“Certainly. It’s odd, by the way, what money will do—or the want of it. If I had a comfortable sufficiency, even, I’d let the thing go hang—make it over to you or any other fellow, and welcome. But here I am, desperately hard up—stone-broke, in fact. And I have a good few years more to live in this world, and one can’t live on air. So one must risk something. But, mind you, I don’t care for inordinate wealth. I only want enough to be able to steer clear of pinching—perhaps help other fellows along a bit—at any rate, to move on equal terms with the rest of mankind.”
“Well, you’re moderate enough, anyhow,” said Sellon. “Now, I could never have too much. By Jove! if we do succeed, eh? Only think of it!”
“I’ve thought of it so often, Sellon. I must be used to the idea. But, as I said, it’s only a case of rolling on tranquilly—no more pinching or scraping, with the ghastly alternative of borrowing. That’s all I care about.”
The quiet, unimpassioned tone, so different to the suppressed excitement which he had brought to bear on the subject when it was first mentioned, struck the other all of a sudden. But for himself and his own presence, Fanning would likely enough have been as keen on this treasure hunt as he used to be—keener perhaps. And like a glimmer upon Maurice Sellon’s selfish soul came the idea. What if Fanning were trying to enrich him for Violet’s sake? Yet could it be? Such a stupendous act of self-abnegation was clean outside his own experience of the world and human nature—which experience was not small.
The night was wearing on. Suddenly a loud and frightful sound—so near that it caused both men to raise themselves on their elbows, Renshaw leisurely, Sellon quickly and with a start—echoed forth upon the night. The horses pricked up their ears and snorted and tugged violently at their (luckily for themselves) restraining reims, trembling in every limb.
A dull red glow threw forward the razor-like edge of the cliff overhanging the camp. Silhouetted against this, looming blackly as though sculptured in bronze, stood the mighty form of a huge lion.
Again that terrible roar pealed forth, booming and rumbling away in sullen echoes among the krantzes. Then the red moon arose over the head of the majestic beast, the grim Monarch of the Night roaring defiance against those who dared invade his desert domain. For a moment he stood there fully outlined, then vanished as though melting into empty air.
“Lucky, I took the precaution of building a schanz—eh?” said Renshaw, quietly heaping fresh logs on to the fire.
“By Jove! it is,” acquiesced Sellon, a little overawed.