"What!" cried Charlie. "Is that there, General? Is it—"
"You vill keep quiet, please!" rumbled von Hofe. Charlie subsided as the General nodded. Jack said nothing, only his flushed cheeks and gleaming eyes showing his eagerness.
"'Lake fed by hot springs. Water warm, very reedy. Crossed to island fifty yards from shore. Found stronghold ruined, slave irons and neck-rings, plenty of skeletons. Evidently place was swept by plague, none escaping. Burned slave-barracoon and house. All very old—at least ten years. Slavers' stronghold explains desolated country. Natives all skipped or slaves.
"'Z. and I located big ivory cache under left gate-post. Went back to camp for men, found dying Arab. Gigantic buffalo gored him. Rest gone with camels. Big python showed up; all scared out. Found camel in trees and stayed to look around. Stories true. Shot two buffalo—suggested prehistoric type, great horns. Shot python, thirty-nine feet.
"'Guns safe. Third day found elephant spoor. Could hardly believe it. Sighted and caught him by deserted native village. Rogue, fine trophy for L. S. Biggest ever saw, must stand fourteen feet or better. Ivory twelve feet. Z. game to tackle him, next day.
"'Rogue didn't wait. Tackled us before dawn. One foot came down through tent, missed me by six inches. Rolled out and grabbed gun. Z. knocked senseless. Fired once, but rogue placed trunk around me and threw me twenty feet into bushes. Senseless.
"'Woke up to find rogue gone. Z. pulled me out of thorns and tied me up. Badly smashed. Amputated left hand at wrist. Elephant had smashed guns, with all he could find. Z. lost his nerve. Don't wonder. He caught the camel unhurt. I told him to head south to find L. S. or natives, then fainted again.
"'Don't remember much of what happened next. Z. says we rode bareback. Held me in his arms all the way. Five days. No water or grub. Camel died with river only hundred yards away, poor brute. That's all.'"
The explorer paused, trying to make out the last few lines, which seemed almost illegible. Charlie stared, gulping down a sob at the bare recital of that terrible journey. It was hard to realize that only a few weeks ago he had seen and talked with the intrepid little man who lay cold in death on his bed of leaves, and whose last words were being read to them.
"This last is pretty faint," said Schoverling with expressionless voice. "It's the last thing he wrote, and he seems to have failed at the end. Here is what I can make out of it: