Chapter XXIII: “Good night!--and--Good-by!”

The first red beam shot out of the east, sending the rich fiery glow of dawning day over a vista of densely wooded country, breaking up the thick veil of mist that night had drawn over the landscape. The growing light showed an endless stretch of matted forest with only one break as far as the eye could reach. There the marble ruins of a once great city glinted; but time had broken it almost beyond recognition, and vegetation was swallowing the little that remained.

White carved columns stood side by side with those of Nature’s rearing; great arches and the scattered stones of city walls stretched away under deep, gloomy vaults of towering trees; graceful, fluttering palms grew among the ruins of marble palaces. It was the remains of one of those mystic, haunting cities occasionally met with by those who probe the all-devouring forest wastes that comprise so much of West Africa.

There was still life in one corner of this shattered city; one patch the all-shrouding vegetation had not yet covered up.

Within a huge walled garden a tiny palace showed, Moorish in design and of a recent era. It had graceful horse-shoe arches, columned balconies and beautiful carved arabesque windows opening on to a center courtyard smothered with roses. There fountains played, and orange trees, white with blossom, shaded carved stone seats.

This miniature palace was set in a great shady garden full of winding walks, unexpected fountains and deep, still pools where gold and silver fish flashed among the roots of pink, white and blue water-lilies. Roses, from the deepest red to pure white, vied in sweetness with the sensual perfume of a thousand tropical flowers. Palms, mangoes and bread-fruit trees cast a welcome shade over patches of violets. Wistarias showered down a flood of petals on whispering bamboo, and trailing jessamine found support around the trunks of grotesque, spiky-leaved dragon trees.

The whole of this little paradise was walled by twenty feet of marble, with only one entrance--a gilded gate that flashed in the rising sun.

Outside the screening walls were scores of rude huts. From these came a busy hum. Wild, black figures flitted to and fro, and were lost among the ruins; others sat on the ground polishing knives and spears and shields, until they vied with the sunshine.

There was an air of savage gaiety over everything--no suggestion of the warfare the industrious polishing of weapons might have led one to expect. The Hyena’s following, when they went out to battle, were armed with something very different from the crude spears, shields and knives they cleaned amidst loud laughter and many jokes; but they all agreed these made a better show than white man’s weapons, and who had ever heard of a Sultan’s bride entering Kallu save under an arch of spears held by the picked men of her lord’s army.

So broad-bladed spears were cleaned, and heavy, elephant-hide shields, with flashing brass knobs, polished with a right good-will.

Had not the Ruler of the Night at last found the Star that was his heart’s delight? Gossip, grunts, comments, much laughter and friendly bantering went on, whilst the old-fashioned weapons grew ever brighter, and the stacks of wood for bonfires ever higher.

Twenty miles away, in the deep green gloom of the forest, unconscious of the celebrations which were to be held in her honor, Leslie was sitting in the tent that had been her home for over six weeks.

To her the months since receiving Lebrassa’s letter had been a kind of mental paralysis. Now an incident had occurred which made her realize how close the dread future was.

On the table beside her lay a letter, and a bunch of roses held together by a thick, heavy bracelet of red-gold with diamonds sparkling like stars on its surface--the first gift of the Sultan to his bride.

The flowers, bracelet and letter were lying there, untouched, half an hour later when Hillman entered to tell the girl the last stage of her journey was about to start.

Wearily Leslie rose, to be assisted into the hammock that had borne her daily for more than six weeks.

With the approaching end of her journey had come the haunting fear that Lebrassa might _not_ keep his side of the bargain. Even now the man she had come to save might have been killed. It was hardly likely the Hyena would let such a determined enemy as Captain Fletcher live and go free.

These facts passed through Leslie’s mind as she was jogged along in the hammock. Assuming her lover were still alive, she was trying to think out some way of saving him from the result of her own folly and his enemy’s vengeance.

There _was_ one way of making sure of Captain Fletcher’s safety. But it meant such a long vista of horror for her--not the quick way of death she had decided on.

As the afternoon wore on, the forest grew less dense, and more sunshine dribbled through the matted branches. A desire to meet her fate standing seized Leslie. She raised herself on her elbow and looked round for her guardian.

The movement brought Hillman to her side.

“What is it, Miss Graham?” he asked.

“I’d like to walk the rest of the way.”

The doctor looked at her in the manner he frequently had used since their first meeting in Lisbon--as if wondering why his patron should run such risks in order to get this white-faced wraith of a girl into his possession.

“You can hardly do that,” he answered. “We’ve still two miles to go.”

“I want to walk. I can’t stay here any longer.”

A voice that would be very powerful in Kallu had stated its desire. The doctor helped Leslie from her litter. Then the procession started again, following in the wake of the two.

The girl had no idea how long she walked.

She seemed hardly to have left the hammock when the path widened and scattered blocks of masonry showed up. The trees grew farther and farther apart and, between them, ruins loomed. She went on, wondering why the sun was shining, why it was not all as black as her own future.

Presently the world became a brilliant flood of golden light, that flashed on a long avenue of spears.

She was aware the doctor left her just as the first two silent, black warriors were reached. There seemed an endless double row of them, all watching her, all black, all with rolling, blood-shot eyes.

As she entered the arch of spears, the wild war-cry greeted her.

With set, white face she went on, thinking the savage roar would follow her into eternity, and emerged into a wide, open square. Marble walls and a glittering gate formed one side, the other three were living walls--an excited, eager crowd, all watching her, all shouting.

The dazzling glare of tropical sunshine did not blind her to a man coming toward her, bareheaded, the only person there in European dress.

Lebrassa halted beside her, gazing intently at her white, scornful face.

“May I say ‘Welcome to Kallu,’ little rose?” he asked with a touch of pleading.

There was no reply.

A light breeze sighed through the forest, bringing with it the excited whisper of thousands watching the meeting of their Sultan and his bride.

“Have you no word for me, little friend?”

“I want to see--Captain Fletcher,” Leslie said in a breathless way.

Evidently Lebrassa expected this. Putting a hand lightly on her shoulder, he guided her across the square toward a point where mud and palm leaf dwellings showed. Like a receding wave, the crowd swept back as they approached. Beyond was a group of palm trees; beneath them a two-roomed hut, around the door of which half a dozen savages mounted guard.

The sight of the sentries broke up some of the haze in which Leslie was submerged. Their presence indicated that Captain Fletcher was not dead as she had feared. She pulled her benumbed faculties together for the great effort of saving him.

She quickened her pace, heedless of the black figures closing up to block the entrance, stopping only when she realized she could not pass them and that they had no intention of moving.

So far Lebrassa had given no signal for the guard to admit her. He stood waiting for the request to come from her. This Leslie quickly grasped, for she looked at him haughtily. Just then other matters than the horror of himself were in her mind.

“Tell them to move,” she said coldly.

He made a gesture, nothing more than a slight movement of his hand, and the way was cleared. For the first time the girl realized how all-powerful he was. Also it gave her the feeling that a word of hers could move him as easily as he had moved the barrier. The full extent of the influence she had over him dawned on her, and she determined to use all means within her power to save her countrymen.

The sound of her sweet cool voice made the two men sitting within the hut start up. Fletcher’s face, worn and haggard, was turned towards the door, as he stood, bound and helpless, watching the entering couple.

To Leslie, as she crossed the hut, there was only one thing left in the world--the man she loved. A man with a tired, hopeless face and weary eyes. She went up to him, to stand holding his bound arms tightly.

“Why did you come, little one?” Fletcher asked hoarsely. “I’d hoped, prayed, you wouldn’t.”

There was no reply, but the clutch of the small hands on his arms tightened.

Vincent’s husky voice roused her to the fact of his existence.

“You shouldn’t have come, Miss Graham, whatever that black brute threatened.”

Wistfully she smiled at him. He was a nice-looking youngster, so fresh and fair and Anglo Saxon; no boy of his type would ever come into her life again. She was glad he was there. Just then it was easier to talk to a stranger than to Captain Fletcher.

“If I hadn’t come, it would have made no difference. I should have been here sooner or later, once he knew where I was.”

Her brave strained voice brought a stifled groan to the youngster’s lips, and the look of deadly pain in Fletcher’s eyes deepened.

From outside came the excited hum of the crowd, an occasional jabber from the sentries, with now and again the crude blast of a horn or the beating of tom-toms, and, above all, the sleepy sigh of trees stirred by the breeze of sunset.

A black bar fell across the flood of golden light streaming in at the doorway. Leslie shivered, as if with sudden cold. Her eyes left Fletcher’s worn face and went to the mulatto. And there they stayed with desperate, scornful gaze.

“Mr. Lebrassa,” she said in a stiff, cold voice, “you promised me these two lives if I came here, but I know you won’t keep your word. Death is a quick way out of my troubles. Yet--if I know that Captain Fletcher and Lieutenant Vincent really reach safety I… I’ll promise not to kill myself in order to get away from you.”

“Don’t bargain with him, darling,” Fletcher broke out hoarsely. “Don’t bind yourself down to hell because of us.”

At her words the least flicker of feeling crossed Lebrassa’s face.

“I suppose you won’t believe me when I say I’ve no intention of breaking our bargain,” he said. “What proof would satisfy you these two officers really reach safety?”

“If Captain Fletcher sends a letter back with a message I give him now, privately, signed by himself and Lieutenant Vincent and the officers of the outpost they reach.”

Leslie spoke in a hard, forced way, as if the plan were one desperation had forced on her.

“Very well. I’ll give you three minutes alone,” Lebrassa answered.

He turned to the youngster.

“Come outside with me, Vincent,” he commanded.

When the two left the hut, Leslie stood looking up at Fletcher with eyes full of love. There was no need for disguise now, when the whole world ended with his departure.

The knowledge of her position and his own helplessness was beyond the man’s strength. He dropped on to a bench, his haggard, distorted face pressed against the rough mud wall, to hide from her the tears that agony had brought to his eyes.

Putting her arms about his neck, she drew his head on her shoulder, trying to kiss away his pain.

A movement outside made her arms tighten.

“Kiss me just once, to show you don’t despise me,” she whispered. “Then say, ‘Good night, dear, and--good-by.’ Will you put that in your letter, ‘Good night and Good-by’?”

A few minutes later a little procession--two Englishmen, with an escort of negroes--set out into the forest. In the center of the square Leslie stood, heedless of the man beside her, watching Fletcher until he was lost in the shadows.