characters and their deeds a little, in order to suit the conditions of
my tale; but in doing so I have striven to avoid exaggeration and to
produce a true picture of the state of affairs, at the period treated
of, in what may be styled one of the most interesting and progressive
islands of the world.

I take this opportunity of thanking the Rev George Cousins, of the
London Missionary Society, and formerly of Madagascar, for kindly
supplying me with much valuable information, and of acknowledging myself
indebted, among others, to the works of Messrs. Sibree, Ellis, and Shaw.

R M Ballantyne.

Harrow-on-the-Hill, 1887.

CHAPTER ONE.

INTRODUCES THE CHIEF ACTORS AND A FEW MYSTERIES.

Intense action is at all times an interesting object of contemplation to
mankind. We therefore make no apology to the reader for dragging him
unceremoniously into the middle of a grand primeval forest, and
presenting to his view the curious and stirring spectacle of two white
men and a negro running at their utmost possible speed, with flashing
eyes and labouring chests--evidently running for their lives.

Though very different in aspect and condition, those men were pretty
equally matched as runners, for there was no apparent difference in the
vigour with which they maintained the pace.

The track or footpath along which they ran was so narrow as to compel
them to advance in single file. He who led was a tall agile youth of
nineteen or thereabouts, in knickerbocker shooting-garb, with short
curly black hair, pleasantly expressive features, and sinewy frame. The
second was obviously a true-blue tar--a regular sea-dog--about thirty
years of age, of Samsonian mould, and, albeit running for very life,
with grand indignation gleaming in his eyes. He wore a blue shirt on
his broad back, white ducks on his active legs, and a straw hat on his
head, besides a mass of shaggy hair, which, apparently, not finding
enough of room on his cranium, overflowed in two brown cataracts down
his cheeks, and terminated in a voluminous beard.

The third fugitive was also a young man, and a negro, short, thickset,
square, tough as india-rubber, and black as the Emperor of Zahara.
Good-humour wrinkled the corners of his eyes, the milk of human kindness
played on his thick lips and rippled his sable brow, and intense
sincerity, like a sunbeam, suffused his entire visage.

James Ginger--for that was his name, though his friends preferred to
call