ecure. The birds were singing in the bushes round
about, and above all came the buzz of insect life, and the ceaseless
roll of the broad Zambesi.

The soldier lay back on the cushions sipping his coffee, his eyes half
shut, a pleasant feeling of indolence enervating his frame, as he gazed.
"She is very lovely," he muttered; "and here am I, a captain of a
marching regiment, allowing myself to fall in love with the daughter of
a Portuguese grandee, whom I shall probably never see again."

"And this," continued Wyzinski, who seemed to have monopolised the
conversation, "is it not a beautiful skin? Do you remember, Hughes,
shooting this wild cat in the tree the morning of that terrible day
among the Amatongas?"

"Indeed," replied the other, "I am little likely to forget it. I shall
always think it was the excitement, and the prostration consequent on
the hunt, which so nearly consigned me to an African grave."

"Tell me the tale," cried Isabel. "I long to hear your adventures among
the tribes of the interior. It seems so strange for us to meet here on
this great African river."

The conversation was carried on in French; and the soldier told of their
travels; told how the baboon had first been found; how it had lived in
the camp, and how it had died. The chess-players were disturbed by the
silvery peals of laughter which rang round them as Hughes related, with
some humour, the incident of the powder-flask; and Dona Isabel's dark
eyes had been fixed for a long time on the speaker's face ere the tale
was finished, and the sun sank beneath the horizon, the stars peeping
out, while the fire-flies came floating around, and the cool puffs of
the sea breeze swept across the river.

"Sing for us, Isabel," said Dom Francisco, as he checkmated his
antagonist, at the same time rising and making him a stately bow.

Dona Isabel took her guitar, and the sweet tones of her voice rang out
among the trellised vines and over the broad river, dying away on the
plains beyond, where the howl of the jackal was just making itself
heard.

"You will give me my revenge, Senhor Maxara," asked the Commandant.

"Nay, Dom Isidore, not possible--at least, until you do me the high
honour of becoming my guest in our own land. We must leave to-morrow
evening."

"And the Dona Isabel," asked Mujaio. "Is she, too, in such a hurry to
leave Senna?"

"The Dona Isabel must abide by her father's decision," she replied; "but
she may have a word