Gradually Hume’s face regained some of its comeliness, but he seemed to live in an atmosphere of gloom, and spent much of his time alone, looking to the west for the return of his friend. The interest which had kept him up so long as there was a lump of quartz to crush had failed him. He was listless, silent and moody, so that the children shunned him, and the women turned away when he came near. They thought he was possessed; and so he was—by a melancholy of the mind and irritability of nerves, severely shaken by the hardships he had undergone. He had succeeded, so he told himself. He had alone won the Golden Rock and by indomitable energy broken it up, but this gave him no pleasure. Nay, he grew to doubt whether he had done right. What right had he to destroy that carved image, that masterpiece of ancient workers, to shed blood for its possession? So he brooded gloomily in his loneliness, and the only comfort he derived was the spectacle of growing crops on the land that was formerly shunned.
And Webster would not return. Why should he? He had, no doubt, crossed the ocean with her, and by this time they would be married, for sailors were always quick in their loves. But he would wait. And yet while these thoughts ran always in his mind he would look towards the west, growing thin, haggard and unkempt.
One day the scouts reported the arrival of a stranger, and Hume watched him come—a mounted man with a servant behind, leading a spare horse.
“This is some traveller,” said Hume—“some chance traveller who has entered the valley. I will hide till he goes.”
But it was Webster, and the little son of Umkomaas led him up to the stones, led him to where a battered figure of a man lay face downward on the ground.
“Frank!” rang out the familiar voice, “what ails you, my lad? are you asleep?”
But Hume rose and stood before his friend, thin, long-haired, gaunt, with a fierce, almost defiant, glare in his hollow eyes.
“My God, Hume! you are ill.”
Hume looked long at the big, healthy, handsome man before him, and he shuddered.
“No,” he said in a hoarse voice, “I am not ill. I’ve been waiting”—he paused and looked round—“but I did not expect you.”