Well, there was nothing to be said or done, so after a few minutes of contemplation we turned to continue our walk through what had been the royal quarters to the north gate.  Hans, who, I noted, had been ferreting about in his furtive way as though he were looking for something, and I were the last to leave.  Suddenly he laid his hand upon my arm and said: 

“Baas, listen!  I hear a ghost.  I think it is the ghost of Sammy asking us to bury him.”

“Bosh!” I answered, and then listened as hard as I could.

Now I also seemed to hear something coming from I knew not where, words which were frequently repeated and which seemed to be: 

“O Mr. Quatermain, I beg you to be so good as to open the door of this oven.”

For a while I thought I must be cracked.  However, I called back the others and we all listened.  Of a sudden Hans made a pounce, like a terrier does at the run of a mole that he hears working underground, and began to drag, or rather to shovel, at a heap of ashes in front of us, using a bit of wood as they were still too hot for his hands.  Then we listened again and this time heard the voice quite clearly coming from the ground.

“Baas,” said Hans, “it is Sammy in the corn-pit!”

Now I remembered that such a pit existed in front of the huts which, although empty at the time, was, as is common among the Bantu natives, used to preserve corn that would not immediately be needed.  Once I myself went through a very tragic experience in one of these pits, as any who may read the history of my first wife, that I have called Marie, can see for themselves.

Soon we cleared the place and had lifted the stone, with ventilating holes in it—­well was it for Sammy that those ventilating holes existed; also that the stone did not fit tight.  Beneath was a bottle-shaped and cemented structure about ten feet deep by, say, eight wide.  Instantly through the mouth of this structure appeared the head of Sammy with his mouth wide open like that of a fish gasping for air.  We pulled him out, a process that caused him to howl, for the heat had made his skin very tender, and gave him water which one of the Mazitu fetched from a spring.  Then I asked him indignantly what he was doing in that hole, while we wasted our tears, thinking that he was dead.

“Oh!  Mr. Quatermain,” he said, “I am a victim of too faithful service.  To abandon all these valuable possessions of yours to a rapacious enemy was more than I could bear.  So I put every one of them in the pit, and then, as I thought I heard someone coming, got in myself and pulled down the stone.  But, Mr. Quatermain, soon afterwards the enemy added arson to murder and pillage, and the whole place began to blaze.  I could hear the fire roaring above and a little later the ashes covered the exit so that I could no longer lift the stone, which indeed grew too hot to touch.  Here, then, I sat all night in the most suffocating heat, very much afraid, Mr. Quatermain, lest the two kegs of gunpowder that were with me should explode, till at last, just as I had abandoned hope and prepared to die like a tortoise baked alive by a bushman, I heard your welcome voice.  And Mr. Quatermain, if there is any soothing ointment to spare, I shall be much obliged, for I am scorched all over.”