Some months ago I joined a hunting party bound for the interior of Africa, and on our return march at Rehenoko we fell in with another caravan bound for the coast. Having a common destination, Zanzibar, we travelled together. An Abyssinian, Sedai by name, was in charge of this caravan. He is a large, powerful man, and very intelligent. I often talked with him during the long marches, and one day he told me that he had on this trip, come across a strange manuscript, a part of which he had been able to decipher, but some words of which he could not make out. He asked me to help him decipher the difficult phrases; so that evening, after everything had been made snug for the night, Sedai produced a piece of goat-skin, on which was inscribed the following strange tale.
‘Name Philip Harding—English—left England July 6, 1801—Zanzibar, February 16, 1802—expedition just left Bagamayo—myself and nine other sailors started to overtake it—on 26th, lost our way—wandered long and far—hostile tribes—fight—four men killed—others escaped—three die with fever, reach mountains—one man killed by lion—discover opening into mountain—make torches and enter—companion starved—discovered line of broken stones—followed these—found bridge—crossed this—followed stones again—found secret door—Land of On—people thought me from another planet—lived in temple—strange people—no knowledge or connection with outside world—highly civilized in their way—have strange Day of Resis—mysterious ceremonies on this day—people never mention it—day sacred—here nineteen years one month and sixteen days—made escape—looked five days for opening key—removed stone set in cliff behind palm tree under eagle’s rock mountain—lifted lever seen in spring—rock door turned giving time to pass through—passed into cave—crossed bridge—dropped torches in lake, am lost—exhausted—starving—if document ever found write friends—growing weaker—can write no mo——’
Here the writing ended. The first part, or that part which had been written before entering the cave was in regular lines, but the last was evidently written after entering the dark cave, or passage, as the characters were scattered and very irregular. Sedai intends placing the matter before the next party who are about to enter the interior, and have them look up the mysterious cave and land. He says that the old man, of whom he got the manuscript, is still living, and knows the entrance to the cave, in which he found the body of Harding still warm, and on it this strange document.
Sedai is a trustworthy fellow, or otherwise I would take no stock in his story, or manuscript.
Hoping you may find some interest in this strange tale, I am,
Very Sincerely Yours,
Frank Boyd.”
Such was the letter and weird tale which came in Enola Cameron’s mail one morning in the early nineties. Only the fact of hearing from Frank Boyd in Zanzibar surprised her. The story in itself did not surprise her, for she had so long made a study of Africa and its dark secrets, that nothing pertaining to it seemed strange to her. She was as enthusiastic in this research as most women were in studying the art of dress and beauty. She had met the great explorer Stanley during his late visit to New York, and had read the story of his travels again and again. She had met Herbert Warde socially, had overhauled his trophies to her heart’s content, and his books had also been added to the long shelf of African works in her library. Here poor Jameson’s story had filled her eyes with tears, and here, too, she had escorted Glave that she might, in confidence, reveal to him the one great desire of her heart, and to learn from him the possibility of its fulfillment. She had studied the history of the dark continent from every obtainable source.
Works, which for the average woman held no attraction, aroused in her the liveliest interest. Her enthusiasm had reached such a pitch that but one course seemed open to her, namely, to experience the adventures which had made the names of Baker, Grant, Speke, Livingstone and Stanley famous. She had passed her twentieth birthday; she was of medium height and well-rounded figure, brimming over with health and strength, as was shown by her clear, rosy complexion and bright eyes, which lighted up with enthusiasm as new thoughts opened to life in her active brain.
There was nothing of the so-called New Woman about her; far from it; she was a womanly woman with a great sympathetic heart and kindly nature. She was an orphan, her parents having died when she was yet a child, leaving her with a life-long friend of the mother. This was Mrs. Graham, a most estimable woman, wealthy and moving in the best circle in the city in which they lived. Enola had long since learned to look upon Mrs. Graham and her kind husband as her second parents, and she was as dearly loved by them as were their own children. She had a snug fortune of her own and was thoroughly independent.