“Marie,” he said, “I have had rather serious news from Mr. Durnovo.”
“Yes?” rather breathlessly.
“It will not be safe for you to stay at Msala—you must take the children down to Loango.”
“Does he say that?” she asked, in her rapid, indistinct English.
“Who?”
“Vic—Mr. Durnovo.”
“No,” replied Oscard, wondering at the question.
“He does not say anything about me or the children?” persisted Marie.
“No.”
“And yet he says there is danger?”
There was a strange, angry look in her great dark eyes which Oscard did not understand.
“He says that the tribes are within two days’ march of his camp.”
She gave an unpleasant little laugh.
“He does not seem to have thought of us at Msala.”
“I suppose,” said Oscard, folding the letter and putting it in his pocket, “that he thinks it is my duty to do what is best for Msala. That is why I asked you to speak to me.”
Marie did not seem to be listening. She was looking over his head up the river, in the direction from whence the message had come, and there was a singular hopelessness in her eyes.
“I cannot leave until he tells me to,” she said doggedly.
Guy Oscard took the pipe from his lips and examined the bowl of it attentively for a moment.
“Excuse me,” he said gently, “but I insist on your leaving with the children tomorrow. I will send two men down with you, and will give you a letter to Miss Gordon, who will see to your wants at Loango.”
She looked at him with a sort of wonder.
“You insist?” she said.
He raised his eyes to meet hers.
“Yes,” he answered.
She bowed her head in grave submission, and made a little movement as if to go.
“It is chiefly on account of the children,” he added.
Quite suddenly she smiled, and seemed to check a sob in her throat.
“Yes,” said she softly, “I know.” And she went into the house.
The next morning brought further rumours of approaching danger, and it seemed certain that this news must have filtered through Durnovo’s fortified camp further up the river. This time the report was more definite. There were Arabs leading the tribes, and rumour further stated that an organised descent on Msala was intended. And yet there was no word from Durnovo—no sign to suggest that he had even thought of securing the safety of his housekeeper and the few aged negroes in charge of Msala. This news only strengthened Oscard’s determination to send Marie down to the coast, and he personally superintended their departure before taking his seat in the canoe for the upriver voyage. The men of his division had all preceded him, and no one except his own boatmen knew that Msala was to be abandoned.
There was in Guy Oscard a dogged sense of justice which sometimes amounted to a cruel mercilessness. When he reached the camp he deliberately withheld from Durnovo the news that the Msala household had left the river station. Moreover, he allowed Victor Durnovo to further inculpate himself. He led him on to discuss the position of affairs, and the half-breed displayed an intimate knowledge of the enemy’s doings. There was only one inference to be drawn, namely, that Victor Durnovo had abandoned his people at Msala with the same deliberation which had characterised his cowardly faithlessness to Jack Meredith.
Guy Oscard was a slow thinking man, although quick in action. He pieced all these things together. The pieces did not seem to fit just then—the construction was decidedly chaotic in its architecture. But later on the cornerstone of knowledge propped up the edifice, and everything slipped into its place.
Despite disquieting rumours, the expedition was allowed to depart from the river-camp unmolested. For two days they marched through the gloomy forest with all speed. On the third day one of the men of Durnovo’s division captured a native who had been prowling on their heels in the line of march. Victor Durnovo sent captor and prisoner to the front of the column, with a message to Oscard that he would come presently and see what information was to be abstracted from the captive. At the midday halt Durnovo accordingly joined Oscard, and the man was brought before them. He was hardly worthy of the name, so disease-stricken, so miserable and half-starved was he.
At first Durnovo and he did not seem to be able to get to an understanding at all; but presently they hit upon a dialect in which they possessed a small common knowledge.
His news was not reassuring. In dealing with numbers he rarely condescended to the use of less than four figures, and his conception of a distance was very vague.
“Ask him,” said Oscard, “whether he knows that there is an Englishman with a large force on the top of a mountain far to the east.”
Durnovo translated, and the man answered with a smile. In reply to some further question the negro launched into a detailed narrative, to which Durnovo listened eagerly.
“He says,” said the latter to Oscard, “that the Plateau is in possession of the Masais. It was taken two months ago. The blacks were sold as slaves; the two Englishmen were tortured to death and their bodies burnt.”
Oscard never moved a muscle.
“Ask him if he is quite sure about it.”
“Quite,” replied Durnovo, after questioning. “By God! Oscard; what a pity! But I always knew it. I knew it was quite hopeless from the first.”
He passed his brown hand nervously over his face, where the perspiration stood in beads.
“Yes,” said Oscard slowly; “but I think we will go on all the same.”
“What!” cried Durnovo. “Go on?”
“Yes,” replied Guy Oscard; “we will go on, and if I find you trying to desert I’ll shoot you down like a rat.”
XXVI
In Peril
He made no sign; the fires of Hell were round him,
The Pit of Hell below.
“About as bad as they can be, sir. That’s how things is.” Joseph set down his master’s breakfast on the
