Chapter XXV: Part 25

"I don't imagine any of them will lay themselves out to earn the money," he said. "They are not quite such fools as their leader. But I repeat, Captain Truscott, that you will know where to find me, unless you prefer to let well alone, that is, and console yourself with thinking over the thrashing you've just had."

"Wait, my fine fellow," replied the other, between his set teeth. "I'll riddle that carcase of yours for this morning's business. I used to be able to shoot pretty straight, I can tell you."

"Yes? Glad to hear it. We'll have some tall practice presently. Till then--so long!" and, with a mocking nod, Claverton turned and walked away in the direction of the camp, while the Hottentots, who had stood aloof, awe-stricken witnesses of this unexpected and stirring incident, hastened to raise their discomfited chief. Their sympathies, however, were all with the enemy; for Truscott, since he had had the command of Claverton's old corps, had rendered himself exceedingly unpopular--as much so, in fact, as its former leader had been the reverse; and now-- though by reason of their ignorance of the English tongue they failed to understand what the row had been about--they mightily but secretly rejoiced over its issue.

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Great and terrible was the hubbub which prevailed in the temporary kraal of the Gaika chief as soon as it became known that the white prisoner had disappeared. And the circumstances which led to this discovery were as follows.

Obedient to the instructions of his uncle, Tambusa had not stirred from the hut which had constituted Claverton's prison-house, so as to allow the two to get clear off without running the risk of exciting alarm. At length, towards morning, the young Kafir began to think he might fairly take steps to ensure his own safety. Accordingly he stole forth from the hut--not quickly, and of set purpose, but with apparent reluctance and rubbing his eyes as if he had just woke up--this in case any prying glance should be watching his movements. All was still, though there was just a sign of the coming dawn discernible in the east, and with his blanket over his shoulder and his assegais in his hand, Tambusa walked swiftly through the group of huts in the direction of the bush, when, as ill-luck would have it, he was hailed, and by one of the men who had been mounting guard over the prisoner the night before.

"Where are you going to?" asked this man.

"Oh, I shall come back in a moment."

"I'll just go and look at the prisoner till you do, then," was the reply. "He oughtn't to be left in the charge of only one man."

"No, don't do that," promptly rejoined Tambusa, whose heart sank within him. "Xuvani is there, and he'll be very angry with me. He doesn't know I've gone out."

"Never mind. He won't hurt you," said the other. "I'll tell him I met you," and he walked straight towards the hut. Could it be that his suspicions were aroused? Was there something in Tambusa's mien that betrayed him? Anyhow, the latter's safety now would depend on the use he could make of the very brief start allowed him by the time his interlocutor would take to reach the hut--that, and no more.

Opening the door, the man bent down and looked in.

"Xuvani!" he called.

No answer. Perfect stillness. Not even the regular breathing of a sleeping man broke the silence. For a moment the savage shrunk from entering, his superstitious soul fearing the spells of this redoubted white sorcerer. Then his loud cry of alarm roused the sleeping kraal. Dark forms came hurrying out of their huts, half expecting to find themselves attacked by the enemy; but quickly grasping the cause of alarm they gathered round their countryman.

"The white man--the prisoner! Where is he?" was heard on all sides.

Quickly one of the Kafirs made his way through the crowd, a box of matches in his hand. Striking one, he peered into the gloomy interior of the hut. It was empty.

"Treachery, treachery!" he shouted. "The prisoner has disappeared!" and the cry was taken up by the crowd, which glared inquiringly around, as if in search of some trace by which to follow the fugitive.

"Where is Tambusa?" cried the man who had first raised the alarm. "He is the traitor--he has released the white man--he was here a moment ago--where is he now?"

He might well ask. Tambusa, it may be readily supposed, had lost no time in following the prisoner's example. He, too, had disappeared.

Then again the wild, thrilling cry of alarm rang out through the forest. It fell upon the ear of the devoted young Kafir, straining every nerve to make the most of that brief start, and it seemed to peal forth his doom. There was no lack of spoor to guide them in their pursuit of him, his fresh footmarks in the muddy soil were only too apparent to all; and away started two score of fierce warriors upon his track. The fugitive, husbanding his strength, dashes along at a swift, easy run, intending to gain the white man's camp. There at any rate he will be safe; but he knows full well the fate in store for him should he fall into the hands of his fierce countrymen, for has he not just been guilty of what in their eyes is an act of treason of the blackest dye? On, on; the young warrior is lithe and agile, and in splendid training, and it may be that he will distance his pursuers yet. But those horrid whoops are resounding from many a hill-top, and with fatal effect, for the attention of the five Kafirs whom Xuvani and his charge met not long since, is attracted thereby, and, with the quick suspicion of their race, they put two and two together. So, as poor Tambusa comes flying down the narrow bush-path, five dark forms spring up panther-like in front of him, effectually barring his progress. On either side is the thick tangled bush, almost impenetrable. He is lost; the pursuers are advancing rapidly upon his rear, and his road is barred. Disregarding the warning voices of those in front of him, the hapless youth bounds off the track and plunges into the tangled thorny brake. He is on a rock; below and in front of him lies a deep, stony ravine all overhung with trailers, a tiny stream trickling down its funnel-like depths. Ha! It is his last and only chance. But at that moment two reports ring out through the forest. With a groan poor Tambusa sways, and then topples heavily forward into the bed of the rivulet ten feet beneath; and his fierce pursuers rushing up, find only a corpse. He has escaped the most terrible side of their ruthless vengeance, to wit, hours of frightful torture; but he has lost his life--rather has he given it devotedly in exchange for that of the man who has twice already saved it.

So there he lies, this young hero--a naked savage, but a hero for all that--dead among the ferns and rocks beneath the mass of foliage and trailing creepers, which the sun's rays can scarcely penetrate, slain by his own countrymen. He has given his life in satisfaction of the debt incurred and the promise made long ago--given it in exchange for that of his benefactor--"a life for a life."

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY FOUR.

VAE VICTIS!

Great was the astonishment in camp when the man who had been given up as hopelessly missing, and whom everybody by this time had come to think of as dead, turned up safe and sound. Jaded and worn out, however, he sought his tent at once, excusing himself from receiving the hearty congratulations of his friends until after the sleep of which he stood so sorely in need.

Waking at last he opened his eyes, with a start, upon the genial countenance of the Irish doctor.

"Hallo, McShane!"

"An' what the divil have ye been up to now, Claverton?" began that worthy, without any further ceremony. "Here ye've managed to get off bein' made mincemeat of by the niggurs, and, not content with that, ye must get to punching a fellow's head, and now he wants to have a shot at ye, av course."

"Does he?" said Claverton, drily.

"He does."

"H'm! Well, sit down and have a pipe, McShane, and we'll talk it quietly over."

"Ah! that sounds better," said the good-natured Irishman, in a tone of relief, for he was hoping that the affair might admit of a settlement. "See here, now--what's it all about? Truscott wants to parade you, and sent me to arrange matters, and that's about the size of it. Now who acts for you?"

"No one."

"No one? Well, then, I suppose you'll shake hands together, and say you're both made fools of yourselves," said McShane, brightening up.

"You're quite wrong, McShane. I'm going to give your friend the fullest satisfaction--when, where, and as soon as he pleases," and the look in the speaker's eyes caused the Irishman's hopes to fall to the ground. "When I said no one acted for me, I meant it. I'm going to act for myself, or better still, you can act for both."

"Och! an' it's balderdash ye're talkin'," rejoined the other, angrily. "How the divil can I be second to both? Bedad, an' who ever heard of such a thing! I'D have nothing to say to it, I tell ye."

"Well, then, you see, McShane, it'll amount to this--that we shall go out without any seconds at all; which will probably mean that the first of us who catches sight of the other will blaze away; for I don't trust our friend any more than I do Sandili himself. _I'm_ quite ready, however; but I don't intend to run any other fellow's head into this business. Who is there, for instance? Brathwaite--family man; Hicks, ditto; and so on. Poor Jack might have done, but he's passed on his cheque. No; as you have agreed to act for the other fellow, well and good; I'm quite satisfied. But, I tell you, there's no one I can rely upon." And lighting his pipe he passed the match to his companion, with a hand as steady as a rock.

For a long time McShane was firm. He would have nothing to do with so preposterous an arrangement--it wasn't fair to him--and so on. But, eventually, seeing that they were determined to fight, and would probably do more mischief if left to themselves, he reluctantly agreed to act. They were a couple of fools, he thought; and would wing each other, perhaps; but on any graver contingency the light-hearted Irishman never reckoned.

"That's all right, McShane," said Claverton. "I shall leave everything to you, as far as your man is concerned, and if there's any advantage to be had it shall be yours."

Then they arranged that the affair should come off that same night towards ten o'clock, in a lonely glen at a safe distance from the camp, and known to both of them. But, to avoid suspicion, they agreed to leave the camp at different times, and to ride in different directions.

"I tell you what it is, Claverton, this fellow's a damned good shot," said McShane, as he got up to leave.

"Is he? All the better--for him. But how d'you know?"

"He says so."

"Oh! I see. H'm! Brag's a good dog. He shall have every advantage, as I said before. Well--till this evening."

McShane went out, sorely puzzled, and heartily wishing he was out of it. In a moment of impulsive good-nature he had consented to act for Truscott when mad with rage. That worthy had given his own version of what had occurred, and besought his good offices; and then, being a thorough Irishman, there was a subtle spell hanging about a row in any shape that was altogether too potent for him, and Truscott happened to be an old schoolfellow of his, though he, McShane, had never liked him much, nor did he now. And if he had cherished any hopes of talking Claverton over, they were scattered now. There was a deadly purpose in the latter's speech and manner, all the more so because so quiet. No; things must take their chance.

Left to himself, Claverton sat for a few minutes in silent rumination. Then he got up, and, opening a chest, took out a polished wooden case and unlocked it, disclosing a revolver. It was a beautifully-finished weapon, small, but carrying a bullet of the regulation calibre, and on a silver plate let into the ebony handle were graven the initials "H.S."

"Poor Spalding!" he murmured. "You were going to cut the knot of your difficulties with this little article once, and so am I, but in a different way."

He scrutinised the weapon narrowly, clicking the lock two or three times, and taking imaginary aim.

The poise was perfect.

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How calm and peaceful rides the silver-wheeled chariot of night! How tranquil, in their mysterious distance, shine the golden stars, darting a twinkling glance down into this still, out-of-the-world hollow, where not even the chirp of an insect or the rustle of a disturbed leaf breaks the absolute hush of the night! On the one hand a wall of jagged rock rises to a serrated ridge, standing out sharp and clear; on the other, the sprays of the clustering foliage are photographed in shining distinctness. Above, in a towering background, a great mountain peak rears itself, dim and misty, enflooded in the slumbrous moonlight. A scene of eternal beauty--a holy calm as of another world!

But, lo! Standing within the shade of the thick foliage is the figure of a man--erect, motionless, as though petrified. For nearly an hour has he maintained his immovable attitude; and now a suspicion of a start runs through his frame. He is listening intently, for the ring of a bit and the tramp of hoofs becomes audible. It is one of those nights when the most distant of sounds would seem to be even at one's elbow; and now this sound draws nearer and nearer, and, in addition, a word or two in smothered tones. The listener's face wears a ruthless look as two horsemen enter the glade and, reining in, peer cautiously around.

"Perhaps our valiant friend is going to cry off," sneered one of them.

"Cry off? The divil a bit!" was the reply. "Claverton's all there, I can tell ye. He'll turn up in a minute."

"Thank you, McShane," struck in a voice, in the same low, cautious tone, as the watcher glided from his concealment.

"Och! there ye are! Now, we'd better get to business at once. First of all, we'd better lave the horses here close at hand in case we should want them."

This was done, the three steeds being fastened securely to a small mimosa tree.

"I say, you fellows," said the kindly Irish doctor, "is it determined to go through with it you are? Bedad, and hadn't you better shake hands, and go straight home and have a brew o' punch together? Faith, an' it's better than riddlin' each other with lead."

"My dear McShane, what on earth will you propose next?" said Claverton, while Truscott's face, glowering with rage in the moonlight, was answer enough on his part.

"Ah, well I see it's blood-lettin' ye mane. Now ye'll just both o' ye sign this bit o' paper. It's meself that would rather be out of it. A duel with only one second! Why, it's like an election with only one candidate--he gets kicked by both sides and thanked by neither, bedad."

The "bit of paper" in question set forth that Dennis McShane acted in the matter at the joint request of both parties, and it was a precaution which he had deemed advisable to take in case the transaction should terminate disastrously, or at any future time be brought to light--or both. Without a word each affixed his signature, and then Dennis proceeded to pace out the ground. The duel was to be fought with six-shooters, the first three shots at twenty-five, and the rest at twenty paces.

"Now ye'd better look at each other's pistols, as there's no one to do it for ye," he said.

What was it that made Truscott start and turn a shade whiter, and nearly let his adversary's weapon fall as he took it into his hand to examine it? We have said that it was a beautifully-finished weapon, with a silver plate let into the handle, and on this, standing out distinctly in the moonlight, were the initials "H.S." And Claverton, narrowly watching his enemy's countenance, noted this effect and wondered not a little. These formalities over, the doctor proceeded to reload the weapons, which were both of the same calibre. Then he placed the combatants, twenty-five paces apart, taking scrupulous care that each should enjoy an equal proportion of advantage from the moonlight.

Truscott, to do him justice, was no coward. He had come there fully determined to slay his adversary if he could; and as for his own share of the risk, why, that must be left to the fortune of war. But, when his eye fell upon those initials, something very like a shiver ran through him. There was something portentous in the sight of this relic of the past rising up as it were in judgment upon him, here in this lonely nook, away at the other side of the world. There was no mistaking the weapon, he knew it only too well, for he had handled it often. It was the identical one. He would have gone so far as to object to it; but what valid reason could he give, seeing that in size and calibre it was an exact facsimile of his own? No; things must take their chance. But he felt greatly unhinged, for all that.

Claverton, on the other hand, was untroubled by any misgiving whatever.

Stay. What is that black object crouching high up on the cliff? It is alive, for it might have been seen to move had the trio beneath been less intent upon their errand of blood. Only a stray baboon wandering among the ledges of the rocks.

"Now," said McShane, withdrawing to a safe distance. "Be careful not to fire till I count three. Every shot must be signalled. Now, are you ready?"

No cloud veiled the unbroken calm of the starry heavens. The silver moon looked silently down, flooding hill and dale in her pale, clear light, shining like chastened noontide upon that sequestered hollow and the strip of open glade in the centre, where stood two men pointing their weapons at each other's hearts. It will soon shine upon a ghastly stream of ebbing life-blood, crimsoning out upon the dewy turf. One of those two men must die here. Which will it be?

"One--Two--Three!"

A double report, but sounding like a single one, so simultaneous is the effect. A dull, thundrous echo rolls sullenly along the face of the overhanging cliff. The smoke lifts slowly, and there is a sickly, sulphurous smell mingling with the cool, fresh air. Both men are standing motionless, waiting for the second signal. As yet both are unhurt; Truscott heard his adversary's ball whiz very close past his right ear, but his own shot was wider.

Again the signal is given. This time it is Truscott's left ear which feels the close proximity of the lead; and but for the fact of his own bullet ploughing up the ground some forty yards off, he might as well have fired with blank cartridge for all the apparent effect. His wrath is terrible, and blazes forth in his livid, distorted countenance and staring eyes. He can see that the other is a dead shot, and is, as yet, merely playing with him. And mingling with his wrath is a chilling misgiving; and as he stands fronting his opponent's pitiless eyes, he is almost unnerved. Fury, hate, and even despair, are stamped upon his features; the perspiration lies in beads upon his forehead, for he feels that opposite to him stands his executioner. Claverton, on the other hand, is dangerously cool, and his eyes gleam with a deadly purpose. It is a scene of horror, this drama being enacted in the moonlit glade.

The dark object overhead has disappeared from the cliff.

"Be jabers, but ye'd better knock off now," exclaims the Irishman, in grave, serious tones. "The shots make the very divil of a row, echoing among the rocks. We shall have a patrol down on us directly, or a host of niggurs, an' I don't know which'd be the worst."

"Has he had enough?" asks Claverton, in a cold, contemptuous tone, turning his head slightly towards the speaker.

An imprecation is the only reply the other vouchsafes, and again they exchange shots. Truscott, who is quite off his head, blinded by his helpless rage, blazes away wildly. But he feels his adversary's ball graze his right ear, exactly as the first had done, and his adversary's face wears a cold, sinister smile.

Three shots have been fired. The next three will be at a shorter range.

"Haven't you two fellows peppered each other enough?" asks McShane. "Well, if ye will go on ye must," he adds, receiving no reply. "It's at twenty yards now."

The distance is measured, and again the two men stand facing each other. Claverton, watching his enemy's features, can see them working strangely in the moonlight, and knows that he would give all he has in the world to be safe out of it. In other words, he detects unmistakable signs of fear; but it does not move him, his determination is fixed. He will shoot his adversary dead. He has, as Truscott rightly conjectured, been playing with him hitherto, and also with the desire to allow him every chance, but the next shot shall tell. He will have no mercy on this double-dyed traitor, who has sneaked in treacherously in his absence, and placed a barrier between him and his love.

No, he will not spare him. This time he will shoot him dead; and Truscott reads his doom in the other's eyes, as once more, with the distance diminished between them, they stand awaiting the signal.

"One--T--!"

A terrific crash bursts from the brow of the overhanging height, and Truscott, with a spasmodic leap, falls backward, as the red jets of flame issue forth, to the number of a score, from the rifles of the concealed savages. Claverton feels a hard, numbing knock on the left shoulder, as he and the doctor rush to the side of the fallen man.

"Truscott, man, where are you hit?" is the letter's hurried inquiry; but as he lifts the other's head he is answered, for it lies a dead weight in his hand. A dark stain is oozing forth upon the moonlit sward, welling from a great jagged wound. The "pot-leg" has gone clean through Truscott's heart; and now, as McShane lays down his head, the glazed eyes are turned upwards to the sky, and the swarthy face is livid with the dews of death.

"He's dead as a door-nail, bedad," said the doctor. "And it's ourselves that'd better be lavin', and that mighty quick, or we'll get plugged, too." Even while he spoke the leaden messengers were whizzing about them with a vicious "pit--pit!"

Truscott, as he had said, was dead as a door-nail, and it was clearly useless to remain. And now came in their foresight in keeping their horses close at hand. Loosening the terrified animals, which were snorting and tagging wildly at their bridles, they mounted and dashed off at a gallop just as a number of dark forms issued swiftly and stealthily from the bush to cut off their retreat, while the enemy on the cliff kept up a continuous fire. Two or three assegais were thrown at them; and then the Kafirs, who could now be descried pouring down the rocks in swarms, seeing that they were well mounted, and the ground ahead was fairly clear, relinquished the pursuit.

"An' didn't I tell ye that we should have the niggurs down upon us?" cried McShane, turning in his saddle to look back at the peril they had so narrowly escaped. "That poor divil's lost his number anyhow, and it's glory be to the blessed saints that we're not lyin' alongside of him."

"I rather think I'm hit, too. My arm feels as if it was going to drop off," said Claverton, quietly. But he was deadly pale.

"Hit! are ye?" rejoined McShane, with an anxious glance at him. "Well, hold up till we get back to camp. It may not be very bad after all. Is it in the shoulder?"

"Yes, I think it's only a spent ball. The bone isn't touched."

"Faith, and ye'd better have knocked off and come away when I first spoke. That poor divil would be alive and well now."

Claverton turned to him in amazement.

"My dear McShane, what _do_ you suppose I came out here for to-night?" he said, with a sinister laugh. "Not to play, did you?"

"Well, it's lucky Jack Kafir took the throuble off your hands, me boy, or it's on your way to the Orange River ye'd have to be now, and meself, too, likely enough. As it is it'll be murdherin' awkward."

"Why?"

"Well, what possesses three fellows to go riding off into the _veldt_ at night--eh? An' then when the row ye had this morning comes to lake out, sure won't they be puttin' two and two together, anyway?"

"Nothing can be proved, and if it could, I don't care. Who's to prove that there was any exchange of shots, at all; and there's no mistake about that pot-leg that rid the earth of the greatest blackguard it ever held being _not_ a revolver ballet," replied Claverton, in a hard, pitiless tone.

"There's a good deal in that," assented the other.

It was nearly midnight when they reached the camp, and the news spread like wildfire that Truscott had been shot by the Kafirs, the other two barely escaping; and before long some one appended the rider that Claverton was mortally wounded in trying to rescue him, which report reaching that worthy's ears, he received it with a sardonic grin, and said nothing. And by a curious piece of luck, the row between the two had not got wind, the spectators of it, terrible gossips by nature, fearing consequences to themselves should it become known that they had stood calmly looking on while their officer got a thrashing, deemed it wise to hold their peace.

"Half an inch more, me boy, and ye'd likely as not have lost an arm," said McShane, as he bound up a jagged and furrowed wound just below Claverton's shoulder. "It's nothing to spake of now, as long as ye keep quiet; but if ye don't thur'll be the divil to pay."

The operation finished the patient turned in, and slept a heavy, dreamless sleep for thirteen hours.

In the morning a party was despatched to bring in Truscott's body. It told its own tale; for in addition to being horribly cut about, after the time-honoured custom of the noble savage, the wound which had caused his death gaped wide and ghastly, bearing witness, as his late enemy had said, that it had been inflicted by no revolver bullet, even if the bit of pot-leg, which resembled the slug from an elephant gnu, had not been found. Everything belonging to the unfortunate man had been carried off--his horse, arms, and ammunition, even most of his clothing--indeed, when the expedition saw the spoors of the Kafirs all about the spot, the only wonder existing in their minds was that the other two had managed to escape. So far good; and it was not until long after that the faintest rumour of a duel having taken place began to leak out.

Meanwhile, we will return to another personage whom we have lost sight of for a space, our friend Sharkey, to wit, who, almost immediately upon Claverton's return to camp, had been reported missing, the general impression being that he had deserted, and, as men could not be spared just then, no search was made for him. But for once that interesting individual had been maligned. It happened that morning that the attention of a patrol returning to camp was attracted by the sight of a cloud of _aasvogels_ hovering above the bush. More of the great carrion birds rose, flapping their huge white pinions and soaring leisurely away, and then the reason of the gathering was made plain. There, in the long grass, half devoured by these hideous scavengers, lay the remains of the missing man, Vargas Smith, _alias_ Sharkey, _soi-disant_ Cuban gentleman, late corporal in Truscott's Levy. Though the body was horribly torn, yet it was evident that the man had met his death from a couple of assegai wounds, one of which must have pierced his heart.

And this is how it came about. When Xuvani, having safely conducted his charge within the lines of the latter's own people--a service which the people aforesaid repaid by opening fire upon both of them, as we have seen--he disappeared; that is to say, he dodged down behind the bushes, and half running, half crawling, rapidly made good his retreat. And he would have made it good, but for the fact that one man had caught sight of his manoeuvres and was determined he should not. This was our friend Sharkey, who was on the extreme outskirts of the column, and who, anxious to have the fun all to himself, started off at a run to take up a position in a certain narrow place through which he judged--and judged rightly--that the Kafir would be almost certain to pass; when he could shoot him at his leisure.

But alas for the uncertainty of human calculations. The ex-cattle-herd of Seringa Vale was far too old a bird to be caught in any such trap as this--moreover, he had obtained just one glimpse of his enemy running through the bush to waylay him, and his eyes glared as he broke into a short, silent laugh of contempt. Meanwhile, Sharkey, having ensconced himself in a snug corner, waited and listened, gun in hand, ready to give his quarry the contents of a heavy charge of buckshot in the back as he ran past. But somehow the said quarry didn't appear, and the watcher began to grow uneasy. Slowly and cautiously he put out his head. Then, immediately above him, sounded a fiendish chuckle which curdled his blood, and before he had time to turn, much less bring his gun to bear, the Kafir sprang upon him like a tiger-cat and, quick as lightning, with two strokes of his powerful arm stabbed him twice through the heart. The mulatto fell, stone dead, with scarce a groan, and Xuvani, wrenching off his ammunition-belt and picking up his gun, which lay in the grass, trotted away with a sardonic grin upon his rugged features. He had done a first-rate stroke of business; slain a foe, and possessed himself of a fairly good fire-arm and some ammunition--the acme of a Kafir's desire.

Thus by an unaccountable turn in the wheel of Fate, the two conspirators met their deaths on the same day; and both, moreover, through the indirect agency of the very man against whose life they had conspired.

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When Claverton opened his eyes on awaking from his heavy sleep, they met those of George Payne, who was sitting opposite him, watching him intently.

"Hallo, George! What brings you up here? Oh-h!"

For he had forgotten his wounded shoulder, and, starting up suddenly on that elbow, an agonised groan was the result.

"To look after you--and you seem rather to want it," replied the other, gravely.

Claverton lay back for a minute with closed eyes, and in racking pain; for he was more seriously hurt than the good-natured doctor would have had him believe. No compunction entered his mind as his thoughts recurred to the affair of last night. Why should it? he reasoned. They had met in fair fight, and he had certainly given the other every chance. If any one tried to rob him of his life, all the world would hold him justified in defending it to the uttermost. This man had tried to rob him of what he valued ten times more than his life, so he had been more than justified in defending that to the uttermost. And the agglomeration of frightful perils through which he had just passed, were indirectly owing to this man's agency. Moreover, when all was said and done, _he_ had not shot him. He had intended to, certainly, but the Kafirs had saved him the trouble and the risk by shooting him instead, by shooting them both, in fact; for all the world like in the case of two small boys indulging in fisticuffs, and a fond parent or stern preceptor staying hostilities by impartially cuffing the pair of them. And, when viewed in this light, the affair struck him as so comical, that he burst into a laugh.

There was a queer look in Payne's eyes as he rose, and, going outside, intently studied the weather for a moment, apparently, that is, for, in reality, he wanted to make sure of not being heard--and then returned.

"How did the affair go off?" he asked, shortly.

"Haven't you heard?"

"Yes. That Irish fellow told me a yarn about your being attacked; but it won't wash, you know," and he winked.

"Fact--upon my oath!"

"And you didn't do for friend R.T.?"

"Devil a bit! I meant to; but the niggers were too sharp for us. They winged me into the bargain, as you see."

"Then _he_ didn't pink you?"

"Confound it, no. The niggers did. It's about the queerest thing, I suppose, that ever happened."

"It is," assented Payne, lighting his pipe.

Claverton could see that the other only half believed him, but he didn't care.

Payne smoked on in silence for a few moments. He appeared to be intently contemplating a chip of wood which lay on the floor, and which he was poking at with a riding-crop. At length he said:

"Have you any idea what brought me here?"

"H'm. A horse, most probably."

"You're a sharp fellow, Arthur Claverton," said Payne, deliberately. "Now don't you go and act like a fool. Mark my words. Unless you want to be the death of a certain young lady--I mean it, mind," and his voice sank to a great seriousness, "for that cursed telegram was nearly the death of her--the sooner you get on a horse and go and exhibit your ornamental visage in my town establishment, the better. Now don't be a fool--d'you hear?"

The advice seemed needed, for at that moment Claverton gained at a bound the door of the tent, where he stood bellowing for Sam.

"Blazes! I'm forgetting. He isn't here. What can we do?" he said, helplessly.

"But he is here," was the imperturbable reply, and simultaneously that faithful servitor entered, grinning with delight at seeing his master again, and firing off a tremendous congratulation in the Zulu tongue. His master cut him ruthlessly short, however.

"Sam, take that bit of paper," tossing him a fragment, on which he had hastily pencilled a few words, "and ride as if the devil were chevvying you, till you pull up at the telegraph office in `King.' Now off you go. The road's quite safe, isn't it? Can't help it if it isn't. Take my horse and start at once, and wait there till I join you."

"Yeh bo, 'Nkos!" said the obedient Sam. His heart was in his errand, for he well knew the destination of the message he was to send.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

A VOICE OUT OF THE PAST.

"Safe."

Only one little word of four letters, and yet to Lilian Strange it seems just all the difference between death and life; and the great spidery characters in which that one little word is scribbled across the slip of red-brown paper which she holds in her trembling hand, are fairer in her eyes than the most tasteful of gold-engrossed illumination. At times, during the last few days, she has marvelled at the bare possibility of existence under the circumstances; and now, this morning, as she gazes upon the contents of the telegram which has just been handed to her, and which she has hardly had strength enough to open, so awful the apprehension of what it might disclose--the relief is almost too great.

"_Safe_."

Only one word, but it is from himself; his own hand penned that message, which in its brevity is worth to her a column of detail at second hand. The colour comes and goes in her ashy face, and she sinks into a chair, faint and giddy beneath the shock. He is safe, and she will see him again. But then flashes in the thought of that other barrier--Truscott and his fatal knowledge. Was it not in this man's power to part them again? Ah, surely not. Whatever dreadful mystery there is, she feels sure somehow that it will be cleared up. She will see him again--her one heart's love--whom she sent forth to a cruel death. She will explain all, and he will forgive her--though it is the second time she has driven him from her--yes, she knows that, even if that last hurried note, which he had sent back to her on the eve of his awful peril, and which is now all blurred from the tears which have rained upon it--that last precious relic--had not been what it was.

And Annie Payne, entering at this moment--having the while been at the back of the house, where she could neither see nor hear the telegraph boy--started and stared in amazement, for Lilian broke into a radiant smile as she held out the despatch, and then burst into a flood of happy, grateful tears.

"There, Lilian darling. Didn't I tell you while there was life there was hope? And now you'll see that everything will come right," said her warm-hearted friend, going over to kiss her. And then out of sheer sympathy, she began to cry, too.

"Please, missis," said the Hottentot servant-girl, bursting into the room in great trepidation, "there's a lady at the gate who's very ill. She seems hardly able to stand."

"Goodness gracious!" cried kind-hearted Annie Payne. "Who can she be? We must get her in--Come, Lilian!"

The sun beat fiercely down into the wide dusty street, which was silent and deserted in the broiling forenoon. Not a soul was visible, save one. Leaning unsteadily against the garden railings, as if for support, stood a figure clothed in black conventual garb.

"Why, Lilian, it's a nun," whispered Annie Payne. Then aloud, as they reached the stranger's side: "Now, do please come in at once and have a good long rest, and a glass of wine. The heat has been too much for you. Here, take my arm. No, don't try and talk yet."

The nun looked up with a faint smile, at the kindly, impulsive tones.

"You are very good," she began, speaking with a foreign accent. "The sun is so hot, but I shall soon be better."

"Of course you will," was the cheery reply; and in a moment the sufferer found herself on a comfortable sofa in a cool, half-darkened room, so refreshing after the glare of the street, while her hostess and Lilian set to work to administer restoratives.

Their charge was a striking-looking woman, still quite young. Of foreign aspect, her face, though deathly pale, was very handsome, and lighted by a pair of large dark eyes. An uncommon face withal, and one which interested her entertainers keenly.

"Who is she, Lilian?" whispered Annie Payne, hurriedly beckoning the other from the room. "Roman Catholic, or one of your High Church Sisters? You know all about that sort of thing."

"She must be from the convent. There are no Anglican Sisters here. Besides, she's foreign, evidently."

They returned to the nun, who, professing herself quite restored by her short rest, declared she must return home.

"Not to be thought of, for some hours at least," replied her hostess, decisively. "You have narrowly escaped a sunstroke as it is. I'll send round to the convent immediately, and let them know you're here, and that I'm not going to allow you to move before the evening. At least, I'll go myself, that'll be better than sending. Lilian, take her to your room, it's quieter there, and away from the children's noise, and make her lie down for at least three hours. By the way, I was nearly forgetting. Who shall I say?"

"I am known as Sister Cecilia. God will bless you for your kindness to me, and--"

"There, there, you are not well enough to talk," interrupted Annie, with good-humoured brusqueness, as she hurried away to prepare for her errand.

Of a certainty the sufferer could have been left in no better hands, and just then such a work of mercy was doubly grateful to Lilian, whose own hopes had been so miraculously fulfilled. Her charge having sunk into a deep, refreshing sleep, Lilian moved noiselessly to a seat in the window, and there, with her eyes fixed upon the outside world, she let her busy thoughts have free scope. Something in the stillness of the day took her memory back to that fatal afternoon when Truscott had come in and dashed the cup of happiness from her lips. She remembered the terrible shock the discovery of his reappearance had been, and then the ruthless manner in which he had seared her heartstrings as with a red-hot iron, and a reaction overtook her. If there was anything in his knowledge, why, his terrible threats were all-powerful for evil still. Yet her lover's life was safe for the present. He had been snatched almost miraculously from the cruel hands of his savage enemies. Let her be thankful for that, at any rate. Perhaps Heaven might be even yet more merciful to her--to them both--and the other dark mystery might be cleared up. Ah, that only it would!

For a couple of hours her reverie had run on, when a sudden ejaculation and a few words, muttered hurriedly in a foreign language sounding like Spanish or Italian, recalled her.

"Are you feeling better, Sister?" she began, softly, rising at once, and going over to her charge.

The latter hardly seemed to hear. With gaze set and rigid, her attention was fixed on something opposite the bed, and Lilian noticed that her lips were livid and trembling.

"Who is that?" she gasped. "Am I dreaming? What is he--to you?"

Lilian's face flushed softly, as she followed the other's glance. It was riveted on two lifelike cabinet portraits of her lover, which stood framed upon the table.

"What is Lidwell to you?" went on the sufferer, half raising herself, while her burning eyes sought Lilian's with a feverish glow. "Ah, I see--I need not ask. But where is he? Here? _No_--not here!"

It was now Lilian's turn to grow deathly pale. She pressed her hand to her heart to still its beatings, and felt as if she must faint. Lidwell! Only once before had she heard that name--only from one other. Who was this woman, and what did she know? There must be truth in Truscott's sinister allegations, then. Better to know the whole truth, whatever it might he, than walk blindfold any longer. Her impulse found vent in a despairing cry.

"Oh, Sister, I am in sore trouble. For the love of the good God, whom you are vowed to serve, tell me all you know about him you call Lidwell."

The nun lay back for a moment as if to recover her self-command. Then she said in a firmer tone, but hurriedly, and with a foreign accent:

"If I tell you all I know about him, I need only tell you that you are the happiest woman in the whole world."

"But he is in great danger. He has an enemy; a ruthless, unscrupulous enemy who is determined on his ruin--to take his life even."

"Who is this enemy? What is his name?" asked the nun, with awakening interest.

"Truscott--Ralph Truscott."

"I never heard of him. He is an Englishman. I do not know any Englishman that knew Lidwell. But now tell me--how does this Truscott threaten him? Tell me all--then I can possibly help you. Do not fear, I shall keep your secret as closely as the grave. I am dead to the world, remember."

Lilian needed no further persuasion. She poured forth the whole of her woeful and heart-breaking story into this stranger's ear; the first, in fact, to hear it. At one point in her narrative the listener's pale face flushed, and her eyes burned, but mastering herself, she preserved her impassibility to the end.

"You did well indeed to tell me all," she said, when Lilian ceased. "It was indeed the finger of Heaven that directed me here to-day. The man, Truscott, has told you infamous lies, and his threats are powerless. He cannot harm your lover, about whom at that time no one knows more than I. But--guess. Who do you think I am--or was?"

A light seemed to dawn upon Lilian, but the other anticipated her.

"Before I entered religion my name was Anita de Castro."

Lilian was too overcome to make any reply. The nun continued:

"As I said, I am dead to the world, and such matters can hurt me little now; but the man need not have slandered my poor name. It is perfectly above slander, thanks to Lidwell. I tell you he was the saving of me. I dare not think of what and where I should be now but for his influence and the remembrance of him. My father was taken prisoner, with three others, by a British vessel, and hanged, and I was adrift in Zanzibar without a friend. I need not have been an hour destitute of mere creature necessaries; but that influence saved me. For _you_ will understand me when I tell you how I loved him; yet he never cared for me. He liked me as a something to amuse him--a plaything--a child--but no more."

She paused, and Lilian sat holding her hand, but did not interrupt.

"Your lover is safe," went on Sister Cecilia. "All that was told you is untrue. He never fought against the English flag, or against any one but the tribes in the far interior. The affair with the _Sea Foam_ took place a year before he came among us; I remember it well. And now tell me about this spy of Truscott's. What was he like?"

Lilian remembered the man only too well, and described him minutely.

"I know him. He was shot by Lidwell in self-defence, and left as dead. He reappeared again, though, but after Lidwell had fled--to save his own life, for there was a plot to murder him. The man Truscott must have got the whole story from this other man, for neither of them have the slightest idea of my whereabouts. I only arrived here the day before yesterday, and to-morrow I am to leave with three others to join a mission in the Transvaal."

Her quick Southern nature enabled her to master the whole plot at a glance. Truscott was a bold player at the game of intrigue, she thought; for to throw in her own name in the way he had done was a skilful stroke indeed.

"To think that I should be held as a sword over Lidwell," she went on; "I, who would not harm a hair of his head, even if I had, as that slanderer said, anything to revenge, which I have not--quite the reverse. But show me the portrait. I shall never see _him_ again; nor do I wish to--I have done with such desires. Yes, it is a splendid likeness; I can look at it calmly now. And, listen! He was as a demigod in that horrible slave settlement. I do not know why he came there, but many and many a time has he mitigated the sufferings of those poor tortured creatures, often at the risk of his life. At last, when he was obliged to fly, I helped him to get away. I, all unaided, delayed his murderers many hours, and enabled him to get safely beyond their reach. I do not boast; it is only that the recollection is sweet to dwell on. And now listen," interrupting Lilian's fervent utterance of admiration and gratitude. "His last words to me were these: `You are made for something better than this kind of life; leave it as soon as you are able.' Then I hurried him away, for I heard them coming. He left that horrible place for ever, and I--well, I only prayed that I might die. But I lived--lived that I might remember those last words, and obey them to the letter."

Lilian was crying. There was something inexpressibly touching in the narrative to which she listened; to her something grandly heroic in the way in which this girl--for the ageing effects of her Southern nationality and conventual dress notwithstanding, she was little more than a girl--had shunned the ease and luxury of evil to devote her whole life to the fulfilment of the last injunction of one whom she would never see again. This, too, was the daughter of a slave-dealer--reared among ruffians--whose father had met a felon's death. And this protecting influence which had hallowed another's pathway, was that of her own lover.

"You have, indeed, obeyed them," she said at length. "And you are happy now, Sister?"

"Perfectly. The Church has been a true mother to me. But--you are of the Faith, are you not?"

"I hope so, although there are slight differences between our Churches; slight, but rendered greater than they need be," answered Lilian, gently.

"Ah, I thought you belonged to us. Some day, perhaps, you may be vouchsafed more light--you and he. And now, you say he has another name--not Lidwell. What is it?"

"His real name is Arthur Claverton. I never heard of the other name until--the time I told you of."

"Whatever his real name is, its owner has always been in my prayers. Now I shall add yours. What is it?"

Lilian told her.

"It is a pretty name, and suits you well. And you--you are worthy of him, and will make him happy. God keep you both!"

"Ah, Sister, you have, indeed, come among us as an angel unawares!" exclaimed Lilian. "But a few days sooner, and so many days of frightful anguish might have been spared us."

"I rejoice that I have been the poor means of restoring your happiness--_his_ happiness. Still it may be that even those few days of suffering to which you refer, are for some wise purpose--for the good of you both. And now tell me something more about him; I can think of him with a clear conscience, for I have found my vocation. I could even meet him again, but it is better not; and by to-morrow at this time, I shall be far away. And you--you will tell him that I obeyed his last injunction, will you not? He will, perhaps, like to know that."

Lilian fervently promised to do this. She would even have suggested a meeting between them; but, apart from the other's vocation, she was in ignorance as to how the rule of her order bore upon a matter of the kind, and was shy to urge it. And the two women sat and talked long and earnestly of him whose presence should make the life of one, and whose memory had protected and hallowed that of the other, until the sound of Annie Payne's voice in the next room, in converse with a stranger, reminded them that time was flying rather rapidly, for it was nearly evening.

The stranger was a nun from the convent, who had come to look after the invalid and to see her safe home--a cheery, bright-mannered Irishwoman, who was profuse in her appreciation of the care they had taken of her colleague. Then they took their leave.

"You have brought perfect peace to one in this house, at any rate, Sister," said Lilian, as she bade her charge farewell.

"Peace be upon all within it--and especially upon you," murmured the other, tenderly returning her embrace. And Lilian, too happy for words, stood watching them depart homewards. All was clear and bright before her now, and how unexpectedly it had all come about!

But surprises were not at an end for that day. While the two ladies were still talking over their late guest, the tri-weekly newspaper was left at the door, and in it a telegraphic slip containing the tidings of Truscott's death. Just a bare statement of the fact that he had been shot by the Kafirs, and would be buried that day. No details of any kind.