worth bringing away as curios. Yet, strange as it may seem,
his later knowledge scarcely added to that eagerness.

A curious trait in Hilary Blachland's character was a secret horror of
one day failing in nerve. He could recall at least one experience in
his life when this had happened to him, and that at a critical juncture,
and it had left an impression on him which he had never forgotten.
There were times when it haunted him with a ghostlike horror, and under
its influence he would embark in some mad and dare-devil undertaking,
utterly inconsequent because utterly without rhyme, reason, or
necessity. It was as though he were consumed with a feverish desire to
cultivate a reputation for intrepidity, though, as a matter of actual
fact, his real motive was to satisfy himself on the point. As a matter
of actual fact, too, he was as courageous as the average, and possessed
of more than the average amount of resolution.

"We should be starting," said Hlangulu, coming to the entrance of their
shelter, and sending a scrutinising look at the sky. "The rain has
stopped, and the clouds will all blow apart. Then there will be a moon.
We shall arrive there before daybreak." And, without waiting for the
other's consent or comment, he dived within again, and began putting
together the few things they carried.

One can travel light on such a march, provided the wayfarer makes up his
mind, and that rigidly, to take nothing along that is not strictly and
absolutely necessary. To this rule the strangely assorted pair had
adhered, so that the time taken to get under way was no longer than that
required to saddle Blachland's horse.

Hlangulu's prediction was verified, for in less than half an hour the
clouds had parted in all directions, revealing the depths of the
blue-black vault all spangled with gushing stars--and lo, a silver
crescent moon flooded the sombre valleys and fantastic crags with her
soft light. It was a strange and eerie march through that grim
wilderness in the hush of the silent night--a silence, broken now and
again by mysterious cries as of bird or beast--the effect heightened by
the varying echo from cave or crag. An ant-bear, looking like a great
bald pig in the magnifying moonlight, scuttled across their path. A
strange variety of nightjar flitted overhead, looking something between
a butterfly and a paper kite; or a troop of baboons, startled suddenly
from their feast of roots, would skip hurriedly