Guy Oscard went patiently through to the end of it. He found out all that there was to find; and he found out something which surprised him. No one seemed to be horror-struck. The free men stood stolidly looking on, as did the slaves. And this was Africa--the heart of Africa, where, as Victor Durnovo said, no one knows what is going on. Oscard knew that he could apply no law to Victor Durnovo except the great law of humanity. There was nothing to be done, for one individual may not execute the laws of humanity. All were assembled before him--the whole of the great Simiacine Expedition except the leader, whose influence lay over one and all only second to his presence. “I leave this place at sunrise to-morrow,” said Guy Oscard to them all. “I never want to see it again. I will not touch one penny of the money that has been made. I speak for Mr. Meredith and myself--” “Likewise me--damn it!” put in Joseph. “I speak as Mr. Meredith himself would have spoken. There is the Simiacine--you can have it. I won't touch it. And now who is going with me--who leaves with me to-morrow morning?” He moved away from Durnovo. “And who stays with me?” cried the half-breed, “to share and share alike in the Simiacine?” Joseph followed Oscard, and with him a certain number of the blacks, but some stayed. Some went over to Durnovo and stood beside him. The slaves spoke among themselves, and then they all went over to Durnovo. So that which the placid moon shone down upon was the break-up of the great Simiacine scheme. Victor Durnovo had not come off so badly. He had the larger half of the men by his side. He had all the finest crop the trees had yielded--but he had yet to reckon with high Heaven. CHAPTER XXXIV. AMONG THORNS We shut our hearts up nowadays, Like some old music-box that plays Unfashionable airs. Sir John Meredith was sitting stiffly in a straight-backed chair by his library fire. In his young days men did not loll in deep chairs, with their knees higher than their heads. There were no such chairs in this library, just as there was no afternoon tea except for ladies. Sir John Meredith was distressed to observe a great many signs of the degeneration of manhood, which he attributed to the indulgence in afternoon tea. Sir John had lately noticed another degeneration, namely, in the quality of the London gas. So serious was this falling off that he had taken to a lamp in the evening, which lamp stood on the table at his elbow. Some months earlier--that is to say, about six months after Jack's departure--Sir John had called casually upon an optician. He stood upright by the counter, and frowned down on a mild-looking man who wore the strongest spectacles made, as if in advertisement of his own wares. “They tell me,” he said, “that you opticians make glasses now which are calculated to save the sight in old age.”