Chapter VI: Part 6

"My dear Tom," replied Guy chaffingly, "the poor beggar must have his dessert! Even we Christians enjoy nuts, ginger, raisins, wine, and other things, after dinner, when we're living in a state of complete civilization. And, after all, what's the difference between poor Peter wolfing down a lizard, or a caterpillar, or a chrysalis, while we white folk delight in oysters, and periwinkles and whelks, lobsters and prawns, which are nothing but marine insects; frogs, eels, spawn (I'm thinking of cod's roe), the livers and lights of various beasts--I mean what we call 'fry'--kidneys, tripe, and other things of that sort. The French eat snails. The whole thing is only a matter of individual taste and environment, as scientific folk call it."

"That's all very fine, Guy," retorted Tom, "but we ought to draw the line somewhere. And Peter, now that he is becoming a respectable biped, has got to draw it at lizards and scorpions and caterpillars."

After the very next meal the two cousins and Peter went for a stroll through some timber just outside the camp. Peter, ranging at the end of his cord, suddenly turned aside at a tree, pulled off with two little horny fingers a piece of bark, and drawing forth a huge fat grub from its hole, devoured it instantly, with manifest gusto. Even Guy, who had just enjoyed an excellent dinner, as had Peter, was disgusted at this performance.

"Nasty little beggar!" he exclaimed angrily, jerking at Peter by his cord. "You ought to know better. Come out of it, and don't do that again!"

Peter grinned angrily, and showed his white teeth. He knew he was being scolded, and he resented it. Tom laughed heartily.

"I'm glad you're convinced at last," he said. "Now you'll agree with me that Peter needs reform, and that he must be broken off his baboon propensities."

"I'm convinced, absolutely," answered Guy, with a disgusted look still on his face. "It's enough to make one sick. I'll help you all I know to wean the little beggar of these disgusting practices.--Peter, you little beast," he added, again plucking the wild boy by the cord, "you're not to do it. Here, come and take my hand, and walk like a gentleman."

The little, wild creature, after looking intently into Guy's face, and seeing a smile of good humour replace the frown of disgust, came up, put his black paw into Guy's strong, sunburnt hand, and together the three wandered back to the wagon.

On the sixth day after the adventure with the baboons, they reached a long range of hills, among which Poeskop's sharp eyes soon detected signs of native life. He informed Mr. Blakeney that the last time he had travelled that way the place was uninhabited. Entering a broad, open valley, here and there littered with boulders and adorned with patches of bush, they outspanned not far from a stream of water that ran by. Then Poeskop, accompanied by Mr. Blakeney and the boys, all fully armed, went up the slope of a low hill towards some huts that nestled among trees and rocks. It was manifest that natives were about, and that the little settlement was a good deal perturbed at the advent of the travellers. Black figures flitted hither and thither, and cries could be heard.

"What are they, Poeskop?" asked Mr. Blakeney.

"Berg Damaras, I think, baas," replied the Bushman; "but I don't quite understand the place. They seem to have houses up in the trees. I'll go forward and see what they have to say. I don't think they'll harm us; but if they try to, do you and the young baases shoot."

They moved on together for another hundred and fifty yards, and then Poeskop went ahead, and keeping about a hundred yards in front neared the village. The commotion became yet louder, shrill female voices were heard, and men appeared, armed with bows and arrows and assegais; the aspect of affairs looked by no means peaceful. Still advancing, and without betraying an atom of fear or suspicion, the Bushman moved confidently forward till he was within earshot. Then, raising his voice, he addressed the natives. As he had supposed, they were Berg Damaras, a wild, miserable, down-trodden people, who are infamously treated by other tribes, and shelter themselves in the remotest places they are able to find among the wide and unpeopled deserts of this part of Africa.

Poeskop soon calmed their apprehensions and established friendly relations with them. They had a curious tale to tell. They had been in this place no more than a few months, having been driven from their previous locality by the assaults of lions, which had destroyed a good many of their clan and created a terror among them. The lions had either followed them to this valley, or they had stumbled upon a fresh band of man-eaters, and their lives were rendered a burden to them by the night attacks of these dangerous Carnivora. They had at last resorted to the expedient of building huts among the trees, where they passed their nights, and, as lions cannot climb, managed to escape annihilation.

Poeskop having opened up amicable relations with these unfortunates, Mr. Blakeney and the boys came up and were introduced. The Berg Damaras seemed miserably poor. They numbered not more than seventy or eighty souls, men, women, and children, and evidently lived a harassed, shuddering kind of existence. Occasionally stronger tribes, such as the Ovampo and Ganguellas, raided them, murdered such of them as they caught, and carried off their women and children as slaves. The lions seemed to have completed their dejection, and they had little spirit left in them. These people speak a pure Hottentot tongue, and have many ancient Hottentot manners and customs. Yet, unlike the yellow-skinned Hottentots, their skins are black. They are supposed to have been a feeble, aboriginal negroid race, who became enslaved by the Namaqua Hottentots, and, acquiring the tongue of their conquerors, lost their own language.

Having given the headman of these miserable people some tobacco and beads, and gained his confidence, Mr. Blakeney and the boys strolled round the kraal. They were especially interested in the sleeping huts, placed among the foliage of some tallish trees. These had been very ingeniously devised, platforms of stout poles serving for floors. The walls were composed of ant-hill clay and branches, the whole being covered by deep thatches of reeds and grass.

"Well," said Mr. Blakeney, "I've heard of such a thing before, but I never expected to see natives driven by lions to make their huts among the branches of trees. Many years ago, when Moselikatse, father of Lobengula, swept over a great part of South Africa and destroyed whole kraals of Basutos and Bechuanas, the people were so reduced, and the lions, from feeding on human flesh, became so bold, that some of the tribesfolk were compelled for a time to roost among the trees in this way. But they must be poor creatures to put up with such a terrorism. A kraal, even a little one, of Zulus or Kaffirs, or indeed even Bechuanas and Basutos, would in ordinary circumstances never submit to such a state of things. They would just sally out, hunt up the lions in daylight, and kill them with their assegais. They might lose a few slain in the operation, but they would clear out the lions somehow."

"I suppose," said Guy, "these poor creatures are too weak and too few in number to tackle a lion. They look far too depressed for anything of the kind."

"Yes," replied Mr. Blakeney, "no doubt that's the case. And, after all, one can hardly blame them. Even for a white man and a good shot, armed with a modern rifle, a lion is by no means a pleasant beast to tackle. One is never quite sure how the affray is going to turn out. The Zulus must have been hardy fellows indeed in the old days, in the time of Chaka and Dingaan, and Panda and Cetywayo. If a lion annoyed a kraal and killed oxen or goats, a number of young soldiers were told off to kill it. And kill it they had to, with their spears, and no other weapon. Of course, on the other hand, they knew that if they didn't kill the lion, their own lives were forfeit. Chaka and Dingaan, and even Cetywayo, allowed of no failures of this kind. Cowardice meant death. Not that the Zulus ever feared death. A braver and bolder race of savages never existed."

That afternoon the white man's camp was visited by a number of the Berg Damaras. They were hospitably entertained, and regaled with coffee and some small presents. One of them noticed Peter, the wild boy, and, drawing his comrades' attention to the child, they were soon engaged in a conversation of which the lad evidently was the main topic. Poeskop noticed this, and asked them what the boy was. They at once said that he was one of their own race, and asked the Bushman where the lad came from. Poeskop related the tale of his capture. This stirred much debate and interest among the group. They surrounded the child, examined him closely, handled him, and talked excitedly the while. Again the headman held animated converse with Poeskop. Meanwhile the white men gathered round. They could see that something of interest was passing.

Poeskop presently came up to Mr. Blakeney and told his story. The boy was a Berg Damara right enough, and had undoubtedly belonged to their kraal. About a year and a half before, when they were making their way from their last place of habitation thither, the child had strayed away, or in some way become missing, no one quite knew how. They had little time or energy for prolonged search, being then half-starved and in great distress, and they went on their way without him. Undoubtedly he had fallen among baboons, or been stolen by them; they had heard of such things before. They recognized the boy, not only by his likeness to the child they had lost, but by certain tribal marks. Questioned further, they said the boy's mother was dead, killed and devoured by a lion a few months before. The father was up at the kraal. At Mr. Blakeney's request he was sent for. He came shortly, was shown the child, whom he at once recognized, and was told the tale of its capture. This he listened to unmoved, rather as if he were listening to the tale of some dog that he had formerly owned. Presently he went up to Peter, looked into the child's face, and spoke to him--in fact, asked him a question. Peter looked up very eagerly, as if he knew the voice. The man went on to repeat his name, "Amral." This he spoke in a low, kindly voice, repeating the word several times. Again it was clear the boy recognized the voice and the name. Something in the intonation probably touched some chord of memory long forgotten. He opened his mouth, strove visibly and painfully to find speech, and, failing, lowered his eyes. At that moment a shadow passed lightly over the group and rested for a moment upon the child. All looked up. Far above, between them and the sun, a great vulture swung in mid-air.

"_Tkoobi kanisi!_" said the man, his face turned now to the semblance of a stone image, and, taking no further interest in the child, he moved away.

"What does he mean?" asked Mr. Blakeney of Poeskop.

"When the shadow of the vulture rested upon the child," replied the Bushman, in a serious voice, "the father took it as an evil sign. 'Death sees thee!' he said, and you will find that he will have nothing further to do with the boy. I know these Berg Damaras. They are a strange people, stranger even than my own race."

Poeskop was right. The man, though he knew himself to be the father of the boy, would have nothing further to say to him. Probably, as Poeskop explained, he was so poor and spiritless, so little desirous of undertaking the further maintenance of a child upon his drooping shoulders, that he was not sorry to throw the blame upon the shadow of ill omen, and wash his hands of his long-lost offspring.

"Never mind," said Tom; "I'll be a father to Peter. I bring him up, look after him, make a decent Kaffir of him, and he shall work for me at Bamborough when we get home again. I'm sure he'll make a smart lad and a good herd boy. He's got brains--look at his great bulging head; and there's a knowing look in his funny baboon face, which tells me he'll be all there when the time comes. Won't you, Peter?"

Peter looked up, grinned at his young master--he really began to smile now--and ejaculated a strange grunt which Tom quite comprehended.

*Chapter XII.*

*THE LION CAMP.*

Evening, the swift evening of Africa, was stealing on apace. The Berg Damaras now left the camp, their chief warning the white men to be prepared for an assault by lions, which, he declared, were here so bold that they feared neither thorn kraals, fires, nor assegais. Mr. Blakeney pronounced himself well prepared for any eventuality. During the afternoon Jan Kokerboom and his assistants had cut down a large number of thorn bushes, and made a strong scherm or fence, within which the oxen, after grazing, were enclosed for the night. The horses were fastened up to the wagon wheels on the side close to the main camp fire. Four fires in all were lighted and kept going. They sat down to supper, therefore, all in high spirits, feeling that they were well prepared against the night assaults of lions or any other Carnivora.

Peter, the wild boy, was still with them. His father, as they believed him to be, had, after the episode of the vulture's shadow, declined resolutely to have anything further to do with him. The Berg Damara headman, whom Mr. Blakeney had asked to take charge of the child, had shaken his head, and manifested extreme disinclination to add further to his responsibilities by taking a useless encumbrance into his tribe. They could scarcely feed themselves as it was, he explained. The white men had found the child; they were rich and powerful; they could keep him, and take him away with them. Tom was delighted, and, backed up by Guy, begged that he might be allowed to keep Peter. He would make a useful servant some day, he pointed out. He was already becoming attached to the party, especially to Tom, whom he seemed to regard as his master and protector. Mr. Blakeney turned over the matter in his mind. At supper time he called Poeskop, and asked him what, in his opinion, the Berg Damaras would do if the boy was left on their hands. Poeskop's reply was readily forthcoming. He smiled grimly, and said,--

"What do I think, baas? Well, I think they will leave him to the lions. The chances are that, if he escapes the lions, he will be starved to death. I don't think they will give him food. Already, as you can see, they are half starved themselves; and when Berg Damaras and Bushmen are in such a plight, and hard put to it, they can't afford to be kind and compassionate like the white people. I know them well, and I know that the boy would die. If his mother were alive, it would be different. She would find him food somehow."

"Well, Tom," said Mr. Blakeney, "you can have your way, and keep the boy. It would be a cruel thing to leave him to the mercies of these starving people. We'll take him with us, and make the best of the poor little beggar."

Tom promptly showed his contentment by taking a steinbuck cutlet from the frying-pan and handing it to Peter, who squatted near him, watching with elfish eyes the white men having their supper. The wild boy snatched eagerly at the savoury morsel. Tom drew back the cutlet, and, pointing a rebuking forefinger, said in a tone of reproof,--

"No, not that way, Peter. I've told you before. Take your food like a gentleman."

The wild boy already understood much of Tom's tutelage. Still gazing with greedy eyes, he held out his paw, and allowed Tom to hand him the food. Then, conveying it to his mouth, he quickly made short work of it, devouring it very much as an ape devours its food. The white men having supped, Peter was fed, Tom superintending the process, and seeing to it that his charge made his repast in a reasonably decent fashion.

"Peter," said Tom, when all was finished, "I have hopes of you. You certainly are improving. You didn't lick your plate to-night--of course I was keeping an eye on you--and you are learning not to snatch at everything like a beastly monkey. I do believe I shall make a man of you yet."

The wild boy looked at his instructor's face; it was a strange, yearning, almost pathetic look--the look of a dog trying to make out his master's meaning. Then he reached out a black hand, and softly laid it on Tom's arm. It was the most gentle, the most human-like, gesture he had yet exhibited.

"Poor little chap!" said Mr. Blakeney; "I believe he begins to feel the instincts of humanity working within him."

"Yes," said Guy, "I'm sure he does. He'll do all right, Tom. You're making a first-class reformer."

Tom patted the little fellow on the shoulder, and went to the wagon and took down a blanket, which he handed to Peter. The wild boy, who now showed no sign of any inclination to run away, and had for the last twenty-four hours been allowed complete liberty, at once wrapped himself up, snuggled close to the fire, and fell fast asleep. For another two hours the three white men sat round the fire, the boys writing up their diaries, Mr. Blakeney smoking and reading. Then they chatted for a while, and at nine o'clock or thereabouts prepared to turn in for the night. Guy went to the tent; Mr. Blakeney climbed to his wagon. Tom prepared his blanket and kaross by the fire, as he had done since Peter's capture. He still judged it advisable to keep the boy under his control at night, and, fastening the cord to his belt, made the other end secure round the belt which Peter wore for the purpose. Then settling himself with his feet to the comfortable blaze, he gazed for a few minutes upwards at the brilliant array of stars, and was quickly sleeping the wonderful and refreshing sleep of the wilderness.

How long Tom had slept he knew not, but he was suddenly awakened by a sharp tug at his belt. Snatching up his loaded rifle, which lay by his side, he sat up and looked around him. Peter was crouching on his hams two or three yards away, his blanket fallen from his shoulders, his eyes wildly excited. He was barking fiercely, just as a baboon barks when enraged or alarmed. In another instant there was violent commotion in the ox kraal. The native servants, sleeping at the fire near by, had been awakened by the wild boy's warning barks; they were now on their feet, and, rushing to the kraal with their guns and blazing fire-sticks, began letting off their rifles at some object among the oxen. Mr. Blakeney jumped down from his wagon in his pyjamas, rifle in hand. Guy, similarly equipped, burst out of his tent. Tom, unbuckling the cord at his belt, sprang up with his weapon. The three ran towards the scherm.

"A lion, baas! a lion!" cried Jan Kokerboom excitedly, as they neared the scene. "There he is. Shoot, boys, shoot!" Then, putting up his gun, he again fired. Poeskop and Seleti were reloading; Mangwalaan held up a flaming torch to give light. It was a weird scene, only fitfully illuminated by the blazing torch and the light of the men's fire close at hand. Another rush took place among the oxen; then a dark figure cleared the thorn fence just behind the group of affrighted animals.

"He's gone!" yelled Poeskop, who had just got another cartridge into the breech of his Snider. "He's gone!"

It was quite clear that the warnings of the Berg Damaras had not been given without reason. The lions had begun their assaults. Fortunate it was for the camp that they had confined their attentions to the ox kraal. Now, pulling aside the thorns at the entrance, and lighted by fresh firebrands, Mr. Blakeney and the rest of the party entered the kraal. On the far side lay a dark object, which a closer approach showed to be a dying ox. The poor brute had evidently been seized upon by the lion at its first assault. Its shoulders and back had been badly scored and bitten, and the ferocious brute, gripping the nose of the ox in one of its powerful forepaws, had evidently, by a mighty wrench, dislocated the unfortunate beast's neck. In another minute, even as they looked, it breathed its last. The rest of the oxen stood huddled together in a bunch to the right hand, snorting and bellowing, manifestly in a state of intense fear and excitement.

There was not much to be done. It was, of course, far too risky to think of cutting more thorns to make the fence higher and more secure. With lions about it would be worse than madness to venture out into the darkness beyond the light of the camp fires. They made up and lighted a fresh fire in the middle of the ox kraal, and Jan Kokerboom had strict injunctions to keep it going all night. As for the lion, both Poeskop and Jan believed it to be wounded; probably it would scarcely venture to return that night. Still, as Poeskop said, with lions you never know where you are, especially if they are hungry. The remaining fires were strengthened, and the white party returned to their quarters.

"Hullo!" said Tom, on getting back to his fire, "where's Peter?"

Peter had disappeared. Just then Guy, entering his tent, cried out,--

"Here's the little beggar, cowering behind my camp bed. You'd better have him out."

Tom fetched him out, calmed his apprehensions, and set him by the fire again. The wild boy seemed at last persuaded that the danger was past, and his young master having fastened the cord dangling at the child's waist to his own belt again, Peter once more wrapped himself in his blanket and went to sleep. Tom, lying a few feet away from him, was not slow to follow his example.

It seemed but a few minutes to the English lad, yet the space of a full hour had certainly elapsed, when Tom was violently startled from his sleep by a wild, terrified yell, which sounded close to his ears. There was something so horrifying about that wild scream, violently shattering the previous stillness of the night, that a shudder of apprehension went thrilling through Tom's whole person. In the same instant there was a rough pull at the lad's belt; he was turned half over. and, before he had time to snatch up the rifle by his side, he felt himself being dragged away over the ground at a rapid pace. The lad's mind instantly grasped the situation. Something--a lion, no doubt--had got hold of the unfortunate Peter, and was dragging him off; and Tom, being coupled to him by the long cord, was being dragged also. In an instant Tom had unbuckled his belt and was free. Springing to his feet and looking round, he saw by the light of the fire a huge yellow-maned lion, which had Peter by the neck, and was dragging him away into the darkness.

Meanwhile, the unfortunate black boy, after uttering that first wild, terrified yell, was shrieking out for help. Poeskop was running up to the rescue, and he afterwards affirmed that the boy had, beyond all doubt, suddenly recovered his native tongue, and was crying out and imploring assistance in Berg Damara. Tom rushed to the fire, seized upon a long piece of burning wood, and with that ran back to the lion, which was now dragging its unfortunate victim well beyond the circle of the firelight, and belaboured the brute about the head and face with the burning brand. It was a marvellously plucky act, but it was useless. The fierce brute held on grimly to its prey, and merely hastened its pace, now moving at a swift trot. Tom turned to rush for his rifle, and in the same instant something seemed to flash out from the darkness, and knocked him down. It was a lioness, which, as Poeskop and Guy came running up with their weapons, stood over the lad, growling horribly--a fierce, throaty, menacing growl--as if daring them to come on.

Guy and the Bushman fired together, and at the twin report the lioness, shot through heart and brain, sank quietly down upon Tom, and lay stark dead. At this moment Mr. Blakeney came up to their assistance. Between them they dragged the grim brute off Tom, who was by this time nearly suffocated. A full-grown lion weighs a good deal more than twice as much as a heavy man, and Tom, although happily not seriously hurt, was pretty well flattened, and had most of his breath knocked out of him. They got him to his feet, felt him all over, and asked anxiously if he was hurt.

"N--no!" gasped the lad; "I'm--all--right--I think. G--go on after Peter. Hark! He's there somewhere. The other lion's got him. Hark!"

They listened for a moment. There came faint, agonized cries from out the darkness. They were the unfortunate wild boy's last appeals. They ceased. All was still.

"Bring fire-sticks," cried out Mr. Blakeney. "You, Poeskop, stay with Baas Tom, and get him to the fire. Guy, Jan, Seleti, come with me. You, Mangwalaan, stay by the oxen."

Jan Kokerboom and Seleti armed themselves with flaming brands, and the four advanced into the darkness. They could see little beyond a dozen feet in front of them. Again they listened. The wild boy's voice was no more heard, but in its place there came from the outer darkness a sickening scrunching of bones. It was the lion devouring his victim, apparently some forty yards away.

"Oh," cried Mr. Blakeney, "I can't stand this. We must go on." They moved forward ten yards, and then, from some thick bush in front of them, there came a low, cavernous, threatening growl from the brute, disturbed at its prey. Mr. Blakeney and Guy fired together, and reloaded. They could hear the man-killer dragging the unfortunate lad yet farther into the bush. Again they fired. Now the men's torches were getting low. Still they advanced again, though much against the will of the two natives.

"Baas," whispered Jan Kokerboom, "this is madness. My fire-stick will be out in another minute, and we shall all be killed by the lions. There are more about. I have heard them."

Still Mr. Blakeney and Guy pushed on a few yards farther, until their advance was barred by thicker and stronger bush.

"It's useless, Guy," said Mr. Blakeney, in a stern voice. "We've done all we can. We must go back. By this time the poor creature is dead, undoubtedly. It's a bad job, but we can do no more. Come!"

They turned quickly, and with the torches flickering out made their way back to the camp fires. For the rest of that night they got little rest. Tom first had to be attended to. The lioness in her attack had badly shaken him; but beyond some deep scratches inflicted by one paw on the back of the shoulder as she held him down, he was unhurt. These wounds were dressed with carbolic and water, as usual. Two hours later an attack made by another pair of lions on the cattle scherms was successfully repelled, and an old, worn-out lion shot through the thorn fence by Jan Kokerboom and Mangwalaan. Towards dawn the white men slept for a couple of hours or so.

After breakfast they prepared to take vengeance upon the murderer of the unfortunate wild boy. Mr. Blakeney wished much to persuade Tom to stay behind and help Seleti and Mangwalaan to look after the camp.

"No, pater," pleaded Tom; "this is really my business. You know what an interest I took in the poor little chap. In a way I looked on him as belonging to me. I'll keep behind. My shoulder is not very bad, and I can, at all events, carry a spare rifle in case you need it."

Mr. Blakeney gave way, and the three, accompanied by Poeskop and Jan Kokerboom, went forth on their mission of vengeance. With them they took the wagon dogs to aid in hunting up the lion. They had little difficulty in finding the path of the man-eater. In the thorns, through which the fierce brute had dragged its victim, were to be seen shreds of the poor wild boy's old flannel shirt and knickerbockers, bestowed upon him by his young master. Here was where the monster had bitten through the poor little fellow's neck and finished him, and had even begun to devour some of his flesh. A large dark patch of blood and other hideous traces marked the spot. Farther on they came to a more grisly relic. In a little clearing, among some dense bush, there lay the head and the right forearm and hand of the unfortunate boy. Both had been severed easily from the trunk.

Tom turned with horror from these sad relics.

"Pater," he said, "if I were not so mad with the brute that did this, I think I should be sick. If you and Guy don't kill the monster, I will."

"We'll kill him, my boy," said his father grimly, "even if we have to follow him all day."

They moved on in silence, and, after going three hundred yards farther, spoored the lion and its prey to a dense, triangular piece of bush lying close to the little stream that ran through the valley. Poeskop quickly ran round this piece of bush, and made certain that the murderous brute had gone no farther. Mr. Blakeney now disposed his little force so as to command each side of the triangle. Poeskop and Guy crossed the stream, and guarded that side. Jan Kokerboom kept watch at the point where the lion had entered, well in sight of Mr. Blakeney, who, with Tom carrying a spare rifle, took the angle on the extreme right. Then the dogs, which had followed hot upon the trail, were cheered into the thicket. They were a plucky lot of curs, well used to this kind of work, and they did their duty well. Plunging into the bush and undergrowth, they quickly told that the game was afoot.

"To him, Nero! To him, Nelson! Push him up, Ponto!" cried Mr. Blakeney, in his strong, clear voice. The dogs, encouraged at the sound, renewed their attack.

"Push him out, boys!" again cried their master heartily. "Have at him, Nero!"

Nero, a huge, brindled cross-bred, half mastiff, half greyhound, with a touch of bull--a true Boer mongrel, picked up in the Transvaal--plunges into the fray again, well backed by the rest of the pack. The lion can stand the baiting no longer, and, creeping noiselessly through the covert, suddenly appears within thirty paces of where Mr. Blakeney stands ready for him. Seeing his adversary, the brute, his mouth and face still darkly smeared with the blood of his victim, bares his teeth, puts his head down, growls savagely, and, lashing his tail a few times from side to side, takes two or three stealthy strides right out into the open. Then suddenly he elevates his tail, straight and rigid as a poker. Mr. Blakeney knows the danger signal well; his nerves are like iron; he is as steady as if he were shooting at a francolin. Already he is down on one knee, the better to get his shot. Tom stands staunchly at his flank, ready with the second rifle. Taking swift aim, Mr. Blakeney pulls the trigger; the heavy .500 bullet strikes the man-eater full in the chest, and, raking the body and tearing through heart and lungs, instantly finishes its career. The brute falls to the shot, and after a convulsive struggle or two rolls over dead. Never again will he slay the shuddering Berg Damaras, or murder a harmless boy.

Tom's hat went flying up into the air.

"Hurrah!" he cried, in his high, cheery voice. "Well shot, pater! We've killed the brute, and avenged poor Peter. Hurrah!"

Guy came bursting round the corner of the covert, and, seeing the triumph, added two more "hurrahs" to Tom's exultant shouts.

There, in truth, lay the murderous brute, and the poor, innocent wild boy was avenged. He was a huge, dark-maned lion, fat and in high condition, and in the very prime of his strength. Poeskop and Jan now came running up, full of joy and congratulations.

"Ah, baas! that is a great lion," said the Bushman. "I never saw a bigger or a heavier. Look at his forepaws. Why, he could kill an ox as easily as I could kill a chicken. The Berg Damaras up yonder may well be glad. Two lions killed last night, and this old _mannetje_ this morning. They will sleep in peace for a long time to come."

While Jan Kokerboom set to work to skin the lion, Poeskop, by Mr. Blakeney's directions, made his way into the thicket to see if he could discover any further remains of the unfortunate Peter. Meanwhile, a number of the Berg Damaras, guided by the rifle shot, had made their way down to the spot. Their delight on discovering, not only that the man-eater had been slain that morning, but that a lion and lioness had also been killed during the night, was very great. Something of their load of depression seemed lifted from their spirits. They even began to smile, a thing none of the English party had observed during the previous day. As to the death of their kinsman, the unfortunate Peter, they seemed not in the least affected; but, as Mr. Blakeney pointed out to the boys, wandering tribesfolk, such as Bushmen and Berg Damaras and the like, lead such precarious lives, and are so often confronted by death, danger, and starvation, that they become callous and indifferent to suffering, whether it affects themselves or others.

Poeskop presently returned. Beyond a few bones and a piece or two of flesh, he had found no further traces of the boy. The lion had devoured him. They returned to camp, leaving the Berg Damaras to deal as they pleased with the now flayed carcass of the dead lion. With this and the flesh of the other two lions the poor wretches seemed highly delighted. The hearts of these beasts, the headman explained, when they had eaten them, would give them courage, and the rest of the flesh and fat would be useful to them. Returning up the valley, Guy shot a fine waterbuck bull. After taking the horns and skin, this also was handed over to the tribes-people, who were now well provided with meat. The flesh of the waterbuck is coarse and unpleasant, and not at all palatable to Europeans; and as the hunters had plenty of meat at their camp, the Berg Damaras were welcome to this fresh food supply. On reaching camp Tom took a spade, and, with Guy, went out to bury the poor remains of Peter, the wild boy--the head and the severed arm. Tom returned from his task sorrowful enough, and was depressed and quiet for the rest of the day.

"Poor little Peter!" he said that evening at supper. "His meeting with us, which we all thought such a fine thing for him, was but a miserable bit of luck after all. I do believe, if he had remained with the baboons, he might have lived for years."

"Ay, Tom," rejoined his father, "it's a strange world; and human destiny, whether in the case of the black man or the white, is one of the most inexplicable of all mysteries. Still, we did the right thing in rescuing poor Peter. Think of it. What an existence would have been his if we had not discovered him. To live with the beasts of the field--and such beasts as baboons--surely even you, Tom, fond as you were of the little chap, could never have wished him such a fate."

"No, pater, I suppose not," acknowledged Tom; "but it was a cruel end. I shall never forget the little fellow, and it will be a long while before I shall get his death-scream out of my memory."

*Chapter XIII.*

*GUY IS MISSING.*

More than a month had elapsed since the beginning of the trek. They were now, as Poeskop had informed them, within little more than a week's journey from the kloof of gold of which they were in search. It was full a week since they had left the Berg Damara village behind, and they had progressed well and steadily during the interval. One morning Mr. Blakeney and Tom had ridden out together in search of game. Guy was sitting on the wagon, for a change taking a rest, going through some of his specimens, and packing away odds and ends. They were trekking across a wide, open grass plain, whereon various herds of game, for the most part hartebeest, blue wildebeest, and Burchell's zebra, were to be seen grazing in the distance. At half-past twelve the oxen were outspanned, and a halt was made. Guy, having finished his work and eaten some lunch, was now, with the aid of the Ross stalking-glass, ranging the wide grass flats, watching the various troops of game, and wondering what kind of luck his uncle and cousin were having. It had been a most beautiful morning. The hot, rather suffocating winds, which had been blowing persistently from the north for the last few days, had vanished. A most cool and refreshing breeze now came up gently from the south, borne from the cool regions of the far Antarctic; and there was a feeling of vigour in the sparkling atmosphere which, albeit it was now just past high noon, made Guy's restless English blood eager for action.

As he looked, he suddenly spied through the clear telescope a single ostrich, stalking across the veldt. It was a long way off--five miles certainly--but he would go after it. Telling Seleti to saddle up his pony, Guy's preparations were soon made. After their experiences in the thirst-land, he was not going to take any more unnecessary risks, and he had fastened to his saddle his water-bottle, coat, and a hunting case containing a little food. Thus equipped, he picked up his sporting Martini rifle--he had lent Tom his Mannlicher--and, swinging himself lightly into the saddle, rode off at a brisk canter, humming, in the lightness of his heart, a cheerful song. Poeskop gazed admiringly after him as he rode away.

"There goes a proper young baas!" he said to Jan Kokerboom, as they sat at their meal. "'Tis a fine thing to be an Englishman." Jan admitted that it was, and Guy's figure gradually receded into the distance.

Guy rode steadily for five or six miles, at the end of which he discovered that the ostrich had been moving away north-westward, and was still two or three miles distant. Some light bush now hid it from view, and, taking advantage of this screen, Guy pressed on until he saw that he was about to enter upon the plain again. Before issuing from the bush, he got off and carefully examined the country in front of him. Yes, there was the ostrich right enough, feeding quietly less than a mile away. It was a splendid cock bird, and its white plumes, showing up finely against its black body colouring, made Guy long to possess them. Walking his horse out of the covert, Guy now touched the good beast with his spur and galloped for the big bird, hoping to get a shot at it before it had discovered that the approaching object was anything more than a zebra. It was a wild, unfrequented veldt, and surely, argued Guy to himself, an ostrich in these parts would not be very suspicious. Half a mile was covered. He was now within seven hundred yards of the bird; surely he was going to get a fair shot directly.

But even as he thus flattered himself, he was discovered. The ostrich's head went up, and then, with a limp and a flutter of the wing feathers, the bird moved off. It went so lame that Guy at once perceived that something was the matter with it. So much the better--he would have an easy victory. Suddenly, fifty yards in front of him, there rose from the long grass veldt another ostrich, a hen bird manifestly. Nothing ailed her, and she rushed away like a steam engine, covering whole leagues, as it were, in her enormous strides. Guy reached the place whence she had started, and saw, as he expected, a nest full of huge, shining eggs. At a swift glance, as he galloped by, he reckoned that there must have been twelve or fourteen of them. But he had no time to attend to them now; he would ride back that way, and take toll of them as he went to the wagon. For the moment all his energies and attention were centred on the maimed or sick bird in front of him, the magnificence of whose plumes he could now plainly discern.

He galloped, but still the limping creature managed, not only to keep a start, but even to increase its lead. In a while it squatted, as if it had reached the end of its tether, and Guy thought now surely it was his. It was not so, however. As he approached within four hundred yards the great bird rose and pursued its way, stumbling, staggering occasionally, as if it would fall on its head, and flapping its wings, plainly in great distress. It was very annoying that, notwithstanding its apparent sickness, the bird could yet manage as it did to keep going. Mile after mile went by, and still the ostrich stumbled along, just beyond reasonable shooting distance. Once again, having gained a fresh lead, in response to a long spurt on the part of Guy, it sat down again; and once more Guy was most provokingly baulked of what he now looked upon as his legitimate booty--those magnificent plumes that waved and dangled so annoyingly, just beyond reach of his trusty Martini.

The lad had now become downright angry. That bird should be his, if he had to ride till evening; and so, about five hundred yards still separating them, the hunted and the hunter moved swiftly across the plain for another mile. Three o'clock went by--four o'clock--surely the bird would soon give in! But now it was running quite differently. There was no trace of the falterings and stumblings that he had so long noticed. The cock was apparently quite recovered, and running as strongly and as straight as had its mate. Then suddenly there flashed upon Guy's mind what had happened. The creature had been playing the fool with him all this time. It had simulated lameness and sickness, just as will a plover or a partridge, merely to decoy him away from its nest, which he had by a lucky chance ridden by and discovered.

Guy smiled grimly to himself as the cleverness of the whole ruse was borne in upon him. Nevertheless, he was wild with vexation; and setting his teeth, he said to himself very softly that he would make it hot for the shamming bird yet. And, indeed, he did so. He was now full twenty miles from camp; hills and kopjes rose not very far in front of him--hills which, now ruddy brown and plain to see, looked four hours ago blue in the distance. His pony was a good one, and in first-rate condition. It was not by any means at the end of its resources, and Guy called upon it for one more long and sustained effort. Two more miles were past. Then Guy, to his joy, discovered that the ostrich was really coming back to him. The long and persistent chase under the hot sun had at last told upon it. He had certainly gained one hundred and fifty yards in the last hour.

Once more the great bird set itself going, and raced away. So rapid was its flight that it seemed as if Guy and his nag were this time to be completely distanced. But it was soon very plain what the bird was aiming at. It was trying for an offing, so as to work its way round to the right, and thus, as evening fell, regain its mate and her nest once more. Guy saw the manoeuvre, and, galloping across the wide arc that the ostrich was now making, managed, by dint of pressing his pony for another and a final effort, to cut it off. The foolish bird stuck obstinately to its point; its pace was now slackening; and Guy succeeded in getting within fifty yards of its line. Slipping off his pony, he fired as the big bird came by, and, aiming well forward, struck the ostrich fair in the body. Even so tough a creature as this, the largest of all feathered fowl, could not resist the impact of a solid Martini bullet at fifty paces, and the bird suddenly fell dead in its tracks, a mere quivering bundle of flesh and feathers.

It was a splendid prize. Guy, as he walked up and looked at the dead bird, saw at once that the plumage was magnificent. Knee-haltering his pony, and taking off its saddle, he now refreshed himself after his desperate ride, and set to work to divest his capture of its finest plumage. The white feathers were magnificent, and Guy could scarcely admire them sufficiently. Making neat bundles of the prime whites, the shorter whites, the beautiful black and white plumes, and the black feathers, he now saddled up again, slung the longest feathers over his back, fastened the rest to his saddle, and mounted.

The point now to be decided was, What should he do for the night? He knew that the camp lay away behind him, far across the dry and weary plain. But it was twenty long miles away; his pony was very tired and thirsty; and in the darkness now coming on he might easily lose his direction. Only a mile or two in front of him rose the line of low hills. Here he was pretty sure to find water for his pony. On the whole, it seemed better to make his way thither, water his pony, light a good fire, rest till early morning, and then ride back to camp. Having thus decided, he rode his nag at a walk for the kopjes. Night was falling rapidly as he entered the hills. After following an open valley for a quarter of a mile, he came, as he expected, to a vlei of water, recruited by a fountain flowing from the hill above. Here he off-saddled for the night. His pony drank till it cared to drink no more. Meanwhile he cut some grass for fodder, tied his nag to a bush, collected wood for a fire, and, taking out the meat and bread he had brought with him, ate his supper.

His position was a well-chosen one. At his back he had an impenetrable screen of thick bush and rock. He had seen no indication of lions as he rode into the hills. A big fire blazed cheerfully in front of him, and plenty of wood lay handy so soon as its first strength died away. The lad was very sleepy after his long ride. He lay for an hour or more gazing drowsily into the red blaze in front of him, turning over in his mind the events of the afternoon, and following with a feeling of placid contentment the shifting scenes depicted in the heart of the fire by various pieces of burning wood. His pony munched its food contentedly close to his head. Gradually his eyes closed, his head sank deeper into the saddle which formed his pillow, and he slept.

Guy had not enjoyed the blessed oblivion of slumber more than an hour--it seemed to him not a minute since he had closed his eyes--when he was suddenly and most rudely awakened. Strong hands gripped him fiercely on either side, and pinned him to the ground. With a cry he tried to spring to his feet. But his hands and feet were both securely held. He struggled violently, but his struggles were ineffectual against superior strength and numbers. Almost before he was fully awake he was bound hand and foot, and lay helpless in the hands of his captors. Then he had time to look about him. The light of the fire showed him that his assailants were four in number, two white men and two black. The faces of the white men were known to him. It was with something like a shock of dismay that he realized the fact that he was in the hands of Karl Engelbrecht and Antonio Minho, who were now regarding him, as they stood over him, with unmistakable signs of triumph on their unpleasant faces.

"What's all this about?" cried the lad angrily in Dutch. "And what do you mean by attacking me in this way? You shall suffer for it, and that before many hours are over."

"Softly, my young friend," answered Minho, a bantering smile illuminating his oily, yellow face. "You go a little too fast. You, and not Karl and myself, are likely to be the suffering party. We find you are necessary to our plans, and so we invite you to come with us. If you keep a civil tongue and behave yourself, we shall treat you reasonably well. If you are troublesome and impertinent, you will be corrected."

"Ja," added the slower-tongued Boer, who had by this time found his speech. "We shall stand no nonsense from you. Keep your mouth shut, you schepsel, unless you are spoken to. We want no tantrums, and no noise. If you don't behave, we shall teach you to, and that with the sjambok." As he spoke the great Boer touched significantly his riding whip of giraffe hide, just now stuck through his belt.

The English lad's eyes blazed with anger at this threat. If he had been free, he would at that instant have struck the Dutchman in the face, great as was the disparity in size and age between them. But he was helpless; and he saw, answering his own fiery look, such an expression of malevolence and hate spread over the Boer's countenance, that he judged it the wiser course to resume a less pugnacious demeanour. After all, pugnacity, when you are tied hand and foot, avails nothing.

"What do you want with me?" he went on, in a tone of assumed indifference, addressing himself to the Portuguese.

"We propose to take you with us on a short journey," returned Minho. "We shall tell you more of our plans later on. Meanwhile, you had better submit yourself quietly, and don't make a fuss, or it may be worse for you. There are more painful things even than sjamboks," he added, with a significant leer; "rifles and knives, for instance."

"Now, then," said Engelbrecht, in his thick guttural voice, "pick him up, you two."

The two strong natives, who were standing ready to obey their master's orders, stepped forward, picked up Guy, and set him on his feet. Then, saddling and bridling his pony, they unfastened the raw-hide riem that bound his feet, hoisted him to the saddle, and set off. All carried rifles; the Boer marched at the pony's head, holding its bridle. Guy's hands were firmly tied, and there was not the faintest chance of escape. Half a mile farther up the valley they came to Karl Engelbrecht's camp. Here a wagon was outspanned, and there were more natives. The word was now given at once to trek. Guy was placed on the wagon, and his feet carefully bound again, and in half an hour they set forth, steering a course through the hills which would take them north-west, in a direction almost diametrically opposite to that in which the English party was progressing. They trekked rapidly, and the oxen were pushed to their utmost speed.