"Oh, my love, my love!" cried the girl, in a sobbing whisper, "to think that never again can I speak to you, take your hand in mine! To think that I, who would have died for you, am now ashamed as I touch you-- ashamed for the vile wrong that was done to you in those miserable days.

My love, my darling, I must now kiss you like a thief. Our ways are apart, and the journey--my G.o.d--is so long."

Once more, leaning over the still figure, she kissed Frank's brow, and then, relapsing into her chair, cried silently for a while--a spasmodic sob now and again evincing the bitter struggle within her. The cold grey of morning came, and still she sat by the bedside, watching intently, unweariedly, each change of the sick man's position, every flicker of the tired eyes.

During the long hours of the two next days, Frank lay for the most part in a torpor of weakness. The fever had left him; it was now a struggle between death and the balance of strength left to a vigorous const.i.tution after such a bout. Save for an hour or so at a time, Nina had never left his side. Hers was the gentle hand that turned the pillows, shifted the cotton Kaffir blankets that formed the bedding, gave the required nourishment, and administered the medicine. On the evening of the fourth day, there were faint symptoms of recovery; the weakened man seemed visibly stronger. Once or twice he had feebly opened his eyes and looked about him--apparently without recognition of those at hand.

It was in the middle of this night that Frank really became conscious.

He had taken some nourishment, and after long lying in a state betwixt sleep and stupor, he awoke to feel a tender stroking of his hand.

Presently his brow was touched lightly by soft lips. It reminded him of his mother in years gone by. Frank was much too weak to be surprised at anything, but he opened his eyes and looked about him. It was not his mother's face that he saw, as he had dreamily half expected, but the face of one he had come to know almost as well.

Close by him stood Nina Staarbrucker, much more worn, much graver, much changed from the sweet, merry, piquant girl he had known so well at Kimberley. But the dark friendly eyes--very loving, yet sad and beseeching, it seemed to him dimly--of the lost days, were still there for him.

Frank opened his parched lips and in a husky voice whispered, "Nina?"

"Yes," said the sweet, clear voice he remembered so well, "I am here, nursing you. You must not talk. No, not a word," as he essayed to speak again, "or you will undo all the good that has been done. Rest, my darling (I can't help saying it," she said to herself; "it will do no harm, and he will never hear it again from my lips); sleep again, and you will soon be stronger."

Frank was still supremely weak, and the very presence of the girl seemed to bring peace and repose to his senses. He smiled--closed his eyes again, and slept soundly far into the next day.

That was the last he ever saw of Nina Staarbrucker. She had vanished, and although Frank, as he grew from convalescence to strength, made many inquiries as the months went by, he could never succeed in gaining satisfactory tidings of her. He once heard that she had been seen in Delagoa Bay, that was all. Whether in the years to come they will ever meet again, time and the fates alone can say. It seems scarcely probable. Africa is so vast, and nurses safely within her bosom the secret of many a lost career.

CHAPTER TEN.

A TRAGEDY OF THE VELDT.

The circ.u.mstances attending the fate of Leonard Strangeways were very extraordinary, and the three years of silence and doubt that followed the discovery of his body in the veldt seemed but to enhance among white men in the Bechua.n.a.land Protectorate the mystery of that most singular affair. The whole tragedy, from the very remoteness of the place in which it was enacted, was little known south of the Orange River. I have, therefore, thought it worth while to rescue from complete oblivion the grim, strange, and unwonted circ.u.mstances of that dark business.

Leonard Strangeways was, in the year 1890, when I first met him, one of the pioneers who entered Mashonaland. He was one of those devil-may-care, reckless, wandering fellows, so many of whom are to be found upon the frontiers of civilisation in Southern Africa. I first saw him, outspanned at breakfast, near Palla Camp on the Crocodile River, with a number of other men, going into Mashonaland upon the same errand as himself. He was the life and soul of the party, and was superintending the "bossing-up" of the meal. For the next week our waggons moved on together and I saw a good deal of Strangeways. He was a tall, handsome fellow of thirty or thirty-one. He seemed to be a general favourite with his party--mainly, I imagine, because he was one of those capable men who excel in everything they undertake. He shot most of the francolins and other feathered game for the half-dozen chums he was travelling with; he had not been long in South Africa, and yet he seemed to comprehend the ways of the native servants and the methods of travel exceedingly well; he evidently understood horses thoroughly, and personally superintended the score of nags that were travelling up with the waggons. He could inspan and outspan oxen, and was already master of other useful veldt wrinkles, which usually take some time to acquire.

He could paint remarkably well, I have seen him, in a short hour's work with water-colours, turn out a very charming sketch of African scenery.

And at night, by the camp fire, Strangeways' banjo and his deep, rich voice were in inevitable request. It is not judged well to inquire too closely into the antecedents of men in the South African interior. I gathered, during the week of travel alongside of Strangeways, that he had led a wandering life for some years, and had recently come across to the Cape from Australia, where he had done little good for himself.

I parted from Strangeways and his fellow pioneers at Palachwe, and saw no more of him for rather more than a twelve-month, when I met him coming down-country, at Boatlanama, a water on the desert road, between Khama's old town of Shoshong and Molepolole. In latter days this was not the usual route to and from Palachwe and Matabeleland, but having been several times by the Crocodile road, I happened to have taken the more westerly route for a change. On waking up next morning, after a hard and distressing trek from the nearest water in this thirsty country--Lopepe--I was surprised to see another waggon outspanned almost alongside. Still more surprised was I to find one of its two occupants Leonard Strangeways, also with a fellow pioneer travelling down-country.

Our greeting was a hearty one, and indeed, I, for my part, was exceedingly well pleased to have encountered once more so genial and pleasant an acquaintance.

Strangeways had pa.s.sed a year in Mashonaland, and, like most of the other Mashonalanders of that distressful season, '90-'91, had had some pretty tough experiences. However, he had weathered the storm, had sold his pioneer farm, and the options over a number of mining properties, for cash at a good price, and was now going down to Cape Town to enjoy himself, and, as he expressed it, to "blow some of the pieces." He was in the highest spirits. He had trekked down by this more westerly route for the purpose of getting some shooting. He was a keen sportsman, and was anxious as he came down-country to secure the heads of the gemsbok and hartebeest, two large desert-loving antelopes, not found in Mashonaland. He had succeeded in bagging two gemsbok to the westward of Lopepe, and, after breakfast, was riding out in search of hartebeest.

I had had a hard ride in the sun on the day preceding, and my horse was knocked up. I was not inclined to accompany Strangeways on his quest, therefore I did not see him again till late in the evening, when he returned with a native hunter. It was an hour or two after dark when they came up to the camp fire, where we were drinking our coffee and enjoying a quiet smoke. He rode into the cheerful blaze and dismounted.

He had upon his saddle-bow the head and horns of a fine hartebeest bull, the trophy he had coveted, and behind were the skin and a good quant.i.ty of meat from the same antelope. "There!" said he, flinging down the head triumphantly, "that's been a devilish tough customer to bring to bag, but we did the trick after all. If it hadn't been for Marati, here," jerking his head at a grinning Bechuana boy, "we should have lost the buck. We followed the blood spoor for five mortal hours, and but for Marati I should have given it up as a bad job. By Jove!

I'm fairly beat."

"Your supper's in the pot," I replied, "and there's enough coffee to float you. Sit down and the boy will bring you a plate and cup. Put your coat on first though, it's getting chilly."

As I lay on my rug, Strangeways stood above me in his flannel shirt sleeves, a fine figure of a man, in the flickering blaze. Suddenly his eye caught the white tent of another waggon, which had come in during the afternoon, and was on its way up-country. "Hallo!" he said, "what's this?"

"Oh, don't bother about it," I replied, "they are a mining party going up to Mashonaland. They won't interest you. Sit down and have your supper."

But Strangeways was curious; I often think that if he had been less curious he would have been alive at this moment. The third waggon stood about sixty yards away.

"Get my supper ready," he said, "I'll be back in a moment," and walked across to the other camp fire.

I directed his native cook-boy to bring plates and a cup, and have all in readiness for his master's supper. In less than three minutes Strangeways strode up to the fire again. As he approached, he looked furtively behind him I never saw a man so utterly changed within the s.p.a.ce of three short minutes. His face was ghastly pale, he trembled visibly. He said not a single word, but went straight to his horse, which was being off-saddled. He picked up the saddle again, clapped it on the poor tired brute's back, and to my intense astonishment put his foot in the stirrup and mounted.

"Strangeways," I said, "what in Heaven's name are you going to do. Come and sit down and let the nag alone."

He turned on me a white, terror-stricken face.

"Sh! for G.o.d's sake," was all he said, under his breath. One glance he threw towards that other camp fire, and then, kicking his horse with the spur, he pa.s.sed behind our two waggons and rode straight out into the gross darkness of the veldt.

I was so astounded at this extraordinary proceeding, that I confess I let Strangeways ride away without any further protest than the few words I had uttered. I now jumped to my feet and followed in the direction he had taken. I saw and heard nothing. I was about to shout his name, but I had been so impressed with the terror depicted on his face, that I forebore to cry out after him. Somehow, it struck me that he wanted silence. I had always found him a most sensible, level-headed fellow.

He had some reason undoubtedly for this sudden fear and strange departure. I waited by the fireside for half an hour, all sorts of doubts and hypotheses thronging my brain. What could it mean? Here was a man, tired, worn-out and hungry, and, above all, desperately thirsty, after a hard day's hunting and eleven hours spent in the saddle under a burning sun, suddenly flying off from his supper, his rest, and the pleasant camp fire, mounting his tired horse and riding straight out into the veldt with some strong terror gripping at his heart. And such a veldt as it was here. Sheer desert, except for a scanty pit of foul water now and again at long intervals. He could not be mad. He was sane as a judge before he visited the other camp fire; what in G.o.d's name could it mean? I worried my brain for half an hour, and then gave it up. I now roused Strangeways' pioneer comrade, who had retired early and had been asleep all this time, and talked the thing over with him.

We could find no solution.

The other camp fire seemed to contain the only possible explanation of this strange event. We walked across to it. I had previously spoken to these wayfarers, who consisted of a mining engineer and three prospectors. The engineer received us civilly. He inquired in a bantering way after our friend, who, he averred, had come across, stared like a stuck pig for a moment, and then suddenly turned on his heel and vanished. Two of his prospectors, one a Cornishman, the other a Yankee, sat by the fire, smoking. They were decent, quiet, civil-spoken men.

The third, an Italian, had, they informed me, turned into his waggon and gone to sleep. We had a quarter of an hour's chat, and then, finding that we could make nothing of the mystery over here, we went back to our own fire again. We had not thought it necessary to enlighten the mining party as to Strangeways' sudden departure; nor, indeed, did they manifest any further interest in him. They had caught but a fleeting glimpse of his face, and then, as they said, he had turned and bolted.

Halton, Strangeways' comrade, and I returned to our camp fire, waited up till eleven o'clock--a late hour for the veldt--and then, seeing that nothing further was to be done that night, we turned in, tired enough, and slept soundly.

I was awake at six next morning. My native boy brought me, as usual, my coffee.

"Baas," he said, "did Baas know that a man from the other waggon came over here in the night with a lantern and looked in Baas's waggon and into the other waggon too." No, I knew nothing of this, and I told the boy so. I looked into Strangeways' waggon. Halton was just getting up.

He, too, had slept heavily, and had neither seen nor heard of any one's approach during the night.

We swallowed our coffee and ate some breakfast, debating with serious faces what step we were to take next. While we sat by the embers of the overnight fire thus employed, the engineer from the other camp came across. He had fresh food for bewilderment. His Italian prospector was missing. His native driver averred that Rinaldi had risen before dawn, taken some food and a water bottle, saddled a horse, and just as daylight came left the camp. He came, the man said, in our direction, and then disappeared behind the waggons and into the veldt.

The mystery was clearly thickening. Halton and I now took the engineer into our confidence, and told him of the strange occurrence of the evening before. We finished breakfast, and then decided to proceed at once with the adventure. First we called up a first-rate Bakalahari hunter, who had been for some time attached to my camp, and was an extraordinarily skilful spoorer. After a cup of coffee and a pinch or two of snuff, both inestimable luxuries to a poor, despised desert man, he quickly got to work. His narrative lay there in the sand before him, as clear to his bleared, half-shut eyes as G.o.d's daylight itself.

First he traced the progress of Strangeways. After some little trouble about the camp, where the trail was much mingled with others, he presently got the spoor away into the bush, to the west of the outspan.

Shortly, with a cluck of the tongue, the native drew our attention to other marks. Here, he said, Strangeways' trail had been joined by that of another, a man walking with his horse. The man, said the Bakalahari, was following the spoor of Strangeways, and had got off his horse for the purpose. As the ground became clearer and the country more open, this man had mounted and followed more quickly upon the trail. At times, the tale was plain enough even to the eyes of us Europeans.

Well, to make a long story short, we followed the two spoors all through that long hot day. We had water and food with us, and we meant to see the thing out. At first, in the darkness, Strangeways had evidently wandered a good deal from the straight line, but as light had come, he had travelled due west, and then after mid-day struck in a southerly direction. I guessed his purpose, to seek the road and water south of Boatlanama. Towards sundown, when we had ridden between thirty and forty miles, we saw by the trail that Strangeways' horse was failing.

The wonder was that after two days of such work it had stood up so long.

Night fell before we could arrive at any solution of the mystery. We made a good fire, drank some water, ate some supper, and then lay down upon the dry earth and slept. At earliest daylight we were moving again. We followed the two spoors for something more than an hour, and then, rather suddenly, in some thickish bush, came upon a sight that smote us all with horror. A cloud of vultures fluttered heavily from the dead body of Strangeways' horse, which lay stretched upon the sand, now nearly devoid of what flesh it had once carried upon its bones.

Under a pile of thorns, close by, was the body of Strangeways himself.

The body, for some extraordinary reason, which I was then not able to fathom, had been carefully protected by these thorn branches, and the vultures had not been able to accomplish their foul work upon it. We pulled away the thorns, and examined the poor dead body; it was marked by two bullet wounds, one in the right shoulder, the other, fired at close quarters, through the head. The flannel shirt, in which Strangeways had ridden, had been torn roughly off the upper part of the body, and upon the broad chest had been slashed, with the point of a sharp knife, these letters, MARIA. The blood, now dark and coagulate, had run a little, but there was not the least difficulty in making out the name. There were traces of the Italian and his horse about the spot, and then the murderer's spoor led away northward.

Even with this sad and infernal discovery before us we were no nearer the elucidation of this strange mystery. Revenge seemed to be at the bottom of it, but the reason of that revenge was absolutely hidden from us. We held a long council on the body, took what few trifles there were upon it, Strangeways' watch, his hunting belt and knife, spurs, and a silver bangle upon the wrist. Then we buried him in that desolate spot. Our horses were already suffering from lack of water. It was madness to think of following the Italian, who would probably himself perish of thirst. We turned for our waggons, therefore, and with great difficulty reached them late that night. The next thing to do was to report the murder and set the Border Police upon the affair. This was done as speedily as possible. I remained with Halton for the s.p.a.ce of a month in the Bechua.n.a.land Protectorate, hoping to hear of the Italian's capture. Nothing whatever was heard of him, however, and I resumed my journey south, and returned to Europe.

For three years I heard--although I made repeated inquiries, and read each week the few newspapers of Bechua.n.a.land and Rhodesia--not a whisper that would elucidate this incomprehensible tragedy. Then, as I travelled once more through Bechua.n.a.land, the cloud suddenly lifted and the mystery stood revealed.

Upon reaching Vryburg, the capital of British Bechua.n.a.land, I found the little town in a state of intense excitement. The Italian, Rinaldi, had been captured, after three years of a wandering life, far up-country; in a trader's store, near the Zambesi. He had been arrested and brought down for trial. Halton and other witnesses had been procured from Matabeleland to give evidence against him. But Rinaldi had not attempted to escape the consequences of his crime; on the contrary, he gloried in it, and had given in his broken English, in open court, his version of the whole miserable business and its origin. Briefly condensed, this was his tale.

His name, he said, was Guiseppe Rinaldi, and he was a native of Sardinia. Nine years before, he had met Strangeways, who was then an artist wandering through Sardinia. Rinaldi himself was deeply attached to Maria Poroni, a beautiful girl of his village, whom he hoped to marry. But he had to be away at his work at the lead mines, thirty miles off, and only saw her occasionally. Strangeways came on the scene, became acquainted with Maria, had grown quickly infatuated with her, and had persuaded her to leave the island with him. After living some months with her in various parts of Italy, he left her with a certain sum of money in Rome, and finally abandoned her. The poor girl crept back home with a child, and died, a broken woman, two years later.

Rinaldi had known Strangeways and swore to take a terrible revenge if occasion ever offered. But he had no money. Tired of poverty in Sardinia, he went out to Argentina and from there drifted to South Africa. It was by the merest accident in the world that he had obtained employment as a miner with the outfit going up from Cape Town to Mashonaland. And it was still more of an accident that he had seen Strangeways' face at the camp fire that night at Boatlanama. The rest is briefly told. He had crept across in the darkness and found that Strangeways was not in his waggon. At earliest dawn he had taken a horse, provisions, water, and a rifle, and followed his spoor into the desert. Thanks to his life in the mountains of Sardinia, and his experience of cattle ranching in the Argentine, he was an expert tracker, and had no difficulty in following the trail. He had come up with Strangeways, whose horse had foundered, just at sundown.

Strangeways fired a shot, which grazed Rinaldi's ear. Rinaldi's first bullet brought his victim down and he had then finished him. He had scored the name MARIA upon the dead man's chest, covered him with thorns that the mark of his vengeance might not be obliterated by the wild beasts, and left him. He had then escaped north and wandered to the Zambesi.

Rinaldi's own end was a b.l.o.o.d.y one. He broke prison the night before his execution was to take place, was followed by mounted police into the Kalahari, and, as he refused to surrender, was shot dead in the scuffle that ensued.

To me, the strangest part of this tragedy lies in the fact that Strangeways' death came to him, apparently, by the merest accident in the world. It is absolutely certain that Rinaldi had no knowledge whatever--until he set eyes on him at the camp fire that night--of Strangeways' presence in Africa. Was it, indeed, pure chance--or was it, in truth, the subtle machinery of a remorseless fate--that induced him to take the desert road south, by Boatlanama? It was a still stranger accident--apparently--by which the mining party took the wrong route north, and trekked by the same westerly road upon which the two men had met. Accident--or inexorable retribution? That is a question I often ask myself.