But he could get no further.

The cunning wizard was too much for him. Raising a series of terrific howls and effectually drowning his voice, and the voices of Usivulele and others, who would fain have allowed him a hearing, Nomadudwana made his way among the people brandishing his "medicine charms," and crying out that there was a plot on foot to defraud them of their prey--of their lawful vengeance on the white captive--and stirring them up to clamour for him to be delivered over to them. The plan was successful.

With one mighty roar every voice was raised besieging the chief with its bloodthirsty demands. Waiting until the tumult had subsided somewhat, Sandili raised his hand, and pointing his finger at the prisoner said, in slow but distinct tones:

"_Do with him what you will_."

Immediately the firm grasp of many hands was upon him, and Claverton felt that his time had now come.

"Wait!" he cried, in a ringing voice. "Wait--I have a message for the Great Chief."

His guards paused awe-stricken. A red flash darted into their midst, and loud rolled the thunderpeal immediately overhead. With a swift glance upward the prisoner continued:

"Hear me now, Sandili. My magic is greater than that of your most redoubted wizards. Who stood unseen at Nomadudwana's side in the spirit cave in Sefele's cliff and laughed?--I did. Who was wafted safely down yonder tremendous height and walked forth unhurt?--Ask the spirit of Nxabahlana, and the men who saw me. This is your sentence. Your tribe shall soon be driven from this land, which the English shall enjoy in its place. Your sons, Matanzima and Gonya there, shall work in chains for the English for many long years--the best years of their lives-- shall slave beneath the hot sun with common convicts, driven like oxen by their taskmasters. And you, yourself," he went on, speaking slowly and solemnly, as with outstretched hand he pointed at the savage chieftain, "you, Sandili--the Great Chief of the House of Gaika--before six moons are dead, you shall meet a dog's death at the hand of a Fingo 'dog,' and the chieftainship of the House of Gaika shall become in you a thing of the past. This is my 'word' to you, Sandili, and to all present."

Nothing but the speaker's reputation as a wizard, who had made his magic felt, would have obtained for him a hearing. His listeners were obviously impressed. There was a moment of silence.

"Whaow!" suddenly exclaimed the Kafirs standing around. "Listen to the white man! He dares to revile the Great Chief!"

The countenance of the old chief became gloomy and troubled as Claverton finished speaking. Then again he raised his hand in fatal gesture.

"_Do with him what you will_."

What is that frightful crash as if the earth were split in twain, rent by an indescribably terrible blow? What is that dazzling, steely glare, all blue and plum-coloured and liquid in its blinding incandescence?

There is a smell of burning in the air, in spite of the rush of deluging rain slanting down like waterspouts on to the earth. Chief, councillors, captive, populace, can hardly see each other as they raise their heads, which they have bent, appalled beneath the crashing thunder-note of heaven. The blinding flood pours down upon them, lashing up the ground into a very torrent of liquid mud, as again that frightful peal shakes the earth, and the gleam of a fiery sea is in their eyes. No other thought have they for the moment than that of refuge from the fury of the storm. The prisoner is dragged into a hut, and, in a moment, not a single human form is to be seen in the open, while the terrific thunderclaps peal forth, and the lightning gleams blue upon the rush of water now flowing several inches deep over the soaked ashes of the fire which, but for this timely interference, would even now be devouring Claverton's limbs.

The hideous sport of these barbarians must even be deferred till morning, for not another stick or straw will be induced by any power on earth to light as the deluging rain still beats down upon the earth in unabated fury--nor can the people stand out in such weather to witness it, and this is of the very essence of the performance.

So there in the dark, stuffy Kafir hut, securely bound, jealously watched, and the last hope of deliverance fled, lies Arthur Claverton; beyond all reach of his friends; cast off by her of whose love he was more certain than of his own life; his hated rival triumphant and secure from his just vengeance; and he only awaiting the morrow to be dragged forth, in the prime of life, to suffer a slow and lingering death among unheard-of tortures in order to make sport for a crowd of brutal savages. Truly his lot is a hopeless one indeed.

Note 1. An inst.i.tution similar to the good old custom of "witch finding," among ourselves.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

"A LIFE FOR A LIFE."

When a man knows that the first light of dawn will see him led forth to a lingering death by torture, he is not likely to pa.s.s a very tranquil night, be he never so courageous or philosophical. Claverton exemplified both of these attributes to the full; yet as he lay there, thinking upon his position, even his fearless spirit sank within him.

To begin with, there was not the shadow of a chance of escape. He was firmly secured with strong and well-tried _reims_--a detail to which his captors, warned by the Mopela episode, had given their extra attention-- and two stalwart Kafirs, fully armed, mounted guard over him by relays, one lying across the door of the hut. Not a muscle could he move, not ever so slightly could he shift his wearisome position, but their eyes were upon him, as they sat chatting in their deep ba.s.s tones; but carefully avoiding any subject likely to interest their charge.

And he? He looked upon himself as dead already. His guards started and gazed at him watchfully, handling their weapons, as he ground his teeth audibly in the fury begotten of his reflections. Their task was not a congenial one, for in their superst.i.tions souls, hatred of a powerful enemy was strongly dashed with a touch of secret awe. They had witnessed what hid befallen Mopela, then the terrific storm breaking over them all at the very moment when they were about to sacrifice the prisoner, and now they were by no means easy in their minds, shut up at such close quarters with such a formidable foe, even though he was bound, and helpless as a log. The rain swept down in sheets outside, and the wind howled in furious gusts; within sat the prisoner and his savage sentinels, the latter huddled in their blankets and talking drowsily.

Yes. At last Claverton felt that he must yield to Fate. Fortune had befriended him for long, but now it had forsaken him. Many a trifling incident, little thought of at the time, now seemed fraught with direful omen. Lilian's forebodings of ill, followed by the reappearance of the hated rival; the unusually devoted leave-taking of his faithful follower; but what weighed him down most was the loss of the steel locket--the "charm," to which scarcely less than the savages he attached a superst.i.tious importance--as symbolising the constant protecting presence of his adored love with him in all danger. And now even this amulet had been taken from him, simultaneously with the love--the guiding star of his life--which it symbolised; well might the incident presage his doom, for life was of no further value to him.

Then an intense craving came over his soul once more to behold the tenderly-loved face, to hear the soothing tones of that voice; and with the grave yawning to receive him, Claverton would have bartered his salvation a dozen times over for one momentary glance of her who represented his all--his world--his Heaven--his G.o.d. And ever upon the thatch beat the monotonous fall of the rain, and in the dead silent night floated a weird cry from the lonely bush, answered by the occasional yelp of a half-starved cur prowling among the silent huts-- and the prisoner slept. Slept, but rested not, for his mind was wide awake. Now he was talking with Lilian, as of old at Seringa Vale, when all their future was wrapped in apprehensive uncertainty. Now he sat with her in the garden at Fountains Gap, and the birds sang around, and overhead the sky was one fair expanse of unclouded blue, even as the golden dawn of perfect and uninterrupted love opening its flowery pathway before them. Now it was that sweet sad parting in the grey, chill morning--and lo, he stood within a lonely valley, and his pistol was pointing at the heart of a man who stood before him--a man with an awful expression of rage, and terror, and despair upon his features--and the face was that of Ralph Truscott. Ah, so real! Then he awoke. It was morning, and his time had come. Other voices were mingled with those of his guards, and a chill blast of air came in at the open door of the hut, which was what had aroused him. But it was far from morning, for outside all was still dark and silent, save for the ceaseless patter of the rain.

"Good; we will go," the sentinels were saying in response to one of the new arrivals. "We are tired of sitting here in the dark, watching this white wizard; but it will soon be day, and then we shall get some rare fun out of him," and with a grunt of farewell the two Kafirs, huddling their blankets about them, crawled through the diminutive door and made off in search of more congenial quarters.

For some time after the sound of their retreating footsteps had ceased, the relief guards kept almost complete silence. The prisoner could hear them settling themselves down with a word or two of remark, and every now and then the rattle of their a.s.segais on the ground beside them, but the circ.u.mstance mattered nothing to him. His guards had been changed-- that was all. But after a while one of the said worthies, opening a little of the wicker-work door, bent his ear to the aperture, and appeared to be listening intently. Then he softly closed it and whispered:

"Lenzimbi!"

In spite of himself, Claverton could not restrain a start. He did not recognise the voice, but the whole action had been suspicions to a degree. Surely he was dreaming.

"Whaow!" exclaimed one of the Kafirs in a brutal tone. "This is poor work. Let's amuse ourselves a little with the cursed white dog!" and the speaker struck a match and proceeded to light his pipe, and, with a start of amazement, Claverton recognised the rugged, ma.s.sive features of Xuvani, the ex-cattle-herd of Seringa Vale.

Hardly able to believe his eyes, he stared again and again; but there the old man was, his face distinctly visible as he pressed down the tobacco with his middle finger, blowing out great clouds of smoke from his thick, bearded lips. The discovery, however, brought Claverton no hope. Yielding to the combination of circ.u.mstances, he had long pitched that article overboard, as he told himself, and watched it sink, and now the sooner the whole ship went after it the better. And then, like lightning, there flashed upon his recollection the words: "_The future is uncertain, and we never know what turn events may take, and that if ever at any time he or Tambusa can render you a service they will do so, even should it be at the risk of their lives--a life for a life_." How well he remembered Hicks translating the old cattle-herd's speech--that day long ago in the sunny garden at Seringa Vale--and how little importance he had attached to the Kafir's professions of grat.i.tude! He had not believed in them then, nor did he now in the gloomy night of his abandonment and downfall. Grat.i.tude! No. The word was not in the Kafir vocabulary, he thought, in bitter scorn, as again the brutal, mocking tones of the old savage fell upon his ear.

But along with them--covered by them, as it were--came that whisper again.

"It may be that Lenzimbi will watch the sun arise from among the tents of his people."

"Who speaks?" whispered Claverton, quickly.

"A friend. Tambusa."

"Ah!"

For a moment he could not speak--could scarcely think. His nerves had been terribly strained within the last forty-eight hours; and now the rush of blood to his head, the sudden overpowering revulsion of hope, succeeding the black, outer gloom of despair, would have been dangerous to the very reason of one less philosophically endowed. Life--liberty-- revenge, and after that--love! He dared not think of it. Yet it was within his grasp once more. These two were about to redeem their promise. They would save him yet.

He had not seen them before, for the simple reason that they had only arrived at the kraal after he had been thrown into the hut; and then by the merest chance. And now, like the bright warming sunshine let into a cold dungeon which had never known daylight, came that friendly whisper through the darkness.

"I am ready," he replied. "Just slip off these bits of _reimpje_, Tambusa; and give me an a.s.segai and a stick or something, and start me outside, and then if ever these devils get hold of me again, why, they're welcome to."

"Not yet, 'Nkos, not yet," whispered the young Kafir. "Too soon, too soon; there are still some of them awake. Leave it to us."

What a lifetime now was every moment to the prisoner! Each rain-drop seemed to fall with a crash like thunder; every sound was to his fevered impatience as the beat of footsteps coming to rend from him for ever this one last chance. The old man still sat by the door, occasionally growling out curses upon the dog of a white wizard, and wishing it was morning that they might begin their horrid work; but this the captive knew now to be only a blind. Hours--weeks--years--seemed to roll by in that terrible suspense; in reality it was scarcely more than half an hour.

At length some one touched him in the darkness, and this time it was Xuvani who spoke.

"Don't rise, Lenzimbi. Make the blood circulate, but do it quietly.

Don't move from your place until I tell you," and, dexterously feeling his way, the old man, in a couple of slashes, cut through the prisoner's bonds.

"Ah, that's better," whispered Claverton, stretching his limbs, which had been terribly cramped, so securely had they bound him. "But I say, Xuvani, there's a poor devil of a preacher shut up here somewhere.

Couldn't we bring him out, too?"

"Do I owe the _Umfundisi_ anything?" was the cold reply. "Lenzimbi shall go free, but I would not stir an arm to save a townfull of these black-coated preachers. If this white man is a real prophet, his G.o.d will save him; if not, the Gaikas may do what they please with him--I care not."

Now, I am aware that by all the laws of romance Claverton should have absolutely refused to accept his own deliverance rather than desert a countryman, whoever he might be. But, even at the risk of his irretrievably losing the reader's good opinion, the fact must be recorded that not only did no such wild idea enter his head for a moment, but that he there and then dismissed all thought of his companion in adversity from his mind. What was this cowardly, egotistical, "shoppy" preacher to him? He had never seen him before they had picked him up in the bush, and certainly had no great wish ever to see him again. If it had been Hicks or Armitage, or any of his old comrades, even Allen, the case would have been vastly different; but to sacrifice himself, Lilian, everything, for such as this--no, not he.

"Xuvani," he suddenly exclaimed. "Where is the 'charm' that was taken from me to-day? I cannot leave that behind."

"Whaow! It is lost," replied the old Kafir, a little impatiently.

"Stand up, now, and roll yourself in that blanket, for it is time to start."

But Claverton did not move. A queer freak had taken possession of him.