“You warned me, and I will repay you. I will make you rich, Crawfurd. You are a trader, and want money. I am a king, and want a throne. But I am dying, and there will be no more kings in Africa.” The mention of riches did not thrill me as I had expected, but the last words awakened a wild regret. I was hypnotized by the man. To see him going out was like seeing the fall of a great mountain. He stretched himself, gasping, and in the growing light I could see how broken he was. His cheeks were falling in, and his sombre eyes had shrunk back in their sockets. He seemed an old worn man standing there among the ashes, while the blood, which he made no effort to staunch, trickled down his side till it dripped on the floor. He had ceased to be the Kaffir king, or the Christian minister, or indeed any one of his former parts. Death was stripping him to his elements, and the man Laputa stood out beyond and above the characters he had played, something strange, and great, and moving, and terrible. “We met for the first time three days ago,” he said, “and now you will be the last to see the Inkulu.” “Umvelos’ was not our first meeting,” said I. “Do you mind the Sabbath eight years since when you preached in the Free Kirk at Kirkcaple? I was the boy you chased from the shore, and I flung the stone that blacked your eye. Besides, I came out from England with you and Henriques, and I was in the boat which took you from Durban to Delagoa Bay. You and I have been long acquaint, Mr Laputa.” “It is the hand of God,” he said solemnly. “Your fate has been twisted with mine, and now you will die with me.” I did not understand this talk about dying. I was not mortally wounded like him, and I did not think Laputa had the strength to kill me even if he wished. But my mind was so impassive that I scarcely regarded his words. “I will make you rich,” he cried. “Crawfurd, the storekeeper, will be the richest man in Africa. We are scattered, and our wealth is another’s. He shall have the gold and the diamonds—all but the Collar, which goes with me.” He staggered into a dark recess, one of many in the cave, and I followed him. There were boxes there, tea chests, cartridge cases, and old brass-ribbed Portuguese coffers. Laputa had keys at his belt, and unlocked them, his fingers fumbling with weakness. I peered in and saw gold coin and little bags of stones. “Money and diamonds,” he cried. “Once it was the war chest of a king, and now it will be the hoard of a trader. No, by the Lord! The trader’s place is with the Terrible Ones.” An arm shot out, and my shoulder was fiercely gripped. “You stole my horse. That is why I am dying. But for you I and my army would be over the Olifants. I am going to kill you, Crawfurd,” and his fingers closed in to my shoulder blades. Still I was unperturbed. “No, you are not. You cannot. You have tried to and failed. So did Henriques, and he is lying dead outside. I am in God’s keeping, and cannot die before my time.”