But Moreas was too far gone to hear or heed him. A fit of demoniacal rage had taken possession of him. The madness he had shown in the desert, and which had since died down, had returned to him once more and with a yell of fury he pointed his revolver at Max and fired. The bullet whistled past the other's ear. He fired again, this time with better execution, for Max felt a stab, as of a red-hot knitting needle passing through his shoulder, and knew that he was hit. Still able, however, to lift his arm, he raised his rifle, pointed it, and pulled the trigger. Moreas leapt into the air with a cry, and an instant later fell forward on his face. His body quivered for a moment, and then all was still.
"Exit Moreas," said Max quietly, and then, letting his rifle fall, put up his right hand to his face. The world was swimming before his eyes. He staggered and fell to the ground in a dead faint. How long he lay there he could not tell, but when his senses returned to him it was night and the stars were shining brightly. His shoulder hurt him terribly, but he gave it scarcely a thought. "What shall I do?" he muttered, as he staggered to his feet. "I cannot stay here. This place is accursed."
His one all-mastering desire was to be done with that plain for ever. He felt that it would drive him mad to stay on it another hour. The fire was still burning, though very faintly; sufficient light, however, came from it to show him Moreas' body still lying beside it. The man's dying shriek rang in his ears, as it would ring so long as he could hear anything. He shuddered, as the recollection of the scene occurred to him. There was no doubt about it, he must get away at once. With as much haste as he could command, he stumbled about the camp, collecting the two mules and loading them with such things as he desired to carry away with him. The small bag of diamonds, to which Moreas had contributed a minor share, he resolved to take with him. With the others, however, which had been the cause of all the trouble, and for which Moreas had paid with his life, he would have nothing to do. If the other members of the party desired to possess them, let them come after them and find them for themselves. For his part, he was not going to handle them again. Then, throwing another shuddering glance at his dead foe, he reeled away in the dark up the hillside, en route for civilisation once more. The spirit of Moreas seemed to be walking beside him, and it was as if his last dreadful shriek echoed continually among the hills. Scarcely knowing what he was doing, weak and exhausted from loss of blood, he staggered on as best he could, willing to do or bear anything rather than remain in a place, the mere thought of which was as bitter to him as hell. At last, unable to go any further, he threw himself down upon the ground and fell into a deep sleep that was something more than a mere slumber. He can remember nothing more save that one longing continually possessed him, namely, to push on in search of Bertram, and never to see that plain again.
How he managed to accomplish it in the condition in which he was then, no one will ever know. It is quite certain that he himself could not tell. Cross the range, however, and that terrible desert on the other side of it, he certainly did. A month later, with both mules missing, though where he had lost them he could not tell, and his own frame reduced to a skeleton, he reached the spot in the mountains where he and Bertram had drawn lots and had said good-bye to each other so many months before. Then he dropped, as he thought, to die.
CHAPTER XVIII.
Max's surprise may be imagined when, after he had fallen unconscious, he opened his eyes to find Bertram kneeling beside him.
"Thank God!" said the latter, as soon as he saw that his friend recognised him. "We had begun to think it was all over with you."
Max endeavoured to speak, but his voice was too weak to utter a word. A moment later he had closed his eyes once more. Though so near death's door, he had managed to slip out before that grim portal had actually closed upon him. The effect of all that he had been through, however, was not to be shaken off in a day. For a week he hovered between life and death, devotedly attended by Bertram, who scarcely left his side for a moment. Needless to say, the curiosity of the trio was painfully excited to know what had become of Moreas, and how it was that Max had returned alone. The bullet-wound in his shoulder and the marks upon his chest, which, by the way, were beginning to heal, only added to their wonderment. But, anxious as they were to hear the story, Bertram would not allow him to give them as much as a hint of it until he was strong enough to do so without fear of injury to himself. Then, for one never-to-be-forgotten hour, Max spoke. He described all that had befallen them since they had said farewell to each other; he told them of the success that had attended their labours on the field, and then went on to speak of Moreas' treachery, and of the last great discovery he had made.
"Feeling that it was the only thing to be done, I returned to the camp and taxed him with it," he continued. "As soon as he knew that he was discovered, and not only discovered, but that his precious stones had been found and hidden elsewhere, he was beside himself with rage. For my own part, I believe it was his intention, in any case, to have shot me as soon as I should return; be that as it may, however, he certainly fired at me, and his bullet pierced my shoulder. In return, I shot him dead. Then, without thought of anything else, save to see the last of it, I gathered my goods together and fairly bolted from the plain."