sounded a shrill call. A boat shot across the stream from
the fort; the noise of the oars straining in the rowlocks was heard, and
the bowman jumped ashore, holding the boat's painter in his hand.

"Good-night, gentlemen," said the noble. "I shall have much business to
transact with the Senhor Commandant to-morrow, and may not see you. My
daughter, Dona Isabel, will hope to have that pleasure in my absence.
The smaller of the two boats allotted us you will look upon as yours."

Moving towards the river, his daughter on his arm, the stately
Portuguese took off his broad-brimmed hat most courteously. Senhor
Mujaio followed, having first handed the missionary the silver whistle.

"When you require the boat you have only to use this. Good-night,
gentlemen."

A dark spot shot off from the bank into the starlight; the noise of the
oars was again heard, and then the sound of a merry Portuguese air, in
the chorus of which even the boatmen joined, though the soft, silvery
female voice told who was the principal singer. Then the dark shadow
thrown across the river received the boat, and all was silent. With a
sigh of gratification, Hughes threw himself back on the cushions.

"Well, there is our future provided for," he ejaculated. "Who would
have thought of meeting such a divine creature here, Wyzinski? Fancy
such a jewel shut up in that crumbling old fort. Why, the Amatongas
even could take it."

"There is a much more warlike tribe here to the north, named the
Landeens, who have taken it more than once," replied the missionary.

"And might do so again," mused the other, "this very night."

"Don't you think you might utilise your light infantry education?" asked
Wyzinski.

"What do you mean?"

"Why, I mean if you were to run away, as you did from the hippopotamus."

"What, run away from the Landeens?"

"No, from the lady," laughed Wyzinski; "I think it would be the wisest
plan."

"Don't be a fool, Wyzinski; I am not strong enough to bear chaffing."

"But quite strong enough to go down the stream--of course I don't mean
the stream of life, but of the Zambesi--with Dona Isabel de Maxara?"

The captain of the gallant 150th did not reply, but fell into a musing
mood. Some Portuguese cigarettes lay on the table near the chessmen.
The night was cool; and it was pleasant, looking over the flowing river,
and watching the twinkling lights flashing from the windows and
embrasures of the fort. The cry of the jac