Bertram Mitford (continued 3)

“And then? What makes you think there’ll be anything worth finding if we do, for I suppose the two jokers never came back to dig it up again?”

“They didn’t, because to cut a long yarn short, the Zulu-speaking chap knifed his mate directly after—and he himself was killed by a sort of outlaw tribe that hung out on the Swazi border. So there the stuff is, waiting for us to dig out, and it’ll mean a tidy fortune apiece.”

“Yes, but what of the stuff being worth finding?” urged Wyvern, again. He was beginning to feel less sanguine than at first.

“It is—for these reasons. First of all, the comparatively small compass of the loads, points to proportionate value. Then that ruffian murdered his remaining pal so as to get the benefit of the whole lot—but, more important still, Hlabulana more than once caught sight of shining stones, some white, some red and green, in fact, he thinks there were other colours. He remembers it perfectly because once he saw them sorting these into different bags I believe, too, one of the boxes contained bar gold, for he says it was as heavy as a stone of the same size. After the third chap had been knifed Hlabulana thought it about time to make himself scarce and he accordingly did.”

“You believe his yarn then, absolutely?”

“Absolutely.”

“Well, but—” went on Wyvern, “why didn’t he prospect for the stuff himself, and get all the benefit of it?”

“The untrousered savage is a queer devil, Wyvern; at least as he is represented in this country. The fact is Hlabulana is afraid to meddle with this himself—Zulus are a superstitious crowd you know. As he puts it—white people can do anything, no matter how ‘tagati.’ Wherefore we are to unearth the stuff and give him a share of the plunder according to its value.”

“Confiding of him, very. Do you find them often that way?”

“Oftener than you’d think. When a Zulu has made up his mind you’re to be trusted, he’ll trust you almost to an unlimited extent.”

“Well now, Fleetwood, where is this Golconda?”

“In one of the wildest and most remote tracts of the Zulu country, the Lumisana forest. I’ve been into it once, but never explored it. There’s no trade there to speak of, or anything to take a white man into it. This find, however, is to be made in a sort of amphitheatre, or hollow, known to the Zulus as Ukohlo. Now, listen, Wyvern. We haven’t got to talk about this even between ourselves, unless we’re out like this. You never know who the deuce may be within earshot.”

“That’s so. I’m all safe. I may be a damn fool at money making, or rather, money losing, but I do know how to keep my head shut. But look here, Joe. Have you got any theory of your own with regard to this yarn; for I take it those four beauties didn’t come up out of the sea and lug a few bags of valuable stones up to a remote corner of the Zulu country and plant them there for the future emolument of you and me?”

“Rather. I have a theory. I believe the whole thing spells a big robbery in some other part of the world, what of or who from is a mystery and always will be, for you bet these jokers didn’t leave any clue with the stuff they planted. The fact that the one of them, who for convenience sake we’ll call the leading rip, could talk some Zulu points to the fact that he at any rate had been there before, that the Zululand coast was their deliberate objective, and they couldn’t well have struck a better one. Whether they stole the ship as well is another question, or whether there were more on board her, and these four managed to scuttle her so as to destroy all trace and then clear out with the only boat, is a mystery too. But obviously they reckoned on getting through into Transvaal territory and that way to Europe, thus completely hiding their trail, which was an ingenious idea.”

Wyvern puffed at his pipe for a minute or two. Then seriously:

“What about this, Joe? This stuff—if it is the proceeds of a robbery—what right have we to benefit by it?”

Fleetwood started, stared, then threw back his head and roared.

“Good Lord, Wyvern, you ought to have been a parson. I wouldn’t do a shot on anyone unfairly, as you know. Man alive, but I was only giving you one of my theories—I may have others. Here’s one. You know from time to time yarns crop up in the papers about buried treasure in the West Indies and all sorts of those old piratical romps. Well, this may be a case in point, and these oily-looking, cut-throat scoundrels may have struck upon just one of these finds. To save awkward questions, and the possibility of awkward claims as to ‘treasure trove,’ and all that, they may have hit upon the dodge of bringing it across the sea right out of the ordinary course. Well, now, that theory is just as good as the other. It may be hundreds of years since the swag had a lawful owner or owners. Eh?”

“Yes, that’s all right too.”

“Very well then. We are just as much entitled to the use of it as anyone else. We want money. I do, and judging from that portrait we were talking about just now, why, you poor old chap, you want it a darned sight more. Is that sound reasoning?”

“Perfectly.” His last sight of Lalanté came before Wyvern’s mental gaze; the bitterness and desolation of their parting. Oh, anything that should bring her to him, should secure her to him, provided it was not downright dishonest—and what would he not go through!

“Mind you,” went on Fleetwood, “we haven’t got the stuff yet, and it’ll be a job carrying plenty of risk with it before we do. The Zulu country is a simmering volcano just now over the restoration of Cetywayo. The Usútu faction—that is the King’s faction—and the other side bossed by John Dunn, Sibepu, Hamu and the rest, are glaring at each other all ready to jump at each other’s throats, and when they do it’ll be all hell let loose. Our war’ll be a fleabite to it. We’ll go in, of course, ostensibly as traders, and then be guided by events.”

Wyvern nodded. The prospect of adventure fired his blood. In it he would at any rate partially lose that sense of desolation which was upon him day and night.

“So you see, old chap,” went on Fleetwood, “I didn’t lug you up here to make your fortune out of trading beads, and butcher knives, and yards of Salampore cloth; and, I hope before this time next year to come and do best man at your wedding. Eh?”

“That you shall if it comes off—which of course will depend on our success. By the way, where is this Hlabulana now?”

“He’s at a kraal on the Umvoti, near Stanger, keeping in touch with me. Success? Of course we’ll meet success. Now we’ve had our say we’ll go back and drink to it. After all Durban’s an infernally thirsty place. Success! I should think so.”

Yet at that moment Bully Rawson, unscrupulous ruffian and general cut-throat, was repeating over and over again Warren’s emphatic, if laconic, instructions, “Take care of him. Do you hear? Take care of him,” and was promising himself that he would.

Chapter Fifteen.

Mnyamana’s Cattle.

High up among the crags they crouched, like eagles looking forth from an eyrie, sweeping indeed with eagle-like gaze the vast expanse of plain which lay in many an undulating roll, outspread beneath.

Three dark forms, long and lithe, destitute of clothing save for the mútya and a few war adornments in the way of cow-hair tufts, or feathers. Beside each were several bright, broad-bladed assegais, and medium-sized shields, just where they had been deposited. Far away in the distance rose a cloud of dust—a moving cloud of dust.

“Ou! the hand of the spoiler sweeps. The dust which it raises floats away, that which causes it moves on.”

A hum of assent greeted this murmured remark, and the eager attention of the look-out was redoubled. The face of the mountain fell grandly away in terraced slopes, rows of great krantzes intervening. There was a glorious feeling of air, and height, and domination from this lofty post of outlook. Far above, a number of white specks soared and floated against the blue empyrean. The instinct of the vulture is unerring, and that instinct had been kept well in practice as regarded this disturbed region for some time past.

The dust cloud moved onward, drawing nearer, yet still a great way off. The faces of the watching three were rigid in their eagerness, the eyes dilated, the nostrils distended like those of a stag snuffing the wind. Then the one who had spoken, taking a broad assegai from the bundle which lay beside him, slid, with a serpentine writhe, down from his coign of vantage, then when the ridge of this was well between him and the expanse over which he had been watching, he drew himself up in a sitting posture, and holding the spear so that it pointed vertically upwards, took one glance at the sun, then twirled the bright blade slowly, facing down upon the valley beneath. This was done several times, until an answering gleam appeared far below. The signaller, satisfied, wormed himself back into his former position on the very crest of the mountain. They renewed their watch, those human eagles, their tense, self-contained excitement deepening as the moments fled by, and it preluded a swoop.

Looking back, to whence had come the answering signal gleam, a maze of broken valley, interseamed with dongas, lay outspread. Opposite and beyond this, a further rocky range towered in a crescent wall. A rugged wilderness, silent, deserted, given over to savage solitude. Yet—was it?

Rank upon rank they crouched, those dark rows of armed warriors, their variegated shields and broad assegais lying upon the ground in front of them. Row upon row of eager, expectant faces; set, intense; the roll of eyeballs alone giving sign of mobile life, a constrained hum passing down the gathering as they drank in the impassioned and burning words of the speaker.

He was a largely-built, thick-set Zulu of a rich copper colour, which threw out in unwonted blackness the jetty shine of his head-ring. He held himself with the erect, haughty ease of a king addressing his subjects, of a despot speaking to those who owned their very lives only at his will. Yet, he was not the King.

He had begun addressing them in the sitting posture, but as he warmed to his subject had risen to his feet, and now strode up and down as he spoke.

“I am nobody. I am a boy. I am a child among the sons of Senzangakona, the Root of the Tree that overshadows the land, the rise of the sun that sheds light on the people. It is not I who should be talking here to-day, Amazulu. Hau! even as that Great One foretold, he who died by ‘the stroke of Sopuza’ the land is splintered and rent. He, Senzangakona’s great son, he whom the whites have taken from us, the shine of whose head-ring is dulled in his prison—what of him? Not little by little, but in large cuts his ‘life’ is being rent from him. Where are they whom he left—they who were as his life? Ha! are they not given over as a prey to a traitor; the spoiler of his father’s house, the son of Mapita. Who is he? The dog of him who is gone. Who is Sibepu?”

“Whau! Sibepu!” broke from the listeners. “The spoiler of his father’s house!”

“Eh-hé! The spoiler of his father’s house!” echoed the group of chiefs, squatted behind the speaker.

“From the meanest of the nation,” went on the speaker, “the Abelungu have chosen those who should be kings over us. Umfanawendhlela, he who now sits at the royal kraals on the Mahlabatini. Who is he? Who is Umfanawendhlela?”

“Whau! Umfanawendhlela!” broke forth again the contemptuous roar.

“Yet such as these are the Abelungu now using as their dogs, setting them on to hunt those before whom they formerly cringed and crawled. Those of the House of Senzangakona are already hungry. All their cattle is being taken by these dogs of the Abelungu, and with the women of the Royal House they can do what they will, for have they not already done so? But behind these sits another dog and laughs. U’ Jandone! Who is Jandone?”

“Hau! U’ Jandone!”

This time the roar was indescribable in its volume of execration. It seemed to split the surrounding rocks with the concentrated vengefulness of its echo. For a few moments the speaker could not continue, so irrepressible were the murmurs of wrath and hate which seethed through the ranks of his listeners.

“Who made him a Zulu,” he went on, “since he came into the country white? Who made him rich—rich in cattle, and wives, and power? Who but him who is gone? But when the storm gathered and the Abelungu invented childish grievances and said ‘the might of Zulu must be crushed’—did this one who had come here white to be made black; who had come here poor to be made rich—did he stand by that Great One’s side and say ‘This is my father who has made me great. This is my friend, by whom I am what I am. I hold his hand. His fall is my fall. Did he?’ Hau! Jandone!”

“Hau! Jandone!” repeated the audience once more in deep-toned wrath and disgust.

Gloomy lightning seemed to shine from the chief’s eyes, as with head thrown back and a sneer on his lips, he contemplated the humour of the gathering. He proceeded:

“Our father, Mnyamana, is not here to-day. He is old, and it were better for him to die hungry at home than in the white man’s prison. But upon him, heavily have the dogs of the white man fallen, upon him, the valued adviser of two kings. Even now they are eating him up. But—shall they? Behold,” and he threw out a hand.

The assembly, following the gesture, turned. High up on the hillside something gleamed—gleamed and glittered again and again. It was the answering signal to those who watched on the mountain crest, and—it was the second answer.

With a deep, fierce murmur the warriors, gripping their shields and weapons, sprang to their feet as one man. Again Dabulamanzi waved his hand.

“In silence,” he said. “In silence. So shall we fall upon them the easier.”

In silence, accordingly, the great impi moved forth, no shouting, no war-song—but all the more terrible for that. It differed from the state of things prior to, and at the time of the war, in that here were no regiments—head-ringed men and youngsters marching side by side. But upon every face was the grim dark look of hate, not merely the eager anticipation of impending battle, but worse. The fraternal feud is proverbially the most envenomed. Against no white invader—English or Dutch—were these going forth but against those of their own kindred and colour, towards whom they felt exactly as Royalist did towards Roundhead in a different quarter of the globe three centuries earlier.

Through a long, narrow defile, running round the base of the mountain on which the outlook was posted, streamed the dark human torrent. On over each roll of plain it poured. At length it halted on a ridge. Grey whirling clouds of dust close at hand drew nearer and nearer, and through them the hides and horns of driven cattle. At the sight a fierce gasp went up from the impi, and the warriors looked for the word of their leaders to fall on.

The beasts were driven by a large armed force, though smaller numerically than this which had come to recapture them.

Those in charge, taken by surprise, halted their men. They had walked into a wasp’s nest, yet were not disposed to climb down without an effort. So they stood waiting.

They had not long to wait. The impi headed straight for the cattle, and with a decision of purpose that left nothing to be desired, wedged between them and their drivers, and headed them off in another direction. The animals, panic-stricken, began to run wildly; cows with their calves racing one way, staid oxen, caught with the fever of the scare, now and then charging their new drivers, but these were seasoned to that sort of thing, and would skip nimbly out of the way, or roll on the ground, just in time to avoid the head thrust, while to all, each and every incident risky or laughable, was a source of infinite sport. One bull—chocolate-hided, sharp-horned—grew more than a danger, for with that shrill growling bellow emitted by his kind when partly scared and wholly angered, he drove his horns clean through a young warrior, flinging the rent carcase furiously in the air. But this in nowise detracted from the fun in general. Him however they incontinently assegaied.

The while a hubbub of voices rose loud through the trampling and bellowing of the cattle, whose drivers were inclined to show fight. This was in a measure stilled as the leader of the impi strode to the fore. As a brother of the exiled king he was too big a man for even the opposition party to treat otherwise than with a sulky respect.

“Whou, Qapela!” spoke Dabulamanzi, confronting the leader of the band that was driving the cattle. “What is this we see? A fighting leader of the Nokenke regiment, who slew three whites with his own assegai at Isandhlwana, now turned white man’s dog, now snapping at his absent king. Whou, Qapela!”

“Whou! Qapela!” echoed the warriors, in roaring derision, as more and more came crowding up.

He, thus held up to scorn, a ringed man of middle age, scowled savagely. It was one thing to be derided by a branch of the Royal Tree, quite another to be savagely hooted by a pack of unringed boys. It needed but a spark to set the train alight, to bring on a savage and bloody fight between the two rival factions.

“No dog of any white man am I, Ndabezita,” (Note 1) he answered, gloomily defiant. “I am but fulfilling the ‘word’ of my chief.”

“And thy chief? Who is he?” went on Dabulamanzi, his head thrown back, in the pride of his royal rank as he confronted the man. “U’ Jandone?”

“Whou! Jandone!” roared the warriors in scathing derision.

“Not so, Ndabezita,” replied the other, in a cool sneering voice, as that of one who is about to score. “My chief is a branch of the Royal Tree; a long branch of the Royal Tree—ah-ah—a long branch. What of U’ Hamu?”

The point was that he had named another brother of the King, an older one than Dabulamanzi; one of the chiefs under the Wolseley settlement, who with John Dunn and Sibepu, and one or two more, was actively opposed to Cetywayo’s return.

“Ha! A long branch!” sneered Dabulamanzi. “A branch cut-off from the Royal Tree. How is that, Qapela?”

“Whou! Qapela!” roared the warriors again, pointing their assegais at him in derision.

“As to ‘cut-off,’ I know not,” answered the other, stung out of his natural respect towards one of the Royal House. “This I know—that that branch now puts forth the most leaves. The ‘word’ from it was: ‘Take the cattle of Mnyamana,’ and I have taken them.”

“But no further shalt thou take them, dead leaf of the cut-off branch,” replied Dabulamanzi, “for we have taken them from thee. See. There they go.”

Away—now quite at a distance, the animals were visible, going at a run, propelled towards the mountain fastnesses by quite a number of men. This fact, too, Qapela noted, and noted with significance, for it meant that by just that number of warriors was the opposing impi reduced, thus bringing it as nearly as possible upon equal terms with his own. He had lost the cattle—for which he was responsible, and the chief to whom he did konza was no indulgent master. But what if he were to avenge their loss? The obligation he would thus lay himself under would far, far outweigh the mere carrying out of his original orders. He stole one quick look over his followers. Yes. The thing could be done, if only he could convey some sort of word or signal that they should strike immediately and in concert.

But there was with Dabulamanzi’s force an old induna named Untúswa, a scarred old battle-dog whose whole life had been spent in a laughing acquaintance with Death, by the side of whose crowded experience such a crisis as this was as the merest child’s play; a born strategist, moreover, whose rapidity of plan had turned the scale of more than one hard fought and bloody struggle. He, while these amenities were going forward, had taken but scant notice of them; instead, had let his observation—the outcome of exhaustive experience—go as to the attitude of the other side, and also that of his own. With regard to the latter, a mere breathed word here and there had been sufficient. Warriors had slipped away unostentatiously from his side—to mingle with the rest—far and near—and as they went, they, too, carried a word.

Untúswa read Qapela’s mind, and Untúswa knew, none better, the supreme advantage of getting in the first blow. Now he lifted up his voice and roared in deep sonorous tone, the war-shout of the King’s party.

“Usútu!”

Like an answering wave in thunder on an iron-bound coast it was taken up and rolled through the multitude. The ranks seemed to tighten a moment, then hurled themselves upon the opposing force. For a few moments there was deadly work—the tramp of feet, the flapping of shield against shie|d, the death-hiss—the strident “I-jjí! I-jjí!” as the spear or heavy knob-stick struck home; then Qapela’s force, overwhelmed, demoralised by the suddenness of the onslaught, broke and fled in blind, scattered confusion, the Usútu impi in hot pursuit. A mandate from Dabulamanzi, however, recalled this, as far as was practicable. He had no wish to destroy his own people, any more of them, that is, than was absolutely necessary, only to show that the King, though an exile, was still the Great Great One, in whose light they lived, and that his wrath could still burn far and terrible upon these rebellious ones. But that mandate could not reach those in the forefront of the pursuit, who, carried away by the irresistible dash and excitement of it all, were already far beyond reach of recall. So the chase kept on, not always to the advantage of the pursuers, for these would often turn—and then it was as the fighting of a cornered wild animal. Mile upon mile this fierce running fight went on, until the shades of evening began to deepen, and then there was just one left, a young man, lithe and fleet of foot; and he, beset by a relentless score, stumbled, gasping and exhausted, his breath coming in labouring sobs, into a white man’s camp, to fall, prone, incapable of further movement, nearly across the white men’s fire.

Note 1. A term of honour accorded to male members of the Royal House.

Chapter Sixteen.

The Refugee.

“Yes, I’m afraid there’s thunder in the air,” said Joe Fleetwood, lazily sharpening a well-worn sheath-knife upon the iron rim of a waggon wheel. “All these runners passing to and fro—bristling with assegais, too, and in too much almighty hurry to stop and talk—seem to point that way.”

“How’ll that affect our scheme?” said Wyvern lazily; he was lying on his back on the ground, his head on his hands and a pipe between his teeth, looking the picture of ease and content. A little way off the waggon boys—all Natal natives—were washing and scrubbing the enamelled metal plates on which their masters had not long ago been lunching, chatting among themselves in subdued tones; and, squatting apart, and throwing at them an occasional remark, was a head-ringed Zulu. Away in front stretched an amphitheatre of mountains, whose wall-like cliffs gleamed in the afternoon sun.

“It may affect us this way,” went on Fleetwood, “that if the rival parties come to blows we may be expected to take sides or be chawed up between the two.”

“The deuce! Well, we didn’t reckon on a second edition of ’79, as part of our plans, did we? It won’t forward what we came up for, either.”

“No, it won’t. Another bad sign is we’ve done next to no trade. When once it became patent we weren’t gun-runners, they’ve kept at a respectful distance.”

They had come into the Zulu country as ordinary traders, with two waggons. Fleetwood, of course, was well aware that under existing circumstances trade would be almost at a standstill, but the waggon loads were a pretext; a blind to cover their real intentions.

Now the Zulu before mentioned got up, stretched himself, and strolled leisurely over to them. He was an elderly man with a pleasing face, and, if anything, inclined to stoutness.

“There is thunder in the air,” he said, in a casual tone.

“I made that remark but now, Hlabulana,” answered Fleetwood. “Well?”

“While sitting over yonder my ears were open to other sounds than the chatter of these Amakafula,” went on the Zulu in the same low, matter-of-fact tones. “They heard sounds of war.”

“Of war?” repeated Joe, examining the edge of the knife. “Now what sounds were they, Hlabulana?”

“The rush of many feet—the rumble of hoofs. Men are striving, and it is for cattle.”

“I hear it again,” said Hlabulana, who had resumed his squatting attitude.

“So do I,” said the trader, who had seated himself on the ground, and who, while not seeming to, was listening intently.

“What are you two chaps yarning about?” said Wyvern, raising himself upon one elbow. He had mastered the Zulu tongue so far but indifferently. “Hallo! What the deuce is that? Did you hear it?”

Fleetwood nodded. The waggon boys had dropped their work and sprang to their feet, uttering quick exclamations as they stared forth over the veldt. Again that dull and distant roar boomed forth upon the lazy air.

“You and I have heard it before, Wyvern. At Hlobane, for instance. How about the King’s war-shout?”

Wyvern started, and looked grave.

“‘Usútu’?” he said, listening again. “Why, so it might be. Shall we be attacked then, because if so, I’m afraid our chances are slight.”

“I don’t think they’ll interfere with us. What do you think, Hlabulana?” relapsing into the vernacular. “What is being done yonder?”

He addressed, who had been listening intently, shrugged his shoulders slightly.

“I think that the Abesutu and the children of the white man’s chiefs have—met,” he answered, a comical crinkle coming round the corners of his eyes. “Whau! they are always meeting, only to-day there seem more of them than usual. See. They draw nearer.”

Now the sounds of the tumult, though faint, were audible without an effort. It was noticeable that the Natal boys edged very close indeed to their white masters. The Native Contingent at Isandhlwana had been made up largely of their kindred, and the tradition thereof was still fresh and green. A quick exclamation escaped them.

For, over the low ridge sparsely covered with bush, about a mile north-west of their outspan, figures had now come in sight—figures running—dark figures—and now and again something gleamed. More and more came over, and among them were more and more points that gleamed. Fleetwood and Wyvern exchanged a word, then dived into a waggon, to re-appear in a moment, each with a double gun and a very business-like revolver indeed. The native boys fished out a knob-kerrie apiece from somewhere—not that it would have been of much use, still it was some sort of a weapon. The only one who betrayed not the smallest sign of excitement was Hlabulana, the Zulu.

“They are running,” he said—“running away. They are not running to attack. Wou! Pakati!” he exclaimed, as one of the fugitives, overtaken by three pursuers, fell.

And now the rout drew very near. There was little noise and no shouting—presumably pursuers and pursued required all their wind. Then the spectators could see that of the latter there was only one left.

He was a young man, tall and long-legged, and with head down he covered the ground with great strides, just keeping his distance and never looking round. Clearly he was making for the white man’s protection as his only chance, but—would the white man have the power to afford it?

Eagerly and with deepening excitement did the spectators watch the progress of this straining chase. Ah! he is down! no, it is only a stumble, and as he recovers himself the exultant yell changes to accents of rage. One or two stop, and hurl assegais, but these fall short. A hundred yards more—fifty, forty, ten, and then—the fugitive staggers up and falls—almost into the fire—as we have seen.

The pursuit made no halt, but poured on as though to overwhelm the camp itself.

“We can’t have this, Wyvern,” muttered Fleetwood uneasily. Then, in the Zulu: “Halt. He who comes ten steps further—drops.”

The effect was magical. This white man was known to them, known to them too as one who in a matter of this kind might be relied upon to keep his word. Wherefore they halted with an alacrity that was wholly commendable. A murmur went up.

“It is Ujó!”

“That is right,” briskly answered Fleetwood. “And knowing that you know me. And knowing me, you know that any man who takes refuge in my camp is safe: safe from anybody, as long as I am safe, this is. Now—has anybody any inclination to try if I am safe?”

The opposing crowd consisted of young men; hot-headed, hot-blooded young savages, armed, and having already tasted blood. Not yet were they inclined to relax hold upon their prey. Vociferating, they waved their spears—many of them blood-stained—and their shields, roaring for their prize, their victim. And, by now others having come up to swell the tumult, there were about threescore of them.

“Give him to us!” they bellowed. “He is ours. But for your camp our spears would have drunk his blood ere this.”

Fleetwood stood facing them, and shook his head.

“No. I will not give him to you,” he answered, quietly decisive.

The uproar grew. Angry voices were raised in hubbub and spears waved. It looked as if a sudden impetuous charge, which would have overwhelmed all before it, was about to be made. But somehow those two double-barrels—for Wyvern had taken his cue from the other and, aiming low, had got his piece well upon the confronting mass—constituted a moral force there was no gainsaying. They made no aggressive move.

“This is our meat you have taken, Ujó,” called out one, who seemed the most prominent among the excited Usutus. “Meat for the teeth of our spears. Now, give it up, for we will have it.”

“You will not have it, Jolwana, not from here, at any rate,” answered Fleetwood, who knew the speaker. “Au! and how didst thou win thy head-ring? Was it not in company with a son of Majendwa? And what of him who lies here? He, too, is a son of Majendwa. Hamba gahlé! Yes—go carefully, for the sons of Majendwa are many.”

He thus addressed as Jolwana seemed beside himself with rage. He addressed a few furious words to the others in a ferocious undertone. A move forward was made and a threatening roar went up from the whole pack. But simultaneously with it, a shot rang out sharp. Jolwana’s shield, then flourished over his head, was pierced, and Jolwana’s fingers ached with the concussion.

“I was but playing with thee, Jolwana,” went on Fleetwood, slipping a fresh cartridge into his rifle barrel with lightning-like rapidity. “Stop now, or next time thou goest into the Great Unknown. Then—what of thy two young wives—thy new, pleasant young wives? Whose will they then become?”

At these words, another roar went up, but it was a roar of laughter. Fleetwood not only knew the other, but knew his circumstances thoroughly. A young man to be head-ringed, and one whom Cetywayo had allowed to tunga near the close of the war, and that for a special and secret service performed, he had the reputation of being intensely jealous. With this knowledge used with rare tact, Fleetwood had succeeded in turning the angry crowd into a laughing crowd, and it is a truism that a laughing crowd ceases to be dangerous. This crowd now roared with laughter again and again, for the Zulu has a keen sense of humour. So these heated combatants, themselves and their weapons bespattered with the blood of fleeing fugitives, forgot their blood-lust, and roared with genuine merriment again and again. But Jolwana, their leader, the only one head-ringed among them, did not seem to enter into the joke at all. However, he stopped, which was all Fleetwood—and, incidentally, Wyvern—wanted of him.

“A son of Majendwa!” he scoffed. “Au! but a son of Majendwa ceases to be such when he is found on that side. He has become a hunting dog of the Abelungu.”

“Who art thou?” asked Fleetwood of the fugitive, who had now recovered from his exhaustion. “I recall thy face but thy name escapes me.”

“Mtezani-ka-Majendwa,” was the answer. “It is right what he has said.”

“Ka-Majendwa? Yes?” rejoined Fleetwood, half questioningly. “Majendwa has many sons. Yet they—and all the Abaqulusi are on the side of the Abesutu?”

“As to that, my father, there is something of a tale to tell. Yet I have not done with these”—with a wave of the hand towards Jolwana and his followers. “Ah—ah—I have not done with these, but one man can do nothing against threescore. Still, my time will come.”

Fleetwood, whose sympathies were all with the King’s party, eyed him doubtfully, though, of course, as one who had thrown himself on his protection the young man’s safety was absolutely inviolable in so far as he was able to assure it. All of which Mtezani read.

“Something of a tale to tell, my father,” he repeated. “Wait till you have heard it. And rest assured that in keeping me breathing this day you and the Inkosi yonder”—designating Wyvern—“have not done the worst thing for yourselves you have ever done in your lives.”

Now a great shout arose from the armed crowd, which had been seated, taking snuff.

“Hlalani gahlé Abelungu! We return to the Branch—the Branch of the Royal Tree! Hlala gahlé, Mtezani-ka-Majendwa! Wou! Mtezani-ka-Majendwa!”

It was the same mocking roar which had greeted the mention of the names of the chiefs as they were cited during Dabulamanzi’s stimulating address to his impi. The refugee scowled savagely after the retreating warriors—those who would have taken his life—and muttered. Fleetwood and Wyvern were delighted to see their backs, and returned the farewell with great cordiality. The Natal boys breathed freely once more. But Hlabulana, the Zulu, had sat serenely taking snuff all this while as though no heated—and critical—difference of opinion were taking place within a thousand miles of him.

Chapter Seventeen.

Nearing the Goal.

After this they held on their way without molestation, neither did they come across any further active indications as to the state of the country. Yet, though not active, the volcano was by no means extinct.

They progressed slowly—this partly on account of the ruggedness of the ground, over which nothing but South African built waggons could have travelled without coming in halves, partly because Fleetwood was careful to keep up appearances, and hide the real objective of their trek. Wherefore for days they would outspan near a group of kraals, although of trade there was next to nothing done. At this course of action Wyvern in no wise chafed. He was one of those rare units who recognise that in a given line the other man is an authority while he himself is not, consequently must be allowed an ungrudged free hand. For another thing he was vividly interested. He had fought against the Zulus, and of course except in battles and skirmishes had seen nothing of them. Now he was seeing a great deal of them. There was nothing he enjoyed so much, for instance, as sitting in a cool hut during the hot hours of the day, with three or four fine warriors, who possibly had been foremost in striving to shed his blood during the comparatively recent war, while they told their stories of this or that battle in which he himself had taken part. He was astonished, too, at the readiness with which he followed such narratives, considering that he was as yet very far from at home in the language. Still, gesture, expression, went a long way, and when he was in doubt there was always Fleetwood to help. But he was absorbing the language more and more every day; and the friendly ways of the people, frankly friendly but not servile, independent but always courteous, had long since brought him round to the opinion arrived at by others before him, with opportunities of judging, that the average Zulu is a gentleman. The people, for their part, were strongly attracted to him. His fine stature and presence in the first place appealed powerfully, as it always does to a fine race of warlike savages, in the next, his thoroughbred look, and well-bred ways told too; and the latter, no people are more capable of appreciating than these. As for the part he had taken against them in the late war, no shadow of a grudge or resentment did they bear against him for it; on the contrary, they looked upon him with enhanced respect on the strength of it; even as he himself had predicted to Lalanté would be the case. A man must fight at the “word” of his king, was their way of looking at it. They and the whites had met in fair fight; sometimes one side had got the best of it, and sometimes the other. There was no room for rancour on account of anything so plain and obvious. So Wyvern greatly enjoyed those hours spent in the company of dusky warriors, with a cool bowl of freshly-brewed tywala before him, the clinging cockroaches shimmering in the thatch of the hut overhead, while they vividly recapitulated the stirring times, not so long past, or mapped out with small stones on the floor—and with wonderful accuracy—the scene of more than one pitched battle from the point of view of their own position and tactics. And it might be that the time was coming when this good understanding should stand him in some stead in the hour of his sore peril and need.

And the incidents of the trek, and this in itself, was no mere picnic. There were times when the conditions of the road—though road in anything like the ordinary sense of the word there was none—were frequently such as to render five miles a day the utmost limits of their advance; when they would spend half a day stuck in a river-bed, with the flood steadily rising, the result of that slaty, blue-black curtain of cloud forming the background further up in the hills; when the storm beat down upon them in its terrific crash, and the whole atmosphere seemed tinged with incandescent electricity; and only by a well-nigh superhuman effort of desperation could they at length induce the span to move at the critical moment, failure in which would mean loss of half their outfit and of more than one life. Or when, after a tremendous rain-burst, the wheels would sink in the boggy soil, rendering it necessary to unload the contents of both waggons and dig a way out; and even then it might be necessary to chop a number of great thorn boughs in order to construct a sufficiently firm way. Incidents such as these would constitute a sufficiency of hard labour—in a steaming climate, too—at which an English navvy, if put, would not hesitate to go on strike. No, this trek decidedly was not a picnic. Yet through it all—drenchings, heat, exhaustion, what not—Wyvern never turned a hair. He was always equable, always ready to take things as they came. Fleetwood, less self-contained, was prone to fire off language of a more or less sultry nature upon such occasions.

“I wouldn’t curse so much if I were you, Joe,” laughed Wyvern once. “It must be so infernally additionally exhausting.” And the other had laughed, and, while thoroughly concurring, had explained that he couldn’t help it.

Plenty of compensations were there, however, for these and other incidents of the road. When they got into the forest country sport was fairly plentiful, and when Wyvern brought down a splendid koodoo bull, shot fair and clean through the heart, it was a moment in his life not the least thrilling that he had known; and instinctively he had gloated over the great spiral horns, picturing them at Seven Kloofs—when he had bought it back, which of course he fully intended to do, as one of the results of their successful quest—and himself and Lalanté, in close juxtaposition, admiring them while he went over some of the incidents of their eventful trek—incidentally, perhaps not for the first time. Then the trek, under the glorious moon with the breaths of night distilling around, the whole atmosphere redolent of life and health-giving openness; or, failing the said moon, the blue-black velvety vault of heaven aglow with myriad stars, seeming to hang down to the earth itself with a luscious brilliance unknown to the severe northern skies; vivid meteors and streak-like falling stars flashing with a frequency only to be appreciated by those whom circumstances lead to passing many nights in the open. So, as they moved on, slowly, but surely as they hoped, towards their goal, these were indeed compensations.

And Lalanté? She was ever in his thoughts, ever enwrapped in every joyous communing with joyous Nature, or in time of toil and hardship, such toil or hardship was being endured for her. Often, at the midnight outspan, when Fleetwood had laughingly declared that he, having nothing particularly pleasant to think about, and being most infernally sleepy, was going to turn in, Wyvern would sit, or pace up and down, hour upon hour, while the Southern Cross turned in the heavens, and give his powers of imagination and recollection play. He pictured her as he saw her last—heart-wrung; as he used to see her every day, sweet, strong, smiling, in the full glow of her splendid youth and health; his, for she had given herself to him; and the thought thrilled him until he could conjure up her presence here, here in this savage solitude, could hear her voice in his ear, as the tiger wolves slunk and howled dismally in the surrounding brake, even as he had heard it again and again on the moonlit stoep at Seven Kloofs. He had received letters from her since he left, until he had been beyond the reach of receiving letters at all—brave, true, loving letters—sweet beyond all conception of sweetness; treasured beyond all earthly possessions, and in his midnight pacings, when all around was still as death except the weird voices of the wild, he would bring out one or other of these and re-read it by the light of the great overhanging moon. Ah, yes! This love was worth a lifetime of toil and pain, and it had come to him, all so suddenly, so naturally. Did he appreciate it the less on that account? Not one whit. He would achieve the object of his quest, and then—and then—

And then came as a refrain certain words he had heard uttered long ago by a very valued friend of his—incidentally, a highly-placed dignitary of the Catholic Church—when he had been remarking upon the position and circumstances of somebody which should leave nothing to be desired, and which for all that, covered “a thorn in the flesh”—“It is not intended that anyone should be perfectly happy in this world.” Wyvern had realised the truth of this then, as indeed none but a fool could have failed to realise it, since it was a truth borne out by all experience. Now it came back to him with force, and alone with the solitude of the wild, he looked reverently up to the moonlit heavens with an aspiration that here might be the exception which should prove the rule.

The young Zulu whom they had rescued had shown no desire to leave them. He had tacitly and naturally fallen in with their party as though one of it, and Fleetwood was not at all unwilling that he should; for he was a fine, active, warrior-like specimen of his race and came of a splendid fighting stock. There was no telling when such advantages might not be of solid use to his rescuers. He was a son—one of many—of a powerful chief whose clan dwelt in the mountainous fastnesses in the north-west of the country, and entirely and whole-heartedly attached to the cause of the exiled and captive King. He, Mtezani, had thrown in his lot with the other side, not through conviction, but to get the better of his brothers, with whom he had quarrelled over the division of certain cattle, their patrimony. Besides, he wanted to tunga, and take a wife—he explained frankly enough to Fleetwood. He had heard that under the chiefs set up by the English, any man was at liberty to do this whenever he chose; whereas his father, Majendwa, was among the most conservative of Zulus, and strongly objected to this young bull-calf setting aside the traditions of the nation, and daring to aspire to the head-ring without leave from the Great Great One—who, of course, was not there to grant it. They had done him out of his cattle, he declared, so that he should have no lobola to offer for any girl.

This was a situation which, we may be sure, strongly appealed to Wyvern, who reflected, whimsically enough, that he himself was much in the same position. He accordingly took a great fancy to Mtezani, and the young Zulu seemed to attach himself to him more than to Fleetwood. He would invariably be with him when a hunt was afoot in the wild and broken forest country they were then traversing; and for more than one successful find of koodoo or impala, Wyvern had to thank Mtezani.

They fell in with no more contending impis. Now and again armed runners would fetch up at their outspan, and when pressed for news would give evasive replies, but these became fewer as, at last, through the great tumbled, rolling forests, the precipitous savage rise of the Lebombo range came into view.

“We are getting there at last, Wyvern,” said Fleetwood one day. “But there’s one thing I must tell you that I hadn’t bargained for, and a most infernal nuisance it is too. I learn that almost bang on the scene of our operations, a particularly obnoxious sweep named Rawson—Bully Rawson—a white man, of course, has planted himself down. Now this fellow is likely to prove a considerable thorn in our side, to give us trouble, in fact.”

“Why? Who is he?”

“Oh, as to that nobody knows, strictly, which likely enough is just as well for him. He’s nominally a trader like myself, but actually he’s a chiefs white man, and that spells gun-runner.”

“Yes? But why should he interfere with us?”

“Well, it’s this way. Being in my own line himself, he knows devilish well that no sane being—and he knows me well enough to credit me with sanity—is going to bring a couple of trade waggons up to a remote and almost uninhabited part of the country, that, too, where trekking with the same is more than pain and grief, as you’ve seen—for trade purposes. No. Well, then, having come to that conclusion, the first thing he’ll say to himself will be—what the devil we’re up here for at all. See?”

“Yes. But what the same devil is he doing up here himself, then, on those terms? You don’t think he has any inkling of Hlabulana’s yarn? Eh?”

“No. I don’t see how he could have,” answered Fleetwood. “He’s cutting timber in the Lumisana forest, and shipping it to the coast, which in all probability spells gun-running for Hamu.”

“For Hamu? Oh, this is Hamu’s country, then?”

“Yes. Well, Rawson was with him before, and they know each other. But here’s where the fun comes in. Once he gets suspicious—and, of course, he will, on the terms I told you before, he’ll stick to us like our shadows night and day, or at any rate take care that someone else does—say, when he’s too drunk to attend to business himself. Then how are we going to set about our prospecting with the care and nicety and, above all, freedom from interruption it requires?”

“When he’s too drunk, I think you said, Joe? I read a saving clause in that. What sort of a type—both outwardly and inwardly—is this very attractive being?”

“Oh, outwardly he’s a thick-set, shaggy, broken-nosed brute whom any jury would hang at sight without retiring from the box. For the other part, he hasn’t a redeeming quality, unless it is that he’s as plucky as they make ’em. The only point on which no one has ever been able to damn Bully Rawson is that of his pluck. On all others, everybody who has ever known him is united in damning him to a lurid degree.”

“H’m! Yes, it’s a nuisance,” mused Wyvern. “One rather reckoned on difficulties at the hands of the noble savage, and now it seems we are likely to find them the thickest at those of a white man and a brother. Well, we are two to one. One or other of us must manage to be one too many for Mr Bully Rawson.”

Here Mtezani interrupted. He had been away on a private prowl of his own, and had come back in a hurry.

“Nkose, there are people coming,” he said. “Impela, they are not very far behind me, and one of them is a white man.”

“A white man! What is he like?” said Fleetwood. “Did you see him?”

“Eh-hi!” And the young Zulu gave a rapid and graphic description.

“That is Inxele,” pronounced Hlabulana, who was squatted near.

Fleetwood turned upon his companion a whimsical look.

“Talk of the devil!” he quoted. “Inxele is their name for Bully Rawson.”

Chapter Eighteen.

Entering the Toils.

“Hi—Yup, friends. Glad to see another white man or two in this sooty, flame of fire sort of hole,” sung out the new arrival in rough geniality, as he slid from his pony. “Why, if it isn’t Joe Fleetwood! Hullo, Joe, but I’m glad to see you again; that I am.”

Fleetwood tried to appear as though that sentiment were reciprocated, as they shook hands. Then he introduced Wyvern.

“Glad to meet you, Mister,” extending a great gnarled paw. In taking it an intense and unconquerable aversion came upon Wyvern, an aversion which he believed would have been there in any case, and apart from the doubtful character Fleetwood had just given. Rawson, for his part, was appraising Wyvern. So this was the man he had been instructed to “take care of”; and sizing him up he thought the job would not be a difficult one. True, the object of such attention was tall and broad and strong—for the matter of that, Bully himself was no weakling. But he had a confiding, unsuspicious look which seemed to relieve the undertaking of nine tenths of its difficulties.

“Going through to Swaziland, I suppose, Joe? You’ll not trade a knife to skin a dog with round here, and, if there was any trade—well, you see, old man—this is my pitch.”

For all the boisterous geniality of the tone, there was a distinct note of “warning off” underlying.

“Don’t be anxious, Bully,” said Fleetwood, easily. “I wouldn’t overlap your trade to the tune of a string of beads.”

“Damned if you would! Ha-ha, don’t I know that?” was the boisterous reply. “Joe Fleetwood’s only another name for straight—all the world knows that. Don’t you agree with me, Mister?”

“Absolutely,” answered Wyvern.

“Known him long?”

“Rather,” answered Fleetwood for him. “We fought together in the war up here, and that’s equivalent to knowing a man all his life. Why, I shouldn’t be here now if it hadn’t been for him.”

“Oh, shut off that, Joe,” said Wyvern, hastily. “Besides, it’s not quite accurate.”

“I shall cotton to you. Mister,” cried Rawson, “I do like pluck, and you’ve got it, I can see.” He was thinking, however, that the piece of information just obtained brought back all the difficulties. Clearly the attachment existing between these two men was no ordinary one. In dealing with Wyvern, he had also to reckon with Fleetwood, and Fleetwood had the reputation of being an uncommonly useful man to have at one’s back in a crisis, otherwise an awkward customer if taken the wrong way.

Wyvern in no wise felt like reciprocating the compliment. It was all he could do to conceal his disgust for this blatant, loud-mouthed, blasphemous ruffian—the actual text of whose speech has perforce undergone material deletion here. But he laughed good-naturedly and then Fleetwood suggested drinks, a proposal uproariously acclaimed by their visitor.

“Don’t you hurry on, Joe,” said the latter, after a couple had been disposed of, and both fairly stiff. “Trek on and outspan at my place. We can have some roaring games of cards—eh? Had no one to play against for months. Fond of cards, Mister?”

“Hate ’em,” answered Wyvern pleasantly.

“Been skinned too much, maybe?”

“Never gave anyone the chance.”

Rawson stared. This to him was something of a phenomenon.

“Well—well, Joe and I must go at it then. Talking of being skinned, the last fellow I served that way was a half-Dutchman, half-Jew sort of devil. When he’d lost he wouldn’t part—swore I’d cheated. Oh—I went for him, but he flashed off a pistol at me—darned fool couldn’t have hit a haystack. He didn’t get another chance of trying though. I was on him. Lord—Lord—the way I pounded that chap. He couldn’t stand on his legs for ten days after, and as soon as he could I kicked him off the place. Bully Rawson cheated!”

The righteous indignation of this last utterance was so inexpressibly comical to anybody with the most rudimentary knowledge of its utterer’s character, that the effort not to roar out laughing cost Fleetwood physical pain.

“Have another drink, Bully,” he said, by way of sparing himself the necessity of comment.

“Right you are, Joe,” reaching over for the square bottle. “You’re a white man, you are, if ever there was one. Bully Rawson cheated!” he went on, returning to the subject. “Mister, you may not know much of me, but I’m honest Bully Rawson has his faults, but all the world’ll tell you he’s honest, damn him! Eh, Joe?”

“Oh, we’re all honest—as long as we’ve got enough dibs and the other fellow hasn’t. It reminds me of a good joke I heard in the Durban Club the other day. There was a difference of opinion among a lot of the men at lunch as to the shadiness or not of some transaction. At last someone appealed to old Colonel Bowker, who hadn’t taken any part in the general jaw, and began in this way—‘Now, Colonel, as an honest man, what would you say—’ ‘Eh? as a what?’ ‘Why, an honest man.’ ‘But I don’t know that I am an honest man,’ says the old chap, in that dry, lack-lustre way of his. Of course, there was a big grin all round, and the first fellow expostulates, ‘Oh come—hang it all, Colonel. You don’t know—’ ‘No, I don’t. I’ve never been in want of a shilling or a breakfast in my life.’ There was a bigger grin then, for it wasn’t a bad way of putting the thing.”

“Haw-haw! damn good!” pronounced Rawson, who had got into the benign stage of potation, preparatory to the quarrelsome one, wherein he was wont to become sometimes a dangerous animal, and at all times a completely objectionable one. “We’ll see now, Joe. You two fellows come up and outspan at my place. We’ll have a roaring, sparking time, by—” some dozen deities and demons—“we will! I don’t see a white man every day, no by—” the same over again—“I don’t! Tell your boys to in-span, and—come along.”

“Not to-day, Bully. Can’t move the oxen another inch till they’ve had a good long rest.”

Wyvern could hardly conceal his relief—nor his overmastering disgust Fleetwood’s definition of this noble specimen of civilised humanity recurred to him—“A thick-set, shaggy, broken-nosed brute whom any jury would hang at sight without retiring from the box.” Yes, there was nothing wanting from that definition. And he was doomed to see a great deal more of the subject before him, and knowing this the consciousness sickened him.

“Well, come up and see my place then,” persisted the enemy. “The day’s young yet, and it’s only a matter of five mile; and you’ve got horses. Tell your boys to saddle up, and we’ll all go over together.”

We have said that in anything to do with the expedition Wyvern followed his friend’s lead absolutely; wherefore when the latter agreed to this proposition he made no objection by word or sign, taking for granted that their interests would be better served in the long run by such a course.

“Who’s this?” said Bully Rawson, becoming suddenly alive to the presence of Hlabulana. “He doesn’t belong in these parts. I know all them what does.”

“Oh, he’s an old friend of mine,” answered Fleetwood carelessly. “He fell in with us further down, and seemed to want to come along—just for the fun of the thing apparently. So I let him.”

“Sure he ain’t a spy of those damned Usutus?” said Rawson suspiciously.

“Not he. He’s no sort of a spy at all.”

Even then Rawson eyed the man. Had he guessed the secret that lay within that smooth, shaven, ringed pate as Hlabulana sat, watching the white men with indifferent interest, there was no telling what dark and bloody tragedy might not have been the result. For the acquisition of such wealth as this there was no crime, however treacherous, at which that white savage would have stuck; no bloodshed, however wholesale. But the copper-hued savage knew how to guard his secret, as well as he had known whom to entrust with it.

The first living object to meet them as they drew in sight of Rawson’s kraal, was a young native, and to him the meeting seemed not palatable. It seemed, in fact, a terror. He was coming along the path at a trot, and at sight of them pulled up short and looked wildly around as though about to take to headlong flight Rawson, spurring his horse, went for him like an arrow.

“Ho, Pakisa!” he roared, as he curled his whiplash round the boy’s naked ribs. “So thou art skulking again, instead of being at the wood-cutting. Now I will flog thee back to it.” And with every few words he flung out the cutting whiplash with painful effect. In vain the victim doubled. The horsemanship of his chastiser was perfect, and reckless with liquor and sheer lust of cruelty the ruffian would turn as quickly as the belaboured one. At last the latter managed to wriggle into a patch of bush where the horse could not enter.

“Keep cool, Wyvern,” Fleetwood took the opportunity of saying in an undertone. “We don’t know, of course, what that young schelm may have been up to.”

“What a sickening sweep!” was Wyvern’s reply, with a set face.

“Well, that young brute’s got what he won’t forget in a hurry,” cried Rawson, rejoining them. “Skulked away from his job directly my back was turned, and slunk up here to cadge some tywala. One of my wives is his sister, you know.”

“One of your what?” said Wyvern.

“Wives,” shouted Bully, with an evil grin, enjoying the other’s look of disgust. “Wives. I’ve only two of ’em at present—I’ve had lots in my time—and I shall have to lick one of ’em for this, too.”

“You seemed rather—well, rough on your brother-in-law,” answered Wyvern, with a sneer he could no longer repress.

“You’ve got to be. Look here, Wyvern,” waxing familiar, “I take it you’re one of them raw, out from home Britishers who think the way to baas niggers is to soft sawder them. You may take it from me then that it ain’t. Oh, Joe there’ll tell you exactly the same for that matter.”

“Is he a Zulu?” with a jerk of the hand in the direction of the vanishment of the licked one.

“Zulu? Not much. He’s a Swazi.”

“I wonder you’re not afraid of them poisoning you.”

“Look here. What the devil d’you mean?”

The man’s face had gone a sort of dirty ash colour. He sat glowering at Wyvern with evil eyes. The latter thought he saw the gnarled dirty hand which held the bridle-rein shake—and it may have done so, for it may have been that a refrain was sounding in this ruffian’s ears: “The Snake-doctor—whau! his múti is great and subtle!”

“What I said. And now look here,” went on Wyvern very stern and decisive, “I suppose I can’t interfere in your domestic affairs, if only that it would make things worse for the poor wretches afterwards. But I don’t choose to be present at any woman-thrashing performance—black or white. So I’ll wish you good-bye.”

The sudden fury that came into the man’s forbidding face was rather terrific. Then as suddenly it faded out.

“Hang it, Wyvern, couldn’t you see that I was only humbugging. That young rip had to be taught a lesson, but you didn’t suppose I was really going to whack a girl, did you? Bully Rawson has his faults, but no one can say he ain’t soft-hearted at bottom. Why, I wouldn’t do such a thing for the world.”

Wyvern did not exactly believe this; still he felt sure that the threatened chastisement would not now take place. And Fleetwood had made no move towards actively supporting him, and his rule of being guided by Fleetwood still held.

“I should hope not,” he answered, but rather shortly, riding on with them again.

“Why, of course not Man alive, but you mustn’t take everything we say up here as serious. Eh, Joe?” returned Rawson, with huge geniality. “Now we’ll go inside and have another drink and then I want to show you my wood-cutting place.”

If it be imagined for a moment that the speaker had been shamed into relenting, either by Wyvern’s words or demeanour, why the notion may immediately be classed among popular delusions. What was behind it was this. It had suddenly been borne in upon him, that to have Wyvern for a friend would render the allotted task of “taking care” of him infinitely easier than if he should sheer off, and hold himself in a state of suspicious and therefore watchful aloofness. Under his own eyes his opportunities would be greater: whereas his intended victim away, and thoroughly on his guard—why, then the matter was not so easy. And, even then, there flashed through his evil brain a hell-sent idea. The wood-cutting place. There would be a royal opportunity there; and with the hideous thought he had blossomed forth into a rugged geniality again. He could not afford to scare away his bird.

Chapter Nineteen.

Warren’s Opportunity.

The Kunaga river was “down”; which is to say that the heavy rains of the last three days, especially among the foot-hills wherein it took its source, had converted it into a red, rolling, turbid torrent, of inconceivable swiftness and power. A comparative trickle at ordinary times, now the great raging flood surged within a few feet of overlapping its ample bed, submerging the lower of the trees fringing its banks well-nigh to their tops. A grand spectacle those seething red waves, hissing and rearing as they encountered some obstacle, then the crash as this gave way, and the mighty current, unchecked, poured onward with a savage roar. Great tree-trunks rolled over and over in the flood, and now and then, bodies of drowned animals, sheep, cattle, horses, swept helplessly down.

“Someone’s the poorer for the loss of his whole span,” remarked Warren, as a number of drowned oxen were whirled by. “Likely the river first came down in a wall—it does sometimes—and caught the whole lot bang in the middle of a drift.”

“Most likely,” assented Lalanté. “But I’ve never seen the river as full as this. Isn’t it grand?”

The two were standing on a high, scaur-like bank where the Kunaga swept round one side of Le Sage’s farm, and just below the krantz above which its owner and Wyvern had held their somewhat inharmonious discussion. They had strolled down to look at the river. The two youngsters had accompanied them, but now had wandered away on their own account.

The rain had ceased but the sky was veiled in an opaque curtain; the high rand beyond the Kunaga river valley being completely hidden by a grey and lowering murk. The unwonted gloom seemed to add to the terror of the forces of the bellowing flood. The scene on the whole was dreary and depressing to the last degree. Yet no depression did it convey to the hearts of the dwellers on this veldt, for after it the land would smile forth a rich and tender green, and flocks and herds grow fat, and game be plentiful—and, not least, it meant an ample storage of water in dams and tanks against months, it might be, wherein not another drop should fall.

Warren had taken to coming over to Le Sage’s of late, and would generally stay the night there, or even two. From Lalanté he would meet with a frank and cordial welcome. She liked him for his own sake—and in addition was he not a friend of the absent one; upon whom and upon whose good qualities he had the tact to lose no opportunity of dwelling.

“I can’t, for the life of me, get at the secret of poor old Wyvern’s ill-luck,” he would say, for instance. “He’s one of the finest fellows I’ve ever known, and yet—he can’t get on. I own it stumps me.”

“But it doesn’t stump me,” grunted Le Sage. “He’s got no head-piece.”

“You’re wrong there, Le Sage, if you’ll excuse my saying so. Head-piece is just what he has got. Too much of it perhaps.”

And the speaker had his reward in Lalanté’s kindling face and grateful glance; and the friendship between them ripened apace.

Warren was playing his game boldly and with depth. He could afford to praise the absent one, being as firmly convinced that that fortunate individual would never return as that he himself was alive and prosperous. And he meant it too. There was no pretence in his tone. He had no personal animus against Wyvern for occupying the place with regard to Lalanté which should have been his. Wyvern stood in his way, that was all, and—he must be got out of it. That he would be got out of it Warren, as we have said, had no doubt whatever, and then—after an interval, a time-healing interval, to whom would Lalanté listen and turn more readily than to Wyvern’s best friend? Herein Warren was true to himself—i.e. Number 1.

Now, on their stroll down to the river the topic of the absent one had come up; his coolness and courage upon one or two occasions when call had arisen for the exercise of those valuable attributes—and here on the bank, after the first comments upon the scene before them, the topic was revived.

“I wonder why women are always such blind worshippers of mere pluck,” Warren remarked.

“But you wouldn’t have us hold cowardice in respect, would you?”

“You can’t respect a negative—and cowardice is a negative.”

“Well then, a man who is a coward?”

“Why not? I know at least two men who are that, and I happen to hold them in some considerable respect. That astonishes you, does it?”

“Well, yes, naturally,” said Lalanté, with a laugh, and wondering whether he was serious.

“Naturally, but illogically. That blind, instinctive shrinking from risk which we call cowardice is constitutional, and its subject can no more help it than he could have helped being born with a club foot, for instance.”

“You do put things well,” said Lalanté. “All the same you’ll never persuade the world in general that a coward is anything but a pitiable object.”

“If by that you mean deserving of pity, why then I agree with you—if of contempt, then I don’t. I’ll tell you another who doesn’t.”

“Who’s that?”

“Wyvern.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’ve seen him give practical proof of it.”

The girl’s face softened and her eyes filled.

“Him? Oh, he’s goodness itself,” she murmured. “He hasn’t a fault, except that of being unfortunate.”

“Which isn’t a fault. The fact is we are all cowards on some point or other, and a good many of us all round, though we succeed in hiding it. Look at that river now, that swirling, roaring monster against which the strongest swimmer would have that much chance,” with a snap of the finger and thumb. “I should be uncommonly sorry to be put to the test of having to jump in there after some other fellow who had tumbled in. That would be something of a test wouldn’t it; and I’m perfectly certain I should funk it?”

“It would. But I’m perfectly certain you wouldn’t funk it,” laughed Lalanté.

And then, paling their faces and curdling their blood, came a shrill piercing scream of agony and terror. As they turned towards it a small boy came rushing headlong through the sparse mimosas growing along that part of the bank.

“He’s in,” he screamed. “Charlie. He’s in the river—there.”

Following his pointing finger they could see nothing, then, borne swiftly down towards them, a head rose to the surface, showing an agonised little face, in the last degree of terror, and a pair of hands feebly battling with the vast might of the flood. A second more and Lalanté would have been in there too.

But that second was just sufficient for a pair of arms to close round her, effectually holding her back.

“Not you, Lalanté, d’you hear! I’m a strong swimmer. Now—let me go.”

He almost threw her from him, and that purposely, for stumbling against Frank, the terrified boy had promptly and firmly clutched hold of her. She could not go into the water—and, incidentally, to her death—without dragging him with her. In the same quick atom of time Warren, with a straight, clear, springy leap, had felt the turgid waters of the monster flood close over his head.

He had leaped to come down feet foremost, as was the safest. He risked damaging his head the less, and could see for the fraction of a moment longer the exact position of the drowning boy; and even that fraction of a moment may mean the difference between life and death in a situation such as this.

Not a second too soon had he jumped. As he rose to the surface the boy was just sweeping past him. Darting forth an arm, he seized him by the hand, but—still kept him at arm’s length.

“Charlie,” he said, “be plucky now and keep cool. Whatever happens, don’t grab hold of me. I won’t let go of you but—don’t grab me.”

The boy, half-dazed, seemed to understand. The while the current was whirling them down with frightful velocity. Suddenly something seized Warren by the foot, dragging him down; then as the waters roared over his head the awfulness of the moment came upon him that this was doom. Then—he was free.

A last desperate violent kick had done it. What had entangled him was really the fork in a bough of a sunken tree. But it was time, for on rising to the surface his eyes were swelled and his head seemed to go round giddily, and his breath came in laboured pants; but he had never slackened his hold of the boy.

The latter was now unconscious, and consequently a dead weight. Warren, wiry athletic man as he was, felt his strength failing. The flood was as a very monster, and in its grip he himself was but a shaving, as it roared in his ears, its spume blinding him as it tossed him on high with the crest of its great churning waves. With desperate presence of mind he strove to keep his head. As he rose on each great wave he saw the long broad road of foaming water in front, bounded by its two dark lines of half-submerged willows—then he saw something else.

An uprooted tree was bearing down upon him, its boughs thrashing the water as the trunk rolled over and over in the surge. It was coming straight at him, borne along more swiftly than he—and his burden. One thrash of those flail-like boughs and then—his efforts would be at an end.

Desperate, but still cool, he tried swimming laterally instead of with the stream, and found that he could. Down came the swirling boughs, like the sails of a windmill, where he had been but a moment before, and this grisly peril passed on. No sooner had it done so than the striver’s foot touched something—something firm.

Something firm! Yes, it was firm. Among the whirl and lash of the willow boughs, for by his diagonal course of swimming he had reached the side here, where the swirl of the current, though powerful, was comparatively smooth, and he had touched firm ground. Warren dared to hope, with indescribable relief, that he was standing on the brink of one of those deep, lateral dongas which ran up from the river-bed, one similar to that which the Kafir had fallen into with the snake coiled round his leg. He grasped the supple and whip-like boughs, still carefully feeling out with the other foot lest he should flounder into deep water again, and gave himself over to a breathe.

Charlie now began to show signs of returning consciousness, then opened his eyes.

“Where are we? Magtig! Mr Warren, I thought I was drowned.”

“Well, you’re not, nor I either. So wake up, old chap, and hold on to these twigs so as to give me a bit of a rest; for I can tell you that sort of swim is no exercise for a young beginner.”

The splashing, roaring flood whirled on, throwing up clouds of spume where here and there great waves hurled themselves on to some obstruction. Once the ghastly white head of a drowned calf rose up out of the water just by them, a spectral stare in the lustreless eyes. The lowering afternoon was darkening.

“I believe we could make for terra-firma—that means solid ground—if we went to work carefully,” said Warren. “What do you think, Charlie? Shall we try? The swirl up here is fairly light, and you must think you are only swimming in the kloof dam.”

The boy looked out upon the roaring rush of waters and shuddered. Not among this would their venture lead them, but among much smoother water, to safety. Still, he was unnerved after his experience of that awful force, his choking, suffocating, helpless, all but drowning condition. But he was plucky to the core.

“All right. Let’s try,” he said. “But keep hold of my hand, won’t you.”

“Of course,” said Warren. And then once more they struck off, entrusting themselves to the stream, or rather to its eddies.

Chapter Twenty.

In the Roar of the Flood.

Lalanté and her small brother, watching from the bank the earlier struggle with the awful forces, were at first frantic with grief and horror; then the sense of having someone dependent on her was as a nerve-bracing tonic to the girl, and she recovered a modicum of coolness.

“Come, Frank,” she said. “We must run along the bank, and see if we can be of any help at all.”

The weeping youngster brightened up a little, as seizing him by the hand she dragged him along with her, both running for all they knew. But the ground was rough and uneven; if it had not been they could never have kept pace with the swiftness of the flood. Then it dipped abruptly, yet still they managed to stumble along. Up the next rise, panting, their hearts beating as though they would burst, and then—they saw Warren and his burden suddenly sink from sight. At the same time Lalanté’s foot caught in some twisted grass, and down she came, full length, dragging the boy with her.

She tried to get up, but could not do more than struggle to her knees, then fall again. She was too utterly breathless and exhausted to be capable of making further effort. The last she had seen of them, too, was as a numbing physical blow. She could only lie there panting in great sob-like gasps. The little fellow threw his arms round her neck and sobbed too.

“Oh, Lala, will they get out? Do say. Will they get out?”

Even then Warren’s words were hammering in her brain ”...against which the strongest swimmer would have that much chance”; words uttered calmly and authoritatively, scarce a minute before he himself had taken that fatal leap. What chance then had he—had they? And they had already gone under.

“Darling, I’m afraid there’s—there’s—no hope,” she said, unsteadily. “But come. We will walk along the bank—I am quite powerless to run any more—in case we should sight them again. Tell me. How did it happen?”

“We were standing on the bank, shying sticks into the river and watching them float down. Then a great piece of the bank gave way, and Charlie was in.”

Lalanté could hardly restrain a storm of tears. One of her little brothers—her darling little brothers—of whom she was so fond, and who looked up to her for everything, to be carried away like this by the great cruel river, and drowned before her very eyes—oh, it was too awful! What a tale, too, to carry back to their father! And the prompt, cool, brave man—he who at that very moment had been expressing the hope that he might never be called upon to stand such a test, because if so he was sure he would be found wanting—he too had gone, had given his life for that of another. Lalanté was not a Catholic, but human instinct is ever the same, and if ever prayers went up that a soul should have its eternal reward, one went up—none more fervent—from her during those awful moments on behalf of Warren.

The rain had begun again, and was now a steady downpour, while lower and lower the murk descended, blotting out the opposite rand. Great shiny songo-lolos, or “thousand legs,” squirmed among the mimosa sprays in repulsive festoons, and in the splashy softness of the thoroughly soaked ground—ordinarily so hard and arid—the foot sank or slipped. The river, too, in whose ordinarily nearly dry bed the small boys had so often disported themselves, or catapulted birds along the banks—now a great bellowing monster—had taken its toll of one of them. All was in keeping, as the darkness brooded down; the splash of the rain, the hopelessness, the death, the despair; a scene, a setting of indescribable gloom and horror, as these two dragged themselves wearily step by step, staring at the long rush of foam-flecked flood in a very whirlwind of grief. Then, upon the blackness of this misery, came a sound.

“Lala—did you hear that?” panted the boy, eagerly.

“Yes. Wait!” gasped Lalanté, holding up a hand.

The sound was repeated. It came from some distance lower down, and took shape as a hail. The girl even thought to descry in it her own name, and to both it came as a very voice from Heaven.

“Man—Lalanté,” panted Frank, in uncontrollable excitement, “but that’s Mr Warren.”

“Yes, it is. Why, then in that case, Charlie’s there too, for I know he’d never leave him,” answered the girl tremulously and half-laughing, in the nervous reaction of her gratitude. Then she lifted her own voice in a loud, clear call that might have been heard for miles in the stillness. They listened a moment, and an answering hail was returned.

“Come. They may still need our help,” she said. “Go steady though. We mustn’t exhaust ourselves this time.”

First sending forth another long, clear call, to which Frank added the shrillness of his small but carrying voice, they started off along the river bank. It seemed miles, hours, as they stumbled along, now over a stone, now crashing into a bush—but every now and then sending forth another call, which was answered, thank God, now much nearer. At last, through the gloom, for by this it was almost dark, they made out two figures coming slowly towards them.

“Charlie—my darling, whatever made you do it?” began Lalanté as she hugged the smallest of these; womanlike mingling a touch of scold with the joy of the restoration.

“Oh, Lala, you’re not cross, are you? I couldn’t help it,” was the answer, in a tired voice.

“Cross—cross! Oh, you darling, how should I be cross!” raining kisses all over the wet little face. Then, unclasping one arm, she held out a hand.

“Oh, Mr Warren!” was all that she could say, but it seemed to express everything.

Warren took it, in a firm sympathetic grasp. He himself was looking rather fagged—in fact, decidedly not himself—which was little to be wondered at. What he himself wondered was that he was there at all.

“All’s well that ends well, Miss Lalanté,” he said, cheerily, “which, if not original, about sums up the situation. We’re all about equally wet for that matter, but as long as we keep moving we shan’t take any harm, and the way back to the house, if not long, is rough enough to keep up our circulation.”

“What can I say to you, Mr Warren?” went on Lalanté. “You were just telling me the strongest swimmer would stand no chance in that flood, and then you deliberately went in yourself.”

“Not deliberately, Miss Lalanté,” smiled Warren. “I assure you it was all on the spur of the moment. Charlie, it’s lucky you had the foresight to tumble in above us. If it had been down stream I could never have got near you.”

As a matter of fact the feat had been one of great daring and skill, and having accomplished it Warren felt secretly elated as they took their way home. He realised the warm admiration and gratitude which it had aroused in the girl, and, now that it had ended well, he looked upon the whole affair as a gigantic stroke of luck, and, in fact, as the very best thing that could have happened to him. Bye and bye, when Wyvern’s memory should begin to dim, then this appreciation would turn to something stronger. Curses on Wyvern! Why should he have this priceless possession, and how confoundedly calmly he seemed to accept it, as if it were only his due? He, Warren, would have moved heaven and earth to obtain it, yet why should that other gain it with no effort at all? He himself had all the advantages that Wyvern had. He was a clean-run, strong, healthy man, whom more than one girl of his acquaintance would think herself surpassing lucky to capture. Moreover he had made money, and knew how to go on making it, which was a thing Wyvern never had done and never would. Why the deuce then should Wyvern be where he ought to be? he thought bitterly as he walked dripping beside Lalanté, in the gloom of the now fast-darkening night. Well, at any rate, in all probability Wyvern by that time was nowhere at all, thought this man who had just risked his life when the chances were a hundred to one against him, to save that of a helpless child. Yes. Nowhere at all. There was a wholeheartedness about Bully Rawson and his doings which left no room for doubt. He could be trusted to “take care” of anybody.

And yet, through it all there was a certain modicum of compunction; compunction, but no relenting. Had circumstances compelled Wyvern to give up Lalanté, he would have had no more sincere well-wisher than Warren. As it was he stood in Warren’s way; therefore—out he must go. Then Warren became alive to the fact that Lalanté’s bright eyes were fixed upon him in some concern.

“You didn’t hurt yourself—in the river, did you?” she said anxiously.

“Oh no, no. I’m a dull dog, I’m afraid,” he answered, with a laugh. “Perhaps I am a bit tired.”

“Are you sure you’re not hurt?” she persisted, anxiously.

“Very sure indeed. I got a rap on the shin from that confounded tree that did its best to hold me under water, but that was nothing to what I used to get in a football match when I was a nipper.”

The drizzle had merged into a steady downpour as they reached the house. In the framing of the lighted doorway Le Sage came out to meet them, smoking a pipe.

“Hullo. You’ve prolonged a pretty wet walk,” he said. “Magtig! but you look like four jolly drowned rats.”

“And that’s what two of us jolly near were, father,” said Lalanté, in clear ringing tones. And then she explained what had happened. Le Sage stared at her as if he were listening to something altogether incredible.

“Good God! Lalanté. And you can hear the river from here, a mile and a half away, bellowing as if it was at the very door. Why, it hasn’t been down like this since the big flood of ’74. And you went in it, Warren, and—got out of it! Well, well. They give Victoria Crosses and so on, but—oh damn it! you deserve a couple of dozen of ’em.”

His voice had a tremble in it as he gripped the other’s hand. The whole thing was more eloquent than a mere speech would have been. He was deeply moved—moved to the core, but Le Sage was not a man of words.

“Oh, that’s all right, Le Sage,” said Warren. “Only as I was telling Charlie, it’s lucky he had the discretion to go in above stream instead of down, or the devil himself would hardly have managed to get him out. Come now, let’s have something warming and then I’ll go and change, though I’ll have to borrow some of your togs for that same purpose.”

“Right. Here you are, and mix it stiff,” said Le Sage, diving into a sideboard and extracting a decanter. “Good Lord! And you got into the Kunaga in a flood like this, and got out again! Why, it’s a record.”

This was Le Sage’s recognition of the fact that this man had saved his child’s life at enormous risk to his own. But Warren thoroughly understood and appreciated it; and was more elate than ever, inwardly.

“Go along, you children, and change at once,” pronounced Lalanté with decision. “And be quick about it, and give yourselves a glowing rub down with a rough towel I don’t know that we two who haven’t been in the river are much drier than the other two who have,” she added with a laugh, as she disappeared.

Half an hour afterwards they all foregathered at table, and it seemed, in the snug, warm, lighted room, as though the ghastly peril of the afternoon were but a passing adventure, calculated to give an additional feeling of snugness and security to the wind-up of the day. But the dull roaring of the flood was borne in to them through it all upon the dripping stillness of the rainy night.

And Warren, listening to it, and knowing that others heard it, felt more elate than ever. He began to see the goal of his hopes more than near.

Chapter Twenty One.

“Take Care of him.”

Wyvern found some difficulty in concealing the growing disgust that was upon him as he entered Rawson’s kraal. He had by this time been in several native kraals and felt quite at home there: but this—well, somehow it was out of keeping. That unqualified ruffian, his present entertainer, was repulsive enough in all conscience, but he seemed to become ten times more so, when viewed in the light of his domestic arrangements: under which circumstances the fact that he was a white man seemed to have sunk him immeasurably below the level of the savage.

The two women, who were seated together on the ground, looked up quickly as the new arrivals entered. The better favoured of the two, Nkombazana, the Zulu girl, smiled approvingly as her glance rested on Wyvern, and then said something to her companion in a low tone. He, of the two, was clearly the one that aroused their interest Bully Rawson emitted a loud guffaw, true to his programme of keeping up a certain boisterous geniality.

“There you are, Wyvern. Women are the same all the world over, you see. Now these are agreeing that they don’t see a thundering fine chap like you every day of the week.”

“Which is the one related to the boy you just kicked so unmercifully?” said Wyvern.

“That one, Nompai. She ain’t much to look at, but I’ll swear she ain’t the worst of the two. That other one, Nkombazana, she’s a regular vixen—a spitfire I can tell you. I often wish I could clear her out I’d let her go cheap. Oh, see here Wyvern—” as a bright idea struck him, and then he stopped short. Bully Rawson, with all his faults, had the saving grace of perceptiveness, wherefore the bright idea remained unpropounded.

“Well what?”

“Oh nothing. I forget now what I was going to say,” with a furtive wink at Fleetwood.

“But why can’t you clear her out?” asked Wyvern. “I thought among savages they did what they liked with their womenkind.”

There was a dry irony about the tone, that the other may have remarked, but for his own purposes preferred not to notice or resent. He guffawed good-humouredly instead.

“Did you? Well then Wyvern, you’ve got a lot to learn about the manners and customs of this country yet. Nkombazana’s father’s a pretty strong chief, and Joe there’ll tell you what a hornet’s nest I should bring about my ears if I bunked her back to her people.” Fleetwood nodded. “Oh well, damn the women,” went on Bully. “I think we’ve yarned enough about them. So we’ll get into the store hut where it’s cool and have a drink.”

The hut wherein Rawson kept his trade goods was a larger one than the rest, and differed from them in that it had a door through which you need only stoop slightly in entering, instead of crawling on all fours. It also boasted a small glazed window. Unlocking the huge padlock that secured it, their host led the way inside.

“You haven’t got much stuff on hand, Bully,” said Fleetwood, looking round upon the blankets and beads and brass buttons and other “notions” stowed about.

“Oh well no, I do next to no blanket trade these days, and what I do is a darn sight more paying than this truck. Oh, I’ve got an iron or two in the fire, m’yes, but a lot of trade stuff comes in handy as a firescreen, as we know. Eh Joe?” with a knowing wink which made that worthy just a little uneasy. The other had exactly stated their own case: was it accidental, and was he merely referring to the pretty widespread practice of gun-running, or had he, by any means whatever, obtained some inkling as to the real object of the expedition? He nodded carelessly.

“Ja. That’s so,” he replied.

There are three European products which you shall invariably find—even if you find no other—on the confines of civilisation and beyond the same: “square face” gin, a pack of cards, and a bottle of Worcester sauce. The first of these Bully now produced, together with some enamelled metal mugs.

“Here’s luck all round,” he said. “Eh? What’s that? Water? Man—Wyvern, but you’re a bit of a Johnny Raw in these parts. Why we don’t water our stuff here. Eh, Joe?”

“Matter of taste. For my part I don’t care either way,” was the answer—while the host put his head out and bellowed to the women to fetch some.

Now Joe Fleetwood, though one of the shrewdest and most practical of men, had “instincts”—and these were somehow unaccountably aroused. There was a something which warned him that their uproariously effusive host meant mischief, and that at no distant time. Therefore he resolved to keep more than one eye upon him.

Soon they strolled down to the wood-cutting place, and the sombre, surrounding forest was ringing with the sound of axe and saw. The wretched slaves—for practically they were little or nothing else—looked up with dull interest at the new arrivals, but their master, out of deference to Wyvern, omitted to kick or hammer any of them, and laid himself out to be extremely pleasant in his boisterous way, as he explained the arrangements while they strolled around.

“Hold hard, Wyvern. A snake’s bitten me.”

The words—quick, sharp, replete with alarm—were Fleetwood’s. Wyvern, who was just in front of him, stopped dead in his tracks and turned, as with a mighty crash a nearly-cut through tree-trunk came to earth hardly more than a yard in front of him. His next step would have been his last.

“Blazes!” cried Bully Rawson, “but I never thought that log would have come down at all. I was just shoving against it to see how much more cutting through it wanted. What’s that about a snake, Joe?”

“No. It isn’t one,” said that worthy, in a tranquil tone of voice as he looked down. “It’s only a thorn dug into my ankle. I was bitten once, and I suppose it’s made me nervous ever since. Which is lucky, or you’d have been squashed to pulp, Wyvern.”

“By the Lord he would,” cried Rawson. “Man alive, but you’ve had a narrow squeak! Well I’m blasted sorry if I’ve given you a shaking up—and I can’t say more.”

“Oh, that’ll be all right,” said Wyvern, forgetting his own narrow escape in his intense relief. “But look here, Joe. Are you dead sure it wasn’t one?”

“Dead cert. Look. Here’s the thorn,” picking one up.