rolled south into sight of the Canaries over a white-flecked sea. They rose rather like dim blue clouds than islands athwart the far horizon, with one glistening cone cut off by silver mists from the ocean plain beneath, towering high above the loftiest. Maxwell leaned over the poop rails, while Dane, the middle-aged purser, and Miss Bonita Castro stood near by. The lady's father, a little, olive-faced Portuguese, with shifty black eyes, lounged in a deck chair watching them languidly. There were few passengers on board, and the members of the group, who had made friends somewhat rapidly, were now amusing themselves by shooting at the bottles a steward forward flung into the sea.

A big pistol flashed in Miss Castro's hand. The purser clutched at a stanchion and uttered a quick exclamation; Maxwell wheeled round suddenly. A bottle, ceasing its gyrations, sank into the white wash of the screw, and the lady laughed as she lowered the pistol muzzle.

Trés!

" she cried exultantly. "That is three to me!

Carramba!

I have also it seem, as you say, nearly bag the Señor Maxwell."

If Dom Pedro Castro was a typical Portuguese, his wife had been an Andalusian, and his daughter, while speaking several languages rather prettily than well, preferred her mother's tongue, and had inherited a full share of the voluptuous beauty of a race whose women are famous in Spain. She formed an interesting picture as she stood with the blue of the sea behind her, laughter in her dark eyes, and the pistol still smoking in her hand. They were remarkably attractive eyes; and Maxwell, knowing what to look for, saw more than Dane had apparently seen in their depths, and decided to warn his comrade to beware of them. A faint carmine warmth emphasized the comeliness of the slightly dusky face, while graceful pose and figure were both characteristic of a woman of her extraction as yet well short of the age at which Southern beauty changes into grossness.

"You have not the fright, Señor Maxwell, though a little nearer and we leave you behind?" she added naively.

Maxwell did not look frightened, though he might well have been, for the bullet had passed him close. He answered with a smile which, as Dane had noticed before, appeared to linger on his lips after the gravity had returned to his eyes.

"No, señorita. If a man could choose his last resting-place, wouldn't this blue water be much nicer than a mangrove swamp in Africa. That very little, however, makes a vast difference; and you have won the gloves. You shall have the best in Las Palmas to-night. You will land us by sunset, Mr. Purser?"

"Yes." The Purser sighed with relief when he saw that the contest was over. "Hadn't you better give me that pistol, señorita? Accidents happen when one least expects them, and the Company would hold me responsible if you killed anybody. I don't think the skipper would see quite as much humor in the position as you seem to."

Bonita laughed with the light-heartedness of a child, and glanced demurely at Dane.

"To kill the Señor Maxwell, or my good friend Don Ilton, is catastrophe; but to kill a bad man, it is nothing. Many men are killed in Africa; I myself shoot one. There was in him the blood of the negro, and he forget it when without respect he speak to me."

Dane was a trifle staggered by the matter-of-fact manner in which Miss Castro mentioned the way she had disposed of one whom he surmised had been too venturesome a suitor.

Verdad!

" exclaimed Dom Pedro. "The man, by bad fortune, he is not die, and that affair is cost me much commercio. My daughter she has, in your English, the spirited way."

The lady's face changed suddenly as she turned toward Maxwell.

"I beat you, Señor, but it is because you are

muy caballero

, and prefer the defeat from me. You have the steady hand and the dangerous eye, and have not the fear. That is well if you go up into the forest in my country. It is different with your friend. The pistol is not for him. No, he remind me of those big fair men with the axes I read of in England. I make you my compliments, Don Ilton, and you show me where the swift Bonita he leap at the bow."

Whether, because Miss Castro was fond of admiration, this was done out of pique at Maxwell's indifference to her attractions, Dane naturally did not know, but he answered with a bow, and the two strolled forward together. There were no porpoises circling, as they often will, athwart the stem, but the lady who perched herself upon a knighthead seemed in no way disappointed. The sun made rainbows in the spray which whirled beneath her, as each blue ridge fell back shattered from the shearing bows; and nowhere else could one realize so well the swift passage of the quivering hull through the white-topped seas, or feel the same cradle-like rise and fall of the warm deck planking.

"All this," remarked Miss Castro, "is very nice; and the Señor Maxwell, who is

muy caballero

, but somber sometimes, he is not here. You have my permission to sit there, and I will talk to you."

Dane afterward wondered why, in place of doing so, she led him on to talk about his comrade; but it was perhaps not unnatural that he should find a certain degree of pleasure in the society of his comely and versatile companion. He knew little of Miss Castro beyond what the purser had told him, and that Maxwell had met her elsewhere; but he was to learn more in due time. She had been educated in some Spanish convent; but, being born on the fever coast, could withstand the climate, and she spent part of her time there in her father's factory, and the rest with her mother's sister in the Canaries. Dom Pedro was assumed to be a tolerably prosperous trader.

An hour had passed before the two came aft together, and on the next opportunity Maxwell took his friend to task.

"It is perhaps time for me to warn you about playing with fire, Hilton," he said. "Miss Castro is certainly pretty, but her people don't understand the game of flirtation as played in England. In all emotional questions they're unpleasantly in earnest. I may remind you that I met the señorita in Africa."

"I have not so far obtruded my advice on you," Dane returned. "Don't you think this – "

"Is an impertinence?" and Maxwell smiled. "Perfectly. I also admit that the rôle of mentor does not become me. Nevertheless, when Miss Castro casually mentioned how she got rid of her last suitor, there was something in her eyes which might have warned an observer. You needn't trouble about a neat rejoinder, because I'll retire, having done my duty."

"I mean to call upon Miss Castro at the Catalina to-morrow. Your warning, however, is superfluous, as it will be the last time I shall see her. She is remaining here."

There was a trace of mischief in Maxwell's smile as he answered.

"I am going with you. You need not express astonishment. She invited me."

It was a sunny afternoon when they went ashore together; but they did not find Miss Castro immediately at her hotel. It appeared that the British tourists and invalids who sojourned in the dusty Spanish city had joined hands with its leading inhabitants over the organization of a gala for the benefit of local institutions, and Miss Castro was playing the part of soothsayer in the cause of charity.

Dane found it pleasant, in spite of the dust, to watch the white mists sliding athwart the great volcanic peaks, and the silvery spray toss beneath the white-walled city. The assembly also was interesting. Gaily uniformed Castilian officer, and British tourist fantastically attired, jostled each other. Dark-skinned, black-haired beauties – pleasant to look upon even when they wore Parisian headgear instead of the national mantilla – in filmy draperies, flitted in and out among young Englishwomen, whose indifferent faces and attire emphasized the contrast between their respective characters; while here and there a matron of their own nation stood surveying the scene with the pitying contempt for everything foreign which too many insular Britons consider impresses the benighted alien. Good music mingled with the merry voices, swish of diaphanous dresses, clank of sabers, and patter of feet, and through all rang the monotone of the sea.

"Look at it well," said Maxwell. "It is the last glimpse of civilization you will get for many a day. Henceforward our path leads us into a land of eternal shadow haunted by all things evil; at least, and they have some reason, so the negroes say. There's the señorita, telling fortunes in that striped tent. It is curious that she is beckoning – me."

Maxwell pushed his way through the throng surrounding a gaudy pavilion, where Miss Castro was evidently doing excellent business; and presently he returned, smiling curiously.

"She wishes to tell your fortune. Go in and spend a crown in the cause of charity. I can't say that mine was a very good one, but the señorita showed an accuracy which was, under the circumstances, surprising."

Dane made his way with difficulty into the tent, and when his eyes grew used to the change from brilliant sunshine to shadow, he realized one reason for Miss Castro's success. She wore the dress of the Andaluces, thin, lace-like draperies of black, sufficiently short to reveal the tiny high-arched feet in dainty Moorish slippers. A gauzy black mantilla and a crimson rose adorned her hair, while the graces of her figure were emphasized by a broad zone of African gold, chased with zodiacal characters by sable craftsmen. The costume suited her; and Miss Castro was probably aware of the fact.

"So you will learn a little of the future, Don Ilton?" she said, with unusual gravity. "No, you must not smile. This is not the charlatan's trickery. The ancient Moors they teach us wisdom, and I have study. So, we throw there the crown, and I lay this Aggri in your palm. The Aggri has virtue, though what it is no man know."

She detached from her bracelet an insignificant bead, one of the mysterious Aggri which cannot be counterfeited, and, as Dane afterward learned, can hardly be bought with money in West Africa.

"It is a big, hard hand, and has done much work, perhaps with the shovel, in a hot country – I think the Sud America," she said. "It will also hold the rifle. It is well to hold the rifle straight in Africa."

Miss Castro had splendid eyes, of a kind that it is not wise for a susceptible man to gaze into too steadily while his hand is held in very pretty fingers; and Dane felt it incumbent on him to break the spell.

"This is not all divination, señorita. I told you I was going inland from the African coast; though I certainly did not tell you I had been in South America. Did you guess it by my darkened skin?"

"It is not the trickery," repeated Miss Castro. "I tell you only the things I know. There is blood on your path through the forest – blood, and a shadow that follows, creeping always behind. Look well to your friend. The shadow follows, but does not rest on – you. If it should, there is a pale, cold woman in England who – but I cannot tell you if she would be sorry, or if you will ever see her again. There is also treasure, but the lines fade and the crosses are many, with only the sign of danger clear. I can see no farther. Only the good saints know the end."

She paused for a moment, leaving Dane somewhat impressed, for, although no believer in palmistry of that description, he had seen that Miss Castro was apparently not speaking without a purpose. Then she laid down the Aggri and, it seemed to Dane, her mantle of prophetess simultaneously, saying in her usual tone, but with somewhat unusual earnestness:

"And now you will not laugh while I give you the warning. Beware of these three things: a man with the holy cross on his forehead, the carved calabash, and the leopard's skin. You will remember always, but tell only the Señor Maxwell. There is one at least who would not have that shadow overtake you. It may be I shall see you in Africa."

Here the eager crowd outside showed signs of storming the tent, and Dane was forced to take his leave, reflecting that it might perhaps be as well if they did not, as Miss Castro expected, meet in Africa. Rejoining Maxwell, he told him what he had heard, concluding:

"It much resembled the usual professional soothsayer's medley, and I could make neither head nor tail of it. Still, the señorita's manner impressed me."

"How did she look or speak?" Maxwell's glance betrayed his interest.

"As though she believed what she was saying, and wished me to."

"I am inclined to think she did," Maxwell answered thoughtfully. "She was also probably giving you good advice in the one way available. How she knows I cannot tell, but by the light of past experience I can make a good deal of the medley. As you probably surmised, her warning was not the result of divination."

Maxwell did not appear inclined to answer questions, and, dismissing the subject, they proceeded to make the most of their last few hours upon what he termed Christian soil. The black peaks were fading against the saffron in the west, and purple darkness creeping up from Africa across the sea, when the mail gun warned them it was time to return to the steamer.

"We shall have seen, and perhaps suffered, very strange things before we set foot in a civilized land again," said Maxwell. "It is not a tropical sporting trip that we are embarking upon. There remain just five minutes for a valedictory libation."

"Champagne!" Dane said to the Swiss attendant as they passed through the veranda of the hotel; and presently he rose from a little table, holding up the sparkling cup. Maxwell's hints had impressed him, and there was a grimness behind his smile when he spoke.

"Here's death or glory! A swift journey to the heart of the forest!"

Maxwell generally frowned upon anything that approached the theatrical, but, as he touched his comrade's glass with his own, his face was grave.

"Heaven send us both back safe out of it and – because the one implies the other – confound the cross-marked man!"

Dane asked no questions. Maxwell was always slightly oracular, and might not have answered them; and a few minutes later they were being rowed off to the steamer in company with Dom Pedro Castro.

The

Manyamba

was not a fast boat; she anchored off many surf-hammered beaches before she reached the one where the adventurers had arranged to disembark, and where, as it happened, Dom Pedro had built his principal factory. He proved a pleasant companion, though Dane fancied that he was weak alike in character and in principle. One day as they rolled slowly along the spray-veiled coast with a maze of half-seen mangroves over the port hand, Dom Pedro sauntered across the deck toward Dane.

"You go up into the Leopard's country to look for gold?" he said, glancing at Dane in a manner which puzzled him.

"We are certainly going inland, but I am afraid that is all I can tell you," Dane replied guardedly.

Dom Pedro smiled.

"Then you seek the gold. Even your countrymen do not go into that forest for pleasure. But only one man, I think, has seen that gold since the men of my nation who came after Gama ruled this country. That man he die, as you call it, crazy. How much your expedition cost you, Don Ilton?"

Dane mentioned an approximate sum, expressing his surprise that the questioner should even have guessed their object, but refraining from stating whether the guess was a correct one; and the elder man spread out his yellow palms deprecatingly.

"Where the gold lie is not concern me. I am gentleman of peace and commercio. There is one man, not all the nigger, who think he know, and another not all a white man who will pay him to hinder you. More I only guess at and cannot tell you, but I know you and the Señor Maxwell never pass the Leopard country. Don Ilton, I presume you bold man who come here to make the money. With the sum you mention I show you how. It is not all for the good will, but for the assistance also of me."

Now Dane might have suspected treachery, but he did not do so. Indeed, he was inclined to fancy the offer and warning were genuine. He declined the offer, however; and consulted Maxwell on the first opportunity.

"I believe what he told you was spoken in good faith," Maxwell said; "and he was perfectly correct. The first man he mentioned is probably the rascal who betrayed poor Niven; and Rideau must be the other. He has, if I am correct in my surmises, had dealings not wholly creditable to either, with Dom Pedro; and it is possible the latter might have found us useful. This, combination may, however, increase our difficulties."

CHAPTER VIII

TREACHERY

The region which lies behind the West African coast is not a pleasant one to traverse, and bad fortune seemed to attend Maxwell's expedition from the time it marched out of the seaboard settlement, where he had had trouble with certain French officials, as well as with the black head man from whom he hired his carriers. All of this Dane remembered when he halted, one burning afternoon, shoulder-deep in the tall grass of a swamp, worn out in body and perplexed in mind. Few Europeans are capable of much exertion in that country, especially during the hottest part of the afternoon; but the hammock boys were too weary to drag their burdens farther, and there was urgent need for haste. Dane accordingly had taxed his strength to the utmost during the last few hours. The tall grass stems were almost too hot to touch, and foul mire bubbled about their roots. At least a league of it, through which, slashed by saw-edged blades and stabbed by broken stalks, the expedition must force its way, stretched toward an inland ridge of higher ground that rose from the morass. Beyond this, in turn, flat-topped hills dimmed by a yellow heat haze cut the horizon.

As Dane halted, a naked carrier stumbled, and, dropping the deal case from his woolly crown, splashed him all over. Another straightway fell over his prostrate comrade, and began a spirited attack upon him when they scrambled to their feet again. Dane was too weary to rebuke either in the fashion they would best understand; but a man of dusky color undertook the duty for him, with the barrel of a gaspipe gun, and the combatants, desisting, found new places in the straggling line. A few picked men in flowing white draperies with flintlock guns on their shoulders were already floundering through the swamp ahead. Behind them, almost and wholly naked negroes, many wearing on their forehead the blue band which marks the amphibious Kroo, went splashing by, each bearing a deal case or tarred cloth package upon his crown. Then the rearguard, tall and soldierly men with the blood of the Arab in them, who carried old-fashioned rifles in spite of certain regulations, came up with Maxwell. They wore a ragged white uniform, swore by the Prophet, and were, as Dane subsequently discovered, reliable fighting men. The Krooboys carried a cutlass-shaped matchet, a by no means despicable weapon when rubbed keen with a file.

Maxwell differed in outward appearance from the somewhat fastidious gentleman Dane had known in Scotland. His cotton jacket was badly rent, sun-baked mire clung thickly about his leggings, and one side of his big sun-helmet had been flattened in. The raw condition of his face and neck betokened the power of the last few days' sun, and he blinked a little because his eyes had suffered by the change from the forest shadow to the dazzling brightness and the fibrous dust of the grass.

"Don't let your particular scarecrows get too far ahead of you, Hilton," he cautioned. "I should hardly have suspected you of any inclination to stop and admire the scenery after the opinion you recently expressed concerning this country."

"I'd willingly burn or flood the whole of it if I could," Dane replied irritably. "Miss Castro was not mistaken when she mentioned the shadow that crept up from behind. Ill luck has certainly followed us from the beginning, and it is time we turned round and endeavored to settle up accounts with whoever is the cause of it."

"You may have an opportunity to-night, or earlier," said Maxwell. "When, in spite of warnings, two white men insist on visiting a region which was specially made for black men, they can't expect to be comfortable. What is it that excites your particular indignation?"

The malarial fever contracted in other parts of the tropics had, as not infrequently happens, returned upon Dane in Africa. His head ached intolerably, every joint seemed stiff, and he swept his hand round the horizon as he answered vaguely.

"Everything! Why was it that, after drinking at a village well, two of our carriers died? Why should venomous insects crawl into my boots and from underneath my pillow? Or a guide, who declared he knew the country, bog us waist-deep in a quagmire, where we lost half our ammunition? Doesn't it strike you that the sequence of accidents is not all due to coincidence?"

"And, in addition to all this, you will be wondering why you are prostrate with fever to-morrow, if you excite yourself at the present temperature. Forget your grievances until your turn comes, and then strike the harder. Meanwhile, we have been stalked since we passed the last village, and the sooner we reach yonder dry ground, and build a breastwork, the better."

Knowing that this was good counsel, Dane did his best, finding a savage comfort in the thought that at last he would probably have the satisfaction of seeing his persecutors; but the grass was tall and matted, the temperature suffocating, and when they lost sight of the islet the morass appeared interminable. Such civilization as may be found in West Africa is only skin-deep. That is to say, it pertains to the coast, and is occasionally hard to discover there. In many places it still extends less than a day's march from the black troops' barracks, and the white man who travels beyond that distance takes his own risks, which are sometimes considerable. Dane already had cause to realize this, and he was accordingly thankful when at last the expedition, floundering out of the swamp, reached the strip of firmer earth. Here a breastwork of deal cases and branches was built, and camp pitched among the giant buttresses staying the cottonwood trunks.

"I think," said Maxwell cheerfully, when they lingered over a frugal meal, "if any misguided bushmen try to rush this camp to-night they will regret it. I will see to the sentries and keep first watch while you rest. You look as though you needed sleep."

Dane certainly did, having enjoyed little sleep worth mentioning since he left the coast. Indeed, he could scarcely keep his eyes open, and he wondered vacantly that Maxwell, who seemed proof against the climate, should show no sign of fatigue. When he unrolled his strip of matting and water-proof inside the little tent, the African sunset was flaming in the west, and the cottonwoods crowning the ridge stood out black as ebony against its almost unearthly brilliancy. Among them fantastic figures, some naked as when they first entered the world, some draped in white and blue, crouched about the cooking fires; while, seen between two mighty buttresses of living wood which stayed ponderous trunks, men with matchets and long guns were curled up beneath the breastwork. The wood smoke drifted in filmy wisps athwart the lonely camp, the swamp steamed like a cauldron, and the chirruping of countless frogs rose out of the vapor. Then the brief brilliancy faded, and thick impenetrable darkness suddenly rolled down. The faint coolness that came with it brought sleep to Dane, and it was midnight when Maxwell's voice roused him.

"Get up and stand by with your rifle! There are bushmen in the grass!" he said.

Half-awake, Dane groped for the breastwork, falling over several negroes on the way, and when he reached it the blackness was Egyptian. There was nothing visible beyond the loom of shadowy trunks, but Dane could hear unseen men breathing heavily, the click-clack of flintlocks, and the rasp of a file along a matchet blade. Then a faint crackle which drew nearer came out of the grass, and instantly a blaze of weird blue radiance leaped up, showing Maxwell's spare figure perched recklessly aloft upon the breastwork with a port-fire held high above him. Its glare beat along the matchet blades, the gun-barrels, and the oily skin of the men beneath, and showed black patches which might have been arms or heads among the grass. Then it died out; and Dane pitched the rifle to his shoulder at Maxwell's shout. There was neither challenge nor parley. They were now beyond civilized jurisdiction, and the right of any man to existence in that country depends upon the strength of his hand.

The heel-plate jarred on his shoulder, the barrel jumped in his left hand, red sparks flickered along the breastwork, and the sputtering roar of the flintlocks was repeated among the trunks. Dane fancied a scream rose in answer from the grass, and once or twice a long gun flashed; then the firing slackened, and it was heartsome to hear Maxwell laugh. He came stumbling toward Dane, and held up a second port-fire whose light showed no trace of any assailant. The silence that followed grew oppressive. It was, however, suddenly broken. A rifle flashed in the rear of the camp, a bullet whirred close by Dane's head; and Maxwell, dropping the flare, set his foot upon it.

"The second time! That was a good rifle, and fired by one of our own men," he said. "Take this nigger, Hilton, crawl in on him, and, disregarding anything which may happen, get that man – alive if you can. He is worth all the rest of the expedition."

Crouching low, crawling on hands and knees, and slipping from trunk to trunk, the pair worked backward in a semicircle, though, instead of following, it was the negro who led the white man. It seemed to Dane that he was making noise enough to waken the dead, but his dusky companion had probably owed his life to his powers of silent motion, and his progress was as noiseless as that of a serpent. Still, a clamor which broke out at the rear of the camp drowned the sound of Dane's passage, and presently a fire commenced to crackle behind the serried trunks. Rising partly upright, he could see naked figures outlined against it flitting with burdens on their heads into the swamp. Nevertheless, Maxwell's instructions were explicit, and, when the negro beckoned, he sank down again.

The fire tossed higher, and Dane surmised that somebody had lighted the dried grass to divert attention from the deserters or a fresh attack. Its purport, however, was in the meantime a side issue, for, as the radiance came flickering athwart the trunks, it revealed something dim and shadowy crouching among the roots of a neighboring cottonwood. The blurred shape might have escaped notice had not the line of steel before it glimmered once or twice. With infinite caution Dane covered a few more yards, and stooped behind a screen of trailers, with every nerve quivering, and a heavy pistol clenched in his right hand. What had become of the negro he did not know. Once the assassin raised his weapon, and Dane laid the short pistol barrel upon his raised forearm, hoping that the stiffness of the trigger might not spoil his aim; but he lowered it again, for, evidently attracted by the increasing glare, the man he stalked rose partly upright, glancing over his shoulder. His caution betrayed him, for, hurling himself crashing through the creepers, Dan