His brother Leonard sat down upon a rude seat, improvised out of an
empty gin-case. Without the tempest shrieked and howled, the great
wind shook the Kaffir hut of grass and wattle, piercing it in a hundred
places till the light of the lantern wavered within its glass, and
the sick man's hair was lifted from his clammy brow. From time to
time fierce squalls of rain fell like sheets of spray, and the water,
penetrating the roof of grass, streamed to the earthen floor. Leonard
crept on his hands and knees to the doorway of the hut, or rather to the
low arched opening which served as a doorway, and, removing the board
that secured it, looked out at the night. Their hut stood upon the ridge
of a great mountain; below was a sea of bush, and around it rose the
fantastic shapes of other mountains. Black clouds drove across the dying
moon, but occasionally she peeped out and showed the scene in all its
vast solemnity and appalling solitude.

Presently Leonard closed the opening of the doorway, and going back to
his brother's side he gazed upon him earnestly. Many years of toil and
privation had not robbed Thomas Outram's face of its singular beauty, or
found power to mar its refinement. But death was written on it.

Leonard sighed, then, struck by a sudden thought, sought for and found a
scrap of looking-glass. Holding it close to the light of the lantern,
he examined the reflection of his own features. The glass mirrored a
handsome bearded man, dark, keen-eyed like one who is always on the
watch for danger, curly-haired and broad-shouldered; not very tall, but
having massive limbs and a form which showed strength in every movement.
Though he was still young, there was little of youth left about the man;
clearly toil and struggle had done an evil work with him, ageing his
mind and hardening it as they had hardened the strength and vigour of
his body. The face was a good one, but most men would have preferred