for the golden city
of his dreams was no more than a poverty-stricken village.

One by one Alec studied the careers of these great men; and he saw that
the best of them had not gone with half an army at their backs, but
almost alone, sometimes with not a single companion, and had depended
for their success not upon the strength of their arms, but upon the
strength of their character. Major Durham, an old Peninsular officer,
was the first European to cross the Sahara. Captain Clapperton, with his
servant, Richard Lander, was the first who traversed Africa from the
Mediterranean to the Guinea Coast. And he died at his journey's end. And
there was something fine in the devotion of Richard Lander, the
faithful servant, who went on with his master's work and cleared up at
last the great mystery of the Niger. And he, too, had no sooner done his
work than he died, near the mouth of the river he had so long travelled
on, of wounds inflicted by the natives. There was not one of those early
voyagers who escaped with his life. It was the work of desperate men
that they undertook, but there was no recklessness in them. They counted
the cost and took the risk; the fascination of the unknown was too great
for them, and they reckoned death as nothing if they could accomplish
that on which they had set out.

Two men above all attracted Alec Mackenzie's interest. One was Richard
Burton, that mighty, enigmatic man, more admirable for what he was than
for what he did; and the other was Livingstone, the greatest of African
explorers. There was something very touching in the character of that
gentle Scot. MacKenzie's enthusiasm was seldom very strong, but here was
a man whom he would willingly have known; and he was strangely affected
by the thought of his lonely death, and his grave in the midst of the
Dark Continent he loved so well. On that, too, might have been written
the epitaph which is on the tomb of Sir Christopher Wren.

Finally he studied the works of Henry M. Stanley. Here the man excited
neither admiration nor affection, but a cold respect. No one could help
recognising the greatness of his powers. He was a man of Napoleonic
instinct, who suited his means to his end, and ruthlessly fought his way
until he had achieved it. His books were full of interest, and they were
practical. From them much could be learned, and Alec studied them with
a thoroughness which was in his nature.

When he arose from this long perusal, his mind