By H. Rider Haggard
The story which is narrated in the following pages came tome from the lips of my old friend Allan Quatermain， or HunterQuatermain， as we used to call him in South Africa. He told itto me one evening when I was stopping with him at the placehe bought in Yorkshire. Shortly after that， the death of hisonly son so unsettled him that he immediately left England，accompanied by two companions， his old fellow-voyagers，Sir Henry Curtis and Captain Good， and has now utterlyvanished into the dark heart of Africa. He is persuadedthat a white people， of which he has heard rumours all hislife， exists somewhere on the highlands in the vast， stillunexplored interior， and his great ambition is to find thembefore he dies. This is the wild quest upon which he andhis companions have departed， and from which I shrewdlysuspect they never will return. One letter only have I receivedfrom the old gentleman， dated from a mission station high upthe Tana， a river on the east coast， about three hundred milesnorth of Zanzibar. In it he says that they have gone throughmany hardships and adventures， but are alive and well， andhave found traces which go far towards making him hopethat the results of their wild quest may be a “magnificent andunexampled discovery.” I greatly fear， however， that all hehas discovered is death； for this letter came a long while ago，and nobody has heard a single word of the party since. Theyhave totally vanished.
It was on the last evening of my stay at his house that hetold the ensuing story to me and Captain Good， who wasdining with him. He had eaten his dinner and drunk two orthree glasses of old port， just to help Good and myself to theend of the second bottle. It was an unusual thing for him todo， for he was a most abstemious man， having conceived，as he used to say， a great horror of drink from observing itseffects upon the class of colonists—hunters， transport ridersand others—amongst whom he had passed so many years ofhis life. Consequently the good wine took more effect on himthan it would have done on most men， sending a little flushinto his wrinkled cheeks， and making him talk more freelythan usual.
Dear old man！ I can see him now， as he went limping up anddown the vestibule， with his grey hair sticking up in scrubbingbrushfashion， his shrivelled yellow face， and his large darkeyes， that were as keen as any hawk’s， and yet soft as a buck’s.
The whole room was hung with trophies of his numeroushunting expeditions， and he had some story about every one ofthem， if only he could be got to tell it. Generally he would not，for he was not very fond of narrating his own adventures， butto-night the port wine made him more communicative.
“Ah， you brute！” he said， stopping beneath an unusuallylarge skull of a lion， which was fixed just over the mantelpiece，beneath a long row of guns， its jaws distended to their utmostwidth. “Ah， you brute！ you have given me a lot of trouble forthe last dozen years， and will， I suppose to my dying day.”
“Tell us the yarn， Quatermain，” said Good. “You have oftenpromised to tell me， and you never have.”
“You had better not ask me to，” he answered， “for it is alongish one.”
“All right，” I said， “the evening is young， and there is somemore port.”
Thus adjured， he filled his pipe from a jar of coarse-cut Boertobacco that was always standing on the mantelpiece， and stillwalking up and down the room， began—
“It was， I think， in the March of ’69 that I was up inSikukunI’s country. It was just after old SequatI’s time， andSikukuni had got into power—I forget how. Anyway， I wasthere. I had heard that the Bapedi people had brought down anenormous quantity of ivory from the interior， and so I startedwith a waggon-load of goods， and came straight away fromMiddelburg to try and trade some of it. It was a risky thingto go into the country so early， on account of the fever； but Iknew that there were one or two others after that lot of ivory，so I determined to have a try for it， and take my chance offever. I had become so tough from continual knocking aboutthat I did not set it down at much.
“Well， I got on all right for a while. It is a wonderfullybeautiful piece of bush veldt， with great ranges of mountainsrunning through it， and round granite koppies starting up hereand there， looking out like sentinels over the rolling waste ofbush. But it is very hot—hot as a stew-pan—and when I wasthere that March， which， of course， is autumn in this part ofAfrica， the whole place reeked of fever. Every morning， asI trekked along down by the Oliphant River， I used to creepfrom the waggon at dawn and look out. But there was no riverto be seen—only a long line of billows of what looked like thefinest cotton wool tossed up lightly with a pitchfork. It was thefever mist. Out from among the scrub， too， came little spiralsof vapour， as though there were hundreds of tiny fires alight init—reek rising from thousands of tons of rotting vegetation. Itwas a beautiful place， but the beauty was the beauty of death；and all those lines and blots of vapour wrote one great wordacross the surface of the country， and that word was ‘fever.’
“It was a dreadful year of illness that. I came， I remember， toone little kraal of Knobnoses， and went up to it to see if I couldget some ‘maas’， or curdled butter-milk， and a few mealies.
As I drew near I was struck with the silence of the place. Nochildren began to chatter， and no dogs barked. Nor could I seeany native sheep or cattle. The place， though it had evidentlybeen inhabited of late， was as still as the bush round it， andsome guinea-fowl got up out of the prickly pear bushes right atthe kraal gate. I remember that I hesitated a little before goingin， there was such an air of desolation about the spot. Naturenever looks desolate when man has not yet laid his hand uponher breast； she is only lonely. But when man has been， and haspassed away， then she looks desolate.
