The People of the Mist - H. Rider Haggard

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brooded Leonard as he sat, his hands in his pockets and an empty pipe between his teeth. Their tobacco was done, and yet he drew at the pipe, perhaps from habit. And all the while Otter watched him.

      “Baas,” he said at length, “you are sick, Baas.”

      “No,” he answered, “that is, perhaps a little.”

      “Yes, Baas, a little. You have said nothing, but I know, I who watch. The fever has touched you with his finger, by-and-by he will grip you with his whole hand, and then, Baas——”

      “And then, Otter, good night.”

      “Yes, Baas, for you good night, and for me, what? Baas, you think too much and you have nothing to do, that is why you grow sick. Better that we should go and dig again.”

      “What for, Otter? Ant-bear holes make good graves.”

      “Evil talk, Baas. Rather let us go away and wait no more than that you should talk such talk, which is the beginning of death.”

      Then there was silence for a while.

      “The truth is, Otter,” said Leonard presently, “we are both fools. It is useless for us to stay here with nothing to eat, nothing to drink, nothing to smoke, and only the fever to look forward to, expecting we know not what. But what does it matter? Fools and wise men all come to one end. Lord! how my head aches and how hot it is! I wish that we had some quinine left. I am going out,” and he rose impatiently and left the cave.

      Otter followed him. He knew where he would go—to his brother’s grave. Presently they were there, standing on the hither edge of a ravine. A cloud had hidden the face of the moon, and they could see nothing, so they stood awhile idly waiting for it to pass.

      As they rested thus, suddenly a moaning sound came to their ears, or rather a sound which, beginning with a moan, ended in a long low wail.

      “What is that?” asked Leonard, looking towards the shadows on the further side of the ravine, whence the cry seemed to proceed.

      “I do not know,” answered Otter, “unless it be a ghost, or the voice of one who mourns her dead.”

      “We are the only mourners here,” said Leonard, and as he spoke once more the low and piercing wail thrilled upon the air. Just then the cloud passed, the moonlight shone out brilliantly, and they saw who it was that cried aloud in this desolate place. For there, not twenty paces from them, on the other side of the ravine, crouched upon a stone and rocking herself to and fro as though in an agony of despair and grief, sat a tall and withered woman.

      With an exclamation of surprise Leonard started towards her, followed by the dwarf. So absorbed was the woman in her sorrow that she neither saw nor heard them. Even when they stood close to her she did not perceive them, for her face was hidden in her bony hands. Leonard looked at her curiously. She was past middle age, but he could see that once she had been handsome, and, for a native, very light in colour. Her hair was grizzled and crisp rather than woolly, and her hands and feet were slender and finely shaped. At the moment he could discern no more of the woman’s personal appearance, for the face was covered, as has been said, and her body wrapped in a tattered blanket.

      “Mother,” he said, speaking in the Sisutu dialect, “what ails you that you weep here alone?”

      The stranger let drop her hands and sprang up with a cry of fear. As it chanced, her gaze fell first upon the dwarf Otter, who was standing in front of her, and at the sight of him the cry died upon her lips, and her sunken cheeks, clear-cut features, and sullen black eyes became as those of one who is petrified with terror. So strange was her aspect indeed that the dwarf and his master neither spoke nor moved; they stood hushed and expectant. It was the woman who broke this silence, speaking in a low voice of awe and adoration and, as she spoke, sinking to her knees.

      “And hast thou come to claim me at the last,” she said, addressing Otter, “O thou whose name is Darkness, to whom I was given in marriage, and from whom I fled when I was young? Do I see thee in the flesh, Lord of the night, King of blood and terror, and is this thy priest? Or do I but dream? Nay, I dream not; slay on, thou priest, and let my sin be purged.”

      “Here it seems,” said Otter, “that we have to do with one who is mad.”

      “Nay, Jal,” the woman answered, “I am not mad, though madness has been nigh to me of late.”

      “Neither am I named Jal or Darkness,” answered the dwarf with irritation; “cease to speak folly, and tell the White Lord whence you come, for I weary of this talk.”

      “If you are not Jal, Black One, the thing is strange, for as Jal is so you are. But perchance it does not please you, having put on the flesh, to avow yourself before me. At the least be it as you will. If you are not Jal, then I am safe from your vengeance, and if you are Jal I pray you forget the sins of my youth and spare me.”

      “Who is Jal?” asked Leonard curiously.

      “Nay, I know not,” answered the woman, with a sudden change of manner. “Hunger and weariness have turned my brain, and I spoke wandering words. Forget them and give me food, White Man,” she added in a piteous tone, “give me food, for I starve.”

      “There is scant fare here,” answered Leonard, “but you are welcome to it. Follow me, mother,” and he led the way across the donga to the cave, the woman limping after him painfully.

      There Otter gave her meat, and she ate as one eats who has gone hungry for long, greedily and yet with effort. When she had finished she looked at Leonard with her keen dark eyes and said:

      “Say, White Lord, are you also a slave-trader?”

      “No,” he answered grimly, “I am a slave.”

      “Who is your master then—this Black One here?”

      “Nay, he is but the slave of a slave. I have no master, mother; I have a mistress, and she is named Fortune.”

      “The worst of mistresses,” said the old woman, “or the best, for she laughs ever behind her frown and mingles stripes with kisses.”

      “The stripes I know well, but not the kisses,” answered Leonard gloomily; then added in another tone, “What is your errand, mother? How are you named, and what do you seek wandering alone in the mountains?”

      “I am named Soa, and I seek succour for one whom I love and who is in sore distress. Will my lord listen to my tale?”

      “Speak on,” said Leonard.

      Then the woman crouched down before him and told this story.

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      “My lord, I, Soa, am the servant of a white man, a trader who lives on the banks of the Zambesi some four days’ march from hence, having a house there which he built many years ago.”

      “How is the white man named?” asked Leonard.

      “The black people call him Mavoom, but his white name is Rodd. He is a good master and no common man, but he has this fault, that at times he is drunken. Twenty years ago or more Mavoom, my lord, married a white woman, a Portuguese whose father dwelt at Delagoa Bay, and who was beautiful, ah! beautiful. Then he settled on the banks of the Zambesi and became a trader, building the house where he is now, or rather where its ruins are. Here his wife died in childbirth; yes, she died in my arms, and it was I who reared her daughter Juanna, tending her from the cradle to this day.

      “Now,

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