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 our starboard is a low dim line. It is the Eastern shore of Central Africa. We are running to the southward, before the North East Monsoon, between the mainland and the reef that for hundreds of miles fringes this perilous coast. The night is quiet, so quiet that a whisper can be heard fore and aft the dhow; so quiet that a faint booming sound rolls across the water to us from the distant land.

The Arab at the tiller holds up his hand, and says one word:—‘Simba (lion)!’

We all sit up and listen. Then it comes again, a slow, majestic sound, that thrills us to the marrow.

‘To-morrow by ten o’clock,’ I say, ‘we ought, if the Captain is not out in his reckoning, which I think very probable, to make this mysterious rock with a man’s head, and begin our shooting.’

‘And begin our search for the ruined city and the Fire of Life,’ corrected Leo, taking his pipe from his mouth, and laughing a little.

‘Nonsense!’ I answered. ‘You were airing your Arabic with that man at the tiller this afternoon. What did he tell you? He has been trading (slave-trading probably) up and down these latitudes for half of his iniquitous life, and once landed on this very “man” rock. Did he ever hear anything of the ruined city or the caves?’

‘No,’ answered Leo. ‘He says that the country is all swamp behind, and full of snakes, especially pythons, and game, and that no man lives there. But then there is a belt of swamp all along the East African coast, so that does not go for much.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it does—it goes for malaria. You see what sort of an opinion these gentry have of the country. Not one of them will go with us. They think that we are mad, and upon my word I believe that they are right. If ever we see old England again I shall be astonished. However, it does not greatly matter to me at my age, but I am anxious for you, Leo, and for Job. It’s a Tom Fool’s business, my boy.’

‘All right, Uncle Horace. So far as I am concerned, I am willing to take my chance. Look! What is that cloud?’ and he pointed to a dark blotch upon the starry sky, some miles astern of us.

‘Go and ask the man at the tiller,’ I said.

He rose, stretched his arms, and went. Presently he returned.