FullReads

“I am not giving you his exact words, Louise, not all of them, but I am giving you as near as I can the effect untamed, mighty, irresistible nature produced on his mind. Lying there, his shrivelled white face supported on one shrunken hand, his body emaciated so that the bones of his knees and elbows protruded from his ragged clothes, he seemed like some prophet of old, lifting his voice in the wilderness, proclaiming a new faith and a new life.

“Nor can I give you any idea of the way the words came, nor of the glassy brilliance of his eyes, set in a face dry as a skull, the yellow teeth chattering between tightly stretched lips. Oh! it was horrible–horrible!

“The second day he was strong enough to stand, but not to walk. The rain, due now every hour, comes without warning, making the swamps impassable, and there was no time to lose. I left two men to care for him, and hurried back to camp to get some sort of a stretcher on which to bring him out.

“That night, sitting under our lamp–we were alone at the time, my men being again away–I gave the young Belgian the details of my trip, telling him the man’s name and object in coming into the wilderness, describing his sufferings and relating snaps of his talk. He listened with a curious expression on his face, his eyes growing strangely bright, his fingers twitching like those of a nervous person unused to tales of suffering and privation.

“‘And he will live?’ he said, with a smile, as I finished.

“‘Certainly; all he wanted was something in his stomach; he’s got that. He’ll be here to-morrow.’

“For some time he did not speak; then he rose from his seat, looked at me steadily for a moment, grasped my hand, and with a certain tenderness in his voice, said:

“‘Thank you.’

“‘For what?’ I asked in surprise.

“‘For being kind. I’ll go to the spring and get a drink, and then I’ll go to sleep. Good night!’

“I watched him disappear into the dark, wondering at his mood. Hardly had I regained my seat when a pistol shot rang out. He had blown the top of his head off.

“That night I buried him in the soft ooze near the spring, covering him so the hyenas could not reach his body.

“The next morning my men arrived, carrying the stranger. He had been plucky and had insisted on walking a little, and the party arrived earlier than I expected. When he had thanked me for what I had done, he began an inspection of my rude dwelling and the smaller lean-to, even peering into the huts connected with my bungalow–new in his experience.

“‘And you are all alone except for your black men?’ he asked in an eager tone.

“‘No, I have Mr. Judson with me. He is away this week–and a young Belgian officer–and–I–‘

“‘Yes, I remember Mr. Judson,’ he interrupted. ‘I met him at the landing below. I should have taken his advice and joined him. And the young officer–has he been long with you?’

“‘About two months.’

“‘He is the same man who left some of his luggage at the landing below, is he not?’

“‘Yes, I think so,’ I answered.

“‘A young man with light curly hair and upturned mustache, very strong, quick in his movements, shows his teeth when he speaks–very white teeth–‘

“‘He was smiling–a strange smile from one whose lips were still parched.

“‘Yes,’ I replied.

“‘Can I see him?’

“‘No, he is dead!’

“Had I not stretched out my hand to steady him he would have fallen.

“‘Dead!’ he cried, a look of horror in his eyes. ‘No! You don’t mean–not starved to death! No, no, you don’t mean that!’ He was trembling all over.

“‘No, he blew out his brains last night. His grave is outside. Come, I will show it to you.’

“I had almost to carry him. For an instant he leaned against a tree growing near the poor fellow’s head, his eyes fixed on the rude mound. Then he slowly sank to his knees and burst into tears, sobbing:

“‘Oh! If I could have stopped him! He was so young to die.’

“Two days later he set out on his return to the coast.”

With the ending of the story, Bayard turned to Mme. Constantin:

“There, Louise, you have the rest of it. You understand now what I meant when I said there was something stronger than revenge;–the primeval.”

Greenough, who had sat absorbed, drinking in every word, laid his hand on Bayard’s shoulder.

“You haven’t told us their names.”

“Do you want them?”

“Yes, but write them on this card.”

Bayard slipped his gold pencil from its chain and traced two names. “My God, Bayard! That’s the same man I told you is dying of a broken heart.”

“Yes–that’s why I told you the story, Greenough. But his heart is not breaking for the woman he loved and lost, but for the man he hunted–the man I buried.”