Across the Cameroons Part 23

"Here!" cried the boy. "This way!"

In the semi-darkness he had caught sight of a narrow flight of stone steps which led to the gallery above. He was not so frightened that he had not a natural curiosity to see who approached on the other side of the door.

All this time a noise continued that echoed ceaselessly in the vastness of the cave. It was a noise of bolts withdrawn, chains jangling, locks unfastened, whilst a voice that was hardly human was continuously uplifted in a long, plaintive moan.

In the semi-darkness of the gallery the four trespa.s.sers knelt down, hiding behind the pillars in such position that they could see into the central aisle below. Their eyes were fixed upon the door whence issued these strange, uncanny sounds.

Presently the door opened, and there came forth into the light of the lamp the most extraordinary apparition it had ever been the lot of any one of them to see.

It was a madman. Moreover, one who was terrible in his madness. He was of a great age, for the hair of his beard and of his head was white as snow. And yet he was very tall of stature, and had the appearance of a man of colossal strength.

He was clothed in rags--rags which hung together by mere threads, so that his dark skin was visible upon his arms and back. The hair of his head was so long that it reached to his waist, a great beard spread over his chest. At his side he carried an enormous sword--a two-handed sword such as was used by warriors in ancient days. In one hand he held a staff.

He came forward, singing a wild song that somehow was reminiscent of the desert and the East. He approached the altar where burned the lamp, and there flung himself upon the ground, tearing his hair, gnashing his teeth, and actually foaming at the mouth.

From time to time he lifted his voice in a howl, dismal and prolonged, breaking off in his singing to beat himself upon the chest. It was all terrible to behold. It was like a scene in some majestic Bedlam. This white madman, the semi-darkness of the cave, the flickering light, the enormous pillars--all seemed not of the world we know, but to belong rather to one of the worlds of which we sometimes dream.

Harry, turning to Fernando, whispered in his ear.

"Who is this man?" said he.

"He is Guardian of the Cave. He is said to be a hundred years of age.

He has lived here all his life."

The old man rose to his feet and stretched forth his arms. Then, lifting his voice, he uttered an endless string of words that were incomprehensible to both boys. As far as Harry could make out, the man either uttered some fearful curse or else he prayed in anguish.

"What is he saying?" asked the boy.

"I am not sure," answered Fernando; "I know little of the Maziri language. I think he says that the Sunstone has been stolen these many years, but this very day it will return. He says the vault will be opened before nightfall. He says that he himself is about to die."

"How does he pretend to know these things?"

"I cannot say," said the guide. "These men have the wisdom of the ancients, who could read the stars and knew of many things long since forgotten. It is supposed by the Maziris themselves that by means of fasting and penance and self-inflicted torture he has gained such holiness that he can see into the future, that he can read from the Book of Fate."

They could not move their eyes from the Guardian of the Cave. He now stood erect and motionless before the altar like one transfigured into a kind of deity. There was little about him that suggested what we know as human.

He was straight of back, his bare arms folded upon his chest, his head a little lowered. And the shafts of daylight from either side of the cave converged upon the whiteness of his head, so that he was like a saint, solemn and magnificent, surrounded by the all-pervading gloom.

Suddenly he let out a shout that was half a shriek--louder than before; and then they saw that his madness was not feigned. Like a wild beast he hurled himself upon the wheels and set them all in motion, some revolving one way, some the other. And even as the wheels were turning he shook his fist at the entrance to the vault--the red granite rock at the extremity of the cave.

"Open!" he cried, in the strange Maziri language. "Open in the name of Zoroaster!"

Again and again, he cried to the vault to open, as though that which was inanimate would heed his infuriated words. The spokes of the great bronze wheels reflected the light from the lamp, but there came no answer to the man's cries but the echoes of his own voice in the dimness of the cavern.

Once again he flung himself upon the ground, and prayed in a loud voice that the spirit of Zoroaster might descend and show him how to open the vault. According to Fernando, he asked the G.o.ds to grant him one of two favours--either that the secret of the Sunstone might be conveyed to him then and there, or that the Sunstone itself might be returned to the cave.

And suddenly he stopped in the midst of his prayer, springing sharply to his feet. For some seconds he stood quite motionless, in the att.i.tude of one who listens.

Then he spoke slowly and distinctly and less loudly than before.

"My prayer has been heard," said he. "Glory to Zoroaster!"

At that he lifted a hand to an ear and turned his head towards the entrance to the cave.

Those in the gallery listened, too. Sure enough, footsteps were approaching.

A little after, the daylight at the entrance was obscured by a figure--the figure of a tall and slender man dressed in the clothes of a European. For a moment he stood quite motionless, shading his eyes with a hand.

It was apparent that, newly come from the daylight, the new-comer was unable to see in the half-light of the cavern. Neither could he himself be recognized by those in the gallery.

Presently he came forward until he stood before the Guardian of the Cave, and the light from the burning lamp fell full upon his face.

Harry Urquhart caught his breath, and his hand went quickly to the handle of his revolver, when he recognized von Hardenberg, who had come to his journey's end.

CHAPTER XXVII--The Black Dog Bites

For some moments the two men stood facing one another. Neither spoke nor moved.

As they stood thus, a third person entered, swiftly, silently, without being seen either by von Hardenberg or the Guardian of the Cave. Those in the gallery saw who it was: the man was the sheikh, the Black Dog of the Cameroons.

Of the scene that followed the watchers in the gallery were amazed and horrified spectators. It seems that Captain von Hardenberg had not been idle during the time the Sunstone had been in his possession; with Teuton thoroughness and industry he had even learnt to speak in the Maziri tongue.

"Who are you?" said he to the old man, so strange and terrible to behold.

"I do not ask who you may be," answered the other, "because I know."

Word by word, the following conversation was afterwards repeated to Harry by Fernando.

"You know!" cried von Hardenberg. "What do you know?"

"I know that you are he who bears the Sunstone on your person. I order you to deliver it up!"

Von Hardenberg drew back a pace. The Black Dog was crouching like a tiger behind one of the pillars, unseen by either of the speakers.

"Who told you?" cried von Hardenberg. "Who told you I have the Sunstone?"

"These things," said the old man in a great, solemn voice, "these things I know because I am one who holds converse with the G.o.ds. Me you cannot deceive. A short time ago I was asleep, and in my sleep I dreamed a dream--that the Sunstone had returned."

"You are mad!" cried the Prussian in brutal derision.

"Aye," said the man, "I am mad; but I am wiser than those who are sane.

Deliver up the Sunstone!"

"By what right?"