Yet man dies not whilst the world, at once his mother and his monument, remains.  His name is lost, indeed, but the breath he breathed still stirs the pine-tops on the mountains, the sound of the words he spoke yet echoes on through space; the thoughts his brain gave birth to we have inherited to-day; his passions are our cause of life; the joys and sorrows that he knew are our familiar friends—­the end from which he fled aghast will surely overtake us also!

Truly the universe is full of ghosts, not sheeted churchyard spectres, but the inextinguishable elements of individual life, which having once been, can never die, though they blend and change, and change again for ever.

All sorts of reflections of this nature passed through my mind—­for as I grow older I regret to say that a detestable habit of thinking seems to be getting a hold of me—­while I stood and stared at those grim yet fantastic lines of warriors, sleeping, as their saying goes, “upon their spears.”

“Curtis,” I said, “I am in a condition of pitiable fear.”

Sir Henry stroked his yellow beard and laughed, as he answered—­

“I have heard you make that sort of remark before, Quatermain.”

“Well, I mean it now.  Do you know, I very much doubt if one of us will be alive to-morrow night.  We shall be attacked in overwhelming force, and it is quite a chance if we can hold this place.”

“We’ll give a good account of some of them, at any rate.  Look here, Quatermain, this business is nasty, and one with which, properly speaking, we ought not to be mixed up, but we are in for it, so we must make the best of our job.  Speaking personally, I had rather be killed fighting than any other way, and now that there seems little chance of our finding my poor brother, it makes the idea easier to me.  But fortune favours the brave, and we may succeed.  Anyway, the battle will be awful, and having a reputation to keep up, we shall need to be in the thick of the thing.”

He made this last remark in a mournful voice, but there was a gleam in his eye which belied its melancholy.  I have an idea Sir Henry Curtis actually likes fighting.

After this we went to sleep for a couple of hours or so.

Just about dawn we were awakened by Infadoos, who came to say that great activity was to be observed in Loo, and that parties of the king’s skirmishers were driving in our outposts.

We rose and dressed ourselves for the fray, each putting on his chain armour shirt, for which garments at the present juncture we felt exceedingly thankful.  Sir Henry went the whole length about the matter, and dressed himself like a native warrior.  “When you are in Kukuanaland, do as the Kukuanas do,” he remarked, as he drew the shining steel over his broad breast, which it fitted like a glove.  Nor did he stop there.  At his request Infadoos had provided him with a complete set of native war uniform.