CHAPTER XVII

THE HOME OF THE HOLY FLOWER

Half an hour or so passed, during which I was engaged alternately in
thinking over our position and in listening to Stephen's rhapsodies.
First he dilated on the loveliness of the Holy Flower that he had caught
a glimpse of when he climbed the wall, and secondly, on the beauty of
the eyes of the young lady in white. Only by telling him that he might
offend her did I persuade him not to attempt to break into the sacred
enclosure where the orchid grew. As we were discussing the point, the
gate opened and she appeared.

"Sirs," she said, with a reverential bow, speaking slowly and in
the drollest halting English, "the mother and the father--yes, the
father--ask, will you feed?"

We intimated that we would "feed" with much pleasure, and she led the
way to the house, saying:

"Be not astonished at them, for they are very happy too, and please
forgive our unleavened bread."

Then in the politest way possible she took me by the hand, and followed
by Stephen, we entered the house, leaving Mavovo and Hans to watch
outside.

It consisted of but two rooms, one for living and one for sleeping. In
the former we found Brother John and his wife seated on a kind of couch
gazing at each other in a rapt way. I noted that they both looked as
though they had been crying--with happiness, I suppose.

"Elizabeth," said John as we entered, "this is Mr. Allan Quatermain,
through whose resource and courage we have come together again, and this
young gentleman is his companion, Mr. Stephen Somers."

She bowed, for she seemed unable to speak, and held out her hand, which
we shook.

"What be 'resource and courage'?" I heard her daughter whisper to
Stephen, "and why have you none, O Stephen Somers?"

"It would take a long time to explain," he said with his jolly laugh,
after which I listened to no more of their nonsense.

Then we sat down to the meal, which consisted of vegetables and a large
bowl of hard-boiled ducks' eggs, of which eatables an ample supply was
carried out to Hans and Mavovo by Stephen and Hope. This, it seemed, was
the name that her mother had given to the girl when she was born in the
hour of her black despair.

It was an extraordinary story that Mrs. Eversley had to tell, and yet a
short one.

She _had_ escaped from Hassan-ben-Mohammed and the slave-traders, as the
rescued slave told her husband at Zanzibar before he died, and, after
days o