Long Live the King!

As I have said, the commissariat stood in great need of replenishment. Being anxious to give the animals a rest, it was agreed that the party should remain in camp for another day. This being so, Bertram took his rifle and started off into the mountains in search of game. When he had been gone about half an hour, Moreas, who had been in one of his tantrums all day, also decided to set out upon the same errand. Climbing the side of the mountain, he, in his turn, disappeared from view, and Max, who had been watching him, returned to the tailoring operations upon which he had hitherto been busily engaged. As he worked, the recollection of a quarrel that had taken place in the morning between Moreas and Bertram returned to his mind. It had been brewing for a long time, and, had it not been for Max's own repeated interventions, it would long since have taken a serious turn. Both men were equally ready to fight, but Max was aware that Bertram, good shot as he was, when pitted against such a man as Moreas, would stand but a small chance of success. He was still pondering over this, when another thought occurred to him. It placed a more serious aspect upon the case. He liked Bertram, and he had no intention of allowing the Spaniard to do him a mischief, if he could help it. He accordingly rose, stowed away his work in his saddle-bag, and, having explained to the two other men, that he felt inclined for a walk, and was going after Moreas, he also climbed the side of the hill. On reaching the summit he looked anxiously about him for the man he was seeking, both on the neighbouring hills and also in the valley below. For a long time, however, he was unsuccessful. Then a mile or so distant, along the hillside to the right, his quick eye detected a small black object, creeping slowly but steadily towards the west. He was evidently stalking something, and Max, remembering Moreas' skill with the rifle, resolved to follow him, in the hope that he might be of some service in helping to carry home the game.

Seeing the slow pace at which the other was travelling, it was not very long before he was close behind him. Moreas was now crouching behind a rock, as if he were anxious that the game he was pursuing, and which Max could not see, should not become aware of his presence. A moment later he rose and peeped over the boulder, at the same time lifting his gun into position. Being some distance above him, it was possible for Max to see over his head into the valley in the direction in which the rifle was pointing. Then, to his horrified amazement, he beheld Bertram leave a little coppice, and walk out into a piece of open ground, a couple of hundred yards or so distant from where the other man was waiting. In a flash the whole truth dawned upon him. It was Bertram whom Moreas was stalking so carefully, and it was Bertram he intended to shoot. He was about to call out in the hope of diverting the Spaniard's attention, or of warning the Englishman; but, before he could do so, the other had pulled the trigger. There was a report, and when Max, who had closed his eyes, as if he were afraid of what he might be called upon to witness, opened them again, Moreas was once more crouching down behind the rock, while Bertram was examining something, evidently, the splash of a bullet, on the face of a boulder behind him. Moreas had failed in his attempt; but the man he had aimed at had been standing directly before the rock, and it could only have been by a few inches that he had missed him.

"This is a terrible state of things," said Max to himself, when he had recovered a little from the shock Moreas' treachery had caused him. "What on earth am I to do?"

At first he felt inclined to descend hastily upon Moreas, and accuse him, there and then, of attempting to murder the Englishman. A moment later, however, the folly of this proceeding became apparent to him. Had he done so, it would have been necessary for the others to know of it, and, in that case, it was very probable that Moreas' life would have paid forfeit. This, for a variety of reasons, was undesirable. At the same time, he felt that he must protect his friend against any similar attacks. Bearing this in mind he watched Moreas' movements with the greatest anxiety. He was not at all certain that the latter, finding that his first shot had proved unsuccessful, might not attempt a second. Moreas, however, did not do so; he knew that Bertram, once placed upon his guard, would be on the look out, and he had no intention of allowing himself to be captured red-handed, which would certainly have been his fate had he missed. He accordingly remained in hiding until the Englishman had passed round the bend of the hill and was safely on his way back to the camp. Then he emerged, and, in his turn, retraced his steps by the way he had come, in so doing passing within fifty yards of the spot where Max lay concealed. When the latter reached the camp he found the evening meal prepared, and the two men amicably seated, side by side, near the fire, to all appearances better friends than they had been for some time past. Max fancied that Moreas looked rather apprehensively at him as he came into the firelight; but whatever he may have thought, he said nothing to him, either then or on a subsequent occasion, concerning that mysterious shot upon the hill. Bertram also followed his example, and, though he had plenty of opportunity, he did not once refer, either directly or indirectly, to the attempt that had been made upon his life that afternoon.

Next day they resumed their march, and twenty-four hours later left the mountains behind them, and once more entered a zone of fertile country. This continued for upwards of three hundred miles, until Moreas informed them that he felt sure they must be approaching the second range, that it would be necessary for them to cross before they could reach the country in which the old woman had declared that the diamonds existed. This proved to be the case, for the next day a faint blue haze on the northern horizon showed them that they were nearing what they might consider the half-way house to their destination. It was true that they had been warned that the road over these mountains would be likely to prove a serious obstacle in their path, and also that the long stretches of desert on the further side were good for neither man nor beast. They did not give that much consideration, however. Great though the present difficulties might be, the reward at the end would be much larger, if all they had been told were true. When, however, they reached the foot of the mountains they were able to realise something of what lay before them. Unlike the other range through which they had passed a fortnight before, this one consisted of high, rocky peaks, where even a goat could scarcely retain his footing, and dark, gloomy cañons, both almost grassless and entirely destitute of water. What was worse, their animals by this time were sadly out of condition, and often it was as much as the poor beasts could do to drag one foot after the other. Still they persevered. The Spaniards grumbled incessantly, it is true. Moreas, on the other hand, scarcely spoke at all, while Max thought he could even detect on the Englishman's handsome face a growing belief that they had attempted something that was beyond the power of human beings to accomplish. Whatever his feelings may have been, however, he never once permitted a word of complaint to pass his lips. The outlook was by no means a cheerful one. After the privations the party had been through so far, it seemed hard, indeed, that they should not be able to reach the goal for which they had been aiming. With such overwhelming odds against them, however, it seemed impossible that they could hope to succeed. But they were slow to own themselves beaten. Indeed, it was not until they stood face to face with almost certain death, that they realised how futile it was to continue the fight. Then, in one of the loneliest cañons of all that lonely range, they called a halt and took counsel with each other. The two Spaniards, as on a previous occasion, were openly mutinous, and showered black looks on everyone, each other included. Remembering what he had seen a fortnight before, Max never once permitted Moreas to leave the camp unaccompanied. The man's temper was by this time in such a condition that it was within the bounds of possibility that he would have chosen a vantage on the hill side above, and have shot them down without either a second thought, or a feeling of compunction.

"It seems to me we're in a pretty sort of a fix," said Bertram after some little discussion had taken place on their position. "The animals are giving way, and if we go on like this, it won't be long before we all follow suit. Now the question for us to decide is, what are we going to do. If the remainder of you are desirous of pushing ahead, then I'm willing to do the same. If not, let us turn back without further parleying. The matter, however, must be decided once and for all. There has been too much grumbling lately, and it seems to me the best thing we can do is to hold a meeting now, and settle everything. What do you say, Mortimer?"

"I quite agree with you," Max answered, "and so I feel sure does Moreas. Let us talk the question over like sensible men, and come to some definite decision."

Popular feeling being in favour of a discussion, they sat down by the camp fire and talked it over, as quietly and rationally as the racial tendencies of the various members of the party would permit. The result was as follows.

It was decided that, while it was out of the question that the entire party could succeed in reaching the spot for which they were making, it was still possible that two men, taking with them the best of the animals, might be able to do so. But who those two men should be was rather more difficult to determine. It was certain that Moreas must go, since he was the only man who was acquainted with the secret, and he was scarcely likely to impart it to anyone else. On his side, however, he flatly declined even to think of taking either of the two Spaniards with him. They might fume and curse as much as they pleased, he said, but their bluster would not alter his decision. The man who went with him must be either Bertram or Max. For his own part he professed not to care very much which of them it was.

A solemn silence descended upon the group.

"Perhaps we had better draw lots for it," began Bertram. "I may say that, if I am chosen, I am perfectly willing to go; if it falls upon you, Mortimer, I have no doubt you will not raise any objection. What do you say?"

"Let us draw lots for it by all means," Max answered. "But how shall we decide?"

One of the Spaniards, true son of a gambling race, immediately produced a dice box, which he still carried with him, long after he had parted with other apparently more valuable possessions. By the flickering light of the camp fire, the two men threw, to decide which should have the honour of courting what, each must have felt in his own heart, was almost certain death. As a result Max was declared to be the winner.

"It is settled then," said Moreas, with what Max could not help feeling was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "You are perfectly satisfied? Well, to-morrow, Señor Mortimer, if you are prepared, we will push on together, and see what fate has in store for us."

"I shall be quite ready," Max replied. "And, as I understand it, the remainder of the party will retrace their steps to the fertile country at the entrance to the Ranges, and await our coming there."

"That is how I understand it also," replied Bertram, looking steadily at Max. "We shall give you three months' grace, and if you have not returned by the end of that time, we shall conclude that you are dead, and will either attempt to reach you, or return to civilisation, as circumstances may dictate."

"That is the arrangement," said Moreas.

After that the party lapsed into silence once more.

As nobody seemed inclined for conversation when these details had been settled, they rolled themselves up in their blankets and said good-night to the world. Silence had not taken possession of the camp more than half an hour before Max felt the pressure of a hand upon his arm. He rolled over to find Bertram making signals to him. He accordingly arose and followed him to a spot at some little distance from the camp. When they had assured themselves that they were not being followed, the Englishman spoke.

"Your Royal Highness," he said; then, seeing that the other was about to interrupt him, held up his hand. "Pardon me, but for a few minutes it is necessary that I should forget our supposed equality, and remember that you are a royal personage, and I only the son of a Yorkshire gentleman. I'm not as a rule a man who thinks very much of titles, but there is no getting away from the fact that a man who is, or should be, going to rule a country, is called upon to take more care of his life than other people. When we drew lots to-night as to who should accompany Moreas, I hoped and believed that chance would favour myself. Fate, however, willed otherwise. Now, sir, what I am going to say to you is this; if you will consent to allow me to go forward in your place, it will be conferring an honour upon me for which I shall be grateful to you to my dying day. I can easily make an excuse to Moreas, and convince him that we have come to the arrangement together. Nobody will suspect, and so you will be saved from doing, what I really and truly believe to be, a wrong act."

Max was more touched by the other's words than he could say.

"I thank you," he said, holding out his hand. "I know that you speak out of kindness to me, but what you ask is impossible – quite impossible! Really it is! The lot has fallen upon me, and, indeed, I can only ask you to believe that I would not have it otherwise. I am quite willing to go forward, and, when all is said and done, I believe I am the best person for the work. You and Moreas are not particularly friendly, as you must be aware, and there is no saying what might happen if you were thrown so much into each other's society, without any one to see fair play."

"You are thinking of the day when he fired that rifle at me in the mountains, I suppose," Bertram replied. "I suppose you did not think I was aware of it. I was, however, and I knew also that you were behind him. If it hadn't been for that fact, I should have taxed him with his treachery on my return to the camp. But we are wasting time. Is it quite impossible for me to make you change your mind?"

"Quite," said Max. "Though I am none the less grateful to you for your kindness in offering to go, I cannot accept it."

"Are you quite sure that no argument on my part will make you alter your decision?"

"I am quite sure," Max replied. "My mind is irrevocably made up."

"So be it," returned Bertram quietly. "In that case, I suppose, we may as well return to the camp. Should Moreas have seen us leave it, he may have got the idea into his head that you are scheming against him. That would be a bad beginning as far as you are concerned."

They accordingly retraced their steps, and, so far as they knew, reached the camp without anyone being the wiser that they had absented themselves from it.

Next morning, as soon as it was light, the camp was roused by Moreas. The best mules had been set apart for the onward journey, and, as soon as the morning meal had been eaten, and the beasts were saddled, the two adventurers prepared to set off. When all the final arrangements had been made, and the place of meeting, should the pair return, settled, it was time for them to bid the rest of the party farewell. It was a solemn moment in their lives, and every one seemed aware of the fact. Moreas shook hands with the two Spaniards first, and then approached Bertram.

"Farewell, Señor," he said, with a bow. "I trust I shall have good news for you when next I see you."

Max observed that they did not shake hands. The hatred that existed between them was so mutual and so strong, that even the fact that, in all human probability, they would never see each other again, was not sufficient to make them part friends. Then came Max's turn. He shook hands with Antonio and Diego, and, having done so, approached the man for whom he entertained such a genuine liking.

"Good-bye," he said. Then looking him straight in the face, he added, "If by any chance I should not return, you know whom to make acquainted with my fate. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," answered the other, his voice shaking as he said it. Then, seeing that Moreas was out of earshot, he added, "For heaven's sake, your Highness, run no undue risks. If you will not think of yourself, think of those in England who love you."

"You may be sure I shall do that," Max replied. Then, uttering another hearty good-bye, and shaking Bertram once more by the hand, he set off in pursuit of his partner.

As they turned the corner of the cañon, he looked back and waved his hand. Bertram was standing where he had left him, still looking after him.

CHAPTER XVI

The first day's march, after they left the main camp, could not be said to have been, in any sense of the word, either a pleasant or a comfortable one. Both the men were ill at ease, not only with their present lot, but also with each other. Moreas entertained the unpleasant suspicion that Max, while he never failed in his duty, was, in reality, more in sympathy with Bertram than with himself. The anxiety of what was before them lay heavily upon their minds, while there was a nameless, indescribable something that Max could not understand, and yet which stood like a shadow between them. It soon became apparent to him that the dangers to which they were to be subjected had not been in the least exaggerated. For no less than four days they continued on through the mountains, and it was only after incredible hardships that they managed to reach the plains on the other side. Here, however, as it turned out, they were in scarcely a better plight. As they expected, on leaving the mountains they found themselves confronted by a stretch of desert. To attempt to cross it seemed to be to run too great a risk, and yet to turn back, when they were so near the end, seemed an equally foolish undertaking. With a dogged determination, worthy of a better cause, and with which Max had never credited him, Moreas decided in favour of pushing on. It was a rash decision, for with every hour the condition of the mules was becoming more and more pitiable, while the men themselves were in scarcely a better case. Still Moreas remained in a state of sullenness. When the animals were no longer able to bear their weights, he got off and walked sulkily beside his own beast, grudged them the delay when they rested, and after they had prepared their camp at night, went so far as to insinuate that Max had been keeping the mules back to serve his own purpose. It was indeed a dreary resting-place they had that night. There was no shelter; no water, save that they had brought with them; no food to revive their starving animals, save a few mouthfuls of corn and half a dozen handfuls of parched grass. As soon as his own meal was eaten, Moreas rolled himself up in his blankets and went to sleep, leaving Max by the fire, watching its dull glow and wondering whether he was destined to come safely out of this perilous adventure or not. Overhead the great stars shone brilliantly, while the low wind moaned like a banshee across the waste. He thought of those who loved him in England, of Ottilie, and later of myself. At such a moment his curiosity was excited as to what I had done when I discovered he had left Rio.

Next morning, as soon as it was daylight, they saddled up once more, and continued their march. For the moment the country, which consisted of barren plains in front, behind, and on either side, showed no signs of changing. As on the previous day, Moreas stalked grimly in front, never looking behind him, and to all appearances oblivious of his companion's presence.

One thing was growing more certain every hour, and that was the fact that the hardships through which they had passed had combined, with natural greed, to turn Moreas' brain.

"I shall have to keep my eyes on him, day and night," said Max to himself. "In his present condition there is no saying what he may do."

This knowledge added a fresh horror to the situation. It is bad enough to be starving anywhere, but it is a thousand times worse to have to do so when alone in the wilds with a madman. As soon as they got into camp that night, the second on that awful plain, Moreas commenced to walk in circles round the fire, talking to himself meanwhile, and shaking his fist at the darkening desert. When Max offered him a portion of the dried biltong– all that remained to them in the way of food – he refused it with an oath, adding, that he could not eat when they should be pushing towards their destination!

"You won't be strong enough to reach it at all, if you don't eat something," said Max philosophically.

He, himself, made as good a meal as possible, and then lay down to rest, but he was too anxious for his own safety to fall asleep, until he was quite convinced that Moreas was asleep also. He had no desire that the other should steal a march on him during the night. What he had seen that day in the mountains, when Moreas had stalked Bertram, was quite sufficient to show him that his companion was not one who would stick at trifles. At last, however, he dozed off.

As the afternoon of the next day approached, they saw before them another low range of hills. These, when they approached them, proved to be of iron-stone formation, a fact, which, as soon as he heard it, caused Moreas to utter a cry of joy.

"We are nearly there!" he cried. "Those are the hills of which the Indian told the old man. We have only to cross them, and we shall be at the place where the diamonds are. Let us push on, push on. For heaven's sake, man, stir yourself; there is not a moment to lose."

At last they reached the summit of the last hill, and looked down upon the plains on the other side.

"It is the place! it is the place!" cried Moreas, almost beside himself with excitement. "Yonder is the river he spoke of, and there, away to the right, is its old course. You can even see the big black rocks that he told me of, rising out of the sand. The Saints be praised, we are here at last! We are here at last!"

So overcome was he by his excitement, that it was as much as Max could do to prevent him from setting off at a run down the hillside. This was the place, then, of which the poor, old, half-witted diamond hunter had told Moreas. The place where diamonds were as large as hazel nuts, and could be had for the picking up. He wondered how true the story would prove to be. For his own part, he was not going to pin too much faith upon it. If it turned out trumps, well and good; if not, he could console himself with the reflection that the old fellow had played off on Moreas a grimmer practical joke than had ever been perpetrated on himself. The afternoon was well spent before they reached a spot which they considered favourable for a camp. Max had already noticed with satisfaction that there was a fair amount of game to be had for the shooting, water was abundant, while for the animals there was a greater supply of herbage than they had seen for many a long day. By this time Moreas' head appeared to be quite turned. They had scarcely reached their camp before he was off to try his luck among the sands of the old river bed.

It was almost dark when he returned. When he did so, however, he shook like a man with the palsy.

"Look what I have found!" he said, scarcely able to contain himself for joy. "The old man did not deceive me after all. They are here. Here, I tell you. I shall be the richest man on earth."