Wagram awoke, feeling strangely strong and well, considering all he had gone through. Moreover, he felt hungry. The stuff that had been administered to him must have worked wonders, for to it he attributed his sudden cure. He must have slept more than the whole round of the clock, for now there was no mistaking the feeling of early morning.

He rose and looked outside. The sun had not yet risen, and there was a freshness in the atmosphere not to be missed even in the most torrid climate just at the hour of dawn. He stepped forth and looked around. The town seemed wrapped in slumber, and now he was able to take in something like its extent. There seemed no end to the palmetto huts, not only filling a large open space but straggling into the surrounding foliage – the whole not devoid of a certain picturesqueness, but utterly, unqualifiedly, savage. A shadow fell between himself and the now rising sun.

He turned, to behold a tall, evil-looking barbarian armed with a formidable axe. In him he thought to recognise one of the two who had visited him the day before, and now he strove to convey by signs that he wanted water for a wash. Clearly he was understood, for the other lifted up his voice in a harsh guttural shout. Immediately there appeared a woman, an ugly, brutal-looking creature, whose countenance bore no more human an expression than that of the male. She, in obedience to an order, withdrew, soon to reappear with a big calabash bowl of cloudy water. Into this he gratefully plunged his head, and managed to indulge in a fairly invigorating splash; the while the pair stood watching him with wooden indifference. Then he made signs that food would be acceptable. These, too, were understood, for presently a big platter of cooked grain was brought. This he attacked with an avidity surprising even to himself; and, while thus engaged, more and more collected, standing round, eyeing him with the same indifference, the while exchanging a few remarks among themselves, whose burden, could he have understood, would have utterly put to flight his new-born appetite there and then. But he did not, and as the said appetite began to experience satiety he found himself taking in with considerable interest the outward characteristics of his hosts or captors, or whatever they might be.

But the result was not encouraging; in fact, it was depressing. All were much of the same type as the first he had seen – large, fine specimens physically, but in type of countenance bestial. Young or old, male or female, there was not a single pleasing countenance among the lot. They were utter animals, and evil-looking animals at that.

The hut he had occupied had, in common with the others, a sort of extended porch or verandah running all round. Seated in the shade of this he fell to ruminating over his position. The savages soon grew tired of watching him, and dispersed. Yet others who happened to pass all glanced at him with a stare of curiosity. First of all, where was he, and how soon could he effect a return to civilisation? That he would be able to do this hope now began to tell him. After all, these people, though unprepossessing, had treated him with a certain rough hospitality. No doubt a promise of substantial reward would induce some of them to guide him to some post inhabited by his fellow-countrymen, or at any rate by Europeans. But how was he to convey such promise to their intelligence? You can make signs that you want food or drink, but when it comes to effecting a negotiation of that sort, why, the matter takes on a totally different aspect. Where was he? He assumed that he had been cast ashore somewhere on the west coast of Africa; but, then, that was a sufficiently vague, not to say wide, limitation. Again, was he on the mainland or on an island – and in any case, how far from the sea? He had absolutely no idea at all as to the time which had been consumed in bringing him hither, or even whether he had been taken off the submerged hulk by these natives in their canoes, or whether the derelict had actually gone ashore with him, and they had found him there.

With the thought of the negotiations he put a hand into an inner pocket in search of his notecase. It was not there. Hurriedly, eagerly he searched his other pockets – with like results. It was gone, and with it all means of purchasing anything, for it had contained his stock of ready money for the voyage, and something beyond; in fact, a considerable sum in bank notes. It could not have got lost in the water, for he remembered placing it in a thoroughly secure inner pocket; and this had been nearly the extent of his preparation when it became known they would have to take to the boats. Clearly he had been relieved of it since, and during his unconsciousness, and yet – and yet – what attraction could bank notes – mere slips of uncoloured paper – have for these savages, who seemed to have not the slightest glimmering of civilisation among the lot? With gold it might have been different. However, it was gone, and the consciousness of this was unpleasant, for a penniless man is akin to an unarmed man – helpless – and, however remote from civilisation he may be, the lack of the power of the purse counts for something.

Slowly, wearily, the heat of the day passed, and night drew down once more. To the captive – or guest, whichever he might be – the day was one of intense and depressing monotony. The natives were no more communicative than before; certainly no more friendly. He would have given a great deal for one companion in adversity – no matter whom – even the lowest sample of the forecastle or stoke-hole of the

Baleka

. He would likewise have given a great deal to have been among the castaways which constituted her boatloads; yet here he was, in comparative safety, on dry land, while they even now might be suffering the last extremities of starvation and thirst. Night drew down, but brought with it no restfulness; instead it brought forth innumerable cockroaches of large size, which scurried around and over him in the darkness; for, of course, there was no means of lighting the interior of the hut, short of making a fire, and for this it was too hot already.

With the dawn of day he arose – unrested and unrefreshed. His physical wants were cared for, but all efforts to make the people about him understand his anxiety to return to those of his own colour, and his willingness to pay, and pay liberally, for those who should be instrumental in thus returning him, were futile. They could not or would not understand. Utterly weary of sitting still he made up his mind, unless actively opposed, to seek some diversion in a little exploration around on his own account.

He was not opposed, somewhat to his own surprise, and set forth. He passed through the town openly, and making no attempt at concealment. The inhabitants looked up to stare at him as he went by, then went on with what they were doing, this, in most cases, being nothing. Thus he reached the solitude of the surrounding forest.

This was not thick. Clusters of undergrowth here and there, but for the most part it was open below. Strange trees of a species unknown to him afforded an intermittent shade, and here and there an open space, growing tall grass nearly his own height, had to be crossed. He moved carefully, always keeping the sun on one shoulder, always being careful to note any peculiarity of bough or stem, for he had no mind to lose himself. Then suddenly the whole aspect of the vegetation changed.

Only a ridge had effected the sharp demarcation of this change, a low ridge surmounted by a few rocks, yet affording no extent of view on either hand. But here in front the vegetation was thick and profuse, and in parts tangled. Cool and shady, however, and altogether inviting it looked, and Wagram made up his mind to penetrate it, though not to any great depth.

With his wandering a sense of freedom seemed to return to him. It was a relief at any rate to get a change from that gruesome, depressing, savage town, with its repulsive and scowling inhabitants. Here at any rate he was alone with Nature – and there was a certain soothing solemnity in the thought. Then for the first time he noticed an utter absence of life. Nothing moved; no insects flew humming by; no birds piped. Turn his glance which way he would no movement met or distracted it. He was in a dead forest to all intents and purposes, as far as its accompaniment of animal or bird or even insect life was concerned. It began to look a little eerie.

Still, with many a glance back, to make sure of being able to retrace his steps at will, he moved on. Some irresistible influence seemed to be drawing him on, and with every step a consciousness came upon him of that. Moreover, it seemed that he was no longer alone. Could it be that he was being followed – watched – that the freedom with which he had been allowed to come hence was no freedom at all, but that spying eyes had been upon him all the time, that stealthy steps had dogged his own? And yet, looking back, there was no sign of anything living, let alone anything human, and, stranger still, the sense of a haunting presence was in front rather than behind – a presence drawing him on.

A wave of recoil swept over his being, and he would have returned; yet, strong-minded and of a robust faith as he was, such return under such circumstances, it seemed to Wagram, would be nothing less than a concession to the promptings of a vague superstition wholly contrary to his nature and his creed. He had been ill, he reminded himself, and his vitality lowered, otherwise no such foolish imaginings could have held his mind for one single instant. To be scared of a place because it was silent, and in broad daylight, or at any other time for that matter – why, the thing was too absurd. He resumed his way.

And yet it was not altogether broad daylight either, for now with every few yards the overhanging trees became thicker and thicker, and all beneath lay shrouded in a semi-gloom that was anything but the broad light of day. An overpowering scent of strange tropical plants filled the air – fragrant, yet not altogether, for it seemed charged with a sense of earthiness and decay; and ever above, around, the same deadness of silence, the same weightiness of oppression, as though he were more and more getting outside the world.

He had gone far enough; it was time to turn back. Instinctively he sought his watch, then remembered that it had stopped during his long immersion. Curiously enough, the savages had refrained from robbing him of it, although a glittering bauble should have been far more likely to appeal to their cupidity than a mere collection of apparently useless and utterly unattractive bits of paper. He was about to turn back, accordingly, when something in front attracted and held his gaze.

Two straight rocks about twice his own height stood close together, forming, as it were, a gate – a door, rather – for spanning the aperture thus formed was a beam, and from it dangled a row of human skulls. Facing outward they faced him, and seemed to take on a forced and painful grin, as though still wearing the expression of an agonised death. Motionless they hung – some touching each other, some apart, looking ghastly enough in the drear silence of the forest. Wagram glanced at them with some disgust but no great awe. This, he decided, was the entrance to some shrine of devil-worship, and he would have turned away, rather contemptuous than impressed, but a motive, not altogether one of curiosity, moved him to enter that grim portal.

Once within he gazed around with an increased curiosity. He was in an oval space barely a hundred yards in length. The centre was open, and constituted an amphitheatre, the sides sloping steeply upward, and grown with thick bush. Above this he could see a rough but strong stockade, and surrounding it, disposed at intervals, were more human skulls. He crossed the open space to the farther end of the enclosure cautiously, but there was nothing in the shape of an altar of sacrifice or any implement of death or destruction. At the farther end was a large flat stone, flush with the ground. That might be worth examining.

And now curiosity began to awaken vividly within him. This place was obviously a temple – a court, rather – used for the heathenish and idolatrous rites of this tribe – whatever it might be. He bent over the stone. It was rudely hewn into something of an oblong, and was covered with a dark and greasy coating which might have been dried blood. Yes; it looked like that, and he straightened himself up again, nauseated by the idea.

And then something like a deep, soft sigh fell upon his ears. It came from right in front, and seemed within scarce a yard of him. He looked up, startled, then resisted an impulse to turn and flee. Before him the bush, thick and green, was as an impenetrable wall. Could the sound have proceeded thence? He started again. In the dim recesses formed by the interlacing fronds two eyes were staring at him – two large beady eyes – not shining, but dull and black, and yet more full, more penetrating, than if they had glared.

Every instinct of self-preservation moved him to fall back. The same instinct moved him to keep his own eyes fixed upon that dull, penetrating, fiend-like stare as he did so. What on earth was the thing? he asked himself. A reptile? No; for the eyes were larger than those of the largest serpent known to zoology. Human? No; not that either. He was conscious of a ghastly chilling of the blood within him as he met that horrible stare fixed upon him within the mysterious darkness of the bush screen. He was conscious of something more – that his first instinct of retreat had left him, and was now succeeded by an impulse that compelled him forward, that constrained him to look closer into those awful eyes; and then that same soft, heavy sigh was repeated.

He moved a step forward. One foot was on the flat stone. In a moment the other would have followed it – drawn, impelled by an irresistible force – when a strange humming noise behind him – low, but growing louder and louder – made him pause. Someone was approaching, and that by the way he had come. A quick instinct warned him that it would not be well to be found here prying into what was doubtless some sacred if ghastly temple of mystery held in awe by a race of devil-worshippers. The spell was broken. Withdrawing his one foot from the stone he looked back, then quickly took cover within the thick bush that lined the slopes of the amphitheatre.

His conjecture proved correct. Hardly was he in hiding than a man appeared, entering through the same opening which had admitted himself – a tall, black man, yet not altogether wearing the same appearance as those among whom his own lot seemed cast. The new arrival scarce glanced from left to right, and, still humming his strange, weird croon, advanced straight to the stone even as he himself had done. Then he halted.

In his place of concealment Wagram was no more than a dozen yards from the new-comer, whose every movement and every expression he could distinguish. The man was unarmed, and nearly naked – a fine, well-built, stalwart savage. He seemed to be gazing before him in expectation mingled with disappointment. Then to the hidden watcher’s ears came again that soft, weird sigh.

He in the open heard it too, for a change came over his face and bearing. Uttering a deep-breathed “Ah!” he straightened himself up, then bent forward, and seemed gazing upon exactly the place where those dreadful eyes had appeared. Then his behaviour was strange. Once more he rose erect, and withdrew his foot from the stone, and passed one black hand over his own eyes, as though to shut out those others. Then he moved unsteadily to right and to left, and half turned away – but no. It seemed that some compelling force was upon him too, precluding retreat. Back he would come to the centre again and peer forward, then break away as before. This was repeated several times; then, all at once, he stood motionless. His foot was again raised and placed on the stone, his gaze again bent in eager fascination upon that which lay beyond – then the other foot followed. One step forward – then two – and then —

Something darted forward with lightning-like glance from the bush screen – something long and steel-like and gleaming. It transfixed the dazed savage as he stood, then withdrew almost before the heavy thud of his body sounded on the hard stone surface. There it lay, the limbs twitching in muscular spasms. A final shudder and all was still, except the drip, drip of the life-blood falling upon the surface of the stone.

The spectator’s own blood froze within him as he looked. The sight was ghastly and horrifying enough in any case, but looked at in the light of his own circumstances it was doubly so; added to which he now knew the fate from which he himself had escaped. As he took his way out of this hell-pit of horror and cruelty, taking care to keep well within the shelter of the bushes until he should gain the gruesome door by which he had entered, he was wondering what hideous rite of devil-worship he had just witnessed, and recalled with a shudder the weird fascination that had well-nigh compelled him to stand in the other’s place.

“The dark places of the earth are full of cruelty,” he recalled as he hurried through the sombre gloom of the silent forest – a hundred times more sombre now – and the air itself seemed weighed down with a scent of blood. In very truth he was in one of “the dark places of the earth.” How, and when, would he find deliverance therefrom?

Chapter Thirty Two.

The Open Door

Those who have fallen among barbarians have seldom been without the experience of their detainers desiring to hold some kind of converse with them, however hostile the burden of such might be. Wagram, however, was absolutely without this experience, for these people were not only totally unable to communicate with him by word of mouth but showed absolutely no inclination to do so.

He had tried to communicate with them by signs, but found that he might as well have been signalling to the surrounding trees. They stared at him but made no sort of response. His physical wants were mechanically attended to, and that was all. They eyed him with stony indifference, not as another human being out of whom they might or might not extract material advantage, but simply as an ox being fattened for the shambles. This, however, fortunately, he did not know.

The night following upon the horrible event he had witnessed in the forest was one of the most fearful experiences he had ever known. Closer and more miasmatic than ever the atmosphere seemed to weigh him down; and alone in the darkness of the hut, with loathsome insects scurrying around and over him, the whole scene came back in all its vivid ghastliness, and again he saw those dreadful eyes glowering at him, the quick, sudden stab out of nowhere, and the limbs of the stricken savage quivering and contorting on the stone which was spattered with his blood. He groped his way to the door and went outside. Anything would be better than this consciousness of being penned up with these awful memories, to say nothing of the long-legged horrors which rendered rest impossible. He drank in the outer air – heavy, fever-laden as it was – with infinite relief, but not for long. Clouds of stinging insects, mosquitoes and others, soon found him out, and forced him to the conclusion that the legged horrors within, being harmless, were at any rate more tolerable. But it was a wearied wreck of a man, indeed, upon which the second morning dawned.

He was about to set forth upon another round of exploration – no matter what he might discover anything was better than the fearful mental strain involved by sitting still – when he became conscious of an unusual stir among those around, as near akin to excitement as those morose, repellent savages seemed able to reach. A man was coming towards him; and now every fibre of his being thrilled with joy, with an indescribable sense of relief. It was a white man!

A white man, a European! No matter what low outcast from his colour this might be he was a white man – and already Wagram looked upon him as a brother. And yet – and yet – as the man came up Wagram could not but realise that his first estimate of him was likely to be the true one, and his hopes sank somewhat.

They sank still more – in fact, to zero – as the new-comer stood confronting him. He was a tall man, as tall as himself, but his hard, bearded face was repellent in the extreme, and the fierce glare of his rolling eyes did not inspire confidence.

“Well, pard, are they making you comfortable here?” he began shortly.

“I don’t know about comfortable; but if it’s a little rough I’ve no cause for complaint,” answered Wagram pleasantly. “At any rate I’ve escaped with life – though how I got off that waterlogged hulk I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“I know all about that,” interrupted the other roughly. “What I want to know is, how did you get on to her? Eh? How the devil did you get on to her?”

The fierce eyes played upon Wagram’s face as though they would penetrate his brain. Decidedly this man was a rough customer – very; still, he was a white man, and might not be so bad at bottom. At any rate he would be susceptible to a very substantial reward. So he told the story of the wreck of the

Baleka

, and how he himself had nearly gone down with the ship in trying to save a child that had been lost below.

“Serves you devilish well right for interfering in what doesn’t concern you,” was the reassuring comment on this piece of information. “Look here. Have you the remotest sort of notion as to where you are?”

“A very faint one: somewhere on the west coast of Africa, I take it.”

The other laughed harshly.

“That’s near enough,” he said. “Let me tell you this, then. You’re among the most devilish set of cannibal niggers this world ever produced. You’d have been eaten body and bones before this if – it hadn’t been for me.”

“In that case I cannot be too grateful for your interference; and, as a fellow-countryman, I am going to make further demands upon your kindness by entreating you to show me the way out, to facilitate my return to civilisation. And, I assure you, you will not find me ungrateful.”

These last words he pronounced with some diffidence. In the man’s very ferocity of roughness Wagram’s ear had not been slow to detect a refined accent of speech. Whatever the other might have come to he was certain that he was of gentle birth, and therefore hesitated to offer him material reward. The next words convinced him that he need have felt no such misgiving.

“What’ll you make it worth my while to land you – say at Sierra Leone, this day month?”

“Anything in reason. You shall name your own price.”

“Suppose I say ten thousand pounds, not a shilling less? How’s that?”

It was an enormous sum, remembering the resources probably at the stranger’s command; yet if Wagram hesitated momentarily it was less on that account than because a misgiving shot across his mind that if he agreed too readily this desperado, from whom he inwardly recoiled more and more, once he had reason to believe he was dealing with a rich man, would hold him captive until he had drained him to the bottom of even his resources; so he answered:

“It’s a stiff figure – very stiff; still, I think I might even promise that.”

“You think, do you? Well, come this way.”

He turned abruptly, Wagram following. As they passed between the palmetto huts the forbidding inhabitants raised their heads to stare for a moment, then dropped them stolidly again. They walked on in dead silence, for the stranger uttered no further word. They passed into the forest, still quite close on the outskirts of the town, and came suddenly upon a strong stockade. Before the gate of this several savages stood as though mounting guard. They were fully armed with large, wicked-looking spears, axes, and great curved-bladed knives.

“I don’t allow them any rotten gaspipe guns,” said the stranger grimly; “only things they know how to use. And they do know how to use these, by God! Look there.”

Wagram looked. They had reached the gate by this time. Within the enclosure were clustered a number of human beings chained together in couples by the leg. The place was in a state of indescribable filth, and the personal appearance of its occupants recalled to Wagram that of the wretched victim of yesterday.

“Prisoners?” he said.

The other nodded, then led the way on again. Soon a hum of voices greeted Wagram’s ears, and at the same time a horrible acrid odour assailed his nostrils.

“Takes a little getting used to, doesn’t it?” said his guide. “Look!”

Wagram looked, and then felt as if he must be sick. They had reached an open space; in it several men were at work – at work on the most congenial occupation of all to savages – that of butchery.

“This is their slaughter-house,” went on the stranger. “What’s the matter?”

For, with an exclamation of horror and disgust, Wagram had turned away, had turned his back upon what he had momentarily glimpsed. No mere glimpse of an ordinary slaughter-house had this been, repulsive and revolting as such a sight might be. In this case the victims were human.

“Good heavens!” he ejaculated, glaring at the other with loathing. “And you allow this – you – a white man?”

“I’m not going to interfere with the harmless little customs of my people – not likely,” was the reply, accompanied by a hideous laugh. “Well, if it’s too much for your weak nerves, come away. But – what do you say to my offer now?”

“I’ll take it. I don’t care how soon I leave this place; in fact, I’ll even increase the figure if you get me out at once.”

“I thought so. Well, it’ll be worth your while. You may take that from me – and the sooner the better. Shall we say fifteen thousand if you start to-morrow?”

“Yes; but you know you will have to trust me. I have no means of identification nearer than England.”

The other nodded.

“Seems strange, doesn’t it?” he said, “but I felt I could do that from the very first. I’ve had no fool of an experience in my time, you see, and I know one man from another when I see him. Now, I knew you weren’t a liar directly I clapped eyes on you; I knew, too, you were a coiny chap, never mind how – there’s something I can read these things by. See here, I don’t want to rush you through this business; think it over. I’ll look round at sundown, and then we’ll draw up our little agreement.”

This sounded well. If he were rough the man seemed not without a sense of fair dealing. Wagram was duly impressed; yet he need not have been, for the stranger’s real motive was a very different one. He had purposely taken Wagram to see one of “the sights” of the place which he knew would revolt and horrify him; now his object was to give him time to think about it; time and solitude could not fail to work the horror deeper into his system – so would his own terms meet with readier acceptation.

At the hut Wagram had occupied the stranger left him; and now, alone once more, the revulsion of feeling was well-nigh