Boothby Guy
Long Live the King!

Max replied that he understood perfectly well, but he was not quite certain that he altogether liked the idea. He was certainly not going to act in the capacity of a spy, either for Moreas or for anyone else. He said as much to the other, who laughed the matter off.

"My dear fellow, I don't want you to be a spy at all," he said. "What on earth put that notion into your head? I should be the last to suggest such a thing. No, all I want you to do is to prevent them from playing me false. If you come with me as my friend, they'll turn you out again. Don't you see? They're much too sharp to let me employ a bodyguard to act against themselves. All you will have to do will be to stand between us in the capacity of an umpire, and see that there is fair play on both sides. Now, what have you to say?"

"Under those circumstances I have no objection to acting as you propose."

"Very good; that settles it. Now we'd better arrange one or two other little matters while we're about it, and then postpone the remainder until they arrive."

It was not until nearly nine o'clock that evening that the three men, whom Moreas had informed Max were so determined to share the chances of the expedition with him, put in an appearance. It was part of the plan, that Max and he had arranged together, that the former should not be in the room when they arrived. He was to drop in half an hour or so later, as if by chance, and then to appear annoyed at finding them there. When he did so, Moreas greeted him with well-simulated surprise. The others stared at the intruder, as if they scarcely knew what to make of him, and then at Moreas, as if they were suspicious of his action in the matter. On his part Max studied them with equal interest. The taller of the trio was an Englishman, possibly thirty-five years of age, who boasted a frank and extremely pleasing countenance. His name was Bertram, and, as Max discovered later, he had occupied a good position in the world, from which he had fallen, more by his own folly than on account of any material wrong-doing. The other two were unmistakably Spaniards. The name of one was Diego Pereira, that of the other Antonio Rodriguez. Neither of them were particularly pleasant-looking fellows, and Max wondered as he looked at them what it was that had made the Englishman associate with them.

At the moment Max entered, the two Spaniards were talking vociferously. From what he could catch of their conversation it appeared that they were extremely dissatisfied with something Moreas had done, and desired to make trouble out of it if only such a thing were possible. Their grievance eventually proved to be his own importation into the affair, of which Moreas had been telling them.

"But what can I do?" the latter asked snappishly. "He swears that he will come with us, and how am I to prevent him?"

"As it appears that I am the subject of your conversation," said Max coolly, seating himself on the table, "perhaps I may be permitted to say a word. Let me inform you, therefore, once and for all, that it is not a bit of use Moreas or anybody else trying to keep me out of the business. I know all the ins and outs of it, and, I tell you plainly, our friend here doesn't leave Rio without me. You can buy me off if you're willing to pay my price, but, I give you fair warning, it will be a stiff one. Otherwise, I go. Take your choice."

"What did I tell you?" said Moreas angrily to the others. "I wish to goodness you were all at the bottom of the sea."

"That is very likely," returned Max. "But as we're not, you've got to give yourself the pleasure of our society. Has anyone else any objection to raise?"

He looked round at the assembled company. His coolness had evidently impressed them.

"If you are determined to go, and Moreas is willing to give half of his share to you, I don't know that anything more need be said," observed the Englishman. "Personally, I think it's a pity to bring a fifth person in; but, as he says, it is his affair, not ours. I'll give you one piece of advice, however, if you are coming; don't try to play any tricks with us."

"Or with me," put in Moreas sulkily. "If you do, you'll find yourself in the wrong box. By the time I've paid all of you your shares there will be nothing left for myself. I only hope nothing will go wrong."

"It had better not," answered Max. "At least, so far as you are concerned. You know me, I think, and I know you."

Moreas instinctively thought of the game of cards they had played together on the Diamintina, and of the pistol practice that had followed it. Was Max's speech only a part of the game of bluff they were both playing, or was it really intended as a warning to himself? A look of real apprehension flashed across his face. The Englishman observed it, and, if he had entertained suspicions before as to their complicity in the affair, this effectually dispersed them. They thereupon proceeded to make the final arrangements for the journey. A rendezvous was agreed upon for the following morning, and, this done, Max rose to take his leave.

"Adeos, Señors," he said, bowing to them with graceful insolence. "I have the honour to bid you farewell until to-morrow."

Then he left the room and went downstairs. But he did not leave the neighbourhood. According to the plan they had arranged, he took up his position in a dark corner of the street until he had seen the others depart. Then he returned to the house and rejoined Moreas.

"You played your part extremely well," said the latter patronisingly. "It's a long time since I witnessed a prettier bit of acting than when you told me I had better see that nothing went wrong while we were away."

"Don't be too sure it was all acting," replied Max quietly. "You have brought me into it to look after your interests; but I fancy you'll agree with me that a man's first duty, in affairs like this at any rate, is to look after his own."

Moreas tried to laugh unconcernedly, but the result was a comparative failure.

CHAPTER XV

To attempt a detailed description of Max's wanderings for the next few months would, even with the help of his diary, prove, I fear, a task altogether beyond my abilities. On the morning following the interview I have just described as taking place at Moreas' house, they embarked upon the train at a wayside station, a few miles out of Rio, and remained in it until they had proceeded as far as it was possible for the line to take them. Having reached the end of the construction, they alighted at a miserable village consisting of some twenty or thirty houses of the typical Brazilian type, and collected their impedimenta. Such stores and equipments as they intended carrying with them had already arrived, as also had the mules which had been purchased for the journey. Moreas, by virtue of being the only person who knew the secret, was duly installed as leader of the expedition; and, seeing that the day was too far advanced for them to make a start, he decided on remaining in the village that night, and proceeding as soon as it was light next morning. Being anxious to obtain as much information as possible concerning the track they were to follow for the next hundred miles, Moreas invited certain of the leading inhabitants to sup with them that night. This gave rise to a regular orgie. By midnight Moreas was decidedly intoxicated, while the two Spaniards were incapable of even sitting upright, so were stretched at full length upon the floor. Disgusted beyond measure with what he saw, Max left the room and passed into the verandah. There he found the Englishman, Bertram, smoking a cigar. He had taken a liking to the man, and cherished a belief that the feeling was reciprocated. "So you have had enough of it, too," said the latter as Max approached. "I couldn't stand any more of it, so I came out here."

"My case is very similar," answered Max. "It's a good thing this sort of thing is not likely to occur very often."

"I agree with you," returned the other. "Moreas and the Spaniards are very well when they are sober, but when they are drunk they are altogether impossible. Forgive me asking the question, but have you known Moreas very long?"

"A matter of two years," Max replied. "I met him first on the steamer that brought me out from England."

"Ah! I was right then," said Bertram, in a somewhat kindlier tone than he had yet spoken. "I felt certain that you were an Englishman when I saw you yesterday; and yet, do you know, if you don't mind my saying so, you don't altogether look like one."

"I'm not," said Max. "By birth I am a Pannonian, but I have lived in England since I was quite a youngster. You, of course, are English. There can be no sort of doubt about that."

"Am I so dreadfully insular, then?" the other inquired with a laugh. "I thought the knocking about the world I have had would have rubbed the edges off. Yes, I am an Englishman, I suppose, if ever there was one. I hail from Gainsthorpe, in Yorkshire. Do you happen to know the place?"

"I should think so," said Max, with sudden animation. "I've stayed there often."

After that they were both silent. The simple fact that they both happened to be acquainted with the same obscure village struck them as a marvellous coincidence; after a time, however, it became a bond that bound them very closely together. Later on, for some reason not altogether explainable, they left England, and talked of Brazil and life in South America generally. Of the subject upon which they were for the time being engaged they said nothing. They did not know each other particularly well yet, and both felt it would be safer to let it alone. Presently Moreas staggered into the verandah, stared wildly about him for a few seconds, as if he were looking for some one, and then reeled towards them.

"Come, come, Señors," he said with a hiccup, "I don't call this sociable at all. Here we are enjoying ourselves in the room yonder, and you keep away from us as if you don't desire our company. It isn't the sort of thing to make us friendly."

He seized Max by the arm, and attempted to lead him in the direction of the door, but the other shook him off.

"You must excuse me," he said. "I don't feel up to it to-night. Besides, if the noise you are making is any criterion, you are getting along well enough without us."

The other's mood had changed by this time. He turned and faced them, supporting himself by the verandah rails.

"I suppose you don't want to offend me on the first evening of this mem – mem – (hic) memorable journey?" he said.

"I have not the least desire to offend you," Max retorted. "Nevertheless, I am not coming in. It is useless for you to ask me."

Moreas thereupon transferred his attentions to Bertram, who proved equally intractable.

"Very well," he said at last, when he had tried to arrive at a proper understanding of the position; "if you won't come I suppose you won't, so I'll go myself, and leave you to conspire against me in peace."

With that he took himself off, and the two men were left to construe his last speech according to their inclinations.

"That is a cur who will require some watching," said Bertram, when they were alone once more together. "Thank goodness, however, I'm up to most of his tricks."

Max offered no reply to this remark. Angry as he was with Moreas, he felt that he himself was in an invidious position. To all intents and purpose he was the other's servant, and an innate feeling of loyalty, to however unworthy a master, kept him silent.

"If we are to be up as early to-morrow morning as we arranged had we not better begin to think about bed?" said Max at last.

"Perhaps we had. But I am rather afraid the others will not be in a condition after their carouse to-night to travel as soon as we imagine. However, if you are tired, by all means let us turn in."

They walked towards the door. Suddenly Bertram stopped, and, with a little hesitation, addressed his companion once more.

"I want to ask you," he said, "whether you have any objection to telling me the name of your friend; I mean the man who you visited at Gainsthorpe. It's just possible I might know him."

"His name was Beverley," Max replied, without thinking of the trouble to which his answer might possibly give rise.

"Do you mean Dick Beverley, the cross-country man?" said Bertram, after a momentary pause.

"The same," said Max. "Do you know him?"

"I ought to," the other replied, and then, after another display of hesitation, added, "Dick Beverley is my brother. Bertram is only my assumed name."

Max uttered an exclamation, that was partly one of surprise and partly one of pain. "Good heavens! can it be possible that you are Beverley's brother?" he cried. "I can scarcely credit it."

"It's more than possible, however, it's a certainty," returned his companion. "And now, d'you know, I fancy I can tell who you are. Your face has been haunting me ever since I first saw it. I knew I had seen it somewhere. You don't remember me, because I never saw you at the old place, but, the year after I cleared out of England, Dick sent me a photograph of himself, taken with a group of his brother officers. You and he were standing side by side, I remember. If you don't mind my saying so, you are the man who has been missing for so long, and about whom there has been so much talk – the Crown Prince of Pannonia."

"Hush, hush!" cried Max, as if he were afraid some one might overhear the other's words. "For heaven's sake don't talk so loud. You see, I don't deny the truth of your words. I suppose it would be no use. What a strange world it is, to be sure! My only reason for coming on this journey was because I was afraid of being recognised in Rio. Now it appears that it is destined for one of the men I am travelling with to find me out. What a fool I was ever to talk to you about Yorkshire!"

"It was I who started it," said the other apologetically, as if he were anxious to bear his proper share of the blame. "I'm sorry I asked you such questions, since it has caused you pain. I'm not much of a fellow, and I suppose there are a good many people who wouldn't trust me as far as they can see me; all the same, if you like, I will give you my word that your secret shall never pass my lips. I'll do that for the sake of poor old Dick, whose friend and comrade you once were."

"I thank you from the bottom of my heart," said Max. "Since my reasons were of sufficient importance to induce me to leave home, and give up everything that a man ought to hold dear, it may be supposed I am not anxious that other people should recognise me and drive me further afield again. If you will keep my secret, you will lay me under an everlasting obligation."

"Your secret is safe with me," answered Bertram solemnly. "I will pledge you my word on it, if you like."

"I'll believe you without that," said Max. "Let us shake hands upon it."

They accordingly did so. Though they could not, of course, realise it then, that hand-shake was significant in a variety of ways. Among other things, it laid the foundation of a friendship that was as sincere as it was mutual.

A few minutes later they retired into the house, and, when they had found a corner in which the night might be spent in comparative peace, if not in any degree of comfort, they wrapped themselves in their blankets and were soon asleep. Max and Bertram were early astir next morning. Not so the revellers of the previous evening. Like warriors on a battlefield, they lay just where they had fallen. Moreas was in the verandah, Rodriguez and his compatriot rested under the table, while the others were scattered in various picturesque, but undignified, attitudes about the different rooms.

"My prophecy of last night is likely to prove a true one," said Bertram, as they stood side by side surveying the prostrate figures. "They will not open their eyes till mid-day, and it will be some hours afterwards before we shall be able to get upon the road."

It turned out as he had said. Mid-day had arrived and passed before the remainder of the party seemed capable of getting upon their feet, much less of exerting themselves. Even then, the two Spaniards, Rodriguez, and Pereira, would have needed but little persuasion to make them continue the orgie for another night. Of this, however, Max and the Englishman would not hear, and even Moreas, who was by this time comparatively himself once more, joined in the chorus of disapproval. Accordingly, the horses and mules were caught and saddled, and, half an hour later, the party bade the village farewell and embarked upon their journey proper. For three days they traversed through well-vegetated forests, and over long rolling plains, with never a bush or a tree, until they entered a forbidding mountain range, and some stiff climbing became the order of the day. By the time they had had twenty-four hours of this, the strength and temper of both mules and men were well-nigh exhausted. It was in one of these gloomy passes, or cañons, as perhaps it should be properly termed, that an incident occurred that might very well have ended disastrously for the whole company concerned. It happened in this way. Ever since they had left the forest and set foot upon the sterile plateau, the commissariat, once so plentifully supplied, had been impoverished to a degree that bordered upon starvation. As a result, they were compelled to fall back upon the preserved food they had brought with them, and which was only to be used in case of emergency. This had given rise to a considerable amount of grumbling, and from grumbling certain members of the party found it a very short step to open quarrelling. Antonio Rodriguez and Moreas were the principal offenders in this respect. Indeed, it was noticeable to more than one that, in the last few days, the latter's character had changed completely. He was silent, morose, rarely smiled, and equally seldom allowed an opportunity to pass him of saying something that was likely to give offence. What was perhaps worse, he had become exceedingly jealous of the attention paid to him. Because he took it into his head that Max preferred Bertram's company to his own, he held aloof from him and conversed only with the Spaniards. But, in thus describing the change that had come over his character, I have wandered away from the incident I was about to put on record.

As I have said, the commissariat stood in great need of replenishment. Being anxious to give the animals a rest, it was agreed that the party should remain in camp for another day. This being so, Bertram took his rifle and started off into the mountains in search of game. When he had been gone about half an hour, Moreas, who had been in one of his tantrums all day, also decided to set out upon the same errand. Climbing the side of the mountain, he, in his turn, disappeared from view, and Max, who had been watching him, returned to the tailoring operations upon which he had hitherto been busily engaged. As he worked, the recollection of a quarrel that had taken place in the morning between Moreas and Bertram returned to his mind. It had been brewing for a long time, and, had it not been for Max's own repeated interventions, it would long since have taken a serious turn. Both men were equally ready to fight, but Max was aware that Bertram, good shot as he was, when pitted against such a man as Moreas, would stand but a small chance of success. He was still pondering over this, when another thought occurred to him. It placed a more serious aspect upon the case. He liked Bertram, and he had no intention of allowing the Spaniard to do him a mischief, if he could help it. He accordingly rose, stowed away his work in his saddle-bag, and, having explained to the two other men, that he felt inclined for a walk, and was going after Moreas, he also climbed the side of the hill. On reaching the summit he looked anxiously about him for the man he was seeking, both on the neighbouring hills and also in the valley below. For a long time, however, he was unsuccessful. Then a mile or so distant, along the hillside to the right, his quick eye detected a small black object, creeping slowly but steadily towards the west. He was evidently stalking something, and Max, remembering Moreas' skill with the rifle, resolved to follow him, in the hope that he might be of some service in helping to carry home the game.

Seeing the slow pace at which the other was travelling, it was not very long before he was close behind him. Moreas was now crouching behind a rock, as if he were anxious that the game he was pursuing, and which Max could not see, should not become aware of his presence. A moment later he rose and peeped over the boulder, at the same time lifting his gun into position. Being some distance above him, it was possible for Max to see over his head into the valley in the direction in which the rifle was pointing. Then, to his horrified amazement, he beheld Bertram leave a little coppice, and walk out into a piece of open ground, a couple of hundred yards or so distant from where the other man was waiting. In a flash the whole truth dawned upon him. It was Bertram whom Moreas was stalking so carefully, and it was Bertram he intended to shoot. He was about to call out in the hope of diverting the Spaniard's attention, or of warning the Englishman; but, before he could do so, the other had pulled the trigger. There was a report, and when Max, who had closed his eyes, as if he were afraid of what he might be called upon to witness, opened them again, Moreas was once more crouching down behind the rock, while Bertram was examining something, evidently, the splash of a bullet, on the face of a boulder behind him. Moreas had failed in his attempt; but the man he had aimed at had been standing directly before the rock, and it could only have been by a few inches that he had missed him.

"This is a terrible state of things," said Max to himself, when he had recovered a little from the shock Moreas' treachery had caused him. "What on earth am I to do?"

At first he felt inclined to descend hastily upon Moreas, and accuse him, there and then, of attempting to murder the Englishman. A moment later, however, the folly of this proceeding became apparent to him. Had he done so, it would have been necessary for the others to know of it, and, in that case, it was very probable that Moreas' life would have paid forfeit. This, for a variety of reasons, was undesirable. At the same time, he felt that he must protect his friend against any similar attacks. Bearing this in mind he watched Moreas' movements with the greatest anxiety. He was not at all certain that the latter, finding that his first shot had proved unsuccessful, might not attempt a second. Moreas, however, did not do so; he knew that Bertram, once placed upon his guard, would be on the look out, and he had no intention of allowing himself to be captured red-handed, which would certainly have been his fate had he missed. He accordingly remained in hiding until the Englishman had passed round the bend of the hill and was safely on his way back to the camp. Then he emerged, and, in his turn, retraced his steps by the way he had come, in so doing passing within fifty yards of the spot where Max lay concealed. When the latter reached the camp he found the evening meal prepared, and the two men amicably seated, side by side, near the fire, to all appearances better friends than they had been for some time past. Max fancied that Moreas looked rather apprehensively at him as he came into the firelight; but whatever he may have thought, he said nothing to him, either then or on a subsequent occasion, concerning that mysterious shot upon the hill. Bertram also followed his example, and, though he had plenty of opportunity, he did not once refer, either directly or indirectly, to the attempt that had been made upon his life that afternoon.

Next day they resumed their march, and twenty-four hours later left the mountains behind them, and once more entered a zone of fertile country. This continued for upwards of three hundred miles, until Moreas informed them that he felt sure they must be approaching the second range, that it would be necessary for them to cross before they could reach the country in which the old woman had declared that the diamonds existed. This proved to be the case, for the next day a faint blue haze on the northern horizon showed them that they were nearing what they might consider the half-way house to their destination. It was true that they had been warned that the road over these mountains would be likely to prove a serious obstacle in their path, and also that the long stretches of desert on the further side were good for neither man nor beast. They did not give that much consideration, however. Great though the present difficulties might be, the reward at the end would be much larger, if all they had been told were true. When, however, they reached the foot of the mountains they were able to realise something of what lay before them. Unlike the other range through which they had passed a fortnight before, this one consisted of high, rocky peaks, where even a goat could scarcely retain his footing, and dark, gloomy cañons, both almost grassless and entirely destitute of water. What was worse, their animals by this time were sadly out of condition, and often it was as much as the poor beasts could do to drag one foot after the other. Still they persevered. The Spaniards grumbled incessantly, it is true. Moreas, on the other hand, scarcely spoke at all, while Max thought he could even detect on the Englishman's handsome face a growing belief that they had attempted something that was beyond the power of human beings to accomplish. Whatever his feelings may have been, however, he never once permitted a word of complaint to pass his lips. The outlook was by no means a cheerful one. After the privations the party had been through so far, it seemed hard, indeed, that they should not be able to reach the goal for which they had been aiming. With such overwhelming odds against them, however, it seemed impossible that they could hope to succeed. But they were slow to own themselves beaten. Indeed, it was not until they stood face to face with almost certain death, that they realised how futile it was to continue the fight. Then, in one of the loneliest cañons of all that lonely range, they called a halt and took counsel with each other. The two Spaniards, as on a previous occasion, were openly mutinous, and showered black looks on everyone, each other included. Remembering what he had seen a fortnight before, Max never once permitted Moreas to leave the camp unaccompanied. The man's temper was by this time in such a condition that it was within the bounds of possibility that he would have chosen a vantage on the hill side above, and have shot them down without either a second thought, or a feeling of compunction.

"It seems to me we're in a pretty sort of a fix," said Bertram after some little discussion had taken place on their position. "The animals are giving way, and if we go on like this, it won't be long before we all follow suit. Now the question for us to decide is, what are we going to do. If the remainder of you are desirous of pushing ahead, then I'm willing to do the same. If not, let us turn back without further parleying. The matter, however, must be decided once and for all. There has been too much grumbling lately, and it seems to me the best thing we can do is to hold a meeting now, and settle everything. What do you say, Mortimer?"

"I quite agree with you," Max answered, "and so I feel sure does Moreas. Let us talk the question over like sensible men, and come to some definite decision."

Popular feeling being in favour of a discussion, they sat down by the camp fire and talked it over, as quietly and rationally as the racial tendencies of the various members of the party would permit. The result was as follows.

It was decided that, while it was out of the question that the entire party could succeed in reaching the spot for which they were making, it was still possible that two men, taking with them the best of the animals, might be able to do so. But who those two men should be was rather more difficult to determine. It was certain that Moreas must go, since he was the only man who was acquainted with the secret, and he was scarcely likely to impart it to anyone else. On his side, however, he flatly declined even to think of taking either of the two Spaniards with him. They might fume and curse as much as they pleased, he said, but their bluster would not alter his decision. The man who went with him must be either Bertram or Max. For his own part he professed not to care very much which of them it was.

A solemn silence descended upon the group.

"Perhaps we had better draw lots for it," began Bertram. "I may say that, if I am chosen, I am perfectly willing to go; if it falls upon you, Mortimer, I have no doubt you will not raise any objection. What do you say?"

"Let us draw lots for it by all means," Max answered. "But how shall we decide?"

One of the Spaniards, true son of a gambling race, immediately produced a dice box, which he still carried with him, long after he had parted with other apparently more valuable possessions. By the flickering light of the camp fire, the two men threw, to decide which should have the honour of courting what, each must have felt in his own heart, was almost certain death. As a result Max was declared to be the winner.

"It is settled then," said Moreas, with what Max could not help feeling was a note of satisfaction in his voice. "You are perfectly satisfied? Well, to-morrow, Señor Mortimer, if you are prepared, we will push on together, and see what fate has in store for us."

"I shall be quite ready," Max replied. "And, as I understand it, the remainder of the party will retrace their steps to the fertile country at the entrance to the Ranges, and await our coming there."