“That’s true,” said I, thinking
of my boy Harry.
“I found out, Mr. Quatermain, that I would have
given half my fortune to know that my brother George,
the only relation I possess, was safe and well, and
that I should see him again.”
“But you never did, Curtis,” jerked out
Captain Good, glancing at the big man’s face.
“Well, Mr. Quatermain, as time went on I became
more and more anxious to find out if my brother was
alive or dead, and if alive to get him home again.
I set enquiries on foot, and your letter was one of
the results. So far as it went it was satisfactory,
for it showed that till lately George was alive, but
it did not go far enough. So, to cut a long story
short, I made up my mind to come out and look for him
myself, and Captain Good was so kind as to come with
me.”
“Yes,” said the captain; “nothing
else to do, you see. Turned out by my Lords of
the Admiralty to starve on half pay. And now perhaps,
sir, you will tell us what you know or have heard
of the gentleman called Neville.”
THE LEGEND OF SOLOMON’S MINES
“What was it that you heard about my brother’s
journey at Bamangwato?” asked Sir Henry, as
I paused to fill my pipe before replying to Captain
Good.
“I heard this,” I answered, “and
I have never mentioned it to a soul till to-day.
I heard that he was starting for Solomon’s Mines.”
“Solomon’s Mines?” ejaculated both
my hearers at once. “Where are they?”
“I don’t know,” I said; “I
know where they are said to be. Once I saw the
peaks of the mountains that border them, but there
were a hundred and thirty miles of desert between
me and them, and I am not aware that any white man
ever got across it save one. But perhaps the best
thing I can do is to tell you the legend of Solomon’s
Mines as I know it, you passing your word not to reveal
anything I tell you without my permission. Do
you agree to that? I have my reasons for asking.”
Sir Henry nodded, and Captain Good replied, “Certainly,
certainly.”
“Well,” I began, “as you may guess,
generally speaking, elephant hunters are a rough set
of men, who do not trouble themselves with much beyond
the facts of life and the ways of Kafirs. But
here and there you meet a man who takes the trouble
to collect traditions from the natives, and tries
to make out a little piece of the history of this
dark land. It was such a man as this who first
told me the legend of Solomon’s Mines, now a
matter of nearly thirty years ago. That was when
I was on my first elephant hunt in the Matalebe country.
His name was Evans, and he was killed the following
year, poor fellow, by a wounded buffalo, and lies
buried near the Zambesi Falls. I was telling
Evans one night, I remember, of some wonderful workings
I had found whilst hunting koodoo and eland in what
is now the Lydenburg district of the Transvaal.
