To the said `two' it seemed that life could contain no further horrors,
and that they had better get it over and done with, and this held good
especially of Elvesdon, as the younger and less hardened. Thornhill was
speculating as to how it was that Manamandhla, so far from hastening
their death, seemed to have averted it. The tumult had not been
renewed, and nobody had come near them. Then later on they had been
allowed to sit outside, and even to stroll about a little as usual. But
there seemed to be very few people at the kraal, and, noting this, they
looked at each other as though inspired by a new hope.
The day wore on. The unrolled panorama of bush and cliff and spur grew
purple and dim in the declining sun. In the mind of both was the
thought--Would they see the set of another sun?
"Look here, Thornhill," said Elvesdon as though seized with a sudden
impulse. "I don't know whether either of us will get away from here
alive, or both. But I want to say something. In case we do, have you
any objection to my trying to win your daughter's love?"
If the other was startled he did not show it. The two were seated upon
a rock just outside the kraal, watching the changing lights over the
far-away kloofs as the sun sank behind the highest ridge to the
westward. Both were scraping together the last shreds of their
remaining stock of tobacco, which might perhaps afford them a last half
pipe apiece.
"Why no," was the meditative answer. "But do you think you can do it,
Elvesdon?"
"I had hopes. But why I mention it--here and now of all places--is
because if you should get away and I should not, I should like Edala to
know that my last thoughts were of her, as indeed all my thoughts have
been ever since I've known her. She is unique, Thornhill. I don't
suppose there's another girl in the world in the least like her."
"First of all Elvesdon, don't talk of me getting away, and you not. Is
that likely now? We stand or fall together. And if they want a second
blood feast--the damned butchering brutes--they can take it out of me.
You're the younger man of the two, and have a sight more life in front
of you than I have. So you skip away if you see a chance while they are
busy with me."
Elvesdon laughed, rather mirthlessly.
"That would be such a noble way of returning to Edala, wouldn't it? How
she'd thank me for coming to tell her I'd left her father to be chopped
to pieces in order to save my own precious skin on her account, wouldn't
she? No, I'm afraid you must `ask us another,' Thornhill."
The latter suddenly sprang to his feet.
"Come on Elvesdon. We must buck up, man. We're both getting too much
into the holy blues. But the sight of that poor young devil being
butchered this morning got on to even my tough old time-hardened nerves,
I allow. Well, to get back to what you were saying. If we're lucky and
get out of this, you are welcome to try your chances with Edala--from
what I've seen of you I can say that wholeheartedly. Only I warn you
that--to use your own words--she _is_ unique. But I daresay you've more
than half fixed it up between you before this."
"I wish we had," was the answer. And then at a signal from the armed
group that watched them, they returned to the hut.
But they found it already tenanted. A man was seated there warming
himself by a fire to which he had just applied a light, and the gleam of
the darting flames was reflected from his head-ring. Then indeed was
astonishment depicted on the faces of both--especially on that of
Thornhill--as they recognised the features of Manamandhla.
The Zulu returned their greeting, and sat silent for a few minutes. So
did they. Blank amazement was in the mind of one, but the other--hoped.
And he had the least reason to hope anything from the man before him,
but he remembered that this man's voice had been raised powerfully for
their protection that very day, wherefore he hoped--on his companion's
behalf if not on his own. Then Manamandhla spoke.
"My life is yet my own, Inqoto, which is well for some."
Thornhill understood the allusion and--hoped still more. He made the
usual murmur of assent.
"Listen _Abelungu_," went on the Zulu, "and I will tell a story. There
were two children--brothers. They fought in the ranks of the _ibuto_
called Ngobamakosi what time the impi of the Great Great One was
defeated _kwa Nodvengu_. [Historically known as the battle of Ulundi.]
Both were wounded in the battle, and could not flee far, so when the
white horsemen poured forth in pursuit they soon overtook these, who lay
down, already dead. The horsemen thundered down upon them, and seeing
that they still moved--for who at such a time sees anything but red?--
pointed their pistols. But another white man rode there too and he
pointed his pistol too--not at those who lay there but at those who
threatened them. They were angry, and words rose high, but they rode on
and left those two children, of whom one is alive to-day."
The speaker paused, and began deliberately to take snuff. Elvesdon was
interested; Thornhill was more, as he bent his glance keenly upon the
dark face before him.
"Time--a long time--rolled on, and one of those `children,' then a young
man no longer, but ringed, sought out the white man who had saved him
and his brother from death. He found him and--_au_! he himself became
lame for life. For he fell--but he arose again. Then twice after that
he escaped death."
Thornhill's face became rigid. He had entertained an angel unawares and
had, all unconsciously, done his best to transform him into a devil.
Elvesdon, too, began to see through the veil--though not entirely. He
recalled the incident in the kloof when his friend had fired straight at
this man, and but for his timely interruption and that of Edala would
certainly have shot him dead. The Zulu for his part knew exactly how
much to render clear to both and how much to keep dark from one.
"And now Inqoto," he went on. "Thy daughter? What of her?"
"She is safe." There was a rigid eagerness in the tone that by no means
conveyed the assurance intended to be conveyed.
"She is safe," was the answer, and Thornhill sank back with a sigh of
relief. "Hers was one life saved by those of the two children _kwa
Nodwengu_. She, and another, had taken hiding on the tree which grows
out from Sipazi-pazi. Two eyes saw them, many others who sought for
them on the mountain top--ah ah--on the mountain top--did not. She is
safe at Kwabulazi--both are safe."
A great sigh of relief went up from both listeners. They could fill in
all the details. But Thornhill, to his companion's amazement went
through a strange performance. He leaped to his feet, and the next
moment was swinging the narrator to and fro as he sat, with a vice-like
hand upon each shoulder.
"Manamandhla, my _brother_!" he exclaimed in a deep, quivering tone.
"You saved her life like this? You? See now. Before I am killed here
I will write that on paper which shall give you after the trouble is
over what will make you a rich man, and what will protect you if you are
known as having taken part in the trouble. Now--now I see everything.
I did not before."
At first the Zulu looked astonished at this outburst, and then his
magnificent white teeth showed in a gratified smile.
"_Whau_!" he exclaimed. "A life for a life--that is a safe rule. The
life of a woman does not count. The oxen which Inqoto has given to my
brother's son pay for that. But the lives of the two `children'--
warriors in the _ibuto_ known as Ngobamakosi--such are the lives of men.
And these I give ye two--so far as I can," he added somewhat seriously.
"Listen. I am not chief here, Nteseni is. But Nteseni is away with
most of his people. This night you must leave. To-morrow may be too
late. Here are the weapons you came with--"
From under his blanket he produced two revolvers, the same which had
been taken from them at their capture.
"--For food, if you have none, that I cannot help, but you are both
strong. Listen. Now I am going out hence, and I shall draw those who
watch this hut away with me. When you no longer hear voices, then go
forth, but be careful to leave the door of the hut in its place.
_Hambani gahle_!"
He crawled through the low doorway and was gone, leaving the two staring
at each other in speechless amazement. To Thornhill, especially, it
seemed like a dream. He remembered the long-forgotten incident now
recalled, and how in the rout after Ulundi he had saved two youths who
had sunk down exhausted in their flight, from being ruthlessly pistolled
by two of his own comrades in the troop of irregular Horse in which he
was serving--and now this was one of them: this man of whom he had gone
in dread as a witness against him, whose blood he had sought with deadly
persistency and on two occasions had nearly shed It was wonderful--
wonderful.
And this man--this savage--had been the means of saving Edala--his
darling--his idolised child--from a bloody death or worse brutalities at
the hands of the fiends who sought her! By the side of that the fact of
the saving of their own lives counted as nothing--nothing.
"Well, Elvesdon. I think it's time to skip," he said as at last the
sound of deep-toned voices died into silence.
Cautiously they took down the door and slipped out, taking care to place
it in position again. There was no sign of life in the kraal, except
the muffled murmur of a few drowsy voices coming from one or two of the
huts. In a minute they had gained the welcome darkness of the bush.
"Now I think we can steer our way," whispered Thornhill. "Our nearest
is by old Zisiso's kraal, but that's a regular path, and we don't want
that. We'll keep a bit up, and we shall have the double advantage of
avoiding the enemy--every Kafir is an enemy now--and being able to get
an occasional outlook over the country. If we don't fetch Kwabulazi by
sunrise we shall have to lie low all through to-morrow."
Steadily they held on. Thornhill was a master of veldt-craft, and
Elvesdon did not come very far behind him in that line for all that he
was professionally an official. The night air blew keen and chill, very
chill, but the walking exercise largely counteracted that. And the
sense of freedom again was exhilarating in itself--still more so was the
sense of the impending reunion.
They did not talk as they travelled--when they had occasion to do so it
was in the barest whispers. In ordinary and peaceful times they would
not have encountered a living soul, for the native is strongly averse to
moving about at night. Now, however, it was different. They might run
into an impi at any moment, travelling swiftly across country to take up
its position for attack or observation.
The night was dark, but, fortunately there was no mist. The stars to a
certain degree piloted their direction, as they do, or should do, to
every dweller in the free, sparsely inhabited open. Only this was not
so sparsely inhabited, in that twice they came upon a large kraal where
the inhabitants were alert and on the move, a thing they would never
have been at that time of night, in peaceful times.
Now as they got almost within the glow of the red fires of one of these
there was a rush and an open-mouthed clamour of curs, and that in their
direction. The inhabitants, too, seemed to pause, and gaze suspiciously
upwards--fortunately they were above them, on the apex of a ridge.
"_Gahle_, _Gahle_! Elvesdon!" whispered Thornhill. "They've spotted
us. This way. Don't rattle more stones than you can help."
They plunged down the other side of the rise. Ah but, they were many
wearisome miles from safety--and they were unmounted.
Along the hillside they made their way, but how slow did that way seem
to men unaccustomed to doing that sort of travelling on foot. The dawn
began to show signs of breaking, and they were still a long way from
Kwabulazi. A weary day of close hiding and starvation lay before them.
It was light enough now to distinguish the surroundings. Suddenly
Thornhill stopped and was listening intently.
"All up," he said. "Look."
The other followed the direction of his gaze. The tops of the bushes
were shaking in a long quivering line. Clearly their enemies had been
tracking them like hounds, throughout the dark hours.
"We can make a stand here as well as anywhere," growled Thornhill. "We
hold five lives apiece, and the last bullet for ourselves--if we get
time. Oh-h!"
A burning, blinding flash came before his eyes. Everything whirled
round him, and he sank to the earth. Elvesdon set his teeth, with
something like the snarl of a wild beast as his revolver bullet thudded
hard into the naked form of the savage who had just hurled the deadly
assegai, at the same time dropping another who was in the act of
following it up by a second cast. For the moment none seemed anxious to
take the risk of that quick, deadly aim.
Elvesdon glanced down at his unconscious friend, from whose head the
blood was pouring. The assegai had struck him on the temple, and the
blade, glancing along the skull had laid it bare in a frightful gash,
with the effect of momentary stunning. The position was a low bush, the
ground being open for more than a score of yards from it on the side of
the attack, but this none of the assailants seemed eager to take the
risk of crossing. He crouched down low so as to offer as small a mark
as possible, and cool with the deadly calmness of desperation watched
his chance.
It came. A movement among the bushes told that their enemies were
making a surrounding move. For less than a second one of them showed,
and again the pistol spoke, but whether with effect or not he was unable
to determine. And then, if there was room for any addition to the utter
despair which was upon him, Elvesdon's quick, searching glance became
alive to something else. On the roll of the slope, approaching from the
direction they had been taking, the bushes were agitating in the morning
stillness, and there was no breeze. His assailants were being
reinforced, and as though to prove that fact beyond a doubt, there was a
report of firearms, then another, and something hummed unpleasantly
near. They had got rifles then? Well they could not go on missing him
all day.
"Lie flat, Mister, and give us a chance of letting 'em have hell."
The loud, hearty English hail was as a voice from Heaven. With
characteristic promptitude Elvesdon obeyed, and then came a dropping
volley, as the rescuers advanced in a line through the bushes, getting
in their fire whenever an enemy showed himself. They were on foot,
having left their horses just beyond the rise, with the object of making
a silent advance and thus surprising the savages the more effectively.
The latter did not wait. They were in sufficient strength to tackle two
men, but not such an opponent as the relieving force, of whose very
number they were ignorant. So they wriggled away as swiftly and
noiselessly as so many snakes, not, however, entirely without loss.
"Hallo. Who's down?" cried Hyland Thornhill, coming up to the group
standing around the two. "Eh? Who the blazes is down?"
They made way for him in silence.
"Oh, good God!" he cried, staggering to the ground beside the wounded
man. "He isn't killed--no damn it--he isn't killed," gritting his
teeth. "Oh, dear old dad--tell me you know me, for God's sake."
A wave of returning consciousness swept over the face of the wounded
man. He opened his eyes, and there was a gleam of recognition in them.
Then he closed them, knitting his brows as though in pain.
Thus Hyland Thornhill succeeded in rescuing his father--but--was it too
late?