It must not be supposed, however, that the idea of obtaining this was cherished without a qualm. Did not the whole thing look uncommonly like an act of robbery, and the meanest kind of robbery too—the robbery of a grave? The gold was not his. It had been put there by those to whom it belonged. What right to it had he? As against this he set the fact that it was lying there utterly useless to any living soul; that if he did not take it, somebody else would; that the transfer of the whole of the Matabeleland to the British flag was only a question of time, and that, during the war which should be necessary to bring about this process, others would come to hear of this buried wealth, or light on it by chance, and then, would they be more scrupulous? Not one whit.
It will be remembered that he was all eagerness to effect this weird exploration even before he had the faintest inkling that the place concealed, or might conceal, anything more valuable than a few mouldering relics—a few trumpery articles of adornment, perhaps, which might be worth bringing away as curios. Yet, strange as it may seem, his later knowledge scarcely added to that eagerness.
A curious trait in Hilary Blachland’s character was a secret horror of one day failing in nerve. He could recall at least one experience in his life when this had happened to him, and that at a critical juncture, and it had left an impression on him which he had never forgotten. There were times when it haunted him with a ghostlike horror, and under its influence he would embark in some mad and dare-devil undertaking, utterly inconsequent because utterly without rhyme, reason, or necessity. It was as though he were consumed with a feverish desire to cultivate a reputation for intrepidity, though, as a matter of actual fact, his real motive was to satisfy himself on the point. As a matter of actual fact, too, he was as courageous as the average, and possessed of more than the average amount of resolution.
“We should be starting,” said Hlangulu, coming to the entrance of their shelter, and sending a scrutinising look at the sky. “The rain has stopped, and the clouds will all blow apart. Then there will be a moon. We shall arrive there before daybreak.” And, without waiting for the other’s consent or comment, he dived within again, and began putting together the few things they carried.
One can travel light on such a march, provided the wayfarer makes up his mind, and that rigidly, to take nothing along that is not strictly and absolutely necessary. To this rule the strangely assorted pair had adhered, so that the time taken to get under way was no longer than that required to saddle Blachland’s horse.
Hlangulu’s prediction was verified, for in less than half an hour the clouds had parted in all directions, revealing the depths of the blue-black vault all spangled with gushing stars—and lo, a silver crescent moon flooded the sombre valleys and fantastic crags with her soft light. It was a strange and eerie march through that grim wilderness in the hush of the silent night—a silence, broken now and again by mysterious cries as of bird or beast—the effect heightened by the varying echo from cave or crag. An ant-bear, looking like a great bald pig in the magnifying moonlight, scuttled across their path. A strange variety of nightjar flitted overhead, looking something between a butterfly and a paper kite; or a troop of baboons, startled suddenly from their feast of roots, would skip hurriedly out of the way, their dark, gnome-like shapes glancing through the long grass as they sought refuge among the granite crags, there to bark loud and excited defiance after the disturbers.
These, however, took no notice, intent only on getting forward. They were safe here from the one great object of their apprehension, their fellow-man—as yet: the point was to cover all the ground possible while such immunity was still theirs. The Matabele led the way in long wiry strides—the horseman following. As a matter of precaution, the horse’s shoes had been removed; for the clink of a shod hoof travels far, at night, in uninhabited solitudes, or, for the matter of that, even by day.
During the long night march, Blachland’s thoughts were busy, and they were mainly concerned with the events of the three or four days during which he had been making up his mind to this undertaking; with the parting with Hermia, and with the future. She had not accepted the position quietly, and, a rare thing with her, had treated him to rather a stormy scene.
He had only just returned after a long absence, she declared, and now was anxious to start off again. Assuredly he was tired of her—or was it that her suspicions were correct, and that he had a kraal of his own in Matabeleland, like that horrid old Pemberton and other traders? Ah well, if he was tired of her, there might be other people who were not perhaps. If he did not appreciate her, there might be other people who did.
“Meaning, for present purposes, Spence,” he had rejoined, but without heat. “Well, you are old enough and experienced enough to know where your own interests lie, and so it is superfluous for me to remind you,” he had added. And so they had parted with but scant affection; and it might well be, remembering the perilous nature of his present undertaking, never to behold each other again.