Bertram Mitford (continued 4)

“So you were careful enough to tell him last night,” she flashed. “That was mean of you.”

“Last night!” echoed the other, for the moment taken aback, for Percival had certainly had no opportunity of communicating with her at all that morning.

“Why, yes. I heard you. Remember the ‘bushcat’ that was disturbing the fowls? I was the ‘bushcat’!” And again she broke into a ringing peal of laughter.

“Eh?”

“I was the ‘bushcat,’ I tell you,” she repeated. “That window of yours is very convenient. I heard every word you said to each other. It was very mean of you, Hilary, to try and set him against me.”

“Well, if you heard every word, you must admit that I might have set him against you a great deal more than I did. Moreover, Hermia, I believe I was the unconscious means of saving your life by refusing to open the window and let him shoot. So you owe me a little gratitude after all.”

“No, I don’t,” came the prompt response. “You don’t suppose I’d have waited there to be shot at, do you? Why, directly you touched the window to open it. I’d have made myself scarce. You don’t catch this weasel asleep.”

“Evidently not,” he answered dryly. As a matter of fact she had heard very little indeed of their conversation, only a scrap here and there. For the rest, she had been drawing a bow at a venture.

“Now, Hermia,” he went on, “Let’s have the motive—there’s always a motive, you know. You can’t really care for this youngster—let alone love him—”

“Oh, as for love—You know, Hilary, I never loved any one but you—” she broke off, almost passionately—“never—before or since.”

“Well then, if in that case you couldn’t stick to me, how are you going to stick to this one when you don’t even love him? You know you never would. And he’s got nothing of his own to speak of, and never will have more when you have estranged him from the only relative he has who can help him.”

“But I needn’t estrange him from anybody. Nothing need ever be known.”

“Let’s turn back,” said Hilary. “We have gone far enough. And now, Hermia, I’ll tell you straight. If you don’t give Percy to understand this very morning that you have changed your mind, and will on no account consent to marry him, I shall put him in possession of all the facts concerning ourselves.”

“You will?” she said. “You will do that?”

She had stopped short, and with eyes burning from her pale face, and breast heaving, she stood defiant, facing him, with a very blast of hate and fury in her look.

“Certainly I will,” he returned sternly, and absolutely undaunted. “I forbid this thing—forbid it utterly.”

“He won’t believe you,” she jeered. “Even if he does, he won’t care, he loves me too well. It’ll make no difference to him.”

“I think it will though. In fact I’m sure it will. There was young Spence. He loved you just as well, but it made a good deal of difference to him.”

“Very well, Hilary. Play your hand by all means. Throw your best card, but I can trump it. I have a better hand than you. I hold all the honours, and you shan’t even take the odd trick.”

“Explain,” he said shortly, with, however, more than an inkling as to her meaning.

“Well, I will then. You give me away. I give you away. See?”

“Oh, perfectly. But it’ll make no difference. You can’t injure me, and I wouldn’t for the world injure you—but—I won’t allow this scandalous affair to go any further, no, not at any cost!”

“I can’t injure you, can’t I?” she said, dropping out her words slowly, a sneer of deadly malice spreading over her face. “No? What will the Bayfields say when they hear what you and I have been to each other?”

With infinite self-control, he commanded his features, trusting they did not betray any inkling of the direful sinking of heart with which he grasped the import of her words. He was not altogether taken by surprise, for he had taken such a possibility into account—as a possibility, not a probability.

“That can’t be helped. At any cost I told you I should prevent this. At any cost mind, and at a far greater loss to myself than even that would be. And—I will.”

“Ha-ha-ha!” and the jeering laughter, shrill in its hate and vengeful malevolence, rang out clear on the sweet morning air. “Ha-ha-ha! But I don’t think you’ve altogether counted the cost, my Hilary. How about Lyn—your sweet, pure, innocent Lyn? What will she say when she knows? What will her father say when they both know—that you have allowed her to be under the same roof with—to grasp in ordinary social friendship the hand of your—for years—most devoted and affectionate... housekeeper?”

Well was it for the speaker, well for both of them, that the words were uttered here, and not in the far-away scene of the life to which she referred. For a second, just one brief second, the man’s eyes flashed the murder in his soul. With marvellous self-restraint, but with dry lips and face a shade pale, he answered:

“That would be a regrettable thing to happen. But, it doesn’t shake my determination. I don’t see, either, how the outraging of other people’s finer feelings is going to benefit you, or, to any appreciable extent, injure me.”

“Don’t you? Why, in that event, the sweet, pure, and beautiful Lyn—yes, she is beautiful—I’d concede that and more—will bid you an extremely cold and curt farewell—even if she condescends to speak to you again at all for the remainder of your natural life.”

“That too, would be regrettable, and would pain me. But we should have to say good-bye sooner or later.”

“No, Hilary. You never intended to say anything of the sort. You can’t fool me, you see.”

“What on earth are you talking about?”

Again the jeering laugh rang out. “What am I talking about?” she echoed, quite undaunted by the curt, stern tones. “You know perfectly well. You are over head and ears in love with her.”

“That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it? It is though,” she answered, her eyes fixed full upon his and rippling into mischievous laughter. “Why, you have grown quite pale at the bare mention of it! Shall I say it again? You are over head and ears in love with her. And—I wonder if she is with you?”

“Oh, hold your scandalous tongue, woman,” he rejoined wearily, knowing better than to delight her by exhibiting what must necessarily be impotent anger. “Really, you are rendering yourself absolutely and uncompromisingly loathsome. Again I say you must give up this scheme. I will prevent it at any cost.”

“Well, you know what the cost is—and if you don’t, it isn’t for want of warning. Keep quiet and so will I. Interfere with my plans and I’ll wreck all yours. Give me away and I’ll give you away, and then we’ll see which comes out best. Now we are nearly back at the house again, so you’d better be civil, or, what is more important still, look it.”

Chapter Nine.

“What a Man Soweth.”

“Percy, I want you to ride part of the way back with me.”

“Delighted, old chap. But—”

“There’s no ‘but’ in the case at all. To be plain, you must.”

“It isn’t to talk any more about—er—what we were on to last night, is it? Because that’s settled.”

“Well, it concerns that, for it concerns her, and you’ve got to hear it.”

“But I don’t want to. And I shan’t believe it if I do,” was the reply, shortly made.

The two were standing by the cattle-kraal, which contained a troop of horses just driven in from the veldt. In the thick of them, armed with halters and reims, two Kaffir servants and a Hottentot were catching out those required. In front of the house Bayfield’s spider was being inspanned.

“Now it’s of no use turning restive, Percy. You’ve got to hear what I’ve got to tell you. It’s about—her. You can take your choice. Either you hear it from me—in which case it need go no farther, or—you’ll hear it from anybody and everybody—for then I shall be obliged to make it public.”

“Do you mean to say you’ll spread abroad your infernal slanders, Hilary!” The young fellow’s face was as white as a sheet, and he could hardly speak for the extent of his agitation.

“Not unless you force me to. Look. There’s your gee in the kraal now. Tell one of them to catch it and come along with me. You’ll live to thank me till your dying day.”

The stronger will prevailed—even apart from the fell significance of the alternative held out. By the time the inspanning was complete, and good-byes were in progress, Percival was on the scene with his horse saddled up and ready.

“Aren’t you coming in the spider with us, Mr Blachland?” said Lyn, noticing that he, too, was preparing to mount.

“Not the first part of the way,” he answered. “There’s a home matter Percy and I want to talk over, so he’s going to ride an hour or two on the road with me. Good-bye again, Earle. Had a ripping good shoot. Good-bye, Mrs Fenham,” for the latter had now appeared for the first time. She looked quite unruffled, but there was that in her face which told one, at any rate, there, that she was prepared to begin the war.

“Good-bye, Hilary—er—Mr Blachland,” she responded sweetly, contriving that the words and tone should be distinctly audible to Lyn, who, already seated in the spider, could not possibly avoid hearing them. But had Hermia only known it the shaft had fallen harmless.

“Did you hear that, father?” Lyn began, as they drove off. “That woman actually called Mr Blachland by his Christian name?”

Bayfield burst out laughing. Then after a precautionary look behind—

“I expect she reckons him her brother-in-law—no, cousin-in-law already,” he said. “Young West seems to have brought things to a head in that quarter. She and Blachland had a long talk together this morning. I expect they were sort of arranging family matters.”

“Very likely. But I don’t think I ever saw any woman I detested so thoroughly and instinctively. Every time I see her I dislike her more.”

“Hallo, little one! You’re quite fierce on the subject,” laughed her father. “Why do you hate her so? Has she been uncivil to my little girlie?”

“No, quite the contrary. But she’s utterly false somehow. I wouldn’t believe any statement that woman made—even if she were dying. But what a silly boy that young West must be. Why, she’s years older than himself!”

Bayfield laughed again, but he more than half thought Lyn’s estimate was very likely a true one.

Some little way behind, the two men had pulled their horses into a walk.

“Steer ahead,” said Percival doggedly. “Let’s get it over.”

“Yes. I think we might now. So you haven’t found out anything more about—Mrs Fenham, beyond what you told me last night?”

“No. Her husband died about a year ago. That was up-country. I wonder you never ran against him, Hilary.”

“But I know him intimately, only—he isn’t her husband.”

“The deuce! But he’s dead.”

“No, he isn’t. He’s very much alive and kicking—and his name isn’t Fenham either, never was.”

“Well, what is it then?” and his voice was hard and desperate.

“Hilary Blachland.”

“Eh?”

It was all he could say. He could only stare. He seemed to be stricken speechless with the shock, utterly speechless.

“I’m very sorry for you, Percy, very sorry. But you’ll thank me for it bye-and-bye,” went on Blachland concernedly. “That woman has told you a tissue of lies. I can account for her time for nearly half a dozen years, for the simple reason that it has been spent with me—the last two years of it in Mashunaland. She left me though, not much more than half a year ago—cleared out with another Johnny, just such a young ass as yourself, who thought her a goddess, but they got sick of each other in no time. Why, she was telling me all about that herself only this morning, before you were up.”

Percival said nothing. For some little while he rode on in silence, gazing straight between his horse’s ears. The thing had come upon him as a terrible shock, and he sat, half dazed. It never occurred to him for one moment to refuse to believe his kinsman’s statement, nor any part of it. Suddenly he looked up.

“Who is she then?” he asked.

“Hermia Saint Clair. You remember?”

“Yes. Good God!”

“So you see, Percy, you can go no further in this,” went on the other after another interval of silence. “You must break it off—now, absolutely and at once. You quite see that, don’t you?”

“Of course. Great Heavens, Hilary—how I have been fooled!”

“You have certainly, but if it’s any consolation to you, so have others—so will others be—as long as Hermia is about. It isn’t pleasant to be obliged to give her away as I have done—and if it had concerned anybody other than yourself, anybody in whom I had no interest, I should have let the matter rigidly alone, as no business of mine, and kept a strict silence. But I couldn’t stand by and see your life utterly ruined at the start, and there are of course, circumstances in this particular case which rendered it ten times more necessary that you should be warned. I gave her the straight chance though. I told her if she broke off this engagement with you, I wouldn’t breathe a word as to her real identity, and she defied me. So now you know. And now you do know, there’s not the slightest chance of her getting you into the toils again, eh?”

“Good Heavens, no,” he answered emphatically, and in strong disgust. “What a fool I’ve been. What shall I do, Hilary? I don’t feel as if I could ever see her again. Do you think Bayfield would take me in for a few days if I went on now with you?”

“Take my advice, and go straight back. We don’t want to give her away further, and if you clear out abruptly now, it’ll likely have that effect. Besides it has rather a cowardly look. No, give her to understand that you know everything now, and of course there’s nothing more to be thought of between you.”

“I will. But—what an escape I’ve had. Still do you know, Hilary— Oh, dash it all, I was—er—beastly fond of her. Don’t you understand?”

“Well, rather—considering it’s a stage I’ve gone through myself,” answered the other, kindly. “You’ll get over it though. And, look here, Percy, I shall be leaving Bayfield’s myself in a day or two. How would you like to join me? We might go up-country together, and I could show you some real wild life. You see, I know my way about in those parts, and it would be a first-rate opportunity for you to see something of them. What do you say?”

“That’s a real splendid idea, Hilary.”

“Very well. Now go back and get this business over. Get it clean behind you mind, thoroughly and entirely. I’ll send you word in a couple of days at the outside where to join me, then roll up your traps and come straight along. How is that?”

“The very thing.”

“Right. Now, Percy. Seriously, mind. There must be no more dallying. You know what I mean?”

“Not likely, knowing what I know now.”

“Then you’d better go and get it over at once. I’ll say good-bye to the Bayfields for you. You turn round right here. Good-bye now—and one of these days you’ll bless your stars for this lucky escape.”

“Then you’ll let me hear soon, Hilary?”

“In a couple of days at the outside. Good-bye.”

A staunch handgrip, and the older man sat there, looking after the receding form of the younger.

“It strikes me,” he said to himself as he turned his horse’s head along the track again. “It strikes me that I’ve been only just in time to get that young fool out of a most deadly mess. Heavens! what a ghastly complication it would have been. Moreover, I believe he was sent out here to find out about me, and what I was doing. Well, instead of him reclaiming me, it has befallen that I have been the one marked out to reclaim him.”

Then as he sent his horse along at a brisk canter to make up the time lost during their talk, his mind reverted to himself and his own affairs. What a series of surprises had been contained within the last twenty-four hours. Could it have been only yesterday that he came along this road, serene, content, with no forewarning of what lay in store? Why, it seemed that half a lifetime’s drama had been played out within that brief space—and now, as he pressed on to overtake Bayfield’s conveyance, the tilt of which was visible some distance ahead moving through the bushes, it seemed that with every stride of his horse he was advancing into a purer atmosphere. He felt as one, who, having struck upon strange and unwelcome surprises in the foul nauseous air of some long, underground cavern, was drawing nearer and nearer again to the free, wholesome, open light of day.

Well, he had saved his young kinsman, and now he was called upon to face the payment of the price. The time he had spent here, the bright, beautiful, purifying time, was at an end. The past, of which, looking back upon, he sickened, was not to be so easily buried after all. Had it not risen up when least expected, to haunt him, to exact its retribution? Hermia would certainly keep her word; caring nothing in her vindictive spite, to what extent she blackened herself so long as she could sufficiently besmirch him. Still he would do all he could, if not to defeat her intentions, at any rate to draw half their sting. One, at all events, should remain unsullied by the mire which he well knew she would relentlessly spatter in all directions. That he resolved.

Then a faint, vague, straw of a hope, beset him. What if she had been playing a game of bluff? What if she was by no means so ready to give herself away as she had affected to be? What if—when she found there was nothing to be gained by it—she were to adopt the more prudent course, and maintain silence? It was just a chance, but knowing so well, her narrow, soulless nature, he knew it to be a slender one.

Even then, what? Even did it hold—it would not affect the main fact. In the consummate purifying of this man’s nature which the past few weeks had effected, he looked backward thence with unutterable abasement and loathing. As he had sown, so must he reap. The re-appearance of the past personified had but emphasised that—had not altered it. He would be the one to suffer, and he only, he thought, with a dull, anguished kind of feeling which he strove hard to think was that of consolation.

“Oh, it is good to be at home again,” said Lyn. “I don’t care much for going over to the Earles’ at any time, but this time somehow or other, I detested it. But—oh, I beg your pardon, Mr Blachland. And you found your cousin there! How awkward and tactless you must think me!”

“You could never be either awkward or tactless, Lyn,” he answered. “Only thoroughly natural. Always be that, child. It is such a charm.”

The girl smiled softly, half shyly. “Really, you are flattering me. You spoil me as much as father does, and that’s saying a great deal, you know,” gaily.

The two were standing on the stoep together, about an hour after their return. Bayfield was down at the kraals, counting in, and looking after things in general, and, helping him, small Fred, who, however, was cracking his long whip in such wise as to be rather less of a help than a hindrance with the flocks. The unearthly beauty of the sunset glow was already merging into the shade of the twilightless evening.

“I wish you were going to stay with us always, Mr Blachland,” she went on. “It would be so nice. If you and father were partners, for instance, like Mr Barter and Mr Smith—only they squabble—why, then you’d always be here.”

He looked at her—mentally with a great start—but only for a second. The frank, ingenuous, friendly affection of a child! That was what the words, the tone, the straight glance of the sweet blue eyes expressed! There was a tinge of melancholy in his voice as he replied:

“Now you flatter me, little Lyn. You would soon find a battered old fogey like me can be a desperate bore.” Then he proceeded to the prosaic and homely occupation of filling and lighting his pipe, smiling to himself sadly over her indignant disclaimer.

Chapter Ten.

As Good as her Word.

It was post day at Lannercost, and whereas the delivery of Her Majesty’s mails was only of weekly occurrence, the fact constituted a small event. Such delivery was effected by the usual harmless necessary native, who conveyed the mail bag by field and flood from the adjacent Field-cornet’s—in this instance from Earle’s.

“It’s just possible, Bayfield, I may hear something by this post which may necessitate my leaving you almost immediately.”

“Oh, hang it, Blachland! Are you at that game again? Where do you think of moving to next, if not an impertinent question?”

“Up-country again. I’ve interests there still. And things are beginning to look dickey. Lo Ben’s crowd is turning restive again. We’ve most of us thought all along that they were bound to force the old man’s hand. It’s only a question of time.”

“So?” And then they fell to talking over that and kindred questions, until finally a moving object, away down the valley, but rapidly drawing nearer, resolved itself into a mounted native.

The two men were sitting in the shade at the bottom of one of the gardens, where Bayfield had been doing an odd job or two with a spade—cutting out a water furrow here, or clearing one there and so forth—pausing every now and then for a smoke and a desultory chat.

“Hey, September! Bring the bag here,” he called out in Dutch, as the postboy was about to pass.

The boy swung himself from his pony, and handed over the leathern bag to his master.

“Great Scott, here’s a nuisance!” exclaimed the latter, fumbling in his pockets. “I believe I haven’t got the key. It’s up at the house. We’ll have to send September for it—or go up ourselves and open the bag there.”

The last thing that Blachland desired was either of these courses. If they sent up for the key, Lyn would be sure to come down with it herself. If they went themselves, the bag would be opened in her presence, and this, for good reasons of his own, he did not wish. In fact he had deftly manoeuvred Bayfield down here with the object of intercepting it.

“Ah, here it is!” cried the latter, disentangling a bunch of keys from the recesses of a pocket. “Got into the lining.”

In a trice the bag was unlocked and its contents extracted by the simple process of turning them out on to the ground.

“Here you are, Blachland,” handing him two. “Miss Bayfield, Miss Bayfield,” he read out, “that’s all for Lyn. Illustrated London News—George Bayfield—George Bayfield. Here’s another, that’s for you—no, it isn’t, it’s me. Looked like Blachland at first. That’s all. Here you are, September. Take that on to Miss Lyn,” replacing the latter’s correspondence in the bag.

“Ja, Baas.” And the Kaffir jogged off.

Blachland stood there, outwardly calm, but, in reality, stirred through and through. The blow had fallen. The writing on the enclosure which his friend had so nearly handed to him, how well he knew it; could it be, he thought, in a flash of sardonic irony—there had once been a time when it was the most welcome sight his glance could rest upon? The blow had fallen. Hermia had been as good as her word, but even then there were mitigating circumstances, for a ghastly idea had occurred to him that she might, in the plenitude of her malice, have written direct to Lyn, whereas the addresses on the girl’s correspondence were in different hands, and which in fact he had seen before. Indeed had it been otherwise he intended to warn Bayfield on no account to pass on the letter until that worthy had satisfied himself as to its contents.

“Just as I thought. I’ve got to clear, and rather sharp too. In fact, to-morrow,” running his eyes over his letters.

“Have you, old chap? What a beastly nuisance,” answered Bayfield, looking up. “We shall miss you no end.”

Would he? Why on earth didn’t the man get on with his correspondence, thought Blachland, for the tension was getting upon his nerves. But the other went chatting on—partly regrets over his own departure—partly about some stock sale of which he had just had news.

“Hallo! Who’s this from?” he said at last. “I don’t know that writing a hang. Well, it’s soon settled,” tearing the envelope open, with a laugh.

But in a moment the laugh died. George Bayfield was grave enough now. A whistle of amazement escaped him, and more than one smothered exclamation of disgust. Blachland, without appearing to, watched him narrowly. Would he never get to the end of that closely written sheet and a half?

“Have you any idea what this is about?”

The tone was short. All the old cordiality seemed to have left it.

“Very much of an idea, Bayfield. I expected something of the kind, and for that very reason, to be quite candid with you, I manoeuvred we should get the post out here away from the house.”

“I didn’t think you’d have done that to us, Blachland. To think of this—this person, under the same roof with—even shaking hands with—my Lyn. Faugh! Good Heavens! man, you might have spared us this!”

“Wouldn’t I—if it had been possible? But it was not. I give you my word of honour I had no more idea of that woman’s presence at Earle’s, or indeed in the neighbourhood, or even in this country, than you had yourself. You’ll do me the credit of believing that, won’t you?”

“Why, yes, Blachland. Anything you give me your word for I believe implicitly.”

“Thanks. You are a true friend, Bayfield. You may believe another thing—and that is that had I known of her presence in the neighbourhood, I should have kept away from it. Why, she didn’t even know of mine either. Each was about as surprised as the other when we met, yesterday morning. What could I do then, Bayfield? Raise a scene on the spot, and expose her—and kick up a horrible scandal, with the result of simply bespattering the air with mire, around the very one we intend to keep from any such contact? No good purpose could be served by acting otherwise than as I acted. Could it now?”

“No. I suppose not. In fact, I quite see the force of all you say. Still, it’s horrible, revolting.”

“Yes. Believe me, Bayfield, I am as distressed about it as you are. But there is this consolation. Not an atom of real harm has been done so far. Lyn is in blissful ignorance as to who it was she met, and there is no reason on earth why she should ever know.”

Even while he spoke there occurred to him another aspect of the case—and the probability that this had not been overlooked by Lyn’s father occurred to him too. Would not the latter regard him as upon much the same plane as Hermia herself?

“You see,” he went on, “I shall be clearing out the first thing in the morning, so she,” with a jerk of the thumb in the direction of far-away Earle’s, “is not likely to give you any further trouble. Besides, after giving herself away like this, she will have to go her way as well. If she doesn’t, I advise you to let Earle into the story. She won’t be long there after that. By the way, would you mind letting me see exactly what she has said? We shall know better where we are then.”

“Yes, I think so,” said the other.

Blachland took the letter and read it through carefully and deliberately from end to end. It was a narrative of their liaison, and that only. But the blame of its initiation the writer ascribed to himself. This he pointed out to Bayfield.

“The boot was, if anything on the other foot,” he said. “But let that pass. Now, why do you suppose she has given all this away?”

“To revenge herself upon you for leaving her.”

“But I didn’t leave her. She left me—cleared with a young ass of a prospector, during one of my necessary absences, of which I notice, she’s careful not to say one word. Clearly she never bargained for my seeing this at all.”

“By Jove! You don’t say so?”

“It’s hard fact. Well, her motive is to revenge herself upon me, but not for that. It is because she had entangled that young fool Percy West—had made him engage himself to her. He told me this the night we were at Earle’s, and I put my foot down on it at once. I gave her the chance of drawing out of it, of releasing him, and she refused it.—I put the alternative before her, and she simply defied me. ‘If you give me away, I’ll give you away,’ those were her words. I couldn’t allow the youngster to enter into any such contract as that, could I?”

“Of course not. Go on.”

“So I told him the whole thing on our way out the other morning. It choked him clean off her—of course. I was as good as my word, and she was as good as hers. That’s the whole yarn in a nutshell.”

Bayfield nodded. He seemed to be thinking deeply, as he filled his pipe meditatively, and passed the pouch over to Blachland. There was one thing for which the latter felt profoundly thankful. Remembering the more than insinuation Hermia had thrown out, he had noticed with unspeakable relief that there was no reference whatever to Lyn throughout the communication. Even she had shrunk from such an outrage as that, and for this he felt almost grateful to her.

“This Mrs Fenham, or St. Clair, or whatever her name is,” said Bayfield, glancing at the subscription of the letter, “seems to be a bad egg all round. Seems to be omnivorous, by Jove!”

“She has an abnormal capacity for making fools of the blunder-headed sex, as I can testify,” was the answer, given dryly. “Well Bayfield, I don’t want to whitewash myself, let alone trot out the old Adamite excuse—I don’t set up to be better than other people, and have been a good deal worse than some. You know, as a man of the world, that there is a certain kind of trap laid throughout our earlier life to catch us at every turn. Well, I’ve fallen into a good many such traps, but I can, with perfect honesty, say I’ve never set one. Do you follow?”

“Perfectly,” replied Bayfield, who thought that such was more than likely the case. He was mentally passing in review Blachland’s demeanour towards Lyn, during the weeks they had been fellow inmates, and he pronounced it to be absolutely flawless. The pleasant, unrestrained, easy friendship between the two had been exactly all it should be—on the part of the one, all that was sympathetic, courteous and considerate, with almost a dash of the paternal, for the girl was nearly young enough to be his daughter—on that of the other, a liking, utterly open and undisguised, for Lyn liked him exceedingly, and made no secret of it—and if hers was not a true instinct, whose was? Bayfield was not a man to adjudge another a blackguard because he had sown some wild oats, and this one he acquitted entirely—and he said something to that effect.

“Thanks,” was the reply. “I don’t care a rap for other people’s opinions about myself, good, bad, or indifferent, as a rule, but I’m rather glad you don’t judge me too hardly, on account of this infernal contretemps?”

“Oh, I don’t judge you at all, old chap, so don’t run away with that idea. We ain’t any of us silver-gilt saints if the truth were known, or if we are, it’s generally for want of opportunity to become the other thing, at any rate, that’s my belief. And Lyn likes you so much, Blachland, and her instinct’s never at fault.”

“God bless her!” was the fervent reply. “I don’t wonder, Bayfield, that you almost worship that child. I know if she were my child I should rather more than entirely.”

“Would you?” said the other, his whole face softening. “Well, that’s about what I do. Come along up to the house, Blachland, and let’s forget all about this rotten affair. I’ll take jolly good care I keep it away from her by hook or by crook, anyhow. It’s a beastly bore you’ve got to clear to-morrow, but you know your own business best, and it never does to let business slide. You’ll roll up again next time you’re down this way of course. I say though, you mustn’t go getting any more fever.”

As a matter of fact, Blachland’s presence was no more needed up-country, either in his own interests or anybody else’s, than was that of the Shah of Persia. But, it would simplify matters to leave then, besides affording Bayfield a freer hand: and for another thing, it would enable him to make sure of getting his young kinsman out of the toils.

Something of a gloom lay upon that household of three that evening, by reason of the impending departure of this one who had been so long an inmate in their midst, and had identified himself so completely with their daily life.

“Mr Blachland, but I wish I was big enough to go with you,” announced small Fred. “Man, but I’d like to see those Matabele chaps, and have a shot at a lion.”

“Some day, when you are big enough, perhaps you shall, Fred. And, look here, when your father thinks you are big enough to begin to shoot—and that’ll be pretty soon now—I’m to give you your first gun. That’s a bargain, eh, Bayfield?”

“Magtig! but you’re spoiling the nipper, Blachland,” was the reply. “You’re a lucky chap, Fred, I can tell you.”

Somehow, Lyn was not in prime voice for the old songs in the course of the evening, in fact she shut down the concert with suspicious abruptness. When it became time to say good night, she thrust into Blachland’s hand a small, flat, oblong packet:

“A few of my poor little drawings,” she said, rather shyly. “You said you would like to have one or two, and these will remind you perhaps a little of old Lannercost, when you are far away.”

“Why, Lyn, how awfully good of you. I can’t tell you how I shall value them. They will seem to bring back all the good times we have had together here. And, now, good night. I suppose it’s good-bye too.”

“Oh no, it isn’t. I shall be up to see you off.”

“But think what an ungodly hour I’m going to start at.”

“That doesn’t matter. Of course I’m going to see you off.”

“Why, rather,” struck in small Fred.

Morning dawned, frosty and clear, and the intending traveller appreciated the thick warmth of his heavy ulster to the full, as he prepared to mount to the seat of Bayfield’s buggy, beside the native boy who was to bring back the vehicle after depositing him at the district town, nearly fifty miles away. There was no apparent gloom about the trio now. They were there to give him a cheery send off.

“Well, good-bye, old chap,” cried Bayfield, as they gripped hands. “I think there’s everything in the buggy you’ll want on the way.”

“Good-bye, Bayfield, old pal,” was the hearty reply. “Good-bye, Lyn,” holding the girl’s hands in both of his, and gazing down affectionately into the sweet, pure face. “God bless you, child, and don’t forget your true and sincere old friend in too great a hurry. Fred—good-bye, old chappie.” And he climbed into his seat and was gone.

The trio stood looking after the receding vehicle until it disappeared over the roll of the hill—waving an occasional hat or a handkerchief as its occupant looked back. Then Fred broke forth:

“Man—Lyn, but Mr Blachland’s a fine chap! Tis waar, I’m sorry he’s gone—ain’t you?”

He had pretty well voiced the general sense. They felt somehow, that a vacant place had been set up in their midst.

Later that morning Bayfield chanced to return to the house from his work outside. It seemed empty. Small Fred was away at the bottom of the garden with a catapult, keeping down the swarming numbers of predatory mouse-birds and the wilier spreuw. But where was Lyn? Just then a sound striking upon the silence brought him to a standstill, amazement and consternation personified, so utterly strange and unwonted was such a sound in that household, and it proceeded from the girl’s room. Gently, noiselessly, he opened the door.

She was seated by her bed, her back towards him. Her face was buried in her hands, and her whole form was heaving with low convulsive sobs.

“Lyn! Great Heaven! What’s the matter? Lyn—My little Lyn!”

She rose at her father’s voice and came straight into his arms. Then she looked up at him, through her tears, forcing a smile.

“My little one, what is it? There, there, tell your old father,” he pleaded, a whirlwind of tenderness and concern shaking his voice as he held her to him. “Tell me, sweetheart.”

“It’s nothing, dearest,” she answered but quaveringly, and still forcing herself to smile. “Only— No, it’s nothing. But—when people are here a long time, and you get to like them a lot and they go away—why it’s—oh, it’s beastly. That’s all, old father—” dashing away her tears, and forcing herself to smile in real earnest. “And I’m a little fool, that’s all. But I won’t be any more. See, I’m all right now.”

“My little Lyn! My own little one!” he repeated, kissing her tenderly, now rather more moved than she was.

And Lyn was as good as her word. All his solicitous but furtive watching, failed to detect any sign or symptom that her outburst of grief was anything more than a perfectly natural and childlike manifestation of her warm little heart.

And yet, there were times, when, recurring to it in his own mind, honest George Bayfield would grow grave and shake his head and ejaculate softly to himself:

“My little Lyn! No—it can’t be. Oh, Great Scot!”

End of Book II.

Chapter One.

“Woz’ubone, kiti kwazulu.”

Lo Bengula sat within the esibayaneni—the sacred enclosure wherein none dare intrude—at his great kraal, Bulawayo.

The occupation on which the King was then engaged, was the homely and prosaic one of eating his breakfast. This consisted of a huge dish of bubende, being certain ingredients of the internal mechanism of the bullock, all boiled up with the blood, to the civilised palate an appalling article of diet, but highly favoured by the Matabele. Yet, while devouring this delicacy with vast appetite, the royal countenance was overcast and gloomy in the extreme.

Lo Bengula sat alone. From without a continuous roar of many voices reached him. It was never hushed, the night through it had hardly been hushed, and this was early morning. Song after song, some improvised, others the old war-songs of the nation, interluded with long paeans of his own praises, rising from the untiring throats of thousands of his warriors—yet the King, in his heart of hearts, was tired of the lot.

He looked around upon his sheep and goats—for the sacred enclosure included the kraal which contained his private and particular flock—and he loved them, for he was by nature a born farmer, called by accident, and even then, reluctantly, to rule this nation of fierce and turbulent fighters. He looked upon the flocks surrounding him and wondered how much longer they would be his—how much longer anything would be his—for war was not merely in the air but was actually at his gates; war with the whites, with whom he had ever striven to live on friendly and peaceful terms. But, as had long been foreseen, his people had forced his hand at last.

Unwillingly he had bowed to the inevitable, he the despot, he, before whose frown those ferocious and bloodthirsty human beasts trembled, he the dark-skinned savage, whose word was law, whose ire conveyed terror over a region as wide-spreading and vast as that under the sway of any one of the greater Powers in Europe. But as long as the nation was a nation and he was alive, he intended to remain its King, however reluctant he had been to assume the supreme reins of government, and consistently with this it had been out of his power to check the aggressive ebullitions of his fiery adherents. And now war was within the land, and hourly, runners were bringing in tidings of the advance—straight, fell, unswerving of purpose—of a strong and compact expedition of whites—their goal his capital.

Yes, day by day these were drawing nearer. The intelligence brought by innumerable spies and runners was unvarying. The approaching force in numbers was such that a couple of his best regiments should be able to eat it up at a mouthful. But it was splendidly armed, and its organisation and discipline were perfect. Its leaders seemed to take no risks, and at the smallest alarm all those waggons could be turned into a complete and defensive fort almost as quickly as a man might clap his hands twice. And then, from each corner, from every face of this unscaleable wall, peeped forth a small, insignificant thing, a little shining tube that could be placed on the back of a horse—yet this contemptible-looking toy could rain down bullets into the ranks of his warriors at a rate which would leave none to return to him with the tale. Nay more, even the cover of rocks and bushes would not help them, for other deadly machines had these whites, which could throw great bags of bullets into the air to fall and scatter wherever they chose, and that at well-nigh any distance. All of this Lo Bengula knew and appreciated, but his people did not, and now from without, ever and increasing upon his ears, fell the din and thunder of their boasting songs of war.

“Au! They are poor, lean dogs!” he growled to himself. “They will be even as dogs who snarl and run away, when they get up to these whites. They bark loudly now and show their teeth. Will they be able to bite?”

Personally, too, he liked the English. He had been on very friendly terms with several of them. They were always bringing him presents, things that it was good to have, and of which now he owned considerable store. He liked conversing with them too, for these were men who had travelled far and had seen things—and could tell him wonders about other lands, inhabited by other whites, away beyond the great sea. They were not fools, these English. And their bravery! Who among dark races would go and place themselves in the power of a mighty and warrior race as these did? What three or four men of such would dare to stand before him here—at this very place, calm, smiling, unmoved, while thousands of his warriors were standing around, howling and clamouring for their blood? Not one. Then, too, their knowledge was wonderful. Had not several of them, from time to time, done that which had eased him of his gout, and of the shooting pains which afflicted his eyes, and threatened to deprive him of his sight? No, of a truth he desired not to quarrel with such. Well, it might be, that when these dogs of his had been whipped back—when they had thought to hunt bucks and found that they had assailed instead, a herd of fierce and fearless buffalo bulls—that then he might order them to lie down, and that peace between himself and the whites might again prevail.

Having arrived at this conclusion, and also at that of his repast, the King gave utterance to a call, and immediately there appeared two izinceku, or personal attendants of the royal household. These ran forward in a crouching attitude, with bodies bent low, and while one removed the utensils and traces of the feast, the other produced a great bowl of baked clay, nearly filled with fresh water. Into this the King plunged his hands, throwing the cold water over his face and head with great apparent enjoyment, then, having dried himself with a towel of genuine civilisation, he rose, strode over to his waggon—the two attendants lying prostrate in the dust before him as he moved—and lifting the canvas flap, disappeared from mortal ken: for this waggon was the place of his most sacred seclusion, and woe indeed to the luckless wight who should presume to disturb him in that retreat.

Without, the aspect of the mighty circle was stirring and tumultuous to the last degree. The huge radius of grass roofs lay yellow and shining in the fierce sunlight, alive too, with dark forms ever on the move, these however, being those of innumerable women, and glistening, rotund brats, chattering in wide-eyed excitement; for the more important spot, the great open space in front of the King’s enclosure, was given over to the warriors.

With these it was nearly filled. Regiment upon regiment was mustered there: each drafted according to the standing of those who composed its ranks, from the Ingubu, which enjoyed the high privilege of attending as bodyguard upon the King, hence its name—the Blanket, i.e. the King’s—ever around the royal person—the fighting Imbizo, and the Induba—down to the slave regiments such as the Umcityu, composed of slaves and the descendants of conquered and therefore inferior races. All these were in full war array. The higher of them wore the intye, a combination of cape and headpiece made of the jetty plumage of the male ostrich, others were crowned with the isiqoba, a ball of feathers nodding over the forehead, and supporting the tall, pointed wing feather of the vulture, or the blue crane. Mútyas of monkey-skin and cat-tails, in some few instances leopard’s skin, fantastic bunches of white cowhair at elbow and knee and ankle, with bead necklaces, varying in shape and colour, completed the adornment. But all were fully armed. The national weapon, the traditional implement of Zulu intrepidity and conquest, the broad-bladed, short-handled, close-quarter assegai—of such each warrior carried two or three: a murderous-looking battle-axe with its sickle-like blade: a heavy-headed, short-handled knob-kerrie, and the great war-shield, black, with its facings of white, a proportion white entirely—others red—others again, streaked, variegated, and surmounted by its tuft of fur or jackal’s tail, or cowhair—this array, chanting in fierce strophes, stamping in unison, and clashing time with weapon-haft upon hard hide shield, amid the streaming dust, made up a picture—as terrific as it was formidable—of the ferocious and pent-up savagery of a hitherto unconquered, and in its own estimation, unconquerable race.

A musky, foetid effluvium hung in the air, the mingled result of all this gathering of perspiring, moving humanity, and vast heaps of decaying bones, already decomposing in the fierce sunlight there on the killing place just outside the huge kraal at its eastern end, where a great number of the King’s cattle had been slaughtered on the previous day in order to feast the regiments mustered for war—while myriads of buzzing flies combined to render the surcharged atmosphere doubly pestilential. Seated together, in a group apart, the principal indunas of the nation were gathered in earnest conference, while, further on, the whole company of izanusi, or war-doctors, arrayed in the hideous and disgusting trappings of their order, were giving a final eye to the removal of huge mutt bowls, containing some concoction equally hideous and disgusting, from the secluded and mysterious precincts wherein such had been brewed: for the whole army was about to be doctored for war.

Now a fresh stir arose among the excited armed multitude gathered there, and all eyes were turned to the eastward. Away over the rolling plain, from the direction of the flat-topped Intaba-’Zinduna, a moving mass was approaching, and as it drew nearer the gleam of spears and the sheen of hide shields flickered above the dark cloud. It was the Insukamini regiment, for whose presence those here had been waiting in order to render the master complete. As it swung up the slope, an old war-song of Umalikazi came volleying through the air to those here gathered:

“Yaingahlabi Leyo’mkonzi! Yai ukúfa!”

(Note: “That Bull did not gore (merely). It was death!”)

With full-throated roar the vast gathering took it up, re-echoing the fell chorus until it became indescribable in its strength of volume, and soon, the newly arrived regiment, over a thousand strong, filed in, and fell into line, amid the thunder of its vociferous welcome.

Then the company of ixanuri came forward, and for some time these were busy as they went along the lines, administering to each warrior a morsel of the horrible hotch-potch they had been concocting, and which was designed to render him, if not quite impervious to the enemy’s missiles, at any rate to lessen his chances of being struck, and to make him a very lion of strength and courage in the day of battle.

This over, yet one ceremony remained, to sing the war-song in the presence of the King, and depart. A silence had fallen upon all after the doctoring was concluded. Soon, however, it was broken by the “praisers” shouting the King’s titles.

As Lo Bengula appeared in front of his warriors, the whole immense crescent fell forward like mown corn, and from every throat went up in one single, deep-voiced, booming roar, the royal greeting:

Kumalo!

The King did not seat himself. With head erect and kindling eyes, he paced up and down slowly, surveying the whole martial might of his nation. He, too, was arrayed in full war costume, crowned with the towering intye, and wearing a mútya of splendid leopard skin. He was attended by his shield-bearer, holding aloft the great white shield of state, but in his hand he carried another and a smaller shield, also white, and a long-hafted, slender, casting assegai.

Long and loud were the shouts of sibonga which rent the air as the warriors fell back into a squatting posture, their shields lying flat in front of them. They hailed him by every imaginable title of power and of might—as their father, as their divinity, as the source of all that was good and beneficial which they possessed. They called the lightnings of the clouds, the thunders of the air—everything—into requisition to testify as to his immensity—till at last, as though in obedience to some sudden and mysterious signal, they subsided into silence. Then Lo Bengula spoke:

“Children of Matyobane, the enemy is already in your land. These Amakiwa, who came to me few and poor, and begging, are now many and rich, and proud. They begged for a little land wherein to dig gold, and I gave it them, but, lo, they want more. Like devouring locusts, these few whites who came begging, and sat down here so humbly before me, were but the advance-guard of a swarm. I gave them meat, and now they require a whole ox. I gave them an ox, and now they require the whole herd. I gave them the little land they craved for, and now, nothing will satisfy them but to devour the whole land. Soon they will be here.

“There are dogs who bark and turn away, and there are dogs who bite. There are dogs who are brave when it is a matter of pulling down an antelope, but who put down their tails and slink away when it is a lion who fronts them. Of which are ye?

“Lo, the spirit of the Great Great One who founded this nation is still alive. His serpent still watches over those whom he made great in the art of war. Shall you shame his name, his memory? Of a truth, no.

“Yonder comes the white army—nearer, nearer day by day. Soon it will be here. But first it will have to pass over the bodies of the lions of Matyobane. Shall it do so? Of a truth, no!”

The King ceased. And upon the silence arose mighty shouts. To the death they would oppose this invasion. The King, their father, might sit safe, since his children, his fighting dogs were at large. They would eat up these whites—ha—ha! a mere mouthful, and the race of Matyobane should be greater than ever among the great nations of the world.

Then again a silence fell suddenly, and immediately from a score of points along the lines, voices began to lead off the war-song:

“Woz’ubone! Woz’ubone, kiti kwazulu! Woz’ubone! Nantz’indaba. Indaba yemkonto. Jjí-jjí! Jjí-jjí! “Nantz’indaba? Indaba yezizwe? Akwasimuntu. Jjí-jjí! Jjí-jjí! “Woz’ubone! Nantz’indaba. Indaba ka Matyobane.”

(See Note 1.)

Louder and louder, in its full-throated cadence, the national war-song rolled forth, thundrous in its wild weird strophes, to the accompaniment of stamping feet and clashing of shields—the effect of the deep humming hiss of the death chorus alone appalling in its fiendlike intensity. The vast crescent of bedizened warriors swayed and waved in its uncontrollable excitement, and the dust clouds streamed overhead as an earnest of the smoke of burning and pillage, which was wont to mark the fiery path of this terrible race in its conquering progress. Louder, louder, the song roared forth, and then, when excitement had reached its highest pitch, silence fell with a suddenness as startling as the mighty outburst which had preceded it.

For the King had advanced from where he had been standing. Facing eastward he now stood. Poising the long, slender, casting assegai in his hand with a nervous quiver, he hurled it far out over the stockade.

“Go now, children of Matyobane!” he cried in tones of thunder.

It was the signal. Rank upon rank the armed legions filed forth from the gates of the great kraal. In perfect silence now they marched, their faces set eastward—a fell, vast, unsparing host upon destruction bent. Woe to the invading force if it should fail to repel the might of these!

Note 1.

“Come behold come behold at the High Place! That is the tale - the tale of the spears. That is the tale? The tale of the nations? Nobody knows. Come behold. That is the tale. The tale of Matyobane.” “Jjí-jjí!” is the cry uttered on closing in battle.

Chapter Two.

“The Tale of the Spear.”

“Whau!” ejaculated Ziboza, one of the fighting indunas of the Ingubu Regiment. “These two first.”

The two men constituting the picket are seated under a bush in blissful unconsciousness; their horses, saddled and bridled, grazing close at hand. Away over the veldt, nearly half a mile distant, the column is laagered.

In obedience to their leader’s mandate a line of dark savages darts forth, like a tongue, from the main body. Worming noiselessly through the bush and grass, yet moving with incredible rapidity, these are advancing swiftly and surely upon the two white men, their objective the point where they can get between the latter and their horses.

These men are there to watch over the safety of the column laagered up yonder, but who shall watch over their own safety? Nearer—nearer! and now the muscles start from each bronze frame, and the fell, murderous assegai is grasped in sinewy grip. Straining eyeballs stare forth in bloodthirsty exultation. The prey is secure.

No. Not quite. The horses, whose keener faculties can discern the approach of a crowd of musky-smelling barbarians, while the denser perceptions of the two obtuse humans cannot, now cease grazing and throw up their heads and snort. Even the men can hardly close their eyes to such a danger signal as this. Starting to their feet they gaze eagerly forth, and—make for the horses as fast as they can.

Too late, however, in the case of one of them. The enemy is upon them, and one of the horses, scared by the terrible Matabele battle-hiss, and the waving of shields and the leaping of dark, fantastically arrayed forms, refuses to be caught. The owner starts to run, but what chance has he against these? He is soon overtaken, and blades rise and fall, and the ferocity of the exultant death-hiss of the barbarians mingles with the dropping rifle. Are they are keeping up on his fleeing companion, and the sputter and roll of volleys from the laager. For this is what has been happening there.

Steadily, ever with the most perfect discipline and organisation, the column had advanced, and now after upwards of a month of care and vigilance, and difficulties met and surmounted, was drawing very near its goal.

The enemy had hovered, upon its flanks since the last pitched battle, now nearly a week ago, as though making up his mind to do something towards redeeming his defeat upon that occasion; but unremitting vigilance together with a few timely and long range shells had seemed to damp his aspirations that way.

“I wonder if they’ll try conclusions with us once more, before we get there,” observed the commanding officer, scanning the country, front and flank, with his field glasses. “What do you think, Blachland?”

“I think they will, Major,” was the confident reply.

“No such luck,” growled one of the group. “After the hammering we gave them at Shangani. I tell you what it is, Blachland. These wonderful Matabele of yours are miserable devils after all. I don’t believe they’ve another kick in them,” added this cocksure Briton.

Hard, weather-beaten men these—tough as nails from the life they have been leading since the beginning of the campaign. They have been tested again and again, and have passed the ordeal well: not only under fire, but the more nerve-straining duties of scouting and reconnoitring and nocturnal guard. Hilary Blachland is attached to the scouting section, and is somewhat of an important personality in the command, by reason of his complete knowledge of the country to be traversed, and his acquaintance with its inhabitants, now the enemy.

“No more bad country you say?” went on the commanding officer, making some notes in a pocket-book.

“No. It’s all pretty much as we see it, open, undulating and moderately bushed. Yonder is the Intaba-’Zinduna, and we hold to the left of its further end by about a couple of miles. We are certain to be attacked between this and Bulawayo, and that’s barely twenty miles, why any minute may settle it.”

“Why what’s this?” muttered the commanding officer hurriedly, bringing his glass to his eyes.

“Ah, I thought so,” said Blachland with a smile. “We shall get it here, Major.”

Dark masses of the enemy were now appearing, away in front—still about a mile off. No sooner had the shells begun to drop among these than the alarm was raised much nearer home, and, as with the celerity of perfect discipline every man was at his place within the laager, the battle line of the savages could be seen sweeping forward through the thorns on the northern side. Then the rattle of volleys, and the knock-like thud of the machine guns playing upon them, mingles for a time with the deep, humming war-hiss of the Matabele and the defiant whoops of individual excited warriors, leaping in bravado as though challenging the marksmanship of the defenders.

The line of battle soon wavers, halts, then drops down, only to glide on again. More and more press on from behind, and soon the line is seen to be extending, as though for a surround. There are firearms too, within the savage host, and the bullets begin to whizz and “ping” around the ears of the defenders.

“They have got another kick in them after all, eh, Grantham?” remarks Blachland to the officer who had uttered the above disparaging remark. For a piece of sharp splinter, chipped from the side of a waggon, had struck the latter, causing his ear to bleed profusely, while the speaker himself gives an involuntary duck, as another Martini bullet hums right over his head, and near enough for him to feel its draught.

“Oh damn them, yes!” answers the man apostrophised, grinding his teeth with the sharp pain, and discharging his rifle—aiming low—into the enemy’s line.

For a while matters are lively. Massing at this and that point the swarming Matabele will essay a charge, but the deadly machine guns are turned on with telling precision, breaking up every attempt at organised movement, and the veldt is strewn with dark bodies, dead, motionless, or writhing in death—and shields flung around in all directions, for which their owners will never more have use. But within the laager the organisation is complete. Every man has his own duty to do and does it, and has no time or attention to spare for what is going on elsewhere.

“Come along, Blachland!” shouted another member of the scouting section, in a state of the wildest excitement. “Jump on your gee, man! We’ve got to go and turn back those horses, or we’ll lose every hoof of them.”

He addressed, looked round and took in the situation at a glance, and a thrilling one it was. A large troop of horses, which had been grazing outside, by some blundering on the part of the herders, had been headed off while being driven into the laager, and now were making straight in the direction of the enemy’s lines.

There was little organisation among the handful of mounted men who dashed forth to turn them back, but there was plenty of coolness, commonsense, and unflinching courage. Away streamed the panic-stricken horses, but soon at a hard hand gallop, and keeping well off them, the pursuers were forging up even with the leaders of the stampede.

“Hold to the right! More to the right!” cried Blachland, edging further in the direction indicated, even though it took him perilously near the swarming lines of the Matabele, whom he could now make out, pouring down in a black torrent to cut off himself and his comrades as well as the runaway steeds. But an intense wild exhilaration was upon him now, during this mad gallop: buoyant, devil-may-care, utterly scorning the slightest suspicion of fear. On, on! The sharp “crack—crack” of the rifles of the advancing savages, the “whigge” and hum of missiles overhead—in front—around—all was as nothing. Then he realised that they had headed the wild stampede, had turned it away from the enemy’s line. And then—

“Help, help! For God’s sake, don’t leave me!”

A rumble and a heavy fall immediately behind him. Even before he turned his head, he realised what had happened. As he did so he saw it all, the sprawling horse, the rider dragging himself up from the ground. He saw, too, that the fallen man and himself were the last on the outside of the chase, and that the others were receding fast, as, closing further and further in, they were turning the runaway horses back to the camp. He saw, too, that the Matabele had noted their brief success, and were rushing forward with redoubled energy and shouts of exultation to secure at any rate this one victim.

“For God’s sake, don’t leave me!” again yelled the unfortunate man, the terror of certain death in his voice, and stamped upon his countenance. And that countenance, in the quick resourceful glance, taking in every chance, every possibility, Hilary recognised as that of Justin Spence.

To return was almost certain death. The momentum of the speed of his own horse had carried him some distance onward, even while the agonised cry of the despairing man was sounding in his ears. Why should he help him, why throw his own life away for the sake of this cur who had so grossly abused his friendship, requiting it in such mean and despicable fashion? Anybody else—but this one—no, he would not.

Yet what was it that rose before his mental light in that crucial moment. Not the face of her for whom yonder man now about to meet a bloody death had betrayed him—but another and a purer vision swept his brain, and it was as the face of an angel from Heaven, for it was that of Lyn. Hilary Blachland triumphed.

Turning his steed with a mighty wrench, he rode straight back to the unhorsed trooper. From the ranks of the charging savages, now near enough to recognise him, there arose a mighty roar.

“Isipau! Ha! Isipau!”

“Quick, Spence! Get up behind me. Quick!”

The other needed no second bidding. As the horse with its double burden—either of these, singly, would have been a sufficient one for the poor brute, blown as he was—started once more, the foremost line of the savages was barely two hundred yards distant. Leaping, bounding, uttering their blood-curdling war-hiss, they reckoned their prey secure. The horse, weighted like that could never distance them. They would overtake it long before camp should be reached. Already they gripped their assegais.

“Sit tight, Spence, or you’ll pull us both to the ground,” said Hilary, with a sardonic suspicion that if the other saw a chance of throwing him off without risking a similar fate himself, he was quite mean enough to seize it. “Sit light too, if you can, and spare the horse as much as possible.”

Down into a hollow, and here, in the bed of a dry watercourse, the game steed stumbled heavily, but just saved his footing, and thereby the lives of his two riders. Bullets flew humming past now, but it seemed that the din of their pursuers was further behind, and indeed such was the case, for they arrived at the laager at the same time as the rescued troop horses.

“Good God! Blachland! You are a splendid fellow, and I owe you my life,” gasped the rescued man. “But what must you think of me?” he added shamefacedly.

“No more no less than I did before,” was the curt reply. “Get off now. You’re quite safe.”

“You ought to get the V.C. for this,” went on Spence.

But the other replied by coupling that ardently coveted decoration with a word of a condemnatory character. “I believe I’ve nearly killed my horse,” he added crustily.

There were those in the laager who witnessed this, and to whom the circumstances of the former acquaintanceship between the two men were known—but they tactfully refrained from making any comment. Percival West, however, was not so reticent.

“Why, Hilary, you splendid old chap, what have you done?” he cried, fairly dancing with delight. “Why didn’t you take me with you though—”

“Oh go away, Percy. You are such a silly young ass,” was the very ill-humoured reception wherewith his transports were greeted by his kinsman.

The fight was over now and the enemy in retreat. Yet not routed, for he still hung about at a safe distance, in sufficient force to make things warm for any pursuing troop who should venture after him into the thicker bush, until a few deftly planted shells taught him that he had not yet achieved a safe distance. Then he drew off altogether.

Chapter Three.

A Flaming Throne.

“Too late, boys, I guess the Southern Column got there first.” And the utterer of this remark lowered his field glasses and turned to the remainder of the little band of scouts with an air of profound conviction.

Away in the distance dense columns of smoke were rising heavenward. For some time this group of men had been eagerly intent upon watching the phenomenon through their glasses, and there was reason for their eagerness, for they were looking upon the goal of the expedition, and what should practically represent the close of the campaign—Bulawayo to wit, but—Bulawayo in flames. Who had fired it?

Considerable disappointment was felt and expressed. Their prompt march, their hard and victorious fighting had not brought them first to the goal. The Southern Column had distanced them and was there already. Such was the conclusion arrived at on all sides.

One man, however, had let go no opinion. Lying full length, his field glass adjusted upon a convenient rock, he had been steadily scanning the burning kraal in the distance during all the foregoing discussion, ignoring the latter as though he were alone on the ground. Now he spoke.

“There’s no Southern Column thereat all. No sign or trace of a camp.”

This dictum was received with dissent, even with a little derision.

“Who’s set it on fire then, Blachland?” said one of the exponents of the latter phase, with a wink at the others. “You’re not going to tell us that Lo Bengula’s set his own shop alight?”

“That’s about what’s occurred,” was the tranquil reply. “At least I think so.”

“It’s more’n likely Blachland’s right, boys,” said one of the scouts, speaking with a pronounced American accent. “He’s been there anyway.”

With renewed eagerness every glass was once more brought to bear. There appeared to be four great columns of smoke, and these, as they watched, were merging into one, of vast volume, and now bright jets of flame were discernible, as the fire licked its way along the thatch of the grass huts. Then something strange befel. They who watched saw a fresh outburst of smoke rise suddenly like an enormous dome from the centre of that already ascending, seeming to bear aloft on its summit the fragments of roofs, fences, débris of every description, and then they were conscious of a mighty roar and a vibrating shock, as the whole mass subsided, releasing the flames, which shot up anew.

“That’s an explosion!” cried some one excitedly. “Old Lo Ben’s not only burnt his nest, but blown it up into the bargain.”

For some time further they lay there watching the distant work of destruction. Then it was decided that their number should be divided, and while some returned to the column to report the result of their observations, the remainder should push on, and get as near Bulawayo as they possibly could—an undertaking of no slight risk, and calling for the exercise of unflagging caution, for there was no telling what bands of the enemy might be hovering about in quite sufficient strength to prove dangerous to a mere handful, though the opinion was that the bulk of the nation’s forces, with the King, had fled northward.

“Well, Percy? Tired of this kind of fun yet?” said Blachland as he and his young kinsman rode side by side, the two or three more also bent on this service advancing a little further on their right flank.

“Rather not. I wish it wasn’t going to be over quite so quickly.”

The other laughed. “I’m not so sure that it is,” he said.

“Eh? But we’ve got Bulawayo.”

“But we haven’t got Lo Ben yet. My impression is that the tougher part of this campaign is going to begin now. I may be wrong of course, but that’s my impression.”

“Oh, then that settles it,” answered Percival, not ironically, but in whole-hearted good faith, for his belief in, and admiration for his relative had reached the wildest pitch of enthusiasm. There was no greater authority in the world, in his estimation, on everything to do with the country they were in. He would have accepted Hilary’s opinion and acted upon it, even though it went clean contrary to those in command all put together, upon any subject to do with the work in hand, and that with the blindest confidence. And then, had he not himself witnessed Hilary’s gallant and daring deed, during the battle fought a couple of days ago?

His presence there with the scouts instead of as an ordinary trooper in the column, he owed to his relative, the latter having specially asked that he should be allowed to accompany him in such capacity. Blachland at that juncture, with his up-to-date knowledge of the country and the natives, was far too useful a man not to stretch a point for, and Percival West, although new to that part, was accustomed to sport and outdoor life at home, and brimful of pluck and energy, and now, in the short time he had been out, had thoroughly adapted himself to the life, and the vicissitudes of the campaign.

To the cause of their being up here together Hilary never alluded, but he noted with quiet satisfaction that the cure in the case of his young cousin seemed complete. Once the latter volunteered a statement to that effect.

“Ah, yes,” he had replied. “Nothing like a life of this sort for knocking any nonsense of that kind out of a fellow—” mentally adding, somewhat grimly, “When he’s young.”

For Hilary Blachland himself did not find the busy and dangerous, and at times exciting, work of the campaign by any means such an unfailing panacea as he preached it to his younger relative. With it all there was plenty of time for thought, for retrospect. What an empty and useless thing he had made of life, and now the best part of it was all behind him—now that it had been brought home to him that there was a best part, now that it was too late. He was familiar with the axiom that those who sell themselves to the devil seldom obtain their price, and had often scoffed at it: for one thing because he did not believe in the devil at all. Yet now, looking back, he had come to recognise that, in substance at least, the axiom was a true one.

Yes, the better part of his life was now behind him, with its ideals, its possibilities, its finer impulses. Carrying his bitter introspect within the physical domain, had he not become rough and weather-beaten and lined and seamed and puckered? It did not strike him as odd that he should be indulging in such analysis at all—yet had he let anybody else, say any of his present comrades, into the fact that he was doing so, they would have deemed him mad, for if there was a man with that expedition who was envied by most of his said comrades as the embodiment of cool, sound daring, combined with astute judgment, of rare physical vigour and striking exterior, assuredly that man was Hilary Blachland. Yet as it was, he regarded himself with entire dissatisfaction and disgust, and the medium through which he so regarded himself was named Lyn Bayfield.

Her memory was ever before him; more, her presence. Asleep or awake, in the thick of the hardest toil and privation of the campaign, even in the midst of the discharge of his most important and responsible duties yet never to their detriment, the sweet, pure, lovely fairness of her face was there. He had come to worship it with a kind of superstitious adoration as though in truth the presence of it constituted a kind of guardian angel.

Was he, after all, in love with Lyn? He supposed that not a man or woman alive, knowing the symptoms, but would pronounce such to be the case, even as one woman had done. But he knew better, knew himself better. The association of anything so gross, so earthly, here, he recoiled from as from an outrage. It was the unalloyed adoration of a strange, a holy and a purifying influence.

In love with her? He, Hilary Blachland, at his time of life, and with his experience of life, in love! Why, the idea was preposterous, grotesque. He recalled the time he had spent beneath the same roof with her, and the daily association. It would be treasured, revered to the utmost limit of his life, as a sacred and an elevating period, but—as an influence, not a passion.

He had exchanged correspondence with Bayfield more than once since leaving, and had received two or three letters from Lyn—expressing—well, simply Lyn. He had answered them, and treasured them secretly as the most priceless of his possessions. From Bayfield he had learned that the disturbing element had refrained from further molestation, and had moreover, taken her own departure from the neighbourhood almost immediately, a piece of intelligence which afforded him indeed the liveliest gratification.

As they drew near to their objective, other kraals near and around Bulawayo itself, were seen to be on fire. But no sign of their recent occupants. For all trace remaining of the latter, the whole Matabele nation might have vanished into thin air.

“That’s extraordinary,” remarked Blachland, taking a long steady look through his glasses. “That’s Sybrandt’s house down there and they haven’t burnt it,” pointing out a collection of buildings about a mile from the site of the great kraal.

“So it is. Wonder if it means a trap though,” said another of the scouts. “By Jingo! There’s some one signalling up there. I’ll bet my bottom dollar it’s a white man by the look of him. And—there are two of ’em.”

Such was in fact the case—and the biggest surprise of all came off when a couple of white traders, well known to most of them, came forward to welcome them to the conquered and now razed capital. There these two had dwelt throughout the campaign, often in peril, but protected by the word of the King. Lo Bengula had burnt his capital and fled, taking with him the bulk of the nation. He, the dreaded and haughty potentate of the North, whose rule had been synonymous with a terror and a scourge, had gone down before a mere handful of whites, he, the dusky barbarian, the cruel despot, according to popular report revelling in bloodshed and suffering, had taken his revenge. He had protected these two white men alone in his power—had left them, safe and sound in person, unharmed even in their possessions, to welcome the invading conquerors, their countrymen, to the blazing ruins of his once proud home. Such the revenge of this savage.

The Southern Column did not arrive till some days after the first occupation of Bulawayo, and some little time elapsed, resting and waiting for necessary supplies, before the new expedition should start northward, to effect if possible, the capture of the fugitive King. Several up-country going men were here foregathered.

“I say, Blachland,” said old Pemberton, with a jerk of the thumb to the southward, “We didn’t reckon to meet again like this last time when we broke camp yonder on the Matya’mhlope, and old Lo Ben fired you out of the country? Eh?”

“Not much, did we? You going on this new trot, Sybrandt?”

“I believe so. What do you think about this part of the world, West?”

“Here, let’s have another tot all round,” interrupted Pemberton who, by the way, had had just as many as were good for him. “You ain’t going to nobble Lo Ben, Sybrandt, so don’t you think it.”

“Who says so, Pemberton?”

“I say so. Didn’t I say Blachland ’ud never get to Umzilikazi’s grave? Didn’t I? Well, he never did.”

Possibly because the old trader was too far on in his cups the quizzical glance which passed between Blachland and Sybrandt—who was in the know—at this allusion, went unnoticed. Pemberton continued, albeit rather thickly:

“Didn’t I say he’d never get there? Didn’t I? Well, I say the same now. You’ll never get there. You’ll never nobble Lo Ben. See if I ain’t right.”

Chapter Four.

The Retreat of the Patrol.

The patrol held on its retreat.

Wearily on, from day to day, nearly a hundred and a half of hungry, ragged, footsore men—their clothing well-nigh in tatters, their feet bursting out of their boots, in several instances strips of clothing wound round their feet, as a sort of tinkered substitute for what had once been boots, as sole protection against thorns and stony ground, and the blades of the long tambuti grass, which cut like knives—depression at their hearts because of the score and a half of brave staunch comrades whom they had but the faintest hope of ever beholding again—depression too, in their faces, gaunt, haggard and unkempt, yet with it a set fierce look of determination, a dogged, never-say-die expression, still they held on. And ever upon their flanks hovered the savage enemy, wiser now in his generation, wasting his strength no more in fierce rushes, to be mown helplessly down with superior weapons. Under cover of his native bush he could harry the retreating whites from day to day. And he did.

Very different the appearance of this group of weary, half-starved men, fighting its way with indomitable courage and resource, through the thick bush and over donga-seamed ground, and among rough granite hillocks, to that of the smart, light-hearted fellows, repelling each fierce rush of the Matabele impis, in the skilfully constructed waggon laagers. Every rise surmounted revealed but the same heart-breaking stretch of bush and rocks, and dongas through which the precious Maxims had to be hauled at any expenditure of labour and time—to be borne rather, for the carriages of the said guns had been abandoned as superfluous lumber—and all through the steamy heat of the day the roar of the swollen river on the one hand never far from their ears—and, overhead, that of the thunder-burst, which should condemn them to pass a drenched and shivering night. For this expedition, with the great over-weening British self-confidence which has set this restless little island in the forefront of the nations—has started to effect with so many—or rather so few—men, what might or might not have been effected with just four times the number—in a word has started to do the impossible and—has not done it.

“Well, Percy, do you still wish this fun wasn’t going to be over quite so quickly?”

“No. Yet I don’t know. I suppose it’s only right to see some of the rougher side, as well as the smooth,” answered the young fellow pluckily—though truth to tell his weariness and exhaustion were as great as that of anybody else. There was the same hollow, wistful look in his face, the same hardened and brick-dust bronze too, and his hands were not guiltless of veldt-sores, for he had borne his full share both of the hardships and the fighting and was as thoroughly seasoned by now as any of them.

“I was something of a prophet when I told you the toughest part of the campaign was to come, eh?” said Blachland, filling up his pipe with nearly the last shreds of dust remaining in his pouch.

“Rather. I seem to forget what it feels like not to be shot at every day of my life,” was the answer. “And this beastly horseflesh! Faugh!”

“Man! That’s nothing,” said Sybrandt, his mouth full of the delicacy alluded to, while he replaced a large slice of the same upon the embers to cook a little more. “What price having to eat snake?”

“No. I’d draw the line at that,” answered Percival quickly.

“Would you? Wait until you’re stuck on a little island for three days with your boat drifted away, and a river swarming with crocodiles all round you. You’d scoff snake fast enough, and be glad to get him.”

“Tell us the yarn,” said Percival wearily.

But before the other could comply, a message from the officer in command arrived desiring his presence, and Sybrandt, snatching another great mouthful of his broiling horseflesh, got up and went.

“Another wet night, I’m afraid?” said Blachland philosophically, reaching for a red-hot stick to light his pipe, which the rain dripping from his weather-beaten hat-brim was doing its best to put out. “Here, have a smoke, Spence,” becoming alive to the wistful glance wherewith he whom he had named was regarding the puffs he was emitting.

Spence stretched forth his hand eagerly for the pouch, then thrust it back again.

“No. It’s your last pipe,” he said. “I won’t take it.”

“Take it, man. I expect there’s a good accumulation of ’bacco dust in my old coat pockets. I can fall back on that at a pinch.”

Spence complied, less out of selfishness than an unwillingness to go against the other in any single detail. A curious change had come over him since his rescue—since the man he had wronged, as he thought, had ridden into the very jaws of death to bring him out. He regarded his rescuer now with feelings akin to veneration. He had at the time, expressed his sorrow and regret in shamefaced tones, but Blachland had met him with the equable reassurance that it didn’t matter. And then he had eagerly volunteered for this expedition because Blachland was in it, and once there, he had watched his rescuer with untiring pertinacity to see if there was nothing he could do for him, even if he could risk his life for him. More than once he had striven stealthily to forego his own scanty rations when they were messing together, pretending he loathed food, so that there might be a little more for this man whom he now regarded in the light of a god; but this and other attempts had been seen through by their object, and effectually, though tactfully, frustrated. Hunger and exhaustion, however, are somewhat of an antidote to even the finest of finer feelings, and Justin Spence was destined to experience the truth of this.

The patrol was resting. Thick bush surrounded the position, with long grass and boulders. But the ground had been well scouted in advance: and in rear—well, the strength of the command was distributed in that direction. There were granite kopjes, too, which could be turned to good account.

“Whau!” grunted Ziboza, the fighting induna of the Ingubu regiment. “I think we have them now. They have no more waggons to hide behind, and the izikwakwa are broken down, for did we not find their wheels? These are they who would have captured the Great Great One. We shall see, ah—ah! Now we shall see.”

Squirming like snakes through the long grass and bush, the Matabele advance, stopping every now and again to reconnoitre. They can hear the subdued hum of voices in the sorry camp of the whites—and on each face raised to peer forward, there is a ferocious grin of anticipation. In obedience to the signalled orders of their leaders they spread their ranks, so as to be in a position to surround that sorry command with the first order issued. More and more are pressing on from behind—and the bush is alive with swarming savages, creeping, crawling onward. The dreaded izikwakwa are broken now. They have only to fear the ordinary fire of that handful of whites, to surround them, rush in and make an end.

Of a truth the agency that supplied Lo Bengula with firearms was a far-seeing benefactor to its countrymen. For those warriors now in the front line of attack who have rifles, no power on earth can restrain from using them. They now open fire, hot and heavy but wild. No more surprise now, no wild rush of overwhelming numbers with the deadly assegai. The coup-de-main has failed. Like magic the whites are in position, replying with sparing, but deadly and well-directed fire—as the plunge and fall of more than one warrior flitting from bush to bush, testifies. But the forward rush has carried some right among the remaining horses of the patrol, and the assegai is plied with deadly effect, as the savages slash right and left, burying their reeking blades within the vitals of the poor animals. It is something to kill at any rate, and besides, goes for towards crippling the movements of their human enemies. “Jjí-jjí! Jjí-jjí!” the ferocious death-hiss vibrates amid the trampling and squealing and the fall of the slaughtered animals. And then—what is this? Through and above the discharge of rifles, the sharp, staccato, barking sound so known to them, so dreaded by them—as the Maxims speak. Is there no doing anything with these invulnerable whites? They have left the wheels behind, even as brave Ziboza has just said, but—they have mounted the izikwakwa on sticks, each on three sticks, and the deadly muzzles are sweeping round as usual, pouring in their leaden hail.

“Percy—Spence! Up here, quick!” says Blachland—and in a moment they are within the sheltering boulders of a kopje. Two other men are already there.

“Au! Isipau!” cry some of the Matabele, who have seen and recognised him. And a sharp discharge follows, at least two of the missiles humming unpleasantly near.

“Watch that point!” says Blachland grimly, designating a spot where a bit of bare rock surface, the length of a man, showed out in the bush beneath. And almost with the words his piece went off. A brown, writhing body rolled forward from the cover, the flung away shield and assegais falling with a rattle.

“That scalp yours, Blachland,” observed one of the American scouts who was up there with them. “Oh, snakes!”

The last ejaculation is evoked by an uncomfortably near missile, which grazing the granite slab immediately behind the speaker, hums away at a tangent into space. It is followed by another and another: in fact a settled determination to make it hot for the holders of that particular kopje upon the part of the enemy seems to have followed upon the recognition of Blachland.

“Lie close, you fellows!” warns the latter. “Hallo! That’s Sybrandt signalling me. It’s an old hunting call of ours,” as a peculiar chirping whistle travels over from an adjacent granite pile. “Ah, I thought so.” Quick as thought he has wormed himself behind another stone and now peeps forth. Below, a couple of hundred yards distant, dark forms are crawling. The bush is thinner there, and the object of the savages is to pass this, with a view to extending the surround. Blachland and the American have both taken in this, and the thud and gurgling groans following on the simultaneous crash of their pieces tell that they have taken it in to some purpose. At the same time a cross fire from among the boulders where Sybrandt and some others are lying, throws the Matabele into a momentary but demoralising muddle of consternation.

The rain has ceased, but in the damp air the smoke hangs heavy over the dark heads of the bushes. Down in the camp, the sullen splutter of rifles, and ever and anon the angry, knock-like bark of the Maxims. There is a lull, but again and again the firing bursts forth. With undaunted persistency the savages return to the assault, howling out jeering taunts at those who a short while back they reckoned as sure and easy prey—but with dogged pertinacity the defence is kept up. One man falls dead while serving a Maxim, and several more horses are shot.

At length the firing slackens. The enemy seem to have had enough. Quickly the orders are passed round. Those in the kopjes are to remain there, covering the retreat of the rest of the patrol, until this shall have gained better ground some little way beyond.

Then the very heavens above took part in the fight, and in a trice the deafening, stunning thunder crashes rendered the sputter of the volleys as the noise of mere popguns, and the lurid blinding glare of lightning, pouring down in rivers of sheeting flame, put out the flash of man’s puny weapons.

“This is rather more risky than their bullets, eh Hilary?” remarked Percival West, involuntarily shrinking down from one of these awful flashes.

“Gun barrels are a good conductor,” was the grimly consolatory reply.

So, too, are assegai blades. In the midst of that stunning awful crash that seems to split open the world, five Matabele warriors are lying, mangled, fused into all shapes—and shapelessness—while nearly twice that number besides are lying stunned, as though smitten with a blow of a knob-kerrie.

“Mamo!” cries Ziboza, who is just outside the limit of this destruction, himself unsteady from the shock. “Lo, the very heavens above are fighting on the side of these whites!”

Chapter Five.

A Sublime Lie.

“Trooper Skelsey missing, sir.”

Such the terse report. The patrol had continued its retreat the night through, taking advantage of the known aversion of the Matabele—in common, by the way, with pretty nearly all other savages—to fighting in the dark. Now it was just daybreak, and the muster had been called—with the above result.

Where had he last been seen? Nobody knew exactly. He had formed one of the party left as a rear-guard. Sybrandt had, however, exchanged a few words with him since they had all rejoined the patrol. Some declared they had seen him since, but, as to time a general mistiness prevailed.

“Well, I can’t send back for him,” pronounced the commanding officer curtly. “He must take his chance. I’m not going to risk other men’s lives for the sake of one, and seriously weaken the patrol into the bargain.”

“If you don’t mind, Major,” said Blachland, who was standing by, “I’ll ride a mile or two back. I believe I can pick him up, and I’ve got the best horse of the few left us.”

“Guess you’ll need him,” interjected the American scout.

“Well, I can’t give you any men, Blachland,” said the Major. “No, not one single man. You go at your own risk.”

“I’ll take that. I’ve been into tighter corners before.”

Here several men volunteered, including Percival West. These were curtly dismissed.

“I don’t want you, Percy,” said Blachland. “In fact I wouldn’t have you at any price—excuse my saying so.” And there was a laugh, in the midst of which the young fellow gave way to the inevitable.

But there was another man who proved less amenable, and that was Justin Spence.

“Do let me go, sir,” he said, stepping forward. “Skelsey and I prospected together once.”

There was a momentary awkwardness, for all knew that since they had been in the field together the missing man had refused to exchange a word with his former chum and partner, whom he declared, had behaved like an utter cad. In short Skelsey had proved more implacable than the man presumably most injured.

“No. Return to your duty at once.”

“I’ll blow my brains out then, and you’ll lose one more man at any rate.”

“Place Corporal Spence under arrest immediately,” said the Major sternly.