"Read me the dedication," was the next whispered request of George Desmond.
In a trembling voice Billy read the words inscribed on the first page of the yellowed manuscript.
"To my dear wife Mary this volume is dedicated by her affectionate husband the Author."
"I never thought when I wrote those words I should die like this," exclaimed the dying man, "but it was to be. I always hoped that some day I would escape; but now that I have won freedom, rest seems to mean more to me than all else beside."
The tears welled into the eyes of both boys as with a resigned sigh George Desmond composed himself as if to sleep.
It was about five minutes later, and Billy still held the old man's hand, when the long-lost explorer raised himself on his elbow and shading his eyes with his trembling hand gazed in front of him as if he saw a vision.
"Mary—" he cried in a loud voice and fell back dead.
And so died George Desmond, the famous African traveler, almost within sight of the civilization to which he had so long dreamed of returning.
The shocked and grieved boys had hardly recovered their composure after this tragic termination of a brave man's life when Lathrop, who had been gazing despairingly about him gave a great shout.
The next minute it was echoed by Billy.