"He is not a bird, but he is something else. He is a wizard--a devil.

I tell you I know this white man. He is no ordinary man. I have seen him escape where no one but a wizard could have done it; not once, but twice, three times. Now, are you sure he is dead? Will you leave it to chance?"

A murmur of mingled a.s.sent and incredulity rose from the listeners.

Some shook their heads and smiled scornfully, but the majority evidently thought there was "something in it."

"And even if he is dead," continued the first speaker. "Even if he is dead, what a war-potion could be made out of the heart of such a man!

Haow!"

This decided them, and, with a ferocious hum of antic.i.p.ation, they started off to descend into the valley round the end of the cliff, and make sure of their prey; leaving a few behind to secure the missionary.

The unfortunate preacher was still lying where he had fallen in a faint, and the Kafirs had been too fully occupied with their princ.i.p.al foe to pay any attention to him. Now, however, they cl.u.s.tered round him, examining him curiously.

"Get up, white man!" cried one of the party, roughly, adding force to the injunction by a sharp p.r.i.c.k with his a.s.segai. The victim gave a groan and opened his eyes, but shut them again with a gasp of terror, and a prayer for mercy escaped his lips at the sight of the scowling dark faces and gleaming a.s.segai points, some of them red with blood.

A muttered consultation took place. The captive must be taken to the chief, Sandili. He was the first white man captured alive during the war.

"Whaow! It is not a warrior, it is a miserable _Umfundisi_," [Preacher]

said the most important man of the group, with a contemptuous scowl on his fierce, wrinkled countenance. "We shall frighten him to death if we are not careful. Here, _Umfundisi_!" he continued in a persuasive tone.

"Get up. We are not going to hurt you. Don't be frightened."

The poor missionary could hardly believe his ears.

"No, no. I am not frightened," he replied, in a quavering voice, sitting up and looking around; while several of the younger Kafirs spluttered with laughter at his abject appearance. "No, no--you will not hurt me; I am your friend. I like the Kafirs. You know me--I am a man of peace--not a fighting man--a man of peace."

The savage leader contemplated him with a sneer upon his face, then with a muttered injunction to the rest, he turned away with a grunt of contempt, whisking the tops off the gra.s.s-stalks with his k.n.o.bkerrie as he strode off in the direction taken by the bulk of the party. A scream of terror arose from the unfortunate missionary. His hands had already been tied behind him; and just then one of the young Kafirs, in sheer devilment, jerked his head back and held the cold edge of an a.s.segai against his throat. The unhappy prisoner thought his hour had come, and closed his eyes, shuddering. A roar of laughter arose from the spectators, and his tormentor let go of him, uttering a disdainful "click."

"Take care," warned one of the older men. "You'll kill him with fear, among you. That won't do. He must be taken to the Great Chief."

Meanwhile the searching party had reached the base of the cliff and were working their way along with some difficulty through the bush, while two men remained above to designate the exact spot where the fugitive had fallen. So dense and tangled was the profuse vegetation that it was some time before they could find it, and the rock above, half veiled by largish trees growing up against its surface, afforded no clue.

Suddenly a shout announced that the object of their search was found.

There, in a hollow formed by its own weight, lay the unfortunate horse.

Its legs were doubled under its body, the bones in many places had started through the skin, and it was horribly mangled. The girths had given way and the saddle lay, bent and scratched, partly detached from the carcase. It was a horrid sight.

By twos and threes the Kafirs straggling up, cl.u.s.tered around with exclamations of astonishment. Then a shout arose:

"Where is the white man?"

They looked at one another in blank amazement. There was the horse, sure enough--but--where was the rider?

Where, indeed? The ground all round had been carefully searched, and, unless he was gifted with wings as some of them had derisively suggested, he could not have escaped, for at that point the cliff was sheer. Involuntarily they glanced upwards as if they half expected to see him soaring in the air, laughing at them. They turned over the carcase of the horse, with a kind of forlorn hope that he might be lying crushed beneath--but no--he was not there, nor had they even expected he would be. Fairly puzzled they shook their heads, and a volley of e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.i.o.ns expressing astonishment, dismay, even alarm, gave vent to their unbounded surprise.

"There is no trace. He has disappeared into air?" they said.

From all this discussion the tall barbarian who had first suggested the search, had stood aloof. Now he struck in with a kind of "I told you so" expression in his look and voice:

"Did I not say that the white man was a wizard? Who laughs now? Where is he? Where is the man who jumped from yon height?"

He might well ask. For of the fugitive, alive or dead, there was absolutely no trace. Had his body stuck in one of the trees, or rested on a ledge? No. Those above could see every projection in the rock, and the trees were free from any such burden. And around the spot where the horse lay and on to which it had fallen straight, there was no sign or shadow of a footmark to show whither the human performer of that fearful leap had betaken himself, even if he had reached the ground alive--which was impossible. He had melted into air, and it was nearly evening; to continue the search would be useless.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER NINETEEN.

THE DARKEST HOUR.

When Lilian saw Payne return to the house alone, unaccompanied by her lover, it seemed that her cup of bitterness was full to the brim.

He had taken her at her word, then, even as she had besought him to do, and had left her, wearied of her weakness and vacillation; had left her in bitter anger that she should have made a plaything of his love, taking it up and casting it from her again as the humour seized her.

Yes; it must be so, she told herself; and yet, if he only knew! But he never would know. Her martyrdom was complete. Not even would she have the consolation of knowing that if they parted in sorrow, at any rate they parted in love, as was the case that former time. No; this time anger and contempt for a weak creature who did not know her own mind would soon take the place of his former love--and then? Ah, what did it matter? She had sacrificed herself, and the sacrifice was complete; what mattered a mere triviality of detail? He was gone, and she would see his face no more, and she--she had saved him and ought to be only too glad that the opportunity of doing so had been allowed her--at least, so she told herself.

So she told herself, but ah! she could not feel glad. Her plan had succeeded, as she had been hoping, yet not daring to pray, that it would; but now that it had, she discovered that side by side with her heroic resolution had lurked a subtle hope that even yet she might look upon him again. That hope was now fulfilled, and lo! all was darker than it had been hitherto--so dark that it could never be light again.

Could it not? Even then, breaking in upon the outer gloom of her terrible despair, came her lover's last message--"_A very few days will see me back here again. Everything will come right then_"--bringing a gleam of hope to her crushed heart. He would come back--at any rate he would come back--and then, those confident words: "_Everything will come right then_." For the first time a strong doubt came over her as to the truth of Truscott's allegations. It might be that he was lying, according to his wont--lying in order to gain some private end, to revenge himself upon her--for she now no longer believed that he really loved her. Yet he had spoken so confidently, with such an exhaustive reliance in his facts. Still there might be some mystery about it, which her lover was able to solve. Ah! why had she not asked him when he was here just now? Why had she not begged him to clear up this horrid doubt; to tell her openly about his past life? She had been unnerved: had lost her head for the time being. Still it is probable that she would have asked him, but for the inopportune return of the Paynes. Well, it was too late now; she must wait patiently for his return, and then--if only the opportunity was allowed her--a lifetime of tenderness and devotion could hardly atone for this dreadful doubt.

"Why, Lilian," exclaimed her hostess, affectionately, "you are looking quite your old self again. Cheer up, darling. All will come right, I'm sure of that; and so are you, I can see it in your eyes."

And, indeed, the revulsion of hope, setting in upon that black tide of despair, had brought a glow into Lilian's cheek and a light into her eyes such as had not been seen there for many a day. Yet it would not do to be too elated yet.

"G.o.d grant it may," she replied, with an attempt at a smile, and there was a good deal of hugging and kissing between the two women, and a few tears; and then Lilian went down to delight Rose's heart by telling her she would go for a walk with her, after all; that part of the afternoon's programme having fallen through in subservience to the more important events which had supervened, to the little girl's intense disappointment.

And the walk did her good. Everything would come right, she kept telling herself, and, as they strolled homeward when the afterglow in the west was purpling into twilight gloom and the peaks of the Winterberg range stood out--cold, distant, and steely--Lilian's heart was full of a prayerful hope that their future might, after all, be bright and cloudless as yon clear sky, when doubts and torturing fears had all been swept away; and though her little companion found her somewhat grave and disinclined to talk, yet the calm, sweet light of returning peace in her eyes, which the child stole many a wondering look at, more than made up for her silence.

If the Paynes were somewhat apprehensive as to the future--or rather as to the events of the next few days--they kept it to themselves, and that evening was quite a cheerful one. Hope had taken root and thriven in Lilian's heart, and, as she kept on repeating to herself her lover's message, she seemed to hear the confident ring of his own words: "_Everything will come right then_," and wae comforted; at least, comparatively so. But whatever happened she would ask him to tell her all his past life, and somehow she did not look forward to the revelation with dread.

Payne, however, was by no means easy in his mind about the somewhat desperate plan which his friend had unfolded to him. To honest George's straightforward reasoning it thoroughly recommended itself. The best way to settle an affair of this kind was by a downright "rough-and-tumble," as he put it, but then there was the law, an uncommonly ticklish customer to deal with, once it took it into its head to vindicate its outraged dignity. As regarded that, however, the business might be managed away on the quiet somewhere, at the seat of hostilities, where law was very much in abeyance just then; though at any other time, as he had told his friend, it would be impossible. But for all that, he heartily wished him safe through the business.

Claverton was a splendid pistol-shot, of that he had, on more than one occasion, had ocular evidence, and if he winged his man, or even killed him, it was all in the fortune of war; for Payne had seen rough times himself at the Gold Fields and even on the Kaffrarian border, and did not hold human life as so momentous a thing as did, for instance, the clergyman of the parish wherein he at present resided. To the wife of his bosom, however, he did not impart any of these reflections; on the contrary, he made rather light of the affair.

"A row?" he said, in answer to her misgivings. "Oh, yes, there's sure to be a row--the very devil of a row, in fact; but then Claverton's thoroughly well able to take care of himself."

"But they will be shooting each other," she said, with a troubled shake of the head.

He turned quickly. "Eh? What? Not they! They'll only get to punching each other's heads--that's all, take my word for it." And honest George laughed light-heartedly at his wife's fears, though he knew that there was ample justification for them.

The following day brought even further comfort to poor Lilian, for towards evening Sam arrived. With a start and a flush she saw the native rein up at the gate, and then she grew deathly pale. He was riding his master's horse; she recognised the animal at a glance. Oh, what had happened? But then she noticed that Sam looked in no wise perturbed, as would have been the case were he the bearer of ill tidings. She noticed, further, that he was carefully extracting something from his pocket as he came up the garden path--something done up in paper. She flew to the door with a bright flush upon the sweet, sad face.

"Good evenin', Missie Lilian. Master said I was give you dis,"

exclaimed Sam, placing the note in her hand. It was a hastily-pencilled sc.r.a.p--only a few words, but words expressing such a wealth of undying love, ever and in spite of anything which had occurred or which might occur, that she retired into the room, and, sinking into a chair, pressed the bit of crumpled paper to her lips, and her tears fell like rain upon it.

"Oh, Arthur, my own darling love! you do not think the worse of me! Ah, I can bear anything now?" she murmured.

Could she? Nevertheless, it was well that the merciful veil of distance was drawn between her eyes and the tragedy which at that very moment was being enacted on the brow of a certain cliff, that calm, fair, cloudless evening.

Meanwhile, Sam was busy putting up the horse. It had not needed the haggard features and harsh, strained tones to bring home to his quick perception the certainty that something had gone decidedly wrong with his beloved master, hence the more than ordinary display of loyalty he had exhibited when they parted; and now, with the ready tact of his race, he turned away directly he had delivered the note to Lilian, awaiting her own time to call him and question him about its writer.

So, with his jacket off, and armed with a curry-comb and brush, Sam was making great play upon the matted and soiled coat of the tired horse when a sweet voice from the back-door called his name.

"Coming, Missie Lilian--coming," cried the faithful fellow, as he flung down his stable implements and hurried across the intervening bit of garden, shuffling on his jacket as he went.

"Sam, you must be very hot and tired after your journey. Drink this, and then I want to talk to you."