There are three missing?"

The old Kafir shrugged his shoulders and muttered something to the effect that they had died in the _veldt_. Then he fumbled about with the fastenings of the gate.

"Now, look here, Umgiswe! When sheep die they don't melt into air. If these three are dead, I must see their skins. Do you hear? If they are not dead they must be found. I shall come down to-morrow and count again; then they must be here," said Claverton, decisively, looking the man straight in the eyes.

He was a quick linguist, and, during the short time he had been on the frontier, had mastered enough of the Kafir language in its tortuous verbosity, combined with what he had picked up during his former sojourn in the colony, to be able to converse with tolerable ease, an acquirement which added in no small degree to his influence with the natives, who always hold in greater respect a European who can discourse with them in their own tongue.

"Ewa 'nkos," said the Kafir again. "They shall be found." Then he asked for some tobacco.

"You shall have some, Umgiswe, you shall have some--when the three sheep are found."

The man's countenance fell. Then he asked, quietly and respectfully enough, where the a.s.segais came from.

"I picked them up. Good spears, are they not? Do you know the owner, Umgiswe? If you do, tell him to come and claim them, and the sooner he comes the better." Then nodding in response to the other's farewell greeting, Claverton touched his horse with the spur and struck into the bush path. The Kafir stood gazing after him.

"He is a wizard; he knows everything," said Umgiswe to himself; and then he turned away, intending to restore the two sheep he had hidden away so securely till it should be safe to send them off to his kraal in the Gaika location, there to swell the fruits of his pickings and stealings, and planning how he could doctor up the skin of the one which he and a boon companion had devoured two nights ago, so as to make it appear that the animal had died a natural death.

Note 1. One with the qualities of iron. Kafirs are fond of bestowing nicknames, though frequently of a less complimentary nature than this.

Note 2. An outlying fold for flocks whose range is at a distance from the homestead.

VOLUME ONE, CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

"AT THE FULL OF THE MOON."

Midnight.

The silence of desolation. The river, plashing on its sandy bars, makes faint, tuneful murmur. At intervals the wild weird hoot of an owl, high up on the wooded hillside, breaks startlingly upon the dead, solemn stillness. The air hangs heavy down here in this silent hollow, and above, the dark face of the haunted cliff rises, stern and tremendous, in clear outline against the stars.

What are those shadowy figures ranged in a semicircle round the hollow, motionless as the grave? Are they of earth? Not a whisper, not a movement in that terrible phalanx. Only two hundred pair of eyes fixed upon vacancy, with strained and expectant stare, show that these ghostly shapes have life, or had. But what are they? Grim phantom warriors gathered there to re-enact the tragedy of blood which the dim legend of savage tradition a.s.sociates with the spot.

And now a glow suffuses the sky, faint at first, then spreading nearly to the zenith. A great golden disc peers above yonder bush-clad height, and slowly mounting upward, soars majestically into s.p.a.ce. Half of the valley beneath is flooded with light, but the face of the haunted cliff is still in gloom, casting a long black shadow upon the plashing river whence the mist is rising in white wreathe.

"At the full of the moon."

A dull, moaning sound is heard in the cliff, seeming to come from the very heart of the rocky wall, now rising, now falling, awesome and mysterious. It is as the voices of the spirits of the dead. There is an overpowering and mesmeric influence in the very atmosphere. Then gleams forth a flickering green light which plays on the face of the rock like a corpse candle. Suddenly the whole of that crouching phalanx starts up erect. A deep-toned murmur, sounding like a m.u.f.fled roar, goes forth from the throats of two hundred dark warriors, and the ghostly light glints on a forest of bristling a.s.segais.

"At the full of the moon."

Small wonder that the orb of night, about which poets love to rave, should be const.i.tuted the presiding G.o.ddess at the gruesome rites of savage and superst.i.tious races all the world over; that its changing quarters should be endued with power to sway their weightiest undertakings in war or in the chase. It would be strange if the great l.u.s.trous disc stamped with a cold, impa.s.sive, remorseless-looking human countenance, floating silently over the darkened earth, did not appeal powerfully to the spiritual side of untaught and imaginative races. And then, just think of the myriads upon myriads of scenes of violence and treachery--fraud, rapine, murder, and wholesale ma.s.sacre--upon which that cold, spectral countenance has looked down, and still looks down; ay, and will continue to do as long as this miserable world shall be peopled with countless generations of the tailless and biped demon known as Man.

"At the full of the moon."

And now the black shadow pa.s.ses from the cliff, revealing a shape--a shape which seems to have arisen from the earth itself, or peradventure to have sprung from the smooth wall of rock behind, so sudden is its appearance. Amid dead silence it glides into the midst of the expectant semicircle. Truly an appalling monster. The moonlight, now well-nigh as clear as day, plays upon a pair of glittering, wolf-like eyes and a lean, gaunt figure, about whose long limbs are dangling ox-tails and strings of beads. The grinning head-piece of a hyaena rests helmet-like upon this creature's skull, and from between the open jaws of the beast starts forth the horrible head of a live serpent, whose sinuous coils are wound about the wearer's body. The latter, smeared from head to foot with a glistening pigment, is hung about with birds' claws, reptile heads and festoons of entrails. A horrible and disgusting object. The right arm of the wizard is red to the elbow with blood, and in his hand he carries nothing but one short, broad-headed a.s.segai.

"Hear the words of Sefele, the spirit of this place, speaking by the mouth of his descendant, Nomadudwana, the son of Mtyusi."

Silently the whole phalanx of dark warriors sank back into a crouching att.i.tude, gazing upon the speaker, expectant and motionless.

"There are voices above and voices beneath. There are voices in the air and voices in the water. Lo, I see a mighty host; an army gathered for battle; an army which fills the earth and the air; many warriors with their chiefs and leaders; and their right hands are even as this,"

(holding up his gore-stained fingers), "and their shields are dinted and their a.s.segais are broken. And the warriors are angry and they are sad, for they have fought and fought, always bravely, and now they are tired and may not rest. And I see another army--an army not of warriors but of women--and they, too, cannot rest; they must take weapons and go forth to battle, for there are no men left."

A deep murmur from the listeners, who, squatted on their haunches, with bodies bent eagerly forward, drink in every word the wizard speaks.

"Again, I look. This time I see another army--differing tribes, but all one host--thousands and thousands and tens of thousands of fighting men; the land is red with them, but they are all asleep. They have arms-- they have the sharp weapons which their fathers had, but they have forgotten how to use them. They have more--they have the fire-weapons of the whites, but they know not how to use them. The white fools put their weapons into our hands willingly, joyfully, for money, but we do not know how to use them. We drink of the white men's poisoned strong waters and our hearts melt away--we become children--we wallow like swine upon the ground. The fighting men of the Amaxosa have become dogs and slaves."

A fierce e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.n here went round the circle, while many a sinewy hand grasped the tough wood of a.s.segai hafts. The grim prophet continued, his deep tones waxing more and more ferocious like the savage growl of a beast:

"We are the dogs and slaves of the white men, even as the cowardly Amafengu were our dogs. Not to the white men only, also to their women.

Do not our warriors drop their weapons, and take service, and plough the land, and hoe corn, and milk the cows, and drive waggons for white women? Ha! We, a free, a brave nation, whose fathers conquered the land ages and ages before one accursed white-foot trod these mountains and valleys--our _men_ to be dogs to the white _women_! Ha! Ask Ncanda, there, who, at the word of a white woman, was tied up and lashed with whips! Ask Mopela, the brother of Nxabahlana of the house of Sandili the Great Chief, who was beaten and kicked like a dog in the presence of a white woman--Hah!"

A frenzied howl burst from the audience at these words of the wily wizard, while the two savages referred to by name, gnashed their teeth with rage.

"Who are these people that rule us? Who are they? As a calabash of water is to the Nxumba River in flood, as five stones are to the pebbles on the sea-sh.o.r.e, so are the whites in this land to the fighting men of the Amaxosa, to the warriors of the Amanqgika, and of the Amagcaleka, and even of the peace-loving Abatembu. And we call ourselves men!"

Then, raising his voice: "Let the omens be sought."

A stir among the throng. Two stalwart savages rose and stood before the orator. They were magnificent specimens of their race, prior to its deterioration in morale and physique through the destroying agencies of ardent spirits and contagious disease. Of commanding stature and herculean build, these men represented a type, once common enough, but now becoming more and more rare among the border tribes. The wizard muttered an incantation over each, and the two betook themselves to the bush. A moment of dead silence and they reappeared, dragging with them two goats--one spotlessly white, the other, jet black.

The animals were thrown upon the ground in front of the wizard, and securely tied; even their mouths being bound up, lest the sound of their agonised bleatings upon the still night air, should reach unwelcome ears. Then, still chanting his h.e.l.lish incantation, the cruel monster bent down, and, with his keen a.s.segai, gashed and mutilated the wretched creatures in a manner too shocking for detailment, beginning with the white one. A hoa.r.s.e rattle, smothered by the precautionary gag, burst from their tortured throats, and their convulsive struggles were frightful to behold. Yet they aroused no spark of compa.s.sion in these merciless b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

In silence the Kafirs contemplated the barbarous performance; then, unable to contain themselves any longer, they sprang to their feet and burst into a low war-song, rattling the shafts of their a.s.segais as they beat time to the savage rhythm. It was a weird and gruesome scene, such a sight as a man might witness once and remember all his life long.

Above, the great beetling cliff looming up against the midnight sky; around, the shadowy sleeping heights; in the midst that band of demon warriors, the green light of the magic fire touching their grim countenances with an unearthly hue as they circled round the hideous wizard and the quivering bodies of his tortured victims, chanting their terrific war-song. Every now and again a convulsive shudder would heave through the bodies of the miserable animals, whose glazing eyes rolled piteously as they writhed their necks and bared their jaws in their terrible agony.

For upwards of half an hour the dance went on, the chief men deeming it necessary from time to time to put in a restraining word, lest the suppressed excitement of their followers should break bounds; for sound travels far at night, and it would never do to attract attention.

Suddenly several voices exclaimed:

"The omen! The omen!"

In a moment all gathered round the gory and mangled carcases. One of the goats had ceased its struggles. The wizard p.r.i.c.ked it with his a.s.segai, but without producing the smallest sign of sensibility. The poor creature was stone dead. _It was the black one_.

The savages stared at each other in awed silence, then their astonishment found words.

"Ha! The black goat dies! The black goat dies and the white goat lives! Ha!"

This patent fact established, they troubled themselves no more about the other wretched victim, which showed unmistakable signs of lingering for some time to come, but turned attentively to the wizard in subdued and eager expectancy. Nomadudwana's tone was now no longer one of fiery exhortation. When he spoke it was with deliberation, even solemnity.

"The omen is sure. The black goat dies and the white goat lives. This night I have heard a voice--the voice of Sefele whom his brethren cast from yonder height and thought to slay. To slay! One who holds converse with the spirits! This night I have talked with Sefele in that cave which none can find but he who is loved by the shades of our ancestors. These are the words of Sefele: 'The fulness of time is not yet. Though it be long in coming, let not the fighting men of the Amaxosa fall asleep; let them watch the whites with sure and wakeful glance; let them take of their flocks and of their herds, when they can.

Let them go and work for the whites and cast dust in their eyes--even as we have led away on a false search the fool who lives yonder,'

(pointing to Armitage's homestead, lying silent and deserted on the other side of the river) 'and have made helpless with drink the wallowing Hottentot, his dog. But above all, let them acquire the fire-weapons of the whites and plenty of ammunition.' Thus speaks Sefele. Take his words with you. The fulness of time is not yet, but the omen is sure. Lo, the dawn is not far distant. Return as you came."

An awed murmur went round the band. The magic fire disappeared. They looked wonderingly at each other. Nomadudwana had vanished.