"I'm done, Trent," he gasped faintly. "Fight your way on alone.
You've a chance yet. The way's getting a bit easier - I fancy we're
on the right track and we've given those black devils the slip!
Nurse your strength! You've a chance! Let me be. It's no use
carrying a dead man." Gaunt and wild, with the cold fear of death
before him also, the younger man broke out into a fit of cursing.

"May they rot in the blackest corner of hell, Oom Sam and those
miserable vermin!" he shouted. "A path all the way, the fever
season over, the swamps dry! Oh! when I think of Sam's smooth
jargon I would give my chance of life, such as it is, to have him
here for one moment. To think that beast must live and we
die!"

"Prop me up against this tree, Trent - and listen," Monty whispered.
"Don't fritter away the little strength you have left."

Trent did as he was told. He had no particular affection for his
partner and the prospect of his death scarcely troubled him. Yet
for twenty miles and more, through fetid swamps and poisoned jungles,
he had carried him over his shoulder, fighting fiercely for the
lives of both of them, while there remained any chance whatever of
escape. Now he knew that it was in vain, he regretted only his
wasted efforts - he had no sentimental regrets in leaving him. It
was his own life he wanted - his own life he meant to fight for.

"I wouldn't swear at Oom Sam too hard," Monty continued. "Remember
for the last two days he was doing all he could to get us out of the
place. It was those fetish fellows who worked the mischief and he
- certainly - warned us all he could. He took us safely to Bekwando