Both Stella and Tota were too weary to be moved, so we camped that night in the baboons’ home, but were troubled by no baboons.  Stella would not sleep in the cave; she said the place terrified her, so I made her up a kind of bed under a thorn-tree.  As this rock-bound valley was one of the hottest places I ever was in, I thought that this would not matter; but when at sunrise on the following morning I saw a veil of miasmatic mist hanging over the surface of the ground, I changed my opinion.  However, neither Stella nor Tota seemed the worse, so as soon as was practical we started homewards.  I had already on the previous day sent some of the men back to the kraals to fetch a ladder, and when we reached the cliff we found them waiting for us beneath.  With the help of the ladder the descent was easy.  Stella simply got out of her rough litter at the top of the cliff, for we found it necessary to carry her, climbed down the ladder, and got into it again at the bottom.

Well, we reached the kraals safely enough, seeing nothing more of Hendrika, and, were this a story, doubtless I should end it here with—­“and lived happily ever after.”  But alas! it is not so.  How am I to write it?

My dearest wife’s vital energy seemed completely to fail her now that the danger was past, and within twelve hours of our return I saw that her state was such as to necessitate the abandonment of any idea of leaving Babyan Kraals at present.  The bodily exertion, the anguish of mind, and the terror which she had endured during that dreadful night, combined with her delicate state of health, had completely broken her down.  To make matters worse, also, she was taken with an attack of fever, contracted no doubt in the unhealthy atmosphere of that accursed valley.  In time she shook the fever off, but it left her dreadfully weak, and quite unfit to face the trial before her.

I think she knew that she was going to die; she always spoke of my future, never of our future.  It is impossible for me to tell how sweet she was; how gentle, how patient and resigned.  Nor, indeed, do I wish to tell it, it is too sad.  But this I will say, I believe that if ever a woman drew near to perfection while yet living on the earth, Stella Quatermain did so.

The fatal hour drew on.  My boy Harry was born, and his mother lived to kiss and bless him.  Then she sank.  We did what we could, but we had little skill, and might not hold her back from death.  All through one weary night I watched her with a breaking heart.

The dawn came, the sun rose in the east.  His rays falling on the peak behind were reflected in glory upon the bosom of the western sky.  Stella awoke from her swoon and saw the light.  She whispered to me to open the door of the hut.  I did so, and she fixed her dying eyes on the splendour of the morning sky.  She looked on me and smiled as an angel might smile.  Then with a last effort she lifted her hand, and, pointing to the radiant heavens, whispered: