“Captain, here are Mrs. Weldon and little Jack; I present them to you.  Forward.  And may all the clouds in heaven fall on those idiots of Kazounde!”

* * * * *

CHAPTER XVII.

DRIFTING.

It was Hercules, not easily recognized in his magician’s attire, who was speaking thus, and it was Dick Sand whom he was addressing—­Dick Sand, still feeble enough, to lean on Cousin Benedict, near whom Dingo was lying.

Mrs. Weldon, who had regained consciousness, could only pronounce these words: 

“You!  Dick!  You!”

The young novice rose, but already Mrs. Weldon was pressing him in her arms, and Jack was lavishing caresses on him.

“My friend Dick! my friend Dick!” repeated the little boy.  Then, turning to Hercules:  “And I,” he added, “I did not know you!”

“Hey! what a disguise!” replied Hercules, rubbing his breast to efface the variety of colors that striped it.

“You were too ugly!” said little Jack.

“Bless me!  I was the devil, and the devil is not handsome.”

“Hercules!” said Mrs. Weldon, holding out her hand to the brave black.

“He has delivered you,” added Dick Sand, “as he has saved me, though he will not allow it.”

“Saved! saved!  We are not saved yet!” replied Hercules.  “And besides, without Mr. Benedict, who came to tell us where you were, Mrs. Weldon, we could not have done anything.”

In fact, it was Hercules who, five days before, had jumped upon the savant at the moment when, having been led two miles from the factory, the latter was running in pursuit of his precious manticore.  Without this incident, neither Dick Sand nor the black would have known Mrs. Weldon’s retreat, and Hercules would not have ventured to Kazounde in a magician’s dress.

While the boat drifted with rapidity in this narrow part of the river, Hercules related what had passed since his flight from the camp on the Coanza; how, without being seen, he had followed the kitanda in which Mrs. Weldon and her son were; how he had found Dingo wounded; how the two had arrived in the neighborhood of Kazounde; how a note from Hercules, carried by the dog, told Dick Sand what had become of Mrs. Weldon; how, after the unexpected arrival of Cousin Benedict, he had vainly tried to make his way into the factory, more carefully guarded than ever; how, at last, he had found this opportunity of snatching the prisoner from that horrible Jose-Antonio Alvez.  Now, this opportunity had offered itself that same day.  A mgannga, or magician, on his witchcraft circuit, that celebrated magician so impatiently expected, was passing through the forest in which Hercules roamed every night, watching, waiting, ready for anything.

To spring upon the magician, despoil him of his baggage, and of his magician’s vestments, to fasten him to the foot of a tree with liane knots that the Davenports themselves could not have untied, to paint his body, taking the sorcerer’s for a model, and to act out his character in charming and controlling the rains, had been the work of several hours.  Still, the incredible credulity of the natives was necessary for his success.