a fever
that he had failed to shake off on the plateaux. Every day he had
grown a little worse, indeed, till finally the choice had seemed to lie
between resignation of his work and serious illness. Turning back
toward the coast, he had now regained the forests of the Mambava.
Here, in his second night's camp, he had suffered a collapse.

He lay abed in his tent. On the waterproof floor cloth squatted a
Mambava warrior, a messenger from King Muene-Motapa.

"Give the word, Bangana. Give the word, Brother of the King. We will
carry you to the King's town on a litter as soft as the clouds. The
wizards shall work their charms to make you well. The Dances of the
Moon are about to begin: it is the time of answered prayers. Your
medicines have failed; now try ours. One word, Bangana! Gladden the
heart of the King!"

The messenger's almost Semitic visage, upturned in the lamplight, was
smeared with ambassadorial signs in yellow paint. On his head he wore
a bonnet of marabout feathers that floated like a tiara of gossamer;
his arms and legs were armored with copper bangles. In his voice there
throbbed a tenderness and pathos, as if he were making vocal the very
essence of the king's desire. His eyes even swam in moisture, as he
repeated the conjuration:

"Speak! Speak the word!"

Lawrence Teck returned:

"Say this to Muene-Motapa. The medicine that might cure me is far
beyond the sea. I thought I might do without it; but see what the lack
of it has brought me to. A little chill, a headache--the strong man
rejoicing in the world shakes his shoulders and they are gone. But
death in one of its multitude of forms stands at the door of the heart
that has ceased to take pleasure in life."

His voice was feeble. His bearded face, bending forward under the net,
was blank from exhaustion and unnaturally flushed. His teeth clashed
together, as he concluded:

"There is no medicine in this land to cure this sickness."

The messenger groaned, and said compassionately:

"It is sad to see the great deserted by their gods. Yet our gods
remain!" He pressed his palms on the floor sheet and leaned forward,
his filmy headdress drifting over his glittering eyes. "Surely,
Bangana, now is the time to renounce the old, to embrace the true! To
cast the spear of scorn and come in behind our shields till you are
strong again. We will make you forget! Give yourself up but once to
our ancient mysteries! Have you forg