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A Yellow God: an Idol of Africa by H. Rider (Henry Rider) Haggard
page 254 of 319 (79%)
So he went, leaving her weeping on her knees.



During the dark hours that followed Alan and madness were not far apart.
What could he do? Escape was utterly impossible. For weeks he and Jeekie
had considered it in vain. Even if they could win out of the Gold House
fortress, what hope had they of making their way through the crowded,
tortuous town where, after the African fashion, peopled walked about all
night, every one of whom would recognize the white man, whether he were
masked or no? Besides, beyond the town were the river and the guarded
walls and gates and beyond them open country where they would be cut off
or run down. No, to attempt escape was suicide. Suicide! That gave him
an idea, why should he not kill himself? It would be easy enough, for
he still had his revolver and a few cartridges, and surely it was
better than to enter on such a life as awaited him as the plaything of a
priestess of a tribe of fetish-worshipping savages.

But if he killed himself, how about Barbara and how about poor old
Jeekie, who would certainly be killed also? Besides, it was not the
right thing to do, and while there is life there is always hope.

Alan paused in his walk up and down the room and looked at Jeekie,
who sat upon the floor with his back resting against the stone altar,
reflectively pulling down his thick under-lip and letting it fly back,
negro-fashion.

"Jeekie," he said, "time's up. What am I to do?"

"Do, Major?" he replied with affected cheerfulness. "Oh! that quite
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