For an hour or more Alan persevered, then at last in despair he jumped out of bed wondering what he could do to occupy his mind.  Suddenly he remembered the diary of his uncle, the Rev. Mr. Austin, which he had inherited with the Yellow God and a few other possessions, but never examined.  They had been put away in a box in the library about fifteen years before, just at the time he entered the army, and there doubtless they remained.  Well, as he could not sleep, why should he not examine them now, and thus get through some of this weary night?

He lit a candle and went down to the library, an ancient and beautiful apartment with black oak panelling between the bookcases, set there in the time of Elizabeth.  In this panelling there were cupboards, and in one of the cupboards was the box he sought, made of teak wood.  On its lid was painted, “The Reverend Henry Austin.  Passenger to Acra,” showing that it had once been his uncle’s cabin box.  The key hung from the handle, and having lit more candles, Alan drew it out and unlocked it, to be greeted by a smell of musty documents done up in great bundles.  One by one he placed them on the floor.  It was a dreary occupation alone there in that great, silent room at the dead of night, one indeed with which he was soon satisfied, for somehow it reminded him of rifling coffins in a vault.  Before him so carefully put away lay the records of a good if not a distinguished life, and until this moment he had never found the energy even to look through them.

At length he came to the end of the bundles and saw that beneath lay a number of manuscript books packed closely with their backs upwards, marked—­“Journal”—­and with the year and sometimes the place of the author’s residence.  As he glanced at them in dismay, for they were many, his eye caught the title of one inscribed—­as were several others—­“West Africa,” and written in brackets beneath—­“This vol. contains all that is left of the notes of my escape with Jeekie from the Asiki Devil-worshippers.”

Alan drew it out, and having refilled and closed the box, bore it off to his room, where he proceeded to read it in bed.  As a matter of fact he found that there was not very much to read, for the reason that most of the closely-written volume had been so damaged by water, that the pencilled writing had run and become utterly illegible.  The centre pages, however, not having been soaked, could still be deciphered, at any rate in part, also there was a large manuscript map, executed in ink, apparently at a later date, on the back of which was written:  “I purpose, D.V., to re-write at some convenient time all the history of my visit to the unknown Asiki people, as my original notes were practically destroyed when the canoe overset in the rapids and most of our few possessions were lost, except this book and the gold fetish mask which is called Little Bonsa or Small Swimming Head.  This I think I can do with the aid of Jeekie from memory, but as the matter has only a personal and no religious interest, seeing that I was not able even to preach the Word among those benighted and blood-thirsty savages in whose country, as I verily believe, the Devil has one of his principal habitations, it must stand over till a convenient season, such as the time of old age or sickness.  H.A.”