At that place some traders had left Livingstone.  This is what Alvez and his colleague had learned from them.  They had good reason to believe that the doctor, after exploring the south of the lake, would venture across the Loanda, and come to seek unknown countries in the west.  Thence he was to ascend toward Angola, to visit those regions infested by the slave-trade, to push as far as Kazounde; the tour seemed to be all marked out, and it was very probable that Livingstone would follow it.

Mrs. Weldon then could count on the approaching arrival of the great traveler, because, in the beginning of June, it was already more than two months since he had reached the south of Lake Bangoneolo.

Now, June 13th, the day before that on which Negoro would come to claim from Mrs. Weldon the letter that would put one hundred thousand dollars in his hands, sad news was spread, at which Alvez and the traders only rejoiced.

May 1st, 1873, at dawn, Dr. David Livingstone died.  In fact, on April 29th, the little caravan had reached the village of Tchitambo, to the south of the lake.  The doctor was carried there on a litter.  On the 30th, in the night, under the influence of excessive grief, he moaned out this complaint, that was hardly heard:  “Oh, dear! dear!” and he fell back from drowsiness.

At the end of an hour he called his servant, Souzi, asking for some medicine, then murmuring in a feeble voice:  “It is well.  Now you can go.”

Toward four o’clock in the morning, Souzi and five men of the escort entered the doctor’s hut.  David Livingstone, kneeling near his bed, his head resting on his hands, seemed to be engaged in prayer.  Souzi gently touched his cheek; it was cold.  David Livingstone was no more.

Nine months after, his body, carried by faithful servants at the price of unheard-of fatigues, arrived at Zanzibar.  On April 12th, 1874, it was buried in Westminster Abbey, among those of her great men, whom England honors equally with her kings.

CHAPTER XV.

WHERE A MANTICORE MAY LEAD.

To what plank of safety will not an unfortunate being cling?  Will not the eyes of the condemned seek to seize any ray of hope, no matter how vague?

So it had been with Mrs. Weldon.  One can understand what she must have felt when she learned, from Alvez himself, that Dr. Livingstone had just died in a little Bangoneolo village.

It seemed to her that she was more isolated than ever; that a sort of bond that attached her to the traveler, and with him to the civilized world, had just been broken.

The plank of safety sank under her hand, the ray of hope went out before her eyes.  Tom and his companions had left Kazounde for the lake region.  Not the least news of Hercules.  Mrs. Weldon was not sure of any one.  She must then fall back on Negoro’s proposition, while trying to amend it and secure a definite result from it.