“Never mind, old fellow, I hardly know what I said; Gioro will come back.”
“Yes,” I said, “Gioro will come back.”
And then, as if our confidence in Gioro’s fidelity cleared the air, we sat down and lit our pipes.
I don’t know how much time passed, it seemed to be hours, but it couldn’t have been near an hour, and Jack and I never exchanged a word. Then, sure enough, we saw Gioro coming, and he was leading my horse. I saw him first, and I jumped up and shouted for joy. Then Jack jumped up, but the shout died on his lips, and he said only, “There is something the matter.”
And so there was. Both Gioro and the horse were wounded, and the wounds were deadly, for the spears that inflicted them were poisoned. The horse died first. I took Gioro’s head on my lap, and gave him a few drops of water. He told me that he had [84] ]caught the horse by the bridle in passing, and that then he stopped and returned. He had not forgotten us, he said, not for a moment, nor would he have started at all if the horse had not started. The horse had stopped several times, and when he had come up with him had gone on again. But at last he had secured him and was returning. But several spears were flung at him, and many missed him, but the big men who had watched and dogged him took better aim, and struck both horse and man. At first he thought nothing of it, but presently he knew that the spears were poisoned, and now he must die.
“Take care,” said the poor fellow, almost with his last breath, “keep away, kill you too, like Gioro; back, back to the big long wire.”
He died quite easily, and I felt as he lay in my arms that it would be the best thing that could happen us if the poisoned arrows of the blacks had made an end of us as well as of him. The poor fellow’s faithfulness would have helped us to face death without flinching.
We found a large hole in the earth where a tree had been uprooted by a storm, and there, with the help of his boomerang and our own knives, we managed to give him decent burial. We both fell on our knees for [85] ]a few minutes, but no words passed our lips, although I am sure our hearts were full enough.
Then we stood up, and with one impulse held out a hand each to the other. The grip that followed was a silent English grip. But it meant that we knew that our case was desperate, and that we would stand by one another to the last.
[Footnote 2: ] The red star is certainly Aldebaran, and the little stars the Pleiades. I could not for a long time understand “the one white star.” There is at present no large white star in opposition to Aldebaran. I first thought that Arcturus might be meant, and that the feast had perhaps come down from a period when Arcturus was a white star. But I now think that Spica Virginis is “the one white star.” I think that by “rises,” or more properly, “has risen,” Gioro meant “has culminated;” for Gioro usually spoke of “rising” and “setting” as “coming” and “going;” so if he had meant to speak of stars in opposition he would have said, “when the white star comes and the red star goes.” Spica culminates about the time that Aldebaran sets; also there are no large stars near Spica, and this may be why it is called “the one white star.” I think I have read that some people for the same reason call it “the lonely one.” Gioro probably meant, “When the lone white star has culminated, and the red star and the little stars are set.”—R. E.] [Return to text]