There was something pitiful in the way he said that. He almost whined. Here was a man who was paying the debt that the white man owes to Africa. In this great continent, which even to-day is half unknown, King Death rules from the Sahara to the veld. A thousand pestilences rage in the heart of the great steaming forests, that strike down their victims with promptitude, and which are merciless as they are swift. It seems as if a curse is on this country. It is as if before the advance of civilization a Power, greater by far than the combined resources of men, arises from out of the darkness of the jungle and the miasma of the mangrove swamp, and strikes down the white man, as a pole-axe fells an ox.
De Costa, though he was but half a European, was loaded with the white man's burden, with the heart of only a half-caste to see him through. Crouch, despite the roughness of his manner, attended at his bedside with the precision of a practised nurse. There was something even tender in the way he smoothed the man's pillow; and when he spoke, there was a wealth of sympathy in his voice.
"You are better now?" he asked.
"Yes," said de Costa; "I am better."
"Lie still and rest," said Crouch. "Perhaps you are glad enough to have some one to talk to you. I want you to listen to what I have to say."
Crouch seated himself at the end of the bed, and folded his thin, muscular hands upon his knee.
"I am not a doctor by profession," he began, "but, in the course of my life, I've had a good deal of experience of the various diseases which are met with in these parts of the world. I know enough to see that your whole constitution is so undermined that it is absolutely necessary for you to get out of the country. Now I want to ask you a question."
"What is it?" said de Costa. His voice was very weak.
"Which do you value most, life or wealth?"
The little half-caste smiled.