



Produced by Nick Hodson of London, England




Into the Unknown, by Lawrence Fletcher.

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INTO THE UNKNOWN, BY LAWRENCE FLETCHER.

Into the Unknown--by Lawrence Fletcher



CHAPTER ONE.

THE GHOSTS' PASS.

"Well, old man, what do we do next?"  The speaker, a fine young fellow
of some five-and-twenty summers, reclining on the rough grass, with
clouds of tobacco-smoke filtering through his lips, looked the picture
of comfort, his appearance belying in every way the discontent expressed
in his tones as he smoked his pipe in the welcome shade of a giant rock,
which protected him and his two companions from the mid-day glare of a
South African sun.

Alfred Leigh, second son of Lord Drelincourt, was certainly a handsome
man: powerfully and somewhat heavily built, his physique looked perfect,
and, as he gradually and lazily raised his huge frame from the rough
grass, he appeared--what he was, in truth--a splendid specimen of
nineteenth-century humanity, upwards of six feet high, and in the
perfection of health and spirits; a fine, clear-cut face, with blue eyes
and a fair, close-cropped beard, completed a _tout ensemble_ which was
English to a degree.

The person addressed was evidently related to the speaker, for, though
darker than his companion, and by no means so striking in face or
figure, he still had fair hair, which curled crisply on a well-shaped
head, and keen blue eyes which seemed incessantly on the watch and were
well matched by a resolute mouth and chin, and a broad-shouldered frame
which promised strength from its perfect lines.  Dick Grenville,
_aetat._ thirty, and his cousin, Alf Leigh, were a pair which any three
ordinary mortals might well wish to be excused from taking on.

The third person--singular he certainly looked--was a magnificent
creature, a pure-blooded Zulu chief, descended from a race of warriors,
every line of his countenance grave and stern, with eyes that glistened
like fiery stars under a lowering cloud, the man having withal a general
"straightness" of appearance more easily detected than described.  A
"Keshla," or ringed man, some six feet three inches high, of enormously
powerful physique, armed with a murderous-looking club and a brace of
broad-bladed spears, and you have a faithful picture of Myzukulwa, the
Zulu friend of the two cousins.

The scene is magnificently striking, but grand with a loneliness awful
beyond description, for, so far as the eye can reach, the fervid sun
beats upon nothing but towering mountain-peaks, whose grey and rugged
summits pierce the fleecy heat-clouds, and seem to lose themselves in a
hopeless attempt to fathom the unspeakable majesty beyond.

"Do next, old fellow?"  The words came in cool, quiet tones.  "Well, if
I were you, Alf, I should convey my carcass out of the line of fire from
yonder rifle, which has been pointed at each of our persons in
succession during the last two minutes;" and Grenville, with the stem of
his pipe, indicated a spot some three hundred yards away, where his keen
eye had detected the browned barrel of a rifle projected through a
fissure in the rock; then, in quick, incisive tones, suiting the action
to the word, "Lie down, man!" and not a moment too soon, as an angry
rifle-bullet sang over his head and flattened against the rock.  In
another instant all