On the day following that on which Dick Sands and his party had made their last halt in the forest, two men met by appointment at a spot about three miles distant.

The two men were Harris and Negoro, the one lately landed from New Zealand, the other pursuing his wonted occupation of slave-dealer in the province of Angola. They were seated at the foot of an enormous banyan-tree, on the banks of a rushing torrent that streamed between tall borders of papyrus.

After the conversation had turned awhile upon the events of the last few hours, Negoro said abruptly,—

“Couldn’t you manage to get that young fifteen-year-old any farther into the interior?”

“No, indeed; it was a hard matter enough to bring him thus far; for the last few days his suspicions have been wide awake.”

“But just another hundred miles, you know,” continued Negoro, “would have finished the business off well, and those black fellows would have been ours to a dead certainty.”

“Don’t I tell you, my dear fellow, that it was more than time for me to give them the slip?” replied Harris, shrugging his shoulders. “Only too well I knew that our young friend was longing to put a shot into my body, and that was a sugar-plum I might not be able to digest.”

The Portuguese gave a grunt of assent, and Harris went on,—

“For several days I succeeded well enough. I managed to palm off the country as the forest of Atacama, which you may recollect I once visited; but when the youngster began to ask for gutta-percha and humming-birds, and his mother wanted quinquina-trees, and when that old fool of a cousin was bent on finding cocuyos, I was rather nonplussed. One day I had to swear that giraffes were ostriches, but the young captain did not seem to swallow the dose at all easily. Then we saw traces of elephants and hippopotamuses, which of course are as often seen in America as an honest man in a Benguela penitentiary; then that old nigger Tom discovered a lot of forks and chains left by some runaway slaves at the foot of a tree; but when, last of all, a lion roared,—and the noise, you know, is rather louder than the mewing of a cat,—I thought it was time to take my horse and decamp.”

Negoro repeated his expression of regret that the whole party had not been carried another hundred miles into the province.

“It really cannot be helped,” rejoined the American; “I have done the best I could; and I think, mate,” he added confidentially, “that you have done wisely in following the caravan at a good distance; that dog of theirs evidently owes you a grudge, and might prove an ugly customer.”

“I shall put a bullet into that beast’s head before long,” growled Negoro.

“Take care you don’t get one through your own first,” laughed Harris; “that young Sands, I warn you, is a first-rate shot, and between ourselves, is rather a fine fellow of his kind.”

“Fine fellow, indeed!” sneered Negoro; “whatever he is, he is a young upstart, and I have a long score to wipe off against him;” and, as he spoke, an expression of the utmost malignity passed over his countenance.

Harris smiled.

“Well, mate,” he said; “your travels have not improved your temper, I see. But come now, tell me what you have been doing all this time. When I found you just after the wreck, at the mouth of the Longa, you had only time to ask me to get this party, somehow or other, up into the country. But it is just upon two years since you left Cassange with that caravan of slaves for our old master Alvez. What have you been doing since? The last I heard of you was that you had run foul of an English cruiser, and that you were condemned to be hanged.”

“So I was very nearly,” muttered Negoro.

“Ah, well, that will come sooner or later,” rejoined the American with philosophic indifference; “men of our trade can’t expect to die quietly in our beds, you know. But were you caught by the English?”

“No, by the Portuguese.”

“Before you had got rid of your cargo?”

Negoro hesitated a moment before replying.

“No,” he said, presently, and added, “The Portuguese have changed their game: for a long time they carried on the trade themselves, but now they have got wonderfully particular; so I was caught, and condemned to end my days in the penitentiary at St. Paul de Loanda.”

“Confound it!” exclaimed Harris, “a hundred times better be hanged!”

“I’m not so sure of that,” the Portuguese replied, “for when I had been at the galleys about a fortnight I managed to escape, and got into the hold of an English steamer bound for New Zealand. I wedged myself in between a cask of water and a case of preserved meat, and so managed to exist for a month. It was close quarters, I can tell you, but I preferred to travel incognito rather than run the risk of being handed over again to the authorities at Loanda.”

“Well done!” exclaimed the American, “and so you had a free passage to the land of the Maoris. But you didn’t come back in the same fashion?”

“No; I always had a hankering to be here again at my old trade; but for a year and a half....”

He stopped abruptly, and grasped Harris by the arm.

“Hush,” he whispered, “didn’t you hear a rustling in that clump of papyrus?”

In a moment Harris had caught up his loaded gun; and both men, starting to their feet, looked anxiously around them.

“It was nothing,” said Harris presently; “the stream is swollen by the storm, that is all; your two years’ travelling has made you forget the sounds of the forest, mate. Sit down again, and go on with your story. When I know the past, I shall be better able to talk about the future.”

They reseated themselves, and Negoro went on,—

“For a whole year and a half I vegetated at Auckland. I left the hold of the steamer without a dollar in my pocket, and had to turn my hand to every trade imaginable in order to get a living.”

“Poor fellow! I daresay you even tried the trade of being an honest man,” put in the American.

“Just so,” said Negoro, “and in course of time the ‘Pilgrim,’ the vessel by which I came here, put in at Auckland. While she was waiting to take Mrs. Weldon and her party on board, I applied to the captain for a post, for I was once mate on board a slaver, and know something of seamanship. The ‘Pilgrim’s’ crew was complete, but fortunately the ship’s cook had just deserted; I offered to supply his place; in default of better my services were accepted, and in a few days we were out of sight of New Zealand.”

“I have heard something about the voyage from young Sands,” said Harris, “but even now I can’t understand how you reached here.”

“Neither does he,” said Negoro, with a malicious grin. “I will tell you now, and you may repeat the story to your young friend if you like.”

“Well, go on,” said Harris.

“When we started,” continued Negoro, “it was my intention to sail only as far as Chili: that would have brought me nearly half way to Angola; but three weeks after leaving Auckland, Captain Hull and all his crew were lost in chasing a whale, and I and the apprentice were the only seamen left on board.”

“Then why in the name of peace didn’t you take command of the ship?” exclaimed Harris.

[Illustration: Both men, starting to their feet, looked anxiously around them.]

“Because there were five strong niggers who didn’t trust me; so, on second thoughts, I determined to keep my old post as cook.”

“Then do you mean to say that it was mere accident that brought you to the coast of Africa?”

“Not a bit of it; the only accident,—and a very lucky one it was—was meeting you on the very spot where we stranded. But it was my doing that we got so far. Young Sands understood nothing more of navigation than the use of the log and compass. Well, one fine day, you understand, the log remained at the bottom of the sea, and one night the compass was tampered with, so that the ‘Pilgrim,’ scudding along before a tempest, was carried altogether out of her course. You may imagine the young captain was puzzled at the length of the voyage; it would have bewildered a more experienced head than his. Before he was aware of it, we had rounded Cape Horn; I recognized it through the mist. Then at once I put the compass to rights again, and the ‘Pilgrim ‘ was carried north-eastwards by a tremendous hurricane to the very place I wanted. The island Dick Sands took for Easter Island was really Tristan d’Acunha.”

“Good!” said Harris; “I think I understand now how our friends have been persuaded to take Angola for Bolivia. But they are undeceived now, you know,” he added.

“I know all about that,” replied the Portuguese.

“Then what do you intend to do?” said Harris.

“You will see,” answered Negoro significantly; “but first of all tell me something about our employer, old Alvez; how is he?”

“Oh, the old rascal is well enough, and will be delighted to see you again,” replied Harris.

“Is he at the market at Bihé?”

“No, he has been at his place at Kazonndé for a year or more.”

“And how does business go on?”

“Badly enough, on this coast,” said Harris; “plenty of slaves are waiting to be shipped to the Spanish colonies, but the difficulty is how to get them embarked. The Portuguese authorities on the one hand, and the English cruisers on the other, almost put a stop to exportation altogether; down to the south, near Mossamedes, is the only part where it can be attempted with any chance of success. To pass a caravan through Benguela or Loande is an utter impossibility; neither the governors nor the chefés

[Footnote 1: Subordinate Portuguese governors at secondary stations.] will listen to a word of reason. Old Alvez is therefore thinking of going in the other direction towards Nyangwe and Lake Tanganyika; he can there exchange his goods for slaves and ivory, and is sure to do a good business with Upper Egypt and the coast of Mozambique, which supplies Madagascar. But I tell you, Negoro,” he added gravely, “I believe the time is coming when the slave-trade will come to an end altogether. The English missionaries are advancing into the interior. That fellow Livingstone, confound him! has finished his tour of the lakes, and is now working his way towards Angola; then there is another man named Cameron who is talking about crossing the continent from east to west, and it is feared that Stanley the American will do the same. All this exploration, you know, is ruinous to our business, and it is to our interest that not one of these travellers should be allowed to return to tell tales of us in Europe.”

Harris spoke like a merchant embarrassed by a temporary commercial crisis. The atrocious scenes to which the slave-dealers are accustomed seems to render them impervious to all sense of justice or humanity, and they learn to regard their living merchandize with as small concern as though they were dealing with chests of tea or hogsheads of sugar.

But Harris was right when he asserted that civilization must follow the wake of the intrepid pioneers of African discovery. Livingstone first, and after him, Grant, Speke, Burton, Cameron, Stanley, are the heroes whose names will ever be linked with the first dawnings of a brighter age upon the dark wilds of Equatorial Africa.

Having ascertained that his accomplice had returned unscrupulous and daring as ever, and fully prepared to pursue his former calling as an agent of old Alvez the slave dealer, Harris inquired what he proposed doing with the survivors of the “Pilgrim” now that they were in his hands.

“Divide them into two lots,” answered Negoro, without a moment’s hesitation, “one for the market, the other....”

He did not finish his sentence, but the expression of his countenance was an index to the malignity of his purpose.

“Which shall you sell?” asked the American.

“The niggers, of course. The old one is not worth much, but the other four ought to fetch a good price at Kazonndé.”

“Yes, you are right,” said Harris; “American-born slaves, with plenty of work in them, are rare articles, and very different to the miserable wretches we get up the country. But you never told me,” he added, suddenly changing the subject, “whether you found any money on board the ‘Pilgrim’!”

“Oh, I rescued a few hundred dollars from the wreck, that was all,” said the Portuguese carelessly; “but I am expecting....” he stopped short.

“What are you expecting?” inquired Harris eagerly.

“Oh, nothing, nothing,” said Negoro, apparently annoyed that he had said so much, and immediately began talking of the means of securing the living prey which he had been taking so many pains to entrap. Harris informed him that on the Coanza, about ten miles distant, there was at the present time encamped a slave caravan, under the control of an Arab named Ibn Hamish; plenty of native soldiers were there on guard, and if Dick Sands and his people could only be induced to travel in that direction, their capture would be a matter of very little difficulty. He said that of course Dick Sands’ first thought would naturally be how to get back to the coast; it was not likely that he would venture a second time through the forest, but would in all probability try to make his way to the nearest river, and descend its course on a raft to the sea. The nearest river was undoubtedly the Coanza, so that he and Negoro might feel quite sure of meeting “their friends” upon its banks.

“If you really think so,” said Negoro, “there is not much time to be lost; whatever young Sands determines to do, he will do at once: he never lets the grass grow under his feet.”

“Let us start, then, this very moment, mate,” was Harris’s reply.

Both rose to their feet, when they were startled by the same rustling in the papyrus which had previously aroused Negoro’s fears. Presently a low growl was heard, and a large dog, showing his teeth, emerged from the bushes, evidently prepared for an attack.

“It’s Dingo!” exclaimed Harris.

“Confound the brute! he shall not escape me this time,” said Negoro.

He caught up Harris’s gun, and raising it to his shoulder, he fired just as the dog was in the act of springing at his throat. A long whine of pain followed the report, and Dingo disappeared again amongst the bushes that fringed the stream. Negoro was instantly upon his track, but could discover nothing beyond a few blood-stains upon the stalks of the papyrus, and a long crimson trail upon the pebbles on the bank.

“I think I have done for the beast now,” was Negoro’s remark as he returned from his fruitless search.

Harris, who had been a silent spectator of the whole scene, now asked coolly,—

“What makes that animal have such an inveterate dislike to you?”

“Oh, there is an old score to settle between us,” replied the Portuguese.

“What about?” inquired the American.

Negoro made no reply, and finding him evidently disinclined to be communicative on the subject, Harris did not press the matter any further.

A few moments later the two men were descending the stream, and making their way through the forest towards the Coanza.

[Illustration: Dingo disappeared again amongst the bushes] e/rQpMeBRLQl+v6qiWFTJLYsi8uWDGa9PNSKmEB9ork/gA8w22Xh6BU5UKXemElb