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

branches, covered it with some of their garments, and quietly bore the wounded and still unconscious man away in the direction of the plains.

With thankful hearts our travellers slid to the ground, and hurried off in the opposite direction towards the mountains.

That night they came to a deeply-shaded and rugged piece of ground in the heart of the forest where there were caverns of various sizes. Here the solitude seemed to be so profound that the fear of pursuit gradually left them, so they resolved to kindle a cheerful fire in one of the caves, cook a good supper, and enjoy themselves. Finding a cave that was small, dry, and well concealed, they soon had a bright fire blazing in it, round which they sat on a soft pile of branches—Mark and Hockins looking on with profound interest and expectation while the negro prepared supper.

“If I only had a quid o’ baccy now,” said Hockins, “I’d be as happy as a king.”

“I have the advantage of you, friend, for I am as happy as a king without it,” said the young doctor.

“Well, there’s no denyin’,” returned the seaman, “that you have the advantage o’ me; but if I only had the baccy I’d enjoy my disadvantage. P’r’aps there’s a bit left in some corner o’—”

He plunged his hands into each pocket in his garments, one after another, but without success until he came to the left breast-pocket of his coat. When he had searched that to its deepest recesses he stopped and looked up with a beaming countenance.

“Ho! got ’im?” asked Ebony, with interest.

Hockins did not reply, but, slowly and tenderly, drew forth—not a quid, but—a little piece of brown wood about five or six inches long.

“A penny whistle!” exclaimed Mark.

“Speak with reverence, Doctor,” returned the sailor, with a quiet smile, “it ain’t a penny whistle, it’s a flageolet. I stuck it here the last time I was amoosin’ the crew o’ the Eastern Star an’ forgot I hadn’t putt it away. Wait a bit, you shall hear.”

Saying this Hockins put the tiny instrument to his lips, and drew from it sounds so sweet, so soft, so melodious and tuneful, that his companions seemed to listen in a trance of delight, with eyes as well as with ears!

“Splendid!” exclaimed Mark, enthusiastically, when the sailor ceased to play. “Why, Hockins, I had no idea you could play like that! Of course I knew that you possessed musical powers to some extent, for I have heard the tooting of your flageolet through the bulkheads when at sea; but two or three inches of plank don’t improve sweet sounds, I suppose.”

“Ho! massa, didn’t I tell you t’ree or four times dat he play mos’ awrful well?”

“True, Ebony, so you did; but I used to think your energetic praise was due to your enthusiastic disposition, and so paid no attention to your invitations to go for’ard an’ listen. Well, I confess I was a loser. You must have played the instrument a long time, surely?”—turning to the seaman.

“Yes, ever since I was a small boy. My father played it before me, and taught me how to finger it. He was a splendid player. He used sometimes to go to the back of the door when we had a small blow-out, an’ astonish the company by playin’ up unexpectedly. He was great at Scotch tunes—specially the slow ones, like this.”

He put the little instrument to his lips again, and let it nestle, as it were, in his voluminous beard, as he drew from it the pathetic strains of “Wanderin’ Willie,” to the evidently intense enjoyment of Ebony, who regarded music as one of the chief joys of life—next, perhaps, to cooking!

But Mark and Ebony were not the only listeners to that sweet strain. Just outside the mouth of the cave there stood a man, who, to judge from the expression of his face, was as much affected by the music as the negro. Though he stood in such a position as to be effectually screened from the view of those within, a gleam of reflected light fell upon his figure, showing him to be a tall, handsome man in the prime of life. He was clothed in what may be styled a mixed European and native costume, and a gun on which he rested both hands seemed to indicate him a hunter. He carried no other weapon, except a long knife in his girdle. The mixed character of his garb extended also to his blood, for his skin, though dark and bronzed from exposure, was much lighter than that of most natives of the island, and his features were distinctly European. Quiet gravity was the chief characteristic of his countenance, and there was also an expression of profound sadness or pathos, which was probably caused by the music.

When Hockins finished his tune the three friends were almost petrified with astonishment—not unmingled with alarm—as they beheld this man walk coolly into the cave, rest his gun on the side of it, and sit gravely down on the opposite side of the fire.

The first impulse of our three friends, of course, was to spring up, but the action of the man was so prompt, and, withal, so peaceful, that they were constrained to sit still.

“Don’t be alarmed. I come as a friend. May I sit by your fire?”

He spoke in good English, though with a decidedly foreign accent.

“You are welcome, since you come as a friend,” said Mark, “though I must add that you have taken us by surprise.”

“Well now, stranger,” said Hockins, putting his musical instrument in his pocket, “how are we to know that you are a friend—except by the cut o’ your jib, which, I admit, looks honest enough, and your actions, which, we can’t deny, are peaceable like?”

The seaman put this question with a half-perplexed, half-amused air. The stranger received it without the slightest change in his grave aspect.

“You have no other means of knowing,” he replied, “except by my ‘jib’ and my actions.”

“Dat’s a fact, anyhow,” murmured Ebony.

“Who are you, and where do you come from?” asked Mark.

“I am an outlaw, and I come from the forest.”

“That’s plain-speakin’, an’ no mistake,” said Hockins, with a laugh, “an’ deserves as plain a return. We can’t say exactly that we are outlaws, but we are out-an’-outers, an’ we’re going through the forest to—to—Anty-all-alive-O! or some such name—the capital, you know—”

“Antananarivo,” suggested the outlaw.

“That’s it! That’s the name—I couldn’t recall,” said Mark, quickly. “We are going there, if we can only find the way.”

“I know the way,” returned the outlaw, “and my reason for coming here is to offer to show it you.”

“Indeed! But how came you to know our intentions, and what makes you take so much interest in us?” asked Mark, with a look of suspicion.

“My reason for being interested in you,” returned the stranger, “is a matter with which you have nothing to do. How I came to know your intentions it is easy to explain, for I have followed you from the sea-coast step by step. I saw you escape from the savages, saw you frightened out of the cave by my friends the outlaws, who dwell in it, followed you while you traversed the forest, listened to your conversations, witnessed your exploit with the bull, and observed you when you helped and bandaged the wounded native.”

It would be difficult to describe the looks or feelings with which the three friends received this information. Ebony’s eyes alone would have taken at least half-an-hour of the pencil to portray.

“But—but—why?” stammered Mark.

“Never mind the why,” continued the outlaw, with a pleasant look. “You see that I know all about you—at least since you landed—and I also know that you have been several times in unseen danger, from which I have shielded you. Now, you have arrived at a part of the forest which is swarming with brigands, into whose hands you are sure to fall unless I am with you. I therefore come to offer myself as your guide. Will you have me?”

“It seems to me,” returned Mark, with something of scorn in his tone, “that we have no choice, for you have us at your mercy—we cannot refuse. I suppose you are the brigand chief, and are guarding us for some sinister purpose of your own.”

“I said not that I was a brigand,” returned the stranger, quietly; “I said I was an outlaw. What else I am, and my motives of action, I choose not to tell. You say truly—I have you in my power. That is one reason why I would befriend you, if you will trust me.” The outlaw rose up as he spoke.

There was such an air of quiet dignity and evident sincerity in the man that Mark was strongly impressed. Rising promptly, he stretched his hand across the fire, saying, “We will trust you, friend, even though we were not in your power.”

The outlaw grasped the youth’s hand with a gratified look.

“Now,” he added, as he took up his gun, “I will go. In the morning at day-break I will return. Sleep well till then.”

With something like a courtly salute, the mysterious stranger left them, and disappeared into the depths of the forest.