sed from
the dimness of the starlight. I looked where the Boer was pointing, and
saw something that sent a shiver down my back. Certainly there _was_ a
shapeless _something_ crawling slowly towards the water on our left
front, one hundred and fifty yards away. Again came the faint groan we
had heard.

"This is bosh," I said. "It's a man, undoubtedly, and he's in pain. It
may be your cousin. Come and look." I sprang to my feet, picked up my
revolver, and started off. Du Plessis pulled himself together--he had
need, for he was a firm believer in spooks--and followed closely. We
approached the creeping thing--it looked more like a man. I hailed it,
and again a low groan came. We reached the dark object. It was a man,
or the remains of one, emaciated, half-clad in tattered rags; and it
crawled upon all-fours, dragging one leg. It was not a Boer--not Tobias
Steenkamp. In a flash it came into my mind that here was the second
figure, of my strange dream.

"Who are you?" I said.

"Water, for God's sake!" was all the poor wretch could utter. I ran to
the water, filled the top of my felt hat, and came back. The tattered
figure drank eagerly.

"Come, Du Plessis," I said; "let's carry him up to the camp-fire."

We picked the poor framework up, and carried it to the fire; it weighed,
I suppose, about five stone. Then we got out Du Plessis' flask, poured
out some brandy, mashed up some biscuit and water with it, and
administered the mess out of the flask cup. The brandy seemed to revive
the poor creature. We gave him a piece of _billtong_ to suck, and at
last he spoke.

"I know your face," he said, looking at me; "don't you remember Spanish
Jack?"

Of course I remembered Spanish Jack, a well-known prospector in the
Eastern Transvaal some few years before. Three parts English, one part
Spanish, he was one of those restless pioneers who move, Uhlan-like,
before the main body of the gold-diggers, always on the hunt for new
finds. Looking at the poor death's-head before me, I could only
recognise, in the dark, cavernous eyes and the mass of tangled black
hair, the faintest traces of the strong, restless, dare-devil prospector
known as Spanish Jack.

"How did you come here?" I queried, and in the same instant, "What's
become of Tobias Steenkamp?" asked Du Plessis in Dutch.

"Give me a drop more brandy," answered the man in a hoarse whisper, "and
I'll tell you."

We gave him part of our small remaining