From the depths of the forest there came faintly, very sweetly the sound of church-bells ringing—a peal of bells ringing at midnight in the heart of West Africa. Walker was startled. The sound seemed fairy work, so faint, so sweet was it.
“It’s no fancy, Jim,” said Hatteras, “I hear them every night, and at matins and vespers. There was a Jesuit monastery here two hundred years ago. The bells remain, and some of the clothes.” He touched his coat as he spoke. “The Fans still ring the bells from habit. Just think of it! Every morning, every evening, every midnight, I hear those bells. They talk to me of little churches perched on hillsides in the old country, of hawthorn lanes, and women—English women. English girls—thousands of miles away, going along them to church. God help me! Jim, have you got an English pipe?”
“Yes; an English briarwood and some bird’s-eye.”
Walker handed Hatteras his briarwood and his pouch of tobacco. Hatteras filled the pipe, lit it at the lantern, and sucked at it avidly for a moment. Then he gave a sigh and drew in the smoke more slowly and yet more slowly.
“My wife?” he asked at last, in a low voice.
“She is in England. She thinks you dead.”
Hatteras nodded.
“There’s a jar of Scotch whisky in the locker behind you,” said Walker.
Hatteras turned round, lifted out the jar and a couple of tin cups. He poured whisky into each and handed one to Walker.
“No, thanks,” said Walker. “I don’t think I will.”