Meanwhile the man with the black beard had recovered and risen, and he
and Sir Henry were pump-handling away at each other, apparently without
a word to say. But whatever they had quarrelled about in the past--I
suspect it was a lady, though I never asked--it was evidently forgotten
now.

"My dear old fellow," burst out Sir Henry at last, "I thought you were
dead. I have been over Solomon's Mountains to find you. I had given up
all hope of ever seeing you again, and now I come across you perched in
the desert, like an old _assvoegel_."[1]

"I tried to cross Solomon's Mountains nearly two years ago," was the
answer, spoken in the hesitating voice of a man who has had little
recent opportunity of using his tongue, "but when I reached here a
boulder fell on my leg and crushed it, and I have been able to go
neither forward nor back."

Then I came up. "How do you do, Mr. Neville?" I said; "do you remember
me?"

"Why," he said, "isn't it Hunter Quatermain, eh, and Good too? Hold on
a minute, you fellows, I am getting dizzy again. It is all so very
strange, and, when a man has ceased to hope, so very happy!"

That evening, over the camp fire, George Curtis told us his story,
which, in its way, was almost as eventful as our own, and, put shortly,
amounted to this. A little less than two years before, he had started
from Sitanda's Kraal, to try to reach Suliman's Berg. As for the note I
had sent him by Jim, that worthy lost it, and he had never heard of it
till to-day. But, acting upon information he had received from the
natives, he headed not for Sheba's Breasts, but for the ladder-like
descent of the mountains down which we had just come, which is clearly
a better route than that marked out in old Dom Silvestra's plan. In the
desert he and Jim had suffered great hardships, but finally they
reached this oasis, where a terrible accident befell George Curtis. On
the day of their arrival he was sitting by the stream, and Jim was
extracting the honey from the nest of a stingless bee which is to be
found in the desert, on the top of a bank immediately above him. In so
doing he loosened a great boulder of rock, which fell upon George
Curtis's right leg, crushing it frightfully. From that day he had been
so lame that he found it impossible to go either forward or back, and
had preferred to take the chances of dying in the oasis to the
certainty of perishing in the desert.

As for food, however, they got on pretty well, for t