“You would love London more,” he said earnestly. “And London would love you. You would be a famous beauty in any capital of Europe. You would have the world at your feet, Meriem.”
“Good night!” she repeated, and left him.
The Hon. Morison selected a cigarette from his crested case, lighted it, blew a thin line of blue smoke toward the moon, and smiled.
XVIII
Meriem and Bwana were sitting on the verandah together the following day when a horseman appeared in the distance riding across the plain toward the bungalow. Bwana shaded his eyes with his hand and gazed out toward the oncoming rider. He was puzzled. Strangers were few in Central Africa. Even the blacks for a distance of many miles in every direction were well known to him. No white man came within a hundred miles that word of his coming did not reach Bwana long before the stranger. His every move was reported to the big Bwana—just what animals he killed and how many of each species, how he killed them, too, for Bwana would not permit the use of prussic acid or strychnine; and how he treated his “boys.”
Several European sportsmen had been turned back to the coast by the big Englishman’s orders because of unwarranted cruelty to their black followers, and one, whose name had long been heralded in civilized communities as that of a great sportsman, was driven from Africa with orders never to return when Bwana found that his big bag of fourteen lions had been made by the diligent use of poisoned bait.
The result was that all good sportsmen and all the natives loved and respected him. His word was law where there had never been law before. There was scarce a head man from coast to coast who would not heed the big Bwana’s commands in preference to those of the hunters who employed them, and so it was easy to turn back any undesirable stranger—Bwana had simply to threaten to order his boys to desert him.
But there was evidently one who had slipped into the country unheralded. Bwana could not imagine who the approaching horseman might be. After the manner of frontier hospitality the globe round he met the newcomer at the gate, welcoming him even before he had dismounted. He saw a tall, well knit man of thirty or over, blonde of hair and smooth shaven. There was a tantalizing familiarity about him that convinced Bwana that he should be able to call the visitor by name, yet he was unable to do so. The newcomer was evidently of Scandinavian origin—both his appearance and accent denoted that. His manner was rough but open. He made a good impression upon the Englishman, who was wont to accept strangers in this wild and savage country at their own valuation, asking no questions and assuming the best of them until they proved themselves undeserving of his friendship and hospitality.
“It is rather unusual that a white man comes unheralded,” he said, as they walked together toward the field into which he had suggested that the traveler might turn his pony. “My friends, the natives, keep us rather well-posted.”
“It is probably due to the fact that I came from the south,” explained the stranger, “that you did not hear of my coming. I have seen no village for several marches.”
“No, there are none to the south of us for many miles,” replied Bwana. “Since Kovudoo deserted his country I rather doubt that one could find a native in that direction under two or three hundred miles.”
Bwana was wondering how a lone white man could have made his way through the savage, unhospitable miles that lay toward the south. As though guessing what must be passing through the other’s mind, the stranger vouchsafed an explanation.
“I came down from the north to do a little trading and hunting,” he said, “and got way off the beaten track. My head man, who was the only member of the safari who had ever before been in the country, took sick and died. We could find no natives to guide us, and so I simply swung back straight north. We have been living on the fruits of our guns for over a month. Didn’t have an idea there was a white man within a thousand miles of us when we camped last night by a water hole at the edge of the plain. This morning I started out to hunt and saw the smoke from your chimney, so I sent my gun bearer back to camp with the good news and rode straight over here myself. Of course I’ve heard of you—everybody who comes into Central Africa does—and I’d be mighty glad of permission to rest up and hunt around here for a couple of weeks.”
“Certainly,” replied Bwana. “Move your camp up close to the river below my boys’ camp and make yourself at home.”
They had reached the verandah now and Bwana was introducing the stranger to Meriem and My Dear, who had just come from the bungalow’s interior.
“This is Mr. Hanson,” he said, using the name the man had given him. “He is a trader who has lost his way in the jungle to the south.”
My Dear and Meriem bowed their acknowledgments of the introduction. The man seemed rather ill at ease in their presence. His host attributed this to the fact that his guest was unaccustomed to the society of cultured women, and so found a pretext to quickly extricate him from his seemingly unpleasant position and lead him away to his study and the brandy and soda which were evidently much less embarrassing to Mr. Hanson.
When the two had left them Meriem turned toward My Dear.
“It is odd,” she said, “but I
