Boothby Guy
Long Live the King!

"That is how I understand it also," replied Bertram, looking steadily at Max. "We shall give you three months' grace, and if you have not returned by the end of that time, we shall conclude that you are dead, and will either attempt to reach you, or return to civilisation, as circumstances may dictate."

"That is the arrangement," said Moreas.

After that the party lapsed into silence once more.

As nobody seemed inclined for conversation when these details had been settled, they rolled themselves up in their blankets and said good-night to the world. Silence had not taken possession of the camp more than half an hour before Max felt the pressure of a hand upon his arm. He rolled over to find Bertram making signals to him. He accordingly arose and followed him to a spot at some little distance from the camp. When they had assured themselves that they were not being followed, the Englishman spoke.

"Your Royal Highness," he said; then, seeing that the other was about to interrupt him, held up his hand. "Pardon me, but for a few minutes it is necessary that I should forget our supposed equality, and remember that you are a royal personage, and I only the son of a Yorkshire gentleman. I'm not as a rule a man who thinks very much of titles, but there is no getting away from the fact that a man who is, or should be, going to rule a country, is called upon to take more care of his life than other people. When we drew lots to-night as to who should accompany Moreas, I hoped and believed that chance would favour myself. Fate, however, willed otherwise. Now, sir, what I am going to say to you is this; if you will consent to allow me to go forward in your place, it will be conferring an honour upon me for which I shall be grateful to you to my dying day. I can easily make an excuse to Moreas, and convince him that we have come to the arrangement together. Nobody will suspect, and so you will be saved from doing, what I really and truly believe to be, a wrong act."

Max was more touched by the other's words than he could say.

"I thank you," he said, holding out his hand. "I know that you speak out of kindness to me, but what you ask is impossible – quite impossible! Really it is! The lot has fallen upon me, and, indeed, I can only ask you to believe that I would not have it otherwise. I am quite willing to go forward, and, when all is said and done, I believe I am the best person for the work. You and Moreas are not particularly friendly, as you must be aware, and there is no saying what might happen if you were thrown so much into each other's society, without any one to see fair play."

"You are thinking of the day when he fired that rifle at me in the mountains, I suppose," Bertram replied. "I suppose you did not think I was aware of it. I was, however, and I knew also that you were behind him. If it hadn't been for that fact, I should have taxed him with his treachery on my return to the camp. But we are wasting time. Is it quite impossible for me to make you change your mind?"

"Quite," said Max. "Though I am none the less grateful to you for your kindness in offering to go, I cannot accept it."

"Are you quite sure that no argument on my part will make you alter your decision?"

"I am quite sure," Max replied. "My mind is irrevocably made up."

"So be it," returned Bertram quietly. "In that case, I suppose, we may as well return to the camp. Should Moreas have seen us leave it, he may have got the idea into his head that you are scheming against him. That would be a bad beginning as far as you are concerned."

They accordingly retraced their steps, and, so far as they knew, reached the camp without anyone being the wiser that they had absented themselves from it.

Next morning, as soon as it was light, the camp was roused by Moreas. The best mules had been set apart for the onward journey, and, as soon as the morning meal had been eaten, and the beasts were saddled, the two adventurers prepared to set off. When all the final arrangements had been made, and the place of meeting, should the pair return, settled, it was time for them to bid the rest of the party farewell. It was a solemn moment in their lives, and every one seemed aware of the fact. Moreas shook hands with the two Spaniards first, and then approached Bertram.

"Farewell, Señor," he said, with a bow. "I trust I shall have good news for you when next I see you."

Max observed that they did not shake hands. The hatred that existed between them was so mutual and so strong, that even the fact that, in all human probability, they would never see each other again, was not sufficient to make them part friends. Then came Max's turn. He shook hands with Antonio and Diego, and, having done so, approached the man for whom he entertained such a genuine liking.

"Good-bye," he said. Then looking him straight in the face, he added, "If by any chance I should not return, you know whom to make acquainted with my fate. Good-bye."

"Good-bye," answered the other, his voice shaking as he said it. Then, seeing that Moreas was out of earshot, he added, "For heaven's sake, your Highness, run no undue risks. If you will not think of yourself, think of those in England who love you."

"You may be sure I shall do that," Max replied. Then, uttering another hearty good-bye, and shaking Bertram once more by the hand, he set off in pursuit of his partner.

As they turned the corner of the cañon, he looked back and waved his hand. Bertram was standing where he had left him, still looking after him.

CHAPTER XVI

The first day's march, after they left the main camp, could not be said to have been, in any sense of the word, either a pleasant or a comfortable one. Both the men were ill at ease, not only with their present lot, but also with each other. Moreas entertained the unpleasant suspicion that Max, while he never failed in his duty, was, in reality, more in sympathy with Bertram than with himself. The anxiety of what was before them lay heavily upon their minds, while there was a nameless, indescribable something that Max could not understand, and yet which stood like a shadow between them. It soon became apparent to him that the dangers to which they were to be subjected had not been in the least exaggerated. For no less than four days they continued on through the mountains, and it was only after incredible hardships that they managed to reach the plains on the other side. Here, however, as it turned out, they were in scarcely a better plight. As they expected, on leaving the mountains they found themselves confronted by a stretch of desert. To attempt to cross it seemed to be to run too great a risk, and yet to turn back, when they were so near the end, seemed an equally foolish undertaking. With a dogged determination, worthy of a better cause, and with which Max had never credited him, Moreas decided in favour of pushing on. It was a rash decision, for with every hour the condition of the mules was becoming more and more pitiable, while the men themselves were in scarcely a better case. Still Moreas remained in a state of sullenness. When the animals were no longer able to bear their weights, he got off and walked sulkily beside his own beast, grudged them the delay when they rested, and after they had prepared their camp at night, went so far as to insinuate that Max had been keeping the mules back to serve his own purpose. It was indeed a dreary resting-place they had that night. There was no shelter; no water, save that they had brought with them; no food to revive their starving animals, save a few mouthfuls of corn and half a dozen handfuls of parched grass. As soon as his own meal was eaten, Moreas rolled himself up in his blankets and went to sleep, leaving Max by the fire, watching its dull glow and wondering whether he was destined to come safely out of this perilous adventure or not. Overhead the great stars shone brilliantly, while the low wind moaned like a banshee across the waste. He thought of those who loved him in England, of Ottilie, and later of myself. At such a moment his curiosity was excited as to what I had done when I discovered he had left Rio.

Next morning, as soon as it was daylight, they saddled up once more, and continued their march. For the moment the country, which consisted of barren plains in front, behind, and on either side, showed no signs of changing. As on the previous day, Moreas stalked grimly in front, never looking behind him, and to all appearances oblivious of his companion's presence.

One thing was growing more certain every hour, and that was the fact that the hardships through which they had passed had combined, with natural greed, to turn Moreas' brain.

"I shall have to keep my eyes on him, day and night," said Max to himself. "In his present condition there is no saying what he may do."

This knowledge added a fresh horror to the situation. It is bad enough to be starving anywhere, but it is a thousand times worse to have to do so when alone in the wilds with a madman. As soon as they got into camp that night, the second on that awful plain, Moreas commenced to walk in circles round the fire, talking to himself meanwhile, and shaking his fist at the darkening desert. When Max offered him a portion of the dried biltong– all that remained to them in the way of food – he refused it with an oath, adding, that he could not eat when they should be pushing towards their destination!

"You won't be strong enough to reach it at all, if you don't eat something," said Max philosophically.

He, himself, made as good a meal as possible, and then lay down to rest, but he was too anxious for his own safety to fall asleep, until he was quite convinced that Moreas was asleep also. He had no desire that the other should steal a march on him during the night. What he had seen that day in the mountains, when Moreas had stalked Bertram, was quite sufficient to show him that his companion was not one who would stick at trifles. At last, however, he dozed off.

As the afternoon of the next day approached, they saw before them another low range of hills. These, when they approached them, proved to be of iron-stone formation, a fact, which, as soon as he heard it, caused Moreas to utter a cry of joy.

"We are nearly there!" he cried. "Those are the hills of which the Indian told the old man. We have only to cross them, and we shall be at the place where the diamonds are. Let us push on, push on. For heaven's sake, man, stir yourself; there is not a moment to lose."

At last they reached the summit of the last hill, and looked down upon the plains on the other side.

"It is the place! it is the place!" cried Moreas, almost beside himself with excitement. "Yonder is the river he spoke of, and there, away to the right, is its old course. You can even see the big black rocks that he told me of, rising out of the sand. The Saints be praised, we are here at last! We are here at last!"

So overcome was he by his excitement, that it was as much as Max could do to prevent him from setting off at a run down the hillside. This was the place, then, of which the poor, old, half-witted diamond hunter had told Moreas. The place where diamonds were as large as hazel nuts, and could be had for the picking up. He wondered how true the story would prove to be. For his own part, he was not going to pin too much faith upon it. If it turned out trumps, well and good; if not, he could console himself with the reflection that the old fellow had played off on Moreas a grimmer practical joke than had ever been perpetrated on himself. The afternoon was well spent before they reached a spot which they considered favourable for a camp. Max had already noticed with satisfaction that there was a fair amount of game to be had for the shooting, water was abundant, while for the animals there was a greater supply of herbage than they had seen for many a long day. By this time Moreas' head appeared to be quite turned. They had scarcely reached their camp before he was off to try his luck among the sands of the old river bed.

It was almost dark when he returned. When he did so, however, he shook like a man with the palsy.

"Look what I have found!" he said, scarcely able to contain himself for joy. "The old man did not deceive me after all. They are here. Here, I tell you. I shall be the richest man on earth."

As he spoke he unclasped his fist, and showed Max two fair-sized diamonds lying in the hollow of his hand.

CHAPTER XVII

The week following their arrival at their destination was remarkable in more senses than one. After the success which had attended Moreas' search among the sands of the river-bed it was impossible for him to be idle for a moment. It was no sooner light than he was at work; he kept at it with feverish eagerness until darkness fell; and grudged every hour until dawn should reappear again. Under the influence of their success his old antagonism for Max seemed to have left him. If he were not quite so friendly as he had once been, it seemed as if he were at least anxious to make amends for his conduct in the immediate past. One thing, however, puzzled Max more than he liked to say, and made him suspicious of the other's overtures. This was the fact that Moreas invariably preferred to do his work alone, and did not appear to mind very much what excuse he made so long as he achieved his object. It is true that in the evening he invariably added his day's findings to the general store with scrupulous exactness, but on no account would he allow his companion to be present at the washings. Scarcely a day passed without their discovering something of value.

By the end of the month they had discovered six stones of considerable size, fourteen medium, and some twenty or thirty small ones, varying from a quarter to a carat each. These they placed in a small bag and religiously counted every evening.

Influenced by such a run of luck, Moreas' manner underwent yet another change. He became geniality itself, upbraided himself for his former treatment of Max, and declared that if he had searched the whole world through he could not have found a better companion. He vowed that he entertained the affection of a brother for him.

How, considering all this, Max's suspicions were first aroused, I cannot say. It may have been that the other's excessive eagerness to recognise the honesty with which every evening he himself handed over the stones he had collected may have had something to do with it. It is certain, however, that, little by little, a feeling of positive distrust was born in his mind. In vain he tried to dismiss it from his thoughts. The more he told himself that he was doing the other an injustice, the stronger the feeling became that Moreas was playing a double game. He determined to watch him closely, and did so without, however, detecting anything suspicious. For the reason that they worked in different places, it was impossible for him to check all that was found. To propose to work with him, in order that he might keep an eye on him, was equally out of the question.

No, there was nothing for it but for him to watch and wait, hoping that if anything were wrong, some happy chance would enable him to detect and rectify it.

When they had been two months upon the field, and had explored the river up and down for a distance of nearly twenty miles, Max inquired of Moreas whether he did not think it was time for them to return to their friends.

"Perhaps it is," said Moreas slowly. "And I think it will be better if we tried the other route, through Peru into Brazil. It is just possible it might be both safer and quicker than the way we came."

"It's just possible it might," Max answered, realising at once what the other was driving at.

"But what about the party who are waiting for us on the other side of the mountains? How would it affect them?"

"They would in all probability return to civilisation," said Moreas, "believing us to be dead. I can't see that it would be altogether to our disadvantage if they did. What do you say?"

Max was silent for a moment. When he spoke again there was a note in his voice that should have warned the other not to proceed too far with his suggestions.

"Look here, Moreas," he said, "I can see quite plainly what is in your mind, and, once and for all, let me tell you I will not have it. We are here in the interests of Bertram and the others, as well as to look after ourselves. We have pledged our honour to return within a certain time, and that is what we are going to do! You know me, I think, and you are aware that if I say a thing I mean it. Let that end the matter."

"Well, well, let it be as you wish," said Moreas, with extraordinary calmness. "Perhaps it wouldn't be the thing, and if you are determined to play straight with them I will do the same. You're a good fellow, Max, and I'm sorry I suggested anything else. Try to forget it."

Though he spoke so fair and appeared so repentant, Max did not feel any the more inclined to trust him. As a matter of fact, the other's ready compliance had made him even more suspicious of his motives than before. He knew that unless Moreas had some other plan in his mind he would not have given up his point or dismissed the matter so calmly.

"The rascal has got something up his sleeve," said Max to himself, when he thought the matter over. "I wish I could discover what it is. The fellow is a thorough-paced thief as well as a would-be murderer. And I'm not going to trust him as far as I can see him."

For some days after the conversation just recorded, they continued their work as if the subject of their return to civilisation had never been mentioned. Max noticed, however, that his companion did not show as good results as before, the stones were small, milky, and very poor in quality. He spoke to him on the subject.

"The place seems to have suddenly panned out," the other replied angrily. "Above the bend there is not even an indication of the formacao diamante. I am beginning to think that for the future it is only on the flat we shall discover them."

Yet even this disastrous intelligence did not prevent him from returning next day to work at the same place. From a vantage spot on the side of the hill to which Max had climbed for the purpose, he could see him busily engaged there, digging and washing as if for dear life. This set Max thinking. Moreas, he knew, would not waste his time, every second of which he valued like so much gold, on unprofitable labour. Then an idea occurred to him, and he determined to act upon it. He had noticed that, every afternoon, a considerable interval elapsed between the time that Moreas had ceased work and his appearance at the camp. What did he do during the time? Max determined to find out. Accordingly, that afternoon, a quarter of an hour or so before the usual time for returning to their camp, he set off along the side of the hill, keeping under cover of the rocks. At last he was near enough to be able to see Moreas in the river-bed, working away with his usual persistence. Five minutes later the other put down his tools and began making his way in an opposite direction to the camp. From the stealthy way in in which he walked, and the manner in which he constantly looked behind him, it was plain that he was afraid of being followed. But, as Max asked himself, if his motives were honest, what should he have to fear?

At last he reached what was evidently his destination, a peculiar cluster of rocks some three-quarters of a mile from the camp. A moment later he had disappeared from view, not to reappear for something like a quarter of an hour. When he did so he looked anxiously about him as before, and then, as soon as he had satisfied himself that his proceedings had not been overlooked, started back for the river-bed, keeping as much cover as possible between himself and the place where he supposed Max to be still working.

Max, in his turn, waited until the other was out of sight and then, skirting the base of the hill, approached the rocks where, a quarter of an hour or so before, Moreas had been so mysteriously engaged. He was quite aware that if by any chance Moreas should return and find him there, it would put an end to their partnership.

"Let that be as it may," he said to himself, "I'm determined to find out what it was that brought him here."

When he reached the open space between the rocks, he looked eagerly about him. No sign, however, of anything unusual was to be discovered there. He could not see that the ground had been touched, nor could he find any place where things, such as he was thinking of, could be hidden. The ground was of a sandy description, bare for the most part, but varied here and there with tufts of rough grass, some eight to ten inches in height. After patient investigation he found that one of these showed signs of having lately been pressed down by a heavy weight.

"Now I think I understand," he said to himself, and immediately resolved to overhaul the smaller rocks in its neighbourhood.

A few minutes later he uttered a cry of delight, and immediately replaced the stone he had lifted. Moving to the other side of the circle he carefully overhauled the neighbourhood, in order to make quite sure that Moreas was not returning. Nothing was to be seen of him, however. He accordingly returned to his examination of the hole. As it proved, he was not wrong in his conjecture. In it reposed what he had quite expected to find there, namely, a small leather bag, similar to that in which the diamonds at the camp were kept.

"So, friend Moreas, you turn out to be a thief after all," he said, as he sat down upon the ground and opened the bag. "You hand over to me, for the welfare of the syndicate, the small stones you find, while the more valuable you hide here for your own benefit."

So saying he shot the contents of the bag into the palm of his hand and studied them attentively. It was impossible to say what the collection was worth in its entirety, but the total could scarcely have been less than thirty thousand pounds.

He placed the bag in his pocket, and retraced his steps to the hillside. Once there he sat down and considered the position. To have taken his haul back to the camp, as things stood, would have been the height of folly. In that case they would have been ready at hand for Moreas to take possession of them, should he be lucky enough to put a bullet into Max before the latter could defend himself. No! he must find a new hiding-place for them. He looked the hillside up and down without discovering what he wanted. Then half way to the summit, and a quarter of a mile on his right, he saw a conspicuous rock, the shape of which reminded him irresistibly of a church steeple. For some distance to the eastward the hill was entirely bare. He accordingly hurried thither, and having measured the distance carefully, foot by foot, dug a large hole, seventy-one feet due east from the rock just mentioned. In this hole he placed the bag containing the precious stones, and afterwards returned the soil to its former position, covering it with a small rock, in order that the fact that he had been digging should not be apparent to the casual observer, should one ever chance to pass that way. Then, to make sure that there was no error in his calculations, he carefully stepped the distance once more. As before, it was seventy-one feet exactly. To further impress this fact upon his memory, he took his hunting-knife, bared his breast, and drew, regardless of the pain, a rough picture of the spire rock, and below it the number "seventy-one," with a large E to indicate the east. The blood gushed out before he had finished, the pain was excruciating, but he showed no sign of flinching. When he had done this he picked up his rifle once more and set off for camp.

On his arrival there he found Moreas seated on a log beside the fire. He looked up as Max came near, and seeing that he was carrying his rifle, asked what sort of luck he had had. The other noticed that there was the same shifty look upon his face that always heralded the approach of mischief. However, since he was prepared for all eventualities, he did not mind so very much. It was when Moreas was genially disposed that he feared him.

"I did not see anything to shoot," Max replied, as he approached the fire. "What luck have you had?"

"Only two small stones," answered the other; "One runs, perhaps, to a carat, and the other to about a half. To tell the truth, I'm getting tired of it. Our luck is but half so good as it was."

"Surely you are not dissatisfied," said Max, seeing that the moment had come for him to bring his accusation. "You should be the last to say that, seeing the nest-egg you've got in the bag under that stone yonder. What more could you want?"

Moreas sprang to his feet with a cry.

"You have taken my stones!" he cried, at the same time producing his pistol. "What have you done with them? Curse you!"

"I have hidden them where you will never find them," answered Max. Then, seeing that the other was advancing threateningly towards him, he cried, "Stand back, Moreas! I warn you, stand back! If you come a step closer, your blood be upon your own head."

"Damn your waste of words!" stormed the other, scarcely able to speak for the rage that was consuming him. "Give me my stones. Tell me where you have hidden them."

"I'll tell you nothing," retorted Max, "save that you had better not come any nearer. I know you for the traitorous cur you are, and if you advance another step I'll shoot you."

But Moreas was too far gone to hear or heed him. A fit of demoniacal rage had taken possession of him. The madness he had shown in the desert, and which had since died down, had returned to him once more and with a yell of fury he pointed his revolver at Max and fired. The bullet whistled past the other's ear. He fired again, this time with better execution, for Max felt a stab, as of a red-hot knitting needle passing through his shoulder, and knew that he was hit. Still able, however, to lift his arm, he raised his rifle, pointed it, and pulled the trigger. Moreas leapt into the air with a cry, and an instant later fell forward on his face. His body quivered for a moment, and then all was still.

"Exit Moreas," said Max quietly, and then, letting his rifle fall, put up his right hand to his face. The world was swimming before his eyes. He staggered and fell to the ground in a dead faint. How long he lay there he could not tell, but when his senses returned to him it was night and the stars were shining brightly. His shoulder hurt him terribly, but he gave it scarcely a thought. "What shall I do?" he muttered, as he staggered to his feet. "I cannot stay here. This place is accursed."

His one all-mastering desire was to be done with that plain for ever. He felt that it would drive him mad to stay on it another hour. The fire was still burning, though very faintly; sufficient light, however, came from it to show him Moreas' body still lying beside it. The man's dying shriek rang in his ears, as it would ring so long as he could hear anything. He shuddered, as the recollection of the scene occurred to him. There was no doubt about it, he must get away at once. With as much haste as he could command, he stumbled about the camp, collecting the two mules and loading them with such things as he desired to carry away with him. The small bag of diamonds, to which Moreas had contributed a minor share, he resolved to take with him. With the others, however, which had been the cause of all the trouble, and for which Moreas had paid with his life, he would have nothing to do. If the other members of the party desired to possess them, let them come after them and find them for themselves. For his part, he was not going to handle them again. Then, throwing another shuddering glance at his dead foe, he reeled away in the dark up the hillside, en route for civilisation once more. The spirit of Moreas seemed to be walking beside him, and it was as if his last dreadful shriek echoed continually among the hills. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, weak and exhausted from loss of blood, he staggered on as best he could, willing to do or bear anything rather than remain in a place, the mere thought of which was as bitter to him as hell. At last, unable to go any further, he threw himself down upon the ground and fell into a deep sleep that was something more than a mere slumber. He can remember nothing more save that one longing continually possessed him, namely, to push on in search of Bertram, and never to see that plain again.

How he managed to accomplish it in the condition in which he was then, no one will ever know. It is quite certain that he himself could not tell. Cross the range, however, and that terrible desert on the other side of it, he certainly did. A month later, with both mules missing, though where he had lost them he could not tell, and his own frame reduced to a skeleton, he reached the spot in the mountains where he and Bertram had drawn lots and had said good-bye to each other so many months before. Then he dropped, as he thought, to die.