"They have not returned? That is well. _Inkosikazi_, take horse, and
go and tell them the way home is dark to-night--dark, dark. Let them
sleep where they are, and return beneath the sun."
"Dark?" I interrupted, like an idiot. "Dark? Why it's nearly full
moon."
Dumela glanced at me impatiently, eke somewhat contemptuously.
"_Au_!" he said. "I have not been away for nothing. Why did I leave
here? Why did I fill up the ears of my father with a tale? Why did I
take away my cattle and my wives? Because the ears of Kuliso are
large"--meaning open--"but I wanted mine to be so, too. So I went no
further than the further border of Kuliso's location, giving out that I
had a grievance against my father, whose milk and corn I had eaten for
nearly the half of my lifetime; giving out, too, that I wanted it not to
be known to those I had left, that I was dwelling beneath the shadow of
Kuliso. Then the people of Kuliso feared not to talk within my hearing.
Say, _Inkosikazi_, why has not your father--and mine--sent the boy
away?"
Beryl's face went ghastly white.
"Why, Dumela," she said. "The compensation cattle have been paid, and
Kuliso has assured us the unfortunate affair was settled. He is the
chief. We have his word."
"You have his word. But the fathers of the children have not the
compensation cattle--no, not any of them. Kuliso's hands are large.
That which is poured into them does not overflow and fall out. The
fathers of the children who were killed have no compensation, and--the
boy was not punished. Justice--the white man's justice--has not been
done, they say. Why was he still kept here?"
Beryl's face seemed cut out of stone. She made a step towards the old
Kafir, and placed a hand on each shoulder. They were about the same
height, and I saw her grasp tighten, on him, like a vice.
"Attend, Dumela. Are they in danger now, and where? Quick, do you
hear? Quick."
"Take the shortest way to the house of the Chatterer (Trask)," he
answered, thus directly cornered. "_Au_! were there not two lives
taken, two lives! And these are two lives."
Almost flinging him from her, Beryl turned to me, and in her face, her
tone, her gesture, was a very whirlwind of apprehension, of frenzied
despair.
"Kenrick, what horses are in the stable?"
"Fortunately two--yours, Meerkat--and mine."
"Saddle them up, quick. Get your revolver, and come."
Not long did it take me to obey her behest, and indeed, no sooner had I
done so than Beryl herself appeared at the stable door, equipped for our
expedition.
Giving no further thought to old Dumela, we fared forth over the moonlit
veldt.
"My presentiment was a true one after all, Kenrick," remarked Beryl, as
we rode side by side.
"That remains to be seen," I said. "Old Dumela may have found a mare's
nest."
"No. He would not have come here at this time of night like this
without good reason. And all the time we were thanking him shabby and
ungrateful he was serving us--watching over our interests, our safety."
The short cut to Trask's lay along the bottom of a network of
intersecting kloofs, but the path would only allow of riding single
file. Beryl and I had a sharp skirmish as to who should take the lead,
but I claimed my right, and firmly stuck to it. If there was danger,
mine was the right to discover it and meet it first, and that she
recognised.
Heavens! the sickening, creeping mystery of that night ride--the weird,
boding awe of it, as we took our way through the dark gloom of
overhanging scrub, the sharp contrast of its blackness with the vivid
glare of the full moon accentuated tenfold--the ghostly cliffs frowning
down upon us, as from a scene in Dante.
Our way took us by the lower end of the Zwaart Kloof, the site of that
other tragedy--the scene, too, of my fell and fatal discovery when all
my castles in the air had melted away, when I had learned that I was
ruined, and as we entered its bushy recesses a thrill of superstitious
dread ran through me. It was an ill-omened spot--cursed and haunted
with an overshadowing of woe. Surely--surely--not again were its shades
destined to cover another tragedy--another outpouring of the cup of
horror and of evil.
I had but lately avowed my disbelief in instincts, yet here I know not
what instinct of dread and repulsion came upon me as we drew near the
place, moving me to glance over my shoulder to catch a glimpse of the
face of my companion, possibly with the intent to ascertain whether the
same idea was moving her. But as I did so a sudden and violent start on
the part of my horse came near unseating me. Shying, snorting, the
brute swerved and backed; and coming thus into collision with Beryl's
steed it took both of us some moments to soothe and quiet the animals.
But in that brief flash of time I had caught a glimpse of a Something
lying on the ground, and my heart stood still within me and every drop
of blood in my system seemed to turn to water.
There was no mistaking the nature of that Something. The inanimate
human form is possessed of an eloquence all its own. Dark upon the
shimmer of the moonlit earth this one lay, the white face staring upward
to the sky, the face of poor little George Matterson. And the same
instinctive conviction flashed through us both as we slid from our
saddles, that it was a dead face.
Never, if I were to live a thousand years, could I forget the whirl of
rage and horror and grief that convulsed me at that moment, turning me
half-dazed. Beryl was beside the prostrate form, bending over it. No
cry had escaped her, only a quick, half-stifled gasp. In a moment I was
beside her, having taken the precaution to secure both our horses.
"Dead!" she uttered, having raised the head, with infinite tenderness of
touch. "Dead. Murdered!"
I don't know which feeling was uppermost within my mind at that moment--
horror at the discovery, or awe of the strange, unnatural calmness
wherewith she accepted the frightful and heartrending situation. I bent
down over the poor remains. A noosed _reim_ had been twisted round the
neck, compressing it tightly. Not this, however, had been the cause of
death. The grass around and beneath the body glistened with a dark wet
stain. On the dead boy's clothing above the heart was a clean cut from
which blood was still welling. He had been stabbed--stabbed with an
assegai.
We stood staring into each other's faces, ashy white in the moonlight.
It seemed as if our lips refused to frame the question that was in both
our minds. Then, speaking in a harsh, gasping whisper, Beryl said--
"What of--father?"