The Fugitives: The Tyrant Queen of Madagascar by R. M. Ballantyne (the giving tree read aloud .TXT) 📕

her look and tone. “He seems to me like a wolf in sheep’s clothing. He does not refer all things to God as ‘Our Father,’ and in his use of the Word he does not seem sincere. I trust that he is not one of the spies.”

As she spoke her companion uttered a quick exclamation. There was a rustling in the bushes, and next moment, Laihova, springing out, clasped Ra-Ruth in his arms.

“Thank God,” he said, in deep earnest tones, as he released her. “I am not too late!”

“Brother,” said Ramatoa, anxiously, laying a hand on the man’s arm, “are you alone?”

“Yes. Have not Ravoninohitriniony and Rafaravavy arrived?”

“No. And—and what of Mamba?” asked Ramatoa.

An expression of profound sadness crossed the features of Laihova. Dropping his eyes on the ground he stood silent. For a few moments his sister did not speak, but her breast heaved with suppressed emotion. At last she asked in a low voice—

“Has he been martyred?”

“No—he is not dead. But—he is condemned to slavery in chains for life.”

Terrible though this fate was, the news of it evidently conveyed a measure of relief to Ramatoa, for it assured her that her lover was at all events not dead. Where there is life there is hope!

“I fear this will kill his mother,” she said. “Poor Reni-Mamba is so full of love and gentleness, and her sorrows have been very heavy. Strange that her husband and son should share the same fate—perpetual slavery! Yet it is not perpetual. Death will set them free. Come to the cave and let us break the sad news.”

As they walked through the forest Ramatoa gave her brother a rapid outline of what had occurred since the day he left.

“They will be deeply grieved,” she said, “that our friends are not with you. We had all hoped that you would arrive together. A messenger who has just come did indeed tell us that you had been separated from them, but all supposed that you would easily overtake them.”

“True, sister, but I over-shot them. That has been the way of it,” returned Laihova, regretfully.

“Still, I feel sure that they will escape,” continued the girl, “Ravoninohitriniony has such a firm trust in God, and he is so strong and brave and wise. Besides, he has the blood of the white man in his veins—he will succeed or die!”

This compliment to her brother, whether deserved or not, had the effect of raising a flush of pleasure on Ra-Ruth’s little face.

“Many things have happened since you left us,” resumed Ramatoa. “Razafil, the poet, has come to stay with us, and Voalavo too.”

“Voalavo!” exclaimed Laihova in surprise, “is he not the chief of a tribe that does not love Jesus? And he was not a Christian when I saw him last.”

“He is a Christian now,” returned the girl, quietly, “if I may judge him by his works. He has been our main stay since you went away. Not long after you left us he came, saying that you had told him about Jesus delivering men from the power of sin, and he wanted to know about Him. You may be sure we were glad to tell him all we knew. He has never said he is a Christian, but he has stayed with us ever since, and hunted for us. He is as active as the youngest men in getting and bringing in wild fruits, and the youths are glad to have his wisdom and advice. He listens to us while we sing, and he prays in secret—I know that he does, for I have overheard him. Moreover, he has brought some of his people over to our side. He seems to be particularly fond of Reni-Mamba, and she is fond of him—for he is funny.”

“Yes; he is very funny,” responded Laihova, with profound gravity.

On reaching the cavern which we have described in a former chapter, they found that most of the men were out, and the women were busy with those culinary labours which tend to rejoice the hearts of hunters when they return home.

The chief, Voalavo, was there, however, deeply engaged in studying—yes, studying—The Pilgrim’s Progress! But he could not make much of it, his education—at the hands of Ra-Ruth—having commenced only a few weeks before. Besides teaching the chief his letters, Ra-Ruth had read to him large portions of the book, which had so fascinated him that he had applied himself to his letters with a will, and, being an able man, had begun to make rapid progress. His desire, also, to be able to read the Bible—when he began to understand what it was, and to perceive the significance of some of its soul-stirring words—stimulated his active mind to greater exertions.

The unfortunate poet, Razafil, also fell in with the wonderful allegory in that cave for the first time, and it helped in no small degree to turn his mind from brooding over the fate of his dear martyred daughter Raniva. His mind was quicker than that of the chief to perceive the grand truths which underlie the story, and he was not a little comforted. Thus these two men, so very differently constituted, sat at the feet of the fair Ra-Ruth, who being, as we have said, timid and rather distrustful of herself, was overjoyed to find that even she could help in advancing the cause of her Lord.

But it rather perplexed the little maiden when these same men, having been gifted with inquiring minds, puzzled themselves over the question why the Prince of the country in The Pilgrim’s Progress did not kill Apollyon at once and have done with him.

“Or make him good,” suggested Voalavo.

“True, that would have been better, perhaps, than killing him,” assented Razafil.

Like millions of the human race before them, the two men got out of their depth here; but unlike too many thousands of the same race, they did not permit such difficulties to interfere with their unshaken confidence in the love and wisdom of that God, who certainly “doeth all things well,” whatever we in our pride and partial ignorance may think of Him.

Voalavo’s studies on the day we write of did not however engross him so much as to prevent his starting up in great excitement when he heard the sound of Laihova’s voice. He hastened to the entrance of the cavern, and received his friend with his wonted effusive heartiness. But he was damped considerably on learning that Laihova came alone, that Mamba was enslaved, and that Ravonino and Rafaravavy were still wandering in the forest, pursued by their enemies.

“Come, my young men!” he shouted, flying into a sudden state of indignation, and clapping his hands together like a pistol-shot, “we will go and rouse our warriors. Arm, and make to the rescue! We will dethrone the Queen—this Ranavalona—usurper! Why should such a woman live on, filling the land with blood and misery!”

“My friend,” said Laihova, in a soothing tone, as he laid his hand on the chief’s shoulder, “the arms of Christians are not the arms of a soldier. We wrestle not against flesh and blood.”

“That is idle talk,” exclaimed the unpacified chief. “Did not Christian use a sword? Did not Greatheart fight Apollyon with a sword?”

“True, but these were spiritual weapons,” said Laihova. “Moreover, if you did rouse your people and march to the capital, what could you do? Your whole tribe would appear but as a handful of dust in the eyes of the Hova army.”

“I would that we were a handful of dust!” snorted the chief, “and we’d dash ourselves into the eyes of the Hova army and kill them while they wept!”

“But there is nothing to prevent us from going forth to meet our friends,” rejoined Laihova, “and we can take our spears. If they stand in need of help we may give it.”

This proposition fell in entirely with the war-like Voalavo’s views, and, a band of the young hunters and fruit-gatherers entering the cave at that moment, he urged them to make haste with their dinner and get ready for the war-path.

Ever-ready—as young blades usually are—for fighting, these youths threw down their loads quickly.

And, truly, judging from the contents of the cavern larder that day, there was no prospect of famine before the persecuted people. In one part of that larder there was abundance of beef and pork, also of game, such as guinea-fowl, pheasants, partridges, peacocks, turkeys, geese, ducks, pigeons, turtle-doves, and snipe. In another place the vegetable and fruit-gatherers had piled up little mounds of bread-fruit, pine-apples, cocoa-nuts, yams, plantains, bananas, manioc-root, melons, etcetera, much of which had been gathered from regions at a considerable distance from their place of abode. Thus they had laid up store for many days, and felt somewhat elated.

But there were two hearts there which found it impossible to rejoice, and very hard to submit to God. Reni and Ramatoa retired to a dark recess in the cave, and mingled their tears and prayers together.

“Oh! it would have been better if he had died!” sobbed Reni, “for then he would have been with Jesus; but now it is awful to think of the life-long slavery; and we shall never more see him on earth.”

“Nay, mother, do not think thus. Whatever God does must be best,” returned Ramatoa in a tremulous voice. “Let us try to say ‘Thy will be—’”

She broke down and finished the sentence with prayer for strength and for a submissive spirit.

Meanwhile the war-like expedition, on which Voalavo and his youths were only too ready to enter was rendered needless by the sudden appearance of Ravonino himself, with Rafaravavy and Sarah! After encountering innumerable hardships and dangers those three had at last arrived at their forest stronghold in safety.

“So then,” remarked Laihova to Ra-Ruth, after the first enthusiastic reception was over, “I have only over-shot them by a few hours after all!”

“We were just going to sally forth to look for you—and fight if need be,” said Voalavo.

“There was no need for that,” returned Ravonino, “the Lord was our protector.”

“Where is Reni-Mamba? Have you heard, mother, about your son?”

Reni and Ramatoa, who had pressed forward, looked surprised, for their friend did not speak like a man who had bad news to tell.

“Laihova has told me, truly,” replied Reni, still whimpering, “that my dear boy is worse than dead.”

“Not so, mother,” said Ravonino, taking the poor woman’s hand, “be of good cheer; Mamba is not dead. I know not indeed where he is at this moment, having been pressed in my own flight, but I know that the Queen has set him free—this much I learned from our white friend, Mark Breezy. More I cannot tell, but is not this cause for joy and gratitude? Come, let us return thanks to our Father.”

Most of those present were glad to give vent to their feelings in prayer and praise, though some there were who, having been led to join the band by the mere force of circumstances, had little heart in the matter. Certainly Voalavo was not among these last, for the enthusiasm which inclined him to fight with violence also induced him to pray with vigour.

When this appropriate act of worship was over, food was prepared for the wearied travellers, and in a short time the whole party was seated round the cooking-fire, illuminated by the torches on the wall, and listening eagerly to Ravonino as he recounted his adventures.

“I fear much,” he said in conclusion, “that another dark season is about to fall on us. It may be like the last—or worse.”

Ravonino here referred, (and with bated breath), to the terrible outbreak of persecution which had occurred several years previously, when, at the lowest estimate, about two thousand men and women were severely punished, and many tortured and slain, because they professed or favoured the religion of Jesus.

As, one after another, various members of the party detailed the sad sufferings or deaths of relatives and friends, the feelings of all became deeply affected with grief, those of some with a considerable dash also