.s.sion, the man shook his fist at the river and cursed what lay beneath it. It seemed to his overwrought fancy that the stain of blood was on the gold, the blood of the staunchest comrade any man ever starved or fought beside. Though their friendship had been neither lengthy nor demonstrative, the hardships and perils undergone had woven a bond between them that knit them as close as brothers. Nevertheless, Dane had yet to learn all that his comrade had done for him.

Maxwell slept or lapsed into unconsciousness all afternoon, but he revived a little by nightfall, and beckoned his comrade near him. The night was black and hot. Because Dane had given stringent orders, no negro's voice reached them, and they seemed utterly alone, hemmed in by the darkness of Africa. Dane could hear only the river moan below, and he found it necessary to cough huskily, for again, as he remembered one other night when they sat there together filled with bright hopes for the future, an obstruction gathered in his throat. Maxwell told him of his journey, in a low, strained voice, halting for breath at frequent intervals, and every word burned itself into the listener's memory.

Maxwell always put things vividly and tersely.

"It was a wonderful march; but I have let you talk too much," said Dane, when he concluded. "So it was by Lilian's help you fitted out the expedition, and she rode all night across the mountains to warn Chatterton. It was what one might have expected. G.o.d bless her!"

"Amen," said Maxwell, with full solemnity. "The talking can't make much difference now--I shall have a long rest to-morrow. There is still something I must say, and even if I am blundering it seems best to speak. We are very blind when we think we see most clearly, Hilton."

Dane looked at the speaker with some bewilderment as he let his head fall back on the matting, and lay still gasping. Five long minutes pa.s.sed before he spoke again.

"Will you raise me a little, Hilton? My breath comes short."

Dane slipped one arm beneath his shoulder before Maxwell continued.

"It is strange that neither of us guessed; but all was for the best, maybe. The knowledge might have severed our friendship--I hardly think much more than that would part us now. Though twice I came near doing so, I never told you that I asked Miss Chatterton to marry me."

It was only by an effort that Dane held his arm motionless so that it still supported the dying man. It seemed the strangest of all the strange happenings that they two should have braved so much together for the love of the same woman.

Maxwell saw his blank surprise, and smiled feebly.

"You asked Lilian Chatterton to marry you?" Dane repeated dazedly.

"Very foolish of me, was it not? But there is no reason for such surprise that I should desire it; and I promptly discovered my folly. I also gathered there was somebody who might please her better. Now you have the simple fact, but as there is an inference you must listen still. How could I have guessed the truth--after what I saw at the Hallows Brig? It appeared impossible to me that any man who had won Miss Chatterton's approval could find pleasure in----"

"Stop!" cried Dane, striving to hold his excitement in check. "You were mistaken, Carsluith. It was only out of pity, and because the imprisonment of her brother would bring dest.i.tution upon her, that I met that girl."

"I can take your word," Maxwell said quietly. "That was the one point which troubled me. Strange, isn't it, that on my last night I should talk in this fashion; but when one's grasp on material things grows feeble the others a.s.sume their due value. Yes, I loved Lilian Chatterton--as I love her still--though it was madness to think that she, fresh and bright with innocent light-heartedness, could stoop to mate with a somber man like me. But raise me a little. I can't see you clearly, Hilton."

Dane did as he was bidden, and Maxwell continued:

"I want you to remember that it was my fault, Hilton. Miss Chatterton never suspected until I spoke that night we pa.s.sed you at Hallows Brig.

I had a suspicion you admired her before that time, but it vanished completely then. You see how each trivial incident fitted in. She was very gentle, but I knew her decision was final--and still I did not see the truth."

As Maxwell looked into his comrade's eyes a quiver ran through Dane.

"I am bewildered, and it seems brutal to ask you questions now," he said huskily. "But you have more to tell."

Maxwell's eyes signified a.s.sent, but he paused to gather breath.

"It is only because I am dying. Otherwise, you would never have heard this from me, but it seems best for both that you should know. It was naturally not for--my--sake Miss Chatterton made that midnight journey."

Maxwell smiled wistfully as he let his head sink back again; and Dane, drawing his arm away, said nothing for a few minutes. It was wonderful news he had heard, but the price which had been paid for his safety was unbearably heavy.

"You are a very staunch friend--and this makes it the harder for me to lose you. If only there was anything a man could do to prevent it!

Carsluith, rouse yourself! I can't lose you!"

"It makes it the easier for me to go," said Maxwell. "If what I hope for happens, you will always be kind to her, Hilton. Just moisten my lips with the brandy."

There was silence afterward, for Maxwell lay breathing unevenly with his eyes closed, and Dane was swayed in turn by satisfaction and a crushing sense of loss. He suffered from remorse as well. Maxwell dying had revealed a side of his nature his comrade now knew he should have seen manifested in his actions if not in his words.

It was the sufferer who first spoke again.

"It was Rideau who brought misfortune upon us from the beginning, and to judge by the rifle the bushman left, he was the instigator of the last attack."

"May worse befall me if I do not repay him fully before I leave Africa!"

Dane said, solemnly.

Maxwell appeared to smile as he had always done when his partner was unusually emphatic.

"He had excuses, Hilton, and I am past all desire for vengeance now. For one thing he recognized the senorita's gift to you. Still, for the sake of Miss Castro--and she promised to help me--I would advise you not to let him go free to continue his persecution of Dom Pedro. We both owe her a good deal, and I would like you, if possible, to tell her so. You might add my respectful remembrance, too. There is yet another point.

Whatever my share of this gold may be, I bequeath it to you, with my blessing, on condition that you send the boys back happy, with as much cloth as they can carry, to wherever they came from. The poor devils served us faithfully. When I have rested, I would like to see Amadu.

Then I think my work will be finished, and I can only await the summons to answer for what I have failed in. It will come before sunrise, Hilton."

An hour pa.s.sed slowly while Dane listened to the ticking of his watch; then Maxwell opened his eyes again, and Dane beckoned to Amadu, who stood waiting without. He came in, still wearing the straight blade which had struck the murderer down, and stood like a bronze statue beside his master.

"I want to thank you for faithful service, Amadu," Maxwell said weakly.

"You shall have the gun--you have won it--and whatever else you wish besides. We made two great journeys together, but I cannot take you with me now."

The big man bent until Maxwell's thin hand rested on his head. What they said Dane failed to comprehend, but Amadu seemed to do him homage, and when he rose, he moved slowly, with raised palms and head bent, backward out of the tent. Then as Maxwell's eyes closed he crouched in the entrance, with the steel, which caught the lamplight, lying naked across his knee.

"Often I lib for watch them white man so," he said softly. "No djinn or devil go near him now."