Ifound Kali very much worried that night, and when I pressed him for further information, and told him that I was planning to visit Professor Denham the next day, he told me blunty that I would soon die.
"Nonsense, Kali," I laughed. "Why, I expect to find a respectable old naturalist and a fine collection of ants and butterflies. He's harmless. In my country no one is ever frightened at their doings. He's what is called a scientist, Kali."
"One of the black fellah boys from beyond the village told me to watch my mules," answered Kali. "He told me, also, that this white witch-man has been stealing his cattle. What does he do with the cattle? He takes them into the dark pits within his great stone house. Tell me, do butterflies eat cattle?"
I was getting very angry, and could have taken the impudent black scoundrel by the throat with pleasure.
"Hold your tongue!" I commanded, but when I left his hut Kali was smoking one of my cigarettes, all the same. This really was getting interesting. On the morrow, I told my self, I would know just how much Kali had lied. At the time I put the whole story down as the product of Kali's vivid, if not convincing, creative imagination. I was in love. The next morning, the morning, I varnished my boots carefully, and put on my best Khaki breeches. I would have given a small fortune for the white linen ones of the chief engineer, but I didn't dare ask him for them. It was hard enough to get away for the day.
Irene was at our rendezvous, and I received the thrill of my life when I saw that she had discarded her nun-like dress for one more fitting to the occasion. It seemed to me to be rather a makeshift affair, but it became her—it brought out beauty that I had not thought her to possess. She was man's woman, was Irene!
"I don't know why, dear, but I dread the meeting between you and father," she murmured.
We had left the village and were climbing a baking sand dune.
"It won't be so bad," I said, cheerfully. "My education hasn't been along the same lines as your father's, and perhaps he won't be interested in me, yet perhaps we shall have some things in common. A white man, you know, is a white man, and even Africa can't change him. I'll wager you that the first question he asks me is, "Have you an old London Times with you?'"
"White men have been near the village before," insisted the girl. "Never has he admitted them to our home, although one was a scientist like him—an explorer. I believe he hates all men—all mankind. True, he finally gave permission to bring you, but I'm afraid—"
"Does he love—you?" I asked.
"I don't know. There was a time when I was sure he did, just as there were times when he would bring flowers from our garden and put them upon my mother's grave, but for many years he has been changed. He hates the world—he plans to destroy—"
She did not finish the sentence, but stopped as if a cold hand had been laid across her red lips. She paled, and I saw that she was trembling. When I pressed her for an explanation, she changed the subject with a frightened, pathetic smile. From that moment on I felt that a chill had crept down from the dunes like a breath from the swamps. We walked on in silence.
"There!" she said, when we had reached the top of a little hillock, "There is—home."
Home! So this was her home! A melancholy house of stone, crumbling like an ancient ruin. It seemed strangely out of place here in this desolation.. It belonged to Carthage, or perhaps to some long dead city.
