"Yes，José Silvestre，or rather his skeleton and a little skin.His face was bright yellow With bilious fever，and his large，dark eyes stood nearly out of his head，for all his flesh had gone.There was nothing but yellow，parchment-like skin，white hair，and the gaunt bones sticking up beneath.
"'Water！for the sake of Christ，water！'he moaned.I saw that his lips were cracked，and his tongue，which protruded between them，was swollen and blackish.
"I gave him water with a little milk in it，and he drank it in great gulps，two quarts or more，without stopping.I would not let him have any more.Then the fever took him again，and he fell down and began to rave about Suliman's Mountains，and the diamonds，and the desert.I took him into the tent and did what I could for him，which was little enough；but I saw how it must end.About eleven o'clock he got quieter，and I lay down for a little rest and went to sleep.At dawn I woke again，and saw him in the half light sitting up，a strange，gaunt form，and gazing out towards the desert.Presently the first ray of the sun shot right across the wide plain before us till it reached the faraway crest of one of the tallest of the Suliman Mountains，more than a hundred miles away.
"'There it is"cried the dying man in Portuguese，stretching out his long，thin arm，`but I shall never reach it，never.No one will ever reach it！'
"Suddenly he paused，and seemed to take a resolution.`Friend，'
he said，turning towards me，`are you there？My eyes grow dark.'
"Yes，"I said，"yes，lie down now，and rest.""'Ay，'he answered，`I shall rest soon；I have time to rest-all eternity.Listen，I am dying！You have been good to me.I will give you the paper.Perhaps you will get there if you can live through the desert，which has killed my poor servant and me.'
"Then he groped in his shirt and brought out what I thought was a Boer tobacco-pouch of the skin of the Swartvet-pens (sable antelope).
It was fastened with a little strip of hide，what we call a rimpi，and this he tried to untie，but could not.He handed it to me.`Untie it，'
he said.I did so，and extracted a bit of torn yellow linen，on which something was written in rusty letters.Inside was a paper.
"Then he went on feebly，for he was growing weak：`The paper has it all，that is on the rag.It took me years to read.Listen：my ancestor，a political refugee from Lisbon and one of the first Portuguese who landed on these shores，wrote that when he was dying on those mountains which no white foot ever pressed before or since.His name was Joséda Silvestra，and he lived three hundred years ago.His slave，who waited for him on this side the mountains，found him dead，and brought the writing home to Delagoa.It has been in the family ever since，but none have cared to read it till at last I did.And I have lost my life over it，but another may succeed，and become the richest man in the world -the richest man in the world.Only give it to no one；go yourself！'Then he began to wander again，and in an hour it was all over.
"God rest him！he died very quietly，and I buried him deep，with big boulders on his breast；so I do not think that the jackals can have dug him up.And then I came away.""Ay，but the document，"said Sir Henry，in a tone of deep interest.
"Yes，the document；What was in it？"added the captain.
"Well，gentlemen，if you like I will tell you.I have never showed it to anybody yet except my dear wife，who is dead，and she thought it was all nonsense，and a drunken old Portuguese trader who translated it for me，and had forgotten all about it next morning.The original rag is at my home in Durban，together with poor Don Josés translation，but I have the English rendering in my pocketbook，and a facsimile of the map，if it can be called a map.Here it is.""I Joséda Silvestra，who am now dying of hunger in the little cave where no snow is on the north side of the nipple of the southernmost of the two mountains I have named Sheba's Breasts，write this in the year 1590 with a cleft bone upon a remnant of my raiment，my blood being the ink.If my slave should find it when he comes，and should bring it to Delagoa，let my friend (name illegible)bring the matter to the knowledge of the king，that he may send an army which，if they live through the desert and the mountains，and can overcome the brave Kukuanes and their devilish arts，to which end many priests should be brought，will make him the richest king since Solomon.With my own eyes have I seen the countless diamonds stored in Solomon's treasure chamber behind the white Death；but through the treachery of Gagool the witch-finder I might bring nought away；scarcely my life.Let him who comes follow the map，and climb the snow of Sheba's left breast till he comes to the nipple，on the north side of which is the great road Solomon made，from whence three days'journey to the King's Place.Let him kill Gagool.Pray for my soul.Farewell.
JoséDA SILVESTRA."When I had finished reading the above and shown the copy of the map，drawn by the dying hand of the old don with his blood for ink，there followed a silence of astonishment.
