Adventure stories; Africa -- Fiction; Hunting guides -- Fiction; Quatermain, Allan (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
I took a spear and prodded at the cliff whence the sound came. Suddenly
the spear sunk in through a mass of lichen. I swept the lichen aside,
revealing a boulder that had been rolled into the mouth of an opening
in the rock, which it fitted so accurately that, covered as it was by
the overhanging lichen, it might well have escaped the keenest eye. We
dragged the boulder out; it was two men’s work to do it. Beyond was a
narrow, water-worn passage, which I followed with a beating heart.
Presently the passage opened into a small cave, shaped like a pickle
bottle, and coming to a neck at the top end. We passed through and
found ourselves in a second, much larger cave, that I at once
recognized as the one of which Indaba-zimbi had shown me a vision in
the water. Light reached it from above—how I know not—and by it I could
see a form half-sitting, half lying on some skins at the top end of the
cave. I rushed to it. It was Stella! Stella bound with strips of hide,
bruised, torn, but still Stella, and alive.
She saw me, she gave one cry, then, as I caught her in my arms, she
fainted. It was happy indeed that she did not faint before, for had it
not been for the sound of her voice I do not believe we should ever
have found that cunningly hidden cave, unless, indeed, Indaba-zimbi’s
magic (on which be blessings) had come to our assistance.
We bore her to the open air, laid her beneath the shade of a tree, and
cut the bonds loose from her ankles. As we went I glanced at the cave.
It was exactly as I had seen it in the vision. There burnt the fire,
there were the rude wooden vessels, one of them still half full of the
water which I had seen the baboon bring. I felt awed as I looked, and
marvelled at the power wielded by a savage who could not even read and
write.
Now I could see Stella clearly. Her face was scratched, and haggard
with fear and weeping, her clothes were almost torn off her, and her
beautiful hair was loose and tangled. I sent for water, and we
sprinkled her face. Then I forced a little of the brandy which we
distilled from peaches at the kraals between her lips, and she opened
her eyes, and throwing her arms about me clung to me as little Tota had
done, sobbing, “Thank God! thank God!”
After a while she grew quieter, and I made her and Tota eat some food
from the store that we had brought with us. I too ate and was thankful,
for with the exception of the mealie cobs I had tasted nothing for
nearly four-and-twenty hours. Then she washed her face and hands, and
tidied her rags of dress as well as she was able. As she did so by
degrees I drew her story from her.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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