hirst which had been growing upon Denham
reached maddening point. At all costs he must slake it, but how--where?
He knew that the Gilwana River made a bend which would bring it up to
about a mile from the scene of the fight. Was it safe to venture forth?
Well, he must risk it.

All seemed quiet now. The moon was rising, and he remembered how at
that time barely twenty-four hours ago he and Ben Halse had given the
alarm which ushered in the fight at Minton's store. Since then another
stubborn fight, and now here was he, a helpless fugitive, who more
likely than not would be a dead one at any moment.

A few yards and he nearly stumbled over something lying there. It was a
dead body. Stooping over it in the gathering moonlight, Denham made out
that it was that of a Zulu of good proportions. It was horribly mangled
about both legs, the result of a Dum-dum bullet, but there was a stab in
the chest from which blood was still oozing. Now he knew the meaning of
the mysterious sounds he had heard. The man had been killed by his
comrades, probably at his own request, because he was too badly injured
to make it worthwhile carrying him off the field.

He turned away from the corpse in repulsion and horror, and as he did so
the whites of the sightless eyeballs seemed to roll round as if to
follow him. He felt faint and weak. There was a little whisky in his
flask, and this, although of no use at all for thirst-quenching
purposes, was good as a "pick-me-up." At last the purling ripple of the
river sounded through the still dawn in front. Another effort and the
bank is gained.

The bank, yes. But the stream flowing down yonder between this and the
other clay bank cannot be reached from here, short of diving into it,
but the lay and nature of the soil points to dangerous quicksands
underlying that smoothly flowing reach. With a curse of bitter
disappointment, his strength weakening with every step, he turns away,
to spend another half-hour in scrambling through dongas and thorns and
long grass till an accessible point may be found, and all to the
accompaniment of the musical water rippling merrily in his ears.

At last! Shelving down to the water's edge, a beautiful smooth grassy
sward, overhung by forest trees. The fugitive throws himself on the
brink and takes a long, long, cool drink, and it is cool at the hour
before sunrise. Then, infinitely refreshed, he sits up.

What is there in this flow of river, in th