“I've been too long in this d——d country,” exclaimed Durnovo, “that's the fact. I'm not the man I was.”
Guy Oscard smoked for some moments in silence; then he took his pipe from his lips.
“The only pity is,” he said judicially, “that you ever undertook to look for the Simiacine if you were going to funk it when the first difficulty arose.”
Without further comment he walked away, and entered into conversation with the captain of the steamer.
“All right,” muttered Durnovo between his teeth—“all right, my sarcastic grand gentleman. I'll be even with you yet.”
The strange part of it was that Guy Oscard never attempted to degrade Durnovo from his post of joint commander. This puzzled the half-breed sorely. It may have been that Oscard knew men better than his indifferent manner would have led the observer to believe. Durnovo's was just one of those natures which in good hands might have been turned to good account. Too much solitude, too much dealing with negro peoples, and, chiefly, too long a sojourn in the demoralising atmosphere of West Africa, had made a worse man of Victor Durnovo than Nature originally intended. He was not wholly bad. Badness is, after all, a matter of comparison, and, in order to draw correctly such a comparison, every allowance must be made for a difference in standard. Victor Durnovo's standard was not a high one; that was all. And in continuing to treat him as an equal, and trust him as such, Guy Oscard only showed that he was a cleverer man than the world took him to be.
In due time Msala was reached. As the canoes suitable for up-river traffic were by no means sufficient to transport the whole of the expeditionary force in one journey, a division was made. Durnovo took charge of the advance column, journeying up to the camp from which the long march through the forest was to begin, and sending back the canoes for Oscard and the remainder of the force. With these canoes he sent back word that the hostile tribes were within a few days' march, and that he was fortifying his camp.
This news seemed to furnish Guy Oscard with food for considerable thought, and after some space of time he called Marie.
She came, and, standing before him with her patient dignity of mien, awaited his communications. She never took her eyes off the letter in his hand. Oscard noticed the persistency of her gaze at the time, and remembered it again afterwards.
“Marie,” he said, “I have had rather serious news from Mr. Durnovo.”