The Ivory Child by H. Rider Haggard Contents CHAPTER I. ALLAN GIVES A SHOOTING LESSON CHAPTER II. ALLAN MAKES A BET CHAPTER III. MISS HOLMES CHAPTER IV. HARÛT AND MARÛT CHAPTER V. THE PLOT CHAPTER VI. THE BONA FIDE GOLD MINE CHAPTER VII. LORD RAGNALL’S STORY CHAPTER VIII. THE START CHAPTER IX. THE MEETING IN THE DESERT CHAPTER X. CHARGE! CHAPTER XI. ALLAN IS CAPTURED CHAPTER XII. THE FIRST CURSE CHAPTER XIII. JANA CHAPTER XIV. THE CHASE CHAPTER XV. THE DWELLER IN THE CAVE CHAPTER XVI. HANS STEALS THE KEYS CHAPTER XVII. THE SANCTUARY AND THE OATH CHAPTER XVIII. THE EMBASSY CHAPTER XIX. ALLAN QUATERMAIN MISSES CHAPTER XX. ALLAN WEEPS CHAPTER XXI. HOMEWARDS CHAPTER I. ALLAN GIVES A SHOOTING LESSON Now I, Allan Quatermain, come to the story of what was, perhaps, one of the strangest of all the adventures which have befallen me in the course of a life that so far can scarcely be called tame or humdrum. Amongst many other things it tells of the war against the Black Kendah people and the death of Jana, their elephant god. Often since then I have wondered if this creature was or was not anything more than a mere gigantic beast of the forest. It seems improbable, even impossible, but the reader of future days may judge of this matter for himself. Also he can form his opinion as to the religion of the White Kendah and their pretensions to a certain degree of magical skill. Of this magic I will make only one remark: If it existed at all, it was by no means infallible. To take a single instance, Harût and Marût were convinced by divination that I, and I only, could kill Jana, which was why they invited me to Kendahland. Yet in the end it was Hans who killed him. Jana nearly killed me! Now to my tale. In another history, called “The Holy Flower,” I have told how I came to England with a young gentleman of the name of Scroope, partly to see him safely home after a hunting accident, and partly to try to dispose of a unique orchid for a friend of mine called Brother John by the white people, and Dogeetah by the natives, who was popularly supposed to be mad, but, in fact, was very sane indeed. So sane was he that he pursued what seemed to be an absolutely desperate quest for over twenty years, until, with some humble assistance on my part, he brought it to a curiously successful issue. But all this tale is told in “The Holy Flower,” and I only allude to it here, that is at present, to explain how I came to be in England. While in this country I stayed for a few days with Scroope, or, rather, with his fiancée and her people, at a fine house in Essex. (I called it Essex to avoid the place being identified, but really it was one of the neighbouring counties.) During my visit I was taken to see a much finer place, a splendid old castle with brick gateway towers, that had been wonderfully well restored and turned into a most luxurious modern dwelling. Let us call it “Ragnall,” the seat of a baron of that name.