Such were the remarks of the old gentleman as Solon and I walked alongside him on our way to where he expected to find his camp pitched. We found the tents pitched under a widespreading tamarind tree, in the immediate neighbourhood of a number of cocoa-nut palms. Close at hand were piles of curious ruins, near a beautiful lake bordered by trees; while carved slabs, fallen columns, and broken statues lay scattered around. The stranger’s cortege was much of the same character as was Mr Fordyce’s. Camp-fires were already lighted, near which the horses were sheltered, while four or five elephants stood, as usual, busy fanning off the flies in the background.
“I have a young companion with me, also a stranger in this country. He met with a slight accident, and could not come out hunting to-day. I have no doubt he will be glad to make your acquaintance.”
The moment the old gentleman said these words my heart beat quick. He saw my agitation. I thought of Alfred.
“Who is he—pray tell me?” I asked.
His hand was on the curtain of the tent. He made no answer, but threw it back. I entered. A young man was there. He looked up. No, it was not Alfred, but my old schoolfellow whom I had met at Teneriffe, Lumsden.
“Marsden, my dear fellow, I am delighted to see you,” he exclaimed, jumping up. “How did you find your way here?”
“Marsden!” ejaculated the old gentleman, looking earnestly at me. “Marsden!—who are you?”
“Ralph Marsden, sir,” I answered hurriedly. “My father has lately died; my mother was Miss Coventry.”
“Then you are my grandson, young gentleman, and right glad I am to welcome one who has proved himself so true a chip of the old block!” exclaimed Mr Coventry.
I had had no doubt who he was from the moment I had seen Lumsden with him. He seized me by the shoulders, and, gazing in my face for a minute, gave me as kind and warm a hug as I could expect to receive.