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- Генри Хаггард
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- Копи царя Соломона
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- Стр. 8/166
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"
I
gave
him
water
with
a
little
milk
in
it
,
and
he
drank
it
in
great
gulps
,
two
quarts
or
so
,
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
carried
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
grew
quieter
,
and
I
lay
down
for
a
little
rest
and
went
to
sleep
.
At
dawn
I
woke
again
,
and
in
the
half
light
saw
Silvestre
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
,
and
pointing
with
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
writing
.
Perhaps
you
will
get
there
if
you
can
live
to
pass
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
made
of
the
skin
of
the
Swart-vet-pens
or
sable
antelope
.
It
was
fastened
with
a
little
strip
of
hide
,
what
we
call
a
rimpi
,
and
this
he
tried
to
loose
,
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
this
rag
was
a
paper
.
"
Then
he
went
on
feebly
,
for
he
was
growing
weak
:
'
The
paper
has
all
that
is
on
the
linen
.
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
José
da
Silvestra
,
and
he
lived
three
hundred
years
ago
.
His
slave
,
who
waited
for
him
on
this
side
of
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
,
senor
;
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
.
"
