stock, with some water, and he
went on, speaking, however, with great difficulty.

"I was up in these parts with a donkey and a bit of an outfit four years
ago, and I heard from a nigger that a Dutchman had got into this place;
and, after a lot of trouble, I found my way in too, from another
direction, nor'-east there. I had some grub, and I meant to camp for a
week, as alluvial gold was wonderfully plentiful. On the fifth day
after I got here, Tobias Steenkamp turned up. It was the second and
last trip he made. He was mad to find me here, and told me it was his
place, and I was to clear. We quarrelled; he struck me, and in my rage
I out with my knife and stabbed him in the chest. He died within an
hour. You will find his bones along there under a bit of a cairn near
the water. Well, after that I only wanted to get out of the place. I
took what gold I had picked up, and started up the mountain again. In
my hurry I was careless; I fell, broke my right thigh, and here I have
been ever since. My leg healed in a rough sort of way; but there's a
false joint; the bone kept coming away, and I could never walk properly
again. I managed to pick up food by snaring fowl and catching fish; but
latterly I've been too weak to do that. For the last month I've been
slowly starving. Lizards and roots are what I've lived on--that's God's
truth. My leg's been getting worse, and I've had to crawl, mostly,
these last three months. I never expected to reach the water again
after to-night, and then I think I should have pinched out. Time
enough, too. This place has been worse than hell itself."

There was a hunted terror in the man's eye that implied more than his
words. I doubted somehow whether I had heard the plain truth. The poor
wretch was by this time exhausted, and could say no more. I gave him,
at his request, a piece of tobacco; he clapped it into his cheek, and
thought he could doze a bit.

I turned to Du Plessis, who had meanwhile, with very grim looks, edged
away from the man who, he understood from me (I had translated the gist
of the prospector's story), had slain his cousin. His feeling of
vengeance was strong--remember, he was but a primitive Transvaal Boer;
but what could even he say, as we looked at this poor travesty of a man,
this living skeleton, with its broken, deformed leg, that now slept,
huddled up to the fire as closely as the starved Bushman of the
Kalahari?

It was now late, and Du Plessi