won it or died, and that we would never return to England till it was
won. Then we sailed for Africa. For seven years we have sought and done
no more than earn a livelihood, much less a couple of hundred thousand
pounds or so."

"Leonard."

"Yes, Tom?"

"You are sole heir to our oath now, and to the old name with it, or you
will be in a few hours. I have fulfilled my vow. I have sought till I
died. You will take up the quest till you succeed or die. The struggle
has been mine, may you live to win the Star. You will persevere, will
you not, Leonard?"

"Yes, Tom, I will."

"Give me your hand on it, old fellow."

Leonard Outram knelt down beside his dying brother, and they clasped
each other's hands.

"Now let me sleep awhile. I am tired. Do not be afraid, I shall wake
before the--end."

Hardly had the words passed his lips when his eyes closed and he sank
into stupor or sleep.

His brother Leonard sat down upon a rude seat, improvised out of an
empty gin-case. Without the tempest shrieked and howled, the great
wind shook the Kaffir hut of grass and wattle, piercing it in a hundred
places till the light of the lantern wavered within its glass, and
the sick man's hair was lifted from his clammy brow. From time to
time fierce squalls of rain fell like sheets of spray, and the water,
penetrating the roof of grass, streamed to the earthen floor. Leonard
crept on his hands and knees to the doorway of the hut, or rather to the
low arched opening which served as a doorway, and, removing the board
that secured it, looked out at the night. Their hut stood upon the ridge
of a great mountain; below was a sea of bush, and around it rose the
fantastic shapes of other mountains. Black clouds drove across the dying
moon, but occasionally she peeped out and showed the scene in all its
vast solemnity and appalling solitude.

Presently Leonard closed the opening of the doorway, and going back to
his brother's side he gazed upon him earnestly. Many years of toil and
privation had not robbed Thomas Outram's face of its singular beauty, or
found power to mar its refinement. But death was written on it.

Leonard sighed, then, struck by a sudden thought, sought for and found a
scrap of looking-glass. Holding it close to the light of the lantern,
he examined the reflection of his own features. The glass mirrored a
handsome bearded man, dark, keen-eyed like one who is always on the
watch for danger, curly-haired and broad-shouldered