Chapter XXIII: Part 23

The eyes of the savage glistened at the prospect thus opened out before him. All Kafirs are by nature covetous, and this man's greediest instincts were powerfully appealed to. Plenty amid scarcity--wives, cattle, power--for that last consideration thrown out by the prisoner had carried more weight than he thought. He, Nxabahlana, was now disliked and distrusted by Sandili. Here, then, would be a good opportunity of securing the favour of the Colonial Government, and benefiting himself at the expense of his kinsman and chief.

"How many cattle will Nxabahlana find in his kraal, after the war, if Lenzimbi goes free?" he asked.

"One hundred fat beasts," replied Claverton. He knew his man, and that the other would take advantage of his necessity to the utmost, so he purposely began at a low figure.

"Aow! A chief cannot buy many wives with that," was the reply, given with a dissatisfied head-shake.

"Say one hundred and fifty, then."

But this, too, proved too little. At length, after much haggling, which evoked many a smile from the prisoner--so strongly was his sense of humour tickled by the notion of haggling over the price of his own life, as if he was merely buying a waggon or a farm--a bargain was struck. Two hundred head of cattle should be handed over to Nxabahlana at any time and place that worthy chose to name, and if at the close of the war Claverton's good offices should not avail to obtain for the chief a position of considerable wealth and influence, then he was to receive another hundred. In consideration whereof the Gaika agreed to release his prisoner, and, if not to conduct him within the colonial lines, at any rate to leave him in a place of safety. Not that all this was set forth in so many words--both of them knew better than that--the others might be listening. No, the negotiations were carried on in that dark undercurrent of half hints, half veiled references, which the Kafirs employ when anxious not to be readily understood by outsiders; and it will be remembered that Claverton spoke the native languages with ease and fluency, and, what in this instance stood him in almost better stead, thoroughly understood the native character.

"What if Lenzimbi should _forget_ his word, when he found himself safe among his own people?" said the savage, suspiciously. "What if when Nxabahlana went to ask for his reward he received a bullet instead of the cattle, or was seized and thrown into the _tronk_ as a rebel? Look. Here is a better plan. Lenzimbi shall give the money value of half the cattle now. He can turn paper into money by writing upon it."

"Lenzimbi isn't such a fool as he looks," was the prompt reply. "No, my friend, you know perfectly well that you can trust me far better than I can trust you, and as for writing you a cheque now, which I suppose is what you mean, I couldn't if I would, because I've no paper or ink or anything; and I wouldn't if I could, because you know, as well as I do, that I shall keep to my side of the bargain. Besides, even if I did what you want me to, and gave you a cheque now, how the devil could you read it so as to make sure it was all right? Eh?"

This was conclusive.

"It will be difficult," mused the Kafir, referring to the escape. "Very difficult. Look. Yonder is the camp of your people. We shall pass very near it presently. Then, if you should find yourself free, make for it as hard as you can. There is no other chance. But until after the war is over you must keep silent about the way in which you escaped. That is one of the conditions."

Claverton agreed to this, and now hope ran very strong within him. He had every reason to believe that the Gaika would fulfil his word; indeed, two powerful considerations would ensure his doing so, cupidity and fear. For if he were denounced to Sandili as having even contemplated such an act of treason as the release of a prisoner, his life would not be worth a moment's purchase. After some discussion as to the best way the order was given to start, and, with their prisoner in their midst as before, the Kafirs resumed their march. Once Claverton stole a side look at the chief's face, but Nxabahlana was moody and taciturn, and when he did speak to the prisoner it was with the rough brutality he had employed at first; but this might be only a blind. Which was it to be--life or doom? Every chance now was in favour of the former, and hope ran high.

Doubtless the reader will wonder at Claverton's marvellous ill-luck in three times escaping a terrible death only to fall straight into the hands of his enemies. When the Kafirs had abandoned their search as useless, thinking that the white man was a wizard indeed, as Nxabahlana had tauntingly said, that worthy, with a dozen followers, had remained behind. Of a cynical disposition, and a very sceptic as regarded the superstitions of his countrymen, that astute savage, although he had been the first to start the miraculous theory as accounting for the fugitive's disappearance, believed in it himself not one whit. He was puzzled, he admitted, but by natural causes. He would fathom the mystery yet; so he sneeringly watched the bulk of his countrymen move off, while, with a few chosen followers, he remained on the watch. Carefully they examined the ground, but, of course, found no trace of a footmark. They searched the cave whence the fugitive had emerged, but did not venture far into it, being influenced by two considerations. One was that not a shadow of spoor was seen to lead into it; another, a very natural repugnance to penetrating deep into that gloomy hole. It was nearly dark, and if the fugitive moved at all, it would be at night. So Nxabahlana and his warriors took up their position on the cliff a little way above the mouth of the cavern, in a spot commanding a considerable view of the moonlit valley, wherein nothing could move without at once attracting their attention, and waited and watched with the steady patience of their kind. This was at length rewarded when they saw the object of their quest emerge, weary and exhausted, from the cavern, walking, so to say, straight into their very jaws. The sequel we have seen.

During the march Claverton noticed with some uneasiness, that the man who had felt the weight of his fist was watching him very narrowly. Whichever way he looked, this man's shrewd, suspicious glance was upon him, and more than once it seemed to wander to the chief. Could he have overheard? If so, it would add seriously to the difficulties in the way of escape. But he consoled himself with the knowledge that if it was to be effected Nxabahlana would manage it somehow.

And now, as they drew nearer to the critical spot, the sound of voices was heard close by, causing, however, no alarm to the party, and a large body of Kafirs, emerging from the bush, joined them. Of course a halt was called while they exchanged news, and great was the exultation of the new arrivals over the capture of so formidable an enemy as this white man had proved--for his fame had spread among them. They crowded round to look at him as he sat on the ground, some jeering, some threatening, but all, in their heart of hearts, rather respecting the man who sat there absolutely in their power, and yet taking no more notice of them than if they were stones.

"Whaaow!" exclaimed a great mocking voice at his side. "Whaaow, Lenzimbi! I told you we should meet again. You knocked me down once-- twice. It was your turn then--now it is mine," and, looking up, he recognised at a glance his old enemy--Mopela.

"Ha--ha! I told you so, didn't I? How do you like that, Lenzimbi--how do you like that?" continued the savage, striking him twice on the head with the shaft of his assegai. "Yesterday, you--to-day, I. Haow!"

"What has come over the warriors of the Amaxosa that they keep such a cur in their midst?" said Claverton, looking straight before him, and steadily ignoring his persecutor. "Only a cur bites and worries a helpless man, but if one even looks at a stone he runs away with his tail between his legs, as this cur called Mopela would do if my hands were for a moment free--even as he has done twice already."

With a yell of rage, and foaming at the mouth, Mopela flourished his assegai within an inch of Claverton's face, but the prisoner never flinched. It seemed that the savage was working himself up to such a pitch that in a moment he would plunge the weapon into the body of his helpless enemy, when his arm was seized in a firm grasp, and Nxabahlana said, coldly:

"Stop, Mopela. You must not kill the prisoner. He belongs to the Great Chief, Sandili."

"Yes, yes," chimed in the others, "he belongs to Sandili; he is not ours!" And favouring Claverton with a frightful glare of disappointed hate, Mopela fell back sullenly among the rest.

"Yes, the white man belongs to Sandili. He is not ours--he is not ours!" repeated the Kafir whose suspicions had been awakened, with a significant glance at his leader's face.

The latter, who, by the way, was Mopela's half-brother, ignored the hint, and gave orders to resume the march.

"Aow!" exclaimed one of the Kafirs, suddenly stopping. "This is not the way to Sandili."

"No, no. It isn't?" agreed several of the others.

"It takes us dangerously near the white man's camp," said the suspicious one, stopping short with a determined air.

"And we might be attacked by a strong patrol," urged Mopela. "Senhlu is right."

A great hubbub now arose. The Kafirs, to a man, objected to pursuing that road any further. It was not safe, they said; they might lose the prisoner, and perhaps all be shot themselves. No. The best plan would be to go straight to head-quarters, and as soon as possible.

Nxabahlana saw that they were determined to have their way. He was only a petty chief, and the great bulk of these men were not his own clansmen; moreover, he was greatly out of favour with Sandili and Matanzima, who would be glad of a pretext to get rid of him. He dared not persevere in his plan; to incur further suspicion would be to court death. So he gave way.

"I intended to have reconnoitred and carried back some news to the Great Chief," he replied, coldly, and with a sneer. "But since you are all so afraid of the white men that you dare not venture within three hours' run of their camp, you can have your way. I shall carry out my scheme alone, while you go back with the prisoner."

To this plan they one and all objected. It might be that they detected defection in the tone of their leader's voice. He, however, deemed it safer to fall in with their wishes.

"So be it, then," he said. "We will all go straight to Sandili." And the whole party, turning, struck off into the deep wooded fastnesses of the mountains; and the captive's heart sank within him, for he knew that the plan for his deliverance had failed on the verge of its fulfilment, and now every step carried him nearer and nearer to his death. Half an hour ago the flame of life and hope glowed brightly; now the last spark was extinguished in the darkness of a certain and terrible doom.

On they went--on through the dark forest, where the crimson-winged louris flashed across the path, sounding their shrill, cheery whistle, and monkeys skipped away with a chattering noise among the long, tangled trailers and lichens which festooned the boughs of the massive yellow-wood trees. Now and then an ominous, stealthy rustle betokened the presence of some great reptile, quietly gliding away among the safe recesses of the thicket; and high above, the harsh, resounding cry of a huge bird of prey floated from a mighty cliff overhanging the line of march. All these things the prisoner noted as a dying man looks at the trivial sights and sounds of earth; for he knew he should never leave this place alive. The clouds had cleared off, and now the sun's rays poured down upon his head like molten fire; fortunately for them the Kafirs had left him his hat, or their captive would have been snatched out of their merciless grasp by a sunstroke, long before he reached the place of torture and death.

At about noon they halted; and one of the Kafirs, advancing a little way ahead, uttered a loud, strange call. It was answered, and, being beckoned to come on, the whole party moved forward and joined him. Then they formed up in a column, and, striking up a war-song, they stepped out, beating time with the handles of their sticks and assegais; those nearest to him, turning every now and then to brandish their weapons in the prisoner's face.

And now they entered an open space covered with huts--these, however, being of a very temporary order--and a swarm of human beings crowded out to meet them. A few starved-looking dogs rushed forward, yelping, but were promptly driven back with stones; and men, women, and children, stood eagerly watching the return of the warriors, and speculating loudly on the identity and probable fate of the captive.

Grasping instinctively the capabilities of the place, Claverton saw that he was on a kind of plateau, shut in on three sides by high, wooded slopes and rugged krantzes, while on the fourth, which was open, he could just make out a wide stretch of country far away beneath. The cunning old Gaika chieftain had well chosen his eyrie of a hiding-place. On every side, however, the bush grew thickly right up to the huts, which were built in a circle. Claverton noted, moreover, that, save for a few very indifferent cows, there was no cattle anywhere about, and that the people themselves were looking lean and starved, and drew his own conclusions accordingly.

With many a shrill laugh, and chattering like magpies, the women crowded round to look at the prisoner as he sat in the midst of his captors and guards, stoically indifferent to his fate. Hideous, toothless crones, whose wrinkled hides hung about them in a succession of disgusting flaps; crushed-looking middle-aged women and plump, well-made girls, all in different stages of undress. One of the latter slily put out her hand and gave Claverton a sharp pinch on the arm, amid screams of laughter from her fellows as they watched its effect upon the countenance of the captive.

"Yaow!" they cried. "The white man cannot feel. See, he does not move!"

Then a frightful hag stepped in front of the prisoner, and, amid a torrent of invective, began brandishing a butcher-knife within an inch of his nose.

"Ah--wolf--white snake--vulture's spawn!" she yelled. "We will spoil your handsome face for you. Our young men are lying about the land in thousands, and the jackals are devouring their carcases, and it is your work. For every one of their lives you shall undergo a pang that will make you pray for death. Do you hear, tiger-cat; do you hear?" screamed the hag in a frenzy of rage.

Again a grim smile was upon Claverton's face. The idea of him, who had made himself felt in sober earnest, who had escaped peril and death so narrowly and so often, coming to this--that it was in the power of such a thing as this to cut his throat like a fowl.

"He dares to laugh!" yelled the she-devil, brandishing her knife and clawing him by the hair. Just then one of the warriors took her by the shoulders and sent her spinning a dozen yards off, where she lay on the ground foaming with rage.

"_Hamba-ke_! Leave the prisoner alone. He belongs to the chief!"

At a sign from the speaker a girl came forward rather timidly and held a bowl to the captive's lips. It contained curdled milk, with some mealie-paste thrown in. It was cool and refreshing, and Claverton drank deeply.

"Thanks," he said, with a nod and a pleasant smile. "That's good."

The rest of the contents of the bowl were drained by his guards; and the girl, retiring amongst her companions with many a sidelong glance at the prisoner, remarked, in a half whisper, what a handsome fellow the white man was, and she was sure he must be a very great chief, and it was a shame to kill such a man as this.

And now a commotion arose on the other side of the kraal. All eyes were turned, and so grotesque was the sight that met his glance that Claverton could hardly keep from laughing outright. In the centre of a group of women and children, who were hustling him along, was a man--a white man. On his head was a tall black hat, the puggaree had been impounded by one of his captors. His arms were bound to his sides, while his long-tailed coat, now in a woeful and tattered condition, hung about his legs. Some brat, more mischievous than the rest, would every now and then swing on to its tails, or bestow a severe pinch underneath, while buffets of every description seemed the sufferer's momentary portion. His eyes were starting out of his head with fear, and his countenance was more abject than ever. In this miserable-looking specimen of British humanity Claverton recognised his companion in adversity--the missionary, Swaysland.

"Yaow--man of peace--get on!" yelled the rabble, hustling the poor wretch forward. One urchin leaped upon his back, and nearly made his teeth meet in the tip of his ear, while another playfully flicked him on the cheek with the lash of a toy-whip. Altogether the unfortunate missionary seemed to be having a bad time of it.

"Is there too much light, _Umfundisi_?" mocked a young woman, as he blinked his eyes, partly to dodge an expected blow, partly because the sudden glare of the sun tried them. "There, now it is dark. Is that better?" and she banged the tall hat down over the luckless man's eyes, head and face, thereby performing the operation known to the uncivilised Briton as "bonneting." A scream of laughter from the barbarous mob greeted this performance, which increased as, with the "chimney-pot" sticking over his head and face, their victim stumbled forward, completely blinded. Scattering the women, two of the warriors roughly removed this visual obstruction, and marched him up to where Claverton was sitting.

"Hallo, Mr Swaysland, I never expected to see you again in this terrestrial orb!"

There was something almost cheerful in this greeting, and the poor missionary felt hopeful.

"How did you escape? I am so glad!" he began in a tone of breathless relief. "Now you will be able to interpret for me. I am sure they would not have ill-treated me if I could have made them understand who I am. And they have ill-treated me shockingly--shockingly."

"Why! Can't you talk their lingo?"

"No. I have only been in this country a few months. Ah, why did I leave Islington! I was President of the Young Men's Christian Association there, and I must needs come to convert the heathen in this benighted country. I was afternoon preacher at--"

"Yes, yes," interrupted his companion in adversity. "But I'm afraid that won't inspire John Kafir with either respect or compunction. What do you want me to tell them?"

"Tell them that I am the Rev Josiah Swaysland, and that I belong to the Mount Ararat Mission Station. Tell them that I am the Kafir's friend, and that I gave up a comfortable place in a high-class drapery establi--er--ah--er--I mean in a--er--in easy circumstances at home, in order to come and be their friend. Tell them to let me go. I am not a fighting man. I am a man of peace, and never did them any harm. Tell them--"

"That's enough for one sitting," said Claverton, with a sneer of profound contempt for the other's egotism and cowardice. It was all "I--I," "Let _me_ go." A brutal laugh was the only answer which the savages vouchsafed.

"Ha!" they mocked. "A man of peace! What are men of peace doing here in war-time? This is not the land for a man of peace!"

Nevertheless, Claverton did his best to obtain the other's release, and disinterestedly, too, for he knew that long before his own position could be made known he himself would be a dead man. He represented to the Kafirs--very contemptuously, it must be admitted--that the missionary was a pitiful devil, not worth the trouble of killing; that they could gain no good by it; but might by releasing him, as he would be only too ready to trumpet their generosity far and wide. They only shook their heads in response to all his arguments. They had no voice in the matter; it was a question for the chief to decide.

"What do they say?" anxiously inquired Swaysland.

"They can do nothing. It all depends upon Sandili. He will be back this evening, and then our fate will be settled."

The other shuddered.

"You seem to take things very calmly, Mr Claverton," said he, at length.

"Well, yes. What on earth's the good of kicking up a row? It won't mend matters."

"Oh! God help us!" wailed the missionary, in mortal fear.

"That's about our only chance. But you don't seem to calculate over much on the contingency," rejoined his companion, with a very visible sneer.

"Don't talk like that--don't, I beg you. Remember our awful position."

"`The devil was ill, the devil a monk would be,'" quoted the other, with a bitter laugh. "I've been in `awful positions' before now, on more than one occasion, but this time I verily believe it's all UP. My God has quarrelled with me, as that long devil over yonder graciously informed me last night."

Swaysland stared at him in amazement. Here was a man with torture and death before him in a few hours, talking as calmly and as cynically as if he was having his evening pipe. He had never even heard of anything like this before, and, if he had, would not have believed it.

"Now, look here," continued Claverton. "I don't want to raise any false hopes, mind that; but I think it's just possible that they may let you go. You see, the chiefs always like to stand well with the missionaries, not because they believe in them, but because Exeter Hall is a power in the land, worse luck. Now, you represent that you're no end of a swell in that connection, and that you'll do great things for them if they let you go. But, whatever you do, don't promise to leave the country by way of an inducement."

"But if they ask me?"

"They won't. On the contrary. If you leave the country, you can be of no further service to them, and they know it. It is only by remaining here and saying what fine, generous fellows they are, that you can do them any good. In fact, I think you stand a very fair chance; but, as I say, I don't want to raise any false hopes."

"Really, I declare I am quite hopeful already. If I get away, never again will I set foot in these frightful wilds," vehemently replied this preacher of the Gospel. "But, about yourself?" he added, ashamed of his egotism, a consciousness of which had just begun to dawn upon him.

"Oh, I? Well, I'm a gone coon. There isn't a chance for me. They know me too well." Then, as if moved by a sudden impulse, he added: "If you escape you might do me a service. It isn't a very big thing."

"I pledge you my word that I will. What is it?"

"Find out a man named Payne--George Payne. He's from Kaffraria, but at present he's living in Grahamstown, and--tell him--tell them--all--that you saw the last of me."

"I will--I will. But--"

"Do you know this, Lenzimbi?" and Mopela stood confronting him, with a diabolical grin upon his face. As he spoke he removed an old rag from over something he carried, disclosing to view a hideous object. It was a human head, and in the swollen, distorted lineaments, the glazed eyes, and the sandy beard all matted with gore, Claverton recognised the features of the unhappy Boer, Cornelius Oppermann. At this ghastly sight Swaysland started back, his face livid with terror, and trembling in every limb.

"Look at it, Lenzimbi. Look at it. One of your countrymen," went on the savage, thrusting the frightful object within an inch of the prisoner's nose. It had begun to decompose, for the weather was hot, and it was all that Claverton could do to restrain his repugnance.

"I see it," he replied, self-possessedly. "Any one but a fool would know that that article of furniture had belonged to a Dutchman, whom every one but a fool would know was _not_ `one of my countrymen.'"

"Hey, Mopela, take it away!" cried the bystanders, disgustedly. "We don't want to be killed by the carcase of a stinking Boer," and, with a grin of malice, the barbarian chucked the hideous trophy at a small boy who was passing, and who bolted with a panic-stricken yell.

"Here, _Umfundisi_, you have talked long enough; you must go back to your hut," said Nxabahlana. The poor missionary's heart sank within him. Claverton's conversation, though sadly profane, had cheered him up, and now he was to be alone again.

"Good-bye, in case we do not meet again," he said, with more feeling than he had hitherto displayed--on other account than his own, that is.

"Good-bye. Keep your spirits up, and don't forget to make the most of yourself," replied Claverton. "And remember Payne--George Payne."

"Now then, _Umfundisi_," impatiently exclaimed one of the Kafirs, dragging him by the shoulder. Swaysland walked dejectedly away, glad of the Kafir's escort to protect him from the ill-treatment of the women and children; and Claverton, leaning back, wondered, dreamily, what the deuce would be his own fate. So the hours dragged their slow length; and it was with but scant hope that the captives awaited the arrival of the Gaika chief.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY TWO.

THE "WORD" OF THE GREAT CHIEF.

Tired of gazing at the prisoner, and realising, moreover, that there was not much fun to be got out of one who took matters so coolly, the women and children ceased to crowd round him, and he was left very much, to himself. It was broiling hot, and every now and then upon the sultry hushened air came the discharge of firearms in the far distance. Evidently the rival forces were making targets of each other; but it was probably only a slight skirmish with some patrol, and Claverton did not allow himself to hope anything from the circumstance. The Kafirs, too, seemed in no way to trouble themselves about it.

"Time passes slowly, doesn't it, Lenzimbi?" said Mopela, mockingly. "It passed quicker sitting by the pool at midnight, you and the tall dark lily at Seringa Vale. How well you looked together! Why didn't you bring her here with you, eh? It would have been much more comfortable for you, and for us, ha, ha!"

At that moment Claverton would have bartered his life to be free to spring upon the jibing savage and tear him in pieces with his bare hands. But it is safe to worry a chained mastiff, if only the chain is strong enough.

"Ha! ha! What will the dark lily say when you do not return to her?" went on Mopela. "When she hears how you were cut in pieces like a sheep, or roasted. Once we killed a man by putting red-hot stones upon him. At last they slid off, but we held them on again with sticks. He was two days dying. That was for witchcraft. Another was smeared over with honey, and a nest of black ants was broken over him. They stung him, they got into his ears, and nose, and eyes, and stung him everywhere. He died raving mad. Another was skinned alive, and then his skin was sewn round him again. Another was hung by the heels over a slow fire, and his eyes were put out with red-hot fire-sticks. Which of these things would you rather have happen to you, Lenzimbi?" concluded the Kafir with a hideous laugh.

"Nothing of the kind will happen to me," was the imperturbable reply.

A low boom of thunder smote upon the air--long, very distant, but distinctly audible. On the farthest horizon a little cloud was just visible. The slightest suspicion of a superstitious misgiving was in the breasts of the bystanders. How could this man preserve such perfect imperturbability unless he were sure of some miraculous deliverance?

"Will it not?" jeered Mopela. "What will happen then?"

"Wait and see. If you have been telling me those interesting stories to try and frighten me--well, then, Mopela, you're a bigger fool than even I took you for, and have been taking a vast deal of trouble about nothing. But now, if it's all the same to you, I think I'll go to sleep."

They stared at him. Here was a marvellous thing. These white men, too, were so afraid of pain; and this one, whom in a few hours they intended to burn alive, announced his intention of going to sleep. But they offered no objection. He was in their eyes a natural curiosity, and to be studied as such.

And he actually did sleep, and slept soundly, too, so that two hours later when the whole kraal was astir and in a commotion, he awoke quite refreshed. The arbiters of his fate had arrived.

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The chief, Sandili, a refugee with the remnant of his tribe in the fastnesses of the Amatola forest, was a very different personage to the sleek, well-fed, benevolent-looking old "sponge" who had asked for sixpences when sitting against the wall of the Kaffrarian trading-store. To begin with, he was sober, a state he could rarely plead guilty to during the piping times of peace. But there were no canteens in these rugged strongholds, and the very limited supply of liquor that could be smuggled in was but as a drop in the bucket to this habitual old toper. His temper, too, was peevish and uncertain, whether owing to the supplies of grog being cut off, or the reverses sustained by his arms, was open to debate. So when this prisoner stood before him as he sat in front of his hut surrounded by his _amapakati_ [councillors] and attendants, the old chief's countenance wore none of its former friendliness and geniality.

One swift glance at the rows of dark, impassive faces, whose eyes were fixed upon him, keenly noting every point of his demeanour, and Claverton saluted the chief--easily, naturally, and as between equals. A murmur ran through the group in acknowledgment, and every eye was bent upon the prisoner. For some moments they regarded each other in silence, and then Sandili spoke.

"Who are you, white man, and what are you doing here?"

"Who am I? The chief will recollect that we have met before. Does he not remember Thompson's store and the man who talked with him there? That was myself."

Again a hum of assent ran through the group, and the chief sat gazing at his prisoner as if in deep thought. And what an unaccountable turn of fate it seemed to Claverton! The last time he had talked with this man he had felt for him a good-humoured, contemptuous kind of pity as he gave him the trifling gifts which the other had asked for; and Lilian's sweet eyes had looked upon the old savage with a delicious air of half-frightened interest, much as she might have regarded a tame old lion, and then they had ridden so light-heartedly away, without much thought of the evil to come. How vividly that day came back to him now--now, as he once more stood before the old chief, whose lightest word was sufficient to decide his fate! Verily, the turns in the wheel of Fortune are capricious.

Seeing that no one was in a hurry to break the silence, Claverton continued:

"As to what I am doing here, I was brought here, very much against my will, I admit. Our friends here drove me over a cliff higher than that one yonder," pointing to one that overhung the hollow; "but I stopped half-way down and got inside. Then I walked down through the heart of the earth, and came out at the foot of the cliff, where your people found me."

"What childishness is this?" said the chief, sternly. "Are we children and fools that you tell us such tales, white man?"

"Ask those who brought me here if it is not as I say," was the cool reply.

A rapid conversation took place among the Kafirs, many of whom confirmed the prisoner's statement. It was an unaccountable thing, they said; but the white man seemed to be something of a sorcerer. Anyhow, all that he said about the cliff was true.

And now a fresh excitement took place in the shape of some new arrivals, some mounted, some on foot. Claverton noticed a stoutly-built man in European clothing, who seemed rather to shrink back as if anxious to avoid observation.

"Who is that?" he asked of his guards during the slight confusion that followed.

"Gonya--Sandili's son," was the reply.

This Gonya, or Edmund Sandili, as he was known to the colonists, had received a civilised education, and, at the time of the outbreak, held a post as clerk and interpreter in the Civil Service of the colony. This post he had thrown up in order to cast in his lot with his own people--a course which, whether that of a traitorous rebel or self-sacrificing patriot, is a matter of opinion.

"And who is the _Umfundisi_?" he went on, in an ironical tone, glancing in the direction of a thoroughbred Kafir who was arrayed in a clerical suit of black, with which, and with the white choker adorning his throat, the rifle he carried in his hand seemed startlingly out of keeping.

"Ha! that's Dukwana. He's a real _Umfundisi_ at Emgwali. He can pray well, but he can shoot better," replied the barbarian, with a sneering laugh. "Ha! there's Matanzima--Sandili's other son. He _is_ a warrior?"

"Yes, I know him," said Claverton, as he watched his former enemy join the group and seat himself near his father. The old chief looked not best pleased at the interruption as he turned frowningly towards his impetuous son.

"Where is the prisoner?" the latter was saying. "Aha! white man, we have caught you at last!" he went on, as Claverton again stood before the group.

"Why did you not `catch' me that day in the thorns, when we met in real battle, Matanzima?" he retorted. "That was a good rough-and-tumble, wasn't it?"

The other showed all his white teeth and laughed. He had a pleasing face--bold, daring, and reckless. Then they began questioning the prisoner about the colonial movements. To each query he replied with a readiness that astonished them.

"You are not misleading us?" said one of the _amapakati_, threateningly. "Why do you tell us all your countrymen's moves so readily?"

"I am not misleading you, because not the slightest advantage would be gained by it; the result will be the same, anyhow. I tell you, Sandili, and all you _amapakati_, that you are going straight to destruction. You had much better make terms before it is too late. You can get better terms now than a month hence."

A murmur of amazement ran round the assembly. Here was a prisoner--a bound, helpless prisoner--talking to them, the chiefs and councillors of the Gaika nation, like a victorious general dictating terms! It was a thing unheard of.

Suddenly a strange interruption occurred. A figure bounded into the midst--a frightful figure, with long, gaunt limbs and gleaming eyes. From neck, and shoulder, and wrist, and ankle, dangled beads, and cows' tails, and feathers, and magic strings of birds' beaks and claws, while the creature's body wae hideously tattooed from head to foot. Of tall stature, a coif, consisting of a huge snake's skin all entwined with the claws of scorpions, made him look even taller. With a long, wild beast-like howl, this hideous object stood poised on one foot before the group.

"Treason! Treason!" he mouthed.

All started; each man, by an involuntary movement, looking uneasily at his neighbour. In one glance Claverton recognised this diabolical-looking creature. It was the wizard, Nomadudwana.

"Treason! Treason?" he repeated, foaming at the mouth and gnashing his teeth.

"What does the sorcerer mean?" asked Sandili. "Who is the traitor?"

"There is a white prisoner here," bellowed the wizard. "He belongs to us. He belongs to the nation--to the Great Chief--to me--to us all--for we shall all take of the war-medicine which I will make out of his heart. He is a brave man; his heart will make strong war-medicine. The Great Chief, Sandili, is our father; but there is treason in his house-- in his own house!" And again the hideous wizard broke into a series of prolonged and diabolical howls. "There is one here who would have deprived us of our spoil," he went on; "who would have released our prisoner and enriched himself; who would have gone over to the white men and betrayed us, his brethren--betrayed the Great Chief, his father, and the head of his father's house!"

The councillors were visibly agitated. Though their consciences were clear, it might be in the purpose of Nomadudwana to denounce any one of them. A shout of wrath went up from the crowd beyond.

"Who is the traitor? What is his name? He must be killed!" exclaimed the Kafirs, gripping their sticks and assegais. "Name him! Name him!"

The wizard glared around, and many a bold spirit quailed before the glance of those dreaded eyes.

"The traitor is of the house of the Great Chief--of his own house. Where is Nxabahlana?"

A loud murmur of mingled amazement and relief arose, succeeded by ominous mutterings.

"Here!" roared the warrior named, springing into the circle and confronting his denouncer. "Here! What have you to say against Nxabahlana? Liar, fool, juggler! Out with it, before I cut out your lying tongue!"

"Stop!" cried Matanzima. "Stop! We must hear what all have to say. If Nxabahlana is true, he need fear nothing. Where is Senhlu?"

Then stepped forward the suspicious one, and narrated how his leader had been in close confabulation with the captive, whom he--Senhlu--had heard him agree to release, on condition of receiving five hundred head of cattle (exaggeration Number 1); further stipulating that, when the whites were victorious, Sandili and Matanzima should be slain, and he, Nxabahlana, put into their place (exaggeration Number 2). He told how anxious his leader had been to go dangerously near the white men's camp, and how he and Mopela had stirred up the others to resist this plan, feeling sure that their said leader intended to desert and betray them.

As he concluded, the ominous murmur had risen to angry shouts, and every eye was bent upon the accused with a glare of vengeful wrath. But the object of it never quailed. He stood cold, erect, and disdainful--his tall, herculean frame looking quite majestic, as with a sneer on his face he listened unmoved to the shouts of execration around him. And Claverton, for the time, forgot his own position in the vivid interest which this unlooked-for turn of affairs afforded him. He could see that the whole thing was a plot, and he felt quite sympathetic towards his captor and would-be deliverer, who he saw was doomed, otherwise no common fellow like Senhlu would dare raise his voice against a kinsman of the Great Chief.

"It is a lie!" shouted the accused, waving his hand in the air. "It is a lie. Give this lying sorcerer a weapon and let us meet hand to hand. I will kill him and then whip Senhlu like a dog--my dog that turns to bite me. Listen, Ama Nqgika. Who has been in the front rank whenever we fought the whites? Nxabahlana. Who has shot three of them with his own hand, and seven dogs of Fingoes besides? Nxabahlana. Who has lost the whole of his possessions--cattle, wives, even his very dogs--in the cause of his people? Nxabahlana. Even now," he went on, working himself up into a pitch of fervid eloquence, "even now, look at me. Am I afraid? Am I afraid of any man living? Who remained on the watch all night and captured this white man, when all the rest were afraid of him and had given up the search? Nxabahlana. Well, then--is it likely I should wish to let him escape? Is it, I say? Surely none but a fool would do this. None but a child like Senhlu. None but a covetous, jackal-faced impostor like Nomadudwana. None but a wolf who devours his own flesh and blood, like Mopela. None but these. Certainly not a warrior. Certainly not Nxabahlana--a warrior, a man of the house of Nqgika. Is the Great Chief, Sandili, a child? Are the _amapakati_ children that they should have their ears filled with such childish tales? It is absurd, I say--absurd."

He ceased, and a hum of mingled doubt and anger greeted his words.

"Nxabahlana talks well," said Matanzima, with a gleam of malice in his eyes. "But we know that the whites are very liberal towards traitors. We know that if we are conquered the man who stood the white man's friend will be well rewarded. When a prisoner is in our hands we do not go and look in at the enemy's camp on our way home for nothing. Nxabahlana talks of children. Who but a child would do such a thing as this?" concluded he, in a tone of significant cunning.

"A traitor! A traitor!" howled the wizard. "How shall we hold our own with a traitor in our midst?"

And the crowd answered with yells of execration, even the women in the background screaming and brandishing sticks.

"Ha! Matanzima is a boy," replied the accused in scornful accents. "Let him be silent when he is by his father's side. Now listen. Here is the white prisoner himself. Let the Great Chief--let the _amapakati_ ask him. Ask him whether I agreed to release him."

It was a bold stroke. A brief glance at Claverton's face had inspired the Gaika warrior that here might lie his chance of safety. It was, indeed, a bold stroke, thus throwing himself upon the mercy of the captive. As for Claverton, the unbounded courage of the man filled him with admiration, and on that account alone he would willingly have saved his life, apart from any other consideration.

"Ask him, I say," repeated Nxabahlana. "Ask the prisoner whether anything passed between us."

"Ewa! Ewa!" [Yes--yes] echoed the crowd, "ask him?"

"Is this true, white man?" asked Sandili. "Are the words of Nxabahlana true?"

All eyes were bent upon Claverton, and there was a hush that might have been felt. Every ear was strained to catch his answer. It came in a bold, clear voice.

"Yes. They are. The words of Nxabahlana are true."

"But what of the wizard and Senhlu? You heard what they said."

"They are liars."

The whole assembly was taken aback. Not a man present but expected the answer would be unfavourable to the accused, and it may be added, that not a man present believed it now that it was the reverse. Wherefore Claverton went up a hundredfold in their estimation, for had he not just excelled in one of their most cherished virtues--the art of lying well when convenient; and he, himself, felt a glow of satisfaction over having saved this brave man's life; but even he forgot that among the Kafirs it is not necessary to convict a subject obnoxious to his chief, to ensure that subject's condemnation.

"There!" exclaimed Nxabahlana, triumphantly, drawing his gigantic figure up to its full height. "You hear what the prisoner has said! Now let my accusers stand forth. Where are they?" and he looked searchingly around. There was dead silence. No one moved; but the eyes of the councillors were bent upon him with an ominous glance, and, meeting that glance, Nxabahlana knew that he was a doomed man. Yet he was game to the very last.

"Where are they?" he repeated. "Ah, they have hidden themselves, and well they may. But I appeal to the Great Chief. Let him order my traducers to stand before my face. I claim my rights. The Great Chief cannot refuse," and in his eagerness he made two steps towards where Sandili was sitting.

Now it happened that Nxabahlana held in his hand a kerrie--just such an ordinary stick as the Kafirs always carry. He had better have dropped it before approaching his chief; but at the moment he forgot everything in his excitement. Not that the difference would have been great either way, for they were determined to get rid of him.

"I claim my rights! The Great Chief cannot refuse!" he repeated, standing with outstretched arm, and looking Sandili straight in the eyes.

The old chief started slightly. A dark expression came into his countenance as he gazed upon his audacious subject for a few moments in silence.

"What!" he exclaimed, in tones of indignation, "What is this? Who is this that dares to command his chief? Who is this that approaches me with threats? Who is this that dares to threaten his chief? _Have I no men_?" and he looked around with a volume of meaning in his fierce eyes.

Like a spark applied to an explosive the glance told. There was a rash forward on the part of the crowd, a swift flash or two, and a gleam as of the sunlight upon steel. The throng separated, and upon the ground lay the huge frame of Nxabahlana, the hot life-blood welling from half-a-dozen assegai wounds in his chest and sides.

It was a dastardly act, and, although he knew that the victim had richly deserved his fate, yet Claverton felt that the weight of evidence was in his favour, and he should, at any rate, have been allowed to meet his accusers face to face. But little time had he to indulge in regrets on another's behalf, for now all eyes were turned upon him with a bloodthirsty glare, and voices began to clamour that the white prisoner should be given over to them.

And as he looked upon the wild scene it seemed hardly credible to Claverton that scarcely forty-eight hours had gone since he had left Lilian and set his face eastward to carry out his plan of revenge. He glanced down the line of stern, relentless countenances, where sat the chief and his councillors, the late victim of their tyrannous vengeance bleeding at their very feet; but in the shrewd, rugged features he could detect no hope of mercy. Around, hemming him in, crowded the clamouring savages, their fierce eyes burning with a lust for blood. Behind them he caught a glimpse of a large fire, wherein a group of women and boys were heating bits of iron red-hot, and he had small doubt as to the use to which that fire would be put. The only man who might have befriended him was lying dead at his feet, and the weapons that had done the deed had slain his own hopes. His time had come.

"Give me a drink of water," said the prisoner.

They brought him some in a bowl. His arms were bound to his sides at the elbows, but his hands were free, and he took a long, deep drink. This attention conveyed to him no false hopes; he had no doubt as to his ultimate fate. He looked around. The sun, which was nearing its western bed, had sunk behind a heavy bank of cloud which loomed upon the horizon, and a roll of thunder stirred the still, hot afternoon. The storm which had been threatening all day was drawing near.

And now the wizard, decked in all his hideous paraphernalia, bounded into the midst.

"Hear, now, Sandili, Great Chief, of the house of Gaika! Hear, ye _amapakati_! Hear, all ye warriors of the race of Gaika!" he cried. "For two moons we have been fighting the English. For two moons we have shed our blood and given our best lives in the endeavour to drive the English into the sea. Have we been successful? We and our brethren, the Ama Gcaleka, who can show twenty warriors for every one of the English, have spent our strength in vain. Whenever we met them the English have driven us back. Even when we met them--a mere handful that we ought to have eaten up--we have been driven back before their charmed bullets. They have charmed bullets and charmed guns which they keep on firing without loading. Why can we do nothing against these English? Listen, and I will tell you. You see the man before you? _He_ is their sorcerer. _He_ it is who causes our bullets to fly off them without harming them. He is in every fight. Who can mention a battle that this man was not present in? Now we have this sorcerer in our midst. What shall we do with him, I say? Shall we let him go? My magic is stronger than his; I have delivered him into your hands. Will you, then, suffer him to escape again? Cut his bonds and let him free, and you will all be destroyed."

A roar of execration was the answer to this appeal. Weapons were brandished, and the crowd pressed closer around.

"Give him to us!" they yelled. "See, there is a fire; we will burn him, one limb at a time."

"Old men, where are your sons?" went on the wizard. "Young men, where are your brothers? Where are they? Ask the vulture of the rocks, the wolf and the wild dog of the forest, even the skulking jackal who burrows in the earth. Ask the breezes of the air, which blow over their whitening bones where they lie by thousands, slain by the charmed bullets of the English. Hark; I hear their voices in the wind--the voices of their spirits crying for vengeance. I hear it in the trees, in the rocks, in yon thundercloud which is drawing nearer and nearer," and at his words a heavy boom was heard, followed by a spasmodic rustling gust violently agitating the surrounding bush, and stirring up the air around. With awe-stricken looks, his superstitious listeners bent their heads. "Yes," roared the ferocious demon, working himself into a state of frenzy. "Do you not hear them? They are crying--`Vengeance! Vengeance! Vengeance!' And we, who are left--are we not hunted like wild beasts? Are we not driven from bush to bush by these white men--who have not a tenth of our number--by them and our dogs the Fingoes? Soon shall we follow our brethren, and the name of Gaika will exist no more. Here is a white man! Here is the destroyer of our race. Shall we not make him weep out in tears of blood the woe which has come upon us? Shall we not make him writhe in torment for many days, to appease the spirits of our slaughtered sons? We await the word of the Great Chief!"

Every eye was fixed upon the semicircle of grey-bearded councillors seated round the chief--dark, stern, and immovable. With bodies bent forward, and a wolfish, bloodthirsty grin, the warriors stood scanning the expression of the impassive countenances before them, eagerly awaiting the word, which they doubted not would be given. Again reverberated that thunder-roll--nearer still--as half the sky was hidden beneath an inky shroud, and the dull red flash gleamed from its depths. One of those storms which, in the hot weather, break with such fearful violence over the wilds of Southern Africa, would shortly be upon them.

But "the word" remained still unspoken. Sandili--whose pliant, vacillating nature ever ready to yield to the pressure of circumstances or to the advice of whoever had his ear last, was so powerfully appealed to--would have spoken it, and ended the difficulty; but it was evident that the councillors were not unanimous on the point. On the one hand, the nation was clamouring for the captive's life; on the other, some of the councillors were clearly opposed to the expediency of sacrificing it, and even the Great Chief dared not fly dead in the teeth of their advice without some show of debate. So he gave orders that the prisoner should be removed out of hearing while they talked, but that he should not be harmed.

"We have heard what Nomadudwana, the seer, has told us," said the chief, looking inquiringly around. "Shall we then allow the prisoner to go free?"