Adventure stories; Fantasy fiction, English; Quatermain, Allan (Fictitious character) -- Fiction
The day passed without any further event, except the arrival of our
meals, for which we had no great appetite. The night came, earlier than
usual because of the clouds, and we fell asleep, or rather into a
series of dozes. Once I thought that I heard someone stirring in the
huts behind us, but as it was followed by silence I took no more
notice. At length the light broke very slowly, for now the clouds were
denser than ever. Shivering with the cold, Marût and I made a visit to
the camel-drivers, who were not allowed to enter our house. On going
into their hut we saw to our horror that only two of them remained,
seated stonily upon the floor. We asked where the third was. They
replied they did not know. In the middle of the night, they said, men
had crept in, who seized, bound and gagged him, then dragged him away.
As there was nothing to be said or done, we returned to breakfast
filled with horrid fears.
Nothing happened that day except that some priests arrived, lifted the
earthenware pot, examined their departed colleague, who by now had
become an unencouraging spectacle, removed old dishes of food, arranged
more about him, and went off. Also the clouds grew thicker and thicker,
and the air more and more chilly, till, had we been in any northern
latitude, I should have said that snow was pending. From our perch on
the roof-top I observed the population of Simba Town discussing the
weather with ever-increasing eagerness; also that the people who were
going out to work in the fields wore mats over their shoulders.
Once more darkness came, and this night, notwithstanding the cold, we
spent wrapped in rugs, on the roof of the house. It had occurred to us
that kidnapping would be less easy there, as we could make some sort of
a fight at the head of the stairway, or, if the worst came to the
worst, dive from the parapet and break our necks. We kept watch turn
and turn about. During my watch about midnight I heard a noise going on
in the hut behind us; scuffling and a stifled cry which turned my blood
cold. About an hour later a fire was lighted in the centre of the
market-place where the sheep had been sacrificed, and by the flare of
it I could see people moving. But what they did I could not see, which
was perhaps as well.
Next morning only one of the camelmen was left. This remaining man was
now almost crazy with fear, and could give no clear account of what had
happened to his companion.
The poor fellow implored us to take him away to our house, as he feared
to be left alone with “the black devils.” We tried to do so, but armed
guards appeared mysteriously and thrust him back into his own hut.
This day was an exact repetition of the others. The same inspection of
the deceased and renewal of his food; the same cold, clouded sky, the
same agitated conferences in the market-place.
Public-domain text, read in full here on John Shaqi.
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