Part II. (continued 2)

Even then it was hoped that hostilities would be confined to the Transkei—hoped, but not believed. The Gcalekas were a warlike tribe, who could put many thousands of fighting men into the field. It would be a troublesome matter to subdue them, for they had long been prepared, and were well supplied with food. But if the tribes within the colonial border—the Gaikas, Hlambis, Emigrant Tembus, but especially the first named—should join them, then the war would become a formidable affair, and, in all probability, a matter of years. Whether this state of things came about or not will appear in the course of this narrative, which it closely concerns.

To-day, however, all seems peaceful enough as the sun beats down upon the rolling plains and silent kloofs of British Kaffraria, with unwonted force for a spring day. His rays also fall upon two equestrians, who are leisurely traversing the mimosa-dotted dales, as led by the capricious windings of a somewhat tortuous track. Two equestrians, who are riding very close beside each other, and whose attention seems somewhat unequally divided between the surrounding scenery and each other’s eyes, to the advantage of which mattereth not. Indeed, so engrossed are they in each other’s conversation, that the tread of hoofs behind entirely escapes them; but an expression comes over their faces, of anger on one, and of—well—not best pleased on the other; and they look over their shoulder as a rough voice exclaims: “Ahem!—er—how d’ye do?” The last time we saw those two persons, they were together in a garden, some time about the hour of sunrise; and they were absurdly happy. They look equally happy now, as side by side they ride leisurely along, this grand afternoon. To them, at this moment, all the surroundings are as the sights and sounds of Paradise; for they are together and alone. More than a week has passed since the sun rose upon that knitting together of two severed hearts, that transformation of two sorrowing lives into, as it were, one of joy; more than a week of long, happy days, so perfect in their unbroken, blissful peace, that to the wanderer it seemed as if he had “cast” his old self and taken a fresh personality—that the old loveless existence and restless longing for excitement could never have belonged to him at all, but to some other being, so all-satisfying was this new atmosphere of peace. And on Lilian the outward change wrought was marvellous. As by magic the sad expression had given place to one of sunny contentment, and there was a sweet, tender curve in her lips, and the colour of perfect health returned to her cheek, as no longer grave she moved about the house and garden, trilling out little snatches of song, with a soft love-light in her eyes which rendered her more irresistibly charming than ever she had been in the old time. And now the two were returning from one of those long rides which they had been in the habit of taking together during those halcyon days of love deferred but now requited to the full, when that horribly grating voice burst upon them:

“Ahem! Er—how d’ye do?” And red-bearded Joe Marshall, overtaking them, doffed his slouch hat to Lilian, and shook hands with her escort, as he reined in his raw-boned nag by the side of the latter.

“Hallo, Marshall! Where have you dropped from?”

“Oh, I’ve just been making a round. I’m going home now. Won’t you come round by my place, and rest a bit? ’Tisn’t far. No? Ah, well, it’s hardly worth your while, perhaps, so near home.” For honest Joe could see pretty plainly that the two would prefer his room to his company, though they had conscientiously, at least, suffered no indication of such preference to escape them. “How are the Paynes?”

“Flourishing. Any news?”

“N-no. Kreli won’t meet the Governor. Says he’s sick. But that’s all an excuse, you know.”

“Yes; we heard that. Anything fresh?”

“N-no,” said Marshall again, with a dubious glance towards Lilian. “Nothing certain, at least. Some more fellows round me gone into laager, that’s all.”

“H’m. I’m inclined to think with Payne, that the scare’s all bosh,” said Claverton. “Look at the one four years ago. That all ended in smoke. Why shouldn’t this?”

Lilian, too, remembered that time; nor was she ever likely to forget it. A soft light came into her eyes, and she wished mightily that Marshall was not with them.

“Well, I dunno,” rejoined that worthy. “It may, and it mayn’t. We shall see, and very soon. Why, who’s this?”

They looked up. The track they had been following merged into a waggon-road, and about a hundred yards in front of them stood a low thatched building. It was a native trading-store. Not this, however, but the sight of a characteristic group, drew forth the remark. Seated on the ground, with his back against the wall, was a Kafir, an old man, with a full white beard, and a face which might have been at one time pleasing and intelligent. A blanket was thrown over his shoulders, and his lower limbs were encased in a pair of ancient trousers, from whose tattered extremities projected his bare, dusty feet, one of which was deformed. He was surrounded by a group of his compatriots; some in European attire, others in blankets only, and red with ochre; some sitting, some standing, some running in and out, but all jabbering.

“Why, I declare?” exclaimed Marshall, in surprise. “If it isn’t Sandili! What on earth can the old blackguard be doing here?”

“Sandili?” cried Lilian. “The chief? Oh, do let’s go and talk to him.”

“We will,” agreed Claverton. “Prepare for an interview with royalty.”

The Kafirs stopped jabbering for a minute to stare in astonishment at the party as it rode into their midst, then went on harder than ever. It was as Marshall had said. This old savage, with nothing remarkable-looking about him, unless it were that his countenance wore an air of semi-drunken stupidity—for he had been imbibing freely, according to his wont—was none other than Sandili, the chief of the powerful and warlike Gaika tribe, who, of all the Amaxosa race, had, in former wars, ever been the most formidable of the colonists’ foes.

“He says he’s glad to see us,” explained Claverton, as having conferred for a little with the old chief, he turned, in response to his companion’s inquiring glance. “In a minute he’ll be even more glad. Look,” and he emptied half the contents of his tobacco-pouch into the chief’s hands, who immediately instructed one of his followers to fill his pipe, and looked quite benevolently at the donor.

“Why, how delighted he is with it!” said Lilian, watching the interesting individual before her, with a curious glance.

“Yes, but unless I mistake, he’ll want farther delighting directly,” answered Claverton. “The principle of extending the proverbial inch to the ditto ell, is thoroughly well understood in Kafirland.”

And sure enough the old fellow began making signs and pointing to his month, after a few words in his own language.

“What does he say?” asked Lilian.

“Just what I told you. He’s thirsty, and wants sixpence to get a drink.”

“Old blackguard,” said Marshall. “He’s got quite as much grog on board already as is good for him.”

Lilian laughed. “Only think of a great chief like him, asking for sixpence like a crossing-sweeper,” she said.

The Kafirs standing around had stopped their conversation, and were gazing admiringly at Lilian, with many a half-smothered exclamation of astonishment. They had seen many white women on the farms, and when they had visited King Williamstown; but never had they seen any more bewitchingly lovely than this one, who sat there looking down on their chief.

Claverton produced a sixpence and handed it to one of the attendants, who disappeared into the store, which was also a canteen, shortly returning with a measure of the ordinary bad brandy sold to the natives. This Sandili drained without a pause, and looked up again at the group, remarking that it was good.

“Oh, what can be the matter?” exclaimed Lilian, in a frightened tone, as a hubbub of angry voices arose within the store; and before she could receive an answer, a brawny red Kafir suddenly shot out of the door, reeling forward with a quick yet uneven gait suggestive of artificial propulsion, and half-a-dozen others, with excited “whouws!” also emerged and stood around the door, as if expecting something.

They had not long to expect, for the evicted savage, having staggered a dozen yards, polled himself together and stood shaking his kerries at some one inside, as with flashing eyes he hurled a torrent of abuse at the unseen antagonist. But a bottle, which came whizzing through the open door, hit him on the shoulder, cutting his eloquence suddenly short, and, deeming discretion the better part of valour, he sneaked round the angle of the wall, muttering and growling, while the others stood looking on in dead silence.

“Don’t be frightened, Lilian,” said Claverton, reassuringly, noting that she was growing rather pale. “It’s only a fellow been kicked out by the storekeeper, probably for making himself a nuisance. It’s a thing that happens every day.”

“But he looks as if he’d kill him. I never saw a man look so ferocious,” she faltered.

“Oh no, he won’t,” answered Claverton, with a laugh. “In half an hour he’ll sneak round, and ask for a drink to make it square again. That’s what they do.”

“Really?” she said, still with a misgiving.

“Really. There won’t be a vestige of a row, so don’t be in the least afraid. Look. What do you think old Sandili is saying?”

“What?”

“That he never saw a white woman who was really pretty until this moment. And faith, I agree with him.”

Lilian laughed, and flushed softly; not so much at the old savage’s compliment as at her lover’s endorsement of it.

“Eh—what?” cried Claverton, who was listening to something Sandili was saying. “Fancy spoiling that pretty speech. The old brute?”

“What does he say?”

“He says that you haven’t given him anything, and must give him sixpence. I told him you would do nothing of the sort.”

“But I will. I should like to, just for the fun of the thing,” she laughed. “Only, tell him he mustn’t drink it; he must buy tobacco or something else with it. He looks awfully tipsy already.”

This Claverton duly translated, and the old savage nodded assent—of course as a mere matter of form—and Lilian gave him the sixpence with her own hand. Then he looked up at Marshall and made the same request; but that worthy, who had been watching the proceedings with disapproval, growled out, with something very like an oath, that “the old blackguard would get nothing out of him.”

“He’s going away now,” said Claverton. “We’ll watch him start. I imagine there’ll be some difficulty in getting him under weigh.”

And there was. For when his horse was brought round—a sorry quadruped, with ragged caparisonings in keeping with those of its owner—behold, the old chief was so much the worse for liquor that, when helped into the saddle, he would have tumbled off on the other side but for the timely support of one of his followers, who was ready to hand. Then two others mounted, one on each side of their exalted ruler, and thus supporting him, rode off, the whole trio swaying and lurching from side to side; for the supporters were only a degree less “screwed” than the supported. About thirty followers, mounted and on foot, brought up the rear, chattering, shouting, and laughing, as they went.

“There goes the Great Chief of the Gaikas,” remarked Claverton, ironically, as they stood gazing after the receding party; “the man upon whose nod it depends as to whether the colony will be swamped in war, or whether the outbreak will be just an abortive affair in the Transkei, to be settled by the Police. And—look at him!”

“Drunken brute!” growled Marshall. A tall man, with grizzled hair and beard, now strolled up to them. It was the storekeeper. “Evenin’,” he said, laconically, doffing his hat as he caught sight of Lilian. “I heard some one talking outside; but there were too many of those chaps within, and I couldn’t get away for a minute, or they’d have looted the place. Hello, Joe! Where’re you from?”

“Been the rounds. What was up with that nigger jes’ now?”

“Oh, I kicked him out. He kept plaguing me to give him some ’bacca—said he was Sandili’s brother. I told him to clear, or, if he was Sandili himself, I’d kick him out. And I did.”

“Aw, aw!” guffawed Joe. “But I say, Thompson, you don’t seem to lay yourself out much to amuse the chief!”

“Who? Sandili? Oh, no. He often comes here. I just give him a glass of grog and a bit of ’bacca, and let him sit down and make himself happy till he goes. I never bother about him. He cadges a lot of ‘tickeys’,” (threepenny-bits) “out of his fellows. They come here to get a drink, and then the old rascal makes them ‘stand’ him instead.”

Marshall guffawed again. “I say,” he said, “those chaps are making a jolly row. Why don’t you clear them out?”

“Where?” said the trader, turning. “Oh, they’ll go when they’re tired.”

“They” being a group of Kafirs, sitting round the man lately ejected, who was declaiming violently, and waxing more excited every moment, as he flung his arms about and brandished his sticks, and his language became more and more threatening. Claverton, who foresaw a row, was divided between a wish to get Lilian away and reluctance to desert a countryman under the circumstances; but the first consideration was paramount.

“Well, we must be going. Good day to you,” he said, shaking hands with the trader. “Good day, Marshall. Are you coming?”

“N-no; I think I’ll rest a bit longer.”

Just then the whole party, numbering perhaps a dozen, walked up to Thompson, the injured individual in advance. The latter, in an insulting and aggressive tone, demanded a sovereign in satisfaction for his wrongs.

Calmly eyeing the braggart and the muttering group behind him, the storekeeper lighted his pipe and repeated his order to quit.

“No, we won’t!” roared the savage. “We’ll roast you in your own winkel (shop) before long. Only wait a bit.” And then the others began all talking at once, louder and louder, and in a threatening and excited way, pressing closer and closer upon the two white men.

“Got a revolver, Joe? That’s right; so have I. Always carry it in these troublous times. Now then, Umsila; off you go—you and all the rest of them.”

The Kafirs, who saw that both the white men were armed, drew back, and, still muttering and threatening, they began to depart. Then, with loud jeering laughter and many threats, they started off at a trot along the plain, sending forth a long, resounding whoop upon the evening air. It was taken up by the kraals on the hillsides, and echoed farther and farther, fainter and fainter, till it died in the distance. The two men looked at each other.

“I say, Thompson, if I were you I should pack up my traps and clear out of this,” said Marshall.

Lilian was rather silent as they rode away from the place. The sight of that fierce-looking, loud-talking group of angry savages confronting the two white men had frightened her, and then the voices rose more violent in tone.

“Don’t be afraid, dear,” said her companion, tenderly, “Those two are perfectly well able to take care of themselves, and Jack Kafir barks a great deal more than he bites. They’re all right.”

“Yes, I know,” she replied, trying to smile. “I am so easily frightened.”

“For your own sake I wish you were not, otherwise I like it, and it seems rather to suit you. But now, only think what a lot you’ll have to tell them. Why, you’ve had an interview with no end of a big chief; and—well, it’s a pity that row should have come in just in time to spoil the recollection of the ride, but it was really nothing.”

Suddenly arose that wild, weird whoop; and turning their heads, they could see the Kafirs bounding along the hillside waving their karosses and gesticulating, and calling to each other as they ran.

“There, I told you so,” he went on. “They’ve had enough ‘jaw,’ and now they’re going home.”

But a gloom seemed to have fallen upon Lilian’s spirits. To her, in those fierce, dark forms bounding along the distant ridge, and in the weird, savage cry—like the gathering cry of a host—pealing forth and echoing in sudden answer from point to point till it died away against the purple slopes of the far mountains, there was something terrible, as though it pictured forth an earnest of the coming strife—and the smile faded from her lips.

“Oh, Arthur, can they do nothing to avert this dreadful war?”

“I’m afraid not, dearest. The only thing—if only it’s done—will be to nip it in the bud. Let them break out, and then give them a crashing defeat at the start.”

“And—you will have to go?”

He was silent for a moment. “Yes,” he said at length, “I don’t see how I can sit still when the whole country turns out to a man.”

“Of course not; you must go. I shall have to spare you for a time—darling. It will be only for a time, won’t it?” she said, beseechingly.

“It will. There isn’t a shadow of danger for me. I truly believe I bear a charmed life for some reason or other, a reason I think I’ve discovered,” he added, meaningly. “But I’ve had so many narrow shaves—more than fall to the lot of most people—that I have become a bit of a fatalist.”

A sudden impulse seized her. “Arthur, I’m going to tell you something I never told you before.” And then she told him the events of that night at Seringa Vale, shortly before Mr Brathwaite’s death. “Now do you see why I said I thought you were dead? But you’ll laugh at the whole thing as a mere fancy.”

He showed no disposition to laugh; his face wore a grave, even a solemn look.

“When was this?” he asked.

She told him the exact day and hour.

“Lilian,” he said, very solemnly, “it was you and no other agency whatever that saved my life—saved it for yourself. Therefore, it is certain that it is not to be taken now, yet awhile.” And awestruck, she listened as he told her how he had lain fevered at the very point of death in the Matabili hut, and that the sight of her had sent him into that soothing sleep which was the turning-point.

And then, as they drew near home, and the soft light faded from the lofty Kei hills, between which the river flowed far down in the silent gloom between its frowning krantzes, the calming effects of the hour was upon these two. The present was very, very sweet. They had had a brief period of perfect happiness, after the years of dreary waiting, and now, if separation was to come, it would not be for long, and they would look forward hopefully to the time when, the disturbances over, peace should be restored.

That night Claverton and his host were sitting out on the stoep smoking their pipes, the rest of the party having long since retired. The conversation throughout the evening had turned upon the state of affairs, and now the same topic held.

“By-the-bye,” said Payne, “there was a strange nigger here this evening, a deuced fine-looking fellow, but an infernal scoundrel, I suspect. He asked if he might sleep at the huts, and I let him.”

“Why did you?”

“Well, you see, it would have done no good to turn him away. If he’s up to mischief he’d carry it out anyhow; and if he isn’t, well, there’s no harm done.”

“H’m. Marshall seems in a bit of a funk. He told me a couple of yarns to-day about fellows whose servants had warned them to clear. I should think that trick’s played out, though.”

“Dunno. You’ll still find people to believe in it. The niggers, of course, make it pay. Jack, in his capacity of old and faithful servant, warns his Baas. His Baas believes him. Henceforth Jack has a high old time of it, and, provided he is careful in the yarns he invents, may go on to the end of the chapter. For my part, I don’t believe in any nigger’s fidelity. You can’t trust one of them.”

“Except my chap, Sam,” said Claverton.

“Ah, that’s different. He’s away from his own country, you see; and then you and he have chummed it for ever so long in places where he has learnt to depend on you.”

It was a still, clear night, the sky seemed crowded with stars, and the air was warm and balmy for the time of year. Scarce a sound was audible, save that now and again the faintest possible echo of a savage song was borne from some kraal many miles across country. Otherwise there was a stillness that might be felt, and the voices of the two men, subdued as they were, sounded almost loud.

“Hallo! What the deuce is that?” said Payne, suddenly. For there arose a terrific clamour from the dogs at the back of the house. There was a preliminary “woof” as those vigilant guardians first scented intrusion; then the whole pack dashed off violently, and showing a very decided fixity of purpose, towards an angle of the high quince hedge which bounded the garden—baying savagely.

Both men rose to their feet.

“They’ve got something there, I’ll swear,” said Claverton in a low tone. “Wonder what.”

“Very likely a prowling nigger,” answered Payne. “We’ll just get out our shooting-irons and go and see.”

Volume Two—Chapter Six.

The Fire Trumpet.

With weapons cocked and ready, and keeping a sharp look-out ahead, our two friends stole quietly and warily along the shadow of the quince hedge. Meanwhile the canine clamour increased tenfold; such a yelling, and growling, and full-voiced baying as never before was heard.

“Why, they’ve treed something—look there!” whispered Claverton, as they arrived upon the scene of the disturbance. And sure enough in the branches of a small apricot-tree, which grew a little higher than the quince hedge, they could make out the dark figure of a man, clinging there as for dear life, while the dogs were leaping, and snapping, and rolling over upon one another and into the ditch in their frantic efforts to reach him. And, but for this timely refuge, he would have been torn in pieces by the great fierce brutes.

“Come down, whoever you are,” said Payne, speaking in the Kafir language, “or I’ll fire. If you attempt to run away the dogs will soon catch you. Come down.”

They could hear a muttered exclamation or two, and then the unknown replied:

“Keep in the dogs, ’Nkos. I came here to visit you, to tell you some news.”

“All right. Come down. Here, Neptune, Corker, Slow—keep still, you brutes. Voertsek, Huis! to!” (be off; home) cried Payne; and the excited hounds reluctantly drew off with many a savage growl.

Then something dropped from the tree, there was a rustle in the quince hedge, and a man stood before them in the darkness. Payne had just time to restrain the dogs, who would have flung themselves upon this sudden apparition there and then.

“Now, then, who are you and what do you want?” he asked.

“’Nkos, you remember me? But I can’t talk here, it’s cold and I’ve been frightened, and I am old and weak.”

“Why, it’s Mhlanga,” cried Payne, in astonishment. “But what the devil d’you want with me at this time of night?”

“Hadn’t we better take him to the house and give him a tot of grog?” said Claverton. “He looks rather shaky.”

“Of course. Come with us, Mhlanga,” and they returned to the house, where a liberal ration of undiluted spirit having sent a generous glow through the Kafir’s frame, that unexpected visitor squatted down on the stoep with his blanket huddled round him, and fired off an ejaculation or two.

He was an old man, with a white head and a lean, gaunt frame, and in spite of the potation shivered slightly from time to time as he sat there, for he had had a very narrow escape from the jaws of the dogs. Then he began, speaking in a low, rapid tone:

“When the grass-fire sweeps along the mountain side, who would stand in its way because he had built a hut there? When yonder river rushes down in a flood after the thunderstorms, who would stand in the drift and try to beat it back with his hands? Why are you still here?”

“Why not, Mhlanga? You must speak plainer.” The old Kafir made a gesture of impatience. “Are you waiting till this moon is dead?” he went on. “If so you will never see it die. Go. Go while there is time. What can two men do to stay the roaring flame through the long, dry grass? Nothing. Will they stand in the middle and be consumed? The grass is thoroughly dry and the torch is put in, the flame will spread and devour all in its way. Even now it is kindled. Are you tired of life?” concluded the old man in a more eager tone than he had hitherto employed.

“The gist of the parable is obvious,” remarked Payne to his companion, who nodded assent. “By the way, this old bird was with me several years and left suddenly some time ago, because he wanted a change. Now, you see, he’s doing the very confidence trick we were just talking about. Have some more grog, Mhlanga.”

The old man held out his tin mug with alacrity for Payne to replenish. Then he tossed off the contents, heaved a sigh or two and was about to speak, when suddenly he stopped short and appeared to be listening intently.

“Come,” he said, rising. “Come with me, Amakosi!”

“Oh, that’s another pair of shoes,” said Payne, suspiciously. “But, Mhlanga; why should you come here to tell me this—eh?”

“I was with you for several years, ’Nkosi, and when the snake bit me you put in the medicine stuff that healed it. I do not wish harm to befall you.”

“Oho! gratitude’s the order of the day, is it?” Then to the Kafir: “Steer ahead, Mhlanga.”

They followed the old man as he led the way to the brow of a slight eminence a few hundred yards from the homestead. Above, the stars twinkled in their silent watch, twinkled on ever the same. The midnight sky, moonless, and arching overhead like a heavy pall of blue-black velvet besprinkled with gold-dust, was oppressive in its darksome serenity, and there was something in the mystery and suddenness of the whole situation which even to the tried nerves of the two white men was intolerably awesome and thrilling. Far away in the distance, beyond the mouth of the defile or gap, a few fires glowed like sparks.

“Listen,” said the Kafir, pointing with his sticks in the direction of this. “When the amajoni (soldiers) are mustered kwa Rini (at King Williamstown), the trumpet is blown in the morning sunshine, and all the town hears it, for its voice is of brass. Ha! When the chiefs of the Amaxosa gather their fighting men the trumpet is sounded too, but it is sounded in the blackness of midnight; and all the country hears it, for its voice is of fire. Look,” he went on. “Even now the chiefs are talking to each other. The Fire Trumpet is calling the tribes to war.”

As he spoke a red tongue of flame leapt forth from the darkness against the distant horizon, where it flashed and burned for a few minutes. Then from another high point a second beacon-fire gleamed, followed by a third; and as the watchers gazed in half-incredulous wonder, not unmixed with awe, a strange, weird, resounding cry rose upon the midnight air, gathering volume as it rolled, as if kindled by those threatening beacons which glowed in the midnight firmament from the Kei to the far Amatola. Again and again pealed forth that dismal sound, and then all was still as the fiery signal shot up redly from half-a-dozen lofty elevations, and then sank as suddenly as it had blazed forth, until nearly invisible. And that unearthly and ominous cry might well strike a chill to the hearts of the listeners, for it was the war-cry of the formidable Gaika clans.

“Who was the man who asked leave to sleep in the huts, to-night?” asked the old Kafir, meaningly. “If he is here to-morrow, if your three herds are here to-morrow, if they answer when you call them, then I have been telling you lies. Listen, ’Nkosi,” he concluded, impressively. “You are a good man. You saved my life once, and I have come far to talk to you to-night. Take your wife and your children, and your sheep, and cattle, and go—go away into the town where they will be safe, and that to-morrow, for the call of the Fire Trumpet has rung in the heavens, and the land is dead.”

Payne was more impressed than he would care to own, and made up his mind to act upon the other’s words, if not to-morrow, yet at no distant date.

“Well, Mhlanga,” he began, “if it’s as you say, and—Why, by George, what’s become of the fellow?” he broke off, in astonishment.

For the Kafir had disappeared. He had vanished as he had come—silently, mysteriously. They called to him once or twice, but without result. His mission was accomplished and he was gone.

They turned towards the house. Suddenly, from the summit of one of the highest of the Kei hills, there blazed forth another fire, reddening the sky overhead, and they could make out distinctly the darting, leaping flames, shooting upward like demon tongues. And this startling answer from the opposite direction brought home to these two more vividly than ever a sense of their position, hemmed in between the plotting tribes now flashing their gruesome midnight messages of fire the one to the other, conveying in a moment to thousands of eager barbarians the dread signal, of which the destructive element was a terribly fitting exponent.

“I say,” suddenly exclaimed Payne; “let’s go and see if that nigger that came this afternoon is still in the huts.”

They went to the huts. A snore from inside told that these were still inhabited, and a sleepy growl or two as in obedience to their master’s summons the slumbering Kafirs aroused themselves. By the light of a match, which Payne held in his hand, several recumbent forms huddled in their blankets became visible.

“Here, Booi; where’s the chap who came here this afternoon?” asked Payne.

There was a momentary hesitation. “He’s gone, Baas.”

“Has he? Oh, all right, go to sleep again. Faugh?” he continued, as they stood once more in the open air. “The whiff in there reminds one of the ’tween-decks of a ship in a good rolling sea. The first part of old Mhlanga’s prediction holds good, but I must confess I don’t quite believe the second. Those fellows will be here in the morning.”

After this, neither felt much inclined to sleep, so they sat up chatting in a low tone far into the small hours. Then Payne’s answers began to get very confused, till at last his pipe dropped from his mouth, and came to the ground with a clatter.

“Look here, Payne, go and do the horizontal there on the sofa,” said his companion, with a laugh. “I’ll do sentry-go, and it’s no good both doing it.”

“Well, if you really aren’t sleepy—the fact is, I am, confoundedly,” and, rolling himself in a jackal-skin rug, Payne stretched himself on the couch, and in a minute was snoring peacefully.

His companion, well accustomed to long night-watches, sat at the window, motionless, but wide awake, looking out into the starlit gloom. Now and then he would doze off into that half-slumber known as “sleeping with one eye open,” wherein the wakeful faculties seem even more developed than during actual wakefulness, but nothing occurred of a disturbing nature. Once the dogs began to bark, but quieted down very soon, and the hours wore on till the clear still dawn lightened upon the hills and the sleeping valley.

Payne opened his eyes with a start, and met those of his companion. “Hullo! Haven’t you had a snooze?”

“No; that would be a queer way of mounting guard, wouldn’t it? I think I’ll have one now, though.”

“Well, I should recommend you to turn in altogether. I’ll call you presently. There’ll be no one up for the next three hours, you know,” continued Payne, with a meaning wink.

Two hours later Claverton was awake again, and found Payne just where he had left him, snoring in regular cadence. Though the sun was up there was no sign of life about the place.

“I wonder if that old Kafir was gammoning us,” remarked Payne, as the two made their way to the kraals. In that cheerful sunshine, the effects of the dour midnight warning had faded somewhat, as such effects will, and he was inclined to make light of it. “Here, Booi, Gcoku!” he shouted; “tumble out—look sharp!”

There was no answer.

Meaningly, the two looked at each other. Then they made their way to the huts, and kicked open the doors. The huts were empty. If your three herds are here to-morrow—if they answer when you call them—then I have been telling you lies, had been Mhlanga’s words. Therefore, no doubt now existed in his hearers’ minds that his strange, mysterious warning was true. The three Kafirs, with their families and belongings, had departed, obedient to the “word” of the stranger, the chief’s emissary; had gone to add three more warriors to the martial gathering of their tribe.

For a few moments Payne did not speak. He was rapidly revolving the situation in his mind. War would mean ruinous loss to him. He would have to send his family away to the settlements for safety, and go into laager himself; which latter meant months of armed tending of his stock, in common with others in like predicament; and then, even if the animals escaped capture at the hands of the savage foe, there were the chances of catching lung sickness or other diseases from the inferior and ill-bred stock of less careful or less successful farmers, with whom they would necessarily mix during all the owners’ joint occupation of the defensive camp.

“By Jove!” he exclaimed, at length, as his eyes fell upon some spoor. “The schelms have gone, and they’ve not gone empty-handed.”

On counting the cattle his worst suspicions were verified. Four of his finest cows were missing, and there was no difficulty whatever in making out by the tracks that they had been driven off by his treacherous and defecting retainers. Payne swore a great oath.

“We’ll go after them!” he cried. “We’ll give them pepper. Hallo! There’s Marshall. He’s getting quite neighbourly.”

The countenance of that stalwart frontiersman evinced no surprise as, alighting from his nag, he learnt what had happened. He had come over to see how they were all getting on, and had also been making a little patrol on his own hook, he said.

“You’re just in the nick of time, Joe,” cried Payne. “You can come with us.”

“And are you going to leave the ladies here all alone?” replied Marshall. “I wouldn’t, if I were you.”

“I had thought of that, too,” said Claverton, quietly. “One of us must stay.”

“Then I will,” said Marshall. “If you fellers are determined to rush off, you’d better do so at once. Mind, I don’t think you’ll catch the beggars in any case; they’ve got a good start of you. And my old nag hasn’t got go enough in her for a raid into Kreli’s country just now.”

“Very well, then, that settles it,” said Payne. “It’s awfully good of you, Joe. We’ll get breakfast sharp, and then start. By the way, we’d better not tell the women where we’re going.”

Volume Two—Chapter Seven.

A Timely Flight.

Marshall’s prediction was verified. Claverton and his host returned to Fountain’s Gap at desk; but without the lost stock. They had spoored the animals down to a drift of the Kei River, and had even crossed; but in the then state of things they deemed it imprudent to a degree to venture farther into the enemy’s country; and the thieves, having a good start of them, escaped with their booty.

Careful watch was kept that night in Payne’s household; but beyond a couple of alarms—not unjustifiable after the events of the last twenty-four hours, though happily false—nothing transpired.

Under the influence of the cheering sunshine all were disposed to think more lightly of the situation; but Payne had formed his plans. It would not do to remain there any longer. He, in common with other settlers on that part of the Kaffrarian border, was very precariously situated. What with Kreli, just across the river, in a state of declared war; and the powerful Gaika clans, within colonial territory, liable to rise at any moment and make common cause with their brethren, George fully realised that he was in a cleft stick, hemmed in as he would thus be by hostile natives on every side. So he made up his mind to abandon Fountain’s Gap, and remove his family to Komgha; then he would have his hands free to take the field if it were still necessary. The move was to be made that morning, and all the household were hastily preparing for it.

It was arranged that they should remain in the settlement for the present, till it could be seen how things would turn out. There they would be safe, as the place would be a kind of dépôt and the headquarters whence all operations for guarding the border would be carried on.

“And now, George, I suppose the Kafirs will have made a bonfire of the house before I see it again,” remarked his wife, as a turn of the road hid the homestead from view.

“Dunno. Impossible to predict. They may, and they may not,” sententiously replied George, whose chief object in life, at that moment, was the lighting of his pipe under the adverse circumstances of being at the same time obliged to control a pair of strong, fresh horses, none of the quietest at the best of times. He was driving a Cape cart, the ordinary family coach of the frontier settler, which, besides the said family, contained very little else, for he intended to return at once as soon as the womenkind were in safety, and load up a waggon with such of his lares and penates as it was most desirable to preserve; for the rest, well, he supposed it must take its chance. Lilian was riding—needless to specify with what escort—and Marshall, who was leading a young horse, and whose attention was wholly taken up with that intractable animal—or at any rate, said it was—rode a little way behind.

“I wonder when I shall get you all to myself again, Arthur,” she said, softly.

“I was thinking very much the same,” he replied. “But keep the mercury up, dear. The row may not last long.”

“Yes. I must not be such a coward,” she said. “But somehow this morning, in spite of the sunshine and the glorious weather, there is something so awfully depressing over everything. The whole country seems deserted. That farmhouse we just passed spoke volumes, standing there all shut up; and there are no natives about even. It is dreadful.”

She was rather pale, after the long, anxious night, depressed as with the shadow of coming woe. Claverton looked tenderly at the sweet face in its sad, delicate beauty, and wished to Heaven the Kafirs would leave them all in peace. A fight was very good fun, but, for his part, he had had enough in the way of excitement to last him all his life, at least so he thought; and now he would ask nothing better than to spend the remainder of his days in calm, undisturbed quiet, with this, his long-lost love.

“Look,” he said; “there are some people coming across there—and they are Kafirs.”

Lilian started. “Where? Oh, there are only a few,” said she, in a relieved tone. For now, every member of the Amaxosa race assumed, in her imagination, the form of a fierce enemy threatening destruction to her and hers.

The natives, who had been crossing a bushy hollow some four hundred yards off, suddenly stopped, and began peering over the trees at the party, as if uncertain as to the reception they would meet with. Far away stretched the rolling sunny plains, and the lines of wooded hills, where here and there a thick column of smoke ascended through the clear air. One or two distant homesteads were visible—empty, and their pastures tenantless, for a general flight had taken place and the land seemed dead indeed; and there, a little way off, were the red forms of the Kafirs watching them from the bush, while the pleasant sun shone upon the bright points of their assegais.

“It reminds me rather of our ride over to Thirlestane that day,” said Claverton. “It’s just such another day for sunshine and scenery.”

“But not for peace,” she rejoined, softly. “Ah, if all was only as peaceful now.”

“But it will be, darling. Only a little while longer,” replied he, glad to have diverted her thoughts from this unexpected source of fear. And as they rode on further and further from it, the group of armed savages could still be seen watching them from the hill, but these were too few in number to be formidable, and, moreover, the settlement was near at hand. To which another hour of journeying brought them in due course.

And how changed was the aspect of the ordinarily quiet little village now! Waggons stood about everywhere, the three or four irregular streets were filled with a bustling crowd—men mounted and men afoot—men of every class and pursuit—farmer, mechanic, storekeeper, frontier policeman, with here and there a military uniform, and, amid the crowd, dark-skinned natives moved quietly about, or stood in knots at the corners, discussing the latest indaba. And the softer sex, too, held its own, in the shape of the wives and daughters of the settlers—these, for their part, of as varied a class as their lords—the ponderous frame of the blowzy Dutch vrouw, side by side with the regular features and straight profile of some tastefully-attired daughter of an old English line.

But although at first sight the place wore an air of bustle and confusion, it must not be supposed that chaos reigned. A regular system of defence had been organised in the event of attack, and certain points of vantage entrenched and fortified, and the safety of the place was provided for ably and well. The surrounding country, undulating and grassy, was dotted with horses and cattle grazing. These could be driven in at a moment’s warning; and the approaches to the place, being quite open and devoid of cover, were abundantly commanded by the artillery barracks of the Frontier Armed and Mounted Police, which stood upon a hill some eight hundred yards from the village. The church, a brick and plaster building of unparalleled ugliness, would make an efficient block-house in the last extremity—surrounded as it was with a high sod wall. For those to whom their fellows’ necessities were their own opportunities, the existing state of affairs promised a rich harvest, for the stores were doing a brisk trade, and the canteens and hotels were full morning, noon, and night. On the steps of one of the latter lounged a group of men as our friends arrived.

“Hullo, Payne! You don’t mean to say that’s yourself?” cried one. “Why, I thought you were going to stick to your place through it all.”

“Well, and who says I’m not?” retorted Payne. “Can’t a fellow drive into the village for the day without having trekked?”

“Oh, for the day!” repeated the first speaker, significantly. “Then, my good fellow, let me recommend you to remain. After that last affair we shall have old Kreli coming straight across to give as a look up, he’ll be so cock-a-hoop.”

“Wish he would,” growled another. “We’d give him particular toko.”

“What last affair?” said Payne, half anticipating the answer. “Has there been a fight?”

“I should jes’ think there had. A few of the Police and a lot of Fingoes were tackled by the Gcalekas; but you must have heard!”

“No, I haven’t; not a word.”

“Well, then,” went on the other, brightening up as a man will do when he is the first to impart to you a big bit of news; “the thing was this. A lot of Gcalekas—five thousand, they say—were going across to thrash the Fingoes, and the Police were ordered out to support the Fingoes. They met, and the gun opened fire—one of them seven-pounders they were practising here with t’other day. It appears that they made very good shootin’, and mowed down the Kafirs like smoke; and then somehow or other the gun broke down, and, by George, sir, before you could say ‘knife’ the Fingoes turned tail and ran—bolted clean. Well, of course it wasn’t to be expected a few Police—a mere handful as it were—How many were there, Jim?” broke off the narrator, turning to a companion.

“About one hundred and sixty.”

“Yes. Well, it wasn’t to be expected they could stand against five thousand of Kreli’s chaps; and they didn’t. The order was given to retire, and then it became a job to catch the horses, and, as the Kafirs charged them, they were obliged to run for it. Some who couldn’t catch their horses were killed—six—six privates and a sub-inspector; and now old Kreli’s cock of the walk—for the time being.”

“Where was the row?” asked Claverton.

“Well, it was at a place called Guadana—just on the boundary of the Idutywa Reserve.”

“When was it—yesterday?” inquired Payne.

“No—day before. I’m expecting a chap round here directly who’s straight from up there. Come in and liquor, and we’ll get him to tell us all about it.”

“The day before yesterday!” echoed Payne, opening his eyes wide—and he and Claverton looked meaningly at each other—for it was on the evening of that very day that the old Kafir had come to them with his stealthy warning, and the dread Fire Trumpet had blazed forth on the Kei hills, signalling to the expectant tribes within the colonial boundary, the news of their brethren’s victory. And it was on the following day that they two had so nearly carried the war into the enemy’s country in pursuit of the stolen cattle, all unconscious, then, of the mad rashness of the undertaking—an undertaking, which, had it been carried out, would assuredly have cost them their lives.

Volume Two—Chapter Eight.

The Attack on the “Great Place.”

It is night. Night, that is to say, for all practical purposes, though strict chronological accuracy might compel us to define it as morning; for nearly three hours have elapsed since midnight. But, be that as it may, at present it is as dark as the nethermost shades, as one of that long, silent file of horsemen, wending its way through the gloom, remarks to a comrade.

A chill breeze stirs the raw atmosphere, and sweeps before it puffs of misty vapour which have been resting thickly alike upon hill-top and low-lying bottom. Overhead a few sickly stars shine forth through the flying scud, to be quickly veiled again, and replaced by another spangled patch. And, advancing at a foot-pace, comes line upon line of mounted men, moving through the darkness like the phantom horsemen of some eerie legend. Very little talking is there in the ranks. Muffled in their overcoats and with hats slouched over their faces the men ride on, stolid, and meditative, and little inclined for conversation in the damp, raw air which has a corresponding effect upon their spirits, even if orders had not been issued for quiet and caution; for it is a night march in the heart of the enemy’s country.

It is difficult to distinguish face or feature of any description in the profundity of the gloom; but now and again the dull silence and the dead monotonous tramp of hoofs is relieved by the clank of arms and the jingle of a bit; or the smothered imprecation of some one whose horse has stumbled in the darkness, as he holds up the careless animal, who gives a snort of alarm. And the march continues on through the night, till at last the gloom shows signs of lightening, and we begin to make out the aspect of this bellicose-looking cavalcade advancing over the hills and dales of savage Gcalekaland. We see a number of roughly-clad, bearded men, mostly attired in serviceable corduroy and with a gaily-coloured handkerchief twined round their slouch hats, mounted on tough, wiry steeds. On their saddles are strapped blankets or mackintoshes and for arms each man carries a rifle of some sort—from the Government Snider, to the double-barrelled weapon in ordinary frontier use, rifled and smooth-barrel for varying distance or quarry. Not a few have revolvers also; and broad, heavy belts, holding at least two hundred rounds of cartridge, are buckled round them or slung over their shoulders. Many of which bullets will, I trow, find their mark in the dusky bodies of the savage enemy before the day is very far advanced. This is a corps of Irregular Horse, frontiersmen all of them. Another side of the column we see, in the gathering dawn, is composed of mounted volunteers—townsmen—whose gay uniforms, cavalry sabres, and glittering accoutrements, show out in contrast to the more sombre trappings of the corps first noticed. Yet of the two it is not difficult to predict which the enemy would rather meet in battle. Another ingredient in this martial array is the Frontier Armed and Mounted Police, two or three troops of which useful force, looking ready and soldier-like in their helmets and sober uniforms, flank the march—these are armed with short carbine and revolver. And lo, moving along, drawn by several stout horses, black and rakish-looking in the uncertain light, are the field-pieces, with their attendant gunners—a smart and efficient selection of men.

The object of the expedition may be divulged by a scrap of the conversation of one of its members.

“So we shall smoke the old fox out of his own earth at last,” is saying a sturdy young fellow in the ranks of the Irregular Horse.

“Ha, ha! Shall we? You don’t suppose old Kreli is sitting at home waiting for us, do you?” is his comrade’s reply. “Why, he’s miles off, I expect.”

“Bet you he isn’t,” cut in a third. “Bet you one to five in half-crowns we nobble old Kreli to-day.”

“Ha, ha!” laughed the first speaker. “Jack’s so sure of his bet that he wants all the odds in his favour.”

“Well, well, yes,” rejoined the other, briskly. “We must have a bet on, you know, just as a matter of form. But you’ll have to hand over, Hicks, my boy. You laid me long odds when we started that we shouldn’t burn Kreli’s Great Place before Christmas, and—”

“And we haven’t,” interrupted Hicks. “There’s many a slip, you know, and we are not there yet; and the commander may take it into his head to—”

“Ssh-h! Silence there forward, please?”

The two disputants subsided. They were very near the scene of operations now, and almost immediately a halt was called. Beneath, in a hollow, lay the “Great Place,” a large collection of huts—well placed for convenience and comfort, but extremely badly for purposes of defence—on a bend of the Xora River, whose clear waters flowed gurgling past. Overshadowing the village on the one side was a great krantz, and around lay pleasant slopes of rolling pasture, relieved here and there by patches of mimosa thorns. All was wrapped in the most profound silence as the day broke. The inhabitants of the village slumbered unsuspectingly; and if the old chief was there it was extremely likely that the attacking column, drawing a cordon round the place, would have him fast shut within the trap. Meanwhile the said column rested upon its oars, and grumbled.

“What the devil are we waiting for?” fumed Hicks. “The niggers’ll all get away before we get so much as a long shot at them. And a fellow mayn’t even have a pipe while he’s waiting.”

“Keep cool, old man,” replied Armitage. “Or ask Captain Jim.”

“Captain Jim,” being none other than our old friend Jim Brathwaite, who, with characteristic energy, the moment war was fairly declared, had set to work to raise a select corps of his own—not a difficult proceeding, for men flocked from all parts to take service under a leader so popular and so well known for dash and daring—and in three days he had enrolled nearly a hundred picked men. This corps comprised all of our old Seringa Vale friends, and, being mainly of local origin, its members knew and trusted thoroughly each other and their leaders.

“Ah, now we shall hear something,” went on Hicks, as a Police orderly was seen to ride up and confer with their leader. “The advance, I expect.”

“Or the retreat,” suggested another, cynically. “Just as likely the one as the other, from all accounts.”

“Hallo. There’s the enemy, by Jupiter!” cried another young fellow.

All turned. A dark column was seen rapidly advancing up the hill in their rear, and more than one heart beat quicker as its owner watched the approach of this new factor in the state of affairs.

“Not it,” said Naylor, quietly. “It’s the Fingoes for whom we’ve been waiting all this time. Now we shall be able to go forward.”

An exclamation of wrath went along the line.

“Lazy brutes!”

“Waiting for them, indeed!” and so on.

“Now, men,” said Naylor, who was second in command, “here’s the programme. We are to attack on the right with the Kaffrarian fellows. At the sound of the bugle we advance, in skirmishing order, according to the number of Kafirs in the kraal, and the fight they show. If possible, we are to surround them. Now—mount!”

The last order had not to be given twice, and in a moment the whole troop was moving round behind the hills, to take up their allotted position—where they waited, each man, rifle in hand, burning with impatience to begin. Scarce a sound was audible in that quiet vale; now and then a small bird fluttered up from the grass with a piping twitter, once a great black ringhals rustled away, half inflating his hood in surprised wrath at the unwonted disturbance, but even of this abhorred foe the men took no notice. They were after heavier game to-day—the heaviest of all—human game. And the mist rolled back over the bills.

Suddenly a shot rings out on the morning air, then another and another. And now, on every face is an expression of the most eager expectancy, and every one grips his rifle. The hands of some of the younger men, who have never been in action before, begin to shake; but not with fear. There is something intensely exciting in this silent waiting, and they are only longing to begin. Then a volume of white-blue smoke spouts forth from a point above, a heavy boom, a hurtling rush through the air, and the shrapnel bursts with a screech and a detonation right over the nearest cluster of huts. At the same time the bugle-notes peal out from the hill-top loud and clear—the signal for the attack to begin.

And the kraal wears the appearance of a disturbed ants’ nest. From everywhere and nowhere, apparently, dark forms are starting up, and the whole place is alive with fierce warriors, and shining gun-barrels, and bristling assegais; and puffs of smoke among the thatch huts, and many an ugly “whiz” in the ears of the attacking force, show that the Kafirs have opened a tolerably smart fire in return.

Crack—crack—crack! echo the rifles of the assailants, as the jets of flame, which in an advancing line play upon the doomed village, draw nearer and nearer—the sharpshooters taking advantage of every bit of cover during their approach. And over and above the rattle of small-arms booms out the thunderous roar of cannon, losing itself in a hundred echoes on the wall of the great cliff opposite, and again and again bursts the screeching shell over that swarm of human beings, and very soon the groans of the stricken and the maimed and the dying begin to mingle with the fierce war-shouts of the Gcaleka warriors. These, indeed, are beginning to fall thick and fast, but still their bullets and bits of potleg (Note 1) whistle about the ears of the attacking party.

“Now, men!” cries Jim Brathwaite. “One more volley and then at them. Ready!”

A rattling crash as every rifle is emptied, and then with a wild cheer the men, revolver in hand, are riding at a gallop upon the kraal; but first and foremost throughout is their undaunted leader. And the Kafirs, their ranks already sadly thinned out, unable to withstand the onslaught of this mad charge, turn and fly for dear life.

“Hurrah! At them, boys!” yells Jim, discharging his revolver at the foremost of two stalwart Gcalekas, who have sprung like lightning out of the very ground, as it were. The savage, however, dives to avoid the shot, which hits one of his fellow-countrymen fair in the back, and, gathering himself like a panther, leaps at his assailant, assegai in hand, aiming a furious stab at his side—but too late. The impetus of his pace carries Jim past, and the Kafir, missing his blow and his footing, falls forward on his face, to be trampled into a lifeless pulp beneath the hoofs of the horses, as the whole troop pours through the village, pistolling the fleeing or opposing enemy, and the ground is strewn with human forms, dead and dying.

And now the fight has become a stampede and a rout. Shut in on three sides by the horsemen bearing down upon them, the fleeing Kafirs run like bucks along the river bank, to make good their escape ere yon dark cloud of advancing Fingoes, sweeping steadily down to cut them off, shall get in front of them. Can they do this, they may yet hope to count up their scattered remnant in the welcome shelter of that dark forest line a few miles off. At any rate, they will cut their way through the Fingo dogs, and many a fierce warrior, grinding his teeth as he grips his assegai, starts off with renewed vigour, to pour out the heart’s blood of at any rate one of his despised foes before he dies.

Suddenly the flight stops, and with a rallying cry a body of the Kafirs make a stand. They are beyond the reach of the shells, and by this time the rout has scattered far over the plain; and the nearest Fingoes, who have been slowly overtaking their enemies, waver and hesitate, quailing before their former masters, who throw out at them threats and fierce taunts. The fugitives have nothing but empty guns, which being mostly muzzle-loaders, they have no time to reload. Assegais are thrown, and more than one whooping and hitherto exultant Fingo wallows in the dust, transfixed by the deadly javelin. In another minute these cowardly auxiliaries will turn and fly, as the Gcalekas, with clubbed guns and gripping their large stabbing assegais, furiously charge them, uttering their war-cry—when behold, a body of horsemen comes sweeping up, Jim Brathwaite’s troop leading, and the tide is turned. The Fingoes, inspired with fresh courage, stand, and sneak behind the whites, waiting for these to disperse the enemy, and then go quietly after them and assegai the wounded lying upon the ground.

“Hallo!” cried Armitage. “Hold on; Gough’s down.”

“Oh, it’s nothing, I’m not hurt,” is the plucky reply, as the young fellow leaps clear of his horse, which, stabbed to the heart by a wounded Kafir who lay on the ground, had fallen with a crash.

“Bight you are. Better fall in with the dismounted men,” and away rides the speaker.

Suddenly one of the Kafirs, watching his opportunity, springs like a cat on to the saddle of a trooper, and gripping him round the neck with one arm, stabs him to the heart with the other; then loosing his murderous embrace as he and his victim slide to the earth together, he runs like the wind, casting his glance from side to side in search of another possible victim, when he falls, pierced by a couple of revolver bullets. Another savage is suddenly descried by Hicks and Armitage, who are riding together, rushing at a man, who with his bridle over his arm stands coolly awaiting his approach. This man both of them have noticed during the pursuit. Working apparently alone, he has kept himself entirely free from flurry and excitement, reining in every now and then and taking a deliberate shot at long range, almost invariably bringing down one of the foe. And now they watch him, as a great sinewy Kafir rushes at him like a wild beast, now leaping high in the air, now dropping into the grass, then zig-zagging as if to get round the white man, who stands perfectly calm through it all, with a slightly sneering smile upon his face, but covering this dancing, leaping assailant with his gun-barrels.

Crack! The savage falls. Then, as suddenly, he picks himself up, and with a wild shout rushes at his cool antagonist.

“He’s got him, by God!” cries Hicks, as in a tension of excitement he marks the artful feint of the barbarian and, as he thinks, the turning of the tables. But the other never moves, nor does the expression of his countenance alter by a single hair’s breadth.

Crack! Another report, and the fierce warrior falls, this time stone-dead, leaping nearly against the barrel which at point-blank had sent a full charge of “loopers” straight through his heart.

“Whoop! Hooray!” yelled Hicks, wild with excitement. “Grand old shot, that! Thought you were a gone coon, by Jove!”

The other quickly slipped a couple of cartridges into the smoking breech of his gun, and looked up with a slight smile at this remark; and what he saw soon changed the smile into an outright laugh. For Hicks was staring at him, speechless and open-mouthed, while even Armitage looked somewhat dumbfoundered.

“The devil!” ejaculated Hicks, and relapsed into staring again.

“That’s uncivil,” remarked the stranger, drily.

“Why, hang it, it is—Claverton, no one else! Arthur, old boy, where on earth have you dropped from? I vow this is the best thing that’s happened for years. We thought you must be dead and buried, hearing nothing about you,” and leaping to the ground, honest Hicks wrung his former comrade’s hand as if he would crush that remarkably useful member.

Something in the last phrase jarred upon Claverton. Lilian had said much the same thing when they had met.

“Well, here I am at any rate. Turned up again like the proverbial ‘shise’ coin,” he replied. “How’s yourself? Flourishing apparently. You look as if ‘the holy estate’ agreed with you. And Jack? I say, Jack; bet you two to one in anything you like you don’t drop that chap scuttling away over there.”

“Done for you!” cried Armitage, sighting his rifle and drawing a bead on one of the retreating enemy, distant some seven hundred yards.

“No. Hand over!” cried Claverton. “Missed him clean. Give you another shot, though.”

But the other shot was likewise a failure; and the Gcaleka got off scot-free to rejoin, if he listed, the bosom of his family.

“Never mind, Jack. I won’t dun you for the stakes, I only wanted to see if you had left off that villainous sporting habit of yours.”

“But, Arthur—how the deuce did you come here?” went on Hicks. “You’re not a Volunteer—those fellows are all jingling with chains and whistles.”

“Yes, I am. Kaffrarian Rangers, full private. And then?”

“And then? Why, you must join us without any further indaba. We’ll have a high old time of it. Do you mean to say you can cut all your old friends and go and fight among strangers? Bosh!”

Claverton whistled meditatively as he surveyed the field of battle and of flight. Here and there lay a dark object in a heap amid the grass, just as it had fallen—the slain body of a Gcaleka warrior—and scattered afar rode the pursuing horsemen.

“Well, I don’t know,” he said. “I should rather like to cut in with you fellows. I’ll see if it can be managed.”

“Of course you will,” said Hicks, light-heartedly. “By Jove, if that isn’t ‘the retire.’”

For the clear notes of the bugle were ringing afar, and in obedience to the summons the straggling horsemen began to collect from all parts of the field, and to retrace their steps, marvelling not a little at this sudden and unlooked-for mandate. And from the chief’s village, the “Great Place,” went up a great cloud of smoke, as, having hunted out its fleeing inhabitants, the last of the attacking force had flung a torch into the thatch tenements, setting the whole in a blaze; and above the bursting flames great rolling pillars of smoke mounted to the sky.

Slowly the pursuers straggled back, their horses and themselves wet with perspiration and grimy with dust and powder; many hatless, having lost their “roofing,” they said, in the hurry-scurry of the charge or of the pursuit; while a darker stain showed upon others, whether on their clothes or accoutrements—the stain of blood. The horses were panting after their long gallop, and the riders commenting freely on the events of the morning in a loud, excited tone. Many carried assegais, whole or broken, which they had taken as trophies, also bead-work, and other articles of native apparel or adornment. And in the rear marched the Fingo contingent, howling their war-song and looking intensely valiant now that the danger was over.

“Manzi! Ndipé manzi!” (“Water. Give me water.”) besought a faint voice.

Our party stopped, looking searchingly around. Several bodies of the enemy lay about, all apparently lifeless.

“Let the skunk die,” said a rough-looking fellow, who, with several others, had joined them when the rally was sounded. “Or give him his quietus in the shape of a leaden pill. A pretty dance they’ve led us all this time, and now to be calling on us to do hospital nurse for them. Damned if I do.”

“Well, a pretty dance we’ve led them to-day, at any rate. Poor devil! It won’t do any one any harm to give him a drink,” rejoined Claverton, dismounting and scrutinising the only one who showed sign of life. A tall, finely-made young Kafir lay with eyes half unclosed, and breathing heavily, apparently in great pain. Claverton bent over him as he repeated his fevered entreaty.

“Well, you may do nurse, I shan’t, so good day to you,” jeered the first speaker, riding on, while Hicks and Armitage reined in a moment, looking from their newly-found chum to the wounded man as if wondering what was coming next. But Claverton, without heeding anybody, took a large flask from his pocket, and poured a little of its contents between the Kafir’s teeth. Then filling the cup with water from the river, which ran hard by, he raised the wounded man’s head, and let him drain off the desired fluid.

“More,” whispered the Kafir; and having filled the little vessel again, Claverton watched his protégé drink the contents greedily. Then, with a deep sigh of relief, the sufferer lay back with closed eyes.

“That’ll do, Arthur. Come on, now, and leave the beggar alone,” cried Hicks, impatiently. “Or are you going to set up an ‘ambulance’ all over the field?”

“Don’t know,” replied the other, imperturbably. “It’s not much trouble, and we’ve been shooting such a lot of the poor devils that one may as well give one of them the consolation of a drink in extremis.” And he stood contemplating his protégé, who he had ascertained was not dangerously though badly wounded by a ball in the side. Then it occurred to him that the face of the stricken savage was not altogether unfamiliar to him; but where he had seen it he could not remember.

And now the war-song of the Fingoes drew nearer, and hearing it, the wounded man once more unclosed his eyes, with a mingled expression of despair and resignation and contempt. There was not a chance for him, he thought. The “dogs” would come up, and the white man would stand by and tell them to kill him. Well, what did it matter? They were dogs, and he was a warrior of the Amaxosa—nothing could get rid of that fact. Then, just as he thought his hour had come, the white man remarked in his own tongue: “Lie perfectly still and shut your eyes. If the Fingoes see that you’re alive, even though I may save you now, they will surely come back and kill you before you can get away.” And the other obeyed.

Claverton slowly proceeded to fill and light his pipe, as if he had dismounted with that object and that alone, and the Fingoes, their assegais red and blood-stained, marched past, looking about as though in search of any of the dreaded foe still living. They saluted the white man with servile acclamation, and passed on.

“Now,” continued he, when the savage auxiliaries were well out of the way, “wait until the coast’s clear, and then hook it. Go and tell Kreli that if he’s wise he’ll shut up fighting and come and sing small, and acknowledge that he’s made an ass of himself. You see, we don’t want to kill you fellows unless we are obliged, and then we’ll do for the lot of you. Now be off as soon as you can.”

The young Kafir, who was by no means a bad-looking fellow, smiled as he softly murmured assent, and, with a grateful look in his eyes, he laid hold of his benefactor’s foot and drew it to his lips in token of gratitude.

“All right,” said the latter; “now look to yourself,” and mounting his horse he overtook the rest, who had been making merry over their friend’s eccentricity.

“Now you’ve done the wet-nurse trick, old chap, we’ll get back to camp and have a glass of grog,” said Armitage.

“That’s a good idea,” assented Claverton. He did not mind their chaff, and would not have even if it were more ill-natured. A passing impulse had moved him to befriend this wounded savage, and he had obeyed it. And it may be that an even yet more humanising influence was at work, and that on that fierce battle-field, reeking with blood and carnage, the image of Lilian stood, viewing him with a sweet, approving smile as he listened to the agonised prayer of the stricken barbarian, who might be the first, if ever opportunity offered, to repay his charity with an assegai thrust. But having done this thing he was glad, and a softer feeling centred round his heart as if he actually heard Lilian’s approving voice in his ear.

Much growling was indulged in as the burghers and volunteers, returning to camp, learned that the pursuit was to be discontinued. They had struck a decisive blow, and now were not to be allowed to follow it up. Public discontent found its expression freely and in forcible language.

“Infernal nonsense?” repeated one big fellow in reply to a comrade’s observation. “I believe you. Why, what we’ve done to-day is no good at all—not one blessed ha’porth. We’ve shot a few of these fellers and chevied a few more; but what o’ that? They’re thick as bees over yonder,” and the speaker jerked one hand in the direction of the flight, while with the other he viciously crammed his short, wooden pipe.

“Ay, that’s so,” assented a small, wiry-looking man. “If we had only gone straight on we could have cleared out the Manubi Bush right down to the coast, and driven the whole lot into the sea.”

“Where they were going to drive us,” chimed in another.

“And it’s there we should have nobbled old Kreli,” went on the former speaker. “He’s in there, mark my words—in there waiting for news—he, and Sicgau, and Botmane, and the whole bilin’ of ’em. Now we’ve burnt his old beehives here; but that’s no good, they’re built again in a day. No, sir; what we want is the old fox himself.”

“And don’t we wish we may get ’im? No; it’s nurses we want to look after us,” put in another.

There was a reluctant guffaw at this; but the gloom had deepened on their warlike souls.

“Well, we may as well go back, streak it straight home again, if we’re going to be commanded by a set of old women,” growled the first speaker. “We didn’t come out here to play with the niggers, did we?”

“Looks like it, anyhow, mate.”

Thus amid much growling, which, however, was not directed at our friend Jim, but at the power behind that gallant leader, the camps were pitched. A portion of the Police force started off back to their headquarters at Ibeka; but here, close to the scene of their late victory, the volunteers and burgher forces remained; and at nightfall the horses were driven in and “rung,” that is to say, tethered in circles; while additional sentries were posted, and every precaution taken, the recent success notwithstanding, for they were in the enemy’s country.

Jim Brathwaite was mightily glad, and no less surprised at the unexpected meeting, and warmly seconded Hicks’ suggestion that Claverton should join his corps.

“Twice I noticed a fellow to-day, Arthur,” he said, “who reminded me of your straight riding; and, by George, it must have been you yourself. Well, well; we are all bound to meet again some day, however we may scatter. But what do you think that fellow Hicks has done?”

“What?”

“Committed matrimony. And so has Jack.”

“Has he? Jack, I mean. I knew about the other. Who, and when, and where?”

“Oh, that’s a very old story, Jim,” said Armitage, trying to look quite at his ease. “Claverton heard it ages ago. Give us some baccy.”

They were sitting round the camp-fire. The afternoon had merged into night, and now the circle was discussing old times.

“Who?—Gertie Wray—you remember her—now Mrs Jack Armitage, promoted. When?—last year. Where?—in Grahamstown,” replied Jim.

And then, as others joined them, the conversation turned from things personal and retrospective, to things political and present; and the state of affairs was discussed in all its bearings.

“Well, we’ve a big enough force in the field to thrash out the Gcaleka country,” Jim was saying; “but then we shall have to be constantly playing hide-and-seek with the Kafirs until we catch old Kreli. If the Gaikas don’t break out, all that the people on the border will have to do will be to guard their line so that none of these chaps can cross. If the Gaikas rise, why, then our friends there will be between two fires.”

“And the Gaikas will rise,” put in Garnier—Jim’s second lieutenant—a quiet-looking, brown-bearded man of about five-and-forty. “You may take my word for that. It isn’t for nothing that they’ve been going through all the war-dancing and farrago. It isn’t for nothing they’ve been sending all their cattle away to the thickest parts of the Amatola forest. And it isn’t likely they’d sit still—they, the warrior race of all others—and let Kreli do all the fighting. And to hear ’em talk, too! Why, they’ve been coming round my place in shoals, and they don’t care what they say. Mind, they mean mischief.”

“But, then, how is it they haven’t broken out already?” ventured Hicks.

Garnier looked pityingly at him. “For several reasons. There’s a strong peace party among them, for one thing. For another, they heard, or rather saw—for there were lots of them present—what a hammering the Gcalekas got the other day when they attacked Ibeka; and they’re not ready. But if any of these chaps of Kreli’s get through and join them—then look out.”

“Well, we can put a tremendous force into the field,” went on Jim. “Why, in the Eastern Province alone we could raise enough to finish the war in a couple of months, if they’re only put to it and not kept fooling about doing nothing.”

“Yes; and if they’re properly looked after in the field,” said another. “No one can fight unless he’s fed; and with the commissariat always two days behind, no body of men will remain long contented.”

“And, while they are fooling about, all their property’s going to wrack and ruin, as ours is at this damned moment,” growled Thorman, who was one of the party.

“Never mind. All the more reason why we should make a thorough good thing of it while we are about it,” said another, of more cheerful disposition. “We’ll teach Jack Kafir a lesson this time, that he’ll remember.”

Thus talking, they sat round that red camp-fire, which threw a fitful glow upon bronzed faces and attire, fantastic-looking in the semi-darkness and in its wild picturesqueness, until at length the bugle sounded, “lights out,” and gradually all subsided to silence. Now and again the yelp and snarl of a jackal came up from beneath, where lay the unburied corpses of the slain foe, and where a number of heaps of black smouldering ashes were all that remained of what in the morning had been the Kraal of the Paramount Chief of Kafirland.

Note 1. In war-time, when lead is scarce, Kafirs manufacture tolerably efficient slugs by cutting up the legs of their iron cooking-pots.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

A Lull in the Storm.

A dry, scorching wind is whirling the pungent red dust-clouds along the streets of King Williamstown, and early though it be, not much more than nine o’clock, life is at the moment exceeding unpleasant for dwellers in the Kaffrarian capital as the hot blast sweeps down the wide streets and over the great arid square, powdering the thirsty eucalyptus trees with a layer of sand, penetrating even the coolest and tightest of houses. A day on which an easy-chair and nankeen garments seem absolute necessities, and yet in the busy frontier town there is as much life and stir as usual. Waggons load and unload before the principal stores; their oxen standing or lying in the yokes, poor and attenuated, for the season is a bad one indeed, further up, the country is suffering from a veritable drought. Men move about singly or by twos and threes, some in the semi-military uniform affected by officers holding a command in some frontier corps, others lightly clad and in broad sombrero-like hat or pith helmet. Round the native shops and canteens bronzed Kafirs squat and jabber, or, jumping on their weedy, undersized nags, dash off at a gallop down the street. Here and there, a Police trooper, the snow-white cover of his peaked cap gleaming in the son, rides briskly away from the telegraph office, and the scarlet uniforms of a detachment of regulars, as they march up from the river, returning from their morning bathe, make a glow of shining colour in the close, dusty street. It is an ill wind, however, that blows nobody good, as the drinking-bars could testify; for the number of persons who enter those useful institutions in the course of the morning—each and all with precisely the same remark, that it being externally so dry they stand all the more in need of a wet within—is so large that I will not attempt to reveal it.

Leaving the stir and the whirl of the brisk trading centre, we will pass to a comparatively quiet quarter. In the verandah of a small house, on the outskirts of the town, some one is standing, looking intently through a pair of field-glasses, which are levelled at a distant object, evidently a horseman rapidly approaching by the road leading from the Transkei. For a moment she stands eager and motionless, gazing with all her might at that dusty road in the distance; then a red flush of disappointment tinges the beautiful face as she drops the glass from her eyes, and the graceful, erect figure suddenly assumes an unconscious droop.

“The fifth time this morning,” she murmurs to herself, dejectedly. “I declare I won’t look again, it’s unlucky.”

“So it is, dear. ‘A watched kettle never boils,’ you know,” says a cheery female voice at her elbow. “That’s why I haven’t been watching for George. He’ll come, all in good time; and so will the other one. But you really mustn’t stay out in this heat, Lilian, you’ll be ill, and then shan’t I catch it!”

“Oh no, I won’t,” answered Lilian, with a laugh and a blush. “Besides, I like the heat.”

“Do you? I wish I did, for I’ve got to go out in it. I’m not even going to ask you to come, because I know it will be impossible to get you off that verandah until—until—well, until,” concluded Annie Payne with another cheerful laugh, as she started upon her unwilling errand, whatever it was.

Left to herself, Lilian looked wearily out on the wide expanse of sun-baked veldt, watching ever the white straggling road where it lost itself over the rise. Once a figure appeared on the sky-line, and her heart gave a great bound, but it was only a pedestrian, her eyes were sufficiently practised now to tell her that, without the necessity of looking through the glass. The heat and the scorching wind were nothing to her. It might have been the most exhilarating weather, and she would not have felt the difference, for to-day her lover would return—return to her, after more than two months of campaigning, two months of danger and hardship and separation; and now she watched the road, impatiently pacing the verandah, and longing for his arrival. Yet he came not. She had done nothing but scan the approaches to the town through the field-glass; but what to the naked eye had more than once looked like the well-known form, had speedily changed to that of some ungainly Dutchman, or sooty native, when the powerful lens was brought to bear upon it.

Yes, the campaign is over now—at least, for the present; and the volunteers and burgher forces are returning home, leaving to the Mounted Police and Regulars the task of patrolling the Gcaleka country—that being about all there is left to do. The summer is well advanced; in fact, it wants only a fortnight to Christmas, and the frontiersmen composing the colonial forces decline to remain any longer doing mere patrol work. They have borne their part gallantly in the actual fighting, and now that this is at an end they rightly deem themselves entitled to return. So there is great rejoicing in the little domicile in King Williamstown where George Payne has installed his household during his absence at the front, and now, on this bright, though overpoweringly hot day, Lilian stands in the verandah watching for the return of her lover.

What an anxious time to her have been those two months! How she has thought of him, and in spirit been with him all through the campaign! How eagerly she has sought out every scrap of news of the forces in the field, whether in the newspaper reports or the telegrams affiché-d outside the post office! And at night she has lain awake picturing all manner of dreadful contingencies till her pillow was wet with tears; but she can do nothing—nothing but weep and pray. And now the time of waiting is past, and she will see him again to-day, and lay her head upon his breast and feel that life is too good to live.

But if he should not come till to-morrow or the next day! Something may have detained him. An accident perhaps, such things do happen. Her head begins to ache, and she goes into the house in search of some cooling restorative. She has the house to herself fortunately—for the children are out somewhere—and sinking into a low chair she holds her handkerchief, steeped in the grateful liquid, to her throbbing brows. At last, with a sickening sense of blankness—of hope deferred, at her heart, she falls asleep, worn out by the heat and the watching coming upon a night of wakefulness.

The molten hours creep on. The deep bass voices of a group of Kafir passers-by, momentarily break their stillness; the thrifty German housewife opens the door of the dwelling opposite—for it is a new quarter, and the houses are built almost in the veldt—and throws a pailful of stuff to her fowls, which run clucking up; but no tramp of hoofs disturbs the midday quiet.

Suddenly Lilian awakes. Is it an instinct, or is it the clink of a spur and a light, firm tread on the stoep outside, that makes her start up and hasten to the door? In the passage she collides against a man who is entering, and with a quick exclamation he catches her in his arms.

“Arthur—love—is it indeed you? I am not dreaming, am I?” she murmurs, clinging tightly to him, the rich voice vibrating with uncontrollable emotion. “It is you—at last—darling. And I have been waiting and watching so long—till I began to think all sorts of dreadful things must have happened,” and raising her head from his breast she looks at him, laughing and weeping at the same time in her ecstasy of joy.

“Yes; it’s myself all right,” he replies, kissing away the tears from her cheeks and eyes. “But I shall begin to think it’s some one else directly, because this is far and away too good for me—too good for me to believe in. Lilian, my life! Every day since we parted I have been looking forward to and waiting for this.”

“Ah God! I have got my darling back again safe—safe!” she murmurs almost inaudibly, but Claverton hears it, and he does not answer, he only tightens his clasp of the lithe, willowy figure which he holds in his embrace, and covers the soft dusky hair, lying against his cheek, with passionate kisses. A thousand years of ten times the peril and hardship he has gone through since they parted would be a small price to pay for such a moment as this, he thinks. They make a pleasant picture, those two, as they stand there. He—well-knit, grave, handsome, in the rough picturesqueness of his campaigning attire, his features bronzed by exposure to sun and climate, and with his normal air of quiet resolution deepened and enhanced by a sense of many dangers recently passed through; looking at her with a tender, protecting reverence. She—soft, graceful, and clinging—the sweet lips curving into a succession of radiant smiles even while her eyes are yet wet with the tears which an uncontrollable feeling of love and thankfulness has evoked.

“So you thought I was never going to put in an appearance, darling?” he says, at length.

“Ah, how I waited and longed! But I can forget it now—now that I have got you. Wait! You look so much better for the dreadful time you have been through, dearest, so strong and well. And you are not going off again, are you? The war is over now.”

“I hope so,” is his rather weary reply. “I’m tired of ruffians and camp life—utterly sick of them. Not but what the said ruffians are rather good fellows; but peace is better than fighting, when all’s said and done. By the way, how is it we have the house all to ourselves? This is an unusual run of luck, my Lilian.”

“Mrs Payne is out somewhere, and the children too. And—”

“And—why didn’t you go with them, instead of moping in here alone all the morning?”

“Arthur!”

“Lilian! Don’t look so shocked, my darling. Do you think I don’t know perfectly, that you wouldn’t lose a chance of getting the first glimpse of a certain broken-down and war-worn ragamuffin?”

A shadow darkened the light. Both looked up quickly as a slim, well-made native, standing in the doorway, raised his hand above his head and sang out lustily, “Inkos!”

“Hallo, Sam!” cried Claverton, not best pleased with the interruption. “How are you getting on?”

The native showed a double row of dazzling “ivories” as he grinned in genuine delight at seeing his master back again.

“Did you kill many—very many of the Amaxosa, my chief?” he asked, in the Zulu tongue.

“H’m. Many of those who got in front of my gun-barrels up there, met with bad accidents,” replied his master, drily.

Sam chuckled and grinned. His exultation could hardly contain itself.

“Ha, Missie Liliane,” he said, in his broken English, “Sam he tell you so. Inkos, he kill lots, lots of Amaxosa nigga. He shoot, shoot them—so, so,” and he began snapping his fingers vehemently, and otherwise pantomiming the sharp-shooting of a body of skirmishers. “Sam, he tell you so, Missie Liliane. Amaxosa nigga no good! They no can hurt Inkos. Sam, he tell you so. Inkos, he shoot, shoot them instead. Amaxosa nigga no good. Haow!”

“Sam, you rascal, shut up that,” cried Claverton, good-humouredly. “Cut found to the stable and look after the horse; I’ve ridden the poor brute nearly to death. Give him a good rub down, and see that he’s cool before he drinks. D’you hear?”

“Teh bo ’Nkos,” answered Sam, and he disappeared; and they could hear him as he passed beneath the open window, humming to a sort of chant of his own: “Aow! Amaxosa nigga no good—no good.”

“Has that chap behaved himself while I’ve been away, darling?” asked Claverton.

“Behaved himself? Why, he’s the best of boys. Sometimes when I felt very, very downhearted about the war, that dear, good Sam would try all in his power to cheer me up, and persuade me that you would be sure not to come to harm, love. He used to declare that the Kafirs were sure to run away whenever you appeared, and he cut such extraordinary antics, always bringing in that ridiculous phrase of his, that he kept me in fits of laughter. Yes, he has been as good as possible.”

“That’s a feather in Sam’s cap, and a deuced good thing for him. Wasn’t it queer, my falling in with all the old lot up there? They were all just the same; even Jeffreys hasn’t quite laid by his scowl, and as for Jack Armitage, he’s a greater lunatic than ever. I hope our little friend keeps a tight rein on him at his hearth and home, for in the field there was no holding the fellow. He has started a frightful thing in bugles, which he toots upon vehemently on the smallest provocation, though, by Jove, I was glad enough to hear that braying old post-horn once, when Brathwaite’s men turned the tables in our favour in an awkwardish scrimmage.”

It was a remarkable coincidence that as he uttered these words a terrific fanfare should be sounded outside.

“That’s it! Jack’s post-horn for anything!” cried he, making for the window. “Talk of the—ah’m! Wonder what the fellow’s doing here. And, look, there’s George Payne and the rest of them.”

The whole lot of them it was, and a minute later they all entered, laughing and talking at a great rate.

“Why, Jack, what the deuce are you doing up here?” cried Claverton, in astonishment.

“We forgot it might be necessary to obtain Mr Claverton’s permission to tread the streets of King Williamstown,” demurely said a voice at his elbow, before the other could reply.

Claverton turned.

“Oh—ah—ah’m! So we did. I forgot. How d’you do, Mrs Armitage?” he said, looking quizzically down at the bright, saucy face of the speaker.

Gertie Armitage—née Wray—laughed and blushed as she shook hands with him. She looked much the same as when last we saw her, a trifle saucier, perhaps, but that was only natural, said her friends, seeing that she had to look after madcap Jack.

That worthy, meanwhile, was endeavouring to initiate Payne’s son and heir into the mysteries of the key bugle, but the youngster could evoke no sound from the same, and was ready to cry with chagrin.

“Look here, Harry, this is the dodge,” and, putting the instrument to his lips, he emitted a series of diabolical and heartrending blasts.

“Jack—Jack!” cried Claverton, stopping his ears, “for Heaven’s sake drop that fiendish row, or you’ll have all the Germans in the quarter scuttling under their beds, thinking that the Gaikas have risen, and some fellow has come to commandeer them to go to the front.”

“Fiendish row! There’s gratitude for you,” retorted Armitage. “He didn’t call it a fiendish row that day down near the Bashi, did he, Payne?”

“No, it was all right then,” rejoined Claverton. “Music in the wrong place, you know, degenerates into a diabolical row. Keep the old post-horn for the ghosts at Spoek Krantz, Jack. They’d appreciate it keenly.”

“Oh, the ingratitude of human nature!” exclaimed the bugler. “But I’ve left Spoek Krantz.”

“Have you? Ah, I thought the ghosts would be too much for you some day. Where are you now?”

“Nowhere. Got a roving commission. When the country’s quiet again I’m going to take over that place next door to Hicks. By the way, you should just see Hicks now, a model family man. Would hardly leave his missis and brace of kids even to go and have a shot at old Kreli. We almost had to lug him away by force.”

“When the country is quiet again I’m going to do this,” he had said, and in such wise do we mortals airily make our plans. Meanwhile all was hilarity and gladness and contentment in that circle, for was it not a reunion of those dear to each other, after the trials, and perils, and privations of a hard chapter of savage warfare?

Lilian was very happy in the days that followed; and to her lover, after the rough camp life, the toil and the battle, with all the hardening associations, the sunny quiet spent in the companionship of this refined, beautiful woman, was as the very peace of Heaven. Oft-times as he watched the sweet eyes kindle at his approach, and heard the firm, low voice shake ever so slightly, his heart would thrill and his cheek flush with a fierce elation over his absolute sense of possessing the rich, the priceless gift of her entire love; and then would succeed a momentary wave of despondency as he thought how this must be far too much happiness to fall to his lot, and with the thought something very like an unspoken prayer—wild, passionate, and unbridled in burden even as his own resolute nature—would shape itself within his heart, that rather than again experience such a blow as that which had sent him forth a desolate wanderer years ago—he might die—a hundred deaths, if need be, so that obliteration came to him at last. And had there been room for it, his tenderness towards Lilian would have redoubled with these reflections; but there was not—it was always the same.