King Solomon’s Mines. Henry Rider Haggard

did. And I have lost my life over it, another may succeed, and become the richest man in the world – the richest man in the world. Only give it to no one, señor; go yourself!”

      ‘Then he began to wander again, and in an hour it was all over.

      ‘God rest him! he died very quietly, and I buried him deep, with big boulders on his breast; so I do not think that the jackals can have dug him up. Then I came away.’

      ‘Ay, but the document?’ said Sir Henry, in a tone of deep interest.

      ‘Yes, the document; what was in it?’ added the captain.

      ‘Well, gentlemen, if you like I will tell you. I have never showed it to anybody yet except to a drunken old Portuguese trader who translated it for me, and had forgotten all about it by the next morning. The original rag is at my home in Durban, together with poor Dom José’s translation, but I have the English rendering in my pocket-book, and a facsimile of the map, if it can be called a map. Here it is.’

      ‘I, José da Silvestra, who am now dying of hunger in the little cave where no snow is on the north side of the nipple of the southernmost of the two mountains I have named Sheba’s Breasts, write this in the year 1590 with a cleft bone upon a remnant of my raiment, my blood being the ink. If my slave should find it when he comes, and should bring it to Delagoa, let my friend (name illegible) bring the matter to the knowledge of the king, that he may send an army which, if they live through the desert and the mountains, and can overcome the brave Kukuanes and their devilish arts, to which end many priests should be brought, will make him the richest king since Solomon. With my own eyes have I seen the countless diamonds stored in Solomon’s treasure chamber behind the white Death; but through the treachery of Gagool the witch-finder I might bring nought away, scarcely my life. Let him who comes follow the map, and climb the snow of Sheba’s left breast till he reaches the nipple, on the north side of which is the great road Solomon made, from whence three days’ journey to the King’s Palace. Let him kill Gagool. Pray for my soul. Farewell.

      José da Silvestra.’²

      When I had finished reading the above, and shown the copy of the map, drawn by the dying hand of the old Dom with his blood for ink, there followed a silence of astonishment.

      ‘Well,’ said Captain Good,’ I have been round the world twice, and put in at most ports, but may I be hung for a mutineer if ever I heard a yarn like this out of a story book, or in it either, for the matter of that.’

      ‘It is a queer tale, Mr Quatermain,’ said Sir Henry. ‘I suppose you are not hoaxing us? It is, I know, sometimes thought allowable to take in a greenhorn.’

      ‘If you think that, Sir Henry,’ I said, much put out, and pocketing my paper – for I do not like to be thought one of those silly fellows who consider it witty to tell lies, and who are for ever boasting to newcomers of extraordinary hunting adventures which never happened – ‘if you think that, why, there is an end to the matter,’ and I rose to go.

      Sir Henry laid his large hand on my shoulder. ‘Sit down, Mr Quatermain,’ he said, ‘I beg your pardon; I see very well you do not wish to deceive us, but the story sounded so strange that I could hardly believe it.’

      ‘You shall see the original map and writing when we reach Durban,’ I answered, somewhat mollified, for really when I came to consider the question it was scarcely wonderful that he should doubt my good faith.

      ‘But,’ I went on, ‘I have not told you about your brother. I knew the man Jim who was with him. He was a Bechuana by birth, a good hunter, and for a native a very clever man. That morning on which Mr Neville was starting I saw Jim standing by my wagon and cutting up tobacco on the disselboom.

      ‘“Jim,” said I, “where are you off to this trip? Is it elephants?”

      ‘“No, Baas,” he answered, “we are after something worth much more than ivory.”

      ‘“And what might that be?” I said, for I was curious. “Is it gold?”

      ‘“No, Baas, something worth more than gold,” and he grinned.

      ‘I asked no more questions, for I did not like to lower my dignity by seeming inquisitive, but I was puzzled. Presently Jim finished cutting his tobacco.

      ‘“Baas,” said he.

      ‘I took no notice.

      ‘“Baas,” said he again.

      ‘“Eh, boy, what is it?” I asked.

      ‘“Baas, we are going after diamonds.”

      ‘“Diamonds! why, then, you are steering in the wrong direction; you should head for the Fields.”

      ‘“Baas, have you ever heard of Suliman’s Berg?” – that is, Solomon’s Mountains, Sir Henry.

      ‘“Ay!”

      ‘“Have you ever heard of the diamonds there?”

      ‘“I have heard a foolish story, Jim.”

      ‘“It is no story, Baas. Once I knew a woman who came from there, and reached Natal with her child, she told me: – she is dead now.”

      ‘“Your master will feed the aasvögels” – that is, vultures – “Jim, if he tries to reach Suliman’s country, and so will you if they can get any pickings off your worthless old carcass,” said I.

      ‘He grinned. “Mayhap, Baas. Man must die; I’d rather like to try a new country myself; the elephants are getting worked out about here.”

      ‘“Ah! my boy,” I said, “you wait till the ‘pale old man’ gets a grip of your yellow throat, and then we shall hear what sort of a tune you sing.”

      ‘Half an hour after that I saw Neville’s wagon move off. Presently Jim came back running. “Good-bye, Baas,” he said. ‘I didn’t like to start without bidding you good-bye, for I daresay you are right, and that we shall never trek south again.’

      ‘“Is your master really going to Suliman’s Berg, Jim, or are you lying?”

      ‘“No,” he answered, “he is going. He told me he was bound to make his fortune somehow, or try to; so he might as well have a fling for the diamonds.”

      ‘Oh!’ I said; “wait a bit, Jim; will you take a note to your master, Jim, and promise not to give it to him till you reach Inyati?” which was some hundred miles off.

      ‘“Yes, Baas.”

      ‘So I took a scrap of paper, and wrote on it, “Let him who comes…climb the snow of Sheba’s left breast, till he reaches the nipple, on the north side of which is Solomon’s great road.”

      ‘“Now, Jim,” I said, “when you give this to your master, tell him he had better follow the advice on it implicitly. You are not to give it to him now, because I don’t want him back asking me questions which I won’t answer. Now be off, you idle fellow, the wagon is nearly out of sight.”

      ‘Jim took the note and went, and that is all I know about your brother, Sir Henry; but I am much afraid—’

      ‘Mr Quatermain,’ said Sir Henry, ‘I am going to look for my brother; I am going to trace him to Suliman’s Mountains, and over them if necessary, till I find him, or until I know that he is dead. Will you come with me?’

      I am, as I think I have said, a cautious man, indeed a timid one, and this suggestion frightened me. It seemed to me that to undertake such a journey would be to go to certain death, and putting other considerations aside, as I had a son to support, I could not afford to die just then.

      ‘No, thank you, Sir Henry, I think I had rather not,’ I answered. ‘I am too old for wild-goose chases of that sort, and we should only end up like my poor friend Silvestre. I have a son dependent on me, so I cannot afford to risk my life foolishly.’

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